“Von Gherens is right—Hakkonsen and Manfred also. We cannot take them out of here, by Church law. The law which, as Knights of the Holy Trinity, we are sworn to uphold.”
The knight’s eyes glanced at Kat, then at the children. His lips peeled back in a half-snarl. “And my name is Falkenberg—also a name of the frontier. And also one who can tell the difference between brats and devils.”
Now there were nods and murmurs of agreement all around the circle of Knights. The tension was draining out of the scene as rapidly as water through a broken dam. All danger of physical violence was past. Whatever might be left would only take the form of words.
Words which Sachs was still quite incapable of uttering, it seemed. Only one of the two monks who accompanied him seemed disposed to argue the matter any further.
“We cannot let witches go free,” he protested, almost squeakily. “God has guided us to this evil. We must root it out!”
“Didn’ do no evil,” whimpered one child. “Just came to get outa the rain.”
Finally, Abbot Sachs tried to salvage something from the situation. He cleared his throat noisily.
“If we cannot take them away, we will put them to the question here.” He essayed a sneer of his own; a feeble one. “Or do you deny my ecclesiastical authority for that also, Ritters Hakkonsen and Von Gherens?”
The blond knight’s cold eyes did not waver for an instant. “Yes, Abbot Sachs, I do deny you the authority.”
Von Gherens’s words rolled right after: “The right to afford sanctuary, without arrest or violence, is inviolate. And by Church law, they may only be expelled by the priest of the parish.”
Flushing furiously, Sachs turned on the terrified-looking old sacristan. “Fetch me your priest, then! I’ll have these hell-spawn. So help me God—I will have them.”
The sacristan left with as near to a run as the old man could muster, and never mind the rain.
Sachs turned on Von Gherens. “As for you—I’m going to make an example of you!”
Von Gherens barked a laugh. “For obeying the oath of the Order? I think not!”
“And who will enforce your ‘example,’ Abbot?” asked the blond knight. The question was posed quietly, but grimly. The war hatchet was back in the scabbard, but his hand was still perched on it.
“Yes—who?” demanded the big one called Manfred. Quite a bit more loudly, if not as grimly. The tone was almost mocking.
Kat saw the Knights clustering together a bit more closely. One order closing ranks against another, she realized—and realized, as well, that the identity she had always assumed existed between the Knights and the Servants of the Holy Trinity was not as solid as she’d thought. Which, she remembered vaguely, was something else Dottore Marina had once told her.
* * *
Silence followed, for some time, while they waited for the sacristan to return with the priest.
The silence was so thick with hostility between the knights and the monks that it could almost have been cut with a knife. The only movement during that time was the slow and painful return of Pappenheim to consciousness, stumbling back onto his feet from the splintered pew where Manfred had sent him. He seemed too dazed to really comprehend what was happening; simply collapsed on another pew, leaning over with his head in his hands. His helmet had apparently come loose in the force of the impact. Kat was a bit amazed that he had no broken bones. Manfred’s strength was genuinely incredible. He had not so much tossed the knight into the pew as he had hurled him down upon it.
Finally, the sacristan returned, the priest close on his heels. The priest was a young man; who, like the two bridge-brats, looked as if he could have used a few more meals himself. It was a small church.
He looked in puzzlement at the scene, and then bowed to the abbot. “I am Father Ugo, and this is my parish. Why have I been called here?”
“We have called you to throw these evil miscreants out. They were defiling your church with satanic practices.”