The Warlock Heretical (11 page)

powers of this land ..." 'Powers' i' truth! And writ by one of the greatest of the lords of the land! Nay, who could

these 'powers' be save the King and Queen! Ah, the ghost of caution that lingers on this parchment!"

"Tush, good Brother Alfonso. We could not ask His Grace to speak treason, could we?" The Abbot leaned back

in his chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "Thou dost know of whom he doth speak, as do I."

"Aye, and of whom three other great lords have spoken! They turn to us as their defense against the tyranny of

the

Crown! When, Holy Abbot, wilt thou prove their faith in thee?" The Abbot's good mood evaporated; he leaned forward, frowning. "Patience, Brother Alfonso. If a passage of

arms may be avoided, it must be! Tis enough to know we've done rightly; we need not make a show of it!"

"How canst thou truly believe thus!" Brother Alfonso protested. "Thou canst not think Their Majesties will let

thy challenge pass unheeded!"

"Nay, nor would I wish them to." The Abbot's frown deepened. " 'Tis for the Church to see to the welfare of the

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people, not for the Crown; they must cease alms-giving in their own names, and grant those monies to us for

disbursement. Nor may they claim jurisdiction over clergy accused of wrongdoing."

"Have they made thee any answer in this regard?" "Only as they did years ago—that there will be no harm in

both Crown and Church caring for the common weal, and that they will gladly cease trying clergy when our

justice is even as theirs."

"And Rome would have had thee yield to them! Hath the Pope not read his Bible? Hath he not conned the verse,

'Put not thy trust in princes'? Doth he not condone play and licentiousness on the sabbath? Nay, doth he not

condone licentiousness in all things?"

"Even to women becoming priests, I doubt not, and wearing vain and frivolous garb, not sober habits." The

Abbot nodded. "Aye, such have we heard."

"Nay, further! He doth allow all to garb themselves indecently; he doth permit commoners to wear clothing

similar to that of great lords! I' truth, he doth claim to see naught of difference 'twixt prince and pauper, for, saith

he, 'All are alike before the Lord!'"

"'Tis a vile and treacherous belief." The Abbot nodded heavily. Clergy or not, he had been born the second son of

a minor nobleman.

"Yet his offenses mount! This 'Holy Father' doth allow the lending of money at usurious interest! He doth condone players and shows; he doth turn a blind eye to roistering and drunkenness! He will abide for his Christians to have converse with heathens—aye, even to wed them!"

"Abominations!" The Abbot shook his head, astounded at the impiety of the Holy See.

"Yet 'tis there for all to read, in the writings of our founder, Father Marco!"
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"I have read them, Brother," the Abbot said. "In truth, he doth seek to explain why Rome doth allow such vice to

flourish, and why it must content itself with counseling moderation in such!" He grasped the edge of the desk to

keep his hands from trembling. "Almost I could doubt the holiness of my predecessor!"

"Do not, for 'tis only that he was blinded by his vow of obedience, and cozened by the Pope! 'Tis the See of Peter

that is impious, not Blessed Marco! And are not then Their Majesties fully as impious as the Holy See, since they

have not given thee their support in this?"

The Abbot nodded with the slow weight of judgment. "Aye. That they are. And they have willfully blinded

themselves to morality in not seeing the offenses of which thou dost speak."

"Aye, and in not acknowledging that the good of their subjects' souls doth suffer in their hesitation! Tis open sin

in them, that they have not declared the Church of Gramarye to be the only church legitimate, the Church of the

State! For be assured, milord, that thy Church, having freed itself from the snares of Rome, can now redress such

faults and condemn them for the vile vices they are! They must be made to see the lightness of thy claims, by

force of arms if need be!"

"Be still!" The Abbot shoved himself to his feet and turned away from Brother Alfonso.

"Wherefore, my good lord? Is't not even as thou hast but said, even now? Can there be aught of wrong in it?"

"I have sworn not to bear a sword," the Abbot said, distressed. "In truth, our good Savior did say that

'He who

doth live by the sword, shall die by the sword!'"

" 'Tis scarcely living by the sword to but take it up for a few days to school a wanton soul! And if 'tis wrong for

thee, how is it not wrong for the great lords and their knights?"

"I am a priest anointed, Brother Alfonso, a minister of God!"
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"As they are His knights! And bethink thee, milord, how long will they abide without sign of redress of their

grievances?"

The Abbot was silent.

Brother Alfonso pressed his point. "They have declared their adherence, milord, yet how long will they maintain

it? Nay, they must needs see some way in which thou dost strengthen their cause 'gainst the Crown, or they must,

soon or late, withdraw their support."

"Thou dost counsel immorality!" The Abbot turned on Brother Alfonso. "A priest must not consider such worldly

issues when he doth decide right from wrong!"

"Nor would I counsel that thou shouldst!" Brother Alfonso said quickly. "I" truth, there's no need—for assuredly,

such principles must be clearly evident to a prelate."

The Abbot stared at him. Then, slowly, he said, "I am not a prelate."

"Art thou not? Nay, be assured, milord—if the Church of Gramarye is a church entire, sole and separate from

Rome, it must needs have a bishop, a ghostly father—and who can fulfill that role, save thyself?" The Abbot kept staring. Then, slowly, he turned toward the window, frowning.

"Nay, an Archbishop," Brother Alfonso murmured, "for there are so many souls in Gramarye that thou must

needs name bishops to each province! A Prince of the Church—for one with so much authority must needs be a

prince, with authority equal to that of the worldly Crown. Yet the common folk cannot comprehend such, unless

this Prince of Souls doth show himself to them in all his power and glory—borne in a throne on the shoulders of

monks, with heralds and trumpets going before, and a guard of honor coming behind! He must clothe himself in

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purple royal, bearing a crozier of gold, crowned with a gilded mitre! He must stand beside his Royal Majesty,

appearing as his equal in every way!"

"Be still!" the Abbot thundered. "What I decide, Brother Alfonso, I will decide because it is right, not because it

doth yield me advantage! Leave me, now! Go!"

"Why, so I shall," Brother Alfonso murmured, turning away, "for as Thy Lordship wills, so shall it be done. Yet I

beg thee, milord, be mindful that even a prince should be subject to a prelate." The door closed behind him, but a portal yawned within the Abbot's heart, disclosing a vista of power and glory

that he had never conceived of, beckoning, tempting . . .

Lady Elizabeth lifted her head off the pillow, then rolled onto one elbow, wondering what had wakened her. She

reached out to touch her husband for reassurance, then remembered that he had not come home—nothing

unusual; the hunt often took him far enough, late enough, so that he stayed the night with Sir Whittlesy. But the

apprehension in her breast turned to fear, from knowing that he was not home. She frowned, angry with herself, and slid out of bed; she had footmen and maids and men-at-arms to guard her, if

she needed. She was probably troubling herself for no reason; if there were any real danger, her guards would

already be shouting the house down and fighting the intruder.

But a cold breeze seemed to blow against her back as she wondered why she had thought of an enemy entering

her moated grange. Why not have thought of fire or flood, or even a squabble between servants?

Naught but a woman's megrims, she told herself sternly, and caught up her bed robe. As she started to wrap it

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around herself, though, she heard a clanking sound beyond her door and froze, heart leaping into her throat. For a

moment she stood, frozen by fear, then forced herself to move toward the door. This was nonsense! she told

herself. She was a knight's daughter, and should be indifferent to fear. But the clanking came again, and her heart hammered in her breast. Still, she kept moving, reaching out for the

unseen door in the dark . . .

It yawned open before her, creaking, and she stopped dead in her tracks, fear frissoning into terror, for dark

against the dim glow of the night-lamp bulked a suit of armor, filling the doorway. For a moment her terror

almost wheeled into panic, but she just barely managed to rein herself in and demand, "Who art thou, come so

unseemly to my chamber?" The man stood silent, closed helm turned toward her. "Who art thou?" she demanded

again, and was relieved to feel some of her fear transmute into anger. "How durst thou so afright me, coming

here unheralded, unexpected? Nay, have the small courtesy to tell me thy name!" Still the man stood, only

staring. "At least lift thy visor!" she cried in exasperation. Good, good—she was working toward fury. Anything

would be better than this unbearable fear! "Ope thy helm and let me gaze upon thy visage, at least!"

The man's hand went to his visor then, and she felt a thrill of triumph as he lifted it ... And a bare grinning skull looked out at her with empty sockets where its eyes should have been. Terror struck, and she screamed and screamed till unconsciousness claimed her and she mercifully swooned.

Rod had hoped it would go away if he ignored it, but it had been eight days now, and Gregory was still feeling as

though he wanted to be a monk when he grew up. Rod hoped it was just a phase, but knew he had to at least pay

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it lip service—so here he was, trudging out of the woods with his youngest at his side (walking instead of flying,

so as not to afright the natives) toward the log chapter-cabin of the brand-new Runnymede Chapter of the Order

of St. Vidicon of Cathode.

So what was he doing bringing the boy, if he was so skeptical? Well, that was the point—that Gwen wasn't

skeptical; she was delighted. Any medieval parent would be—having a son in the monastery was instant status.

Not that the senior witch of Gramarye needed to worry about such things (though she would have liked it if the

majority of the people she met really approved of her), but it was nice thinking she had an "in" with the Other

World, too.

That wasn't really it, either, of course, and Rod knew it. Gwen was just happy thinking that her baby was going

to have a surer road to Heaven than any of the rest of them. Which, he had to admit, was a nice idea—but he

wasn't sure of it. He'd known too many clergymen himself.

"It's not all it seems to be, son." They turned into the footpath that led to the door. "Not just praying and contemplating." He pointed toward a three-monk team that was plowing the field near them. "That's how they

spend most of their time—in good, hard work."

"Why do they say that 'tis 'good'?" Gregory asked.

"Because they think it helps keep sinful impulses away. I think it mainly keeps them worn out." Gregory nodded. "Well, weariness would keep flesh from temptation." Rod stared at the boy, amazed (as he always was) to find that children could understand so much. Probably right,

too—after ten hours of pulling a plow, the monks couldn't very well have enough energy left for sinning.

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The lead monk in the team looked up, saw them, and held up a hand. His mates stopped, and he disengaged

himself from the harness, then strode over the furrows to meet them. As he came close enough, he called out,

"Greetings . . . Why, 'tis the Lord Warlock! And his youngest."

"Well met, Father." Rod was startled to see it was Father Boquilva.

"And well come." The priest came up to them, dusting off his hands. "What matter brings thee, Lord Warlock?

Have my brethren bred trouble again?"

"No . . . well, yes, but nothing we weren't expecting. Really nothing to do with the trip." He clapped a hand on

Gregory's shoulder. "But this is."

"Thy lad?" Father Boquilva registered surprise for only a fleeting second; then he smiled and turned away toward

the house. "Well, 'twill be more than a passing word or two. Come, sit and sip!" Rod followed, squeezing Gregory's shoulder for reassurance—Gregory's reassurance, that is.

"Brother Clyde!" Father Boquilva called as they neared the house. A big monk looked up in surprise, then laid down his trowel and mortar board and came toward them.

"This is Brother Clyde," Father Boquilva said to Gregory. "As thou seest, he doth labor with his hands, as do all

of us— and if his task seems lighter than mine, be assured that yesterday he did labor in my place." The big monk smiled and held out a hand that fairly swallowed Gregory's. The little boy looked up at him, wide eyed.