The Warlock Heretical (9 page)

amounts to a party, Your Majesty."

"Aye, even as their fathers do align themselves." Tuan

rolled his eyes up, exasperated. "Ever do di Medici, Marshall, and Savoy swear allegiance—and ever are they

forsworn!"

"And ever will be," Rod said quietly. "Ever consider appointing new lords, Your Majesties?"

"Be sure that we have," Catharine responded, "and be sure that we foresee the barons rising as a man were we to

so disinherit even one of their number."

"Yes. Not much luck there." Rod gazed into his wine. "The problem is to replace the lords without replacing the

houses. Their sons being hostage should have helped, there."

"I had so hoped," Than admitted. "Yet they will not be persuaded."

"Rather do we harbor serpents in our bosom," Catharine

said venomously.

"Well, at least you know where they are that way."

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"As we know their sires' whereabouts." Tuan shook his head. "I mislike it, Lord Warlock. 'Tis a harbinger of war.

These resentful barons lack only a focus, a point toward which to rally."

"Which our Lord Abbot is rushing to give them—and they trust him to bring the mass of the people with him."

"They will be torn," Catharine said, glowering. "Our good folk do treasure our reign."

"You've brought tranquility to the average peasant," Rod allowed, "and your armies haven't trampled too many

crops in the process."

"Nay, not so many," Tuan said, with a rye smile. "Our subjects shall be torn indeed, 'twixt Crown and Gown."

"So will the monks."

Catharine looked up sharply. "Surely the Abbot's own will declare for him!"

"They have no choice," Tuan reminded.

"No, they haven't," Rod agreed, "but I can't help wondering how many will wish they had."

"Thou dost speak of these friars who have broken away and come nigh us?"

"Well, yes, them, of course." Rod paused. "I was also wondering, though, how many weren't quite ready to make

the break, but don't quite approve of what their good Lord Abbot is doing."

"What is good about him?" Catharine snapped.

"Oh, quite a bit, really," Rod insisted. "He always struck

me as being a good man at the core, Your Majesty. With a lust for power that he doesn't control too well, of

course."

"Aye, or he'd not be Abbot!"

"What else? But there have been some abbots who were elected for their saintliness. Some of them were even

decent administrators."

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Tuan sighed. "Would that I knew how they combined the two." Catharine glanced at him with apprehension. "Do not trouble thyself overly with the matter, I prithee." She

turned back to Rod. "Still, Lord Warlock, he hath not impressed me as one who doth ken the use of his power,

once he hath won it."

"A point," Rod agreed. "No great deal of initiative for anything beyond gaining status, no. And there's a fundamental weakness to him."

"Why, what is that?" Tuan looked up with a frown.

"Moral, surprisingly. Power's more important to him than anything else. I think he could find an excuse to break

any oath or Commandment, if it would boost his authority."

"Thou dost read him aright." Catharine's face darkened. "Yet what first gave him the notion that he could rise

against us?"

"That phrase from Scripture, that he doth take without regard for the remainder of its chapter," Tuan said, with

disgust, "'Put not your trust in princes.'"

Rod abstained from comment. Personally, he was pretty sure the flea that had bitten the Abbot's ear was really a

futurian agent, but he wasn't about to say so. Their Majesties hadn't been able to absorb a concept so far outside

their medieval frame of reference, and had rejected it so thoroughly that they had largely forgotten it. Which was

just fine with Rod. If the time ever came when they could understand, he wouldn't need to worry about their

knowing a secret.

But Catharine noticed his reticence. "Thou dost not concur, Lord Warlock?" Rod stirred. "I think it's a natural outcome of disagreements between yourselves and the clergy, Majesties." He

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didn't mention that the Abbot probably wouldn't think of anything to disagree about, left to his own devices. "But

I wouldn't really worry about it too much. What matters is that he has come to the verge of rebellion—but his

ability to sway the people will

be drastically lessened if a few friars who don't support him can preach to the peasants." Tuan lifted his head. "Well thought, Lord Warlock! And we have these friars of whom thou hast spoke!"

"They're not about to. speak against their Abbot yet," Rod cautioned. "We really need to know who's getting

upset with him, inside the main monastery."

"Manage it if thou canst," Catharine urged, "and discover what next he doth intend!"

"Oh, I think you can probably figure that out pretty well by

yourselves, Majesties."

"I do not." Catharine gazed directly into his eyes. "Since he raised up the barons against us, and then, at the verge

of battle, reversed his stand and swore loyalty—why, ever since, I have despaired of discovering his thoughts."

Which was pretty good, coming from her; but again, Rod withheld comment—especially since he knew quite

well what had changed the Abbot's mind, last time.

"His Virtue, the Lord Monaster!"

Behind the elderly manservant, the Abbot raised an eyebrow.

"'His Grace,' old Adam, 'His Grace!'" The Baroness Reddering fairly bolted out of her chair and sailed toward the

Abbot, arms outstretched. "And 'tis 'Lord Abbot,' not 'Lord

Monaster!'"

"Well, if he is an abbot, he should rule an abbey," the old servitor grumbled.

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"A monastery is an abbey—or hath one!" The Baroness clasped the Abbot's hands. "Thou must needs forgive

him, Father—he ages, and his mind—"

"Ah, but I've known Adam for years—many of them," the Abbot interrupted, sparing the old man. He turned to

the servitor with a smile. "And as to forgiving, why, is that not an aspect of my vocation?"

"So thou hast said many times, in the confessional." Old Adam's eye glinted with affection. "What matter these

lordly titles, eh? Thou wast ever Father Widdecombe to me."

"Adam!" the Baroness gasped, but the Abbot only laughed and clapped the old man on the shoulder as he turned

toward the young lady who floated toward him with a whisper of linen. He straightened, shoulders squaring,

smile settling, and eyes

widening just a little. "Lady Mayrose, how well dost thou appear!"

"I thank thee, milord," the lady murmured with a curtsy and a faint look of disappointment. She was in her mid twenties, older than a well-dowered lady ought to be, unwed. There was no reason, to look at her—her face and

form were comely, and her hair like a fall of burnished gold. She watched the Abbot from the corner of her eye

as she turned to pace beside him to the table before the great clerestory window, where she sat at her grandmother's left hand, watching him with a look that might have explained her single state. The Abbot's eye kindled as he beamed at her. "When I think how gawky a babe thou wast when first thou didst

come unto this house in the days when I was still chaplain!"

Lady Mayrose forced a silvery laugh, and her grandmother said quickly, "Thou wast scarce more thyself, holy

Father."

"In truth." The Abbot smiled ruefully. "A half-fledged boy was I, puffed up with the self-importance of
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my final

vows. I wonder thou couldst abide me, good lady."

"Ah, but even in callow assurance thou wast ever a well of strength." The Baroness's eyes glittered with tears. "In

truth, scarce could I have borne life when my good lord passed from us, hadst thou not come hither from the

monastery with thy consolation and thy cojnfort."

"Glad I was to be of aid, as ever I shall be," the Abbot assured her, clasping her hand. " 'Twas little enough I

could do, in token of the kindness and patience thou didst show to me in my first years of priesthood. Nay, ne'er

could I entrust this house to any of my monks."

"For which we rejoice." Lady Mayrose's voice was low and husky. "No other priest could ever make the mass so

meaningful as thou dost, milord."

It was the wrong tactic, for it reminded the Abbot of his spiritual responsibilities. He drew his hand back to touch

the crucifix that hung on his breast, and plastered on an artificial smile. "I thank you, my child, yet be ever mindful that our Lord's sacrifice is ever new and vital, no matter which sanctified hands may hold His body."

The lady bowed her head, rebuked, but still held her gaze on the Abbot. Flustered, he turned away to the Baroness. "I wished to speak to thee directly, noble lady, and apprise thee of my

deeds,

for I would not have thee misapprehend my purpose, an thou

didst hear echoes of me from other lips."

"Yet we have; rumor doth travel faster than any mortal

feet." The beldame's lip quivered, but she sat up straighter,

lifting her chin. "I ken not why thou hast decreed our Church

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to be separate from that of fabled Rome, milord, yet I am sure

thou hast good reason."

"I bless thee for thy faith in me! And be assured, the reasons flock." But the Abbot's gaze strayed to Lady

Mayrose. "Rome is far distant from us, both in time and space. 'Tis five hundred years they've paid so little heed

of us, thou wouldst conjecture they had forgot us quite. How can they know how we fare, or 'gainst which forces

we contend?"

"Yet surely," the Baroness murmured, "good is good, and evil, evil, no matter where they be."

"Yet Satan may don many guises, and how can Rome know which he doth wear here?" Lady Mayrose clasped

her grandmother's hand, but her eyes glowed at the Abbot. "Continue, ghostly Father; we most ardently attend."

It wasn't much of a troupe, as royal expeditions go—just six children, two nannies, eight servants, and a dozen

soldiers. Well, yes, a trifle cumbersome, but even princes need to go out and play now and then, and they do

need playmates; and brothers will do when there's absolutely no one else available, though they're not really

adequate. So the four Gallowglasses were over to play with Prince Alain and his little brother Diarmid. Their

mothers had, with some trepidation, allowed them to go as far as the outer bailey—but Catharine didn't like to

take chances.

Gregory and Diarmid looked up from their game of chess as Alain skidded to a halt and dropped down beside

them (one of the nannies bit her lip at the thought of grass stains). Geoffrey, Magnus, and Cordelia crashed in

right behind him, panting and red-cheeked, their eyes aglow with fun.

" "Ware!" Gregory threw up a hand, palm out, shielding the chessboard—and not just symbolically; the upright

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palm showed him where to spread his forcefield.

"Oh, be easy!" Geoffrey wheezed. "Could I not land wide of thy game, I would be a poor marksman indeed."

"True, thou canst ever strike wide of thy mark," Alain agreed. "'Tis hitting it that doth cause thee grief." Geoff swung a fist at him. Alain ducked under it with a laugh.

"Enough! Thou dost but confirm what he saith!" Magnus caught Geoff's fist in his own. "Yet I thought

'twas of

missiles thou didst speak."

"Aye, and thereof must thou needs ask the priest." Alain

grinned.

"Book or branch, I shall throw it!" Geoffrey retorted. "At thy head, brother! I scarce could miss, 'tis grown so

great!" "I had never thought thou wouldst acknowledge me as head," Magnus purred. "Yet 'ware of thy throwing;

for if thou dost miss, I shall have to send thee to thy sister for lessons." Magnus looked up at Cordelia with a

twinkle in his eye. "How sayest thou, 'Delia? Wilt thou not—" He broke off as he saw her glazed eyes and

abstracted look. "What dost thou hear?" "A shred of thought," she answered distantly. Gregory and Geoffrey

looked up, alarmed; then their eyes lost focus as they concentrated on the unseen world of thoughts that swirled

about them.

There it was—so faint and vagrant that it might have been only the breathing of the earth, or the glimmer of a

notion. "Gone," Cordelia breathed.

Geoff squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, then looked up, frowning. " 'Tis a thought-hearer who doth not

wish his

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presence known."

"Aye," Magnus agreed. "He doth listen as a sentry doth watch."

"Yet for what?" Gregory whispered.

"We cannot know." Magnus stood up.

"Nor are we likely to guess." Gregory stood up with him.

"We cannot leave it be!" Geoff cried, leaping to his feet.

"Nor shall we." Magnus turned to the two princes, bowing. "Pardon, Highnesses, we must depart."

"Thou shall bear this news to thy parents?" Alain seemed to gather an air of authority about him.