The Warlock in Spite of Himself

The Lord Loguire held her eyes for a long moment, then slowly sat.

Catharine surveyed the faces around her, taking time to look deep into each pair of eyes.

Then, lifting her chin, she said, "My judges will remain on your estates, my lords. As to their corruptibility, you will find them almost saintly in their disregard for money, wine, and… comforts. They care for one thing only, and that is justice."

She paused to let her words sink in; and Rod noted tha there were several beet-red faces among the great lords. At a rough guess, he decided, justice had not been quite as pure as it might have been on some of their estates.

The Duke Loguire did not have a red face. The only emotion Rod could read in him was grief.

"This whole matter of the judges is, however, secondary to the purpose for which I have called you here today." Catharine smiled, with more than a hint of malice.

Heads jerked up in alarm, all around the board. Brom O'Berin looked more shocked than any. Apparently Catharine had not consulted with her Prime Councillor; even Brom was due for a surprise.

Each lord bent his head for a quick, whispered conference with his councillor; and the looks of alarm on their faces deepened into sullen anger.

"On each of your estates," said Catharine, "there is a monastery. You have been accustomed to appointing the priests for the parishes of your demesnes from your own monasteries."

She looked down at the tabletop for a moment, then lifted her head again. "Here in this castle I am gathering the best theologians of all the monasteries. You shall choose young brothers from your monks, one for each of your parishes, and send them here to me, to be trained by my monks. If in any case I do not approve of your choice in young men, I shall send them back to you, and demand others in their places. When they have finished their studies and taken their Orders, I shall return them to you, to be your parish priests."

The lords slammed to their feet, shouting and gesturing, fists thudding on the table.

Catharine's voice crackled into the uproar. "Enough! Be still!"

Slowly, one by one, the Great Lords fell into sullen silence and sank back into their seats, glaring.

But their councillors' faces seemed lit with a suppressed joy; their eyes were burning, and each face held a smile just short of a grin.

"I have spoken," Catharine said, voice and eyes both chill. "It shall be done."

Trembling, the old Lord Loguire rose. "Will your Majesty not—"

"I will not."

Brom O'Berin cleared his throat. "If your Majesty will permit—"

"I will not."

Silence sat over the council chamber. Once again, Catharine surveyed the faces of her lords and their councillors.

Then, turning to her left, she bowed her head. "My Lord Loguire."

The old nobleman rose, his jaw clamped tight under the grizzled beard, his liver-spotted fist palsied with barely-held anger.

He drew back the great, gilded chair, and Catharine rose. He stepped back to his place. Catharine turned away, and the great oak doors were thrown wide. Guardsmen fell in before and behind her.

She paused in the doorway, and turned. "Consider, my lords," she said, "and consent; for you cannot stand against me."

The great doors slammed behind her.

The council chamber burst into pandemonium.

"Oh, come off it! It's the classic pattern, right down to the last look of outrage!"

His day's duty done, Rod was ridingFess back to the inn, bent on picking up a little gossip and a lot of beer. Big Tom was tending the home fires at the Royal Castle, with orders to keep his ears open for juicy tidbits of information.

"I disagree, Rod. It's the classic pattern with something added."

"Bull! It's a simple, premature attempt at centralization of authority. She's trying to unify Gramarye under one law and one ruler, instead of twelve near-independent dukedoms. This business with the judges is that, and nothing more. Five'll get you ten some of those dukes have been playing god on their estates, forcing half the women to sleep with them and overtaxing everybody and anything else that occurred to them. Catharine's a reformer, that's all; she's trying to cure all the evils she can find by making herself the only law in Gramarye—and she won't make it. The noblemen just won't stand for it. She might have gotten away with the judges; but this business with the priests'll bring on a rebellion for sure. Priests have more influence over the people than any other officials in this kind of society. If she makes them responsible to her, and only her, she's really pulling the noblemen's teeth, and they know it. And they won't give up without a fight."

"So far, I'll agree with you," the robot said. "So far, it is the classic pattern, closely resembling the attempt of the English King John to centralize his nation before such a project could succeed."

"Yes." Rod nodded. "And we can hope that, like King John's noblemen, the great dukes will insist on a Magna Carta."

"But…"

Rod assumed a look of martyr-like patience. "But what, Fess?"

"But there is a foreign element: a group of councillors to the Great Lords, a group that seems to be very cohesive."

Rod frowned. "Well, yes. There is that."

"And from what you tell me of the scene after Catharine left…"

"Yü!" Rod shuddered. "It was just as though she'd thrown down a gauntlet, and all the dukes were out to see who'd get the honor of taking it up. The girl might know some elementary political science, but she sure doesn't know any diplomacy! She was just daring them to fight her!"

"Yes, and the councillors were egging them on very nicely—each one councilling his lord not to fight, because he was too weak… and then telling them that if he must fight, he'd better ally with the other lords, because each was too weak to stand alone. Expert use of reverse psychology. One would almost think the councillors were out to eliminate central authority completely."

"Yes…" Rod frowned, musing. "That's not quite normal to this kind of society, is it, Fess?"

"No, Rod. The theory of anarchy does not usually arise until the culture has attained a much higher degree of technology."

Rod chewed at his lip. "Outside influence, maybe?"

"Perhaps. And that brings us to the popular totalitarian movement: another anomaly. No, Rod, this is not the classic pattern."

"No, dammit. We've got three groups contending for power: the peasants, the dukes and their councillors, and the Queen and whoever supports her. That support seems to be limited to Brom O'Berin at the moment."

"Totalitarians, anarchists, and the Queen in the middle,"Fess murmured. "Which one doyou support, Rod?"

"Catharine, dammit!" Rod grinned. "I'm out to plant the seeds of democracy; and it looks like the only chance to do that is to engineer a constitutional monarchy."

"I might be mistaken," Fess murmured, "But I do believe you're delighted to find you must support her."

Around them the few lights were dimmed by the night mist, a wall of fog thirty feet away. Rod rode alone through a world of smoke; Fess's hooves rang strangely weird in the echoing silence.

A long yell split the night, followed by the slapping clash of swords. "A rescue, a rescue!" a young voice cried.

Rod froze, hand on the pommel of his sword; then he dug his heels into Fess's metal sides, and the great black horse sprang toward the ruckus.

A torch smoldered red through the fog at the mouth of an alley. There, under its smoky light, one man battled three, his back against the wall.

Rod bellowed and landed horse and all in the middle of the melee. He laid about him with the flat of his sword, howling like an Indian studying to be a Confederate soldier. He yanked the dagger from the small of his back, just in time to catch a rapier coming at him from his left. His own sword swung in an arc over his head and clashed against steel as his opponent caught the blow.