The Warlock Heretical Read online

  "Must it?" The Abbott turned to him, frowning. "Wherefore?"

  "Why, for that the King doth ever seek to gather more power unto himself, and will end by attempting to govern the Church!"

  " 'Tis not he, but the Queen," the Abbot growled.

  "Then he's but her dupe! Behold her actions—once before she hath claimed the power to appoint parish priests!"

  "She did relinquish that," the Abbot reminded.

  "Aye, yet when shall she take it up again? When the King hath garrisons in every town, and not even the greatest lord durst gainsay him, for fear of his armies? Oh, nay, my lord! If ever thou wilt bridle this proud and arrogant prince, 'tis now, whilst his power's still a-borning!"

  The Abbot was silent, gazing out the window at his pastures.

  "The Pope cannot know of that," Brother Alfonso reminded him, "nor comprehend the fullness of its import."

  Slowly, the Abbot nodded. "Thou hast the right of it. I did well, to declare as I have."

  Behind his back Brother Alfonso breathed a sigh of relief.

  "Not that I'm against the kid becoming a priest, if that's what's going to make him happiest." Rod lifted his head to let the wind stream over his face. After a few minutes he realized Fess hadn't responded; the only sound had been the triplets of the great horse's hoofbeats. "You don't believe me…"

  "Do you, Rod?"

  "All right, hang it! So I don't want the kid to become a priest! But if that's the natural extension of his identity, he has to do it!"

  "But you do not believe it is his calling," Fess interpreted.

  "No, blast it, I don't! I think he's being subtly indoctrinated by the priests and their continual emphasis on the priesthood as the holiest vocation!"

  "Assuredly they would think so, since it is theirs."

  "Yeah, but they have no right to go imposing their own views on the rest of us." Rod scowled. "Though that's just what they'll do if the Church of Gramarye really does start thinking itself supreme."

  "How else could they? In medieval society the clergy constituted the First Estate."

  "The most important and the best." Rod's mouth twisted with bitterness. "It's too bad the Pope can't know about this."

  "Why can he not, Rod?" Fess's voice was behind Rod's ear; he didn't need to transmit at human thought frequencies, thanks to the earphone implanted in Rod's mastoid process.

  Rod nodded slowly. "I suppose we could send a message. No reason to think your transmitter isn't still working, is there?"

  "None at all. I am still sending your monthly reports."

  Rod's jaw dropped. "But I haven't written any for a year now!"

  "I assumed you would want me to accept responsibility for certain routine tasks…"

  "Of course." Rod closed his jaw. "Yes, quite right. But next time let me know, will you?"

  "Certainly, Rod."

  "After all, it is a courtesy. By the way, what have I been reporting?"

  "Only the major royal actions, and indications of public reaction. There has been no warning of restlessness among the clergy."

  "Probably because there hasn't been any—just in the Abbot," Rod mused. "And without the support of his priests, he might decide not to push the issue to crisis. No, I don't think we'll send a special, Fess. Certainly not to the Vatican, not quite yet."

  "As you will. Rod," Fess sighed.

  Rod noted the tone of martyred patience. "You think the problem is bigger than it looks?"

  "It could become so. In a medieval society, the quickest route to a totalitarian government is through the Church."

  "I know what you mean." Rod frowned. "The parish priests already have pretty thorough control over every aspect of the congregations' lives, simply by telling them what is and is not a sin."

  "But they are limited in that by the Church's official positions."

  "Not if they haven't heard about them, and our boys have been a little out of touch for the last half millennium or so. Besides, just because a priest finds out what Rome teaches, doesn't necessarily mean he'll agree with it."

  "Surely a parish priest would not preach that fornication is virtuous, even though Rome teaches that it is sinful!"

  Rod noted Fess's tone again. "You aren't really as scandalized as you sound, are you?"

  "You still have difficulty discerning sarcasm," the robot replied.

  Rod nodded, satisfied. "Thought so. And no, I think the tonsured tribe are all pretty much agreed about fornication. But say, oh—that whole business about evolution. The Church finally accepted the idea in 2237, when the anthropologists discovered the skeleton of Homo Fidelis."

  "Yes, I recall the announcement." Fess had been almost brand-new at the time. "There was a great deal of controversy, but both theologians and anthropologists finally acknowledged that the statuette with Fidelis was a religious icon."

  "Yeah, that's how you taught it to me when I was ten. But even now, three hundred years later, I've met priests who are still preaching that it's a sin to believe Darwin's theory."

  "Humanity naturally resists change," Fess sighed. "I sometimes think your species should be named Homo Habitual is."

  "Man of habit, eh?" Rod smiled. "Not referring to monks' robes, I suppose."

  "I did not exclude them. Nor would the Church, if it gained worldly authority. In fact, it might make Church garb obligatory."

  "No, it would want to be able to tell the clergy from the laity on sight, to make sure the priests got instant privilege wherever they went. But they probably would issue a dress code for ordinary citizens, and make it a crime to wear anything else."

  "That in itself could be resisted, Rod. But the Church would probably make the violation of the dress code a sin, and that would induce greater obedience from the citizens."

  Rod shuddered. "You've got a point there. Never underestimate the power of guilt."

  "Oh, I do not," Fess said softly. "I assure you, I do not."

  "Father Matthew! They come!"

  Father Boquilva looked up from his daubing, every muscle instantly tense, but his tone was mild as he called back to the sentry on the watchtower, "Sound the alarm, Brother Fennel. Is it bandits again?"

  "Nay, Father, 'tis our fellows of the order. Yet I see the glint of steel where their tonsures should be."

  Father Boquilva stiffened. "So? Well, we have steel caps, too. Sound the alarm, but be mindful, they are of our order."

  The whistle shrilled high above, and all over the meadow monks froze, eyes turned to the tower.

  Father Boquilva turned to the monk beside him with a smile. "Brother Jeremy, I believe Father Arnold and Brother Otho have the day's cooking in hand. Would you inquire if they can serve in an hour or so? We have guests."

  The visitors turned into the lane between rows of turned earth with grim faces, gripping their staves tightly as they eyed the band drawn up before them. Sure enough, the renegades charged, shouting.

  "Brother Lando, thou scoundrel! Thou art a sight for sore eyes!"

  "Father Milo! Right good it is to see thee!"

  "Eh, Brother Brigo! Thou dost yet feed too well!"

  And they were throwing their arms about the visitors, thumping them on the backs with delight and good cheer, not staves and daggers.

  Foremost among them was Father Boquilva, roaring above all their voices, "Welcome! Welcome, our brothers all! We rejoice in the sight of thee!"

  "Well, and so do we also," the visitors' leader grinned, clasping Boquilva by the shoulders and leaning back to look at him. Then he sobered. "Yet thou hast done wrongly by our good Abbot, Father Matthew."

  "Not a word of it, Father Thorn! Not a word!" Father Boquilva turned in beside the visitor, slinging an arm across his shoulders and urging him toward the house. "Father Arnold and Brother Otho have labored all this morn to make a hearty supper for thee, and thou must eat of it ere we speak a word of this matter!"

  Supper was downright festive, with monks who had not seen each other for a month laughing and trading gossip
. By unspoken mutual consent, the Abbot wasn't even mentioned until Father Thorn sat back with a sigh and began plying a toothpick. "Eh! Our refectory is lonesome for thee, Brother Otho!"

  " 'Tis but simple fare." Brother Otho smiled, pleased. " 'Tis naught but bread, cheese, and eggs. If thou wilt visit with us next year, I doubt not we will even have meat for thee."

  Father Thorn lifted an eyebrow. "So long? Come, Brother! An thou wilt return with us now, thou shalt have pork to roast, and even good beef!"

  "So then," said Father Boquilva, "thou dost wish us back only for Brother Otho's fine touch with herbs?"

  "The hour for jesting is past, Father Matthew." Father Thorn sat forward, frowning. "Thou hast sworn obedience to thine Abbot; now doth he bid thee come back to his house." He pulled a scroll from his robe and laid it on the table before Father Boquilva. When the monk did not move to take it up, Father Thorn urged, "Open it, if thou dost doubt me!"

  "I doubt thee not at all, Father," Boquilva answered quietly. "Yet we hold another obligation that doth supersede even our duty to Milord Abbot."

  "Naught could. What obligation dost thou speak of?"

  "Our duty to the Pope."

  "The Pope hath no right of command in Gramarye," another monk said instantly, "nor did ever."

  "So?" Father Boquilva turned, smiling. "How dost thou come to know that, Brother Melanso?"

  "Why, our Father Abbot told us so!"

  Father Boquilva resisted the temptation to jibe, and said only, "We believe him mistaken."

  "He cannot be; he is the Abbot," Father Thorn said instantly.

  " 'Cannot?'" Father Boquilva turned back with a raised eyebrow. "Is he infallible, then?"

  Father Thom reddened. "Assuredly he is far wiser than thou!"

  "How so? He was not appointed by God for his knowledge, Father—he was chosen in conclave by all the brothers, and that for his gift of bringing all to work together, not for his judgment in theology."

  "An thou hast chosen him for the one, thou hast chosen him for the other!"

  But Father Boquilva shook his head. "I chose him for Abbot, Father, not King."

  Father Thom sat back, his face losing all expression. "Ah, then, we come to the nubbin of it. Our good Lord Abbot doth not seek kingship, Father Boquilva; he doth but seek to assure Their Majesties' moral conduct."

  "Quid est, he doth intend that when he shall say a given action is wrong, they shall not do it," Father Boquilva interpreted.

  "Is that not right?"

  "There is a case for it," Boquilva admitted, "yet it is like to turn to ah intention that, when he shall tell them they must do another thing, they shall do it."

  "And where is the wrong in that?" Father Thom challenged.

  "In that our Lord Abbot will thus be tempted to rule," Father Boquilva answered. "His province is that of the spirit, not of the world."

  "Yet the world should behave in accord with the spirit!"

  "Aye, but by choice, not by coercion. When Tightness rules by force, it doth cease to be right."

  "Dost thou say our Abbot is wrong?" growled a short, muscular monk.

  "I say he seeks a near occasion of sin," Father Boquilva returned, unperturbed.

  "Traitor!" The short monk leaped up, yanking a bludgeon from inside his cloak. The table crashed over as monks surged to their feet and scrambled for their quarterstaves.

  "Nay, Brother Andrew!" Father Thom held up a hand to stay the blow, and the melee settled down to two armed lines, the visitors glaring at their foes, the hosts warily watching their former allies. Father Thom choked down his anger enough to say to Father Boquilva, "I know thee well enough to respect thy belief; thou dost think thyself right, even though thou art wrong. Yet be mindful, Father, that thy special abilities, and those of thy fellows, are so strong as they are because of the care and fostering thou hast all received at the hands of our order."

  Father Boquilva stood very still, and was silent so long that it was gray-haired Father Arnold who answered. "We own ourselves obliged for instruction—nay, mayhap even for life; for any one of us might have been burned at the stake by a mob in panic, had we not had the protection of the monastery's walls."

  "Then come home to it! Thou hast not the right to parade thy talents in the wide world, when so much of thy strength is the Order's!"

  "We have not left the Order," Father Boquilva said slowly, "nor do we wish to. We have only begun a new chapter house."

  "There must be only one chapter in Gramarye, Father! Thou dost know the need for secrecy!"

  "And I doubt it not. Yet be not afeared—we will not practice our powers save within the walls of this house, where none can see but ourselves."

  "And if some peasant doth peer through a chink in the wall? And he doth tell all his neighbors? What then will become of all clergy in this land!"

  "We know how to daub our walls well," Father Boquilva returned, "and how to maintain each his Shield, and to watch for peasants' minds straying near. Thou canst not truly believe we would be so careless, Father."

  "What can I believe of thee, who hast left our precincts?" Father Thorn cried, exasperated. "Dost thou not see that our house, like the Body of Christ, is weakened by the loss of any one member?"

  "Ah, then." Father Boquilva spoke softly. "'Tis not the rightness of our leaving that doth trouble thee, nor the chance of the worldly folk discovering our natures—but the weakening of the Abbot's house."

  Father Thorn was silent, but his face darkened with anger.

  "Where's the morality in that?" Father Arnold murmured.

  "We have bandied words enough." Father Thorn drew a truncheon out of his habit. "The right of the matter is for the

  Lord Abbot to decide, not thou, whose knowledge is no greater than mine. Thou wilt do as thou art commanded."

  "We will not turn away from our Holy Father the Pope," Father Boquilva answered.

  "Then have at thee!" Father Thorn shouted as he slashed at Father Boquilva.

  Boquilva's staff leaped to block the truncheon, but Brother Andrew swung his cudgel crashing down on Father Boquilva's head. The taller priest fell back, dazed in spite of his steel cap, but Father Arnold stepped up to catch him with his left arm while he blocked Brother Andrew's next blow with the staff in his right hand. Father Thorn slammed another blow at him, but Brother Otho caught it on his staff, then whirled to block a swing from Brother Willem, and Father Thorn swung again. But Father Boquilva shook his head and brought his staff up to block, slowly and with a wobble, but effectively. Brother Fennel caught Brother Andrew's cudgel on the upswing from behind, and the short monk whirled with a roar, to slam a crushing blow at Fennel—but the taller monk blocked and countered.

  Throughout the single, large room, monks swung murderous blows at one another. Hardwood rang off steel helmets, and a few monks fell to the ground, their unconscious bodies tripping their fellows.

  The door crashed open, and a gentleman in doublet and hose strode in. A dozen armed men dashed through behind him, spreading out in a line along both side walls as a man behind the gentleman blew a piercing blast on a horn, then roared, "Stand, for the King's bailiff!"

  The monks froze, staring.

  "What mayhem is this!" the bailiff cried. "What perversion of nature, to see men of God about the Devil's work!"

  Father Thorn drew himself up, his face flint. "Do not dare to instruct a priest in morality, fellow!"

  One of the men-at-arms stepped forward a little, raising a pike, but the bailiff held up a hand to stop him. "Do thou not dare to bear arms, friar. Or dost thou care naught for the scandal thou dost give?"

  Father Thorn reddened, but answered. " 'Tis scandalous indeed that men of God must do what worldly authorities have forborne!"

  "Why, let us not forbear further, then." The bailiff nodded to his men. "Arrest them, in the King's name!"

  "Hold!" Father Thom paled. "Thou hast no authority over men of the cloth!"

  "Thou didst forfeit the protection of thy cloth w
hen thou didst raise a staff," the bailiff replied evenly, "and I have authority over any who disturb the King's peace in this parish!"

  "Thou hast not! All clergy are subject only to the Abbot, and to him alone!"

  "In truth? Why, then, call for thine Abbot and bid him excuse thee!"

  "Why, so I shall," Father Thom said, eyes narrowed. "Stand aside." He nodded to his monks and strode toward the door, thumping the floor with his staff. For a moment it seemed he must collide with the bailiff, but at the last moment that worthy stepped aside and waved them out the door with a low, mocking bow. When the last monk had gone by, he stepped into the doorway and gazed after them with a hard eye. "Williken, take thou five men and follow them at a distance—and see that they leave not the roadway."

  Williken tugged his forelock, beckoned his men, and departed.

  The bailiff turned back to Father Boquilva. "Now, good friar, what was the cause of this coil?"

  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.