"Thou art a most puissant dame," Brother Clancy admitted, "and thou hast the right of it—I do regret most shrewdly the making of false haunts to afright poor villagers."
The soldiers lifted their heads, outrage in their faces, but at a look from Gwen they bit their tongues. "I am sure thou must needs be so, for thou hast ever sought to give only aid and comfort, hast thou not?"
"Aye, I have," Brother Clancy said, with a sad smile. " 'Tis more the office of our order."
"And belike thou dost regret the rift with Rome."
Gwen wasn't prepared for the huge wrench of anguish that distorted Brother Clancy's features. "Oh, Lady! I am so filled with dread! All my life I have sought to serve the Church and Pope, for thereby serve I God—yet to have that prop and fundament broke out from 'neath my feet… ! Oh, 'tis agony, 'tis deepest doubt, that doth prey upon my soul both day and—" Suddenly his eyes cleared as he realized what he'd been saying, and he stared at her in horror.
Gwen tried to look her most commiserating.
"Eh, thou'rt skilled, thou!" he breathed. "Thou hast brought me from beginning to speak only what thou dost already know, to say what thou canst only guess at! Ah, but thou'lt have no further word from me!" He shut his mouth so hard she could hear his teeth snap against each other.
Gwen shook her head sadly. "Thou hast said little enough, good friar." She turned to the knight. "Come, escort him to the castle, Sir Fralkin, and see him housed with what comfort a tower cell can afford." And she stood aside, sighing and shaking her head as they led him out-—then let her spirits loose to soar with a silent cry of triumph. True, he had told her fairly little—but he had confirmed her most important suspicion. He was not a hireling warlock who had allied with the Archbishop, but one of the monks themselves, a Cathodean friar disguised as a peasant! There was not only the one monastic magic-worker—the projective orator Tuan had caught—but this other, a witch-moss crafter.
Her mood steadied at a thought that gave her pause: if there were two esper monks, there might be others.
Just how many of them were there?
"Both monks?" Catharine stared.
"I might comprehend one as the working of chance," Tuan said, "yet two?"
" 'Tis scarcely an undue number, of their hundreds," Brom rumbled. "Yet I own amazement; I had thought the monks opposed to witchfolk."
"They have seemed so," Tuan said, frowning, "though we have ever judged them, of necessity, by those we met without the monastery. Mayhap those of the cloister are more tolerant."
Gwen spread her hands. "If they are so, mayhap the cloister doth draw such spirits, Majesties."
"Wherefore?"
"For that 'tis one place wherein they need not fear for their lives," Gwen guessed.
Tuan nodded slowly. "A good thought, Lady Gallowglass."
"Yet better would be one to counter them." Catharine frowned, her anger almost an aura about her. "How doth one oppose such witchfolk?" Then her face cleared as she heard her own words. "Why, with more witchfolk, doth one not?"
Tuan nodded, eyes glittering. "In this instance, sweet wife, I will not scruple to use the Royal Coven."
The woods were dark and gloomy, with just a few shafts of moonlight to make them seem more eerie. Elsa picked her way carefully over the roots in the trail, holding her torch high, heart racing with fright. The branches loomed close, twigs crooked to catch at her hair, and she felt eyes on her back constantly—but when she turned to look, nothing was there. She shuddered and hurried onward. Not for the King himself would she have dared this forbidding woodland at night—but for a chance of seeing Orlof again, of at least hearing his voice… ! And this spirit-man who had built his hut in these woods this week past, seemed to have the gift—at least, so said old Cressida, who had first found him, and who said she had spoken with the ghost of old Lothrain…
There it was, a brush lean-to in a clearing, almost a thicket by itself—but the weird old man sat by his fire before it, chanting as he fed herbs into a small, steaming kettle. Elsa's heart leaped into her throat, and she almost turned and fled, then remembered sweet Orlof, lying with his bright blood around him where Sir Grimal had run him through, for nothing but trying to protect his wife Elsa from the knight's advances! Hatred burned up in her, and guilt, for Orlof would still be alive if he had not wed her! Desire welled up, desire to speak to him, to hear him say he forgave her, and she stepped forward into the clearing.
The weird old man looked up at the sound of her footfall. "Come, child. Do not fear me."
But it was hard not to, with the firelight streaming upward, making his features look unearthly, and with the steam from his kettle wreathing his face. Still, she came, though she felt her heart must shake her apart, and knelt near his fire, grounding her torch.
"Thou dost wish to speak to the shade of thy dead husband," the old man sighed. "Well, I shall conjure him for thee. Yet what shalt thou give me for fee?"
Elsa blushed and lowered her eyes. What could she give, save herself? But surely Orlof would hate her for it! He might forgive her for what Sir Grimal had done—that was forced, not given. But this? She touched her ring, remembering Orlof and his love.
"Nay." The old man's voice was the sound of the breeze among twigs. "Thy ring is sacred; I'll not take it for witch work. Yet I shall shear thy hair, for I've use for it."
Elsa looked up, startled and frightened. Her hair? Her long, glistening flow of hair, that Orlof had so loved? What use could—
She bit down on the thought. What use the witch-man might have for her hair, she did not wish to know—and she could surely grow more. It was fitting, too, to give it for Orlof. "Take it, then," she breathed, and untied her kerchief, bowing her head.
It was quickly done, a few strokes with great shears, and she bound her kerchief about her head again with a sob, to hide the ragged ends; but she felt a certain satisfaction; it was fitting, for mourning.
The witch-man spread the rich fall of hair across his knees and nodded. " Tis well." Then he sat back, rolling his eyes up and intoning, "Oh, Orlof, come forth! Come now from that other world; come speak to the one who most loves thee, come forth, come forth, come forth…" His words trailed off into a moan; his eyes were open, but only the whites showed. Elsa shuddered, looked away…
And saw the steam coalescing above the kettle.
It slowed as it welled up from the brew, swirling into a globe, a ball the size of a head. Indeed, it took on the semblance of a head; it eddied into eyes, nose, and mouth; it peaked as a peasant cap peaks; it was Orlof's head, floating there above the kettle, Orlof's lips that opened and hissed,
Elsa, do not believe! This is not Orlof's face, but a clever dream only!
The weird old man snapped forward, his eyes rolling down, staring. Then he scowled furiously, glaring at the wraith—but it stayed, and its lips formed more words in spite of him. This witch-man cannot bring Orlof back, but can only give thee an image that he doth craft himself! 'Tis not thy dead husband would speak, but this old witch-man only!
Elsa screamed, rising to her feet, screams that formed into words as her hands hooked into claws, and the old man jolted up and away from her, kicking over his stool and raising his hands to protect himself; but thunder shook the grove and three young men stood behind him, reaching for him. He took one horrified look at them and screamed, then exploded and was gone.
Elsa screamed still, screamed and screamed, feeling her mind begin to shred, but a young woman stepped forth from the trees, a peasant her own age, hands uplifted, arms wide, saying, "Oh, poor lass, poor lass! What vile things have they done to thee, these wretched, twisted men!"