The Warlock Heretical Read online

  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."

  Chapter Six

  "So we didn't really accomplish anything. He effectively said he isn't about to budge an inch, and I said you weren't, either." Rod shrugged. "I might just as well not have gone."

  "Nay," Tuan disagreed. "Thou hast drawn from him a clear statement of his position and intentions."

  " Tis nigh to a declaration of war," Catharine said, tight-lipped.

  "Near the mark, yet short of it," Tuan agreed. "He hath threatened war, and our good Lord Warlock hath responded with reminders of our force. Yet he hath not summoned troops, nor have we."

  "Not yet, anyway. But I do think you ought to do so, Your Majesties." Rod felt a chill as he said it, and took a sip of wine to warm himself. He leaned back in his hourglass chair and tried to relax, relishing the warmth of the solar, even by night; for the brocaded curtains were drawn close over the windows to shut out the darkness, and the tapestries on the walls seemed to glow with the light from the fireplace. It was good to be here, good to be in Their Majesties' privy chambers again, with a whole castle between himself and the ambitious Abbot. It was good to be with a couple of people who, if not exactly friends, were at least old associates—and Tuan and he were, now, certainly shieldmates; they had shared the dangers of more than a few battles, and consequently trusted one another in a fundamental way that was as important as liking.

  Not that Rod didn't like the King. There were traces of silver in Tuan's blond hair now, and a few faint wrinkles in his brow—but the face was still open and honest. Tuan might not have learned guile with the years, but he had certainly learned all about it—and about treachery and power-hunger, as well as most of the other unpleasant characteristics of their species. Underneath the weight of that knowledge, though, the King still believed that most people could learn to be good.

  Not so Catharine. She knew the jealousy and suspicion of her own nature too well to believe that anyone could ever be devoid of either. Her hair was still golden and her complexion still unblemished, though Rod suspected that might be due more to her skill with cosmetics than to nature. But the first few lines were beginning to show, and her body had thickened to maturity since he had first met her. Her temper had not slowed, though, nor her vehemence slackened. Still, Tuan's love had mellowed her—her tongue was no longer quite so sharp, and underneath her arrogance and imperiousness was the solid certainty of knowing she was loved.

  Rod sighed, envisioning a future age in which the three of them, and Gwen, would be old cronies together. It sounded very peaceful.

  "Be of good cheer, Lord Warlock," Catharine said softly. "We shall prevail."

  Rod turned to her in pleased surprise. Yes, she had matured.

  "We shall," Tuan agreed with full assurance, "yet we must not therefore grow careless or neglectful. There are ever troubles, Rod Gallowglass."

  "Won't there always be, as long as there are people?" Rod smiled. "After all, our species can't endure too much calm and harmony. But what were you thinking of?"

  " 'Tis our noble hostages," Catharine said with distaste. "What a band of gross fools they are! At least, some."

  "Only some." Tuan nodded, gazing at the fire. "D'Auguste has grown into a goodly young man, as have his friends Llangollen and Chester. Maggiore and Basingstoke also have become men worthy of their station."

  "Well, that's five." Rod frowned. "How come you haven't demanded that Romanov send you a hostage? I know he didn't have any children when the lords rebelled against Catharine the first time, but he does now."

  "I would never bring such goodly, innocent lads to brush elbows with the likes of Ghibelli." Catharine's face tightened. "Nor with his companions Graz and Marshall."

  "Aye." Tuan seemed sombe
r. "And, too, since thou hast served their father the Duke so well, he hath become a veritable pillar of support."

  "Well, your hospitality to his wife and children had something to do with it, too," Rod demurred.

  "Too much so, I think." Catharine smiled ruefully. "He hath begun to request that we allow his son to attend upon us, here at Runnymede."

  "Well, that's the tradition, isn't it? Every nobleman should be a knight, and every knight has to start out as a page."

  "Aye, and the pages must needs serve in the house of a nobleman other than their sire." Tuan turned to Catharine. "He may stay with the other pages, my sweet. There is no need for him to be among the more boorish of our young lords."

  Catharine's face blanked with surprise at the notion; then she turned thoughtful. " 'Tis most intriguing, the notion of a duke's heir going about as though he were any common knight's son…"

  Rod suppressed a smile and veered back to the concern at hand, or not too far behind. "I take it your troop of young louts has been more loutish than usual."

  "Aye, so thou couldst say." Tuan's face hardened. "They have set to brawling."

  "Rapiers and daggers in the hall set aside for them!" Catharine's eyes kindled again.

  "Really?" Rod looked up. "And the cause of the quarrel?"

  "Who can say?" Tuan slapped the table in annoyance. "They claim lords' privilege, and refuse to speak of it."

  "Oh, come on—say," Rod coaxed. "What do you need, a signed confession?"

  Catharine looked up at him. amused. "There is some sign of faction, is there not?"

  Rod nodded. "Ghibelli, Marshall, Glasgow, and Guelph against the Crown, the other five for it. I'd say that amounts to a party, Your Majesty."

  "Aye, even as their fathers do align themselves." Tuan rolled his eyes up, exasperated. "Ever do di Medici, Marshall, and Savoy swear allegiance—and ever are they forsworn!"

  "And ever will be," Rod said quietly. "Ever consider appointing new lords, Your Majesties?"

  "Be sure that we have," Catharine responded, "and be sure that we foresee the barons rising as a man were we to so disinherit even one of their number."

  "Yes. Not much luck there." Rod gazed into his wine. "The problem is to replace the lords without replacing the houses. Their sons being hostage should have helped, there."

  "I had so hoped," Tuan admitted. "Yet they will not be persuaded."

  "Rather do we harbor serpents in our bosom," Catharine said venomously.

  "Well, at least you know where they are that way."

  "As we know their sires' whereabouts." Tuan shook his head. "I mislike it, Lord Warlock. 'Tis a harbinger of war. These resentful barons lack only a focus, a point toward which to rally."

  "Which our Lord Abbot is rushing to give them—and they trust him to bring the mass of the people with him."

  "They will be torn," Catharine said, glowering. "Our good folk do treasure our reign."

  "You've brought tranquility to the average peasant," Rod allowed, "and your armies haven't trampled too many crops in the process."

  "Nay, not so many," Tuan said, with a rye smile. "Our subjects shall be torn indeed, 'twixt Crown and Gown."

  "So will the monks."

  Catharine looked up sharply. "Surely the Abbot's own will declare for him!"

  "They have no choice," Tuan reminded.

  "No, they haven't," Rod agreed, "but I can't help wondering how many will wish they had."

  "Thou dost speak of these friars who have broken away and come nigh us?"

  "Well, yes, them, of course." Rod paused. "I was also wondering, though, how many weren't quite ready to make the break, but don't quite approve of what their good Lord Abbot is doing."

  "What is good about him?" Catharine snapped.

  "Oh, quite a bit, really," Rod insisted. "He always struck me as being a good man at the core, Your Majesty. With a lust for power that he doesn't control too well, of course."

  "Aye, or he'd not be Abbot!"

  "What else? But there have been some abbots who were elected for their saintliness. Some of them were even decent administrators."

  Tuan sighed. "Would that I knew how they combined the two."

  Catharine glanced at him with apprehension. "Do not trouble thyself overly with the matter, I prithee." She turned back to Rod. "Still, Lord Warlock, he hath not impressed me as one who doth ken the use of his power, once he hath won it."

  "A point," Rod agreed. "No great deal of initiative for anything beyond gaining status, no. And there's a fundamental weakness to him."

  "Why, what is that?" Tuan looked up with a frown.

  "Moral, surprisingly. Power's more important to him than anything else. I think he could find an excuse to break any oath or Commandment, if it would boost his authority."

  "Thou dost read him aright." Catharine's face darkened. "Yet what first gave him the notion that he could rise against us?"

  "That phrase from Scripture, that he doth take without regard for the remainder of its chapter," Tuan said, with disgust, "'Put not your trust in princes.'"

  Rod abstained from comment. Personally, he was pretty sure the flea that had bitten the Abbot's ear was really a futurian agent, but he wasn't about to say so. Their Majesties hadn't been able to absorb a concept so far outside their medieval frame of reference, and had rejected it so thoroughly that they had largely forgotten it. Which was just fine with Rod. If the time ever came when they could understand, he wouldn't need to worry about their knowing a secret.

  But Catharine noticed his reticence. "Thou dost not concur, Lord Warlock?"

  Rod stirred. "I think it's a natural outcome of disagreements between yourselves and the clergy. Majesties." He didn't mention that the Abbot probably wouldn't think of anything to disagree about, left to his own devices. "But I wouldn't really worry about it too much. What matters is that he has come to the verge of rebellion—but his ability to sway the people will be drastically lessened if a few friars who don't support him can preach to the peasants."

  Tuan lifted his head. "Well thought, Lord Warlock! And we have these friars of whom thou hast spoke!"

  "They're not about to speak against their Abbot yet," Rod cautioned. "We really need to know who's getting upset with him, inside the main monastery."

  "Manage it if thou canst," Catharine urged, "and discover what next he doth intend!"

  "Oh, I think you can probably figure that out pretty well by yourselves, Majesties.''

  "I do not." Catharine gazed directly into his eyes. "Since he raised up the barons against us, and then, at the verge of battle, reversed his stand and swore loyalty—why, ever since, I have despaired of discovering his thoughts."

  Which was pretty good, coming from her; but again, Rod withheld comment—especially since he knew quite well what had changed the Abbot's mind, last time.

  "His Virtue, the Lord Monaster!"

  Behind the elderly manservant, the Abbot raised an eyebrow.

  " 'His Grace,' old Adam, 'His Grace!'" The Baroness Reddering fairly bolted out of her chair and sailed toward the Abbot, arms outstretched. "And 'tis 'Lord Abbot,' not 'Lord Monaster!'"

  "Well, if he is an abbot, he should rule an abbey," the old servitor grumbled.

  "A monastery is an abbey—or hath one!" The Baroness clasped the Abbot's hands. "Thou must needs forgive him, Father—he ages, and his mind—"

  "Ah, but I've known Adam for years—many of them," the Abbot interrupted, sparing the old man. He turned to the servitor with a smile. "And as to forgiving, why, is that not an aspect of my vocation?"

  "So thou hast said many times, in the confessional." Old Adam's eye glinted with affection. "What matter these lordly titles, eh? Thou wast ever Father Widdecombe to me."

  "Adam!" the Baroness gasped, but the Abbot only laughed and clapped the old man on the shoulder as he turned toward the young lady who floated toward him with a whisper of linen. He straightened, shoulders squaring, smile settling, and eyes widening just a little. "Lady Mayrose, ho
w well dost thou appear!"

  "I thank thee, milord," the lady murmured with a curtsy and a faint look of disappointment. She was in her mid-twenties, older than a well-dowered lady ought to be, unwed. There was no reason, to look at her—her face and form were comely, and her hair like a fall of burnished gold. She watched the Abbot from the corner of her eye as she turned to pace beside him to the table before the great clerestory window, where she sat at her grandmother's left hand, watching him with a look that might have explained her single state.

  The Abbot's eye kindled as he beamed at her. "When I think how gawky a babe thou wast when first thou didst come unto this house in the days when I was still chaplain!"

  Lady Mayrose forced a silvery laugh, and her grandmother said quickly, "Thou wast scarce more thyself, holy Father."

  "In truth." The Abbot smiled ruefully. "A half-fledged boy was I, puffed up with the self-importance of my final vows. I wonder thou couldst abide me, good lady."

  "Ah, but even in callow assurance thou wast ever a well of strength." The Baroness's eyes glittered with tears. "In truth, scarce could I have borne life when my good lord passed from us, hadst thou not come hither from the monastery with thy consolation and thy comfort."

  "Glad I was to be of aid, as ever I shall be," the Abbot assured her, clasping her hand. " 'Twas little enough I could do, in token of the kindness and patience thou didst show to me in my first years of priesthood. Nay, ne'er could I entrust this house to any of my monks."

  "For which we rejoice." Lady Mayrose's voice was low and husky. "No other priest could ever make the mass so meaningful as thou dost, milord."

  It was the wrong tactic, for it reminded the Abbot of his spiritual responsibilities. He drew his hand back to touch the crucifix that hung on his breast, and plastered on an artificial smile. "I thank you, my child, yet be ever mindful that our Lord's sacrifice is ever new and vital, no matter which sanctified hands may hold His body."

  The lady bowed her head, rebuked, but still held her gaze on the Abbot.

  Flustered, he turned away to the Baroness. "I wished to speak to thee directly, noble lady, and apprise thee of my deeds, for I would not have thee misapprehend my purpose, an thou didst hear echoes of me from other lips."