The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Fifteen

Lutes and hautboys wove a tranquil melody, calming the spirits of all who entered the great church in Runnymede. The choir's voices rose to fill the nave as Their Majesties came in, arm in arm, their two sons walking before them with gravity far beyond their years. Footmen preceded them; maids came behind. A third of the household came to mass in the cathedral; the others attended in the chapel.

The royal party sat, and Catharine clasped Tuan's hand tightly, smiling. He smiled back into her eyes. For a few brief minutes the peace of God touched their souls.

Then the choir finished with a triumphant "Alleluia!" and the priest cried from the pulpit, "Dearly beloved in Christ!"

Catharine and Tuan spun about to stare at him. What had happened to the Introit? To the Confiteor, the Gloria, the Epistle, and Gospel?

"There will be no Mass in this Church on this Sunday," the priest announced grimly.

Tuan frowned, and Catharine's face darkened as a huge hubbub erupted all about them.

The priest grimly waited it out, then unrolled a parchment, declaring, "I must read to you a letter from our Most Reverend Archbishop!"

Catharine nearly bolted from her chair, but Tuan restrained her with a hand on her arm. "Let him speak. We are not yet despots—and 'tis better to have it said openly."

She subsided, fuming, while Alain and Diarmid stared up at them, frightened.

"Dearly beloved," the priest read, "it is with great sadness that I pronounce Tuan and Catharine, erstwhile King and Queen of this land, heretics against the Word of God and the Church of Gramarye, and do therefore declare them excommunicated from all services and Sacraments of our Church."

The hubbub turned into a roar this time, and even the footmen seemed to shrink away from Their Majesties. Catharine was on her feet, fists clenched tightly, face white, and Tuan was beside her. " 'Erstwhile!' " the Queen said grimly. "How dare he say 'erstwhile'!"

But the priest was waving for quiet. As the crowd subsided, they could hear him crying, "… and hear me out, ere I am silenced! His Grace the Archbishop doth say, 'I hearby call upon all good men and true, whose souls are devoted to God, to abjure this false prince and come to me here in my house in Ruddigore, to join in a holy march against these heretics who do tyrannize our fair Isle of Gramarye!'"

Now Tuan's face swelled with wrath; now, finally, he bellowed in rage, "Art thou done?"

"'Thine in Christ,'" the priest finished, coolly if quickly, " 'John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye by the grace of God.'"

"Say, rather, by the word of John Widdecombe!" Tuan thundered. "If thou hast finished, thou wilt doubtless leave this church, and thou shalt not say Mass!"

"In truth, I would not stay in the presence of an heretic," the priest stated, rolling up the letter with trembling hands. "Silence me if thou must, Tuan Loguire, but thousands of monks shall cry thine iniquity throughout the land!"

"I know some who shall not," Tuan called back, mastering his temper with difficulty. Eyes narrowed, he turned to the seneschal. "Sir Maris! Ride with all haste to the chapter house nearby, and beseech Father Boquilva to come say our Mass!" He turned to Catharine and said, more softly, "Now shall I not scruple to 'use' them!"

His answer was the glow in her eyes, and the clasp of her hands on his.

The noble hostages filed back into their hall, and for once there was no badinage of insults between the two parties. They took their places and sat, faces dark, gazing at one another with foreboding. No one spoke, perhaps because D'Auguste was absent, comforting his bride.

Finally Maggiore broke the silence. "My lords, it is war."

Ghibelli nodded heavily. "How can it be aught else, when the Archbishop doth excommunicate the King?"

"Yet 'tis plain that Rome doth not," Chester answered, "and that there be two orders of St. Vidicon now, not one."

"Aye, there is a St. Vidicon of Rome, and one of Gramarye. PestV Marshall threw his hands up in exasperation. "How can there be two Saints Vidicon when only one was martyred?"

" Tis a rebellion among the priests," Glasgow growled, "and fools we are not to have seen it."

"My sire hath declared for the Archbishop," Marshall said, glowering. "I had thought his example showed that the Archbishop was right in embracing change, and Their Majesties were wrong in.their foolish obstinacy."

"Aye," Graz agreed. "Yet if the Archbishop's priest will not say Mass in the presence of the royal heretics, but Father Boquilva will most willingly accord them the Sacraments…"

"Aye," Ghibelli whispered. "Who is the true heretic, eh? The King, or the Archbishop?''

He whirled to stab a finger at D'Auguste as the young lord came into the hall. "Riddle me that, eh? Thou, who dost ever believe thyself knowledgeable in all things—tell me! Who is faithful to God—His Majesty, or His Grace?"

D'Auguste froze, startled. Then he came forward, frowning. "I cannot see how he can be 'His Grace' when he hath cast us all into so much confusion of spirit. Yet the question for us, milord, is much more to the point: Who shall we march with? The King? Or…"

"Our mourners," Graz said softly.

They were all silent, staring at each other, the sudden fact of their own mortality shrouding their souls—the realization that they could die at the headsman's block, though none of them had yet seen twenty-five.

"Who hath declared for the Church?" Glasgow muttered.

"Thy father, Duke Stuart," Ghibelli answered, "and my sire. With him march Earl Marshall and Count Borgia."

There was no sign of relief on any face, but several nods; the young lords had heard only what they had expected.

"For myself," Ghibelli said slowly, "if my lord father doth willingly allow me to go to the block, I care naught." He swallowed, belying his own words. "At the least, I hold him blameless—nay, honorable and right, to uphold the rights of our estate. I doubt me not an my death will pierce him to the very heart and fuel the fires of his vengeance; he will be doubly determined to bring down this upstart Loguire. Tis for the good of the House of Savoy, and of all the great lords."

The room was silent.

Then Guelph said, "Thou hast the right of it—for myself and my sire. Yet what of our souls, eh? How if Father Boquilva be right and the Archbishop wrong?"

"Aye." Ghibelli met his somber gaze. "I have no great wish to suffer the tortures of the damned for all eternity, for no better reason than that my parent adhered to an heretical cleric."

"Yet," said Chester, "mayhap the Archbishop is right. What of that, eh? And we who adhere to Rome and the King might therefore burn without end."

"Oh, thou hast little concern!" Ghibelli exploded. "Thou wilt have the fullness of thy three score and ten ere thou dost face the Judgment! Thou wilt know the end of this quarrel, and which Church is true; thou wilt have time to recant and repent, an thou hast need of it! Yet we whose sires rebel, we go to the block on the instant, as the King doth saddle his mount!"

"Aye, I have a part free of care," Chester answered, meeting his gaze, "if I am not slain on the field."

Ghibelli was silent, only staring at him.

The young lords all sat, numb, chilled to their souls by the thought.

Then Guelph slapped the table and shouted, "What a pack of great ninnies we are! What fools, what hollow heads! Here we sit and shudder over words that silly shavepates do bandy! What matters their nattering, in truth? God is God; they will not change Him!"

"Brave words," Glasgow said bitterly. "Wilt thou recite them as they haul thee to the block?"

"His point is well-taken." D'Auguste finally stepped up to take his seat. "We are the lords of the land; we ken the wielding of power. Dost not see such maneuvering in this?"

The lords were silent, looking at one another in surprise, then slowly beginning to nod.

" 'Tis naught but a jousting for place," Guelph said, with a wolfish grin.

"Why, then, let us regard it as just such a contest." D'Auguste leaned forward, elbows on the table, cocking a forefinger at Ghibelli. "But think, milord—if 'twere a war and we wished to be sure our houses did survive it, how would we proceed?"

"Why…" Ghibelli stared at him, nonplussed. Then he frowned and answered, "We would be sure our house did have a son on each side."

"The very thing!" D'Auguste slapped the table. "Thus have our ancestors done, time without mind, whenever two great lords did fight o'er the succession. March on the King's side, my lord, and fight as much as thou must, though not more, and thou shalt inherit thy father's title and land, if Their Majesties win."

Ghibelli stared at him in surprise. Then his eyebrows drew down in suspicion. "Wherefore wouldst thou so advise me, if thou art a King's man? Wouldst thou not wish me to fight with my all?"

"I own I would—yet I will rejoice to see thee in the battle line at all, for thou wilt do more good there than here, with thine head in a basket."

"Yet how if our sires win?" Glasgow demanded, but Ghibelli turned on him. "Art thou a slow-witted fool? They will know why we have fought on the King's side; they have learned the histories of our houses and their conduct in wars civil as surely as we! Hath it not ever been thus—that a house with two sons did send one to fight for the suzerain and one for the rebel?"

" 'Tis so," Glasgow admitted. "Thou hast the right of it; our fathers must surely forgive the prodigals."

"Aye, and thus we may keep our heads on our—" Ghibelli froze at the thought. "Why, what a craven knave have I become, that I would value my life above mine honor!" He spun to D'Auguste. "Thou hast spoken well and wily, my lord, to tempt me from loyalty to my sire and class! Yet I have seen thee for what thou art, an equivocator and temporizer who doth leap to wherever the main chance doth fall! Get thee behind me, Satan!"

"I have spoken words of sound policy only," D'Auguste said quietly.

"Words of expedience, which are words of treason! This is truly why thou wilt declare for Tuan Loguire, is it not?" And D'Auguste said, "No."

"Now how is this?" The Archbishop whirled, stabbing out an accusing forefinger. "Thou hadst told me our brothers could move the folk to cry against the King, yet now the King's warlocks do counter each last move that ours do make, and doth even turn them against our monks!"

He stood with his back to the windows of the solar, sunlight streaming down behind him, surrounding him with a glow that hid his face in shadow. But Brother Alfonso didn't seem to be impressed; in fact, he had to hold his face carefully immobile to keep the contempt from showing, and modulated his tone to conciliation. " 'Tis but the sensible move in the game, milord, and we have but to counter it."

"What, to counter a counter? Thou dost speak in riddles, Brother Alfonso! How may we do so?"

"By turning their own thrust against them, milord. They do seek to raise the folk against us clergy—and we may raise them far more easily, 'gainst the witchfolk!"

The Archbishop lifted his head, a wary look coming into his eyes.

"If a great outcry 'gainst the witches rose," Brother Alfonso went on, "the King would scarcely dare to use them, for fear of the mob."

"He would be wise," the Archbishop said, his tone grim. "The mob might quite easily turn against the witches in truth. We might see folk once more burned at the stake, or buried with spikes of wood through their breasts."

Brother Alfonso shrugged. "Such are the hazards."

"Aye, and now, thanks to thy chowderheaded counsel, such a hue and cry could turn 'gainst us of the Order! Nay, the mob might even rise against the monastery!"

"I think not, milord." Brother Alfonso's smile soured. "There is a way to safely advance such a policy. We may show 'tis not witchfolk who are evil, but the King's witches only."

The Archbishop scowled. "And how shalt thou do thus?"

"Why, by interdicting only their leaders." Brother Alfonso smiled again, with malice. "Thou mayest simply condemn the High Warlock and his wife as heretics."

"Have you any particular reason for riding to Moltrane Village, Rod?"

It was unusual to have your mode of transportation question your motivation for using it, but Rod always made an exception for Fess. So did the horse, for him.

"Officially, to get a salami to chop up for dinner," Rod answered. "At least, that's what I told Gwen."

"Did she wish to know why you did not go to an inn in Runnymede? It is almost as near."

"She didn't, which means she understands that I need to get away from it all for a while."

"It will scarcely take us an hour to go to Moltrane and back. Rod, even at my slowest pace."

"That's long enough—and frankly, I couldn't justify staying away much longer than that. Just between you and me, Fess, I think this conflict is making Gwen a lot more nervous than any fight we've ever been in before."

"Because of her religious convictions, you mean?"

"Yeah, I think that's why. I didn't even know she had any."

"No doubt she hid them well, Rod, out of consideration for your feelings."

Rod frowned, glaring at the back of the horse's head. "What do you mean by that?"

"She understands that you have an aversion to the outward show of religion, Rod, to its rituals and sacramentals, and therefore restrains her own desire for them."

Rod stared.

"Rod?"

"Yeah, I'm still here. Fess, I don't have an aversion to liturgy—I just don't like religion!"

"You were reared a Catholic, Rod, and when the Faith takes hold of you as a child, it never truly lets go."

"Yeah, early brainwashing." Rod shuddered. "Well, I will admit I have a tendency to play it safe when I think of the afterlife."

"More than that, Rod—underneath your show of agnosticism, you are a very religious man."

"What do you mean? I'm not even sure who Christ was!"

"That does not hinder your belief in Him."

Rod frowned. "I could take offense at that, you know."

"True, but you know that I do not intend any such offense— it is outside my program. Your programming, however, is a product of the Church."

"Is that why I all but hated it for a while?"

"Perhaps, but that only illustrates my point. You may have resented religion, Rod, and you may have rejected it—but you have never been indifferent to it."

Fortunately at that point, they heard the tolling of a nearby chapel bell.

Rod stopped. "That's the Moltrane chime. What's the matter? Flood? Fire?"

Fess lifted his head. "My sensors do not detect any byproducts of combustion, Rod, so it cannot be fire. And we have not had rain for two weeks."

"So it has to be foes. Gallop, Fess! They might need our help!"

But the scene on Moltrane Common was peaceful enough. The peasants crowded around the church steps, with a few late plowmen still running up. Rod reined in as he came even with the cottages, frowning. "All that just for this? What is he, the monk who cried wolf?"

"He is reading aloud, Rod. Presumably it is a communication of great importance."

"I'm leery of communications from the Church, these days." Rod twisted the stone in his ring and pointed it at the priest. The stone was a well-disguised microphone, extremely directional, and the elaborate setting hid an amplifier circuit and miniature transmitter, feeding the signal into the earphone implanted behind Rod's ear. "Boost your amplification, Fess— I want you to hear this, too."

"'… a traitor to Holy Mother the Church,'" the priest was reading, " 'and an infidel and unbeliever. He doth practice his Art in contravention of God's will and the direction of the Church of Gramarye. Therefore do we pronounce the heretics Rod Gallowglass, who doth style himself Lord High Warlock, and his wife Gwendylon, to be no longer in communication with the Church of Gramarye, and as excommunicate, banned from all services and Sacraments, and no longer within our protection against the entrapment of the Devil. Yours in Christ, John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye.'"

The priest rolled up the parchment with trembling hands, and the peasants burst into furious babbling.

All Rod could say was, "I'm going to have to tell Gwen, aren't I?"

"You must, Rod. Personally. And, I hope, before anyone else can bring her that news."

"Yes." Rod gazed out at the crowd, frowning. "I hate letting her down at a moment like this, but I don't think I should stop to pick up that sausage."

"I am damned! I am bound to eternal hellfire!"

"No you're not, darling." Rod knelt beside Gwen, pleading. "It's just a bunch of words."

"Words of an Archbishop! No! Do not touch me! Tis thou hast brought me to this, thou and thy pride, that would not allow thee to bow to the man of God! No!"

"But I haven't changed what I believe!"

"Yet thou art excommunicated! And I with thee!" She spun about, her face in her hands.' "Excommunicated! Nevermore to have the Sacraments! Nevermore to receive God's grace! Oh, thou hast woefully wronged me now and again, Rod Gallow-glass, yet never so badly as thisl"

"But it wasn't me who did it, it was—"

" 'Twas done to theel And I am under its ban for being thy wife! Though aye, I must own I have done grievous wrong to the Church also, in giving aid and support to Their Majesties 'gainst the Archbishop! Oh, what a vile sinner am I!"

"You're a heroinel" Rod exploded. "Time and again you've been the only wall between the poor, good people and the greedy, selfish men who wanted to grind them into the dirt!"

"I cannot be good if the priests so execrate me!"

"But you didn't go up against the Church—you just followed where I led!"

"Aye, and shamed am I to have done so! 'Tis my soul, mine, and 'twas for me to decide whether to take God's part or thine! How could I have been so blind as not to see thou didst stray into Satan's net!"

"It's the Archbishop who's going to the Devil!" Rod howled. "You know that! You've watched him move, step by step, away from the Pope and toward the sins he himself preaches against!"

Gwen stood transfixed, pale as a shroud, wordless, staring at him.

He didn't know whether she was going to break or rally, but he had to try something. "You are as good as any human being can be! You are patient, gentle, giving, and loving! You have never faltered for an instant in your faith in God's goodness or my redeemability! Never in any way, as long as I've known you, have you done anything the Church preaches against!"

"I have taken arms," Gwen whispered. "I have fought in wrath, I have slain men!"

"But only in defense of the people they were trying to kill! Only when you were caught between Commandments! Oh, sure, you've lost your temper now and then—but only a saint could have kept it, with our four little imps! And the saints wouldn't have dared come anywhere near them!"

Gwen stared at him in a silence that stretched on for so long Rod was afraid she would break, but he didn't dare speak another word. He'd said all that he could; anything more might push her away from him forever.

Then her shoulders began to shake.

Tears? he thought, in a panic. Or laughter?

Her mouth curved, and she began to giggle.

Rod almost caved in.

The giggle swelled into laughter and she collapsed into a chair, sprawling helplessly as her howls of glee shook the house. Rod found himself laughing, too, and couldn't help wondering why his cheeks were wet. He staggered over and collapsed next to her, kneeling as he fell, arms outstretched, and she fell into them, rocking back and forth with him in a gale of mirth.

Finally they quieted, and Gwen wiped her eyes as she gasped, "Aye, 'tis foolish, is't not? When I have seen this very priest stray into sin, and do yet hearken to his words?"

"He excommunicated himself," Rod pointed out, "when he separated from Rome. He's the one who opened up the heresy business."

" 'Tis true." Gwen nodded. "Rome would call him an heretic, would it not?"

"The Pope and every soul in the College of Cardinals," Rod assured her. "So what are you, if you're heretical to a heretic?"

"One of the faithful, to be sure." The amusement was fading into something grim. "We are still of the Roman Church, my lord, are we not?"

"Sure," Rod said quickly. "We haven't repudiated it."

"And this was a most wily snare of Satan's, that did both tempt and afright me into deserting the True Church." Gwen's tone hardened. "Had it not been for thee, my lord, I would have fallen into his net."

"Oh, no, I wouldn't say I deserve credit—"

"Thou never dost," she cut him off. "Thou hast humility, among thine other virtues; how could I have thought thee a sinner?"

"Uh…"

"Be still," she commanded. "I will number thy virtues, sin that thou wilt not. Yet, my lord…" She turned to him, frowning, puzzled. "How may we say which is right, when two churches each say it is sole and true? And how can we know which is right—the one that doth say we are damned, or the one that doth say we are not?"

"It's really up to God, isn't it?" Rod said gently.

"Aye, certes, yet how are we to know?"

"Same way the churchmen do—try to listen to Him. And just in case you don't hear anything, check your conscience. At the bottom of your heart, do you honestly think you've done anything really sinful?"

Gwen was still, and Rod held his breath.

"In my youth, mayhap," she said finally, "though I think our children have given me ample opportunity to atone."

Rod heaved a sigh of .relief. "So it's the Archbishop and his henchmen who're the sinners, not us."

"Aye, 'tis he doth sin, and most grievously, in bringing this confusion of the soul upon us, by separating from Rome." Then her eyes widened. "Did I truly say that?"

"Don't worry about it," Rod soothed.

"I will not," she said, with decision. "And now, my lord, by our Archbishop's accounting, I am truly an heretic."

"Only on Gramarye, dear," Rod assured her, "and only in five counties."

"I couldn't believe she'd taken such a medieval attitude." Rod shook his head, flabbergasted.

"Wherefore not, Rod? She is, after all, a medieval woman."

"Yeah." Rod frowned. "I keep forgetting that, just because she's so intelligent and responsible, and has managed to learn everything I've learned, and does just as much on the national level as I do, and—"

Fess emitted a rumbling noise, the robot's equivalent of clearing his throat.

"Oh! Yes, I was kind of running on there, wasn't I?" Rod pursed his lips. "At least it's understandable, how I forget."

"Understandable, yes. But she was raised in a medieval society, Rod, and early attitudes are fundamental; they are always there, at the bottom of the personality."

"Yes." Rod nodded. "The wonder is not that she went berserk for a few minutes, but that she managed to come back."

The Archbishop was in his scriptorium, appointing bishops. He smiled as he wrote, dipping his pen in the inkwell with zest and signing his name with a flourish.

"… art hereby created Bishop of Tudor, to be confirmed by the laying on of hands when tide and times allow, at our abbey here in the House of St. Vidicon. Till that time doth come, ward thy flock well, and guide them in the true way of our Church. John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye."

"Theodore Obrise, Bishop of Stuart," he said as he sprinkled sand over the ink.

Brother Alfonso wrote Father Obrise's name carefully on the roster of bishops.

The Archbishop shook the sand off the parchment, rolled it, and handed it to a rather pale Brother Anho, who melted sealing wax onto the rolled edge, then held it while the Archbishop pressed his signet ring into the pool. He turned and laid it on the stack for the messenger as the Archbishop turned back to the desk and took a clean sheet of parchment. "Now. Who is chaplain to the Earl Tudor?"

"Father Gregory McKenzie," Brother Alfonso replied.

"To the Reverend Gregory McKenzie," the Archbishop wrote, "in the name of the Lord, greetings. Knowing thee to be steadfast in the Faith…"

Father McKenzie unrolled the parchment with a frown. "What hath His Grace to tell me, Brother Lionel, that may not be said by word of mouth?"

The messenger put down his mug and wiped foam from his moustache. "I know not, Father; I but bear the scroll."

'"To the Reverend Gregory McKenzie,'" the priest read; but as he went on, his eyes widened. When he finished, he looked up, eyes glowing, lips trembling as he tried to confine them to only a small smile. "I thank thee for this good news, Brother. Wilt thou bear messages for me, to all the parish priests in Tudor?"

"Father Obrise doth wish speech with thee, milord."

"The priest?" Earl Stuart ran his hand over the withers of his new chestnut stallion, frowning. "What doth he wish?"

"He will not say, milord, yet he is pale as a January hillside."

Stuart lifted his head, then turned slowly away from the stallion. "Bid him come." He went out of the paddock, a footman closing the gate behind him, and stood, feet apart, arms akimbo, as the priest came up. "God save thee, Father."

"And thee, my lord." The old man's lips were pressed tight, and his hand trembled as he held out the parchment scroll. "I hold here a letter from Milord Archbishop."

Stuart braced himself. "Read it me."

The priest unrolled the parchment with a sigh; he knew well that Earl Stuart had never spared the time to learn to read. " 'To the Reverend Axel Obrise, from the Reverend John Widde-combe, by the grace of God Archbishop of Gramarye…"'

When he had finished, he rolled up the parchment, straightening as much as he could and gazing directly into Earl Stuart's eyes.

"Well, then," the Earl said, with a taut smile, "thou art my bishop henceforth. Shall I congratulate thee?"

"Nay," Father Obrise said, "for I cannot accept this appointment."

The earl lost his smile, and the two men stared at one another in taut silence. Then the earl said, "Wherefore canst thou not?"

"For that I cannot in all good conscience part from the Church of Rome."

Earl Stuart stared at him, his eyes two chips of ice. Then he said, "Thou art lately come to this piety."

" 'Tis my shame." the old priest acknowledged. "I did delay, hoping His Grace would cease his vanity; yet he doth persist. Now I find that I can no longer endure in silence."

The earl nodded slowly. "And thou canst no longer be chaplain here." He turned to a nearby guardsman. "Escort Father Obrise to our most pleasant dungeon cell."

The young soldier blanched, but came forward to do as he was bid.

The altar bell rang, and Earl Tudor knelt for morning mass— but when he looked up, he stared in horror at the apparition before him. It was Father McKenzie as always, but the chaplain was holding a crozier and wearing a bishop's mitre on his head.

"Dominus Vobiscum," the priest intoned. "Ere we begin the Mass, I shall ask thee to rejoice with me—for, by authority of our good Archbishop, I am elevated to the rank of Bishop of Tudor."

He held up his hands, but there was no outcry of delight, for Earl Tudor was standing, pale-faced and trembling. "Reverend Father," he grated, "thou canst not be made bishop by Abbot Widdecombe, for he doth lack authority. The Pope hath not named him Archbishop."

"So I had thought, my lord." The priest turned to the Earl, lifting his head a bit. "Yet I am now persuaded of the Tightness of his cause."

"Aye, for that he will make thee a bishop! Nay, I shall not have the Church of Gramarye within these precincts! Thou mayest no longer be chaplain here."

"My lord, 'tis not for thee to—"

"Sir Willem!" the Earl snapped. "Thou, and a guard of six men, take this overweening friar in all his finery and escort him to the eastern border, where he may cross to the estates of the Due di Medici! He will find greater hospitality there, where the Church of Gramarye doth hold sway!"

Sir Willem stiffened, beckoned to his guardsmen, and came forward to surround the chaplain, who stared at them, shocked. They escorted him from the chapel, and the earl turned to the seneschal. "Send to Count Rhys, and bid him send Father Glen to us here."

"Hapsburg! Tudor! Romanov! Ruddigore!" The Archbishop slapped each parchment down onto his desktop. "Ruddigore, even Ruddigore't Though our house doth lie within the baronet's demesne! Not a one of these arrogant noblemen but hath flouted mine appointment of his bishop!"

"Vile are they, indeed," Brother Alfonso hissed, "yet not so vile as the priests who did refuse thy commissions."

"Vile? Nay, more—they are heretics! And are therefore hereby cast out of the Order and the priesthood! Draw up a proclamation so stating, Brother Alfonso, for my signature."

"I shall, my lord," the secretary purred. "Yet be of good heart—Bishop McKenzie and Bishop Vogel did declare loyalty to thee."

"Aye, yet only for that they would gain croziers thereby! Still, the attempt was most surely worthy, and 'tis to be lamented they could not sway their lords." The Archbishop shook his head. "I could almost wish the King's lords had imprisoned them; then might their congregations have risen in outrage."

"Their lordships took the course of wisdom," Brother Alfonso regretfully agreed, "in only exiling them."

"Aye, and here are McKenzie and Vogel among us again." The Archbishop frowned. "Yet they shall keep their rank, aye, and shall be bishops in absentia. And…" He lifted his head slowly, a smile touching his lips. "For those recreant monks whom we shall declare unfrocked, let us appoint other absent bishops, that all the land may know their sees await them!"

"Excellently thought, my lord!" It was so excellent, in fact, that it made Brother Alfonso nervous; the Archbishop wasn't supposed to think for himself. "The more so for that it shall weld these new bishops more ardently to thy cause! Who shalt thou choose?"

"Father Rigori," the Archbishop said slowly, "and Father Hasty. There are also Father Samizdat, Father Roma, and Father Rhone…"