The Warlock Heretical (7 page)

head— who should rule? Church or Crown?

"Not the slave," the Abbot qualified, "but the servant. Assuredly the body should be in all ways subject to the

soul."

Dead end. Rod took a deep breath, trying to think of another approach. "But how, milord, if the soul becomes

ill?"

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"Then it must come to the Church, to be cured!"

Well, some of the medieval priests had been great practical psychologists—some. But Rod noticed that the

Abbot had taken the argument around in a circle, stubbornly refusing to consider the implications of his own

analogy. "Yet until it does, milord, it may create havoc within the body, may it not?" Rod had a vivid mental

image of a schizophrenic patient he'd seen once—haggard, unshaven, and dressed in sloppy clothes. Maybe the Abbot had seen something like it, for he looked distinctly unhappy. "Aye, yet we speak of the body

politic, not the body human!"

The analogy wasn't working for him anymore, so he was rejecting it. "Yes, and we're talking about the Church,

not any one soul. But there have been times when the Church has been ill, in a way—split into parties with

different beliefs."

"Heresies have taken root, aye, and done great damage ere they have been stamped out." The Abbot scowled.

"Yet 'tis all the more reason why they must be eliminated—with fire and sword, if need be!"

He'd pushed it over the line; Rod caught his breath. "But the Commandment says, "Thou shall not kill.'"

"The Commandment doth not speak of the vile seducers who would sway God's children from the true Faith!"

the Abbot snapped. "Assuredly thou dost not wish to be such an one!"

"No, Milord Abbot, I've no wish to tempt people away

from the true Church."

The Abbot's face turned to stone.

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"Any such division in the Church can only wreak havoc and misery on the poor common people who make up

most of its body," Rod said softly. "I beg you, Milord Abbot, to do all that you can to prevent such a breach."

Behind the Abbot the secretary watched, trembling, his eyes like glowing coals.

" 'Tis not for us to do or undo," the Abbot answered, his tone glacial. "The unity of Gramarye doth rest with the

great lords, and with Their Majesties."

The thought of the implied civil war chilled Rod's insides. "Yet you are the healer of the soul, Lord Abbot. Can

you not find a way to make the body of Gramarye whole again?"

The secretary took a step forward, reaching out, but caught

himself.

"We do intend naught that would work against the interests of the common folk," the Abbot answered stiffly,

"nor against the Crown—provided, of course, that Their Majesties conduct themselves in accord with morality."

Which meant that the Church wouldn't fight Tuan and Catharine, as long as they did what the Church said. No, not good enough. "Does Milord Abbot mean that Gramarye can be unified only if Their Majesties abjure the

Church of Rome, and recognize the Church of Gramarye as the only Church of the land?"

The Abbot's face twisted with distaste. "Thou hast small enough grace, and smaller tact. I would prefer to say

that I can give neither my favor, nor my blessing, to any reign that doth uphold a faith that we find false."

"Even though the morals and beliefs are the same—except in regard to who gives the orders." Rod tried to

squelch his rising anger. "Yet would you not say, Milord Abbot, that it is vital to have the authority of the Church

available as a refuge

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for the people, in the event that the Crown becomes tyrannical?" Guarded wariness, now, not granite—the Abbot thawed a trifle. "It is, aye; the Church hath ever been a counterpoise to the excesses of the great lords and the King. I do confess surprise to hear thee espouse such a

view."

"You wouldn't, if you knew me better—especially since it follows that the Crown must be available as a refuge if

the Church grows tyrannical."

The Abbot's face turned magenta. "Never shall it be so! Only clerics may hope to be immune from harshness!"

"Yes, but they're only human." Rod couldn't help but smile. "Even a priest may succumb to temptation."

" Tis far less likely than for a lord or king!"

Rod spread his hands. "No argument. Yet if it were to happen, milord, would it not be vital that the Crown be

free to protect its subjects?"

The Abbot glared, his eyes narrowing.

"The Church must be separate from the State," Rod said softly, "just as the State must be separate from the

Church. Therein lies the surest protection of the people."

"I will beg thee not to instruct me in care for the common weal," the Abbot grated. "The nurture of the poor folk

hath ever been our concern."

"May it ever be so," Rod said piously.

"It shall." The Lord Abbot rose with the dignity of an iceberg. "In that, thou hast my pledge. Wouldst thou have

more of me?"

It was a challenge, and Rod knew when to stop pushing. "I thank you, milord. You have given me all I could

have expected."

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And he had, of course—a bad sense of foreboding. Rod tried not to show it as he bowed to the Abbot, who

returned a brusque nod as Brother Alfonso stepped to open the door. Rod glanced at the man as he stepped out,

and he froze at the sight of the secretary's small, triumphant smile. Rod slowly nodded. "It has been instructive to

make your acquaintance, Brother Alfonso."

"It shall be more so," the man purred.

Not exactly auspicious, Rod thought—especially since, as he followed a novice down to the gatehouse, he

realized that

the Abbot hadn't once referred to Rod as "Lord Warlock," or even just "milord."

The Comte d'Auguste strode into the hall with the band of noble hunters behind him, flushed and grinning, but

empty-handed. "Ho, stay-at-homes!" he cried. "Thou hast missed a brave ride!"

The four remaining noble hostages looked up from their gaming. "We have not missed it at all." The Comte

Ghibelli gave D'Auguste a jaundiced glance.

Sir Basingstoke, heir to the Baronet of Ruddigore, drawled, "Let him be, Ghibelli, Their excitement in the chase

doth allow them to forget that they are, in truth, but prisoners of the Crown, held to assure their fathers'

obedience." He shook his

dice cup and rolled.

"1 had liefer be a hostage than have a headless sire." D'Auguste dropped down into an hourglass chair, caught up

the ewer of wine, and poured himself a full cup. " 'Twas my father's choice, and I approve it. Yet 'tis a pleasant

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enough captivity—thou canst not deny we are accorded the freedom of guests."

"Aye, to hunt with a dozen of King Tuan's knights about us." Ghibelli turned back to his chessboard.

"And I note

that thou, noble son of Bourbon, hast come home empty-handed." "What matter if the wolf hath fled?" The

Viscount Llangol-len, son of Earl Tudor, dropped down beside D'Auguste and caught up the pitcher of wine. "I

doubt not he shall lie low this night, and avoid the haunts of mortal folk."

"We shall have him on the morrow." Count Graz sat down

across from him and reached for the pitcher. "Leave off,

Llangollen! Thou canst not drink more than thy cup will hold!"

"Mayhap, yet I may attempt it." Llangollen grinned.

"Thou, like all Hapsburgs, dost ever seek to take all the wine for thyself."

"Thou art so besotted with sport that thou carest naught for thine heritage," Ghibelli snarled. "Dost'a not see?

'Twas not the gray wolf thou didst chase, but the wild goose!" Maggiore, scion of Savoy, turned with blood in his eye, reaching over his shoulder to touch an arrow in his

quiver. "I've enough of the gray goose about me to mend the ill manners of the Medici!"

Ghibelli's eyes sparked fire at the reference to his father. He started out of his seat.

"Peace, milord." D'Auguste reached out to stay Maggiore's hand while his gaze met Ghibelli's. "And where was

this goose of thine hatched?"

"Why, in the brain of Tuan Loguire," Ghibelli said, "which is to say, in the head of his wife. What! Art thou so

befuddled with pleasures thou dost fail to see that this round of hunts, games, and balls is but a curtain to
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dazzle

thine eyes, the whiles Their Majesties do strip thee of thy birthright?" Graz flushed and started to answer, but D'Auguste laid a hand on his arm. "To answer briefly and to the point—

our birthrights are the ruling of our demesnes, which our fathers have still in hand; and the amusements the King

doth provide are training for good governance and wise council. As to the wolf, we found the sheep he had slain

and the tracks he had left—and, aye, for a short space, we saw his tail and his haunches, ere he loped into the

rocks of a hillside whither we could not follow."

"Aye, not without soiling thy pretty tabard!" Earl Marshall's son sneered. D'Auguste glanced at the splendor of gold and brocade on Marshall's doublet, knowing that he himself wore

rough clothes of broadcloth and leather. "There was too great a chance that the beast might spring from ambush,

and the sun neared the horizon. Yet we have found his lair, and will have him out on the morrow."

"And if thou dost, what then?" Ghibelli's eye glittered with contempt. "Thou wilt then but aid thy father's enemy,

by taking away a threat to his folk. Wilt thou thus increase all his flocks and herds, and strengthen him for the

day he doth seek to yoke all his nobles?"

"Thine eyes see naught but thine own thwarted power!" Graz stormed. Ghibelli's teeth bared in a grin as his hand went to his knife.

D'Auguste caught Graz's hand as it touched his own hilt and held it immobile, forcing a smile at Ghibelli.

"The

King doth seek one law for all Gramarye, to ensure justice and peace for all his people—even thou. There is no

harm in this, though it hinders our sires' whims and fancies."

" 'Tis more than a whim, when he doth choke off our revenues!"

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"Aye, by one part in five. We may no longer grind each cent from our peasants to wallow in waste, nor maintain

whole armies—yet we've enough to live richly, build strong castle walls, and keep enough men-at-arms to put

down all bandits. I see small enough harm in that, and great good and more riches due to rise from folk who feel

safe and hopeful."

"And what of this appointment of priests to thine estate, eh? What sayest thou to that?"

" 'Tis naught." Graz waved the complaint away. "What care I who doth preach on my lands? Yet 'tis the Lord

Abbot who hath these appointments, not the King!"

"Only for that he did wrest such power from the Queen, who had thieved it from our sires!"

"The Queen was arrogant," D'Auguste admitted. "Yet King Tuan hath tempered her manner."

"Aye, she doth but spit sparks now, where before she breathed flames! What, wouldst thou serve such an one?"

D'Auguste's eyes kindled. "I would serve none, yet I would

follow King Tuan."

"He hath made thee his lackey!" Ghibelli spat. D'Auguste surged halfway up from his seat, then froze, glaring.

"And what doth halt thee?" Ghibelli taunted. "Dost thou fear the King's wrath?"

"Nay," Marshall purred. "He hath wed the fair Lady Mab, who will come to childbed presently. 'Tis not the King

hath stolen his pride, but a woman who hath ta'en his manhood." D'Auguste's glare swiveled to him, and his hand dropped to his hilt; but he felt Graz's hand on his, and checked

himself. " 'Tis true I shall soon be a father," he said softly. "Nay, 'tis my boast."

"Thou are bridled," Marshall taunted. "Thou are bitted and
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saddled."

"That may be," D'Auguste admitted, and the words were gall on his tongue. "I have shouldered the burden that

each of us must bear, or see his house perish."

"Thou hadst no need of great force to induce thee to take it

up!"

"Nay, for my lady is beauteous." D'Auguste's eyes glowed, and he smiled. "And if I rejoice in my load,

'tis the

happier for me. Yet it doth raise up care in my heart, to assure mine heir's holdings. Therefore do I peer down the

road of the years, to

judge where I must turn now, that I may make this whole land of Gramarye peaceful and bountiful—for as the

land fares, so fares my house."

"And the Crown is thy surest means to so grand a view," Marshall said with contempt. "The King's plans have

merit." "Say the Queen's, rather!"

"Mayhap." D'Auguste shrugged impatiently. "I care not if 'tis her scheme and his hand, so long as they bring

about a smoother path for my child to walk."

"And if it doth diminish thy power? Or tarnish thine honor?"

"There is no loss of honor in following a prince I believe to be right! And if I lose some moiety of glory, what

matter? As to loss of power, 'tis not so great as to trouble me."