The Warlock Heretical

Chapter Ten

Screams tore the night, raw, full-throated howls of terror. The Village rang with the noise for a few seconds that seemed to stretch into hours. Then doors slammed open all around the common and stocky peasant men barreled out in their smocks, cudgels and sickles in their hands, bellowing in answer. They converged on the cottage of screams and slammed through the door.

A gray-haired lady knelt in the middle of the single room, at the foot of the ladder to her sleeping loft. The pieces of the rungs hung crookedly from the uprights. The tables and stools were overturned; the chest lay on its side, with the woolens a mess around it.

The men stared, appalled.

A jug shot toward them.

The men shouted and ducked. Then one of them dashed in to catch up the woman in a bear hug. "Art thou hurted, Griselda?"

The screams stopped, and Griselda stared up at the big peasant, panting, wild-eyed.

A wooden mug flew at his head. He ducked, and Griselda shrieked. "'Twas naught," he assured her, "'twas naught. What of theel"

"No… hurt," she gasped. "An ache… in my leg, but I doubt 'tis aught."

"Well enough, then. Hold firmly." The burly peasant heaved her up over his shoulder and turned toward the door.

A stool whizzed right at his face.

He shouted as he sidestepped. The stool shot past him and smashed into the fireplace. He ran for the door.

The other men pressed back, making room, and he stumbled out into the night, then pulled to a halt and lowered the old woman to the ground carefully, panting.

"I… thank thee, Hans." She stepped a little away from him, but held onto his shoulder.

" 'Twas naught," he panted. "What of thy leg, Griselda?"

Griselda leaned onto the leg in question, trying her weight on it cautiously. " 'Twill hold," she judged.

"Well enough, then."

There was a shout behind them, and the men in the doorway jumped back, slamming the portal closed. Something shattered against it, and they shuddered.

" 'Tis a hearth ghost," said one of them. He looked up to see the common filled with people in smocks, come out to see if they needed to flee or not.

Hans saw them, too, and stepped forward, waving both hands. " 'Tis done, good folk, and Griselda is well. Frighted, but well."

"Frighted, i' truth," Griselda admitted. "I lay down to sleep, and dreamt, and of a sudden something crashed near mine head. I tumbled out of my loft, set my foot to my ladder—and the rungs all snapped like kindling wood!"

"Praise Heaven thou hast not broke thy leg!" cried one good dame.

A gray-haired man stepped forward, shaking his finger at her. "I had told thee thou wert too old to sleep above so! Come, thou art alone in thy cottage now—thou couldst make thee a couch below o' nights!"

"Oh, be still, Hugh," Griselda snapped. "There's no hazard in my climbing down, if the rungs hold!"

"Aye," said another woman, somber-faced. " 'Tis not every night a ghost doth throw things at one."

"Praise Heaven!" An old man crossed himself. "Yet whence cometh this spirit?"

The villagers were silent, staring at one another.

"This house was never haunted aforetime," one whispered.

In the silence of the night, dread filtered through to each one. Whose house might be next?

Then Hans lifted his head, frowning. " 'Tis gone."

Everyone was silent, listening. Sure enough, there were no more sounds coming from Griselda's cottage.

"I may go back in, then." Griselda turned to face the door, but she hesitated.

"Do not." Hans took her elbow. "Wait for the dawn; let the priest come from Malbrarle Town to bless thine house ere thou dost return."

Griselda stood, irresolute.

"Do not think of it!" A younger woman stepped forward, one hand holding a shawl about her shoulders, the other holding a little boy by the hand. "We've room enough within for the night. Hans can sleep on a pallet."

"Aye." Hans met his wife's gaze and nodded; then he smiled. " 'Tis not as though 'twas the first time I've done it."

"Hans!" his wife cried, scandalized, and glanced quickly at the neighbors, blushing.

The common was quiet a moment; then it erupted into laughter, far more than the feeble jest was worth.

"Eh! Mirth is good, mirth is good!" Hans wiped tears from his eyes. "And thy pardon, Letricia; 'tis a vile lie."

"Not vile," his wife said, with a twinkle in her eyes, "and 'twas needful. Yet come, Griselda, surely thou'lt not deny us."

"Eh, then! Thou hast persuaded me!" Griselda turned to her with a smile. "And bless thee, good folk, for friends in time of need!"

"Whatever else were neighbors for?" Letricia answered, taking her by the arm. As they turned away to Letricia's cottage, Hans called out, "Enough, then, neighbors! Back to our beds, eh? There's darkness left, and we must rise to work with the dawn!"

A chorus of grumbles answered him as the peasants turned away to their huts, the excitement over. Slowly they went indoors, though not without a few apprehensive glances backwards. But finally the last door closed, and the village lay quiet in the darkness again.

Inside Griselda's house, crockery crashed.

"I am hot, Papa." Magnus wiped his brow and reached for the waterskin (not being old enough for the wineskin).

"Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch!" Rod snorted. "All you do is gripe. What happened to the young warrior who was determined to undergo hardship for the Cause?"

"The Church be not much of a cause," Magnus grunted.

"Don't let your mother hear you say that—and in case you haven't noticed, we're on the King's side. What's the problem—you had something else you wanted to do? What?"

"Name it. I am open to suggestion."

"Not the kind I feel like making. Look, son, this is an important mission! We're trying to recruit a spy, someone who's loyal to the King and Queen but can go into the monastery without anyone suspecting."

"Oh." Magnus looked up, frowning. " Tis therefore we do look for some soul that hath a relative in the cloister?"

"You get the idea quick."

Magnus winced. "Eh, come now, Papa! What dost thou think me to be—a mind-reader?" Then he stopped suddenly.

"What's the matter—heard your own words?"

"Aye, yet not thine. Is't my fault if thou art better at shielding thy thoughts than I am?"

Well. Rod was amazed; he'd never thought he would have heard the boy admit it. "Not really a shield, son—only trying to keep a huge number of details straight."

Magnus nodded. "I will remember that."

"Don't worry, it'll come naturally some day." Rod toyed with the notion of suggesting Magnus start calling him Dad; "Papa" was beginning to seem a little young for him. The word was in period, but Rod wasn't too sure of its connotations; he let it slide.

"Speaking of things that come naturally, night is not far away." Magnus squinted up at the rosy sun. "Art thou certain we will come to a village ere dark?"

"That's right, doubt your father," Rod sighed. "Here's a fortuitous local—check me. Ask him."

Magnus looked up, frowning at the plowman who came toiling toward them, following his ox. He was young, scarcely twenty, and his arms were banded with muscle. Out of the comer of his eye Rod watched Magnus twitch his shoulders and clench his fists, comparing the plowman's build to his own—unfavorably. Rod smiled and waved at the peasant.

The plowman noticed, smiled affably, and waved back. As he came up even with them, he called to the ox to stop, and as it lowered its head to graze, he stepped over to the fence with a tolerant smile, wiping his brow. "Good day, tinkers!"

"Good day." Rod liked the young man on the spot—most peasants wouldn't even talk to tinkers if they could help it. Besides, the plowman had included Magnus in his greeting. " 'Tis a fair one."

"Fair, aye, and like to be so on the morrow." The plowman squinted at the sky with an experienced eye. "And cooler than it might be, praise Heaven!"

Rod took the hint and unlimbered his wineskin. "Hot work makes strong thirst. Will you drink?"

"Why, thank'ee." The plowman took the skin with a broad grin, held it up, and squirted a stream into his mouth. He bit it off, swinging the skin down with a flourish and wiping his mouth. "Ah! Tart wine is good for hot work!"

" 'Tis indeed." Rod grinned. "I am Owen the tinker, and this is my son Mag." Magnus didn't react; he'd chosen the alias himself.

"I am hight Hoban," the plowman returned. "What news hast thou?"

"Little enough—a deal of fussing 'mongst the churchmen."

"Will they still give us the Sacraments?"

Rod answered, "There seems small doubt of it."

Hoban nodded. "Then I care not what broil they make amongst themselves. Unless…" His brow clouded "… my brother's not caught up in it."

"Brother?" A thrill shivered through Rod. "Why ought thy brother be caught up in priest's doings?"

"For that he's a monk."

Pay dirt! It was all Rod could do to keep from grabbing the man, and Magnus stood very still, eyes wide, watching. But Rod was too experienced a hunter to leap on his quarry before it was too close to get away, so he leaned back on one hip, frowning as though he were puzzled. "Should that not keep him safe from such a broil?"

"Oh, nay!" Hoban grinned, fairly bursting with pride. "He cometh home now and again, and doth let drop some hint of life in a cloister. 'Tis no better than a village, I can tell thee— with sour ones ever scheming to gain vantage o'er the gentle ones, and factions banding together. 'Tis only that, when they band, 'tis o'er a deal of words, not land or food."

" 'Tis nourishment to their like, I doubt not." Rod leaned forward. "Then mayhap thou dost wish the fullness of this news."

Hoban frowned. "Wherefore? Is there in it some words as to set monks contending?"

"There is," Rod answered, "for look you, the Abbot doth say that Gramarye is no longer of the Church of Rome."

Hoban froze, staring.

Rod nodded, trying to look sad. " Tis sooth, good Hoban."

"Nay, 'tis words to set monks to fighting, if ever there were," Hoban breathed. "Some will wish to bide with Rome, though I doubt they'll dare say it."

"Not openly," Rod agreed.

Hoban paled. "Aye, they will be secret in their doings till they think they have enough force to challenge the Abbot, will they not?"

Rod only gazed at him till Magnus nudged him with an elbow. Then Rod nodded slowly. "Aye, even so. Thy brother hath told thee much of the doings within the cloister, hath he not?"

Hoban waved it away impatiently. "As I've said, 'tis quite like a village. Eh! Pray my poor brother hath the wit to hold himself aloof from both camps!"

"Do more than pray," Rod suggested, and waited while his words sank in and Hoban focused on him again.

"Why, how so? How could I aid my brother in this?"

"By giving him no choice," Rod explained. "By seeing that the one side is doomed ere it doth make a beginning."

Hoban stared at him, and Rod opened his mind, feeling the thoughts that wheeled through the plowman's brain. No wonder Hoban's brother had been able to qualify for the monastery—if he was anything like Hoban, he must have been very bright.

"Who art thou?" Hoban said at last. "For assuredly thou art as much a tinker as I am."

"I am a King's man," Rod admitted, "though this lad is truthfully my son. And I have wandered these byways, searching for a man who hath a brother in the monastery, but doth love his King." He met Hoban's gaze, eye to eye, unflinching.

Finally, the plowman nodded. "Thou hast found him. What wouldst thou do with him?"

Rod's heart leaped, but he kept his composure with iron control. "Why, send him to the monastery also. Hast thou not a sudden craving for prayer and contemplation? For assuredly they'll not doubt the earnestness of a Brother's brother."

Hoban held his gaze, and Rod could see new sweat start along the man's brow. "And I am to send word of their doings to thee?"

Rod nodded. " Tis easily done. Thou hast but to call out in a soft voice, 'Send this word to the King,' and speak thy message. Be assured, His Majesty will hear it ere the night's out."

Hoban stared. " 'Tis the Wee Folk, then?" And when Rod agreed, he said, " 'Tis hard to credit. Ne'er have I seen them."

"Nor wilt now," Rod assured him. "Yet be certain, they will hear thee, so long as thou art without doors."

Hoban's lips quirked with humor. "Aye. They'd not be in a House of God, would they?"

"Not willingly," Rod concurred, his opinion of Hoban soaring. If he could see the humor of a situation like this… !

"What dost'a think monks would do, were they to discover a spy in their midst?" Hoban asked very softly.

"Flogging, belike." Rod held the eye-to-eye gaze. "Yet naught more. They are, after all, men of God."

Hoban's face twisted. "What manner of God's men are they, who even think of bearing challenge to the King? Yet be assured, I am Their Majesties' man as well as God's. I'll be thy spy"

"Good man!" Now Rod clapped him on the shoulder. "Go about thy business as ever thou didst, then—but on the morrow, go to thy priest and tell him thou hast felt the call of vocation."

"He'll not doubt me," Hoban said, with a wry smile. "They're ever eager for new clerics."

"The more they are, the safer they feel," Rod agreed. "Will there be any way in which I can aid thee, good Hoban?"

"Aye." the plowman answered, with his gaze still on Rod's eyes. "I would know the name of the Vice who hath tempted me to loyalty."

Rod stared into his eyes, feeling the thrill of alarm, and Magnus's thoughts spoke in his brain: Careful, Papa! Why would he want to know?

To be sure of me, Rod answered, and to Hoban he said, "If thou art shy of asking elves to bear thy word to the King, then ask them to speak of thee to the High Warlock."

The awe was there, finally, and a touch of fear with it. Hoban pulled a forelock, bobbing his head. "I am honored, milord."

"I think 'tis I shall be saying that." Rod clapped him on the shoulder again. "Go thy ways, good Hoban, with courage— and be sure of the thanks of thy King and Queen."

" Tis reward enough," the man answered, with the ghost of a smile.

He straightened, turning away toward his ox. "Well, then! If 'tis as ever I must needs bear myself, then as ever I shall. Godspeed thee, milord—and young lord." He bowed his head toward Magnus.

No man should give me a bow! the boy's thoughts shrilled.

Rod's thought pounced on his, Then give it back! And, gravely, Magnus bowed to Hoban.

When the plowman had followed his oxen away over the field, and the tinker and his son had journeyed on down the road, around the bend, and out of sight. Rod tore off his cap, threw back his head, and howled with triumph.

"Splendid, Papa. Wonderful. Thou hast talked the man into risking his life. A real victory."

"They won't kill him, son." Rod clapped his hat back on his head. "And I sure hope they won't flog him—but he just may save this country from war!"

A clump of weeds parted, and a six-inch humanoid in tight-fitting brown clothing popped up. "Didst thou summon an elf, Lord Warlock?"

"No, I was just holding a little victory celebration." Rod grinned at the mannikin. "Sorry to trouble you, there."

"Nay, I didst even now seek thee. Thou art summoned, milord."

"What, Their Majesties again?" Rod complained. "Can't they even manage a day or two without me?"

"Wouldst thou truly want them to, Papa?"

"True, true," Rod sighed. "Tell them we're on our way, sprite."

Piers hurried home through the dark woods, wishing he hadn't come up with his bright idea of separating. It had seemed to make sense at the time; if they came back into Runnymede from different directions, there would be that much less chance of their wives guessing they'd been out in the forest. But now, with the wind moaning in the branches above him and the moon hidden, it didn't seem so sensible.

Something snapped behind him; he whirled, his heart leaping into his throat, but saw nothing. Only a branch, he thought, a twig snapping in the wind. Nonetheless, he turned back toward Runnymede and hurried even faster down the track. Everyone knew spirits filled the woods, and not just the Little Folk, no, but more vicious spirits, and far more dangerous…

Furious barking filled the night, and four huge glowing eyes rose up before him. Beneath them two black muzzles split, showing glowing fangs.

Piers howled in terror and whirled, running; but huge feet thudded behind him, then past him, and the dog reared up in front of him, whirling to glare at him with both its heads, each one barking with rage. Piers screamed and spun away, running flat out, hearing the howling behind him and the huge paws thudding on the earth, closer and closer…

And a root bulged up to trip him. He flew sprawling; a rock tore his cheek, and huge jaws closed on his ankle. He kicked out, bellowing in panic, and was somehow on his feet again, running and running with a limp now, the night filled with baying.

Then he was out of the trees and onto the road. Once he dared to look back, but once, and saw the two great heads just behind him, their eyes filled with flame, mouths filled with sharp teeth. He gasped, past screaming now, and jerked his head back to the front, running harder though he seemed to go slower, fire in his legs and breath rasping his lungs.

Then houses were flowing past him, he was into Runnymede now, and the great baying still filled the night around him. He swung around a corner—

And slammed into the arms of the night watch.

"Hold, fellow! What—"

Then they saw the hound and fell back shouting, pikes swinging up to guard, dropping Piers. He fell to the ground with a sob of thanks, that he no longer faced the horror alone.

The huge beast sprang, but the watchman grounded his pike butt and aimed the steel even as he shouted his fear. The blade clashed on the beast's teeth, and it sprang back with a howl.

"It doth fear cold iron!" one of his mates cried, and stepped forward one pace before fear jellied his limbs.

The huge, black, two-headed dog crouched, snarling.

Two watchmen screwed up all their courage and advanced, jabbing out with their pikes, crying, "Angels and ministers of grace defend us!" With ahowl the beast sprang back, but one pike head stabbed into its breast— And it vanished. The night was still. The watchmen looked about them, their hearts hammering. "Can it truly be gone?"

"Aye, praise all the angels and saints!"

"And the good smith who did forge this steel!" Then they heard the tearing sobs of relief behind them, and turned to stare at the poor huddled heap of a man. One of the watchmen frowned, bending down, and helped Piers to his feet. "And where shall we take thee, poor fellow?" one of them asked.

But another answered, his own voice still trembling, "To the castle."

"He said what?"

"That he is Archbishop of Gramarye," Catharine repeated. The sunset light struck down over the garden wall to backlight her golden hair, enveloping her in the flames of her wrath.

"No, no!" Rod waved it away."Not that part—it's not exactly unlikely. The other part, the business about Crown and Gown."

"He hath proclaimed that we should be guided by him, Catharine and I, in all our governing," Tuan answered. "At the least, 'tis the essence of his words."

"Yeah, it sure is! Why doesn't he just issue a demand for you to turn over the crown?"

"That shall follow, I doubt not." Catharine bit off the phrase as though it were a poisoned dart.

Tuan nodded. "Belike he doth but await our response."

"Well, no." Rod sawed back on his exasperation and anger, forcing himself to look at the realities of the situation. "He can't simply declare you to be deposed all at once. There are some intermediate steps he'll have to go through, such as declaring you to be heretics, then excommunicating you, and finally laying the land under the Interdict until you abdicate."

Catharine shuddered. "Could he truly so imperil the souls of so many?"

"If they stand between him and the power he wants, yes." Rod resisted the temptation to tell her that people could still go to Heaven without the Sacraments, that Christ's grace didn't absolutely have to be made official—but he resisted; the medieval mind wouldn't understand the chain of reasoning involved. To them Sacraments blurred into magic; the distinction wasn't at all clear, as it was to Rod. At least, he thought it was. "And that is the one thing in which our good Lord Abbot is strong-willed. Your Majesties—the pursuit of power. If he thinks he has a real chance, he'll call up an army and attack you with everything he can muster."

Tuan's face darkened. "Assuredly, Lord Warlock, a priest cannot so completely forget morality!"

"No, but he can find excuses to justify what he wants to do, and make it seem moral—even to himself. That's his weakness."

Catharine stepped into the shade of an apple tree. "Then we must strike first."

"Nay!" Tuan's head snapped up. " 'Twould be folly, and 'twould be sin!"

Catharine whirled to face him, amazed at his tone. She saw the look in his eye, and her face darkened, but with foreboding as much as with anger.

Rod sympathized; Tuan almost never contradicted her flatly. But this time there was religious fervor behind it, and that meant he wouldn't even think of backing down. This could be a graver danger to the Crown than a clerical rebellion—a break between Catharine and Tuan.

So, of course, Rod moved into the breach. "Forget about the 'sinful' part—that's how the clergy shackle you, make you do what they want. They raise you to believe it's a sin to do anything but what they tell you is right."

Tuan's head snapped around toward Rod; he stared, scandalized. "How durst thou say it!"

Rod felt his stomach sink. "All right, call it my opinion—"

"Nay, 'tis truth—I know enough of government to see that." Tuan glanced up at the sky through the garden trees. "And lightning hath not smote thee…"

Rod almost went limp with relief. He forced a sarcastic smile. "The Abbot doesn't necessarily speak for God, you know, Your Majesty. But that only brings us to the other point you raised—folly."

Catharine suddenly looked wary.

Tuan agreed. " 'Twould be folly to attack a House of God, Lord Warlock. The peasants would rise as a man to defend it."

"And so would most of the lords, but not out of religious conviction."

"True enough," Catharine stated, looking only faintly relieved. "If they could bring us down, they might once again become each a prince within his own domain, as they were in my grandfather's time."

Rod hadn't realized it was as recent as that; suddenly he was understanding the depth of the barons' resistance more clearly than he had before. "Of course, they'd be wrong. If the Abbot can bring down a king, he can certainly undercut the lords, one at a time."

"So we end as we began." Tuan smiled sourly. "He would rule."

"Oh, yes. Make no mistake, Your Majesties, what you have here is an embryo theocracy, a 'government by God.' It isn't, of course—it's government by clergy, who only cite God to justify what they want to do. Governing comes naturally to priests. That's the whole underlying reason they invented priesthood in the first place: to give them power over the peasants."

"Power?" Tuan frowned. "How could preaching Holy Truth grant them dominion?"

"Because even you, with all the King's horses and all the King's men, can't control a man's thoughts—but a priest can, simply by telling him it's a sin to think about certain things. What's worse is that they tell him what's right to think about— and if people start thinking about something, they're apt to do it. Such as having a Holy War against the ungodly—to which position I think you have just been elected."

Catharine stared, appalled.

Tuan saw, and gave her a sad smile. "Thou didst not see, my sweet? If we oppose Holy Mother the Church, we must needs be most ungrateful children."

"Assuredly our people would not believe such of us," Catharine whispered.

"Oh, but they will," Rod assured her. "A religious man never has to worry about what his opinion should be—he just asks his minister."

"But they can then make the people do whatever the priests do wish!"

"And the priests will obey the Archbishop." Rod nodded. "You want to really rule effectively? Take holy vows and proclaim yourself Archbishop."

"Yet the priests do say the Word of God shall make all folk free!"

"It makes them free, all right. But the peasants? No more than they ever were. In fact, it's the perfect tool for keeping the masses in their places. You just tell them that it's right to stay in the class they were born into, and wrong to try to move up the social ladder, and the vast majority of 'em will stay put. They won't even fuss too much when food is short or they don't get new clothes, because you tell 'em that their suffering now means less suffering after they die. 'Pie in the sky, by and by'—but never pie here on earth, right now. So the priests may try to alleviate human misery, but they also keep people from trying to help themselves."

"Yet that is a central cause of the Abbot's quarrel." Tuan interrupted. "He doth wish to see to the distribution of all alms, that he may ease the suffering of the poor."

"Yes, and make them totally dependent on him. Then he'll have the rabble at his command."

Tuan winced; he had managed to weld the beggars of Runnymede into an army once, himself. "Thou dost not say the Church gives only to get!"

"Oh, I'm sure that's not how it starts, but after a while even the most spiritual priest has to realize that he has an awful lot of grateful people who will do whatever he tells them to. That's when he starts to become worldly."

"Nay, Lord Warlock!" Catharine held up a hand. "Thou dost exceed even my spleen! Dost say the Church ought have no power?"

"Well, I hadn't wanted to be so blunt about it, but now that you ask, yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"Yet the Church cannot do God's work if it hath no power in the world," Tuan objected.

"Sure it can—by praying and teaching. It's supposed to persuade its congregations to behave rightly, not force them to." Rod shook his head. "It's bad for the Church to have worldly power, Tuan. Power corrupts, and the Abbot, now the Archbishop, is aiming for absolute power. The priests are the ones who invented the term 'hierarchy'—it means 'sacred government." Or 'government by the holy.' But when they start governing, they stop being holy. Absolute power corrupts the priest absolutely, just as surely as it corrupts a knight or a merchant."

"Or a king?" Tuan demanded.

Rod shook his head. "Your power isn't absolute, Your

Majesty—your barons see to that. And the Abbot has always done his share. In fact, if your power was absolute, the Abbot couldn't have gathered an army the last time he challenged you!"

Tuan turned away, gazing about him at the garden. Then he nodded. "Thou hast the right of it, Lord Gallowglass. In this we must oppose the Church outright."

Rod breathed a huge sigh of relief; Tuan had come out of his religious miasma. He exchanged a quick look with Catharine and saw the same relief in her face, coupled with gratitude. He smiled back, staggered at the realization that for the first time he finally felt he was really her ally.

"Still, you should be tactful," he said, turning back to Tuan. "Don't give the people any reason to believe you're a demon; the new Archbishop will give them all they need for that."

Tuan gave him a sardonic smile. "Well said, Lord Warlock. In this 'tis only needful to deny his claim."

Catharine frowned. "Must we not do more than that?"

"I am sure that we shall," Tuan returned, "yet 'tis poor tactics to begin a battle with a melee. 'Tis enough for him to see our pickets."

"And exactly what 'its' are you planning to pick?" Rod watched him out of the corner of his eye.

"Naught but a mild rebuke, should he wish to construe it so. Our heralds shall proclaim that, though the Queen and I govern in all worldly matters, we acknowledge the right of the Abbot of the order to govern his monks and rule on all matters of faith as are open to question."

"Uh…" Rod bowed his head, rubbing his chin. "I think you might want to be a little more, uh, forceful."

"Nay." Catharine stepped to Tuan's side, taking his hand. "He hath chosen well, Lord Warlock, for by referring to 'the Abbot of the Order,' he doth refuse to acknowledge him as Archbishop, or as having any authority over Gramarye; and by acknowledging his right to judgment in all matters that are 'open to question,' he doth refuse to recognize any breach with Rome."

Rod lifted his head slowly. "Very delicately done; it's as much what you don't say as what you do. But maybe too delicately; do you really think anybody will understand the significance of it?"

"Oh, you may be sure that the lords will," Tuan replied, "and the Abbot. Be sure."

"Which they will, of course," Rod told Fess as they galloped home through the dusk. "And so will all their descendants. I'm so glad Tuan's going to put it in writing."

"He must, so that it may be copied for heralds to read throughout the land," Fess answered. "It will thus become a part of the common law."

"Yes, whether Tuan realizes it or not—and will no doubt be incorporated into whatever constitution eventually gets written or compiled."

"Separation of Church and State," Fess mused, "a point vital to democracy. You could not have arranged it better yourself."

"And the fact that I didn't only makes it better." Rod grinned. "Remind me to keep a copy."

"'… in all matters spiritual, or relating to the ghostly world.' " The scribe set down the parchment and looked up at Their Majesties in expectation.

Tuan gave a slow nod, and Catharine pronounced it "Excellent. Each word is in its place, and not a one is spared."

"Even so; it saith neither more nor less than we do wish." Tuan looked up at the scribe. "Copy that as thou hast read it, and give it to thine apprentices to make a score ere morn. I shall direct the master-at-arms to take them from thee."

The scribe bowed. "Even as thou hast said, Majesties." He stepped backwards through the door, then closed it.

Tuan rose with a sigh, setting his hands against his back and leaning backwards to stretch. "Well, 'tis done, and mine heart is lightened thereby. Come, let us to our bed."

The hardness of her anger softened into a smile, and she came to him, taking his hand. He returned her smile as they turned toward the door.

Sir Maris stood in the doorway.

Catharine and Tuan stopped, their smiles fading. Then Tuan squared his shoulders against the weight of responsibility settling back onto them. "What matter is so urgent, Seneschal, that thou must needs come to our solar at so late an hour?"

" 'Tis a peasant frighted, Majesty."

"Only frighted?" Tuan frowned. "Come, Sir Maris! There must needs be more, or thou hadst no need to come to us."

" 'Tis even as Thy Majesty doth say." Sir Maris bowed his head. "Yet I pause to tell thee of the matter in his tale that doth alarm me. I prithee, attend to his words, thatthou mayest judge for thyselves."

"Why, then, bring him in." Tuan exchanged a commiserating glance with Catharine and went back to his chair. She stepped around to stand at his right, one hand on his shoulder.

Sir Maris stepped back from the doorway, beckoning, and a frightened peasant came in, shoulders hunched, twisting his hat in his hands.

"Be not afeared," Sir Maris commanded. "Thou art in the presence of thy sovereigns, whose only concern is thy protection and welfare."

If the peasant had reservations about that statement, he didn't let them show, but only bowed as low as he could, possibly to hide the look on his face.

"Come, come, man, ere thou dost topple!" Tuan beckoned impatiently. "What is thy name and place?"

"Piers, Majesties." The peasant straightened up. "I am an hostler at the Inn of the Red Cask."

"Well enough, then, Piers," Tuan said. "Say to us what hath frighted thee."

Piers swallowed, twisting the hat tighter. " 'Twas an hour agone, Majesty, as I did wend my way home."

"So late?" Catharine asked. "Where wast thou at such an hour?"

The peasant blushed. "I… some comrades of mine… we…"

Tuan realized he had run out of words. "Thou and thy friends did seek sport?"

"Of a manner. We did drink ale and tell tales. Majesty."

Tuan glanced at Catharine, then back at the peasant. "Art thou wed?"

Piers swallowed again and nodded, eyes downcast.

"Then where didst thou drink?" Catharine demanded.

"In a clearing in the wood…"

Catharine turned away and rolled her eyes up, but Tuan kept a straight face. "And what did befall thee on thy ways home?"

Piers took a deep breath, then told them, faltering, ashamed. Once, when he fell silent too long, the King muttered, "Nay, it surely must have been of Hell! I, too, would have feared," and Piers took heart enough to tell them the rest of it.

Finally his voice dwindled and he stood twisting his hat, eyes still downcast, finished.

The audience chamber was quiet. The King looked down at his folded hands; the Queen gazed at Piers with pity. He glanced at her quickly, swallowed heavily, and looked down at his mangled hat.

The King looked up. "Then these watchmen brought you to Sir Maris?"

Piers nodded. "Aye, Majesty. And I would have followed wheresoe'er they did lead."

"Be sure thou wouldst have," Tuan said, then lapsed into brooding again.

Catharine broke the silence this time. "Thou hadst drunk much ale? And told stories of ghosts and spirits?"

Piers hesitated.

"Be truthful," she commanded.

"Aye to the drinking," he said, as though it were pulled out of him, "but nay to the tales."

"Then what didst thou speak of?"

Piers swallowed.

"Was't women?" Tuan demanded.

Piers nodded.

"Still, thou hadst been drinking, and deeply." Tuan looked up at Sir Maris. "But the watchmen saw the spirit?"

"They did, Majesty."

"As did all the folk who lived along those alleys and streets, belike." Tuan's mouth tightened. "Nay, the word will be all over the town, even now. Is there any question of the watch's truthfulness?"

"Nay, Majesty. All are good men; all were sober. All four picture the spirit in the same way, as they tell the tale."

" 'Twas real, then, as much as any spirit may be." Tuan nodded. "I thank thee, Piers." He slid a gold piece from his purse and tossed it.

Piers caught it, saw its color, and stared.

"Thank thy name saint for thy life," Catharine said with some asperity, "and stay with thy wife o' nights henceforth."

"I will. Majesty," Piers murmured, nodding and bowing, "I will."

"See that thou dost. Now go directly to thy home."

The peasant bowed again and hurried out, away from their dread presence.

The chamber was quiet, the King staring into the flames, the Queen staring at the King, and the seneschal gazing at them both.

Finally Tuan looked up at Sir Maris. "Thou didst well to bring us the man hard on the event."

Sir Maris bowed.

"How many others," Tuan asked, "hadst thou not told us of?"

Sir Maris froze with his head down, then slowly raised it. "Three, Majesty. One was a spinster who swore the ghost of a farmer had sought to seduce her, and only her rosary had warded her; another was a cooper who did so well imitate his own casks that he was quite filled up with ale. The third was a poor, simple lad, who swore a pouka, a glowing horse, had pounced upon him, and given chase till he came within sight of the lights of the town."

"And all three had been the only ones who had seen the spirits?"

"Aye, and…" The seneschal hesitated.

"Thou hadst reason, with each, to doubt that the sights he or she had seen were truly there." Catharine gave him a brittle smile.

"I had. Majesty," he admitted.

"Thou must never fear to be honest with us, Sir Maris," Tuan said, though he had to admit the delicate pause had prepared Catharine just enough to prevent her rebuking the old knight—and incidentally rejecting what he had reported. "Yet in this instance, others had seen it."

"Aye, Majesty, many others—and heard it, too."

Tuan nodded. "Henceforth thou must needs tell us all such occurrences, even if they be naught but the self-conjured dreams of brain-sick fools. Our thanks, Sir Maris, and good night."

The old knight bowed and retreated out the door.

Tuan sat still for some minutes, holding Catharine's hand on his shoulder. Finally, he murmured, "Runnymede hath ne'er before been haunted, sweet wife."

"Never," she agreed, so softly he could scarcely hear. "What manner of evil is set loose upon us, my lord?"

"What manner indeed?" he replied. "And wherefore?"