The Warlock Heretical (5 page)

conjure thee to

credit my words with truth, for thou canst never understand it, though thou hast been a father."

"Why, of course I will," Rod said, suddenly softening. "When have I ever doubted your word? But is motherhood

that different from fatherhood?"

"I think that it is, my lord, though even as thou, I cannot know both. Yet look you, 'tis a matter of feeling, not

knowing; for bringing forth life out of one's own body doth bring one also closer to the other world. Aye, that is

one source of my sudden piety, as thou dost term it, yet another's hard upon us." She turned, catching his hands

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and staring up into his eyes. "Be aware, my lord, that we have a lad about to spring into the heated turmoil of

youth, and a lass hard behind him—for womenfolk do begin that strife sooner than men."

"Adolescence. Yes, I know." Rod nodded, face somber. "It happens to everyone. No way to avoid it, dear."

"Aye, and seeing its onset doth bring me to greater awareness of the worldly hazards lying in wait for the children, our treasures—and, therefore, doth make me also aware of the safeguards available to help shield

them."

"Such as the Church and its teachings?" Rod said softly.

Gwen started to answer, when the door creaked behind them. They turned, to see a sleepy Gregory come blinking

out of his room in his nightshirt, squinting against the light. Gwen moved over to him with a wordless sound of

sympathy, pressing him to her side and murmuring, "Was it, then, a fell dream, my jo?"

"Nay, Mama," Gregory answered. " "fis that I cannot sleep at all."

"No sleep?" Rod came over, frowning. "What's the matter? Worried because of those monks today?" The little boy nodded.

"Don't worry, son." Rod clasped the boy's shoulders. "They have a strong house, and they all have shields; they'll

be safe."

" 'Tis not that, Papa," Gregory murmured.

"Then what?" Gwen asked, anxiety in her voice.

Gregory looked up at her, all eyes. "I feel some pull toward them, Mama . . . and I bethink me that, mayhap, I

must grow to become a monk."

Rod stood frozen, feeling the shock thrill through him.

4

"Nay, I tell thee, Brother Alfonso! 'Tis not my vocation to rule!"
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Brother Alfonso's mouth quirked with impatience. "If thou hadst no vocation to govern, milord, thou wouldst not

be Abbot."

The Abbot stared, then looked away, pursing his lips.

Brother Alfonso allowed himself a small smile. "Naethe-less, milord, 'tis not of ruling that I speak, but of Tightness. Thou hast done well, and wisely."

The Abbot lapsed into a brooding frown. "Yet I cannot help but wonder, Brother. The Bishop of Rome is, after

all, heir to Peter."

"Aye, in that he governs the souls of Rome. Yet that he hath inherited the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven, I can

find room to doubt."

"To doubt is a sin." But the Abbot's tone lacked conviction.

"To question, then." Brother Alfonso shrugged impatiently. "But think, milord—when doth the Pope claim

infallibility?"

"Only when he doth speak ex cathedra," the Abbot recited from rote.

"And what is the meaning of ex cathedral Is it not when he hath consulted with as many of his cardinals and

bishops as he can, in council?"

The Abbot did not respond.

"Then it is the council that is infallible, not the Pope," Brother Alfonso insisted. "Yet did Christ give the Keys to

a council? Nay!"

"There are answers to that question," the Abbot muttered.

"Aye, I have heard them—and the best of them is that a Pope hath, now and then, spoken ex cathedra to

contradict his own council! Why therefore were they called?"

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"Why, so that he might have the benefit of all good arguments, and could consider most carefully ere he spoke."

"Aye! And doth that answer satisfy thee?"

"What matters that?" the Abbot muttered. "Only that I am obliged to keep seeking."

"And wilt never find," Brother Alfonso said with vindictive satisfaction. "Yet there is some present question of

action that must needs be considered."

"Must it?" The Abbott turned to him, frowning. "Wherefore?"

"Why, for that the King doth ever seek to gather more power unto himself, and will end by attempting to govern

the Church!"

" 'Tis not he, but the Queen," the Abbot growled.

"Then he's but her dupe! Behold her actions—once before she hath claimed the power to appoint parish priests!"

"She did relinquish that," the Abbot reminded.

"Aye, yet when shall she take it up again? When the King hath garrisons in every town, and not even the greatest

lord durst gainsay him, for fear of his armies? Oh, nay, my lord! If ever thou wilt bridle this proud and arrogant

prince, 'tis now, whilst his power's still a-borning!"

The Abbot was silent, gazing out the window at his pastures.

"The Pope cannot know of that," Brother Alfonso reminded him, "nor comprehend the fullness of its import."

Slowly, the Abbot nodded. "Thou hast the right of it. I did well, to declare as I have." Behind his back Brother

Alfonso breathed a sigh of relief.

"Not that I'm against the kid becoming a priest, if that's what's going to make him happiest." Rod lifted his head

to let the wind stream over his face. After a few minutes he realized Fess hadn't responded; the only sound had

been the triplets of the great horse's hoofbeats. "You don't believe me. ..."
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"Do you, Rod?"

"All right, hang it! So I don't want the kid to become a priest! But if that's the natural extension of his identity, he

has to do it!"

"But you do not believe it is his calling," Fess interpreted. "No, blast it, I don't! I think he's being subtly indoctrinated by the priests and their continual emphasis on the priesthood as the holiest vocation!"

"Assuredly they would think so, since it is theirs." "Yeah, but they have no right to go imposing their own views

on the rest of us." Rod scowled. "Though that's just what they'll do if the Church of Gramarye really does start

thinking itself supreme."

"How else could they? In medieval society the clergy constituted the First Estate."

"The most important and the best." Rod's mouth twisted

with bitterness. "It's too bad the Pope can't know about this."

"Why can he not, Rod?" Fess's voice was behind Rod's ear; he didn't need to transmit at human thought frequencies,

thanks to the earphone implanted in Rod's mastoid process.

Rod nodded slowly. "I suppose we could send a message.

No reason to think your transmitter isn't still working, is

there?"

"None at all. I am still sending your monthly reports." Rod's jaw dropped. "But I haven't written any for a year

now!"

"I assumed you would want me to accept responsibility for certain routine tasks. ..."

"Of course." Rod closed his jaw. "Yes, quite right. But next time let me know, will you?" "Certainly, Rod."

"After all, it is a courtesy. By the way, what have I been reporting?"
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"Only the major royal actions, and indications of public reaction. There has been no warning of restlessness

among the clergy."

"Probably because there hasn't been any—just in the Abbot," Rod mused. "And without the support of his priests,

he might decide not to push the issue to crisis. No, I don't think we'll send a special, Fess. Certainly not to the

Vatican, not quite yet."

"As you will, Rod," Fess sighed.

Rod noted the tone of martyred patience. "You think the problem is bigger than it looks?"

"It could become so. In a medieval society, the quickest route to a totalitarian government is through the Church."

"I know what you mean." Rod frowned. "The parish priests already have pretty thorough control over every

aspect of the congregations' lives, simply by telling them what is and is not a sin."

"But they are limited in that by the Church's official positions."

"Not if they haven't heard about them, and our boys have been a little out of touch for the last half millennium or

so. Besides, just because a priest finds out what Rome teaches, doesn't necessarily mean he'll agree with it."

"Surely a parish priest would not preach that fornication is virtuous, even though Rome teaches that it is sinful!"

Rod noted Fess's tone again. "You aren't really as scandalized as you sound, are you?"

"You still have difficulty discerning sarcasm," the robot replied. Rod nodded, satisfied. "Thought so. And no, I think the tonsured tribe are all pretty much agreed about fornication. But say, oh—that whole business about evolution. The Church finally accepted the idea in 2237,

when the anthropologists discovered the skeleton of Homo Fidelis."
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"Yes, I recall the announcement." Fess had been almost brand-new at the time. "There was a great deal of

controversy, but both theologians and anthropologists finally acknowledged that the statuette with Fidelis was a

religious icon."

"Yeah, that's how you taught it to me when I was ten. But even now, three hundred years later, I've met priests

who are still preaching that it's a sin to believe Darwin's theory."

"Humanity naturally resists change," Fess sighed. "I sometimes think your species should be named Homo Habit ualis."

"Man of habit, eh?" Rod smiled. "Not referring to monks' robes, I suppose."

"I did not exclude them. Nor would the Church, if it gained worldly authority. In fact, it might make Church garb

obligatory."

"No, it would want to be able to tell the clergy from the laity on sight, to make sure the priests got instant privilege wherever

they went. But they probably would issue a dress code for ordinary citizens, and make it a crime to wear anything else."

"That in itself could be resisted, Rod. But the Church would probably make the violation of the dress code a sin,

and that would induce greater obedience from the citizens."

Rod shuddered. "You've got a point there. Never underestimate the power of guilt."

"Oh, I do not," Fess said softly. "I assure you, I do not."

"Father Matthew! They come!"

Father Boquilva looked up from his daubing, every muscle instantly tense, but his tone was mild as he called

back to the sentry on the watchtower, "Sound the alarm, Brother Fennel. Is it bandits again?"
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"Nay, Father, 'tis our fellows of the order. Yet I see the glint of steel where their tonsures should be." Father Boquilva stiffened. "So? Well, we have steel caps, | too. Sound the alarm, but be mindful, they are of our

order."

The whistle shrilled high above, and all over the meadow s monks froze, eyes turned to the tower.

• Father Boquilva turned to the monk beside him with a smile. "Brother Jeremy, I believe Father Arnold and

Brother Otho have the day's cooking in hand. Would you inquire if they can

'"serve in an hour or so? We have guests."

• The visitors turned into the lane between rows of turned earth with grim faces, gripping their staves tightly as

they eyed

• the band drawn up before them. Sure enough, the renegades 'charged, shouting.

" "Brother Lando, thou scoundrel! Thou art a sight for sore

"eyes!"

; "Father Milo! Right good it is to see thee!"

"Eh, Brother Brigo! Thou dost yet feed too well!" And they were throwing their arms about the visitors, thumping them on the backs with delight and good cheer, not staves and daggers. Foremost among them was Father Boquilva, roaring above ail their voices, "Welcome! Welcome, our brothers

all! We joice in the sight of thee!"

"Well, and so do we also," the visitors' leader grinned, clasping Boquilva by the shoulders and leaning back to

look at him. Then he sobered. "Yet thou hast done wrongly by our good Abbot, Father Matthew."

"Not a word of it, Father Thorn! Not a word!" Father Boquilva turned in beside the visitor, slinging an arm across

his shoulders and urging him toward the house. "Father Arnold and Brother Otho have labored all this morn to

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make a hearty supper for thee, and thou must eat of it ere we speak a word of this matter!" Supper was downright festive, with monks who had not seen each other for a month laughing and trading gossip.

By unspoken mutual consent, the Abbot wasn't even mentioned until Father Thorn sat back with a sigh and

began plying a toothpick. "Eh! Our refectory is lonesome for thee, Brother Otho!"

" Tis but simple fare." Brother Otho smiled, pleased. " Tis naught but bread, cheese, and eggs. If thou wilt visit

with us next year, I doubt not we will even have meat for thee." Father Thorn lifted an eyebrow. "So long? Come, Brother! An thou wilt return with us now, thou shalt have pork

to roast, and even good beef!"

"So then," said Father Boquilva, "thou dost wish us back only for Brother Otho's fine touch with herbs?"