Magnus burst out of the roadside with a roar, laying about him with his sword. A man howled and fell with blood spreading over his nose; another bellowed and turned to fight, but flinched away with a yelp as Magnus's point scored his arm. The other three turned on Magnus with clubs and a rusty sword, but they were poorly trained indeed; he knocked their weapons aside with a dozen blows.

Then a club cracked on his shoulder, no doubt aimed for his head. He howled, and his right arm went limp. The other outlaws shouted victory and leaped for him, but Magnus reached out with his mind to twist the weapons from their hands, even as he caught an outlaw's club with his left hand and began to lay about him almost as efficiently as with his right.

"A witch!" one of the outlaws howled.

"Warlock!" Magnus bellowed, and cracked the man's pate. He laid about him, knocking down the others with three quick blows, then watched them roll about and moan, clutching at their heads, while he stood panting, only just beginning to be aware of the pain in his shoulder.

Then he turned to the lady. "They have not hurt thee, have they?"

"Nay, only filled me with loathing-thanks to thee. But thou art hurted!"

"The arm is only stunned, and will return to function presently." Magnus didn't say anything about the pain.

"I thought thou wert fled."

"I was, yet could not let thee travel at hazard. I heard thee cry, and came to ward thee. Go now to thy gate straightaway, madam, and do not tarry." He turned to the outlaws, who had regained their senses and were trying to creep away into the woods. He caught the biggest one by the front of his tunic and yanked his face up to within an inch of his own. "Get thee hence," he snarled, "and tell all thy fellows that this lady doth ride under the ward of a warrior who is a warlock as well. If any should seek to touch a hair of her head, I'll appear and cleave his pate. Dost ken what I've said, sirrah?"

The man nodded, face working in fear. "Ah-aye, milord."

"Then go!" Magnus flung him away; he staggered back, sprawling against a tree trunk. "Take thy mates," Magnus added, "and tell them what I've bade thee. Get thee hence!" The outlaw fairly yanked his companions to their feet and turned them away, with frightened glances back over their shoulders. They carried the one with the wounded leg, and disappeared into the forest.

The lady started to speak, but Magnus ignored her and rode again into the woods, hearing her scream in impotence, "Wretch! Dog! Swine!" Then she broke off weeping, and turned her horse back down the road.

Magnus hardened his heart and followed at some distance, mind open, listening for any others. Twice that afternoon he detected outlaws lying in wait, heads filled with avarice and lust, but with an underlying fear of the warlock they'd heard of. He nurtured that fright, touching their minds with a hint of nameless dread, and felt them think better of their plan, then turn away to slink back into the wood.

At length she came to her father's gate. The sentries before the drawbridge straightened in surprise and cried out, "Lady Maisy!"

Magnus turned away; she was safe now-and he didn't want to hear the anguish of her explanation to her father. He felt consumed with guilt at her suffering, since it was in part his fault-but he reminded himself that she had initiated the incident, not he, and that he was only the latest in a series of lovers she had invited. Yes, he was guilty, but not to the point of having any responsibility for her actions. Her father would have to claim a larger part of that, having forced her to marry a man she did not love-but, when all was said and done, the greatest part of the blame was her own. She had not had to retaliate by promiscuity; that had been her own decision. That, no one had made her do; she had taken it upon herself. She would have to answer for her own deeds.

She would not see that as justice, of course. Magnus began to realize, for the first time, that the woman had expected a man to take responsibility for her, in every way-but had not been willing to accept responsibility in her turn.

Magnus rode ahead, feeling quite shaken, but determined not to show it--or to seek a confidant; the only ones he knew were members of the family. So, all in all, he was quite surprised when he rounded a curve and came upon his father, riding down the road only a few feet ahead. Magnus stared, then frowned as anger rushed. He kicked his horse up even with Rod's. "What dost thou here, Father?"

Rod looked up and did a double take. "My Lord! Magnus! What're you doing back here?"

"I might ask the same. Indeed, I did."

Rod shrugged impatiently. "I know it's odd, but I'm going back to Wealdbinde, that pious, nasty little village we left yesterday."

"Thou wilt not seek to overthrow their priests!"

"It's an idea," Rod admitted, "though I hadn't really decided on it yet. Why? You think that would be bad for them?"

Magnus was silent a moment, taken aback by the question. "Is that not for them to decide?"

"Yes, if they have the chance. But I think that alleged bishop has such a tight choke-hold on them that they couldn't get rid of him if they wanted to."

"Nay." Magnus frowned. "He is a man of the Church; assuredly he would not use force."

"Uh . . ." Rod bent his head to rub his chin for a moment, then said, "You've heard of the Crusades? The wars of the Reformation? The Knights Templar?" Before Magnus could answer, he rushed on: "And about his being a man of the Church-I'm not too sure about that, really. Did you notice his vestments? The mitre was so exaggerated, it looked like a caricature-and he wasn't wearing a cassock or a chasuble."

"Aye; he wore a robe, such as a nobleman might wear about him. What matters that?"

"A real bishop would be pretty much of a stickler for tradition. And, as we've already noted, Gramarye has never had a bishop-just the monks from the monastery, who expanded to fill the spiritual gap."

Magnus frowned, mulling it over. "What dost thou say?"

"I'm saying that what we're looking at here is a great little example of do-it-yourself religion, a cult that was set up by some cynic to give him personal power. Sure, he based it on the Catholic Church, that being the only one he knew-but he made the changes that would guarantee his power, and improvised what he couldn't remember."

"Thou dost perceive this bishop as ruling this village?"

"Yes, which is in itself rather ironic-he calls himself a bishop, but his jurisdiction is scarcely the size of a parish. What we're looking at, son, is a very tight little theocracy." He looked up at Magnus. "Care to come with me and find out? Or are you afraid of disturbing your preconceptions?" Magnus gave him a very cold look. "I shall come, if thou wilt give me thy word not to seek to unseat a government that the people have chosen."

"Agreed--provided they still do choose it. After all, you may be right-this nasty little government could just be accurately representing a bunch of nasty little people."

They came out of the forest to hear a choir singing. They were very obviously amateurs. Rod looked up at the church on the hilltop.

"I mislike thine expression," Magnus said. "Thou hast a wicked idea."

"Oh, not wicked. I mean, I'm a good Catholic, aren't I?" Magnus started to answer, but Rod cut him off quickly. "All right, forget about the adjective. But I've seen enough Masses to know what they're supposed to be likeespecially since you grew old enough to go to church. I was just kind of wondering if it's the same liturgy."

"Is not the Mass the same everywhere?"

"Basically the same, with local variations-but you always recognize the basics."