The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Twelve

Rod woke up to the sound of a bird trilling. He levered himself up onto one elbow, blinking around until things came into focus. The trilling, it turned out, was coming not from a bird, but from his daughter Cordelia.

She looked up brightly when she saw his head lift. "Good morn, Papa! Is't not a beautiful day?"

"If you say so," Rod grunted, pushing himself up to a sitting position. "But much as I like being away from it all, sweetheart, I must admit that I prefer a civilized mattress."

Of course, he could have had one easily; there were self-inflating mattresses cached inside his spacer—but he was apt enough to be in trouble for witchcraft, as it was. With the haunts running all around the countryside, the mood of the peasants wasn't exactly conciliatory. He heaved a martyred sigh and rolled off his pallet, lifting his cloak with him as he stood up, then shaking it out. "At least it's summer."

"Oh!" Cordelia looked up, eyes wide. "I should not have cared to have slept in the forest if 'twere winter, Papa."

"I wouldn't have, either," Rod agreed. "Get the fire going, would you? I'll be right back."

By the time he returned from a call of nature, Cordelia had assembled twigs and tinder into a little cone, point up, and was glaring at it. A wisp of smoke curled up; then it burst into flames. Cordelia relaxed, looking up at her father happily. "

"Pis lit, Papa. On what shall we dine?"

Well, it would be a good exercise. Rod frowned, his eyes losing focus as he concentrated on the thoughts all about him: worms, raccoons, deer… there! An escaped hen who had just laid two more eggs. He deepened his trance, feeling the flow of his esper powers, and thought of the eggs as being here, instead of there.

Something popped; he felt a sudden weight in his hands. He looked down and saw four smooth white ovoids in his cupped palms.

Somewhere in the forest a no-longer-domestic fowl looked up with a startled, and very indignant, squawk.

An hour later, the tinker and his daughter wandered into a circle of peasant huts glorified by the title of "hamlet." (The melancholy prince certainly would have objected, if he had known.) The two of them had faces bright and cheery, pots and pans clattering, and minds wide open for the slightest thought about flying cooking ware, hauntings, or other espers. But Rod didn't even have a chance to give his trade call; the peasants were already gathered together in the circle of beaten earth that served for a common, gossiping furiously. Cordelia's eyes widened. "Papa… ought not these men be in the fields?"

"By this time of day, they should." Rod frowned. "Something big must be going on. Maybe just the kind of haunting we're looking for?"

"Mayhap." Cordelia's eyes glazed, but she shook her head. "I cannot make out one separate thought. Papa, 'tis such a jumble."

"Well, then, we'll go back to the old-fashioned method." Rod stepped up and tapped a villager on the shoulder. "Ho, countryman! What coil hath bred such a storm of talk?"

"Why, hast thou not heard?" The villager looked up, startled, then saw a tinker, and his nose wrinkled with disdain. "What, a tinker who knoweth not the happenings? Nay, then, I'll tell thee the news! The Archbishop—the Abbot that was, if thou hast heard it not—hath issued a new proclamation."

Rod felt his guard going up as though it were an invisible shield that surrounded him in a globe. "What doth he now declare?"

"Why, that anyone who doth not declare his allegiance to the Church of Gramarye must needs be an heretic!"

Cordelia stared, appalled, but Rod only stood, his face immobile. Then he said, "An heretic."

"Aye." The peasant grinned. "And will thereupon be declared excommunicated."

Rod couldn't make out any separate thought any more easily than Cordelia could, but he could feel the emotions boiling up around him—excited, enthusiastic, and verging on violence. "Thou art all of the Church of Gramarye, then?"

"Aye, for our lord, Count Florenzo, doth adhere to his lord, the Duke di Medici, who doth follow the Archbishop." But the peasant was frowning now, the presence of strangers on such a day finally registering. A few of his neighbors noticed his frown and turned to stare at Rod and Cordelia. In a few minutes the whole common had fallen silent, gazes fixed on the two strangers. Cordelia felt their hostility, and pressed up against her father.

A broad, stocky peasant with grizzled hair pushed his way through to them. "I am declared warden of this village, tinker. Say what manner of man thou art."

Rod answered, "An heretic."

"I had thought they would hang thee, Papa."

"Burned at the stake, dear—that's the punishment for heresy. But I have the distinct opinion that it's very badly overdone."

"Praise Heaven we were not!"

"Yes, I shouldn't have let myself get carried away like that. Good thing that housewife needed a new cooking pot."

"Aye, and that 'twas the castle's pot boy come down to bring the news." Cordelia shook her head. "What great good luck that his cook did need two saucepans and a griddle. Yet who would ha' thought she'd buy them from an heretic?"

"Yes, well, even in this society practical matters have to be taken care of before you can get to such incidentals as preserving the True Faith. But it was a nice excuse to get away from that mob before they decided to get back to religious issues." He glanced at the castle behind him. "Although I will admit, it's the first time I ever heard of a tinker not staying for a bite and a bowl after a sale."

"Well, we are back on the road again." Cordelia breathed a sigh of relief. "I have gained new understanding, Papa."

"What?" Rod looked up, alert for trouble in his daughter's emotions. "About the pack instinct? The urge to turn on the misfit?"

"Nay, about why Mama doth worry when thou dost take to the road alone."

Rod was just deciding to take umbrage at the remark when an elf popped out of a clump of bayberry. "Lord Warlock!"

"Ssh!" Rod gave a quick, frantic look around, but there didn't seem to be any peasants nearby. He relaxed. "Listen, around here I'm Owen the tinker, okay?"

"As thou wilt have it, Lord Warlock. I bring word from His Elfin Majesty."

"What, from Brom?" Rod frowned. "What is it—Catharine and Tuan getting touchy?"

"In a manner of speaking. The new Archbishop hath proclaimed—"

"That anyone who isn't with him is against him. Yes, we heard. Don't tell me Their Majesties are seriously wondering which side of the fence they should jump to!"

"Nay, but they do wish thy counsel."

"Again?" Rod cried, exasperated. "Look, I'm not the only high-powered witch around here—and Cordelia and I are on a top-secret spy mission! Well, it was secret."

"Surely it cannot be more important than—"

"Oh, yeah? Look, if we don't finish this job, and fast, the ghosties and cobblies will take over Gramarye!"

The elf frowned. "Thy point doth have weight—"

"Yeah, a ton or two! Look, tell them they don't really need me—they've got Gwen right there! Just get her a babysitter!"

"I rejoice in thy presence, Lady Gallowglass." Tuan looked distinctly unhappy. " 'Tis good of thee to come at our need."

"Pay him no heed." Catharine clasped Tuan's forearm and patted it. "These men are of the opinion that only they can understand matters of urgency."

"I comprehend." Gwen smiled, amused. "He had as lief mine husband did come." She held up her hand to forestall Tuan's protest. "Nay, deny it not, Majesty, though 'tis good of thee to attempt it; and to ease thine heart, I shall tell the Lord

Warlock straightaway whatsoe'er we discuss here, and tell thee directly his opinion on it."

Tuan relaxed visibly. "I thank thee."

"And she is as wise in statecraft as she is tactful." Catharine stepped over to the gleaming walnut table before the great clerestory windows. "Come sit with us, Lady Gallowglass. There are many matters of which I wish to speak with thee."

"I cry Thy Majesty's mercy." Gwen slid gracefully into an hourglass-shaped chair and looked around her. "Thy solar doth ever gladden my heart."

"Gramercy, Lady Gallowglass." Catharine sat by her. "Yet 'twas not of my making."

"Nay, but the choice of draperies and carpets was thine." Gwen leaned forward. "As are thy concerns. Which matter doth trouble thee most—the children's discovery of a witch-spy?"

"That is foremost, aye." Catharine frowned. "I must own that if thy husband hath the right of it—that the new Archbishop doth use witches—it doth trouble me deeply. We must raise our children by the Church, Lady Gallowglass, or their souls will be lost and they will lack all sense of Tightness."

Gwen nodded. "Yet how can they know right from wrong if the Church itself doth act in contradiction to its own teachings? Aye, Majesty, this troubles me also. We can have no harmony within our homes if there is no order in the Church."

" 'Tis of the harmony within the kingdom that I am more greatly concerned." Tuan wasn't disguising his impatience very well.

" 'Tis all one." Gwen turned to him. "As 'tis within our households, Majesty, so it is within thine. And if thine house is larger than mine, it rests nonetheless on the foundation of the Church."

"Yet that foundation is broken now," Catharine whispered.

But Gwen shook her head. "I think not. This our Church hath been shaken, yet 'tis not yet sundered."

"I would say that it is," Tuan contradicted. "For look you, how can it be whole when the Church of Gramarye hath broke with Rome, and the Abbot hath declared himself to be Archbishop?"

"There have ever been many bishops within the Church of

Rome, Majesty, or I misunderstand my Bible quite. And the breach may yet be healed."

"How may it be so?" Catharine demanded.

"Why, by adhering to the Church of Rome. Thereby may there be a break within the Order qf St. Vidicon, but 'twill be plain to all that the Church doth rest intact."

"And folk will see that this quondam Archbishop is but a fragment?" Tuan's eyes widened. "Well said, milady! Yet how may we make this plain?"

"By declaring thine adherence to Rome, Majesty."

"But the Archbishop will then call up what troops he may, and march to war!" Catharine cried.

"Will he not do that presently? Think, Majesty—he hath made such proclamation as must make thee declare for him, or be counted heretics and thereby be excommunicated."

" 'Tis so." Tuan nodded heavily. "Whether by our declaration or his, we will be aligned with Rome."

"The fiend!" Catharine said, hotly.

"Say, rather, 'the fox.' Yet thus mayest thou oust him from his burrow."

"The metaphor is apt." Tuan nodded. "Ay di me! If only there were some way of making clear to all the folk that the Abbot hath sundered his own order! For then would they comprehend, even the peasant folk, that 'tis the Abbot who hath broken away, not the Church!"

"Thou hast the means to hand," Catharine reminded him. "Thou hast these monks who have builded themselves a new chapter house, hard by our door."

Tuan's face hardened. "I will not so use godly men."

"Then thou must needs call up thine armies," Gwen returned. "Or, if thou wouldst avoid civil war, thou must needs declare thy selves loyal to the new Church of Gramarye."

"Thou dost not truly believe we ought do so!" Catharine protested.

"Nay," Gwen agreed, "since thou and Tuan would thereby acknowledge thy willingness to obey the new Archbishop."

"Never!" Catharine stated, eyes flashing.

"That must never befall," Tuan concurred.

"Then thou must needs proclaim thine allegiance throughout the land," Gwen advised them, "and admonish all souls of good conscience to adhere to the Holy See with thee."

"Then so we must," Catharine br6athed, fire in her eye.

The room was silent a moment.

Catharine frowned, and turned to Tuan.

He sat, leaning back in his chair, scowling down at the table.

"What, my lord!" Catharine cried. "Wilt thou not declare thy stand?"

"I do not think I shall," Tuan said slowly.

Catharine stared, scandalized, and for a moment the atmosphere in the solar was very, very tense.

Then Tuan said, "We are heretics if we do declare our allegiance to Rome, and heretics if we do not. Yet if we do not so declare, give him no response at all, fewer will rally to his banner."

Catharine's eyes widened. Slowly, she nodded. "Aye. A lord or two may hold aloof from the fray, uncertain that thou dost not truly believe as he doth."

"They may," Tuan agreed. "And even if they do not, we will thus buy some few more days' time whilst this Archbishop doth await, and await, a response that cometh not."

Catharine nodded. "The game is worth the candle, milord."

And I could not make them see otherwise, Gwen told Rod half an hour later, by remote exasperation.

Well, at least you did help them decide not to give in to temptation, Rod answered.

What temptation is that? Gwen demanded, puzzled.

The temptation to save their country from civil war by knuckling under to the Archbishop, Rod answered.

Ah. In that I have aided, aye.

See? I knew you could do everything I could have done.

Mayhap thou couldst have persuaded Their Majesties of the need to declare themselves, my lord, Gwen's thoughts sighed.

Maybe. Though Rod was dimly aware of the tree-lined dirt road about him, the vision of Gwen was much more vivid—but then, wasn't it always? The important point has been won, though. 'Cause however much I may mistrust the rule of kings, I'll take it over the rule of priests any day.

I would as lief have Tuan and Catharine than the Archbishop, Gwen agreed.

Sure, because one of them is a woman, which ameliorates the Crown's judgment. Rod didn't bother mentioning that in this particular joint monarchy, it was usually Tuan who did the ameliorating. Also, kings can be persuaded to see the merits of a constitution, and parliamentary rule.

Cannot churchmen also?

Of course not. A good priest tries to be as much like God as he can—and God is an autocrat.

Mirth tinged Gwen's thoughts, and gratitude to her husband for providing it. And shall that be the word I bear back to Their Majesties, my lord, of thine opinion of our conference?

Rod shuddered. Heaven help me, no! It might give them ideas. But you might tell them I said they might think about giving the refugee chapter of the Cathodeans all the support they can, dear, in spite of Tuan's scruples about using them. Just remind him that it never hurts to have an extra arrow in his quiver.

Certes, I shall, she answered, and Rod thought she might be giggling on the other end of the link.

They might even move the monks into one of their smaller castles, for starters; that might give the people the idea that they' ve formed a rival monastery, without Tuan's actually using them.

Thou art the very soul of deviousness, Gwen accused.

You say the sweetest things. Oh, and Their Majesties might want to ask the loyal lords to lend them a few knights, dear, and any extra soldiers they might happen to have lying around.

They might, in truth. Gwen's thoughts became a little less cheery. Is there aught else thou dost wish me to tell them for thee?

Only what I said at the beginning, Rod answered.

Confusion now. Which, my lord? There were many thoughts.

Only one that really matters, dear: What did they need me for?

The King had donned a peasant's tunic and robe, and was wandering through the darkened streets. Thus he had walked among his people, alone and only lightly armed, when he was only the second son of a duke; thus he still walked among them, when his mind was troubled with a decision that might affect their welfare. Now, though, witches had leagued with the Archbishop, so two more peasants followed him, and another paced him farther ahead down the alley, all of them with chain mail beneath their tunics and swords beneath their cloaks.

Still he walked, listening for chance remarks caught in passing, pausing in the doorways of inns, lingering near any group of folk that talked and laughed among themselves while a bottle passed from hand to hand. The streets should be better lighted, he noted, especially the narrower ones; crime preferred shadows.

Then he lifted his head, hearkening. Somewhere near, a man was talking, and loudly—talking with the cadence and timbre of one who spoke to a crowd. This, especially, should be of interest. His spirit quickening, Tuan followed the sound of the voice.

He came into a small square—a triangle, rather, an open space ringed on three sides by house fronts, one of which bore the sign of an inn. A horse and cart were tied to a post, and several booths stood empty, awaiting farmers' produce on the morrow.

Across from the booths, a man stood on a hogshead, a man in a brown hooded robe with a black rope for a belt and a small yellow handle in a pocket on his chest. Tuan's eyes widened; he'd seen hedge priests before, but not in the habit of the order, and not in Runnymede town itself.

"They besiege us!" the monk cried. "All about us foul spirits spring from the rocks and dead souls rise from their graves! The ancient ghosts of the land rise up to daunt us! What can have brought them upon us?"

Tuan pricked up his ears. This was something new—and perhaps even pertinent. He settled back to hear the preacher's theory.

"The King!" The monk answered his own question, and Tuan stiffened. "The King stands for the land, for the whole of the nation! What thou and I are, what we all together make, the King doth stand for! The King is the meeting place of all that is good and right in us!"

And Tuan found himself agreeing. There was something about this preacher that almost compelled belief.

"Yet if we make the King, 'tis even as truthful that the King doth make us!" the preacher went on. "If the barons threaten the King, the land is in turmoil—yet equally, if the King doth threaten the barons, the land will be also in turmoil!"

Tuan began to see the direction the man was taking, and he didn't like it. Nonetheless, it seemed to make a certain amount of sense, and the crowd around the monk was beginning to rumble agreement.

"Yet the spirits do not haunt the King of their own accord!" the preacher cried. "Nay, it must needs be he who hath stirred them up!"

A few shouts of agreement came out of the crowd. With dread, Tuan recognized a kindred spirit—a man who was at least as talented a speaker as Tuan himself. The King eased back to murmur a few words in the ear of his closest guardsman. The man nodded and moved away.

"For centuries," the orator declared, "Holy Mother the Church hath kept the spirits at bay! For hundreds of years the Church hath brought holiness to the land and lulled its fell spirits to sleep! Thereby, if they now wake, what hath caused it?" He paused to let a rumble build, then capped it. "The King! He doth set himself up 'gainst the Church! In the souls of his people he doth raise up strife! And as he doth in the people, so he doth in the land!"

This time he had to pause till the rumble died down.

Tuan waited, too. The longer the preacher took, the more time his men would have to surround-the little plaza.

"The land is unquiet!" the preacher stated. "Nay, what could cause it but an unquiet soul in the King of the land? 'Tis the sin of the King in opposing the Church! In abiding corrupted Rome! In his heresy't"

The crowd roared.

The preacher let it build, satisfied.

So was Tuan; his men must have blocked the streets. He eased back into the shadows, waiting while the preacher whipped the crowd up to the point where they were calling for the King to abdicate, then sent them on their way to shout beneath the magistrates' windows. Tuan watched them stream by him, more certain than ever that there was more to the success of this rhetoric than well-chosen words. His men let the people pass; then, as the preacher climbed down off his hogshead, they strolled in from each alleyway. The monk looked up, smiling pleasantly. "What wouldst thou, good men?"

"I would have some words with thee about the doctrines thou hast but now espoused," Tuan answered.

The monk frowned; the language was scarcely that of a peasant. "Certes, my son. May I know thy name and rank?"

"Gladly will I give it." Tuan signed to his men, then pulled back his hood. "I am Tuan Loguire, King of Gramarye."

The monk froze in horror, eyes bulging, and in that second of paralysis husky peasants stepped up all about him. He recovered and glanced about him wildly, but saw the hardness of their faces, and his own expression smoothed. He straightened, relaxing. "What wouldst thou of me, milord?"

Tuan frowned, noting the avoidance of the term Majesty. "Dost truly believe the course thou didst but now preach?"

"By Heaven, I do!"

"Then," said Tuan, "thou shouldst not hesitate to come debate that course with an adherent of mine, who doth hold the contrary view."

A guarded look came into the monk's eyes. "And thou wilt truly listen?"

"Myself, and the Queen. Further, we shall not speak, but allow thee and my champion alone to discourse on the issue. Wilt thou come?"

"Willingly." The monk's eyes glittered. "I do not fear to defend my Faith!"