“There are no true druids anymore,” the priest shot back. “They all died, because they had no worshipers to wait upon them and feed them!”
“As your worshipers wait upon and feed you!” Banalix returned.
“I feed my flock, not they me!”
” ‘Tis true!” an old woman cried from the back of the crowd. “Friar Gode sees that none of the poor starve!”
“Say that your neighbors and the viscount feed you, for it is they who give me food to bring you.” But the friar flashed the old woman a smile of gratitude. Then he turned back to Banalix. “This is the strength of the Christ—that people care for one another, help one another in their hour of need!”
“Care for one another? Aye, and slaughter one another in battles!”
The friar smiled. “I thought you said that Christians did not know how to fight!”
The so-called druid scowled. “How many of your sheep could fight off a wolf?”
“All the men practice at the archery butts every Sunday, as you know!” Friar Gode turned to the crowd again, his arms upraised. “You have heard it! He will say any lie he finds to blind you, then counter it with another lie to confuse you! This is no priest of an ancient religion, but a rogue who seeks to enslave you by using only those parts of the heathen faith that entice you!”
“So you admit the Old Gods are enticing!” Banalix snapped, eyes glittering.
“Say rather that it is you who make the Old Gods seem enticing—all your doing, for the heathen gods never existed as anything more than stories to warn children!”
The people moved back a little, muttering fearfully at such a denial.
“But your enticement lasts only until you have them enslaved!” Gode turned to the crowd. “Then he will tell you that his gods demand blood! You have all heard the news, even if it is only whispered, never said openly—how his kind kidnap virgins to slay on their bloodstained altars!”
“They are hard gods, but they bring power and prosperity!” the “druid” thundered.
“They bring death and destruction to those who worship them,” Friar Gode countered, “or their false priests do!”
“Beware,” Banalix cried, “for my sickle is not false, but sharp and hard!”
“Whoever heard of gold that was hard, or could hold an edge?” the friar returned. “It may be gilded, but it is not gold—false, like its owner!”
Matt glanced at Sergeant Brock. The man’s face was impassive, hard as rock.
“False? You dare call me false, when you worship a man whose disciples stole his body and claimed it had come back to life?” Banalix was getting carried away now. “Disciples who made up stories about his walking on water and feeding thousands with seven loaves and two fishes? Aye, you must know falsehoods well!”
The people murmured and backed away farther, fear sharpening.
“Those were no lies, but true miracles!” Friar Gode returned. “True miracles, such as His saints work even today by His power! Now you are not only a liar, but a blasphemer as well!” He folded his hands and looked up to Heaven, silent for a moment as he calmed his soul and focused his thoughts on prayer. All the villagers were mute with apprehension, for in this universe, a friar’s prayers were powerful indeed.
Brock leaned close to Matthew and muttered, “We must stop this!”
“We can’t let them know who we really are!” Matt muttered back.
“O God!” Friar Gode cried. “O Great and Powerful Father of All! O Jesus, Who art both Man and God!”
Banalix began to swing his hand in a circle, muttering.
Matt stiffened, and began gathering verses to chant.
“Suffer not untruth to prosper, I pray thee!” the friar cried. “Expose all lies, strike down all enemies of Right!”
If Matt hadn’t been watching closely, he wouldn’t have seen Banalix’s left hand open the small ceramic box at his belt, wouldn’t have seen the right hand dip in, then circle twice more before he hurled a fireball at Friar Gode.
The ball struck, and flame exploded over the friar’s robe. He screamed, running, batting at the flames—and, of course, making them worse.
“Behold the power of Belenos!” Banalix cried in triumph, but the crowd only pressed away from the burning friar, moaning.
“Help me!” the friar howled, running toward his parishioners. The flames roared higher, and the villagers flinched even farther away, moaning.
But Matt was running, too, shouting, “Fall down, friar!” and whipping off his cloak.
The monk didn’t hear him over his own screaming, only went on running from one villager to another. Matt knocked him to the ground and dropped his cloak over the man, rolling him in it and rolling again and again until all the flames were out.
“See how Belenos triumphs over the Christ!” Banalix cried.
“With the help of a little naphtha.” Matt wrinkled his nose at the smell coming from the poor burned friar.
“Do you question whose magic is more powerful?” the false druid demanded of the crowd.
His answer was a low moan.
“Come to the worship of Toutatis and Belenos!” Banalix urged. “Return to the gods who are strongest!”
Most of the people started toward him, then glanced at their neighbors and hesitated. Everyone hesitated, in fact. Then the whole crowd pulled back, shame-faced and sullen.
“How fearful you are!” the druid said scornfully. “But I warn you, Belenos’ wrath is more to be feared than the disapproval of your neighbors or the scoldings of your priest!”
Even burned and in pain, Friar Gode managed to turn his moans into a cry. “Already he begins his threats!”
The villagers glanced at him, startled, then frowned at Banalix, unsure.
The false druid at least knew he’d pushed it as far as he could. “I shall go now, but Belenos shall stay with you! Toutatis shall watch you! You shall never be free of your ancestors’ gods—but then, you never have been!”
One boy stepped closer to Banalix, greatly daring, no doubt urged on by his friends—and as the false druid turned away, his hand flashed out and caught the boy by the arm. The child yelped with fear and tried to pull away, but Banalix pressed something into his palm. The boy froze, staring at the first gold coin he had ever seen—tiny, but really gold. Banalix drew him close and said something softly to him, then turned him around and sped him on his way with a pat. Then Banalix strode off toward the woodlot beyond the village, head high, moving swiftly, certainly appearing to be a druid. The villagers gave way, pulling back to leave a channel down which Banalix went, between the huts and into the woods. The people stared after him, silent a moment, then began to drift away to their huts, talking in low tones. One or two glanced guiltily at the friar but saw he was in someone’s care, even if that someone was a stranger, and took the excuse to hurry away to their homes.
Sir Orizhan and Sergeant Brock, though, came closer, their faces grave. They winced at the friar’s groans and wrinkled their noses at the stench of the naphtha.
“A bucket of water, please, Sergeant,” Matt said, then turned back to stripping the remains of his cloak off the friar. “Lend a hand, Sir Orizhan.”
The knight stepped closer, face a mask against the sight of the burns, and helped Matt strip charred scraps of the friar’s own robe from his body.
“Not my loins!” the friar cried. “Sweet modesty!” But he stirred too much as he said it, and cried out with pain.
“By your leave, friar, we have to heal the burns wherever we find them,” Matt told him.
Brock came up with the bucket.
“Pour it everywhere you see a burn,” Matt told him, “but gently, mind you.”
Brock poured, and Matt sprinkled a powdered herb on the wet flesh, muttering,