The Sad Tale of the Brothers Grossbart (24 page)

“I suppose.” Martyn shrugged. “Why are these, these Fuckers, so maligned? Are they pagans?”

“We was in Fuckin tryin to—” Hegel began but caught his brother’s eye and piped down.

“Yes?” Martyn pressed.

“We was in Fuckin and the fuckers what lived there done fucked us, which is to say, tried to do us like we was the sort a
no-account fuckers what might live in their mecky town. So we fucked them back and fucked off.” Manfried was growing exasperated.

“But why—” Martyn started.

“Fuckin Hell, Martyn!” Manfried lost his temper. “It’s a fuckin turn a phrase, same’s shit, piss, ass, you name it, only worse,
cause even if there was a village named Shit it’d be a sight better than Fuckin and the shitters what’d live there would be
a right more decent set a souls! Means you ain’t fuckin round, means you got somethin serious to convey or you wouldn’t bring
up the fuckin place! Use it to talk bout nasties and nastiness, as in that fuckin demon tried fuckin us over but got himself
fucked in the bargain!”

There was a long silence on the bench before Hegel cleared his throat. “Or the act a fornication. Bein a mecky deed, the term
may be applied there as well.”

“Fuckin right.” Manfried nodded.

Martyn was indeed convinced this Fucking must be a profane place, even if the invocation of its name varied incomprehensibly
depending on circumstance. After another lull the priest remembered they had more pressing matters than creative profanities
to discuss, and asked, “But what happened after you conquered our adversary? Where were all the townsfolk and monks?”

“In the monastery, in the condition you’d expect from your own experiences.” Hegel shivered at the memory.

“We burnt them, too,” Manfried hiccupped. “Don’t worry on that account.”

Martyn sighed. “Then my quest has ended without my presence. But do not think me proud, for I acknowledge you and I are but
His Instruments, and His Will has been done. I am solaced that I had tracked it true, and had you not arrived I would have
soon after.”

“
Her
Will. And that’s assumin you didn’t freeze, or get et by wolves, or fall into any number a other gruesome ways. Speculatin
gets you nuthin but sore, mark me,” Manfried philosophized.

“And she,” Martyn nodded behind them, “has been with you even before this?”

“She—” Hegel began.

“Has and is,” Manfried interjected, “our ward. We’s takin her south to Venetia for a sea captain.”

“Which captain?”

“Bar Goose. Queer name, I’ll allow,” said Hegel, saving his brother the embarrassment of having forgotten their future patron’s
name.

“For what purpose is your anonymous ward traveling through the mountains in the cruel of winter? I did not think any wagons
braved such high roads this late.”

“To get to that captain, like I just told you,” said Manfried.

“No, no, I mean, what was she doing out here to begin with? A foreign bride? A relative?”

“There you go, speculatin. You question why the sun come up and down like it’s wont?” Manfried went on. “Why cow taste better
than horse, and pig better than either? How bout why you’s priest stead a Pope?”

“Manfried!” Hegel’s horror mingled with his usual glee at hearing his brother make others look foolish.

“I ain’t finished. Got us a holy man obsessed with unravelin the design stead a servin it like everythin from eel to emperor
does. Why’s we born if we’s gonna die? Why’s there a Hell if Mary loves us all? If we’s slaves to divine plannin, why in fuck’s
free will an issue? What sort a test got a pre-seen outcome, then a feigned surprise when some cunts fuck up?”

Martyn’s entire body matched the crimson rims of his eyes, which jutted out of their puffy settings. He stared while Manfried
took another swig, a faint whining coming from the priest’s pursed lips. Just when Martyn seemed about to damn them both—Hegel
unsure if the noise he kept bottled up was apology or laughter—Manfried finished his speech.

“That’s the kind a rot priests been talkin where we come from. Only talk to themselves, mind you, but word always trickles
down, specially when you’s proud as princes and twice’s stupid. You’d think livin as they do, chosen people and all, they’d
have more sense than to question a good thing. Heresy is what it is, and worse yet, cowardice. Cryin and carryin on, why,
why, why?! I’ll tell you, Martyn, I’ll tell you honest: kind a maggot askin them questions’ too scared to have faith, and
that’s how he’s worse than a simple heretic. Ain’t enough his family died, he gotta know why. Why me, why them, why, why,
why? Cause you’s a cunt, that’s why. Cause Her Will is inscrutable, and what’s more, none a our fuckin trade. We truck in
the flesh, and doin as She commands, showin mercy and acceptin fate for just that stead a raisin them questions what would
get you burnt quick you wasn’t wearin robes. Gotta believe in a world without answers, a fate without explanation or apology,
or you’s the cuntiest a the cunts and you’s gonna get your precious answer in the fires below!”

The wheels squeaked and the wagon bounced. Hegel sweated, wondering if their load would soon lighten. His brother usually
restrained himself around clergy as there were so many hidden heretics infiltrating the Church but this man had shown remarkable
charity, what with not being sore about getting shot. Manfried spoke the gospel, though, and if this priest took offense it
was proof of his cowardice.

“Amen,” Martyn breathed. “You speak well, Manfried, although I might advise rearranging the order of your points in the future,
as most company will not listen so attentively and discern your meaning for what it is. And forgive me if I, through my awkwardness
of speech, have implied I do anything but agree wholeheartedly with you. My simple, and admittedly rude, curiosity bested
me, but only for a moment.”

“Amen, indeed,” chortled Hegel, sliding his hand off the pommel of the dagger under his cloak.

“Well, it ain’t nuthin,” Manfried muttered, delighted his diatribe had pleased the priest. “Just the truth, unfettered by
that fancy and meaningless talk so pleases the countryfolk.”

“As I told you,” Martyn said after sipping the bottle, “although perhaps not clearly enough, it is precisely that sort of
double-speak that has divided Christian from Christian to such grave extent that the Pope no longer sits in his proper place
but must dwell in the recently tamed wilds of Avignon, and why I was scorned by some of my brethren for embarking on my journey.
They would rather accuse each other of heresy than battle real evil made flesh.”

“Cowardice is oft hid under the moniker a common sense,” said Hegel, and the others nodded in agreement.

“And you are correct,” Martyn continued, “shamed though I am to admit it, that there are many in the Church for whom the Will
of God no longer suffices, and they damage not only their own salvation but also the sanctity of the entire institution by
focusing more on the questions than the answers.”

“What with all them different orders traipsin bout, can’t tell one from another,” Hegel put in, Manfried winded and content
to drink and listen.

“That is not so much of a problem as when the divisions become intolerable.” Martyn belched. “The fiend I hunted is indicative
of this. I found little support in pursuing a demon that I had
seen
. Sad times when thwarting corporeal evil sent from the Devil to work his mischief is less imperative than investigating rumors
of heresy, when the righteous are not even in their city. I found an ally in Jean de la Roquetaillade, a Franciscan gifted
with prophecy, but he was imprisoned for preaching the truth—that the End Times have arrived. I met with him in his cell every
time I journeyed to Avignon, further proof, further proof! Concern for the souls of man has been supplanted by a desire for
power. I prayed that my quest might bring the Church back together, but before leaving Avignon the last time I found myself
a pariah and a laughingstock to those who disgrace His Name through act and word, some whispering I was a secret Waldensian!
They denied me an audience with Lord Clement, then again with Lord Innocent, and when I recently returned to implore Lord
Urban the same curt dismissal awaited me.”

“Tragic,” said Hegel.

“Tell me, brothers, have you heard of the trial of Formosus?”

Manfried yawned. Hegel blinked.

“Pope Formosus’s desecration is most topical, so I will advise you on what befell him and let you two pious wanderers decide
for yourself. Several centuries past, Formosus served man and God as all
true
popes do, but even then political machinations were at work, and shortly after his death they exhumed him.”

The Grossbarts perked up, such business being their specialty. Hegel forced himself to mind the road while Manfried pried
the beer away from Martyn. The priest managed another swig before relinquishing it.

“They accused him of heresy.” Martyn’s eyes bubbled over but his voice did not quake. “Led by Stephen the Sixth, er, the Seventh,
those heretics had him disinterred from his holy resting place and held a trial. With his corpse! His soul long seated in
Heaven had the humiliation of watching over while they poked his bones and charged him with blasphemy, devil worship, and
every other vile falsehood their wicked minds could imagine. Obviously he was unable to defend his remains, and those criminals
hacked off the hand which bore the papal ring and stripped him of his vestments. Then they dragged him through the streets,
hurled him into the river, fished him out, and scattered his disgraced bones with those of the Jews.”

“Shameful,” said Hegel.

“A travesty never to be forgot,” said Manfried.

“I often fancied if I were to become Pope, I would petition for the name Formosus,” Martyn mused.

“Hey now.” Manfried lightly elbowed him. “Ain’t someone forgettin their place at the table?”

“What? Never! I simply, er, as Augustine said—”

“Easy on, Martyn.” Manfried laughed. “Just meckin up your words. Cowardice is questionin your fate, courage and honor is strugglin
to change it.”

“But fate is immovable,” said Martyn.

“Usually, yeah, but Her Will is for us to struggle and persevere, and part a that is to know the difference twixt what you’s
tricked into thinkin fate is and what it actually be.”

Martyn squinted at Manfried. “Tricked?”

“I reckon it’s somethin like this,” Hegel piped in. “You think your fate’s to struggle gainst heresy back in Roma or Avignon
or wherever, but your real fate’s to chase a demon up into these hills. So you follow your fate, even though all the rest
tries to tell you fate says to stay put.”

“Is that what I meant?” Neither brother was sure if Manfried was genuinely asking or being contrary.

“Perceived fate and actual fate. Free will. Heresy. Cowardice.” Martyn slumped forward and vomited all over their feet. Manfried
kept him from falling under the wheels and winked at his brother. This priest did not seem a bad sort.

“What kind a priest you reckon he is?” Hegel asked his more worldly kin in their private dialect.

“The superior kind.” Manfried shrugged. “From his tale I speculate he’s one a them Dominicans. Probable, given his prattlin
on matters heretical.”

“Oh.” Hegel quieted, not wanting to sound foolish by asking more.

“Not exact on how he come to be priest in the eyes a men other than the Holy Fucker above,” Manfried ruminated. “Can’t picture
no cardinal nor bishop nor whoever thinkin he’d be fit.”

“But you said yourself he seems a the finer stuff,” Hegel pointed out.

“Yeah, but definitions vary.”

Even buried beneath snow the road remained obvious by the indentation, but they could no longer make it out more than thirty
feet in front of the lead horses. Martyn shifted in and out of consciousness between the Grossbarts, ranting on matters Manfried
assured his brother would amount to blasphemy in lesser company. This amused them, and they goaded him on as he never disparaged
the Virgin, only bishops and priests and monks and orders of monks and nobles and serfs and yeomen and even horses.

They never found his fallen steed but they did not encounter any wolves, either. That night Manfried slept through the darkness,
with Martyn filling in for him to make penance for his earlier embarrassment. Knowing the oats would keep longer than the
furry bread, they abstained from porridge and cut the moldy taste of the loaves with moldier cheese. The spoiled rye had the
odd effect of bringing them vivid dreams, dreams that often arrived before they even drifted off.

Unaware of the source of their visions, all three continued to munch the stuff through the next day, which brought on wilder
talks and images. Many times Hegel could not see the horses let alone the road but he kept that to himself, and the beasts
trod on without event. The snowy peaks undulated around them, and Manfried and Martyn fiercely debated what this presaged.
The snow appeared to rise from the ground instead of fall to it, and each man at times fell into giggling. They did not realize
they had stopped until all wore an extra hat of powder, and then started moving again only to spite the lazy horses.

None was sure if they truly entered a wood until they sat around the biggest fire they had kindled since leaving the tavern,
and the pine-bough canopy, after dumping its pale payload on their first blaze, kept further snow from drifting onto them.
Wolves howled and they howled back, Martyn loudest of all. Of a sudden mind to impress upon Martyn the seriousness of their
crusade, Manfried told the priest of their ancestral duty to deny the Infidel anything a Grossbart might covet.

“Prester John,” Martyn said incredulously, “is your
grandfather
?”

“Ain’t got no kin name a John,” said Manfried.

“But you say he is Christian king dwelling beyond the lands of the Arab?”

“Truth be told,” said Hegel, “we dunno if he’s king or just kingly rich, nor where he lays his beard. We’s yet to make his
acquaintance.”

“We’s gonna find out soon enough, mind you, and show him up besides,” said Manfried. “Get us enough loot to make our granddad
look like a dirt-handed turnip digger.”