The Warlock Heretical (26 page)

there was scarcely any body at all. But the wings were huge, a foot across at least, and of so marvelous a swirl of

rainbow hues as to make the women gasp. It drifted up from the well, a magnificent butterfly—but, harmless

though it was, they ducked out of its way as it rose above the curb and hovered inside the well for a moment. The

stranger frowned at it, and it sped away, rising to glide off into the forest on a vagrant breeze. The stranger relaxed, and there was a sheen on her forehead as she turned to the three women. " Twas no true

worm, but a

crafting of witch moss. Tis sped now, and shall trouble thee no more." The women stared; then Maria found her voice. "Who . . . who crafted it?"

"Some malicious witch who doth strive 'gainst Their Majesties' rule."

"What if that witch doth transform it to a worm again?"

"Why, then, I shall banish it again—I, or another like me." The young woman gave them a radiant smile.

"Fear

not, goodwives—the King and Queen do ward and care for their folk." She turned and moved away into the forest. The three women stared after her in the heat of the midday sun.

Then Matilda straightened, a gleam in her eye. "Well, godsibs! Shall we have a tale to tell this even!" Dinner was done, and the grown-ups wandered out of their cottages to stand in groups, chatting, while the

children ran about, tagging each other and wrangling—a normal Gramarye village evening.

"Hear the Word of the Lord!"

Where the preacher had come from, no one knew, but they all stilled and looked at him, with .more dread than

surprise on their faces. The clergy had not been bringing good news lately.
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" 'Put not your trust in princes,' saith the Lord! And in truth, he who would put his faith in our princes, in Tuan

and Catharine today, would be foolish indeed!"

The people stared, galvanized by the words of treason they were hearing. Even the children began to realize

something was wrong, and one by one ceased their games and turned to listen.

"Tuan and Catharine have sought to usurp the powers of the Church! The King and Queen have scorned the word

of the Lord Archbishop! They have adhered to a profligate and sinful Church in defiance, and have thus rent this

land of Gramarye asunder! And as is done with the people of the land, so is done with its substance!

Even now

forces build to rend the very soil itself! Verily I say unto thee, in three minutes' time the earth shall quake!"

The villagers burst into a panic of yammering disbelief. Here and there rose a cry of despair, and a few turned

toward their cottages.

"Naught will be damaged!" the priest cried. "Or at the least, very little! The ground will shake, aye, but shall only

tremble; it shall not heave! This is but the Lord's warning, not His devastation! Hearken! Heed!" Somewhat reassured, the peasants turned back to watch him again. The priest straightened, smiling, sure of his

control . . .

And the seconds passed. And passed. And passed.

The priest frowned, and the folk began to murmur. "Assuredly three minutes have come and gone!"

"Aye, most

surely! Hast thou felt a quake?" "Nay, not so much as mine oxen make as I follow the plow." The preacher was scowling now, fists clenched, forehead beading with sweat. People saw, and fell silent again,

staring at him—but nothing happened.

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" Tis a mountebank," somebody muttered. "Aye, 'tis a jester who did cut his own tonsure," a goodwife agreed.

"Dost seek to mock us, fellow?" A bulky peasant stepped forward, anger in his voice.

"I am a true friar of St. Vidicon!" the priest shouted. "Any may don a robe and paint a bit of wood for his breast,"

another beefy peasant sneered. "What, fellow! Dost take us for fools?"

"Stand away from me," the priest commanded, but trepidation hollowed his voice, and he stepped backwards,

and backwards again, as the big peasants closed in on three sides. Behind two of them he saw a slighter man

smiling, and glared at the man. But the peasant only smiled wider, and it was a hard and threatening smile.

"Mend thy ways!" the preacher cried. "Cease to follow these false monarchs—or, I warn thee, the ground shall

shake!" And he turned to hurry away into the forest, his face burning with embarrassment—and with anger at the

young man with the hard smile who was, he was certain, the warlock who had held the earth still with his mind,

when the preacher had sought to shake it.

15

Lutes and hautboys wove a tranquil melody, calming the spirits of all who entered the great church in Runnymede. The choir's voices rose to fill the nave as Their Majesties came in, arm in arm, their two sons

walking before them with gravity far beyond their years. Footmen preceded them; maids came behind. A third of

the household came to mass in the cathedral; the others attended in the chapel. The royal party sat, and Catharine clasped Tuan's hand tightly, smiling. He smiled back into her eyes. For a few

brief minutes the peace of God touched their souls.

Then the choir finished with a triumphant "Alleluia!" and the priest cried from the pulpit, "Dearly beloved in

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Christ!"

Catharine and Tuan spun about to stare at him. What had happened to the Introit? To the Confiteor, the Gloria,

the Epistle, and Gospel?

"There will be no Mass in this Church on this Sunday," the priest announced grimly. Tuan frowned, and Catharine's face darkened as a huge hubbub erupted all about them. The priest grimly waited it out, then unrolled a parchment, declaring, "I must read to you a letter from our Most

Reverend Archbishop!"

Catharine nearly bolted from her chair, but Tuan restrained her with a hand on her arm. "Let him speak. We are

not yet despots—and 'tis better to have it said openly."

She subsided, fuming, while Alain and Diarmid stared up at them, frightened.

"Dearly beloved," the priest read, "it is with great sadness that I pronounce Tuan and Catharine, erstwhile King

and Queen of this land, heretics against the Word of God and the Church of Gramarye, and do therefore declare

them excommunicated from all services and Sacraments of our Church." The hubbub turned into a roar this time, and even the footmen seemed to shrink away from Their Majesties.

Catharine was on her feet, fists clenched tightly, face white, and Tuan was beside her. " 'Erstwhile!'" the Queen

said grimly. "How dare he say 'erstwhile'!"

But the priest was waving for quiet. As the crowd subsided, they could hear him crying, "... and hear me out, ere

I am silenced! His Grace the Archbishop doth say, 'I hearby call upon all good men and true, whose souls are

devoted to God, to abjure this false prince and come to me here in my house in Ruddigore, to join in a holy

march against these heretics who do tyrannize our fair Isle of Gramarye!'"
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Now Tuan's face swelled with wrath; now, finally, he bellowed in rage, "Art thou done?"

"Thine in Christ,'" the priest finished, coolly if quickly, " 'John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye by the

grace of God.'"

"Say, rather, by the word of John Widdecombe!" Tuan thundered. "If thou hast finished, thou wilt doubtless

leave this church, and thou shalt not say Mass!"

"In truth, I would not stay in the presence of an heretic," the priest stated, rolling up the letter with trembling

hands. "Silence me if thou must, Tuan Loguire, but thousands of monks shall cry thine iniquity throughout the

land!"

"I know some who shall not," Tuan called back, mastering his temper with difficulty. Eyes narrowed, he turned

to the seneschal. "Sir Maris! Ride with all haste to the chapter house nearby, and beseech Father Boquilva to

come say our Mass!" He turned to Catharine and said, more softly, "Now shall I not scruple to 'use'

them!"

His answer was the glow in her eyes, and the clasp of her hands on his. The noble hostages filed back into their hall, and for once there was no badinage of insults between the two

parties. They

took their places and sat, faces dark, gazing at one another with foreboding. No one spoke, perhaps because

D'Auguste was absent, comforting his bride.

Finally Maggiore broke the silence. "My lords, it is war." Ghibelli nodded heavily. "How can it be aught else, when the Archbishop doth excommunicate the King?"

"Yet 'tis plain that Rome doth not," Chester answered, "and that there be two orders of St. Vidicon now, not one."

"Aye, there is a St. Vidicon of Rome, and one of Gramarye. Pestl" Marshall threw his hands up in
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exasperation.

"How can there be two Saints Vidicon when only one was martyred?"

" Tis a rebellion among the priests," Glasgow growled, "and fools we are not to have seen it."

"My sire hath declared for the Archbishop," Marshall said, glowering. "I had thought his example showed that

the Archbishop was right in embracing change, and Their Majesties were wrong in. their foolish obstinacy."

"Aye," Graz agreed. "Yet if the Archbishop's priest will not say Mass in the presence of the royal heretics, but

Father Boquilva will most willingly accord them the Sacraments ..."

"Aye," Ghibelli whispered. "Who is the true heretic, eh? The King, or the Archbishop?" He whirled to stab a finger at D'Auguste as the young lord came into the hall. "Riddle me that, eh? Thou, who

dost ever believe thyself knowledgeable in all things—tell me! Who is faithful to God—His Majesty, or His

Grace?"

D'Auguste froze, startled. Then he came forward, frowning. "I cannot see how he can be 'His Grace'

when he

hath cast us all into so much confusion of spirit. Yet the question for us, milord, is much more to the point: Who

shall we march with? The King? Or . . ."

"Our mourners," Graz said softly.

They were all silent, staring at each other, the sudden fact of their own mortality shrouding their souls—the

realization that they could die at the headsman's block, though none of them had yet seen twenty-five.

"Who hath declared for the Church?" Glasgow muttered.

"Thy father, Duke Stuart," Ghibelli answered, "and my sire. With him march Earl Marshall and Count Borgia."

There was no sign of relief on any face, but several nods; the young lords had heard only what they had expected.

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"For myself," Ghibelli said slowly, "if my lord father doth willingly allow me to go to the block, I care naught."

He swallowed, belying his own words. "At the least, I hold him blameless—nay, honorable and right, to uphold

the rights of our estate. I doubt me not an my death will pierce him to the very heart and fuel the fires of his

vengeance; he will be doubly determined to bring down this upstart Loguire. Tis for the good of the House of

Savoy, and of all the great lords."

The room was silent.

Then Guelph said, "Thou hast the right of it—for myself and my sire. Yet what of our souls, eh? How if Father

Boquilva be right and the Archbishop wrong?"

"Aye." Ghibelli met his somber gaze. "I have no great wish to suffer the tortures of the damned for all eternity,

for no better reason than that my parent adhered to an heretical cleric."

"Yet," said Chester, "mayhap the Archbishop is right. What of that, eh? And we who adhere to Rome and the

King might therefore burn without end."

"Oh, thou hast little concern!" Ghibelli exploded. "Thou wilt have the fullness of thy three score and ten ere thou

dost face the Judgment! Thou wilt know the end of this quarrel, and which Church is true; thou wilt have time to

recant and repent, an thou hast need of it! Yet we whose sires rebel, we go to the block on the instant, as the King

doth saddle his mount!"

"Aye, I have a part free of care," Chester answered, meeting his gaze, "if I am not slain on the field." Ghibelli was silent, only staring at him.

The young lords all sat, numb, chilled to their souls by the thought. Then Guelph slapped the table and shouted, "What a pack of great ninnies we are! What fools, what hollow

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heads! Here we sit and shudder over words that silly shavepates do bandy! What matters their nattering, in truth?

God is God; they will not change Him!"

"Brave words," Glasgow said bitterly. "Wilt thou recite them as they haul thee to the block?"

"His point is well-taken." D'Auguste finally stepped up to take his seat. "We are the lords of the land; we ken the

wielding of power. Dost not see such maneuvering in this?"

The lords were silent, looking at one another in surprise, then slowly beginning to nod.

" Tis naught but a jousting for place," Guelph said, with a wolfish grin.

"Why, then, let us regard it as just such a contest." D'Auguste leaned forward, elbows on the table, cocking a

forefinger at Ghibelli. "But think, milord—if 'twere a war and we wished to be sure our houses did survive it,

how would we proceed?"

"Why ..." Ghibelli stared at him, nonplussed. Then he frowned and answered, "We would be sure our house did