The Warlock Heretical (16 page)

this news."

Hoban frowned. "Wherefore? Is there in it some words as to set monks contending?"

"There is," Rod answered, "for look you, the Abbot doth say that Gramarye is no longer of the Church of Rome."

Hoban froze, staring.

Rod nodded, trying to look sad. " 'Tis sooth, good Hoban."

"Nay, 'tis words to set monks to fighting, if ever there were," Hoban breathed. "Some will wish to bide with

Rome, though I doubt they'll dare say it."

"Not openly," Rod agreed.

Hoban paled. "Aye, they will be secret in their doings till they think they have enough force to challenge the

Abbot, will they not?"

Rod only gazed at him till Magnus nudged him with an elbow. Then Rod nodded slowly. "Aye, even so. Thy

brother hath told thee much of the doings within the cloister, hath he not?" Hoban waved it away impatiently. "As I've said, 'tis quite like a village. Eh! Pray my poor brother hath the wit to

hold himself aloof from both camps!"

"Do more than pray," Rod suggested, and waited while his words sank in and Hoban focused on him again.

"Why, how so? How could I aid my brother in this?"

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"By giving him no choice," Rod explained. "By seeing that the one side is doomed ere it doth make a beginning."

Hoban stared at him, and Rod opened his mind, feeling the thoughts that wheeled through the plowman's brain.

No wonder Hoban's brother had been able to qualify for the monastery—if he was anything like Hoban, he must

have been very bright.

"Who art thou?" Hoban said at last. "For assuredly thou art as much a tinker as I am."

"I am a King's man," Rod admitted, "though this lad is truthfully my son. And I have wandered these byways,

searching for a man who hath a brother in the monastery, but doth love his King." He met Hoban's gaze, eye to

eye, unflinching.

Finally, the plowman nodded. "Thou hast found him. What wouldst thou do with him?" Rod's heart leaped, but he kept his composure with iron control. "Why, send him to the monastery also. Hast thou

not a sudden craving for prayer and contemplation? For assuredly they'll not doubt the earnestness of a Brother's

brother."

Hoban held his gaze, and Rod could see new sweat start

along the man's brow. "And I am to send word of their doings to thee?" Rod nodded. " 'Tis easily done. Thou hast but to call out in a soft voice, 'Send this word to the King,'

and speak

thy message. Be assured, His Majesty will hear it ere the night's out." Hoban stared. " 'Tis the Wee Folk, then?" And when Rod agreed, he said, " 'Tis hard to credit. Ne'er have I seen

them."

"Nor wilt now," Rod assured him. "Yet be certain, they will hear thee, so long as thou art without doors." Hoban's lips quirked with humor. "Aye. They'd not be in a House of God, would they?"
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"Not willingly," Rod concurred, his opinion of Hoban soaring. If he could see the humor of a situation like this . .

. !

"What dost'a think monks would do, were they to discover a spy in their midst?" Hoban asked very softly.

"Flogging, belike." Rod held the eye-to-eye gaze. "Yet naught more. They are, after all, men of God." Hoban's face twisted. "What manner of God's men are they, who even think of bearing challenge to the King?

Yet be assured, I am Their Majesties' man as well as God's. I'll be thy spy."

"Good man!" Now Rod clapped him on the shoulder. "Go about thy business as ever thou didst, then—but on the

morrow, go to thy priest and tell him thou hast felt the call of vocation."

"He'll not doubt me," Hoban said, with a wry smile. "They're ever eager for new clerics."

"The more they are, the safer they feel," Rod agreed. "Will there be any way in which I can aid thee, good

Hoban?"

"Aye," the plowman answered, with his gaze still on Rod's eyes. "I would know the name of the Vice who hath

tempted me to loyalty."

Rod stared into his eyes, feeling the thrill of alarm, and Magnus's thoughts spoke in his brain: Careful, Papa!

Why would he want to know?

To be sure of me, Rod answered, and to Hoban he said, "If thou art shy of asking elves to bear thy word to the

King, then ask them to speak of thee to the High Warlock."

The awe was there, finally, and a touch of fear with it. Hoban pulled a forelock, bobbing his head. "I am honored,

milord."

"I think 'tis I shall be saying that." Rod clapped him on the shoulder again. "Go thy ways, good Hoban,
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with

courage— and be sure of the thanks of thy King and Queen."

" 'Tis reward enough," the man answered, with the ghost of a smile. He straightened, turning away toward his ox. "Well, then! If 'tis as ever I must needs bear myself, then as ever I

shall. Godspeed thee, milord—and young lord." He bowed his head toward Magnus. No man should give me a bow! the boy's thoughts shrilled.

Rod's thought pounced on his, Then give it back! And, gravely, Magnus bowed to Hoban. When the plowman had followed his oxen away over the field, and the tinker and his son had journeyed on down

the road, around the bend, and out of sight, Rod tore off his cap, threw back his head, and howled with triumph.

"Splendid, Papa. Wonderful. Thou hast talked the man into risking his life. A real victory."

"They won't kill him, son." Rod clapped his hat back on his head. "And I sure hope they won't flog him—but he

just may save this country from war!"

A clump of weeds parted, and a six-inch humanoid in tight-fitting brown clothing popped up. "Didst thou summon an elf, Lord Warlock?"

"No, I was just holding a little victory celebration." Rod grinned at the mannikin. "Sorry to trouble you, there."

"Nay, I didst even now seek thee. Thou art summoned, milord."

"What, Their Majesties again?" Rod complained. "Can't they even manage a day or two without me?"

"Wouldst thou truly want them to, Papa?"

"True, true," Rod sighed. "Tell them we're on our way, sprite." Piers hurried home through the dark woods, wishing he hadn't come up with his bright idea of separating. It had

seemed to make sense at the time; if they came back into Runnymede from different directions, there would be

that much less chance of their wives guessing they'd been out in the forest. But now, with the wind moaning in

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the branches above him and the moon hidden, it didn't seem so sensible. Something snapped behind him; he whirled, his heart

leaping into his throat, but saw nothing. Only a branch, he thought, a twig snapping in the wind. Nonetheless, he

turned back toward Runnymede and hurried even faster down the track. Everyone knew spirits filled the woods,

and not just the Little Folk, no, but more vicious spirits, and far more dangerous. ... Furious barking filled the night, and four huge glowing eyes rose up before him. Beneath them two black muzzles split, showing glowing fangs.

Piers howled in terror and whirled, running; but huge feet thudded behind him, then past him, and the dog reared

up in front of him, whirling to glare at him with both its heads, each one barking with rage. Piers screamed and

spun away, running flat out, hearing the howling behind him and the huge paws thudding on the earth, closer and

closer. . . .

And a root bulged up to trip him. He flew sprawling; a rock tore his cheek, and huge jaws closed on his ankle. He

kicked out, bellowing in panic, and was somehow on his feet again, running and running with a limp now, the

night filled with baying.

Then he was out of the trees and onto the road. Once he dared to look back, but once, and saw the two great

heads just behind him, their eyes filled with flame, mouths filled with sharp teeth. He gasped, past screaming

now, and jerked his head back to the front, running harder though he seemed to go slower, fire in his legs and

breath rasping his lungs.

Then houses were flowing past him, he was into Runnymede now, and the great baying still filled the night

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around him. He swung around a corner—

And slammed into the arms of the night watch.

"Hold, fellow! What—"

Then they saw the hound and fell back shouting, pikes swinging up to guard, dropping Piers. He fell to the

ground with a sob of thanks, that he no longer faced the horror alone. The huge beast sprang, but the watchman grounded his pike butt and aimed the steel even as he shouted his fear.

The blade clashed on the beast's teeth, and it sprang back with a howl.

"It doth fear cold iron!" one of his mates cried, and stepped forward one pace before fear jellied his limbs.

The huge, black, two-headed dog crouched, snarling.

Two watchmen screwed up all their courage and advanced, jabbing out with their pikes, crying, "Angels and

ministers of

grace defend us!" With a howl the beast sprang back, but one

pike head stabbed into its breast— And it vanished. The night was still. The watchmen looked about them, their

hearts hammering. "Can it truly be gone?" "Aye, praise all the angels and saints!" "And the good smith who did

forge this steel!" Then they heard the tearing sobs of relief behind them, and turned to stare at the poor huddled heap of a man. One of the

watchmen frowned, bending down, and helped Piers to his

feet. "And where shall we take thee, poor fellow?" one of them asked. But another answered, his own voice still trembling, "To the castle."

"He said whatl\"

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"That he is Archbishop of Gramarye," Catharine repeated. The sunset light struck down over the garden wall to

backlight her golden hair, enveloping her in the flames of her wrath.

"No, no!" Rod waved it away."Not that part—it's not exactly unlikely. The other part, the business about Crown

and Gown."

"He hath proclaimed that we should be guided by him, Catharine and I, in all our governing," Tuan answered.

"At the least, 'tis the essence of his words."

"Yeah, it sure is! Why doesn't he just issue a demand for you to turn over the crown?"

"That shall follow, I doubt not." Catharine bit off the phrase as though it were a poisoned dart. Tuan nodded. "Belike he doth but await our response."

"Well, no." Rod sawed back on his exasperation and anger, forcing himself to look at the realities of the situation. "He can't simply declare you to be deposed all at once. There are some intermediate steps he'll have to

go through, such as declaring you to be heretics, then excommunicating you, and finally laying the land under the

Interdict until you abdicate."

Catharine shuddered. "Could he truly so imperil the souls of so many?"

"If they stand between him and the power he wants, yes." Rod resisted the temptation to tell her that people could

still go to Heaven without the Sacraments, that Christ's grace didn't absolutely have to be made official—but he

resisted; the

medieval mind wouldn't understand the chain of reasoning involved. To them Sacraments blurred into magic; the

distinction wasn't at all clear, as it was to Rod. At least, he thought it was. "And that is the one thing in which our

good Lord Abbot is strong-willed, Your Majesties—the pursuit of power. If he thinks he has a real chance, he'll

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call up an army and attack you with everything he can muster." Tuan's face darkened. "Assuredly, Lord Warlock, a priest cannot so completely forget morality!"

"No, but he can find excuses to justify what he wants to do, and make it seem moral—even to himself. That's his

weakness."

Catharine stepped into the shade of an apple tree. "Then we must strike first."

"Nay!" Tuan's head snapped up. " 'Twould be folly, and 'twould be sin!" Catharine whirled to face him, amazed at his tone. She saw the look in his eye, and her face darkened, but with

foreboding as much as with anger.

Rod sympathized; Tuan almost never contradicted her flatly. But this time there was religious fervor behind it,

and that meant he wouldn't even think of backing down. This could be a graver danger to the Crown than a

clerical rebellion—a break between Catharine and Tuan.

So, of course, Rod moved into the breach. "Forget about the 'sinful' part—that's how the clergy shackle you,

make you do what they want. They raise you to believe it's a sin to do anything but what they tell you is right."

Tuan's head snapped around toward Rod; he stared, scandalized. "How durst thou say it!" Rod felt his stomach sink. "All right, call it my opinion—"

"Nay, 'tis truth—I know enough of government to see that." Tuan glanced up at the sky through the garden trees.

"And lightning hath not smote thee. . . ."

Rod almost went limp with relief. He forced a sarcastic smile. "The Abbot doesn't necessarily speak for God, you

know, Your Majesty. But that only brings us to the other point you raised—folly." Catharine suddenly looked wary.

Tuan agreed. " 'Twould be folly to attack a House of God, Lord Warlock. The peasants would rise as a man to

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