Michael Stackpole - Of Limited Loyalty

23 April 1767 Government House, Temperance Temperance Bay, Mystria

Prince Vlad hated finishing the day off with a lie. “Very pleased to have you here, Bishop Bumble. I hope the late hour has not inconvenienced you.” So that was two lies.

The stocky little man limped his way into the Prince’s private office. He shifted a heavy walking-stick from right to left and offered his hand. “So kind of you to see me, Highness. And on such short notice. I’d not expected to see you so quickly.”

“I hardly wished to waste your time, Excellency.” Vlad shook the man’s clammy hand. “Your gout is acting up?”

The man patted his bulbous stomach. “I fear I like rich food too much. It is a curse, but I endure.”

The Prince waved him toward a sitting nook near the fireplace where two chairs flanked a tiny table. A small fire had been laid to take an edge off the evening’s chill, and to heat water in a pot. A silver tea service on a tray, with fine ceramic cups from the far east and a small dish of biscuits beside it, sat on the table. He waited for Bumble to sit, and took secret pleasure in his servant, Chandler, having given the cleric a chair that wobbled beneath the man’s weight. It was a petty victory, but likely the only one he’d see in their meeting.

“You will take tea, of course.”

“You are so very kind.”

Prince Vlad poured each of them a cup, then sat. He did so gingerly, his hindquarter still being a bit sensitive. Mugwump, while doing better when it came to flight training, still landed hard. “Your note said you had urgent business. As this is the only opening in my schedule…”

“Yes, I shan’t keep you over long, Highness.” Bumble smiled, excess flesh piling up around the edges of his mouth. “I wanted to ask after the disposition of the Rathfield Expedition.”

Vlad raised his cup and sipped, burning his tongue, and using that sensation to cover his surprise. “Beg pardon?”

The white-haired man blew on his tea before sipping. “I only know the barest of details, Highness. I’d had a note from the Archbishop that arrived with Colonel Rathfield. Before he departed he attended services here at St. Martin’s and sought some spiritual counseling.”

“Indeed.”

Bumble returned his cup and saucer to the table. “I would not be breaking a confidence to note that he had reservations about how his mission should be acquitted. You see, on one hand, the Crown gave him free rein to do what was necessary to bring the people of Postsylvania to justice. He felt, however, that if they had moved away because of religious motivation, temporal remedies might not be appropriate.”

The Prince nodded. It seemed both a logical conclusion and one in keeping with Rathfield’s character. “What did you advise, if I may ask?”

Bumble took a biscuit and nibbled. “These are very good.”

“Chandler’s wife bakes them. Her brother and sister-in-law own the bakery on Friendship, just south of Prudence.”

“Prosperity Baker and his wife, Lisbet.” The bishop nodded. “I shall visit and even recommend them.”

“Very kind.” The prince snapped a biscuit in half. “You were saying?”

“Oh, my, yes, was I? Quite. I suggested that a devout man-and he is quite devout you know-might be able to serve both spiritual and temporal realms by returning the leader of Postsylvania to Temperance for a trial. It would let the people see that we are quite fair, and would point out the logical consequences of defiance against heavenly ordained authority.”

“An interesting idea, but the charges laid against the Postsylvanians would be treason. They’d have to be sent to Launston to be tried.” Vlad shrugged. “Your plan had merit.”

“It yet does.” Bumble brushed crumbs from his shirt. “You see, I knew about the treason charges. I was thinking of heresy, and a court ecclesiastical. The end result would, of course, be the same.”

Vlad’s eyes narrowed. “But we have a question of jurisdiction, don’t we? Postsylvania is well beyond the borders of Temperance Bay.”

“I’ve already taken the liberty, Highness, of securing the agreement of my counterparts in Richlan and Bounty. My aide, Mr. Beecher, is bound for Rivertown in Fairlee even now. I really anticipate no difficulty in getting the other bishops to agree to holding the trial here. In fact, I would expect two of them to join me on the Tribunal.”

“And if the Postsylvanians are found guilty?”

“They will burn at the stake, of course.” He sipped more tea. “All of their property would be forfeit to the state.”

The Prince sat back in his chair, his mind racing. For Bumble to already have an agreement from Bishop Hereford in Kingstown, he must have sent his agent off before the expedition departed. He likely sent a number of men south on a ship. One landed in Kingstown, Beecher would land in Fairlee, and so on. Given that Bumble had a reputation as a powerful orator and leading theologian, getting support out of the other bishops would not be difficult. Nor is his action inappropriate from their point of view.

What surprised and concerned Vlad was Bumble’s mentioning the forfeiture aspect of the heresy laws. The Postsylvanians had violated the law by moving outside colonies sanctioned under official charters. The Crown had granted no charters west of the mountains because the land beyond it lay in the Tharyngian sphere of influence. If property the Postsylvanians claimed as their own ended up being forfeit to the Crown, it could be given out to a variety of supporters, effectively extending Mystria’s border into the area claimed by the Tharyngians. That would either result in another war immediately, or lay the groundwork for something even worse, later. Moreover, he got the sense that Bumble pointed this out as a way that the Prince might enrich himself-in effect offering him a bribe for his compliance with the Church’s plan.

Something else niggled at the back of the Prince’s mind. “You mentioned the Postsylvanians having a leader. Their petition mentioned no single person as the leader of the True Oriental Church of the Lord. What do you know of the congregation?”

“I would never spread gossip, Highness.”

“Indulge me. The welfare of the expedition is my responsibility. If you knew something that hinted at danger, and I was not able to act to prevent it, the consequences could be dire.”

Bumble glanced down at his fat fingers as he rubbed crumbs from them. “I doubt you will recall him, but twenty years ago I had a young prelate join St. Martins. Mystrian, he had been sent to seminary in Norisle. I paid for him to go. I had high hopes. Ephraim Fox was his name. He returned full of God’s fire, or so it seemed, and then, at times, would sink into so deep a melancholy that he could barely rouse himself. I did all I could to counsel him. My wife and I prayed with and for him, but something had gotten into him. He began to see things in the Good Book. He found patterns, you see, codes. He claimed that there was another Revelation due the Church, and he had been chosen to deliver it.”

Prince Vlad shook his head. “I don’t recall any of that.”

“I tried to save him, but it was of no use. The demons in him were too strong. He fled Temperance. I would hear nothing for years, then would occasionally get thick missives delivered. It was all nonsense. He’d press a leaf into a page and draw diagrams and show how they were related to Scripture. It proved nothing, but he said it proved everything.”

So, what did Fox think he’d discovered, and why are you so anxious that it should remain hidden? Vlad could not help but think of the possible conspiracy concerning magick and the Church. “You received more than one of these documents? Do you still have them?”