Warlock and Son

Such as wanting everyone to know what he felt the priests had done to his son?

Then why not have shouted it aloud at the funeral? Because he was afraid.

Afraid? Of priests and nuns? Of people devoted to goodness and charity?

It seemed highly unlikely, but Rod remembered the Spanish Inquisition, the crusade against the Albigenses, and the fires of Smithfield. He reserved judgement. Then, too, these clergy had a distinctly homemade look about them; there was no guarantee that their dogma bore any resemblance to his own. Now that he thought of it, he hadn't heard the "bishop" mention the name of Christ at all.

Of course, there would have been no point in Roble's shouting charges to the faithful, who were unshakeable in their beliefs.

But to outsiders?

Rod glanced up at his son's faraway gaze, and decided not to interrupt.

5

Rod reined in with a sigh. "I don't think we'll ever agree on that one, son," he said, finally breaking the silence.

"But they do have the right to be governed as they wish!" Magnus exclaimed. "And if they desire to have a tyrant like that priest bellow and rail at them, if they wish to have him enforce their will with ostracism, who are we to tell them nay?"

"The sane ones, that's who."

Magnus started to say something, then caught himselfbut Rod had intercepted the split-second burst of thought that gave rise to the words, and reddened. "I'm a fine one to talk, is that it? If you'll excuse me, son, I think I'd better ride apart for a while. You don't need me to chaperone you, after all."

"I did not mean. . ." Magnus began, but broke off, seeing his father disappear off the trail and into the woods. Resentment burgeoned within him at his father's rejection. Then he smiled, as he realized he could agree with Rod on one thing-he didn't need a parent watching over him like a hawk.

Savoring that thought, he turned away-but he still felt a little guilty at having offended his father.

"There be no need to feel remorse when thou hast done right, young warlock."

Magnus looked up, startled. By the side of the road, gu

"I but seek to offer thee that which will be of value to thee." The ragpicker swung the bag off his shoulder, reached in, and pulled out a golden chain with a bauble on the end. "Invulnerability, for thine heart! That no wench may ever capture it, to twist and torment it!"

Magnus squinted, trying to make out what the bauble was, but it twisted and turned in a patch of sunlight that made its form seem to blur. "What should I pay thee with?" Magnus demanded. "My soul?"

"Oh, nay! I shall take no pay. I exist but to aid those who are in need-or who will be."

"I trust not those who profess to offer much and ask little."

"Yet thou hast," the ragpicker called after him, "for thou hast acted from that same principle thyself, time and again." That rocked Magnus a little; he liked to think of himself as motivated by healthy self-interest, though he was aware that it came in many disguises. Still, he realized the comment was just a barb to hook him into further argument and possible exploitation, so he ignored it and rode on.

The trail curved, hiding the ragpicker from view. Magnus was tempted to go back to make sure the man had disappeared, but steeled himself against the impulse.

He rode on as dawn turned into morning, sending dapples of sunlight through the leaves of the forest. The ground began to slope upward, and the trees thi

Magnus sighed and shook the reins. "Come, good mount. I must needs go forth to the chapel, some holy words to hear." He rode down into the valley, following the dirt road, softened now with the autumn rains, and came up to the church as the last few parishioners were filing in. But he was not quite late-a lady on a white palfrey, flanked by four men-atarms, was riding down an adjoining road, coming behind him.

Magnus dismounted, tying his horse's reins to a tree limb. He strode up to the church door, then glanced back to make sure his horse had grass to eat ...

And saw the lady watching him, with a gleam in her eye. Something about her regard made Magnus uncomfortable. He turned back to the church door, doing his best to ignore her. . . .

"Hold, sirrah!"

Magnus whirled about, instantly seething at the demeaning term-the more so when he saw it was a guardsman who had spoken it. Didn't he know Magnus's rank without having to be told? Even coated with dust and in his travelling clothes, his garb was clearly that of a nobleman, or at the very least, a squire.

But the guardsman wasn't entering-he was holding the door wide, and his fellows had stationed themselves behind the lady, who was marching toward the door. She looked up at Magnus, and her glance seemed to pierce him. He stood numbed by surprise, and she smiled, with newly moistened lips. "Art thou so hot to enter then, young man?"

"Young man!" Magnus took refuge in outrage. "Thou art not so much older than I, milady-and thy servants want rebuke! Thou must needs teach them to know their betters!"

"What!" the guardsman cried, and his halberd swung down.

Magnus dropped his hand to his sword. "School him, lady, or I'll do it for thee."

The three other men instantly lowered their halberds. Magnus stood poised, hand still on his sword, and locked gazes with her.

Her eyes seemed to swell; her lips parted.

Magnus felt a current pass through him, leaving him shaken. He hoped he looked like a frozen statue.

The lady's lips curved into a lazy smile, and her eyelids drooped. She turned to the guardsmen. "Wherefore dost thou stand here idle, good fellows? Get thee in, to hear the holy man. Nay, get thee all within!"

"But my lady . . ." The guard was clearly taken aback. "Thy safety ... thine husband. . ."

"Mine husband is my concern." Her voice sharpened. "And this stranger is no brigand; couldst thou not tell his quality, by the look of him?"

The guardsman gave Magnus a doubtful glance that as much as said that he knew exactly of what quality Magnus was, and the young man's grip tightened on his sword; but the lady snapped, "Go!" and the four guardsmen filed into the church, with wary glances behind.

Magnus watched them go, his face stony, his hand relaxing from his sword hilt-and suddenly very wary of turning to look behind him.

"Hast thou no taste for aught but steel?" the lady said, her voice throaty. "No desire to sheathe thy blade in a proper scabbard?"

"Why, so I do." Magnus slammed the blade back by his side and turned to give the lady a cold bow. "Naked steel must not be borne within the church. By thy leave, milady, I'll step within."

"Art thou so eager to hear a sermon?" There was a faint sneer in her voice. "Nay, belike thou art a very cleric of a warrior, who dost live by the Church and the Book."

That stung, but Magnus knew at least the name of the game, if not its strategies, and retorted, "I am a man for the Book and the Law indeed. Good morn to thee, lady."

"Why, then, speed thee to God." Her lips smiled, but her tone was contemptuous. "And I had thought to bid thee home to dine, to slake thine appetite of me."