The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Five

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 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 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 head— who should rule? Church or Crown?

"Not the slave," the Abbot qualified, "but the servant. Assuredly the body should be in all ways subject to the soul."

Dead end. Rod took a deep breath, trying to think of another approach. "But how, milord, if the soul becomes ill?"

"Then it must come to the Church, to be cured!"

Well, some of the medieval priests had been great practical psychologists—some. But Rod noticed that the Abbot had taken the argument around in a circle, stubbornly refusing to consider the implications of his own analogy. "Yet until it does, milord, it may create havoc within the body, may it not?" Rod had a vivid mental image of a schizophrenic patient he'd seen once—haggard, unshaven, and dressed in sloppy clothes.

Maybe the Abbot had seen something like it, for he looked distinctly unhappy. "Aye, yet we speak of the body politic, not the body human!"

The analogy wasn't working for him anymore, so he was rejecting it. "Yes, and we're talking about the Church, not any one soul. But there have been times when the Church has been ill, in a way—split into parties with different beliefs."

"Heresies have taken root, aye, and done great damage ere they have been stamped out." The Abbot scowled. "Yet 'tis all the more reason why they must be eliminated—with fire and sword, if need be!"

He'd pushed it over the line; Rod caught his breath. "But the Commandment says, 'Thou shalt not kill."'

"The Commandment doth not speak of the vile seducers who would sway God's children from the true Faith!" the Abbot snapped. "Assuredly thou dost not wish to be such an one!"

"No, Milord Abbot, I've no wish to tempt people away from the true Church."

The Abbot's face turned to stone.

"Any such division in the Church can only wreak havoc and misery on the poor common people who make up most of its body," Rod said softly. "I beg you, Milord Abbot, to do all that you can to prevent such a breach."

Behind the Abbot the secretary watched, trembling, his eyes like glowing coals.

" 'Tis not for us to do or undo," the Abbot answered, his tone glacial. "The unity of Gramarye doth rest with the great lords, and with Their Majesties."

The thought of the implied civil war chilled Rod's insides. "Yet you are the healer of the soul, Lord Abbot. Can you not find a way to make the body of Gramarye whole again?"

The secretary took a step forward, reaching out, but caught himself.

"We do intend naught that would work against the interests of the common folk," the Abbot answered stiffly, "nor against the Crown—provided, of course, that Their Majesties conduct themselves in accord with morality."

Which meant that the Church wouldn't fight Tuan and Catharine, as long as they did what the Church said. No, not good enough. "Does Milord Abbot mean that Gramarye can be unified only if Their Majesties abjure the Church of Rome, and recognize the Church of Gramarye as the only Church of the land?"

The Abbot's face twisted with distaste. "Thou hast small enough grace, and smaller tact. I would prefer to say that I can give neither my favor, nor my blessing, to any reign that doth uphold a faith that we find false."

"Even though the morals and beliefs are the same—except in regard to who gives the orders." Rod tried to squelch his rising anger. "Yet would you not say, Milord Abbot, that it is vital to have the authority of the Church available as a refuge for the people, in the event that the Crown becomes tyrannical?"

Guarded wariness, now, not granite—the Abbot thawed a trifle. "It is, aye; the Church hath ever been a counterpoise to the excesses of the great lords and the King. I do confess surprise to hear thee espouse such a view."

"You wouldn't, if you knew me better—especially since it follows that the Crown must be available as a refuge if the Church grows tyrannical."

The Abbot's face turned magenta. "Never shall it be so! Only clerics may hope to be immune from harshness!"

"Yes, but they're only human." Rod couldn't help but smile. "Even a priest may succumb to temptation."

" 'Tis far less likely than for a lord or king!"

Rod spread his hands. "No argument. Yet if it were to happen, milord, would it not be vital that the Crown be free to protect its subjects?"

The Abbot glared, his eyes narrowing.

"The Church must be separate from the State," Rod said softly, "just as the State must be separate from the Church. Therein lies the surest protection of the people."

"I will beg thee not to instruct me in care for the common weal," the Abbot grated. "The nurture of the poor folk hath ever been our concern."

"May it ever be so," Rod said piously.

"It shall." The Lord Abbot rose with the dignity of an iceberg. "In that, thou hast my pledge. Wouldst thou have more of me?"

It was a challenge, and Rod knew when to stop pushing. "I thank you, milord. You have given me all I could have expected."

And he had, of course—a bad sense of foreboding. Rod tried not to show it as he bowed to the Abbot, who returned a brusque nod as Brother Alfonso stepped to open the door. Rod glanced at the man as he stepped out, and he froze at the sight of the secretary's small, triumphant smile. Rod slowly nodded. "It has been instructive to make your acquaintance. Brother Alfonso."

"It shall be more so," the man purred.

Not exactly auspicious, Rod thought—especially since, as he followed a novice down to the gatehouse, he realized that the Abbot hadn't once referred to Rod as "Lord Warlock," or even just "milord."

The Comte d'Auguste strode into the hall with the band of noble hunters behind him, flushed and grinning, but empty-handed. "Ho, stay-at-homes!" he cried. "Thou hast missed a brave ride!"

The four remaining noble hostages looked up from their gaming. "We have not missed it at all." The Comte Ghibelli gave D'Auguste a jaundiced glance.

Sir Basingstoke, heir to the Baronet of Ruddigore, drawled, "Let him be, Ghibelli. Their excitement in the chase doth allow them to forget that they are, in truth, but prisoners of the Crown, held to assure their fathers' obedience." He shook his dice cup and rolled.

"I had liefer be a hostage than have a headless sire." D'Auguste dropped down into an hourglass chair, caught up the ewer of wine, and poured himself a full cup. " 'Twas my father's choice, and I approve it. Yet 'tis a pleasant enough captivity—thou canst not deny we are accorded the freedom of guests."

"Aye, to hunt with a dozen of King Tuan's knights about us." Ghibelli turned back to his chessboard. "And I note that thou, noble son of Bourbon, hast come home empty-handed."

"What matter if the wolf hath fled?" The Viscount Llangol-len, son of Earl Tudor, dropped down beside D'Auguste and caught up the pitcher of wine. "I doubt not he shall lie low this night, and avoid the haunts of mortal folk."

"We shall have him on the morrow." Count Graz sat down across from him and reached for the pitcher. "Leave off, Llangollen! Thou canst not drink more than thy cup will hold!"

"Mayhap, yet I may attempt it." Llangollen grinned. "Thou, like all Hapsburgs, dost ever seek to take all the wine for thyself."

"Thou art so besotted with sport that thou carest naught for thine heritage," Ghibelli snarled. "Dost'a not see? 'Twas not the gray wolf thou didst chase, but the wild goose!"

Maggiore, scion of Savoy, turned with blood in his eye, reaching over his shoulder to touch an arrow in his quiver. "I've enough of the gray goose about me to mend the ill manners of the Medici!"

Ghibelli's eyes sparked fire at the reference to his father. He started out of his seat.

"Peace, milord." D'Auguste reached out to stay Maggiore's hand while his gaze met Ghibelli's. "And where was this goose of thine hatched?"

"Why, in the brain of Tuan Loguire," Ghibelli said, "which is to say, in the head of his wife. What! Art thou so befuddled with pleasures thou dost fail to see that this round of hunts, games, and balls is but a curtain to dazzle thine eyes, the whiles Their Majesties do strip thee of thy birthright?"

Graz flushed and started to answer, but D'Auguste laid a hand on his arm. "To answer briefly and to the point—our birthrights are the ruling of our demesnes, which our fathers have still in hand; and the amusements the King doth provide are training for good governance and wise council. As to the wolf, we found the sheep he had slain and the tracks he had left—and, aye, for a short space, we saw his tail and his haunches, ere he loped into the rocks of a hillside whither we could not follow."

"Aye, not without soiling thy pretty tabard!" Earl Marshall's son sneered.

D'Auguste glanced at the splendor of gold and brocade on Marshall's doublet, knowing that he himself wore rough clothes of broadcloth and leather. "There was too great a chance that the beast might spring from ambush, and the sun neared the horizon. Yet we have found his lair, and will have him out on the morrow."

"And if thou dost, what then?" Ghibelli's eye glittered with contempt. "Thou wilt then but aid thy father's enemy, by taking away a threat to his folk. Wilt thou thus increase all his flocks and herds, and strengthen him for the day he doth seek to yoke all his nobles?"

"Thine eyes see naught but thine own thwarted power!" Graz stormed.

Ghibelli's teeth bared in a grin as his hand went to his knife.

D'Auguste caught Graz's hand as it touched his own hilt and held it immobile, forcing a smile at Ghibelli. "The King doth seek one law for all Gramarye, to ensure justice and peace for all his people—even thou. There is no harm in this, though it hinders our sires' whims and fancies."

" 'Tis more than a whim, when he doth choke off our revenues!"

"Aye, by one part in five. We may no longer grind each cent from our peasants to wallow in waste, nor maintain whole armies—yet we've enough to live richly, build strong castle walls, and keep enough men-at-arms to put down all bandits. I see small enough harm in that, and great good and more riches due to rise from folk who feel safe and hopeful."

"And what of this appointment of priests to thine estate, eh? What sayest thou to that?"

" Tis naught." Graz waved the complaint away. "What care I who doth preach on my lands? Yet 'tis the Lord Abbot who hath these appointments, not the King!"

"Only for that he did wrest such power from the Queen, who had thieved it from our sires!"

"The Queen was arrogant," D'Auguste admitted. "Yet King Tuan hath tempered her manner."

"Aye, she doth but spit sparks now, where before she breathed flames! What, wouldst thou serve such an one?"

D'Auguste's eyes kindled. "I would serve none, yet I would follow King Tuan."

"He hath made thee his lackey!" Ghibelli spat.

D'Auguste surged halfway up from his seat, then froze, glaring.

"And what doth halt thee?" Ghibelli taunted. "Dost thou fear the King's wrath?"

"Nay," Marshall purred. "He hath wed the fair Lady Mab, who will come to childbed presently. 'Tis not the King hath stolen his pride, but a woman who hath ta'en his manhood."

D'Auguste's glare swiveled to him, and his hand dropped to his hilt; but he felt Graz's hand on his, and checked himself. " 'Tis true I shall soon be a father," he said softly. "Nay, 'tis my boast."

"Thou are bridled," Marshall taunted. "Thou are bitted and saddled."

"That may be," D'Auguste admitted, and the words were gall on his tongue. "I have shouldered the burden that each of us must bear, or see his house perish."

"Thou hadst no need of great force to induce thee to take it up!"

"Nay, for my lady is beauteous." D'Auguste's eyes glowed, and he smiled. "And if I rejoice in my load, 'tis the happier for me. Yet it doth raise up care in my heart, to assure mine heir's holdings. Therefore do I peer down the road of the years, to judge where I must turn now, that I may make this whole land of Gramarye peaceful and bountiful—for as the land fares, so fares my house."

"And the Crown is thy surest means to so grand a view," Marshall said with contempt.

"The King's plans have merit."

"Say the Queen's, rather!"

"Mayhap." D'Auguste shrugged impatiently. "I care not if 'tis her scheme and his hand, so long as they bring about a smoother path for my child to walk."

"And if it doth diminish thy power? Or tarnish thine honor?"

"There is no loss of honor in following a prince I believe to be right! And if I lose some moiety of glory, what matter? As to loss of power, 'tis not so great as to trouble me."

"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 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 I 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.

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 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 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

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 according to his talents; give each a task befitting his gifts. Let them thus arouse within thy people love for thy 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."