The Warlock Heretical (28 page)

can we know which is right—the one that doth say we are damned, or the one that doth say we are not?"

"It's really up to God, isn't it?" Rod said gently.

"Aye, certes, yet how are we to know?"

"Same way the churchmen do—try to listen to Him. And just in case you don't hear anything, check your

conscience. At the bottom of your heart, do you honestly think you've done anything really sinful?" Gwen was still, and Rod held his breath.

"In my youth, mayhap," she said finally, "though I think our children have given me ample opportunity to atone."

Rod heaved a sigh of .relief. "So it's the Archbishop and his henchmen who're the sinners, not us."

"Aye, 'tis he doth sin, and most grievously, in bringing this confusion of the soul upon us, by separating from

Rome." Then her eyes widened. "Did I truly say that?"

"Don't worry about it," Rod soothed.

"I will not," she said, with decision. "And now, my lord, by our Archbishop's accounting, I am truly an heretic."

"Only on Gramarye, dear," Rod assured her, "and only in five counties."

"I couldn't believe she'd taken such a medieval attitude." Rod shook his head, flabbergasted.

"Wherefore not, Rod? She is, after all, a medieval woman."

"Yeah." Rod frowned. "I keep forgetting that, just because she's so intelligent and responsible, and has managed

to learn everything I've learned, and does just as much on the national level as I do, and—"
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Fess emitted a rumbling noise, the robot's equivalent of clearing his throat.

"Oh! Yes, I was kind of running on there, wasn't I?" Rod pursed his lips. "At least it's understandable, how I

forget."

"Understandable, yes. But she was raised in a medieval society, Rod, and early attitudes are fundamental; they

are always there, at the bottom of the personality."

"Yes." Rod nodded. "The wonder is not that she went berserk for a few minutes, but that she managed to come

back."

The Archbishop was in his scriptorium, appointing bishops. He smiled as he wrote, dipping his pen in the inkwell

with zest and signing his name with a flourish.

"... art hereby created Bishop of Tudor, to be confirmed by the laying on of hands when tide and times allow, at

our abbey here in the House of St. Vidicon. Till that time doth come, ward thy flock well, and guide them in the

true way of our Church. John Widdecombe, Archbishop of Gramarye."

"Theodore Obrise, Bishop of Stuart," he said as he sprinkled sand over the ink. Brother Alfonso wrote Father Obrise's name carefully on the roster of bishops. The Archbishop shook the sand off the parchment, rolled it, and handed it to a rather pale Brother Anho, who

melted sealing wax onto the rolled edge, then held it while the Archbishop pressed his signet ring into the pool.

He turned and laid it on the stack for the messenger as the Archbishop turned back to the desk and took a clean

sheet of parchment. "Now. Who is chaplain to the Earl Tlidor?"

"Father Gregory McKenzie," Brother Alfonso replied.

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"To the Reverend Gregory McKenzie," the Archbishop wrote, "in the name of the Lord, greetings. Knowing thee

to be steadfast in the Faith . . ."

Father McKenzie unrolled the parchment with a frown. "What hath His Grace to tell me, Brother Lionel, that

may not be said by word of mouth?"

The messenger put down his mug and wiped foam from his moustache. "I know not, Father; I but bear the

scroll."

" 'To the Reverend Gregory McKenzie,'" the priest read; but as he went on, his eyes widened. When he finished,

he

looked up, eyes glowing, lips trembling as he tried to confine them to only a small smile. "I thank thee for this

good news, Brother. Wilt thou bear messages for me, to all the parish priests in Tudor?"

"Father Obrise doth wish speech with thee, milord."

"The priest?" Earl Stuart ran his hand over the withers of his new chestnut stallion, frowning. "What doth he

wish?"

"He will not say, milord, yet he is pale as a January hillside." Stuart lifted his head, then turned slowly away from the stallion. "Bid him come." He went out of the paddock, a

footman closing the gate behind him, and stood, feet apart, arms akimbo, as the priest came up. "God save thee,

Father."

"And thee, my lord." The old man's lips were pressed tight, and his hand trembled as he held out the parchment

scroll. "I hold here a letter from Milord Archbishop."

Stuart braced himself. "Read it me."

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The priest unrolled the parchment with a sigh; he knew well that Earl Stuart had never spared the time to learn to

read. " 'To the Reverend Axel Obrise, from the Reverend John Widdecombe, by the grace of God Archbishop of

Gramarye . .

When he had finished, he rolled up the parchment, straightening as much as he could and gazing directly into

Earl Stuart's eyes.

"Well, then," the Earl said, with a taut smile, "thou art my bishop henceforth. Shall I congratulate thee?"

"Nay," Father Obrise said, "for I cannot accept this appointment." The earl lost his smile, and the two men stared at one another in taut silence. Then the earl said,

"Wherefore canst

thou not?"

"For that I cannot in all good conscience part from the Church of Rome." Earl Stuart stared at him, his eyes two chips of ice. Then he said, "Thou art lately come to this piety."

" Tis my shame," the old priest acknowledged. "I did delay, hoping His Grace would cease his vanity; yet he doth

persist. Now I find that I can no longer endure in silence."

The earl nodded slowly. "And thou canst no longer be chaplain here." He turned to a nearby guardsman.

"Escort

Father Obrise to our most pleasant dungeon cell."

The young soldier blanched, but came forward to do as he was bid.

The altar bell rang, and Earl Tudor knelt for morning mass-but when he looked up, he stared in horror at the

apparition before him. It was Father McKenzie as always, but the chaplain was holding a crozier and wearing a

bishop's mitre on his head.

"Dominus Vobiscum," the priest intoned. "Ere we begin the Mass, I shall ask thee to rejoice with me—for, by

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authority of our good Archbishop, I am elevated to the rank of Bishop of Tudor." He held up his hands, but there was no outcry of delight, for Earl Tudor was standing, pale-faced and trembling.

"Reverend Father," he grated, "thou canst not be made bishop by Abbot Widdecombe, for he doth lack authority.

The Pope hath not named him Archbishop."

"So I had thought, my lord." The priest turned to the Earl, lifting his head a bit. "Yet I am now persuaded of the

lightness of his cause."

"Aye, for that he will make thee a bishop! Nay, I shall not have the Church of Gramarye within these precincts!

Thou mayest no longer be chaplain here."

"My lord, 'tis not for thee to—"

"Sir Willem!" the Earl snapped. "Thou, and a guard of six men, take this overweening friar in all his finery and

escort him to the eastern border, where he may cross to the estates of the Due di Medici! He will find greater

hospitality there, where the Church of Gramarye doth hold sway!" Sir Willem stiffened, beckoned to his guardsmen, and came forward to surround the chaplain, who stared at

them, shocked. They escorted him from the chapel, and the earl turned to the seneschal. "Send to Count Rhys,

and bid him send Father Glen to us here."

"Hapsburg! Tudor! Romanov! Ruddigore!" The Archbishop slapped each parchment down onto his desktop.

"Ruddigore, even Ruddigorel Though our house doth lie within the baronet's demesne! Not a one of these

arrogant noblemen but hath flouted mine appointment of his bishop!"

"Vile are they, indeed," Brother Alfonso hissed, "yet not so vile as the priests who did refuse thy commissions."

"Vile? Nay, more—they are heretics! And are therefore hereby cast out of the Order and the
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priesthood! Draw up

a proclamation so stating, Brother Alfonso, for my signature."

"I shall, my lord," the secretary purred. "Yet be of good heart—Bishop McKenzie and Bishop Vogel did declare

loyalty to thee."

"Aye, yet only for that they would gain croziers thereby! Still, the attempt was most surely worthy, and

'tis to be

lamented they could not sway their lords." The Archbishop shook his head. "I could almost wish the King's lords

had imprisoned them; then might their congregations have risen in outrage."

"Their lordships took the course of wisdom," Brother Alfonso regretfully agreed, "in only exiling them."

"Aye, and here are McKenzie and Vogel among us again." The Archbishop frowned. "Yet they shall keep their

rank, aye, and shall be bishops in absentia. And . . ." He lifted his head slowly, a smile touching his lips.

"For

those recreant monks whom we shall declare unfrocked, let us appoint other absent bishops, that all the land may

know their sees await them!"

"Excellently thought, my lord!" It was so excellent, in fact, that it made Brother Alfonso nervous; the Archbishop

wasn't supposed to think for himself. "The more so for that it shall weld these new bishops more ardently to thy

cause! Who shall thou choose?"

"Father Rigori," the Archbishop said slowly, "and Father Hasty. There are also Father Samizdat, Father Roma,

and Father Rhone. . . ."

16

Rod stepped out to gaze up into the sky, to let the infinite vastness of the stars calm his soul by making him

realize how little the absurd strivings and conflicts of his minuscule mortal kind really mattered. He should have known better.

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An elf popped up next to his shin. "Lord Warlock! The friars in the log house do call for thee!"

"Father Boquilva?" Rod asked. "What's wrong now?"

"I do not know, save that he did step without his door and cry, 'Wee folk, if thou dost hear me, call the High

Warlock!'"

"Oh. He did." Rod nodded. "Interesting. Practicality wins out over theology. You elves are supposed to be

superstition, but when he needs you badly enough, he calls. Yes, this order does derive from the Jesuits. Okay,

tell him I'm coming."

Rod turned into the lane toward the chapter house and saw Father Boquilva hurrying toward him with a lamp in

his hand. At least, the priest's face looked as though he were hurrying, but his pace matched the slower movements of the stocky man beside him, who was strangely dressed for a Cathodean. For any Gramaryan, for

that matter. He was wearing a black coverall—with a Roman collar.

Rod stood taut, all his danger signals screaming. The man was from off-planet.

Then he remembered that the man was also clergy, and if he wasn't trying to disguise himself, was probably a

friend.

"Good evening," he said. "Did I send for you?"

Father Boquilva gasped, but the stranger looked up with a merry glint in his eye. "In a manner of speaking, you

did—and as I remember, your manner of speaking was a bit abrupt. You're the, uh, 'High Warlock,' I take it?"

"They call me that, even though I have less to do with spirits than you do." Rod held out a hand. "Rod Gallowglass, Father."

"A pleasure." The man took his hand. His grip was warm and strong, and his smile broadened. As his face came

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close to the lamplight, Rod could see that he had thinning, close-cropped graying hair, and a neatly trimmed,

grizzled beard. "But how did you guess my alcohol intake?"

"Easy—you're a priest. Mass once a day, with at least a thimbleful of wine. Not to mention the other kind of

spirits."

"Thank you; I'll try not to. I'm McGee."

"The Reverend Morris McGee," Father Boquilva said stiffly, "Father-General of our Order!" Rod froze, staring at the priest. "You just may be the answer to the prayer I didn't quite phrase."

"I remember it being closer to a threat, actually. His Holiness was good enough to read it to me." McGee turned

back to Father Boquilva. "If you would, Father, we would appreciate the hospitality of your house for a few

hours longer."

"Of course, Reverend Father. Our house is yours—in more than name." Father Boquilva turned away toward the

door, his back ramrod straight.

And his tone had been stiff enough to iron a shirt on. Rod fell in beside McGee and leaned over to mutter in his

ear, "Who's being rebuked, me or you?"

McGee looked up at him with delight. "Quite so, Lord Warlock, quite so! I believe I am a trifle too, ah, informal,

for Father Boquilva's taste."

Rod nodded. "After all, you're almost a legendary figure to him. You could at least have the courtesy to be tall,

lean, and grim."

"Oh! Yes, I must try." McGee stood up a little straighter and went a few steps with a stiff-legged stride, scowling

fero

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ciously. Then he relaxed and looked up at Rod. "Something along that line?" Rod held up a thumb-and-forefinger