Ghibelli was silent, only staring at him.
The young lords all sat, numb, chilled to their souls by the thought.
Then Guelph slapped the table and shouted, "What a pack of great ninnies we are! What fools, what hollow heads! Here we sit and shudder over words that silly shavepates do bandy! What matters their nattering, in truth? God is God; they will not change Him!"
"Brave words," Glasgow said bitterly. "Wilt thou recite them as they haul thee to the block?"
"His point is well-taken." D'Auguste finally stepped up to take his seat. "We are the lords of the land; we ken the wielding of power. Dost not see such maneuvering in this?"
The lords were silent, looking at one another in surprise, then slowly beginning to nod.
" 'Tis naught but a jousting for place," Guelph said, with a wolfish grin.
"Why, then, let us regard it as just such a contest." D'Auguste leaned forward, elbows on the table, cocking a forefinger at Ghibelli. "But think, milord—if 'twere a war and we wished to be sure our houses did survive it, how would we proceed?"
"Why…" Ghibelli stared at him, nonplussed. Then he frowned and answered, "We would be sure our house did have a son on each side."
"The very thing!" D'Auguste slapped the table. "Thus have our ancestors done, time without mind, whenever two great lords did fight o'er the succession. March on the King's side, my lord, and fight as much as thou must, though not more, and thou shalt inherit thy father's title and land, if Their Majesties win."
Ghibelli stared at him in surprise. Then his eyebrows drew down in suspicion. "Wherefore wouldst thou so advise me, if thou art a King's man? Wouldst thou not wish me to fight with my all?"
"I own I would—yet I will rejoice to see thee in the battle line at all, for thou wilt do more good there than here, with thine head in a basket."
"Yet how if our sires win?" Glasgow demanded, but Ghibelli turned on him. "Art thou a slow-witted fool? They will know why we have fought on the King's side; they have learned the histories of our houses and their conduct in wars civil as surely as we! Hath it not ever been thus—that a house with two sons did send one to fight for the suzerain and one for the rebel?"
" 'Tis so," Glasgow admitted. "Thou hast the right of it; our fathers must surely forgive the prodigals."
"Aye, and thus we may keep our heads on our—" Ghibelli froze at the thought. "Why, what a craven knave have I become, that I would value my life above mine honor!" He spun to D'Auguste. "Thou hast spoken well and wily, my lord, to tempt me from loyalty to my sire and class! Yet I have seen thee for what thou art, an equivocator and temporizer who doth leap to wherever the main chance doth fall! Get thee behind me, Satan!"
"I have spoken words of sound policy only," D'Auguste said quietly.
"Words of expedience, which are words of treason! This is truly why thou wilt declare for Tuan Loguire, is it not?" And D'Auguste said, "No."
"Now how is this?" The Archbishop whirled, stabbing out an accusing forefinger. "Thou hadst told me our brothers could move the folk to cry against the King, yet now the King's warlocks do counter each last move that ours do make, and doth even turn them against our monks!"
He stood with his back to the windows of the solar, sunlight streaming down behind him, surrounding him with a glow that hid his face in shadow. But Brother Alfonso didn't seem to be impressed; in fact, he had to hold his face carefully immobile to keep the contempt from showing, and modulated his tone to conciliation. " 'Tis but the sensible move in the game, milord, and we have but to counter it."
"What, to counter a counter? Thou dost speak in riddles, Brother Alfonso! How may we do so?"
"By turning their own thrust against them, milord. They do seek to raise the folk against us clergy—and we may raise them far more easily, 'gainst the witchfolk!"
The Archbishop lifted his head, a wary look coming into his eyes.
"If a great outcry 'gainst the witches rose," Brother Alfonso went on, "the King would scarcely dare to use them, for fear of the mob."
"He would be wise," the Archbishop said, his tone grim. "The mob might quite easily turn against the witches in truth. We might see folk once more burned at the stake, or buried with spikes of wood through their breasts."
Brother Alfonso shrugged. "Such are the hazards."
"Aye, and now, thanks to thy chowderheaded counsel, such a hue and cry could turn 'gainst us of the Order! Nay, the mob might even rise against the monastery!"
"I think not, milord." Brother Alfonso's smile soured. "There is a way to safely advance such a policy. We may show 'tis not witchfolk who are evil, but the King's witches only."
The Archbishop scowled. "And how shalt thou do thus?"
"Why, by interdicting only their leaders." Brother Alfonso smiled again, with malice. "Thou mayest simply condemn the High Warlock and his wife as heretics."
"Have you any particular reason for riding to Moltrane Village, Rod?"
It was unusual to have your mode of transportation question your motivation for using it, but Rod always made an exception for Fess. So did the horse, for him.
"Officially, to get a salami to chop up for dinner," Rod answered. "At least, that's what I told Gwen."
"Did she wish to know why you did not go to an inn in Runnymede? It is almost as near."
"She didn't, which means she understands that I need to get away from it all for a while."
"It will scarcely take us an hour to go to Moltrane and back. Rod, even at my slowest pace."
"That's long enough—and frankly, I couldn't justify staying away much longer than that. Just between you and me, Fess, I think this conflict is making Gwen a lot more nervous than any fight we've ever been in before."
"Because of her religious convictions, you mean?"
"Yeah, I think that's why. I didn't even know she had any."
"No doubt she hid them well, Rod, out of consideration for your feelings."
Rod frowned, glaring at the back of the horse's head. "What do you mean by that?"
"She understands that you have an aversion to the outward show of religion, Rod, to its rituals and sacramentals, and therefore restrains her own desire for them."
Rod stared.
"Rod?"
"Yeah, I'm still here. Fess, I don't have an aversion to liturgy—I just don't like religion!"
"You were reared a Catholic, Rod, and when the Faith takes hold of you as a child, it never truly lets go."
"Yeah, early brainwashing." Rod shuddered. "Well, I will admit I have a tendency to play it safe when I think of the afterlife."
"More than that, Rod—underneath your show of agnosticism, you are a very religious man."
"What do you mean? I'm not even sure who Christ was!"
"That does not hinder your belief in Him."
Rod frowned. "I could take offense at that, you know."
"True, but you know that I do not intend any such offense— it is outside my program. Your programming, however, is a product of the Church."
"Is that why I all but hated it for a while?"
"Perhaps, but that only illustrates my point. You may have resented religion, Rod, and you may have rejected it—but you have never been indifferent to it."
Fortunately at that point, they heard the tolling of a nearby chapel bell.
Rod stopped. "That's the Moltrane chime. What's the matter? Flood? Fire?"
Fess lifted his head. "My sensors do not detect any byproducts of combustion, Rod, so it cannot be fire. And we have not had rain for two weeks."
"So it has to be foes. Gallop, Fess! They might need our help!"
But the scene on Moltrane Common was peaceful enough. The peasants crowded around the church steps, with a few late plowmen still running up. Rod reined in as he came even with the cottages, frowning. "All that just for this? What is he, the monk who cried wolf?"