The Warlock Heretical (32 page)

Rod frowned, puzzled. "Wait a minute—you really meant it! Not losing one of your Order's chapters is more

important to you than the future of democracy!"

"It is," McGee agreed. "Not much more important, perhaps, but still my first priority." Rod's face slackened, appalled by another realization. "But . . . but . . . that means you've been taking the most

talented espers on Gramarye out of the gene pool for five hundred years!"

"That is an old charge," McGee sighed, "though the gift you mention is not the one usually spoken of. And in

answer, Lord Warlock, I can only ask how many of our Brothers would marry even if they did not come here."

"You mean they wouldn't fall in love?"

"Perhaps, but that does not mean they would be good husbands. Most religious are unworldly enough not to be

terribly good providers, Lord Warlock, and are of the sort to take their work as being the most important element

in their lives."

"You're saying Fathers might not make the best fathers?" Rod frowned. "Still, I get the point. And in this case,

their work is whatever the Archbishop tells them to do."

"In the current crisis, yes."

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"Which means that, if we want to stop the hauntings, we have to stop the Archbishop. And he's got the most

highly trained espers on the planet working for him! Just great!" 18

The moon rays glanced down, blackening the rusted masses of broken iron that bedecked the Archbishop's

garden wall, and casting a huge, monstrous, misshapen shadow of one who worked there, heaving and tearing the

Cold Iron from the

stones.

"Only a few more, Dread Lord, and thou shall have this whole side of the wall clear," sang a baritone from the

shelter of a nearby pear tree.

" Tis a foul crop espaliered against these blocks," Brom O'Berin grunted as he tore away the last horseshoe. "Yet

now must I examine mine own trail most carefully, Robin, lest a single nail be left to score the flesh of one of

mine elves." Puck shuddered in the shade. "May the grove's spirits forefend! 'Twould be certain death." But Brom worked his way along the wall crabwise, and finally pronounced himself satisfied. " 'Tis all cleared,

Robin. Come now, and see what we may espy."

Puck leaped to the top of the wall with him, hiding among some thick old ivy vines while Brom hid in the branches of an espaliered fruit tree. They waited in silence as the moon rose higher, with only an occasional

whispered word between them—or any of the other elves who crept over the wall and hid themselves among the

flowers.

Finally the door at the base of the tower opened, and the

elfin watchers stiffened like hounds scenting prey. The Archbishop came strolling out with Brother
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Alfonso

beside him. He stopped to inhale the perfume of the flowers and sighed, feeling the weight of his cares rolling off

his shoulders. "Ah! A nook of blessed peace in this troubled world!"

"True, my lord. Yet the troubles never vanish—they are only held at bay."

"Peace, my conscience," the Archbishop sighed. "Can I never have a moment free of care?" "Art thou Archbishop, my lord?" "I had almost as lief I were but an abbot again," the Archbishop grumbled. "Yet thou hast

the right of it, as when hast thou not? What matter's so great that I must needs contemplate it presently?"

"A host of matters, my lord, all of which come together as one, videlicit: now that thou hast broke from Rome,

thou canst now break also with all these stances 'gainst which thou hast railed in years past." The Archbishop stilled, his imagination caught. "Thou hast inveighed against the buying of indulgences," Brother Alfonso reminded, "and 'gainst lending for interest." "Aye," the Archbishop muttered. "How can Rome

condone a man making profit of aiding his neighbor?"

"And celibacy, my lord. Thou hast already dealt with that. Word has it the common folk are pleased with thy

stance." The Archbishop paused at his companion's remark. Brother Alfonso hid a smile. "Thou hast often said a

monk may not truly comprehend the burdens of a husband. And thou hast said that, if a priest be devoted to God,

he must needs raise up more souls for Him."

"And that if we tell the plowman 'tis his vocation to rear children, we had ought to do so ourselves," the Archbishop added. "Aye, I remember."

Brother Alfonso wiped a hand down across his lips. Chanting drifted to them on the evening breeze. The Archbishop looked up sharply. "Vespers! And we are late! Come, Brother Alfonso!"

"Directly, my lord," Brother Alfonso murmured; but he stayed rooted to the spot, watching till the Archbishop's

form had passed through the door and gone.

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Then he threw back his head and laughed, not loudly, but long. He was still laughing as his feet flew out from

under him,

and the laugh turned into a cry of alarm that lasted only a second before a solid thud cut it off. Elves darted out

from bushes as a leprecohen straightened up, tapping his hammer against his palm. They whisked threads about

and about the unconscious monk as Brom O'Berin came up, rumbling, "Well done, stout hearts. Now take him

where he shall do no further harm."

The elves ducked down about Brother Alfonso's form; then the body seemed to lift itself up on dozens of legs. It

turned about in a complete circle, then oriented on a huge old chestnut tree and shot toward the roots just as a

large hole gaped between them, letting out a shaft of golden light. The body dodged down into the hole; Puck

leaped in after it, then Brom O'Berin. The hole seemed to close itself, as gnomes pitched in merrily; then the light

was gone, and the garden lay quiet under the moon.

The noble hostages were all drawn up around the trestle table in the center of their hall, and their faces were

drawn, too. They were grouped in parties—D'Auguste and the loyalists at the eastern end of the table; Ghibelli at

the western end with Marshall, Guelph, and Glasgow. They all faced the main archway, which was flanked by a

dozen stone-faced soldiers with pikes at the ready. The room was very quiet. Then Sir Maris stepped through the archway, announcing, "Milords, thy King!" They all rose. Simple courtesy would dictate that—and Tuan had never demanded they kneel. The King entered in full royal regalia, a purple robe trimmed with ermine swirling from his broad shoulders and

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framing a golden doublet, a jeweled crown on his head and a golden sceptre in his left arm, right hand resting on

the hilt of his sword. He came to a halt and turned his head slowly, surveying all the faces before him. Then he

said quietly, "Milords, it is war."

Not a word was said, but he could almost feel the impact of his words physically, in the slight tightening in their

bodies, the widening of their eyes. They had all known what he would announce, but hearing it from the King

made it inevitable.

"I will not slay any man whose only crime is loyalty to his father," the King said, "in spite of the threat implicit in

thy being hostages here. If thy parents should gain so much ground

as to force me back here to Runnymede, I might then pronounce that threat, and if need be, thy death warrants.

Yet I misdoubt me 'twill come to such a pass." He surveyed their faces again, slowly, and said, "Yet I will ask

each of thee to surrender his arms to my seneschal, here and now, and bide within these walls, never going out

for air or sun till this issue be resolved."

He held all their gazes, and the choice was clear, but unsaid.

What choice, really? They all knew their duty to their houses, regardless of their feelings. If the King lost, their

fathers would forgive them; if the King won, their houses would still be intact. Besides, some of them wanted to.

D'Auguste led, as usual. He stepped forward and knelt, saying, "Majesty, I am thy man. Command me in battle

and I shall fight with all the strength of mine heart and mine arm." There was silence for a moment; then TUan said, his eyes moist, "Why, then, bless thee for a loyal
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liegeman! I

shall accept thy service, and I shall not set thee 'gainst thine own blood!" Chester came forward, then, kneeling. "Majesty, I too."

Then Graz, Maggiore, Basingstoke, and Llangolen knelt.

"I praise thee," Tuan murmured. "I accept thy service." The room was very silent.

Then Ghibelli stepped forward to kneel. "Majesty, I am thy man." And, one by one, his companions followed him.

The monks sat at their places in the refectory, but lamps burned on each table, for it was night. The Archbishop

sat on his dais, with standing candelabra to each side of him—but his high table had been pushed aside, and his

great chair stood in its place. He sat on it like a prince on a throne, in full panoply—golden cope and mitre, span

new from the seamstresses of Reddering, his crozier resting in the crook of his arm—again, newly come from

Reddering. But this was no celebration; his face was grim.

All the monks of the chapter filled the hall, faces drawn. Before the Archbishop stood Hoban with his head high,

but his arms were lashed behind his back. The hall was totally silent, every eye fixed on the Archbishop and the

culprit before him.

Father Rigori stood forth, crying, "Hearken and hear! Our

Brother Alfonso has gone from our midst! For two days and nights none have seen him! Whither hath he sped?"

The room was silent, every eye now on Hoban.

"Our Archbishop doth sit now in judgment!" Rigori declared. "He who can bear witness, let him stand forth!"

The room was still.

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The Archbishop lifted his head and stated, "I was last to see him, this Tuesday night past at the commencement

of vespers. He tarried in the garden when I went to the abbey. Hath any seen trace of him since?" The hall was silent.

The Archbishop turned to his left, nodding at a monk who sat near. "Brother Molin." Brother Molin stood, his hands trembling. "I have been night porter this week past. I have seen none pass the

gate betwixt vespers and matins."

He sat, and the Archbishop turned to his right. "Brother Santo?"

"I have been porter for morning," said Brother Santo, rising. "He did not pass my gate 'twixt matins and nones."

"Brother Hillar?"

"He did not pass through the gate 'twixt nones and vespers."

"He might have climbed the wall," the Archbishop said grimly, "yet I misdoubt that he would have. Brother

Loes-sing!"

In the center Brother Loessing stood up.

"Thou hast been gardener this month," the Archbishop stated. "Say what thou didst find when thou didst come to

thy post this Wednesday last."

"The horseshoes, bent nails, and other old iron had been cleared from off the wall," Brother Loessing answered,

"and cast into the manure pile. And when I came into the garden, there was a fairy ring in the grass." An excited murmuring filled the hall, though all the monks had already heard this from gossip. It was another

matter entirely to hear it from an eyewitness.

"From this we may know that elves had come into the garden," the Archbishop said, stone-faced, ignoring the

Church's stand on supernatural beings. "Brother Livy!"

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A tall, gaunt monk rose and said, in a quavering voice, "I stood guard on the wall by the gate that night, as our

Lord

Archbishop hath lately commanded. I chanced to see down into the garden, and saw Brother Alfonso fall. He did

not rise again, and therefore did I go' to fetch Brother Parker; but when we came, the garden was empty."

The Archbishop's jaw clenched. "Brother Hasty!"

Brother Hasty stood. "I saw this postulant, Hoban, linger at the edge of the field overlong, near the wild flowers

and weeds, and I saw his lips move. When I came to rebuke him, I saw the ground had been hoed so thoroughly

that it might as well have been plowed. I thought naught of it at the time; yet now . . His voice trailed off; he

spread his hands.

"There can be no question of it." The Archbishop glared down at Hoban. "Brother Alfonso hath been taken, and

'tis this man who told the elves how they might encompass the deed. Belike 'tis also he who cleared the shield of

Cold Iron from the north field and the garden wall."

Hoban protested. "I did not take the iron from the field or the wall, milord."

"Yet thou didst speak to the elves?"

Hoban stood silent. Then he said, "I came to be a monk. At the least, I will not lie."

"Why!" the Archbishop spat. "Wherefore dist thou betray this Order?"

"From loyalty to my liege lord Tuan, King of Gramarye." Now that it was out, Hoban's boldness came clear

again. "I came hither at his behest, to discover what evil genius did move thee." The whole hall strained in shocked silence.

"And I did discover 'twas Brother Alfonso who had tempted thee to defy Rome," Hoban went on. "This did I tell

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