“We, the only two of his knights who are secretly pious? Oh, do not look so scandalized, Tchalico-I heard it from court gossip; it is widely known, just as I’m sure you must have heard about me.”
“Well-I have,” Tchalico admitted. “I wondered, now and again, why the king let us live, let alone keep our rank.”
“Why, because he had some such use as this in mind for us, no doubt! What shall we do now, Tchalico? He must have brought us here as a test! No doubt he means to torture the poor monk to death, and force us to watch!”
“When he knows we shall not stand idly by,” Sir Tchalico agreed, his face grim, “knows we shall leap to the priest’s defense-whereupon we shall be unmasked, and he shall slay us magical fire or some such torture.” He felt a sudden cold clarity thrill through him, and straightened in his saddle. “It has come, Sticchi-the hour of our martyrdom.”
Fear showed in Sticchi’s eyes, cavernous fear-but it passed in a moment, and the fierce delight of battle burned in its place. “Then let us go to meet our deaths with joy, for tonight we’ll dine in Heaven!”
To Heaven let us sail,“ Sir Tchalico agreed, ”and here is our boatman, though it is doubtless the last thing he intends.“ They drew rein only a few feet behind the king, who had himself stopped in front of a hovel meaner than the rest, so ill-kempt one might think it was vacant, and tumbling with neglect. But the king sat straight and roared out, ”Friar! Monk and shave-pate! Come out to meet your king!“
Eyes watched from huts all about, and a few burly peasant men emerged, fear evident in every line of their bodies, but their faces grim and determined, their fists clenched, sickles and flails in their hands. But the king paid no heed; he only called out again, “Man of the cloth! Man of the clergy! Come forth!”
Still the village sat in silence. The king took a deep breath to call again, but before he did, a peasant came out, one no cleaner than the rest, with a tunic just as patched and frayed as theirs, his hands just as callused from toil-but he wore a hat beneath the sun of June, where the rest of them did not. “Uncover before your king!” Maledicto roared. The peasant raised a trembling hand and took off his hat. The bald spot was too regular, too perfect a circle to be natural; it was a tonsure. Do you deny you are a priest?“ Maledicto demanded. Suddenly, the fear was gone, and the peasant straightened with pride. ”Nay, I will boast of it! I am a priest of the Church, and I serve God and my fellow man!“
Why did the evil king not wince at the holy Name? Why did he not raise his whip to strike, or draw his sword? And why was he kneeling in the dust before the peasant, hands clasped and head bowed, intoning, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned!”
The peasants stared, flabbergasted. “Turn away!” Sir Sticchi barked. “Have you never heard of the seal of the confessional?”
The peasants came to themselves with a start and turned away into their houses. In seconds the village seemed empty. The words came pouring forth from the king’s mouth, the tale and toll of a century of sins; the priest barely had time to whip a worn, threadbare stole from his pocket and yank it around his neck. As he listened to the list of horrors, his face grew haggard and his shoulders slumped. In a few minutes he was kneeling beside the king; in a few more he had clasped the old man’s trembling hands and was listening, nodding, wide-eyed, in encouragement. “It would seem we are not to be martyred after all,” Sir Sticchi said, staring and numb. “Do not believe it for a second,” Sir Tchalico snapped. “I doubt not the Devil heard as soon as the king said ‘Bless me,’ and dispatched a demon before he’d said ‘sinned.’ Sell your life dearly, Brother Sticchi-for the king’s sake, and for the kingdom’s! We will pay with our lives, but we must buy him enough time to-”
Flame erupted not ten yards from them. The priest cried out and shrank away, but King Maledicto held his hands with an iron grip and kept him near enough to hear as the sins poured out of him, so fast as to be scarcely intelligible. It was no demon, but a horrible, glittering serpentine thing that stood on a dozen clawed feet while four more pawed the air. A saddle was fastened between those upper legs, a saddle for a man in a flame-red robe, masked and hooded, nothing showing but his eyes. In his hand swung a battle-axe two feet across, far too big for any mortal man to swing. Sir Sticchi bellowed, “For God and Saint Mark!” and kicked his charger into a gallop. “For the Saints and the Lord!” Sir Tchalico echoed, and came charging after. They careened into the monstrosity before it could take two steps. It screamed and lashed out at them with steel-sharp claws; its rider bellowed rage in a voice that shook the village, and swung his sword. Sir Sticchi shouted in pain as the blade cut through his armor and into his shoulder, but he struck anyway, his sword thrusting into the monster’s chest. It screamed in agony and anger, blasting him with breath that blackened and pitted his helmet.His horse screamed in fright, but the knight held it in place, hewing and hacking and madly singing a battle hymn.Sir Tchalico joined in, striking from the other side, and beast and rider alike howled in pain and rage. Sword and tooth and talon and struck again. Sir Sticchi fell, blood fountaining from a torn throat; his horse screamed and ran. Sir Tchalico howled in agonyas flame enveloped him; then he fell, and the monster stamped down, through his armor, through his chest, and the horse neighed in terror and wheeled to run. But the twisting sword cut it down, and the monster stepped over the bodies, reaching out for the king. “Ego te absolvo!” the priest cried an instant before a huge battle-axe flashed before his face, and the king’s head fell to the ground. A second later, the priest’s head rolled beside it in the dust. The monster screamed in terrible pain, and its rider howled in frustration-for the king was dead, as was the priest who had shriven him, but three souls had gone to Heaven, and one to Purgatory instead of Hell. Satan was cheated, and his minion suffered far more than the victims had. Fire exploded around them, and monster and rider were gone-but the peasants did not come out for the bodies until the smell of brimstone had faded away. No good to see you again, Lord Chancellor!“ Garchi raised a hand to pound the chancellor on the back, then remembered and withdrew the slap. ”Your lad does well, very well indeed.“