The Warlock Heretical (15 page)

"So soon?" Brother Matthew looked up, startled. "Doth word run faster than writing?"

"Ever, Brother. Twas a tinker came by, yester e'en. He mended a pot, slept the night, and went on. Belike another

parish doth learn of it, even now."

"Aye, Brother," Matthew said, sympathizing. "It doth make for turmoil in our souls, doth it not?" He withdrew a

roll of parchment from his sleeve. "Here is the text of it, which thou art to copy and read at Mass for a week, and

carry this scroll to Father Gabe, in Flamourn parish o'er the hill, even as I have brought it to thee." Father Bellora accepted the scroll with all the delight of a man ordered to cuddle a tarantula. "Tell me the gist."

"Why, 'tis that the Church of Rome hath erred. ..."

Father Bellora went stiff as a Puritan in a ballroom, eyes wide in horror. "How can he dare speak so!"

"He is the Abbot," Matthew answered with a shrug. " Tis hard, is't not? When we had thought the Pope
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infallible

in matters of doctrine. Yet our good Lord Abbot doth say that he whom we have called the Holy Father knoweth

not how matters fare here, nor their complexities; and furthermore, that he is too much bound by the licentious

easiness of his forebears, and by the corruption of his clerks and scribes in the Curia."

"Yet how can he chastise the Holy See?" Father Bellora whispered.

"Because, saith the Lord Abbot, the Pope is, when all is said and done, only the Bishop of Rome, and is not truly

greater than any other bishop. To make all of us mindful of mat, and to make clear his standing as head of our

Church, the Lord Abbot hath declared himself henceforth Archbishop of Gramarye." Father Bellora only sat, transfixed in shock.

"And," Brother Matthew went on, "the Archbishop of Gramarye may surely chastise the Bishop of Rome. He

doth decry the Pope's errors, saying that he doth err most especially in not demanding that all princes recognize

the Church's greater wisdom in all matters of morality."

"But such matters encompass all of government!" Father Bellora protested. "What matter can a prince rule on

that is not moral or immoral?"

"That is his point—and therein, saith our good Lord Abbot, lieth the cause of all the miseries of our worldly

state."

"Yet the words of Christ! 'Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's!'" Brother Matthew nodded. "Yet, saith our Lord Abbot, even Caesar must render unto God that which is God's—

and in so doing, he must recognize the guidance of the Church." Father Bellora paled. "Doth he mean to say ..." but he couldn't finish the thought, his voice fading.
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Brother Matthew nodded, aching with empathy. " 'Tis even so, Father.. Our good Lord Abbot doth thus conclude:

that the Church must needs be superior to the King, for that it is closer to God, and must therefore know what He

doth wish far more accurately than any King could. And the King must recognize the authority of the Archbishop."

"How can the King not march against him?" Father Bellora whispered. 10

Screams tore the night, raw, full-throated howls of terror. The Village rang with the noise for a few seconds that

seemed to stretch into hours. Then doors slammed open all around the common and stocky peasant men barreled

out in their smocks, cudgels and sickles in their hands, bellowing in answer. They converged on the cottage of

screams and slammed through the door.

A gray-haired lady knelt in the middle of the single room, at the foot of the ladder to her sleeping loft. The pieces

of the rungs hung crookedly from the uprights. The tables and stools were overturned; the chest lay on its side,

with the woolens a mess around it.

The men stared, appalled.

A jug shot toward them.

The men shouted and ducked. Then one of them dashed in to catch up the woman in a bear hug. "Art thou hurled,

Griselda?"

The screams stopped, and Griselda stared up at the big peasant, panting, wild-eyed. A wooden mug flew at his head. He ducked, and Griselda shrieked. " 'Twas naught," he assured her,

"'twas

naught. What of thee?"

"No . . . hurt," she gasped. "An ache ... in my leg, but I doubt 'tis aught."
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"Well enough, then. Hold firmly." The burly peasant heaved her up over his shoulder and turned toward the door.

A stool whizzed right at his face.

He shouted as he sidestepped. The stool shot past him and smashed into the fireplace. He ran for the door.

The other men pressed back, making room, and he stumbled out into the night, then pulled to a halt and lowered

the old woman to the ground carefully, panting.

"I ... thank thee, Hans." She stepped a little away from him, but held onto his shoulder.

" 'Twas naught," he panted. "What of thy leg, Griselda?" Griselda leaned onto the leg in question, trying her weight on it cautiously. " 'Twill hold," she judged.

"Well enough, then."

There was a shout behind them, and the men in the doorway jumped back, slamming the portal closed. Something shattered against it, and they shuddered.

" "Tis a hearth ghost," said one of them. He looked up to see the common filled with people in smocks, come out

to see if they needed to flee or not.

Hans saw them, too, and stepped forward, waving both hands. " 'Tis done, good folk, and Griselda is well.

Frighted, but well."

"Frighted, i' truth," Griselda admitted. "I lay down to sleep, and dreamt, and of a sudden something crashed near

mine head. I tumbled out of my loft, set my foot to my ladder—and the rungs all snapped like kindling wood!"

"Praise Heaven thou hast not broke thy leg!" cried one good dame. A gray-haired man stepped forward, shaking his finger at her. "I had told thee thou wert too old to sleep above

so! Come, thou art alone in thy cottage now—thou couldst make thee a couch below o' nights!"

"Oh, be still, Hugh," Griselda snapped. "There's no hazard in my climbing down, if the rungs hold!"
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"Aye," said another woman, somber-faced. " Tis not every night a ghost doth throw things at one."

"Praise Heaven!" An old man crossed himself. "Yet whence cometh this spirit?" The villagers were silent, staring at one another.

"This house was never haunted aforetime," one whispered.

In the silence of the night, dread filtered through to each one. Whose house might be next?

Then Hans lifted his head, frowning. " Tis gone."

Everyone was silent, listening. Sure enough, there were no more sounds coming from Griselda's cottage.

"I may go back in, then." Griselda turned to face the door, but she hesitated.

"Do not." Hans took her elbow. "Wait for the dawn; let the priest come from Malbrarle Town to bless thine

house ere thou dost return."

Griselda stood, irresolute.

"Do not think of it!" A younger woman stepped forward, one hand holding a shawl about her shoulders, the other

holding a little boy by the hand. "We've room enough within for the night. Hans can sleep on a pallet."

"Aye." Hans met his wife's gaze and nodded; then he smiled. " 'Tis not as though 'twas the first time I've done it."

"Hans!" his wife cried, scandalized, and glanced quickly at the neighbors, blushing. The common was quiet a moment; then it erupted into laughter, far more than the feeble jest was worth.

"Eh! Mirth is good, mirth is good!" Hans wiped tears from his eyes. "And thy pardon, Letricia; 'tis a vile lie."

"Not vile," his wife said, with a twinkle in her eyes, "and 'twas needful. Yet come, Griselda, surely thou'lt not

deny us."

"Eh, then! Thou hast persuaded me!" Griselda turned to her with a smile. "And bless thee, good folk, for friends

in time of need!"

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"Whatever else were neighbors for?" Letricia answered, taking her by the arm. As they turned away to Letricia's

cottage, Hans called out, "Enough, then, neighbors! Back to our beds, eh? There's darkness left, and we must rise

to work with the dawn!"

A chorus of grumbles answered him as the peasants turned away to their huts, the excitement over. Slowly they

went indoors, though not without a few apprehensive glances backwards. But finally the last door closed, and the

village lay quiet in the darkness again.

Inside Griselda's house, crockery crashed.

"I am hot, Papa." Magnus wiped his brow and reached for the waterskin (not being old enough for the wineskin).

"Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch!" Rod snorted. "All you do is gripe. What happened to the young warrior who was deter mined to undergo hardship for the Cause?"

"The Church be not much of a cause," Magnus grunted.

"Don't let your mother hear you say that—and in case you haven't noticed, we're on the King's side. What's the

problem—you had something else you wanted to do? What?"

"Name it. I am open to suggestion."

"Not the kind / feel like making. Look, son, this is an important mission! We're trying to recruit a spy, someone

who's loyal to the King and Queen but can go into the monastery without anyone suspecting."

"Oh." Magnus looked up, frowning. " 'Tis therefore we do look for some soul that hath a relative in the cloister?"

"You get the idea quick."

Magnus winced. "Eh, come now, Papa! What dost thou think me to be—a mind-reader?" Then he stopped

suddenly.

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"What's the matter—heard your own words?"

"Aye, yet not thine. Is't my fault if thou art better at shielding thy thoughts than I am?" Well. Rod was amazed; he'd never thought he would have heard the boy admit it. "Not really a shield, son—only

trying to keep a huge number of details straight."

Magnus nodded. "I will remember that."

"Don't worry, it'll come naturally some day." Rod toyed with the notion of suggesting Magnus start calling him

Dad; "Papa" was beginning to seem a little young for him. The word was in period, but Rod wasn't too sure of its

connotations; he let it slide.

"Speaking of things that come naturally, night is not far away." Magnus squinted up at the rosy sun. "Art thou

certain we will come to a village ere dark?"

"That's right, doubt your father," Rod sighed. "Here's a fortuitous local—check me. Ask him." Magnus looked up, frowning at the plowman who came toiling toward them, following his ox. He was young,

scarcely twenty, and his arms were banded with muscle. Out of the corner of his eye Rod watched Magnus twitch

his shoulders and clench his fists, comparing the plowman's build to his own—unfavorably. Rod smiled and

waved at the peasant.

The plowman noticed, smiled affably, and waved back. As he came up even with them, he called to the ox to

stop, and as it lowered its head to graze, he stepped over to the fence with a tolerant smile, wiping his brow.

"Good day, tinkers!"

"Good day." Rod liked the young man on the spot—most

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peasants wouldn't even talk to tinkers if they could help it. Besides, the plowman had included Magnus in his

greeting. " Tis a fair one."

"Fair, aye, and like to be so on the morrow." The plowman squinted at the sky with an experienced eye.

"And

cooler than it might be, praise Heaven!"

Rod took the hint and unlimbered his wineskin. "Hot work makes strong thirst. Will you drink?"

"Why, thank'ee." The plowman took the skin with a broad grin, held it up, and squirted a stream into his mouth.

He bit it oif, swinging the skin down with a flourish and wiping his mouth. "Ah! Tart wine is good for hot work!"

" 'Tis indeed." Rod grinned. "I am Owen the tinker, and this is my son Mag." Magnus didn't react; he'd chosen

the alias himself.

"I am hight Hoban," the plowman returned. "What news hast thou?"

"Little enough—a deal of fussing 'mongst the churchmen."

"Will they still give us the Sacraments?"

Rod answered, "There seems small doubt of it."

Hoban nodded. "Then I care not what broil they make amongst themselves. Unless . . ." His brow clouded ". . .

my brother's not caught up in it."

"Brother?" A thrill shivered through Rod. "Why ought thy. brother be caught up in priest's doings?"

"For that he's a monk."

Pay dirt! It was all Rod could do to keep from grabbing the man, and Magnus stood very still, eyes wide,

watching. But Rod was too experienced a hunter to leap on his quarry before it was too close to get away, so he

leaned back on one hip, frowning as though he were puzzled. "Should that not keep him safe from such a broil?"

"Oh, nay!" Hoban grinned, fairly bursting with pride. "He cometh home now and again, and doth let drop
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some

hint of life in a cloister. 'Tis no better than a village, I can tell thee— with sour ones ever scheming to gain vantage o'er the gentle ones, and factions banding together. 'Tis only that, when they band, 'tis o'er a deal of

words, not land or food."

" 'Tis nourishment to their like, I doubt not." Rod leaned forward. "Then mayhap thou dost wish the fullness of