The Warlock Heretical (8 page)

"It did trouble thy sire!" Ghibelli's eyes burned. "He did fight to stay the Queen's hand, and though he lost,

suffered defeat with honor! 'Tis the King and Queen whose escutcheons were blotted, for they hid behind a

rabble of beggars and witches! What noble son could countenance such baseness?" Graz started to
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answer, but

Ghibelli overrode him. "What of thy grandsire? What of the noble Bourbon who founded thine house?

Would

they have brooked such meddling in their affairs? Would they have prattled of 'the good o' the people'?"

"Their

day is gone," D'Auguste answered, tight-lipped. "Their sun hath set. 'Tis for mine own day I must care, and for

my son's."

"Fair words, to excuse thy betrayal of thy house!" "There is no betrayal in seeking the welfare of mine heirs and

my line," D'Auguste answered, stung. "Each noble's house will be far more strongly warded by the King's peace

than by his own army—for look you, there will be no more warring of lord against lord, and no more devastation

of lands and murdering of peasants for the false god of Pride!"

"Pride?" Ghibelli's lip curled. "I am amazed thou dost know the word! Yet thou canst not have heard of Honor,

for thou hast betrayed it!"

"There is honor only in doing as I believe right!" D'Auguste snapped. " 'Tis thou who art traitor—to the Crown!"

"What! Could / contemplate lifting mine hand against Their Majesties? Oh, for shame, sirrah, that thou couldst

think it of me! For only a fool would dare think of treason, in a castle

where tame witches do leap to do the chatelaine's bidding, and hearken to the thoughts of any and all!"

"And thou, I take it, art not a fool?" D'Auguste asked, with a skeptical smile.

"Nay, certes, for a man's not a traitor till he doth take up

arms against his King."

"And when wilt thou do so?"

Ghibelli started to answer, but caught himself and glared at D'Auguste, his face crimson.
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D'Auguste met that glare with a wolf's grin. "Thou wouldst but now have signed thine own death warrant, if

Their Majesties did truly use their witches as thou hast said. Yet they do not; they do respect all their subjects'

right to the privacy of their own minds; and they will not permit witches to hearken to the thoughts of any,

without good and clear reason."

"If thou dost credit that," Ghibelli spat, "then thou art a fool; for no prince would e'er disdain the use of a weapon

of

such might."

D'Auguste reddened. "He would, as he did hold the law to be greater than his own whim or pleasure!"

"Dost thou truly hold so" Ghibelli said between his teeth. "Then thou hast the soul of a squire!" D'Auguste blanched bone white, and his dagger leaped into

his hand. Ghibelli snatched out his stiletto, teeth bared in a fierce grin, and lunged at D'Auguste.

D'Auguste sidestepped, catching Ghibelli against his forearm and shoving him back. Ghibelli flailed for balance, and D'Auguste whipped the tail of his cloak about his arm before Ghibelli recovered and stepped in

again, snarling and stabbing; but D'Auguste caught the blade on his padded arm. All around the table, daggers

flashed and young noblemen leaped at one another, shouting. Steel rang against steel; razor edges shredded cloth

and drew lines of blood across flesh. Marshall slashed down at Chester's thigh, a foul blow, and as Chester

faltered, swung his stool against Chester's head. The young man slumped, senseless. Ghibelli cheered at the sight

and leaped back from D'Auguste long enough to swing his own stool at Graz. The stool cracked against Graz's

head, but D'Auguste stepped over him as he fell, shielding his companion with his body. Ghibelli sneered, caught

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the edge of the table, and heaved it at D'Auguste, who stepped back, shoving

Graz's body aside with his heel as the table crashed over. Then the melee resolved into dueling pairs with stools

for shields and poniards for swords.

The door boomed open, and a brass voice roared, "Hold!"

The young men all froze, but didn't look away from one another for so much as a second.

"In the King's name, put up your arms," the dwarf in the doorway thundered. He stamped into the hall, arms

akimbo; behind him men-at-arms streamed in through the door to stand ready near each lord; alert, ostensibly

only to serve, but wearing half armor and carrying pikes.

"For shame, milords!" Brom O'Berin boomed. "Noblemen, brawling like any rough peasants in a low tavern! Art

thou not mindful that this is the King's castle in Runnymede? What shall he say to thy sires, as to why thou art

naught but a brawling pack?"

Most of the young lords had the grace to look ashamed. But Ghibelli turned slowly to look directly at Brom with

eyes that glittered. "And how, my Lord Privy Councilor, didst thou know we did battle?"

"But how if they do, Brother Alfonso? How then?" The Abbot whirled to confront his secretary, clenched fists

trembling.

Brother Alfonso's lips pinched tight before he answered. "They will not, milord. Their Royal Majesties dare not

arouse the anger of the people."

"Oh, the people!" the Abbot said, disgusted. "The people will not rise to slay a dog, unless there is one to lead

them! The people count for naught in princes' plans!"

"Be not so certain, milord." Brother Alfonso's eyes glittered. " 'Twas the people aided Their Majesties to put

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down their barons' rebellion some thirteen years agone. The people become the armies; the people pay the taxes."

"Only if they are led, Brother Alfonso—only if they are led."

"Aye, but 'tis thy priests who lead them!"

The Abbot stilled, frowning. Then, slowly, he turned to look out the window.

"They cannot force thee to leave thy chair," Brother Alfonso told him. "They cannot declare the Church of

Christopher Stasheft

Gramarye to be naught but the dream of a brain-sick fool. Thy priests would raise the people against them."

"Yet who would lead them in this rising?" the Abbot muttered. " 'Tis no office for a monk or priest."

"It is not," Brother Alfonso agreed, "yet be assured, they will not chance it. No prince can govern without the

consent of those he governs."

"Yet how, if the people do not side with the Church of Gramarye? How if they do hearken to the Church of

Rome?"

"Why, make sure they do not." Brother Alfonso smiled. "Hast thou no preachers who can inflame with zeal? Hast

thou none to quiet restless ghosts who do cry out against the Pope?" The Abbot turned back to him, lifting his head, eyes

widening.

"I am assured that thou hast many among thy monks who are quite gifted," Brother Alfonso said, with a penetrating gaze. "In truth, the wonders I have seen them work might well pass for miracles among the uninstructed—miracles, or the work of vengeful spirits." The Abbot began to smile.

"Let each monk go forth from this our abbey," Brother Alfonso counseled. "Let each work among the people ac cording to his talents; give each a task befitting his gifts. Let them thus arouse within thy people love for thy

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Church of Gramarye, and contempt and hatred for the Church of Rome." The Abbot was smiling broadly now,

nodding with enthusiasm. "Set the process in train, Brother Alfonso. Let my monks go forth."

"So we didn't really accomplish anything. He effectively said he isn't about to budge an inch, and I said you

weren't, either." Rod shrugged. "I might just as well not have gone."

"Nay," Tuan disagreed. "Thou hast drawn from him a clear statement of his position and intentions."

" 'Tis nigh to a declaration of war," Catharine said, tight-lipped.

"Near the mark, yet short of it," Tuan agreed. "He hath threatened war, and our good Lord Warlock hath

responded with reminders of our force. Yet he hath not summoned troops, nor have we."

"Not yet, anyway. But I do think you ought to do so, Your Majesties." Rod felt a chill as he said it, and took a sip

of wine to warm himself. He leaned back in his hourglass chair and tried to relax, relishing the warmth of the

solar, even by night; for the brocaded curtains were drawn close over the windows to shut out the darkness, and

the tapestries on the walls seemed to glow with the light from the fireplace. It was good to be here, good to be in

Their Majesties' privy chambers again, with a whole castle between himself and the ambitious Abbot. It was

good to be with a couple of people who, if not exactly friends, were at least old associates—and Tuan and he

were, now, certainly shieldmates; they had shared the dangers of

more than a few battles, and consequently trusted one another in a fundamental way that was as important as

liking.

Not that Rod didn't like the King. There were traces of silver in Tuan's blond hair now, and a few faint wrinkles

in his brow—but the face was still open and honest. Tuan might not have learned guile with the years, but he had

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certainly learned all about it—and about treachery and power-hunger, as well as s most of the other unpleasant

characteristics of their species. I Underneath the weight of that knowledge, though, the King ' still believed

that most people could learn to be good.

Not so Catharine. She knew the jealousy and suspicion of her own nature too well to believe that anyone could

ever be devoid of either. Her hair was still golden and her complexion still unblemished, though Rod suspected

that might be due more to her skill with cosmetics than to nature. But the first few lines were beginning to show,

and her body had thickened to maturity since he had first met her. Her temper had not slowed, though, nor her

vehemence slackened. Still, Tuan's love had mellowed her—her tongue was no longer quite so sharp, and

underneath her arrogance and imperiousness was the solid certainty of knowing she was loved. Rod sighed, envisioning a future age in which the three of them, and Gwen, would be old cronies together. It

sounded very peaceful.

"Be of good cheer, Lord Warlock," Catharine said softly.

"We shall prevail."

Rod turned to her in pleased surprise. Yes, she had matured. "We shall," Tuan agreed with full assurance, "yet

we must not therefore grow careless or neglectful. There are ever troubles, Rod Gallowglass."

"Won't there always be, as long as there are people?" Rod smiled. "After all, our species can't endure too much

calm and harmony. But what were you thinking of?"

" 'Tis our noble hostages," Catharine said with distaste. "What a band of gross fools they are! At least, some."

"Only some." Tuan nodded, gazing at the fire. "D'Auguste has grown into a goodly young man, as have his

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friends Llangollen and Chester. Maggiore and Basingstoke also have become men worthy of their station."

"Well, that's five." Rod frowned. "How come you haven't demanded that Romanov send you a hostage?

I know

he didn't

have any children when the lords rebelled against Catharine the first time, but he does now."

"I would never bring such goodly, innocent lads to brush elbows with the likes of Ghibelli." Catharine's face

tightened. "Nor with his companions Graz and Marshall."

"Aye." Tuan seemed somber. "And, too, since thou hast served their father the Duke so well, he hath become a

veritable pillar of support."

"Well, your hospitality to his wife and children had something to do with it, too," Rod demurred.

"Too much so, I think." Catharine smiled ruefully. "He hath begun to request that we allow his son to attend upon

us, here at Runnymede."

"Well, that's the tradition, isn't it? Every nobleman should be a knight, and every knight has to start out as a

page."

"Aye, and the pages must needs serve in the house of a nobleman other than their sire." Tuan turned to Catharine.

"He may stay with the other pages, my sweet. There is no need for him to be among the more boorish of our

young lords."

Catharine's face blanked with surprise at the notion; then she turned thoughtful. " 'Tis most intriguing, the notion

of a duke's heir going about as though he were any common knight's son. ..." Rod suppressed a smile and veered back to the concern at hand, or not too far behind. "I take it your troop of

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young louts has been more loutish than usual."

"Aye, so thou couldst say." Tuan's face hardened. "They have set to brawling."

"Rapiers and daggers in the hall set aside for them!" Catharine's eyes kindled again.

"Really?" Rod looked up. "And the cause of the quarrel?"

"Who can say?" Tuan slapped the table in annoyance. "They claim lords' privilege, and refuse to speak of it."

"Oh, come on—say," Rod coaxed. "What do you need, a signed confession?" Catharine looked up at him, amused. "There is some sign of faction, is there not?" Rod nodded. "Ghibelli, Marshall, Glasgow, and Guelph against the Crown, the other five for it. I'd say that