The Warlock Heretical (25 page)

dost thou not ache for their good company?"

The peasant's mouth tightened with chagrin, and he admitted, "I do miss them sorely, Lady."

"And art worried for their safety? Nay, why not say it?"

"I am," he admitted, "for they are truly my brothers in spirit." Gwen nodded. "Closer than thy mother's sons could be, I wot. Nay, say thy name, good friar, so that I may know

to whom I speak."

He gazed at her, then gave up with a sigh. "I am Brother Clancy, Lady, and I ken not how thou couldst pierce my

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shield and con my thoughts. Thou art the Lady Gallowglass, art thou not?"

"I am," Gwen confirmed, fighting not to let show the soaring triumph that she felt. "If thou knowest me by repute, good friar, thou must needs know there's only honor in having maintained thy silence against me for so

long."

"Thou art a most puissant dame," Brother Clancy admitted, "and thou hast the right of it—I do regret most

shrewdly the making of false haunts to afright poor villagers." The soldiers lifted their heads, outrage in their faces, but at a look from Gwen they bit their tongues. "I am sure

thou must needs be so, for thou hast ever sought to give only aid and comfort, hast thou not?"

"Aye, I have," Brother Clancy said, with a sad smile. " 'Tis more the office of our order."

"And belike thou dost regret the rift with Rome."

Gwen wasn't prepared for the huge wrench of anguish that distorted Brother Clancy's features. "Oh, Lady! I am

so filled with dread! All my life I have sought to serve the Church and Pope, for thereby serve I God—yet to

have that prop and fundament broke out from 'neath my feet. . . ! Oh, 'tis agony, 'tis deepest doubt, that doth prey

upon my soul both day and—" Suddenly his eyes cleared as he realized what he'd been saying, and he stared at

her in horror.

Gwen tried to look her most commiserating.

"Eh, thou'rt skilled, thou!" he breathed. "Thou hast brought me from beginning to speak only what thou dost

already know, to say what thou canst only guess at! Ah, but thou'lt have no further word from me!" He shut his

mouth so hard she could hear his teeth snap against each other.

Gwen shook her head sadly. "Thou hast said little enough, good friar." She turned to the knight. "Come, escort

him to the castle, Sir Fralkin, and see him housed with what comfort a tower cell can afford." And she
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stood

aside, sighing and

shaking her head as they led him out—then let her spirits loose to soar with a silent cry of triumph. True, he had

told her fairly little—but he had confirmed her most important suspicion. He was not a hireling warlock who had

allied with the Archbishop, but one of the monks themselves, a Cathodean friar disguised as a peasant!

There

was not only the one monastic magic-worker—the projective orator Tuan had caught—but this other, a witch moss crafter.

Her mood steadied at a thought that gave her pause: if there were two esper monks, there might be others.

Just how many of them were there?

"Both monks?" Catharine stared.

"I might comprehend one as the working of chance," Tuan said, "yet two?"

" Tis scarcely an undue number, of their hundreds," Brom rumbled. "Yet I own amazement; I had thought the

monks opposed to witchfolk."

"They have seemed so," Tuan said, frowning, "though we have ever judged them, of necessity, by those we met

without the monastery. Mayhap those of the cloister are more tolerant." Gwen spread her hands. "If they are so, mayhap the cloister doth draw such spirits, Majesties."

"Wherefore?"

"For that 'tis one place wherein they need not fear for their lives," Gwen guessed. Tuan nodded slowly. "A good thought, Lady Gallowglass."

"Yet better would be one to counter them." Catharine frowned, her anger almost an aura about her.

"How doth

one oppose such witchfolk?" Then her face cleared as she heard her own words. "Why, with more
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witchfolk,

doth one not?"

Tuan nodded, eyes glittering. "In this instance, sweet wife, I will not scruple to use the Royal Coven." The woods were dark and gloomy, with just a few shafts of moonlight to make them seem more eerie. Elsa

picked her way carefully over the roots in the trail, holding her torch high, heart racing with fright. The branches

loomed close, twigs crooked to catch at her hair, and she felt eyes on her back constantly—but when she turned

to look, nothing was there. She shuddered and hurried onward. Not for the King himself would she have dared

this forbidding woodland at night—but

for a chance of seeing Orlof again, of at least hearing his voice. . . ! And this spirit-man who had built his hut in

these woods this week past, seemed to have the gift—at least, so said old Cressida, who had first found him, and

who said she had spoken with the ghost of old Lothrain. . . .

There it was, a brush lean-to in a clearing, almost a thicket by itself—but the weird old man sat by his fire before

it, chanting as he fed herbs into a small, steaming kettle. Elsa's heart leaped into her throat, and she almost turned

and fled, then remembered sweet Orlof, lying with his bright blood around him where Sir Grimal had run him

through, for nothing but trying to protect his wife Elsa from the knight's advances! Hatred burned up in her, and

guilt, for Orlof would still be alive if he had not wed her! Desire welled up, desire to speak to him, to hear him

say he forgave her, and she stepped forward into the clearing.

The weird old man looked up at the sound of her footfall. "Come, child. Do not fear me." But it was hard not to, with the firelight streaming upward, making his features look unearthly, and with the

steam from his kettle wreathing his face. Still, she came, though she felt her heart must shake her apart,
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and knelt

near his fire, grounding her torch.

"Thou dost wish to speak to the shade of thy dead husband," the old man sighed. "Well, I shall conjure him for

thee. Yet what shall thou give me for fee?"

Elsa blushed and lowered her eyes. What could she give, save herself? But surely Orlof would hate her for it! He

might forgive her for what Sir Grimal had done—that was forced, not given. But this? She touched her ring,

remembering Orlof and his love.

"Nay." The old man's voice was the sound of the breeze among twigs. "Thy ring is sacred; I'll not take it for

witch work. Yet I shall shear thy hair, for I've use for it."

Elsa looked up, startled and frightened. Her hair? Her long, glistening flow of hair, that Orlof had so loved? What

use could—

She bit down on the thought. What use the witch-man might have for her hair, she did not wish to know—and

she could surely grow more. It was fitting, too, to give it for Orlof. "Take it, then," she breathed, and untied her

kerchief, bowing her head.

It was quickly done, a few strokes with great shears, and she bound her kerchief about her head again with a sob,

to hide the ragged ends; but she felt a certain satisfaction; it was fitting, for mourning. The witch-man spread the rich fall of hair across his knees and nodded. " Tis well." Then he sat back, rolling his

eyes up and intoning, "Oh, Orlof, come forth! Come now from that other world; come speak to the one who most

loves thee, come forth, come forth, come forth. ..." His words trailed off into a moan; his eyes were open, but

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only the whites showed. Elsa shuddered, looked away . . . And saw the steam coalescing above the kettle. It

slowed as it welled up from the brew, swirling into a globe, a ball the size of a head. Indeed, it took on the

semblance of a head; it eddied into eyes, nose, and mouth; it peaked as a peasant cap peaks; it was Orlofs head,

floating there above the kettle, Orlofs lips that opened and hissed, Elsa, do not believe! This is not Orlofs face,

but a clever dream only!

The weird old man snapped forward, his eyes rolling down, staring. Then he scowled furiously, glaring at the

wraith—but it stayed, and its lips formed more words in spite of him. This witch-man cannot bring Orlof back,

but can only give thee an image that he doth craft himself! 'Tis not thy dead husband would speak, but this old

witch-man only!

Elsa screamed, rising to her feet, screams that formed into words as her hands hooked into claws, and the old

man jolted up and away from her, kicking over his stool and raising his hands to protect himself; but thunder

shook the grove and three young men stood behind him, reaching for him. He took one horrified look at them

and screamed, then exploded and was gone.

Elsa screamed still, screamed and screamed, feeling her mind begin to shred, but a young woman stepped forth

from the trees, a peasant her own age, hands uplifted, arms wide, saying, "Oh, poor lass, poor lass!

What vile

things have they done to thee, these wretched, twisted men!"

Elsa's screams wrenched off; she stared, amazed, as the young woman stepped forward, her face all sympathy,

crooning, "Poor Elsa, poor, poor lass!"

Elsa took one halting step forward, then collapsed into the stranger woman's arms, sobbing and sobbing as the

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pieces of

her mind began to pull themselves together again, and her heart began to realize the horror was past.

"Oh! 'Tis so great a scandal, Maria!" the woman said as she hauled her bucket across the village common.

" 'Tis in truth, Rillis! That Their Majesties should so defy the Abbot!" Maria answered, hefting her own bucket.

"The Archbishop, thou dost mean," Matilda sniffed. "An thou wilt hold Their Majesties wrong in opposing him,

goodwives, thou must needs call him 'Archbishop' now."

A goat looked up and bleated as they passed.

"I will not say that, Tilda." Maria frowned. "Who hath raised him, eh? Only himself."

"Hath he not the right to so do, Maria?" Rillis demanded. "He is the highest priest of the land!"

"Why, so might thine husband proclaim himself squire, Rillis. Would that make him so?" Maria demanded as

they came to the village well.

Rillis started to giggle, and clapped a hand over her own mouth. "For shame, Maria! To make me laugh at mine

own husband! Wherefore didst thou not speak of thine own?"

"For that her Rolf would not dare to term himself aught she might decry." Matilda swung her bucket up to the

well curb. "My Jack, now, scarce would have pride enough to term himself a plowman."

"Only for that he would then have to plow, Matilda. He might, though, call himself a layabout." Matilda managed to convert her peal of laughter into an indignant snort.

"Well, so much for the follies of mankind, my godsibs," Maria sighed, laying hold of the crank. "Now for the

wisdom of womankind. Shall we have some water for the cleansing of our houses?"

"And for the pot." Rillis set her hands on the crank from the other side. "Up with the bucket, now!"

"I shall have a sip of it first," Matilda decided, bending over to peer down into the gloom. "Ah, 'tis so cool and . .

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. ahhhl" She screamed.

Maria nearly let go of the crank, but not quite—which was a good thing, because Rillis did. "Matilda!

What—"

But Matilda was past speaking; she cowered back, hands over her mouth, pale and trembling.

"What can it be she hath seen?" Rillis turned to look, and drew back with a gasp. "Maria! Let go!"

"What dost thou see?"

"A dragon's worm! Tis a horrid thing, with a gaping maw and scales of sickly yellow! Its wings have sprouted,

and its tail hath a sting! Maria, let go\"

Maria heard a furious hiss from the well, seeming to fill all the air about her. She let go of the crank as though it

were a live coal. It spun, and the well rang with a scream so high-pitched they could scarcely hear it, dwindling,

gaining echo, till the bucket splashed.

The three women stared at one another, horrified. Rillis found her voice first. "What now shall we drink?" She

whispered.

"Drink be hanged, godsib! What shall we do when 'tis grown!"

"It shall not grow."

The three spun about.

She couldn't have been older than twenty-five, but she bore herself with the authority of a knight's lady. She wore

peasant's clothes, as they did, but of a richer fabric and more vivid colors, and she came toward them with a

gentle smile, but a look of grim purpose in her eyes.

"Who art thou?" Maria breathed.

"I am a witch of the Royal Coven," the stranger answered. "As for thy worm, behold!" She stepped up to the well

and frowned, gazing down at it.

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The three women glanced at one another, then plucked up their courage and stepped up to peek. They saw the worm shrink and harden, hissing furiously as its wings grew and spread, till the hissing stopped and