The Warlock Heretical (21 page)

Tuan's face hardened. "I will not so use godly men."

"Then thou must needs' call up thine armies," Gwen returned. "Or, if thou wouldst avoid civil war, thou must

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needs declare thyselves loyal to the new Church of Gramarye."

"Thou dost not truly believe we ought do so!" Catharine protested.

"Nay," Gwen agreed, "since thou and Tuan would thereby acknowledge thy willingness to obey the new Archbishop."

"Never!" Catharine stated, eyes flashing.

"That must never befall," Tuan concurred.

"Then thou must needs proclaim thine allegiance throughout the land," Gwen advised them, "and admonish all

souls of good conscience to adhere to the Holy See with thee."

"Then so we must," Catharine breathed, fire in her eye.

The room was silent a moment.

Catharine frowned, and turned to Tuan.

He sat, leaning back in his chair, scowling down at the table.

"What, my lord!" Catharine cried. "Wilt thou not declare thy stand?"

"I do not think I shall," Tuan said slowly.

Catharine stared, scandalized, and for a moment the atmosphere in the solar was very, very tense. Then Tuan said, "We are heretics if we do declare our allegiance to Rome, and heretics if we do not. Yet if we do

not so declare, give him no response at all, fewer will rally to his banner." Catharine's eyes widened. Slowly, she nodded. "Aye. A lord or two may hold aloof from the fray, uncertain that

thou dost not truly believe as he doth."

"They may," Tuan agreed. "And even if they do not, we will thus buy some few more days' time whilst this

Archbishop doth await, and await, a response that cometh not." Catharine nodded. "The game is worth the candle, milord." And I could not make them see otherwise, Gwen told Rod half an hour later, by remote exasperation.
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Well, at least you did help them decide not to give in to temptation. Rod answered. What temptation is that? Gwen demanded, puzzled.

The temptation to save their country from civil war by knuckling under to the Archbishop, Rod answered.

Ah. In that I have aided, aye.

See? I knew you could do everything I could have done.

Mayhap thou couldst have persuaded Their Majesties of the need to declare themselves, my lord, Gwen's

thoughts sighed.

Maybe. Though Rod was dimly aware of the tree-lined dirt road about him, the vision of Gwen was much more

vivid—but then, wasn't it always? The important point has been won, though. 'Cause however much I may

mistrust the rule of kings, I'll take it over the rule of priests any day. I would as lief have Tuan and Catharine than the Archbishop, Gwen agreed. Sure, because one of them is a woman, which ameliorates the Crown's judgment. Rod didn't bother mentioning

that in this particular joint monarchy, it was usually Tuan who did the

ameliorating. Also, kings can be persuaded to see the merits of a constitution, and parliamentary rule. Cannot churchmen also?

Of course not. A good priest tries to be as much like God as he can—and God is an autocrat. Mirth tinged Gwen's thoughts, and gratitude to her husband for providing it. And shall that be the word I bear

back to Their Majesties, my lord, of thine opinion of our conference?

Rod shuddered. Heaven help me, no! It might give them ideas. But you might tell them I said they might think

about giving the refugee chapter of the Cathodeans all the support they can, dear, in spite of Tuan's scruples

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about using them. Just remind him that it never hurts to have an extra arrow in his quiver. Certes, I shall, she answered, and Rod thought she might be giggling on the other end of the link. They might even move the monks into one of their smaller castles, for starters; that might give the people the idea

that they've formed a rival monastery, without Tuan's actually using them. Thou art the very soul of deviousness, Gwen accused.

You say the sweetest things. Oh, and Their Majesties might want to ask the loyal lords to lend them a few knights,

dear, and any extra soldiers they might happen to have lying around. They might, in truth. Gwen's thoughts became a little less cheery. Is there aught else thou dost wish me to tell

them for thee?

Only what I said at the beginning, Rod answered.

Confusion now. Which, my lord? There were many-thoughts.

Onlv one that realty matters, dear: What did they need me for?

The King had donned a peasant's tunic and robe, and was wandering through the darkened streets. Thus he had

walked among his people, alone and only lightly aimed, when he was only the second son of a duke; thus he still

walked among them, when his mind was troubled with a decision that might affect their welfare. Now, though,

witches had leagued with the Archbishop, so two more peasants followed him, and another paced him farther

ahead down the alley, all of them with chain mail beneath their tunics and swords beneath their cloaks.

Still he walked, listening for chance remarks caught in passing, pausing in the doorways of inns, lingering near

any • group of folk that talked and laughed among themselves while a bottle passed from hand to hand. The

streets should be better lighted, he noted, especially the narrower ones; crime preferred shadows.
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Then he lifted his head, hearkening. Somewhere near, a man was talking, and loudly—talking with the cadence

and timbre of one who spoke to a crowd. This, especially, should be of interest. His spirit quickening, Tuan

followed the sound of the voice.

He came into a small square—a triangle, rather, an open space ringed on three sides by house fronts, one of

which bore the sign of an inn. A horse and cart were tied to a post, and several booths stood empty, awaiting

farmers' produce on the morrow.

Across from the booths, a man stood on a hogshead, a man in a brown hooded robe with a black rope for a belt

and a small yellow handle in a pocket on his chest. Tuan's eyes widened; he'd seen hedge priests before, but not

in the habit of the order, and not in Runnymede town itself.

"They besiege us!" the monk cried. "All about us foul spirits spring from the rocks and dead souls rise from their

graves! The ancient ghosts of the land rise up to daunt us! What can have brought them upon us?" Tuan pricked up his ears. This was something new—and perhaps even pertinent. He settled back to hear the

preacher's theory.

"The King!" The monk answered his own question, and Tuan stiffened. "The King stands for the land, for the

whole of the nation! What thou and I are, what we all together make, the King doth stand for! The King is the

meeting place of all that is good and right in us!"

And Tuan found himself agreeing. There was something about this preacher that almost compelled belief.

"Yet if we make the King, 'tis even as truthful that the King doth make us!" the preacher went on. "If the barons

threaten the King, the land is in turmoil—yet equally, if the King doth threaten the barons, the land will be also

in turmoil!"

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Tuan began to see the direction the man was taking, and he didn't like it. Nonetheless, it seemed to make a

certain amount

of sense, and the crowd around the monk was beginning to rumble agreement.

"Yet the spirits do not haunt the King of their own accord!" the preacher cried. "Nay, it must needs be he who

hath stirred them up!"

A few shouts of agreement came out of the crowd. With dread, Tuan recognized a kindred spirit—a man who

was at least as talented a speaker as Tuan himself. The King eased back to murmur a few words in the ear of his

closest guardsman. The man nodded and moved away.

"For centuries," the orator declared, "Holy Mother the Church hath kept the spirits at bay! For hundreds of years

the Church hath brought holiness to the land and lulled its fell spirits to sleep! Thereby, if they now wake, what

hath caused it?" He paused to let a rumble build, then capped it. "The King! He doth set himself up

'gainst the

Church! In the souls of his people he doth raise up strife! And as he doth in the people, so he doth in the land!"

This time he had to pause till the rumble died down.

Tuan waited, too. The longer the preacher took, the more time his men would have to surround the little plaza.

"The land is unquiet!" the preacher stated. "Nay, what could cause it but an unquiet soul in the King of the land?

'Tis the sin of the King in opposing the Church! In abiding corrupted Rome! In his heresy!" The crowd roared.

The preacher let it build, satisfied.

So was Tuan; his men must have blocked the streets. He eased back into the shadows, waiting while the preacher

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whipped the crowd up to the point where they were calling for the King to abdicate, then sent them on their way

to shout beneath the magistrates' windows. Tuan watched them stream by him, more certain than ever that there

was more to the success of this rhetoric than well-chosen words. His men let the people pass; then, as the

preacher climbed down off his hogshead, they strolled in from each alleyway. The monk looked up, smiling

pleasantly. "What wouldst thou, good men?"

"I would have some words with thee about the doctrines thou hast but now espoused," Tuan answered. The monk frowned; the language was scarcely that of a peasant. "Certes, my son. May I know thy name and

rank?"

"Gladly will I give it." Tuan signed to his men, then pulled back his hood. "I am Tuan Loguire, King of Gramarye."

The monk froze in horror, eyes bulging, and in that second of paralysis husky peasants stepped up all about him.

He recovered and glanced about him wildly, but saw the hardness of their faces, and his own expression smoothed. He straightened, relaxing. "What wouldst thou of me, milord?" Tuan frowned, noting the avoidance of the term Majesty. "Dost truly believe the course thou didst but now

preach?"

"By Heaven, I do!"

"Then," said Tuan, "thou shouldst not hesitate to come debate that course with an adherent of mine, who doth

hold the contrary view."

A guarded look came into the monk's eyes. "And thou wilt truly listen?"

"Myself, and the Queen. Further, we shall not speak, but allow thee and my champion alone to discourse on the

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issue. Wilt thou come?"

"Willingly." The monk's eyes glittered. "I do not fear to defend my Faith!" 13

"Dinner? Indoors? How novel!"

"Be not so silly, Papa." Cordelia yanked on his arm. "Thou hast been on the road but one night."

"One night with you. Your brother kept me out for two nights before that!"

"As he did tell it, 'twas not he that kept thee," Cordelia retorted. "Come, Papa. Dost thou not wish to dine with

me?"

"Oh, yes! Especially when I don't have to catch the main course first!" Rod stepped aside at the doorway and

bowed his daughter into the inn. "After you, mademoiselle."

"I thank you, sir," she answered, tilting her chin up as she stepped past him. They stepped into the usual hubbub of a small town's posting-inn, which meant that most of the customers were

hard-working peasants spending a cheerful hour away from their wives. It also meant they weren't much for

eating at the moment. Rod took a table against the wall and not too far from the door, holding the chair for

Cordelia and bowing again as she sat, giving her the full gallant treatment. His reward was a radiant smile as he

moved around the table and sat across from her. He glanced up to make sure he could see both the door and the

kitchen behind her, out of habit—and noticed a peasant in keeper's green come in and sit down with a small

group at a table. Nice to be where everybody knew everybody else—

provided they didn't mind strangers. He also saw the landlord bustling up to them with a smile. Rod reflected that

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the man would have been kicking them out, not smiling, if they hadn't changed their clothes, washed, and cached

their load of pots. But since they looked moderately prosperous, he rubbed his hands and beamed.

"How may I

serve thee, good folk?"

"Soup?" Rod looked up at Cordelia. She nodded and smiled. He asked the landlord, "What is it tonight?"

"Pease porridge, goodman."

"Hot?"

"Surely." The innkeeper frowned. "Wherefore would it not be?"

"Well, some like it cold. With bread, of course—and do you have meat?"

"Only a hen, goodman, who is past her laying days."

"A bowl of stew, then, and two bowls of pease porridge, hot. And a flagon of ale." Rod noticed the keeper rising

and moving to another table, where he sat and chatted again.

"Ale for the child, also?"

"Mm? Oh, not just yet."

The landlord smiled, bobbed his head, and bustled off toward the kitchen. Cordelia looked daggers at her father.

"Not till you're twenty." Rod leveled a finger at her. "I don't care what you think other girls your age drink."