The Warlock Heretical (6 page)

"The hour for jesting is past, Father Matthew." Father Thorn sat forward, frowning. "Thou hast sworn obedience

to thine Abbot; now doth he bid thee come back to his house." He pulled a scroll from his robe and laid it on the

table before Father Boquilva. When the monk did not move to take it up, Father Thorn urged, "Open it, if thou

dost doubt me!"

"I doubt thee not at all, Father," Boquilva answered quietly. "Yet we hold another obligation that doth supersede

even our duty to Milord Abbot."

"Naught could. What obligation dost thou speak of?" "Our duty to the Pope."

"The Pope hath no right of command in Gramarye," another monk said instantly, "nor did ever."

"So?" Father Boquilva turned, smiling. "How dost thou come to know that, Brother Melanso?" "Why, our Father

Abbot told us so!" Father Boquilva resisted the temptation to jibe, and said only, "We believe him mistaken."

"He cannot be; he is the Abbot," Father Thorn said instantly.

"'Cannot?'" Father Boquilva turned back with a raised eyebrow. "Is he infallible, then?"
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Father Thorn reddened. "Assuredly he is far wiser than thou!"

"How so? He was not appointed by God for his knowledge, Father—he was chosen in conclave by all the

brothers, and that for his gift of bringing all to work together, not for his judgment in theology."

"An thou hast chosen him for the one, thou hast chosen him for the other!" But Father Boquilva shook his head. "I chose him for Abbot, Father, not King." Father Thorn sat back, his face losing all expression. "Ah, then, we come to the nubbin of it. Our good Lord

Abbot doth not seek kingship, Father Boquilva; he doth but seek to assure Their Majesties' moral conduct."

"Quid est, he doth intend that when he shall say a given action is wrong, they-shall not do it," Father Boquilva

interpreted.

"Is that not right?"

"There is a case for it," Boquilva admitted, "yet it is like to turn to ah intention that, when he shall tell them they

must do another thing, they shall do it."

"And where is the wrong in that?" Father Thorn challenged.

"In that our Lord Abbot will thus be tempted to rule," Father Boquilva answered. "His province is that of the

spirit, not of the world."

"Yet the world should behave in accord with the spirit!"

"Aye, but by choice, not by coercion. When Tightness rules by force, it doth cease to be right."

"Dost thou say our Abbot is wrong?" growled a short, muscular monk.

"I say he seeks a near occasion of sin," Father Boquilva returned, unperturbed.

"Traitor!" The short monk leaped up, yanking a bludgeon from inside his cloak. The table crashed over as monks

surged to their feet and scrambled for their quarterstaves.

"Nay, Brother Andrew!" Father Thorn held up a hand to stay the blow, and the melee settled down to
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two armed

lines, the visitors glaring at their foes, the hosts warily watching their former allies. Father Thorn choked down

his anger enough to say to Father Boquilva, "I know thee well enough to respect

thy belief; thou dost think thyself right, even though thou art wrong. Yet be mindful, Father, that thy special

abilities, and those of thy fellows, are so strong as they are because of the care and fostering thou hast all received at the hands of our order."

Father Boquilva stood very still, and was silent so long that it was gray-haired Father Arnold who answered. "We

own ourselves obliged for instruction—nay, mayhap even for life; for any one of us might have been burned at

the stake by a mob in panic, had we not had the protection of the monastery's walls."

"Then come home to it! Thou hast not the right to parade thy talents in the wide world, when so much of thy

strength is the Order's!"

"We have not left the Order," Father Boquilva said slowly, "nor do we wish to. We have only begun a new

chapter house."

"There must be only one chapter in Gramarye, Father! Thou dost know the need for secrecy!"

"And I doubt it not. Yet be not afeared—we will not practice our powers save within the walls of this house,

where none can see but ourselves."

"And if some peasant doth peer through a chink in the wall? And he doth tell all his neighbors? What then will

become of all clergy in this land!"

"We know how to daub our walls well," Father Boquilva returned, "and how to maintain each his Shield, and to

watch for peasants' minds straying near. Thou canst not truly believe we would be so careless, Father."
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"What can I believe of thee, who hast left our precincts?" Father Thorn cried, exasperated. "Dost thou not see

that our house, like the Body of Christ, is weakened by the loss of any one member?"

"Ah, then." Father Boquilva spoke softly. "'Tis not the rightness of our leaving that doth trouble thee, nor the

chance of the worldly folk discovering our natures—but the weakening of the Abbot's house." Father Thorn was silent, but his face darkened with anger.

"Where's the morality in that?" Father Arnold murmured.

"We have bandied words enough." Father Thorn drew a truncheon out of his habit. "The right of the matter is for

the

Lord Abbot to decide, not thou, whose knowledge is no greater than mine. Thou wilt do as thou art commanded."

"We will not turn away from our Holy Father the Pope," Father Boquilva answered.

"Then have at thee!" Father Thorn shouted as he slashed at Father Boquilva. Boquilva's staff leaped to block the truncheon, but Brother Andrew swung his cudgel crashing down on Father

Boquilva's head. The taller priest fell back, dazed in spite of his steel cap, but Father Arnold stepped up to catch

him with his left arm while he blocked Brother Andrew's next blow with the staff in his right hand. Father Thorn

slammed another blow at him, but Brother Otho caught it on his staff, then whirled to block a swing from Brother Willem, and Father Thorn swung again. But Father Boquilva shook his head and brought his staff up to

block, slowly and with a wobble, but effectively. Brother Fennel caught Brother Andrew's cudgel on the upswing

from behind, and the short monk whirled with a roar, to slam a crushing blow at Fennel—but the taller monk

blocked and countered.

Throughout the single, large room, monks swung murderous blows at one another. Hardwood rang off
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steel

helmets, and a few monks fell to the ground, their unconscious bodies tripping their fellows. The door crashed open, and a gentleman in doublet and hose strode in. A dozen armed men dashed through

behind him, spreading out in a line along both side walls as a man behind the gentleman blew a piercing blast on

a horn, then roared, "Stand, for the King's bailiff!"

The monks froze, staring.

"What mayhem is this!" the bailiff cried. "What perversion of nature, to see men of God about the Devil's work!"

Father Thorn drew himself up, his face flint. "Do not dare to instruct a priest in morality, fellow!" One of the men-at-arms stepped forward a little, raising a pike, but the bailiff held up a hand to stop him.

"Do

thou not dare to bear arms, friar. Or dost thou care naught for the scandal thou dost give?" Father Thorn reddened, but answered, " Tis scandalous indeed that men of God must do what worldly authorities

have forborne!"

"Why, let us not forbear further, then." The bailiff nodded to his men. "Arrest them, in the King's name!"

"Hold!" Father Thorn paled. "Thou hast no authority ovei men of the cloth!"

"Thou didst forfeit the protection of thy cloth when thou didst raise a staff," the bailiff replied evenly, "and I have

authority over any who disturb the King's peace in this parish!"

"Thou hast not! All clergy are subject only to the Abbot, and to him alone!"

"In truth? Why, then, call for thine Abbot and bid him excuse thee!"

"Why, so I shall," Father Thorn said, eyes narrowed. "Stand aside." He nodded to his monks and strode toward

the door, thumping the floor with his staff. For a moment it seemed he must collide with the bailiff, but at the last

moment that worthy stepped aside and waved them out the door with a low, mocking bow. When the
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last monk

had gone by, he stepped into the doorway and gazed after them with a hard eye. "Williken. take thou five men

and follow them at a distance—and see that they leave not the roadway."

^Williken tugged his forelock, beckoned his men, anc departed.

The bailiff turned back to Father Boquilva. "Now, gooc friar, what was the cause of this coil?" The monk opened the door and managed to incline his body without actually bowing. Rod tried to ignore him

and stepped into the study. "Hail, Milord Abbot."

"Hail," the Abbot responded, with a smile in his voice; but he forgot to stick out a hand. Just as well; Rod wasn't

excited about kissing rings, anyway. *

The monk who had opened the door had followed Rod in, stepping past him to the Abbot's side. The Abbot

indicated him with a wave. "My secretary. Brother Alfonso." Rod gave the man a brief, but intense, glance, memorizing his face; anyone that close to the Abbot was a possible

enemy. He saw a pale face with a lean and hungry look on top of an emaciated body. And, of course, the fringe

of hair around the tonsure. But the eyes—the eyes were burning.

Rod turned away, trying to ignore the man. "I bear greetings from Their Majesties, milord."

"I am pleased that my children remember me."

Oh. It was going to be that way, was it? "My children"— implying that the Abbot had the right to rebuke them.

The Abbot waved toward a table by the tall bay window. "Wilt thou sit?"

"Thank you, yes; it has been a long journey." Since he'd been in the saddle most of two days. Rod really would

have preferred to stand, but there was no point in making the

meeting any more formal than it had to be. The cozier, the better; he was out to rebuild friendship, if
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possible. If.

The Abbot sat, too, and waved to Brother Alfonso. "Wine, if you please." The fruit of the vine trickled into a cup in front of the Abbot, then (just so he wouldn't have any false notions

about who was more important here) into one in front of Rod; it may have been poor courtesy, but it was an

effective statement. Rod, however, waited for his host to drink first. The Abbot raised his cup and said, "To Gramarye."

"To Gramarye," Rod echoed, relieved that it was a toast he could drink to (albeit only a small sip; he loathed

sweet wines).

The Abbot didn't drink much more—only enough for the symbol. Then he sat back, toying with the cup.

"To

what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

And he did seem to be enjoying it—for all the wrong reasons, no doubt. "Their Majesties have grown concerned

about the role of the Church in this land of Gramarye, milord.''

"Indeed." The Abbot tensed, but held his smile. "They should be so concerned, for only a godly country may be

peaceful and whole."

"Well, I can agree to that much, at least," Rod said with relief. "If all the people in a country believe in the same

religion, it welds the country together."

"Oddly phrased." The Abbot frowned. "Not that I disagree; but thou dost make the Church seem to be the tool of

the State."

Hasn't it always been? But Rod didn't say that aloud; he could think of a few cases where it had been just the

reverse. "Not at all, milord. Indeed, the Church is to the State as the soul is to the body."

"And the body is dead without it?" The Abbot smiled again, seeming to relax a trifle. "Well said, well said. I am

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consoled to find that my royal son and daughter do see this so clearly." Rod wasn't quite sure Their Majesties would have phrased it the way he had, but he let it pass. "Yet also, milord,

if the body is ill, the soul may suffer."

"Not an it bear the thought of Heaven in mind." The Abbot frowned. "Yet I will own that a person who's ill may

be tempted to anger and despair. Still, such trials will strengthen the soul, if they are endured."

Rod had a sudden memory of the smoking ruins of a village he'd seen shortly after the bandits had left.

"True, but

the illness should not be courted. At least, that's what I was taught when I was a boy—that it's a sin to damage

your body, because it has the potential of being a temple of God."

"That, too, is true." But the Abbot's frown deepened. "Yet do not misconstrue; the body matters naught in

Eternity. Only the soul endures."

It was hard not to point out the logical flaw—that the Abbot's argument could be used as an excuse for oppression— but Rod managed; he was here to conciliate, not to antagonize. "But doesn't God want us to try to

achieve a sound mind in a sound body?"

"He doth; yet do not therefore dream that the two are equal in importance."

"Surely, milord, you do not preach that the body should be the slave of the soul!" That was bringing matters to a