The Warlock Heretical (24 page)

wrist. The peasant smiled, and the sapling let go of his hand, straightening. The man murmured, "To the door,

now." The sapling began to quiver; then one root humped up, pushed forward, and flattened again. Another root

took a step, then the third, then the first again, and slowly the sapling moved toward the door. The peasant

nodded, scowling, and muttered, "Find a peasant, clutch at him, then chase him—but do not catch him." The sapling's branches shook as though it, too, were nodding; then it bent to go through the doorway, and

shuffled off across the clearing and into the wood.

Kelly and Puck watched it go, eyes wide.

Inside the hut the peasant sighed and sat back wearily.

14

As Rod moved through the darkened forest, he began to feel the presence of other people around him. Soon he

could hear them whispering to one another, with the occasional nervous giggle, as though they were a bunch of

schoolchildren sneaking off to do something forbidden. Then, through a gap in the leaves, he saw orange light

with silhouettes of his fellow travelers before it. The light expanded, and Rod came out into a clearing. A monk stood on a stump at its far side, flanked by branches stuck into the ground, with their tops flaring

torches— makeshift Qandelabra. The sight of the man's tonsure and robe was enough to raise Rod's hackles. Are

you up there, Cordelia? To play safe, he was thinking in the family mode Gwen had invented, and he heard

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Cordelia's answer in the same compressed fashion: Aye, Papa. 'Tis like looking down on a church from the choir

loft.

I don't think that's accidental, 'Delia. Now, remember—we just listen; we don't do anything. I shall be mindful of it. Papa, she thought, with some asperity.

The unvoiced thought was: Will you? It was nice of her not to think it, though. Rod had to admit she had a point;

he was the one with the temper.

"Dearly beloved!" the monk cried, holding up both hands.

The crowd quieted.

"I bring thee news from our Most Reverend Archbishop," the monk called, and the crowd muttered with enthusiasm. The hairs on the back of Rod's neck prickled; they were in Tudor's demesne, and Tudor was a Papist.

These peasants, apparently, were the ones who were partial to the Church of Gramarye—or at least curious about

it. No wonder the keeper had passed the word in secret.

"The Archbishop doth delight in thy steadfast adherence to him," the monk continued, perhaps overstating the

case. "The godly lords gather to him at the monastery, and prospects prosper for the Reign of Right!" The crowd cheered, though not exactly with great vigor. The friar ignored the fact. "He doth send thee now word

of his latest search for truth. Thou knowest all that priests may not wed; thus hath Rome ruled down the ages."

A mutter began with some foreboding in it. Rod didn't blame the peasants; he didn't think he was going to like

what was coming.

"This ruling was made for base causes," the preacher lectured. "For the first thousand years of the Church, there

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was no bar to priests wedding and rearing up families. Yet those sons who, like their fathers, took the cassock,

did frequently serve in the same parish that their fathers had. Thus did one parish pass from father to son for

many generations, till the authority of that parish, and the income from it, was the priestly family's, not Rome's.

The Pope could not abide such a challenge to his rule, nor the thought of all the shillings that did not come to

him; therefore he did forbid priests to marry."

The crowd burst into incredulous jabbering.

Is't true, Papa? Rod could feel the disturbance in Cordelia's thoughts. Partly, 'Delia, he answered. There were

other reasons, too, more spiritual ones. Bet this preacher doesn't mention them, though. Nay, he would not, would he? Her doubts quieted, and Rod felt his daughter's natural strength of will returning.

He smiled, and listened as the preacher began calling again. "Our good Archbishop doth think this reasoning

specious, and unworthy of a Pope entrusted to concern himself only with men's souls. Therefore hath he declared

that priests need no longer hold themselves apart from family life . . ." The crowd's noise swamped him before he could finish the

sentence, and here and there, people turned away into the forest.

"He doth declare!" the priest cried, waving his hands. "He doth declare!" The people finally quieted enough to hear him.

"He doth declare, our noble Archbishop, that priests may marry!" Then it was all over. The people argued furiously among themselves, and many of them turned and went away,

walking as quickly as they could into the dark forest. But some stayed and crowded around the priest, asking

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questions at a furious rate. He did the best he could to answer each separate objection. Can there be good in this, Papa? Rod could hear the trepidation in Cordelia's thought. What could he say? It's debatable, 'Delia—there's a lot to say on both sides. Me, I feel more comfortable with a

priest who doesn't have to worry about being home on time for dinner. I, too . . .

The people began to leave, and the knot around the priest loosened as they stepped aside to argue among

themselves. The friar stepped down from the stump, his exhaustion showing.

" 'Twas nobly said, Father." A village girl stepped up a little too close to the priest, hands behind her back, skirts

swaying, smiling up at the priest, then blushing and lowering her eyes. "Assuredly, if the priests are the best of

us, they should rear up sons, should they not?"

The priest took an involuntary step back, blanching, and the girl took another step forward with a dazzling smile.

Why, the shameless hussy! Cordelia thought, scandalized. She doth woo him!

Well, that's the other side of it. Suddenly Rod was concerned for his daughter. If you let the priests marry, they're

not safe from predatory females any more.

"Why . . . aye, there's truth in that." The priest rallied bravely. "Yet 'twould be an ill life for a woman, lass. A

priest must ever be out and about, tending his flock."

"The more reason, then, why he would need a woman he could trust, in his house," the girl returned.

"And, too,

he would then not need trouble himself o'er the temptations of the flesh."

The priest's eyes widened; apparently he hadn't thought of that aspect of it. He began to smile, and stepped closer

to the girl. "Aye, he would not, would he? For such impulses would then become virtuous, even as they
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are for

any married man. What is thy name, daughter?"

She'll not be his daughter—she'll bear him one! Cordelia thought, fuming. How can he be so blind as not to see

that she doth desire not him, but his rank?

Men are generally pretty dumb about that. Rod thought about a few episodes from his own past and winced. He

appreciated the irony of her reaction, but also realized that her faith in the clergy had been shaken, and with it,

her faith in her religion. Just remember, dear—men being weak doesn't make God any smaller. There were no words in answer, only a feeling of confusion, and Rod decided his daughter needed his presence.

He stepped back into the forest, thinking, Come on down. I think it's time to go home. He caught Cordelia's quick mental image of free flight through the crisp night air, and the feeling of cleanliness

she associated with it. His mouth tightened; his little girl was beginning to have some vague notion that people

could be dirty in soul as well as body.

Including archbishops, of course. Sure, John Widdecombe could have been very sincere about the theological

reasons why priests should be allowed to marry—but Rod doubted it.

" Twas a thing of witch moss, then?" Brom frowned.

"Aye, milord," Puck affirmed. "The dog's tracks led there—and we saw him make a walking tree."

" 'Twas but a wee one, though," Kelly qualified. "In truth, 'twas scarce more than a sapling."

"I doubt not it will grow, whensoe'er it doth chance upon another batch of witch moss," Brom rumbled.

"Thou

hast the right of it, Robin. And he wrought it quickly?"

"It could not have taken more than the quarter of an hour, Majesty, if that."

"Most expert, then—only the Lady Gwendylon could do better." Brom stifled a fatuous smile. "And he had a

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tonsure?"

"He had, my lord, unless he'd chanced to lose his hair in so perfect a circle."

"Still, he was old enough for it to have done so," Kelly maintained.

What, art thou his advocate?" Puck rounded on the elf. "Be still, abbey lubber!"

"Who dost thou call lubber, lob of spirits? I'll have thee know—"

"Thou'lt have him know naught," Brom boomed. "Wilt thou waste all our time in contention, while this Archbishop doth afright all the peasants into bringing down the King? Nay, go thou and wait by the crafter's cot,

that thou mayest follow his every step doth he go out! Go there, and bide in patience, till Their Majesties'

troops

can come!"

The door crashed open, and the peasant bolted up off his pallet—but two soldiers caught his arms behind him

even as he staggered to his feet, and another whipped rope about his wrists. Dazed, he blinked about him at the

hard-faced men in mail shirts with pikes in their hands. "What . . . what dost thou? Wherefore hast thou sprung

upon me? I have naught thou couldst wish!"

But the soldiers turned him to face a man wearing a light helmet and a hauberk with a sword at his hip, standing

with arms akimbo, glaring at him. "Thou hast made monsters and set them to afright the poor folk." Without

taking his eyes off the peasant, he called out, "He is secure, my lady!" Then a beautiful, shapely redhead stepped into the hut, and the peasant blanched, for he recognized the Lady

Gwendylon.

"Do not seek to deny it," she advised him, "for we have report from two who saw thee make a walking tree. Tell

me now why thou hast done it:"

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The peasant's face gelled. "Nay. Thou shall learn naught from me." And he meant it, Gwen knew, for his mind seemed totally empty; mentally, she perceived him only as a blank,

smooth curve. Then, suddenly, an imperative thought leaped out of that globe, a command to come, to fight, and

Gwendylon spun toward the door.

The thing burst in with twin howls of rage, eyes burning in both its heads. The knight whipped about, his sword

drawn; but Gwendylon scowled, staring at the two-headed dog, and its form began to blur even as it leaped at

her, like wax on a hot rock. The knight yelled and leaped in between Gwen and the dog, but what thudded

against his chest was no longer a beast, only a formless mass of churning gray. It bounced off him and

fell to the floor, and the knight stepped back, turning a delicate shade of avocado; but Gwen glared at the mass of

witch moss, and it split in half. Both halves split again, and again and again, until it lay in forty little, shapeless

blobs. Each blob sprouted a shoot, which fractured into leaves, turning yellowish brown—and a bushel of onions

rolled about the floor.

The peasant stared at them, his face ashen.

Gwen turned her glare on him. "I advise thee not to seek to make them turn to aught that might think to strike a

blow."

"I ... I will not, Lady." It was as good as an admission of defeat.

"Tell me, then," she commanded, "wherefore thou hast left thy monastery to come unto this wood." He looked at her, appalled; then his expression hardened again. "An excellent device, seeking to shock me into

speaking; yet I do know 'twas but a fortunate conjecture." "Thou hast too perfect a bald spot for a common

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peasant," Gwen pointed out, "and thou art too well fed for a forest hermit. Nay, further, thou hast not the wild

look of one who dwells apart. Wherefore shouldst thou not say truth?"

"I will not hold with heretics." And his mind was still a bland, smooth globe. Gwen frowned at him, weighing her chances. Then she smiled, and her voice softened amazingly. "Yet thou art

alone, here in the fearsome wood by thyself, and far from human company. Truthfully, thou must needs miss thy

comrades greatly, Father."

"Not 'Father,'" he said automatically. "I can claim not that—" Then he stopped, annoyed at his own slip. She

could see his thoughts work by the look on his face, though she could not hear them; he hadn't really let any

information out, hadn't actually said he was a monk. She poured the oil on. "Come, thou art a good man, and hast

ever sought to be—and thou art caught clearly now; there is no chance thou mayest return, till this coil's unwound. It must be hard for thee, to be constrained to making devices that will terrify poor good folk." Doubt in

his face, now, and the first signs of weakening; Gwen gave him her saddest, most sympathetic smile.

"Belike

thou art troubled sorely about the rift, and those monks who have gone off to found their own chapter. Come,