The Warlock Heretical

by Christopher Stasheff

  "Yet we have; rumor doth travel faster than any mortal feet." The beldame's lip quivered, but she sat up straighter, lifting her chin. "I ken not why thou hast decreed our Church to be separate from that of fabled Rome, milord, yet I am sure thou hast good reason."

  "I bless thee for thy faith in me! And be assured, the reasons flock." But the Abbot's gaze strayed to Lady Mayrose. "Rome is far distant from us, both in time and space. Tis five hundred years they've paid so little heed of us, thou wouldst conjecture they had forgot us quite. How can they know how we fare, or 'gainst which forces we contend?"

  "Yet surely," the Baroness murmured, "good is good, and evil, evil, no matter where they be."

  "Yet Satan may don many guises, and how can Rome know which he doth wear here?" Lady Mayrose clasped her grandmother's hand, but her eyes glowed at the Abbot. "Continue, ghostly Father; we most ardently attend."

  Chapter Seven

  It wasn't much of a troupe, as royal expeditions go—just six children, two nannies, eight servants, and a dozen soldiers. Well, yes, a trifle cumbersome, but even princes need to go out and play now and then, and they do need playmates; and brothers will do when there's absolutely no one else available, though they're not really adequate. So the four Gallowglasses were over to play with Prince Alain and his little brother Diarmid. Their mothers had, with some trepidation, allowed them to go as far as the outer bailey—but Catharine didn't like to take chances.

  Gregory and Diarmid looked up from their game of chess as Alain skidded to a halt and dropped down beside them (one of the nannies bit her lip at the thought of grass stains). Geoffrey, Magnus, and Cordelia crashed in right behind him, panting and red-cheeked, their eyes aglow with fun.

  " 'Ware!" Gregory threw up a hand, palm out, shielding the chessboard—and not just symbolically; the upright palm showed him where to spread his forcefield.

  "Oh, be easy!" Geoffrey wheezed. "Could I not land wide of thy game, I would be a poor marksman indeed."

  "True, thou canst ever strike wide of thy mark," Alain agreed. " 'Tis hitting it that doth cause thee grief."

  Geoff swung a fist at him. Alain ducked under it with a laugh.

  "Enough! Thou dost but confirm what he saith!" Magnus caught Geoff's fist in his own. "Yet I thought 'twas of missiles thou didst speak."

  "Aye, and thereof must thou needs ask the priest." Alain grinned.

  "Book or branch, I shall throw it!" Geoffrey retorted. "At thy head, brother! I scarce could miss, 'tis grown so great!"

  "I had never thought thou wouldst acknowledge me as head," Magnus purred. "Yet 'ware of thy throwing; for if thou dost miss, I shall have to send thee to thy sister for lessons." Magnus looked up at Cordelia with a twinkle in his eye. "How sayest thou, 'Delia? Wilt thou not—" He broke off as he saw her glazed eyes and abstracted look. "What dost thou hear?"

  "A shred of thought," she answered distantly.

  Gregory and Geoffrey looked up, alarmed; then their eyes lost focus as they concentrated on the unseen world of thoughts that swirled about them.

  There it was—so faint and vagrant that it might have been only the breathing of the earth, or the glimmer of a notion.

  "Gone," Cordelia breathed.

  Geoff squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, then looked up, frowning. " 'Tis a thought-hearer who doth not wish his presence known."

  "Aye," Magnus agreed. "He doth listen as a sentry doth watch."

  "Yet for what?" Gregory whispered.

  "We cannot know." Magnus stood up.

  "Nor are we likely to guess." Gregory stood up with him.

  "We cannot leave it be!" Geoff cried, leaping to his feet.

  "Nor shall we." Magnus turned to the two princes, bowing. "Pardon, Highnesses, we must depart."

  "Thou shalt bear this news to thy parents?" Alain seemed to gather an air of authority about him.

  "Even as thou dost say."

  "Mama is closest," Cordelia noted.

  Rod had just hit his critical level for pomposity. The deadly self-seriousness of the Abbot, and the sombemess of Tuan's reaction, overloaded his capacity for sympathy and flipped him into a healthy state of detached amusement. He realized he'd hit threshold when he found himself thinking that Catharine was the only one involved who wasn't overreacting.

  Which included himself, of course. With a sardonic chuckle he slipped through the branches of the last trees on the slope and stepped up to the bald top of the low mountain. "You don't really need to be clear of the underbrush, you know, Fess."

  "True, Rod," his horse replied, "but I diagnosed your condition as being critical, and believed you should step aside from human company for a minute."

  "Damn straight I'm critical! There isn't a one of them that's being even halfway reasonable about all this! Even Catharine gets angry every time she thinks of being crossed."

  "Tuan is maintaining his composure," Fess contradicted. "Though I do detect a tendency toward melancholy which is wholly unlike him."

  Rod shrugged. "What do you expect? Anybody can burn out—and if Tuan isn't in a high-stress job, I don't know who is."

  "He has never before shown signs of weakening."

  "Yeah, but he wasn't finding the basic assumptions of his spiritual worldview being questioned. I'd say our good King is approaching the first genuine spiritual crisis of his life—and he might come out the better for it."

  "He could also do grave damage while he's in its throes. We must watch him closely, Rod."

  "A good point." Rod pursed his lips. "I'll tip Brom to have Puck keep an eye on him."

  "How will that aid?… Oh."

  "Right." Rod nodded. "The hobgoblin has a certain healthy skepticism about all religions; he thinks they're humorous. If he can't help Tuan keep his perspective, nobody can."

  "I would say Catharine is more in need of such distancing, Rod."

  "Why, because she doesn't think she can second-guess the Abbot any more?" Rod shrugged. "Common sense reaction, I'd say."

  "Odd, for her."

  "She's growing up—there's something about having kids that does that to a girl. Of course, she doesn't know why His Grace changed his mind on the verge of that battle years ago; all she knows is that the monk who was with me ran over and talked to him."

  "True—and, of course, she had no way of knowing that Father Al was from Terra."

  "With a letter from the Pope enjoining all clergy to do what he said. No, she didn't know that, and I'm not about to tell her. It would shake her self-confidence too badly."

  "Not to mention the doubts it would create about your sanity." Fess emitted the burst of static that passed for a robotic sigh. "Nonetheless, the Abbot had absolutely no difficulty accepting Father Al's letter as genuine."

  "And accordingly obeyed the Pope's emissary, and made peace quickly. But apparently he found it very humiliating, and has been just aching for an excuse to ignore Rome and get back to trying to take over Gramarye."

  "It would seem so. Therefore, our problem is discerning who gave him that excuse."

  "An excellent question. Not that's he's dim-witted or anything, but his intelligence doesn't really take a theological bent. No, some futurian agent fed him his rationalization— whereupon, with great delight, he rejected Rome. But the Cathodeans here don't have hyper-radio, so he couldn't let Rome know about it."

  "An oversight which you, no doubt, will generously rectify for him," Fess murmured.

  "I always did like to help the clergy in little ways. Got the whole story encoded, Fess?"

  "Ready to transmit, Rod. Do you wish to add a personal message?"

  "Yeah. Tell Father Al that I said the Pope had better find some way to kick the wolf out of his fold before it leads his sheep to the slaughter."

  Fess's head swiveled to gaze directly into Rod's eyes.

  "Just send it," Rod urged.

  "You could at least mix your metaphors clearly," Fess sighed. "Very well, Rod."

  He didn't move; he didn't have to. The section of
his metal body that faced toward Terra suddenly became an antenna for the warp transmitter buried inside him, shooting an elongated beep at the sky. "Transmission completed."

  Rod nodded, satisfied. " 'Fraid we can't wait around for Brother Al's answer, though. It'll take them a few hours to locate him, and of course he'll need to confer with His Holiness. Wonder what they'll do about it?"

  "I trust they will let us know."

  * * *

  "Why, how is this?" Brother Alfonso's voice sizzled with anger. "How canst thou have failed! There were two of thee for every one of them! Thou hadst but to fall upon them, knock them senseless, and bear them home!" He fell silent, eyes narrowed, glaring at Father Thorn. Then, just as the monk started to answer, Brother Alfonso snapped, "Thy bravery failed thee."

  Father Thorn's jaw finned. "Say, rather, that we were loathe to strike at brothers."

  "They are brothers no longer, but traitors! Aye, yet traitors who spoke thee fair and welcomed thee with open arms and laden tables, did they not?"

  "They greeted us with joy," Father Thorn acknowledged, "and we did break bread with them. Yet when we sought to convince them of the error of their ways, they were obdurate."

  "Then couldst thou not have fallen upon them?"

  "We did, to our shame." Father Thorn lowered his head, shoulders hunching. "For look you, we are men of faith, not of arms!"

  "Yet I bade thee bring them back by fair means or foul! Thou assured me thou wouldst, for all in this land would fare better if clergy ruled! Thou wert two to their one, and thou hadst set upon them! Couldst thou not defeat them?"

  "Nay, for they bore arms, even as we did, and had learned the use of them betimes."

  "Thou knowest their use also! Could each of them fight as well as two of thee?"

  "For a short space," Father Thorn admitted. "Ere we could prevail, a bailiff burst upon us with a band of soldiers."

  "So!" Brother Alfonso's eyes widened. "How chanced they to be nearby?"

  "I have no knowledge," Father Thorn answered, and the other would-be bandits muttered to one another behind him, suddenly apprehensive.

  "There are several ways to it," Brother Alfonso snapped, "yet they all come to this: that the King hath knowledge of our actions!" He scanned the appalled monks with a gimlet glare. "How could that chance? Why, in that one or more of thee have failed to ward thy thoughts from reading!"

  "Or…" Father Thorn swallowed, unable to form the words.

  Brother Alfonso nodded, stony-faced. "Or that one of our number is a spy. What, brothers! Tis bad enough that the King might know our actions—yet what will chance if our good Abbot learns of them?"

  The monks exchanged appalled glances. " 'Twould be hard fasting and long prayers alone, at the least," one whispered.

  "Or that, and a scourging and defrocking," Brother Alfonso snarled.

  The monks fell silent, staring, appalled at the thought of being cast out of the monastery, and out of the Order.

  Brother Alfonso nodded, narrow-eyed, looking at each of them in turn. "That, or worse. Therefore, brothers, be certain to speak of this fool's errand to no one—and to watch one another closely, to be sure no other doth." His voice fell ominously. "And be certain to obey mine orders henceforth."

  They stared at him, shocked. Then Father Thorn summoned up nerve to scowl and say, "Thou canst not afright us thus! Thou canst not say what we have done without casting blame on thyself also!"

  "Be not so sure," Brother Alfonso ground out.

  Father Thorn blanched, but went on with determination. "What thou hast said would hap to us, would hap also to thee."

  "Aye," Brother Alfonso snapped, "and therein lies my concern. Be sure, brothers—whosoe'er shall bear the blame for this night's work, I am determined 'twill not be myself! Ward each other well, and heed my commands!"

  Rod had made his way home after sending his message. So he was sitting by as though he were waiting, when the children crashed through the door as though it were a purely theoretical construct. "Papa! Papa!"

  "Mama! Mama!"

  "Pama! Mapa!"

  "Hold it!" Rod called, regretfully shelving some remarkably scurrilous plans he'd been entertaining.

  Silence bloomed.

  "Now." Rod exhaled sharply. "What's the crisis?"

  " 'Tis a nasty sneak!"

  " 'Tis a loathsome spy!"

  " 'Tis a renegade 'gainst all the witches!"

  That caught Rod's attention. "Hold it! Let's have a little sense, here." He pointed at Magnus. "What happened?"

  "Cordelia felt the faintest touch of a thought-hearer listening and hoping none would remark him, Papa."

  Fury lit, and Rod opened his mouth for an outburst, almost beside himself, but Gwen was beside himself, too, and managed to speak before he could get started. "How couldst thou know that, Cordelia?"

  "We were playing, Mama, and of a sudden I felt the faintest hint of a presence, like the gossamer of abandoned spider webs, breeze—tossed. I stilled, and hearkened, and could just be certain 'twas still there—not thinking, nor giving out of any thoughts, but hearkening even as I hearkened."

  Gwen nodded. " 'Twas one who listened, then. But thou knowest this could have been naught but the phantasm of thine own mind." Cordelia was just beginning to hit the unstable age.

  "Yet we all heard it, Mama!" Geoff stated.

  Cordelia nodded. "I told them what I heard, and they did hearken also."

  Magnus nodded too. " 'Twas even as she saith. Was't not, mite?"

  Gregory nodded, wide-eyed. "The very image."

  "You seem to be recognizing this." Rod had managed to calm down a bit.

  "Having my mind probed by a thought-hearer?" Magnus smiled, amused. "How could I not know the feel of it, in this house?"

  "True, true." Rod nodded. "I suppose every esper child gets used to it, if he has esper siblings." He turned to Gwen, frowning. "How'd the Abbot manage this one?"

  Gwen looked up, startled. "My lord! Thou dost not think—"

  "That this eavesdropping 'witch' is working for the Abbot?" Rod shrugged. "Who else would be wanting spies right now? And doesn't already have them, of course. Tuan and Catharine have the Royal Coven, if they're unethical enough to use it."

  "Only when war hath already been declared," Geoff said quickly.

  Rod nodded. "But the Abbot, not being a professional, might not be so scrupulous. No, I think it's a safe bet that the two are related—and from where I sit, that means His Grace has managed to persuade some witch-folk to work for him." He frowned. "Wonder how he convinced them?"

  "Dost thou not guess too rashly, Papa?" Gregory asked.

  "There could be many others who grow restive, or even one who hath—"

  "A common cause. Yeah, I know." Privately, Rod gave his youngest points for insight. "But that would be too much of a coincidence, for the Abbot to start stirring up trouble again exactly when somebody else happens to take up mind-spying. I'll try to keep my mind open for the possibility, son, but from where I sit, this looks like the safest bet. You're right, though—we need to know more about our mental spy."

  "Or spies," Geoff noted.

  Rod nodded. "Amended." He turned to Gwen. "Mind asking Toby over? He was still running the Royal Coven, last I knew."

  "Goody!" Gregory cried, and Cordelia clapped her hands.

  "He is ever welcome." Gwen's smiled wanned. "And aye, husband, he is best for bidding the Crown's witch-folk be alert and hearken for listeners."

  "Without letting Their Majesties know, of course." Rod nodded. "Tuan might decide it's being too sneaky too soon."

  "The Queen might, also, Papa!" Cordelia maintained, chin jutting a little.

  Rod shook his head. "Not a chance. Catharine's the practical sort. You know—suspicious."

  Chapter Eight

  "Has the messenger been given refreshment?"

  "Aye, Your Grace." Brother Alfonso closed the door of the Abbot's solar. "He dines in the kitchen, and will rest in the guest hou
se. He is not so very wearied."

  "Aye,, 'tis but a day's ride, from Medici." The Abbot looked down at the letter he was holding with a smile.

  Brother Alfonso's eyes glowed. "The news is good, then?"

  "Most excellent. See! His Grace the Duke di Medici doth declare his support for the Church of Gramarye, and his adherence to our cause." He spread the letter on his desk.

  Brother Alfonso moved quickly to his side, gazing down at the letter. "Praise be!" He scanned it quickly and smiled, amused. "Ah! His words do sear the page! '… protection 'gainst the overweening arrogance of the powers of this land…' 'Powers' i' truth! And writ by one of the greatest of the lords of the land! Nay, who could these 'powers' be save the King and Queen! Ah, the ghost of caution that lingers on this parchment!"

  "Tush, good Brother Alfonso. We could not ask His Grace to speak treason, could we?" The Abbot leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach. "Thou dost know of whom he doth speak, as do I."

  "Aye, and of whom three other great lords have spoken! They turn to us as their defense against the tyranny of the

  Crown! When, Holy Abbot, wilt thou prove their faith in thee?"

  The Abbot's good mood evaporated; he leaned forward, frowning. "Patience, Brother Alfonso. If a passage of arms may be avoided, it must be! Tis enough to know we've done rightly; we need not make a show of it!"

  "How canst thou truly believe thus!" Brother Alfonso protested. "Thou canst not think Their Majesties will let thy challenge pass unheeded!"

  "Nay, nor would I wish them to." The Abbot's frown deepened. " 'Tis for the Church to see to the welfare of the people, not for the Crown; they must cease alms-giving in their own names, and grant those monies to us for disbursement. Nor may they claim jurisdiction over clergy accused of wrongdoing."

  "Have they made thee any answer in this regard?"

  "Only as they did years ago—that there will be no harm in both Crown and Church caring for the common weal, and that they will gladly cease trying clergy when our justice is even as theirs."

  "And Rome would have had thee yield to them! Hath the Pope not read his Bible? Hath he not conned the verse, 'Put not thy trust in princes'? Doth he not condone play and licentiousness on the sabbath? Nay, doth he not condone licentiousness in all things?"