Warlock and Son (10 page)

Steal me away! For there is no man but must have a woman in his charge!"

"Wherefore I, and not one of these other young men who have shared thy bed?" Magnus snapped.

"For that they have fled!"

"Why, then, so shall I. Lady, farewell!" Magnus turned his horse into the underbrush, but the crashing of scrub growth couldn't drown out her scream of rage.

He didn't go far, of course just a dozen feet off the road, just out of sight but not out of hearing. He shadowed her as she rode on down the track, weeping as though she were heartbroken. Magnus felt pity stir within him, but told himself sternly that she was not his care. Nonetheless, he followed, wanting to be sure of her safety. He endured listening to her rail against all men, cataloguing their duplicities and wickedness; he heard her vicious cries of hatred, and rejoiced that he had turned away. Nonetheless, under the circumstances, he found that he could blame himself as much as her. Then suddenly, five men burst out of the trees, surrounding the lady and catching her horse's bridle. The palfrey reared, neighing in alarm, but the men wrestled it back down. The lady screamed, but the biggest man clapped a filthy hand over her mouth and laughed. They were all slovenly and unkempt, crusted with dirt and reeking of grime. They brayed, chortling:

"Why, what a prize is here!"

"Thou dost hate men, dost thou, sweetling? Nay, we'll give thee greater cause!"

"Thou dost wish a husband, dost thou? We'll give thee five!" The leader took his hand from her mouth, letting forth a tearing scream that was cut off as he clamped his own mouth over hers, pricking her throat with a dagger. She froze, wideeyed in fear, not daring to close her teeth.

Magnus burst out of the roadside with a roar, laying about him with his sword. A man howled and fell with blood spreading over his nose; another bellowed and turned to fight, but flinched away with a yelp as Magnus's point scored his arm. The other three turned on Magnus with clubs and a rusty sword, but they were poorly trained indeed; he knocked their weapons aside with a dozen blows. Then a club cracked on his shoulder, no doubt aimed for his head. He howled, and his right arm went limp. The other outlaws shouted victory and leaped for him, but Magnus reached out with his mind to twist the weapons from their hands, even as he caught an outlaw's club with his left hand and began to lay
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about him almost as efficiently as with his right.

"A witch!" one of the outlaws howled.

"Warlock!" Magnus bellowed, and cracked the man's pate. He laid about him, knocking down the others with three quick blows, then watched them roll about and moan, clutching at their heads, while he stood panting, only just beginning to be aware of the pain in his shoulder. Then he turned to the lady. "They have not hurt thee, have they?"

"Nay, only filled me with loathing-thanks to thee. But thou art hurted!"

"The arm is only stunned, and will return to function presently." Magnus didn't say anything about the pain.

"I thought thou wert fled."

"I was, yet could not let thee travel at hazard. I heard thee
cry,
and came to ward thee. Go now to thy gate straightaway, madam, and do not tarry." He turned to the outlaws, who had regained their senses and were trying to creep away into the woods. He caught the biggest one by the front of his tunic and yanked his face up to within an inch of his own. "Get thee hence," he snarled, "and tell all thy fellows that this lady doth ride under the ward of a warrior who is a warlock as well. If any should seek to touch a hair of her head, I'll appear and cleave his pate. Dost ken what I've said, sirrah?" The man nodded, face working in fear. "Ah-aye, milord."

"Then go!" Magnus flung him away; he staggered back, sprawling against a tree trunk. "Take thy mates," Magnus added, "and tell them what I've bade thee. Get thee hence!" The outlaw fairly yanked his companions to their feet and turned them away, with frightened glances back over their shoulders. They carried the one with the wounded leg, and disappeared into the forest. The lady started to speak, but Magnus ignored her and rode again into the woods, hearing her scream in impotence, "Wretch! Dog! Swine!" Then she broke off weeping, and turned her horse back down the road.

Magnus hardened his heart and followed at some distance, mind open, listening for any others. Twice that afternoon he detected outlaws lying in wait, heads filled with avarice and lust, but with an underlying fear of the warlock they'd heard of. He nurtured that fright, touching their minds with a hint of nameless dread, and felt them think better of their plan, then turn away to slink back into the wood. At length she came to her father's gate. The sentries before the drawbridge straightened in surprise and cried out, "Lady Maisy!"

Magnus turned away; she was safe now-and he didn't want to hear the anguish of her explanation to her father. He felt consumed with guilt at her suffering, since it was in part his fault-but he reminded himself that she had initiated the incident, not he, and that he was only the latest in a series of lovers she had invited. Yes, he was guilty, but not to the point of having any responsibility for her actions. Her father would have to claim a larger part of that, having forced her to marry a man she did not love-but, when all was said and done, the greatest part of the blame was her own. She had not had to retaliate by promiscuity; that had been her own decision. That, no one had made her do; she had taken it upon herself. She would have to answer for her own deeds.

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She would not see that as justice, of course. Magnus began to realize, for the first time, that the woman had expected a man to take responsibility for her, in every way-but had not been willing to accept responsibility in her turn.

6

Magnus rode ahead, feeling quite shaken, but determined not to show it--or to seek a confidant; the only ones he knew were members of the family. So, all in all, he was quite surprised when he rounded a curve and came upon his father, riding down the road only a few feet ahead. Magnus stared, then frowned as anger rushed. He kicked his horse up even with Rod's. "What dost thou here, Father?" Rod looked up and did a double take. "My Lord! Magnus! What're you doing back here?"

"I might ask the same. Indeed, I did."

Rod shrugged impatiently. "I know it's odd, but I'm going back to Wealdbinde, that pious, nasty little village we left yesterday."

"Thou wilt not seek to overthrow their priests!"

"It's an idea," Rod admitted, "though I hadn't really decided on it yet. Why? You think that would be bad for them?"

Magnus was silent a moment, taken aback by the question. "Is that not for them to decide?"

"Yes, if they have the chance. But I think that alleged bishop has such a tight choke-hold on them that they couldn't get rid of him if they wanted to."

"Nay." Magnus frowned. "He is a man of the Church; assuredly he would not use force."

"Uh . . ." Rod bent his head to rub his chin for a moment, then said, "You've heard of the Crusades? The wars of the Reformation? The Knights Templar?" Before Magnus could answer, he rushed on: "And about his being a man of the Church-I'm not too sure about that, really. Did you notice his vestments?

The mitre was so exaggerated, it looked like a caricature-and he wasn't wearing a cassock or a chasuble."

"Aye; he wore a robe, such as a nobleman might wear about him. What matters that?"

"A real bishop would be pretty much of a stickler for tradition. And, as we've already noted, Gramarye has never had a bishop-just the monks from the monastery, who expanded to fill the spiritual gap." Magnus frowned, mulling it over. "What dost thou say?"

"I'm saying that what we're looking at here is a great little example of do-it-yourself religion, a cult that was set up by some cynic to give him personal power. Sure, he based it on the Catholic Church, that being the only one he knew-but he made the changes that would guarantee his power, and improvised what he couldn't remember."

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"Thou dost perceive this bishop as ruling this village?"

"Yes, which is in itself rather ironic-he calls himself a bishop, but his jurisdiction is scarcely the size of a parish. What we're looking at, son, is a very tight little theocracy." He looked up at Magnus. "Care to come with me and find out? Or are you afraid of disturbing your preconceptions?" Magnus gave him a very cold look. "I shall come, if thou wilt give me thy word not to seek to unseat a government that the people have chosen."

"Agreed--provided they still do choose it. After all, you may be right-this nasty little government could just be accurately representing a bunch of nasty little people." They came out of the forest to hear a choir singing. They were very obviously amateurs. Rod looked up at the church on the hilltop.

"I mislike thine expression," Magnus said. "Thou hast a wicked idea."

"Oh, not wicked. I mean, I'm a good Catholic, aren't I?" Magnus started to answer, but Rod cut him off quickly. "All right, forget about the adjective. But I've seen enough Masses to know what they're supposed to be likeespecially since you grew old enough to go to church. I was just kind of wondering if it's the same liturgy."

"Is not the Mass the same everywhere?"

"Basically the same, with local variations-but you always recognize the basics."

"And thou dost wonder if thou wilt? Or dost thou wish to be sure the bishop doth notice thee?-as he will of a weekaday morn when so few come to hear."

"What, you suspect me of having an ulterior motive? I'm surprised at you, son-you should be sure of it. Shall we go?" They rode up the hill, tied their horses to the graveyard fence, and went in to find Mass in progress. Rod halted, and stared in amazement-the church was packed. It wasn't all that small, either.

"They truly believe," Magnus murmured in his ear. "Or don't dare stay away," Rod muttered back. They stepped aside into the shadows at the rear. The bishop went on with the service, seeming not to have seen them, which he might not have-in fine old medieval style, the church had no pews, and everyone was standing.

Right away, they knew it wasn't a real Mass-or at least not the one they knew. For openers, the crucifix was at the side of the altar, not in the center, and there was something subtly wrong about it. Its customary place was taken up by a rather rough statue of a man wearing a costume identical to the one the bishop wore, like a poor memory of the real episcopal regalia. The Kyrie had turned into a communal chant of "Lord, forgive our disobedience"; the Gloria was mostly about man's unworthiness, not God's goodness; and the Confiteor went on interminably.

"Who will confess their sins?" the bishop cried, and when no one answered, he signaled to a couple of burly peasants. They strode into the crowd, seized a young man, and threw him down on his knees in front of the altar. "Confess!" the bishop thundered, pointing at the young man as though he were hurling a lightning bolt. "Confess thy lustful desires for Julia!"

A girl not far from the front turned beet-red with embarrassment.

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"But I did not ... I . . ." the lad protested.

"Thou didst treasure thy perverted desires in thine heart! Three elder folk saw thy face as she did pass by, and saw that thou didst look after her with thine eyes till she was out of sight! They saw the look in thine eyes! Confess!"

"I did naught ... I . .."

The bishop nodded to the burly men. One of them stepped forward, caught the boy's arm, and twisted it up behind him. The lad let out a yelp, and the bishop thundered, "Confess!" Magnus started forward, but Rod put out a hand and caught his arm. "We're just observers, remember?" The boy was babbling, an account of carnal thoughts that grew more lurid each time the bishop pressed for details and the usher twisted his arm. The poor girl who was supposedly the central figure in this episodic fantasy, nearly died of embarrassment as other parishioners glanced back and forth from her to the young man, crowding each other to be closer to the front, not wanting to miss a single syllable. When the boy was done, the bishop pronounced absolution (coming from himself, not God), and dismissed the young man back to the congregation. Then he singled out two more sinners, who seemed surprisingly willing to confess, one to the theft of an egg, the other to having missed Mass the day before, both berating themselves as useless and corrupted excuses for human beings. At last, satisfied, the bishop launched into the sermon, which was an elaboration of the decadence of Ranulf, the suicide, and the sins of his father, Roble.

Finally into the Mass of the Faithful. Rod was amazed that there was no collection, until he reflected that it would be pretty pointless, considering that the people gave the bishop everything they didn't absolutely need, anyway-but he was taken aback to see there was no offering of gifts or washing of hands, just taking out wafers and pouring some wine, pronouncing a quick blessing, and then the Communion, or what passed for it. The bishop and the priest gave Communion to each other, the three altar boys, and the two nuns, and that was it.

"No Communion for the congregation?" Magnus asked, flabbergasted, as they came out of the church-quickly, and ahead of the crowd.

"Apparently not," Rod said. "Presumably, they're not worthy." He untied Fess's reins. "How long were we in there, Fess?"

"An hour and a half, Rod."

"And the Communion itself couldn't have taken more than ten minutes, if that."

"Is not that supposed to be the core and heart of the Mass?" Magnus asked.

"Supposed to." Rod raised a forefinger. "That's the key phrase-'supposed to.' And, one might ask, who did the supposing? No, son, this isn't the Mass as I know it."