The Shadow of the Lion

by Mercedes Lackey

  Oddly, for a moment her mind flitted to old lessons of her tutor Marina. Lessons in theology she had not understood at the time. There was a reason, child, that Hypatia compromised with Augustine, if not Theophilus. And treasured Chrysostom, for all his rigidity and intolerance. There is such a thing as evil in the world, which cannot be persuaded, but only defeated. And for that—harshness is needed in the ranks of Christ also. Neither Shaitan nor his monsters will listen to mere words. She remembered his lips crinkling. Even a Strega, you know, does not doubt the existence of either Christ or the Dark One.

  The gray-cassocked abbot looked as if he was about to have a stroke—or faint. Even in the candlelight Kat could see his face was suffused, simultaneously, with rage and—fear. His lips trembled as he groped for words; words which, apparently, he was unable to find.

  Yet another knight had no such difficulty. With a slight clashing noise, he thrust his sword firmly back in the scabbard and removed his hand from the weapon.

  "Von Gherens is right—Hakkonsen and Manfred also. We cannot take them out of here, by Church law. The law which, as Knights of the Holy Trinity, we are sworn to uphold."

  The knight's eyes glanced at Kat, then at the children. His lips peeled back in a half-snarl. "And my name is Falkenberg—also a name of the frontier. And also one who can tell the difference between brats and devils."

  Now there were nods and murmurs of agreement all around the circle of Knights. The tension was draining out of the scene as rapidly as water through a broken dam. All danger of physical violence was past. Whatever might be left would only take the form of words.

  Words which Sachs was still quite incapable of uttering, it seemed. Only one of the two monks who accompanied him seemed disposed to argue the matter any further.

  "We cannot let witches go free," he protested, almost squeakily. "God has guided us to this evil. We must root it out!"

  "Didn' do no evil," whimpered one child. "Just came to get outa the rain."

  Finally, Abbot Sachs tried to salvage something from the situation. He cleared his throat noisily.

  "If we cannot take them away, we will put them to the question here." He essayed a sneer of his own; a feeble one. "Or do you deny my ecclesiastical authority for that also, Ritters Hakkonsen and Von Gherens?"

  The blond knight's cold eyes did not waver for an instant. "Yes, Abbot Sachs, I do deny you the authority."

  Von Gherens's words rolled right after: "The right to afford sanctuary, without arrest or violence, is inviolate. And by Church law, they may only be expelled by the priest of the parish."

  Flushing furiously, Sachs turned on the terrified-looking old sacristan. "Fetch me your priest, then! I'll have these hell-spawn. So help me God—I will have them."

  The sacristan left with as near to a run as the old man could muster, and never mind the rain.

  Sachs turned on Von Gherens. "As for you—I'm going to make an example of you!"

  Von Gherens barked a laugh. "For obeying the oath of the Order? I think not!"

  "And who will enforce your 'example,' Abbot?" asked the blond knight. The question was posed quietly, but grimly. The war hatchet was back in the scabbard, but his hand was still perched on it.

  "Yes—who?" demanded the big one called Manfred. Quite a bit more loudly, if not as grimly. The tone was almost mocking.

  Kat saw the Knights clustering together a bit more closely. One order closing ranks against another, she realized—and realized, as well, that the identity she had always assumed existed between the Knights and the Servants of the Holy Trinity was not as solid as she'd thought. Which, she remembered vaguely, was something else Dottore Marina had once told her.

  * * *

  Silence followed, for some time, while they waited for the sacristan to return with the priest.

  The silence was so thick with hostility between the knights and the monks that it could almost have been cut with a knife. The only movement during that time was the slow and painful return of Pappenheim to consciousness, stumbling back onto his feet from the splintered pew where Manfred had sent him. He seemed too dazed to really comprehend what was happening; simply collapsed on another pew, leaning over with his head in his hands. His helmet had apparently come loose in the force of the impact. Kat was a bit amazed that he had no broken bones. Manfred's strength was genuinely incredible. He had not so much tossed the knight into the pew as he had hurled him down upon it.

  Finally, the sacristan returned, the priest close on his heels. The priest was a young man; who, like the two bridge-brats, looked as if he could have used a few more meals himself. It was a small church.

  He looked in puzzlement at the scene, and then bowed to the abbot. "I am Father Ugo, and this is my parish. Why have I been called here?"

  "We have called you to throw these evil miscreants out. They were defiling your church with satanic practices."

  The little priest blinked, taking in the steel, and the "miscreants."

  With a start, Kat realized she knew the little man. Of course, he'd been smaller and plumper then.

  "Ugo Boldoni?" she said, incredulously.

  The priest peered shortsightedly at her; then, gasped. There were some advantages to her distinctive carroty-colored hair, even if it was not fashionable.

  "Kat—Milady Katerina! What are you doing here?"

  Kat shrugged. "I was caught in the rain and came in to take shelter."

  "She was practicing satanic rites!" shouted one the monks, waving a threatening finger at her.

  "I was sitting on a pew!" she snapped back at him. "Quietly sitting, getting some shelter from the rain—when you came in—like demons yourselves!—and grabbed those children who were playing up there. They were fooling around with one of the candles. I assumed the sacristan would come out and give them both a clout. Instead this—"

  She glared at Sachs. "This foul man who calls himself an abbot came in and behaved as if they were having a black mass, instead of just fiddling with the candle wax."

  The priest looked puzzled. "But . . . but where was old Giovanni?"

  "They bewitched me into sleep!" said the old man hastily. "Demonspawn they are. I'm allus chasing them out of the church. Allus up to mischief."

  The big young knight named Manfred snorted. "Smell his breath! Unless the children magicked him a bottle of wine—and if they could do that, they'd have magicked themselves some food. They don't need questioning. They need a square meal and a place in a household."

  The priest nodded. "Alas, sir knight. This is a poor parish. There are many such souls."

  Sachs, glaring back at Kat, attempted a commanding sneer. The expression failed of its purpose; seemed more childish than anything else.

  "These are mere lies! And the poor you have with you always. It is their souls, not their bodies we must deal with. Now, as your senior in the church I order you to put them out of here, Father—ah—"

  The priest's name had obviously escaped him. "Priest. I will have a word with Bishop Pietro Capuletti, and see you are moved to a more worthy station. We'll have the truth out of them. The Servants of the Trinity have ways of dealing with the most hardened servants of Satan."

  A look of pleasure came into the abbot's hooded eyes. The kind of pleasure that comes to a man when he finds himself back on his own ground after stumbling into a marsh.

  Kat shivered. The knights, she suspected, would obey the abbot—however reluctantly—if the priest who had actual authority here denied sanctuary to her and the children. And how could once-fat, timid little Ugo Boldoni stand up to this?

  "Yes, servants of Satan have no place demanding sanctuary," put in one of the two monks unctuously. "Such rights should be denied the likes of them. And the abbot is your superior!"

  That was apparently the wrong thing to say to Ugo Boldoni. His spine straightened. "You attempted to remove them from the sanctuary of the Church? You? You had no right!" He glared at the abbot. "Nor is he my 'superior.' In this see, that is the Metropolitan
Michael—no other! In this church I am the final arbiter."

  The little priest's anger was peppery hot. "Get out of this church! Get out right now. Go."

  And that was enough—more than enough—to end the whole affair. The knights were entirely in support of the priest, not the abbot. Within a minute, all of them were gone, the abbot and the two monks scurrying ahead of the knights as if afraid that if they didn't move fast enough they would be manhandled out. Which, Kat suspected, was not far from the truth. On the way out, Manfred seized the still-groaning Pappenheim by the scruff of the neck and, using only one hand, dragged him out of the church as easily as he might drag a sack of onions.

  * * *

  When they'd gone, Father Ugo turned to Katerina. "Just what are you doing here, milady? The Casa Montescue is a long way from here, and it is late."

  Kat shrugged. Boldoni's father had been a sailing master. A good one too, apparently. And it showed in the son's manner, she reflected. "About my father's business," she said quietly. She knew that he'd know that Carlo Montescue was long overdue back from sea. Missing; presumed, by nearly all, dead.

  Ugo nodded. He knew perfectly well that the Montescue might be Case Vecchie, but they were in financial trouble. All of Venice knew quickly enough whenever one of the famous old houses fell into difficult times. And knew as well, that there were some tasks only family could be relied upon to do.

  "You swear that there is no truth in what that abbot said? Your soul is clean?"

  "I swear by all the Saints and upon the holy cross that it was a complete lie." Her conscience twinged slightly. "These two children are naughty, but were not practicing any kind of witchcraft."

  She took a deep breath and turned around, so that Ugo could not see. She reached into the pouch and took out one of the ducats. The Casa Montescue was in a desperate state, but not that desperate. Not compared to those two children, still wide-eyed and frightened. She returned the bag to its warm nest and turned around.

  "Here." She held out the coin.

  Father Ugo's eyes bulged slightly. Ducats didn't come his way often. But he was of iron principle. "You cannot pay me to free you of sin, Katerina," he said, sounding extremely doubtful.

  "It's not for you. It is for those two children. A small thank you to God for sparing me from the Servants of the Holy Trinity."

  His voice was troubled. "They do God's work, Katerina Montescue."

  "That one young blond knight did God's work. Had it not been for him, that abbot . . ." She shuddered. "Anyway, forget it. I'm grateful. So is Montescue. So take this for those two children you also saved."

  He took the warm ducat. "I'll buy a candle."

  Kat shook her head. "Food. They'd only play with the candle!"

  It was the ragged little girl's turn to shake her head. So fiercely that it looked as if it would come off her skinny shoulders. "Never play with no candles no more." She looked earnestly up at the priest. "Promise!"

  A smile lit Father Ugo's countenance. He patted the children's heads gently. "Do you both promise?"

  They both nodded, eyes still wide with fright.

  "Good! When the rain is over I will go and check that the Servants have really left. Now, I think we will go to the altar and I will lead you all in some prayers. Tomorrow I will go to speak with Monsignor about this. Be easy, Katerina. He is Venetian, you know."

  * * *

  As the party of knights and monks trudged through the rain, Erik and Manfred bringing up the rear, Von Gherens paused to allow them to catch up with him. Then, walking alongside, spoke softly.

  "I am forever in your debt, Hakkonsen." His square, solemn face was creased with worry. "I fear I have allowed myself . . ." The next words were almost hissed. "Damn the Servants and their witch-hunts, anyway! They're twisting my mind. Sachs sees a witch under every cobblestone in Venice."

  Manfred snorted. "Witch-hunts! What witches? So far all we've 'uncovered' are a few quacks selling charms as magical as a brick."

  Von Gherens nodded. "Who then took the holy test of faith before Venice's Metropolitan without fear." He sighed heavily. "I miss Father Maggiore. He was often a bit obnoxious, true, but—far better than Sachs. And he was familiar with Venice. He had knowledge of the city, spies who knew something instead of Sachs's absurd gaggle of informers. Since his horrible death, the Servants have blundered about like hogs in a salon."

  Erik's words were clipped. "We're doing nothing more than spreading fear and mayhem, Ritter—and for no purpose. If Sachs were trying to, he couldn't damage the reputation of the Knights worse than he has. This is the most gossipy and intrigue-filled place I've ever seen. Everything we do is spread all over the city within a day."

  For the first time since they'd entered the church, Von Gherens smiled. "True. But I daresay what you did tonight will spread just as fast—and go a long way to repairing the damage."

  "What we did," insisted Erik quietly.

  Von Gherens shook his head. Then, placed a thick hand on Erik's shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. "No, Erik. What you did. Had it not been for you, the rest of us would have allowed Sachs to drag us further into the pit. I will not forget it."

  The knight raised his eyes and glared at the dim figure of Sachs in the rain ahead. "I will not forget," he repeated. "Von Gherens is a proud name. Respected by all. Feared by none save demon-ridden pagans. My family is in your debt as much as I am."

  He said nothing further and, a short time later, quickened his steps in order to resume his rightful place beside the abbot.

  Manfred watched him go. "Odd, really. He's also Prussian—yet so unlike Von Stublau."

  Erik said nothing. Manfred sighed. "And me too, Erik. I will not forget either."

  Finally, a touch of humor came to Erik's face. "Really? No more carousing? No more—"

  "Not that!" choked Manfred. "I meant the other stuff." His great hands groped in the fog and the rain, trying to shape the distinction—and failing quite miserably.

  * * *

  It was only later, sculling home, playing over the events of the night that it occurred to Kat that whoever her mysterious customer was . . . she wasn't Strega. Her knife had been steel and silver—both metals the Strega would avoid like the plague.

  But Kat was too tired to think too much about it. Getting free had cost her one ducat—and her scarf, which the wretched abbot had apparently kept—but the rest would soon be sitting safe in her grandfather's near-empty strongbox.

  * * *

  When she got home, Katerina collapsed into bed and slept the sleep of the infinitely relieved. The gold was safe enough. Good pure unpunched Venetian ducats. The coin valued beyond all others in the world.

  It was well into bright morning when she awoke. There was someone in her room, looking through her clothes from the night before. They'd just been dumped in a soggy heap when she came home. Reaction had set in and she'd been just too exhausted.

  Her first half-lucid thought was that someone was going to steal the bag of ducats. She sat up and yelled before her groggy mind recalled that she'd taken the gold to the old man the night before.

  It was only Alessandra, snooping as usual. "There's no need to shout the house down! Just because you've spent the whole night with your lover and are too lazy get up," she added tartly.

  "Oh, go away!" snapped Kat, rubbing her tired eyes. It was certainly bright out there. "Leave me to sleep. There's no lover—as you know perfectly well."

  Alessandra cocked her head on one side; raised a perfect eyebrow. "Oh. What's this hair then? I'm going to look for men with honey-auburn hair with just that touch of red. I mean, I know you've got no dowry, but I didn't really think . . ."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "This hair from your pocket." She held up something, golden-red in the sunlight.

  Kat blinked. Hair?

  Oh, yes. She remembered now. One of hers she'd not wanted to leave with that Strega . . . actually non-Strega she thought, remembering that knife. "It's
one of mine."

  "Ha! The day you have hair that color—"

  She snatched it from Alessandra's hand. True. In daylight, Katerina could see it was thicker and more curled and it certainly didn't match hers.

  So—she must have picked up a hair from the woman herself, not one of her own. In the poor light she hadn't realized.

  She shrugged. "I was snuggling up to Lucrezia Brunelli last night. In my sleep. Now go away before I throw this ewer at you."

  Alessandra turned. "I'm going to tell Grandpapa if you don't tell me," she threatened.

  Kat reached for the ewer. Alessandra showed a remarkable turn of speed leaving the room, quite out of keeping with her normal languid progress.

  Kat lay back again. But like Alessandra, sleep had left the room.