Tag: Europeans

Balian:

…It seems I have lost my religion.

The Hospitaller:

I put no stock in religion. By the word “religion,” I’ve seen the lunacy of fanatics of every denomination be called the Will of God. I’ve seen too much religion in the eyes of too many murderers.

Holiness is in right action and courage on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves. And goodness. What God desires is here and here…

[points to Balian’s head then heart]

…And what you decide to do every day, you will be a good man. Or not.

— “Kingdom of Heaven” (2005)

Firearms upset the balance between offense and defense. More mobile versions of the cannon that had proven their worth in France in the mid-1400s entered Italy with a bang in 1494 [C.E.]. Charles VIII of France swept down the length of the peninsula to Naples in a matter of weeks with an army of 18,000 and a horse-drawn siege train of 40 or more cannon. Fortresses that were expected to resist for months were taken in a matter of days. Strategic planning changed overnight. Everything now depended on stopping the enemy in battle before he reached the walls of the city.

— Firearms: A Global History to 1700, p. 62

The sky paled to silver and rose as [Sarissa] came down to the river. She bent to lave her face, to drink of the cold clean water. When she had had her fill, she knelt there for a while, breathing damp cool air, watching the sun spread light across the horizon.

The river caught the flame of it. She trailed her fingers in water as bright as fire. It was clear here, and filling with light. Fishes darted; weeds swayed in the current. Farther out, where the river was deeper, the water darkened to black beneath the sun’s brilliance.

Sarissa pulled off her boots and waded out into the icy river. The shock of the cold made her gasp, but she steeled herself to bear it. The current tugged at her. She rooted herself in the earth. The water flowed over her but could not move her. When it lapped her chin, she filled her lungs with every scrap of air that they could hold, and slipped into a strange dark-bright world.

She swam as a fish swims, supple and swift, down and down into that realm of dim green shapes and rippling weeds, lit with sudden flashes of light: sun rising, fish leaping. She passed out of the sun’s light, but there was light below her, a gleam in the river’s darkness.

Just as she knew that her breath must fail her, her outstretched hand touched the thing that lay on the river’s bottom. It was hard, colder than the water, and caught fast in a tangle of weeds and clay. She grasped the end of it and thrust against the current. Her lungs had begun to burn. But she would not let go.

The earth fought for the victory, but the water in its current caught Sarissa and swirled her suddenly upward. Blind, half-unconscious, lungs afire, she burst into the light.

She fell on the green bank with her prize caught beneath her. Out of the water it was a massive, icy-cold thing, but its heart was fire.

She lifted herself to her knees. A sword lay in the grass. It gleamed as if it had come new from the forge, grey rippled steel like the water that had begotten it. Its hilt was plain silver without adornment, but for a white stone set in the pommel.

As she knelt in front of it. Tarik flowed out of the river, licking cat-whiskers, flicking a fish’s tail that flowed and stretched and transmuted into a cat’s. He inspected the sword with approval. The water had done well, his glance said, and the sun’s fire, forging a blade for a champion’s hand. If indeed there was a champion in the world, and if, once chosen, he would do what he had been sought out to do.

Tarik, when he was a cat, had a cat’s irony. But it was a fine sword, as solid as earth, and as palpably real. Sarissa trusted that the same would be true of the man for whom it had been wrought.

— Kingdom of the Grail, Chapter 3

Seventeenth century muskets typically had a misfire rate of one round in six, and one in four in foul weather.

— Al Nofi’s CIC #88 – Strategy Page

On the material side the life of the feudal class was rough and uncomfortable. The castles were cold and drafty. If a castle was of wood, you had no fire, and if a stone castle allowed you to have one, you smothered in the smoke. Until the thirteenth century no one except a few great feudal princes had a castle providing more than two rooms. In the hall the lord did his business: received his officials and vassals, held his court, and entertained ordinary guests. There the family and retainers ate on trestle tables that at night served as beds for the servants and guests. The chamber was the private abode of the lord and his family. The lord and lady slept in a great bed, their children had smaller beds, and their personal servants slept on the floor. Distinguished visitors were entertained in the chamber. When the lord of the castle wanted a private talk with a guest, they sat on the bed. The lord and his family could have all the food they could eat, but it was limited in variety. Great platters of game, both birds and beasts, were the chief stand-by, reinforced with bread and vast quantities of wine. They also had plenty of clothing, but the quality was largely limited by the capacity of the servant girls who made it. In short, in the tenth and eleventh centuries the noble had two resources, land and labor. But the labor was magnificently inefficient and by our standards the land was badly tilled. Not until the revival of trade could the feudal class begin to live in anything approaching luxury.

— Mediaeval Society, pp. 30-31

Although the process is obscure, the result is quite clear. By 987 [C.E.] the soldiers of the West Frankish state were arranged in a feudal hierarchy bound together by oaths of vassalage. The king was at the top of the feudal pyramid: the suzerain of the land. A few dukes and counts were his direct vassals. They in turn had their vassals, rear vassals, and rear rear vassals. At the bottom of the pyramid was the simple knight with just enough land and peasant labor to support him, his family, and his horses. Now this structure was not all embracing by 987; in fact, it never was. As late as the latter part of the twelfth century the count of Dreux surrendered large allodial holdings to the count of Champagne and received them back as fiefs. A recent study has shown that large allodial estates persisted throughout the Middle Ages in the region around Bordeaux. But in comparison with the total area of the country these exceptions were of slight importance, and the principle beloved by feudal lawyers—no land without a lord—became essentially true. Thus all land was someone’s fief and every landholder except the king was someone’s vassal. The soldiers, the knights, held the land of France, and they were bound together by the feudal system.

— Mediaeval Society, pp. 16-17

The origins of feudal institutions may be found in both Roman and German life. According to Tacitus, when a German war chief planned a campaign, he gathered about him a group of picked warriors which was called his comitatus. These men swore absolute fidelity and obedience to the chief in return for arms, food, clothing, and a share in the plunder. The German chieftains who set themselves up as kings in the Roman Empire had similar bands of sworn followers. The Frankish kings called the comitatus a truste and its members antrustiones. The Saxon kings were surrounded by bands of thanes. Thus the practice of a warrior binding himself by an oath to follow a chief in war was well established among the Germanic peoples. The Romans had a somewhat similar institution, the clientela. When a Roman freed a slave, the freedman usually remained a dependent of his former master, a cliens. Poor freemen might seek the protection of a senator by becoming his clients. In the latter years of the Roman Empire in the West the comitatus and the clientele tended to become merged into one institution. The great Roman nobles hired bands of German warriors to serve as their bodyguards. These warriors were known as bucellarii. Now the Roman senator may well have thought of his bucellarii as soldier-clients, but the Germans were more likely to consider themselves members of a comitatus. The bucellarii played an extremely important part in the wars of the fifth century [C.E.]: a large part of Belisarius‘ army was composed of his bucellarii. It seems clear that we have in these various Roman, German, and Romano-German institutions the prototype of the relationship between lord and vassal.

— Mediaeval Society, pp. 12-13

The great limitation on the equipment of the Army of Flanders in the sixteenth century [C.E.] was financial: a pike and body-armour (the corselete) cost 30 florins in the 1590s, a musket cost 10 florins, a 24-pounder cannon cost 1,000 florins. With prices like this, there was never enough money to arm all of the soldiers all of the time. There was only limited concern about this: sixteenth-century strategists believed that wars should be fought with men, not material…and faced with a choice between feeding their men or equipping them, they always chose food. Eight hundred men could be fed for a month with the money required to cast one cannon; a pike-man could be given bread for two years with the price of his corselet.

Only gradually did the Army systematize the supply of weapons to its men, deducting the cost of arms, powder and shot by [installments] from their future wages….

Arms and armour were…provided on credit to the troops by contractors engaged by the government. This was essential since few men could afford to purchase their own firearms (a musket cost 10 florins in the 1590s, more than a musketeer’s wage for a month), but it was perhaps shortsighted to charge the powder and shot used by each man against his account—it was hardly an encouragement for a marksman to use his weapon! In their defence the government argued that the musketeers and arquebusiers already drew a slightly higher wage to cover the cost of using their guns, but of course this was only effective when wages were actually paid….

— The Army of Flanders and the Spanish Road 1567-1659, pp. 48-49, 165

The culmination of selective breeding was the destrier, the “great horse” or warhorse which by the late Middle Ages could reach eighteen hands in size and astonishing prices. The warhorse was suited for combat and was the symbol of the aristocracy; its value and rarity meant that not too many soldiers could afford one. Most soldiers seem to have ridden more humble animals, or rounceys. The use of a different horse may have been dictated by other reasons. For instance, the favorite English horse in the chevauchées in France during the Hundred Years War was the courser, which combined stamina and mobility. In reality every heavy cavalryman would need several horses: the warhorse, which the knight’s squire would lead with his right hand, a more modest horse for the squire himself, and a horse to carry the knight’s armor to the battlefield. It was only when confrontation became inevitable that the knight would wear his armor and ride his warhorse into battle.

— Barbarians, Marauders, and Infidels, p. 132

Emphasis mine.

Magic comes in a great range of forms of participation, which it is helpful to break down further. Three forms of participation can be distinguished: transcendence, transformation and transactions. Transcendent relations exist where the universe is influencing people but is beyond their ability to affect it. A classic example of transcendence is astrology, where astral bodies shape human lives, but people do not influence the movement of the stars or planets. The Medieval and Early Modern European maxim concerning astrology was ‘as above, so below’, a clear one-way set of influences. People can understand, navigate and respond appropriately to transcendent effects, but there is nothing they can do to change them.

Transformation is an aspect of participation: for example, alchemical practices might turn lead into gold, or unremarkable chemicals into an elixir of eternal youth. Magic often also surrounds and informs strong transformations: such is the case with metalworking, where, in many African instances, the smith prepares himself by magical means for his work…. People also transform themselves. Shamans on the Eurasian Steppe can inhabit another creature, such as a reindeer or bear, or become a spirit to enter the spirit world. The process of initiation as a shaman often involves the person being taken apart and put back together in a new form, with novel powers. For Australian Aboriginal people the landscape was transformed during the Dreamtime by the actions of ancestral spirits, such as the Rainbow Serpent, to give the land a set of powers and dangers that people need to attend to through ceremonies.

Here transformations blend into transactions. In many forms of magic people make bargains with the universe in its many forms. In China the ancestors were given feasts and offerings to ensure their good will towards their living descendants and could be contacted through divination. Divination was common in many other instances, such as in Ancient Greece, when the gods responded to questions put to them at oracles. In some cultures, especially monotheisms, a host of lesser beings, such as demons, angels or saints, received forms of supplication or more aggressive attacks to influence their behaviour in favour of humans. Across prehistoric Europe we will see how carefully placed deposits of important objects and bodies were made to the spirits of the place and the social group over many thousands of years in continuing cosmic bargaining.

Transcendence, transformation and transactions were often all found together in mutual interaction. In Medieval Europe, for example, people believed in astrology, with the influence of the planets paramount, experimented with alchemy in the hope of getting rich and gave offerings to saints to gain their favour. But when transcendent relations were predominant, people could feel alienated and fearful of the universe, lacking control over it. More mutual relations existed through transformation and transaction, in which a moral relationship was often important, motivating people to act with due respect and care.

— Magic: A History, pp. 9-10

During the Fourteenth Century [C.E.] an area of approximately 1,050 square kilometers just south of the forest of Fontainebleau near Paris had twelve forts, 28 fortified churches, five towers, four fortified manor houses, and six full-fledged castles, for a total of 55 fortified places, or roughly one for every 19 square kilometers, so that few people were more than six kilometers from a place of refuge.

— Al Nofi’s CIC, Issue #137 – Strategy Page

…While local peasantry, paid or pillaged, usually furnished food and horses’ forage, a major expedition or siege or fleet at sea required organized supply of biscuit, smoked or salted meat and fish, wine, oil, and oats and hay for the horses. Ordinarily knights ate white bread made from wheat, meat in the form of beef, pork, and mutton, and drank wine daily. The common soldier received wine only on feast days or in active combat; otherwise he drank beer, ale, or cider, and ate rye bread, peas, and beans. Fish, cheese, olive oil, occasionally butter, salt, vinegar, onions, and garlic also figured in the rations. Poultry was so widely consumed and easily obtained that it was not recorded. Sugar, honey, mustard, spices, and almonds were kept for the wounded and sick and the privileged. On active duty, soldiers did not fast but were allotted fish as substitute for meat on the twelve “thin” days a month. The more continuous war became, as it did in the 14th century [C.E.], the more organization and money it required.

— A Distant Mirror, Chapter 6

But whatever his antecedents, the feudal knight was an important cog in the military machinery of the eleventh and twelfth centuries [C.E.]; and although Sidney Painter may have been guilty of some exaggeration in his summary of the achievements of European military feudalism, his opinion is worth quoting:

Feudal military organization was on the whole highly effective. The knights of Europe conquered vast territories from the Slavs, pressed the Moslems steadily back in Spain and drove them from Sicily, and established themselves at least temporarily in Palestine, Syria, the Byzantine lands, and Greece. As a defensive system feudalism was almost perfect. No organization ever devised could so quickly produce an effective military force wherever it was needed. The feudal army was essentially a militia, but a militia composed of the best soldiers of the day.

Perhaps so strong an assertion was needed to put the accomplishments of the feudal knight in proper perspective.

— Warfare in England: 1066-1189, Chapter 10

Apart from the changes that took place in the method of ignition, the evolution of portable firearms may also be understood from another point of view. Given a certain level of development, the power of any technological device is a function of its weight and size. In the case of the arms in question, too, what mattered was finding an acceptable balance between weight and size, a balance which determined tactics, and was in turn determined by them. Early firearms were very small but, in order to add power, increased steadily in size. This development meant that, whereas the sixteenth-century arquebus could still be couched in a soldier’s arms while it was fired, the early seventeenth-century musket no longer could. The weapon, weighing 12 to 14 pounds, had to be supported by a forked rest. This impeded mobility and made muskets difficult to use on the offense—an unwelcome development. The bayonet, invented around 1660, would have been useless unless the musket was lightened to the point that the rest could be discarded and the weapon swung in the arms of an average soldier. This was duly done, even at the cost of some loss of power. Not everybody liked the change, and the Marechal de Saxe during the middle of the eighteenth century was calling for the introduction of an amusette, an even heavier musket which would have to be pivoted on a wall or attached to a cart. Thus the different qualities demanded of the weapon clashed and interacted, pushing development along.

— Technology and War, Chapter 6

Emphasis mine.

The furniture of the thirteenth century [C.E.] was limited to beds in their various forms, and with their accompanying bedding, tables, still normally made of boards placed on trestles, and chairs, or more frequently benches. There were also chests of several sizes, many of which were large enough to be considered as furniture. The chest was usually very sturdily made, bound with iron and closed with lock and key. It was in constant use as a safe depository for any articles of value. Small caskets for jewels were often decorated with ivory or enamel and were very elegant.

— A Baronial Household of the Thirteenth Century, p. 34

Men-at-arms got a good deal of protein from cheese and a much wider variety of fish and meats than is common today (including, for example, crows and smaller wildfowl, cranes, larks, boars’ heads, eels and lampreys, squirrel, goat, mutton, rabbit, venison, and swans and peacocks for great feasts); this made them taller and stronger than the common folk, especially in Mediterranean regions, where the peasants had less dairy in their diets. Men-at-arms commonly drank wine, while lesser folk more often consumed ale or cider, which were much cheaper. In the household of the sober Sire Jean de Joinville (1225-1317), Seneschal of Champagne and boon companion of St. Louis ([King] Louis IX of France), young valets were given wine heavily diluted with water, squires got a stronger mixture, and knights had separate flagons of wine and water, to blend as they wished….

— Soldiers’ Lives Through History, p. 10

Going to war with [medieval knights] was a costly affair, in many cases bringing belligerent princes to bankruptcy. A knight would rarely embark for battle without the six horses which he was permitted, or his page apprentice to help him on with his armour. Providing enough food, shelter and material for a large number of these knights and their attendant foot soldiers was…a far more complex and sophisticated job of administration than is generally imagined. The logistics were considerable, involving smiths, armourers, painters, tent-makers, fletchers (arrow-makers), cordeners (leather-workers), bowyers, turners, carpenters, masons, wheelwrights, saddlers, purveyors (of food), quartermasters and farriers. There were also surgeons, chaplains, legal and clerical staff, trumpeters and pipers, and, most important, cooks.

— Connections, p. 57

While not exclusively, the bulk of this logistical challenge is people. Squires, retainers, and hirelings, oh my!

The conduct of a siege [in the Renaissance period] was a hugely expensive undertaking in terms of supplies, consuming tons of food, gunpowder and shot. When an army was engaged upon a siege it was unable to threaten anywhere else, and also became vulnerable to outside attack. This situation is exemplified forever by the comical situation at the Siege of Turin in 1640 [C.E.]. The French in the citadel were besieged by the Spanish in the city who were in turn besieged by a French army outside the city walls who were also besieged by a Spanish army in siege lines!

— The Art of Renaissance Warfare, Chapter 8

The optimum combination of pike and shot, both as a numerical ratio and as a form of deployment, remained hotly debated in military treatises. Setting aside the numerous theoretical models, essentially only two formations were used in the field. Those adopting the Dutch-style counter-march needed thinner lines and more shot than pike, deploying a ratio of two to one in a ten-rank line by the 1590s [C.E.], with the pikemen in the centre, flanked by equal numbers of musketeers. The Spanish and imperial infantry favoured the larger, deeper formations that had been the norm earlier in the sixteenth century. Their pike were grouped as a central block with always twice the number of men in each line as there were ranks deep, because each man needed twice the amount of space in depth as in width to wield his weapon. The effect was to produce a square block that would be flanked by ‘sleeves’ of musketeers. An additional three to five ranks of light arquebusiers generally lined the entire front to maximize firepower. If caught by a cavalry attack, the musketeers could shelter under the pikes that would stretch over their heads. When attacking enemy foot, the arquebusiers would retire round the flanks once they had fired, leaving the pike free to charge. Spanish and imperial commanders sometimes grouped additional blocks of musketeers on the four corners, which can be seen in many battle engravings from the early seventeenth century. This was simply a formation for deploying and advancing, and the additional shot would fan out towards the enemy to fire, falling back to a less exposed side of the square if the formation came under attack.

The large square formation has become known as the tercio after the term used by the Spanish for their infantry regiments, while the thinner, longer Dutch formation is called a battalion. It has become a historical convention to see the latter as inherently superior to the former, not least because of its association with firearms that have appeared to later generations as obviously more advanced than pikes, weapons first used by the ancient Greeks. This distinction is not accurate, nor does it correspond to sixteenth-century military thinking that drew directly on the ancient world for its inspiration. The deeper block formations offered better all-round fighting ability than the thinner Dutch lines, where each unit relied on its neighbours standing firm or its vulnerable flanks would be exposed if the enemy broke through. Though only the first five ranks of the tercio could fire at any one time, the presence of another ten or more behind stiffened the resolve of those in front, or at least made it harder for them to run away. The unit assumed a more imposing presence on the battlefield; something that was a considerable advantage as it bore down on a wavering foe. In an age of black powder, the battlefield soon filled with smoke, making it extremely difficult for commanders to see what was happening. It was easier to lose control of long thin lines, composed of smaller, but more numerous battalions, than a deployment of fewer, larger tercios. These could be positioned en échelon, or diagonally staggered in chequerboard fashion about 200 metres apart. If one became detached or separated, it was generally large enough to fight on alone until rescued.

There was a trend towards increasing the ratio of shot to pike and to stretch formations into thinner lines that became pronounced in the 1630s, as we shall see later. It was partly related to minor technological advances producing the lighter muskets, and possibly also to pressure from soldiers themselves. Recruits generally preferred becoming musketeers rather than pikemen, who often had to stand under fire without personally being able to retaliate. Pikemen had originally received higher pay and were still seen by officers as more honourable than musketeers. Men who rose from the ranks did so ‘from the pike up’ (von der Pike auf), and not from the musket. Pikemen killed using cold steel, like the traditional knight’s lance, whereas musketeers relied on the devilish invention of gunpowder producing thick clouds of acrid smoke, striking their foes from a distance, rather than looking them in the eye. Pikemen also accused their more lightly equipped colleagues of being more prone to plunder, whereas they could not enter houses with their long weapons—something that clearly had a ring of jealousy to it. Certainly, pikemen were more likely to throw away their weapons if their formation broke, thus becoming defenceless, whereas musketeers could flee still fully armed.

The trend towards more shot around 1590 was also due to the deployment of musketeers in smaller, looser formations to open a battle or to delay an enemy while the rest of the army assembled. Parties of 50 or more musketeers would be pushed out in front of the main line, covered by groups of 250 pikemen as a reserve and rallying point. Such methods anticipated those of 200 years later, but generally disappeared around 1630 with the growing emphasis on massed, disciplined firing by ranks developed by the Dutch and copied by the Swedes. Given the inaccuracy of individual shots, commanders emphasized the volume of fire, and later also its rapidity, culminating in the disciplined firing by platoons adopted around 1700.

— The Thirty Years War, pp. 89-91

They came to the main court, which was elegantly furnished. Illustrated tapestries hung on the walls, and the floor was polished wood. Lord Bofort had excellent taste—and the ill-gotten wealth to indulge it.

“There are bowmen watching from concealed recesses,” [Jolie, the spirit of Parry’s dead wife,] said. “Crossbows.”

Parry reached into an inner pocket and took his large silver cross. He doubted that anyone would fire at him yet, but there was no sense in taking unnecessary chances. Fabiola felt the same way; she clutched her small cross tightly.

Lord Bofort awaited them at a great oaken table. He was a stout man of perhaps fifty, very well dressed with embroidered robes. “Welcome, Father Grief,” he said expansively. “To what do we owe the honor of this visit by a man of the cloth?”

“Bofort,” Parry said without preamble, “there is a warrant for your arrest for abuse of your power. I have come to take you to the magistrate.”

“Friar, you are overstepping your bounds,” Bofort said curtly. “You have no business meddling in my affairs.”

“I shall be satisfied to let the magistrate decide that,” Parry said. “I ask you to leave this castle and come with me now to the town, so that this matter may be settled.”

“Because of the reckless charge of a foolish young girl? Surely you know better than that, friar.”

“You were satisfied with her testimony when you meant to use it against your neighbor,” Parry reminded him. “Now we have ascertained that that testimony was purjured, the result of the torture and threats you made against her. She is a more credible witness against you than she was against your neighbor.”

“I think she will not be a witness at all,” Bofort said grimly. He made a gesture, and two guards stepped forward.

Fabiola straightened, and Parry recognized Jolie’s aspect [cohabitating with the girl in her body, again]. She lifted the small silver cross. “Creatures of hell, touch me not, lest you be chastened,” she said.

The guards hesitated.

“Do not be daunted by a superstition!” Bofort snapped. “Take her!”

The guards resumed their motion. Fabiola fixed her gaze on the face of the nearest and swung the cross, shoving it against his forearm.

The man screamed and fell back, holding his arm.

Parry knew that Jolie had drawn on an item of magic they had learned since her death: the mesmeric burn. The guard had not really been hurt, but he had felt the pain where the cross touched—because of the guilt on his conscience. He had known it was wrong to interfere with a witness protected by a friar. Superstition had indeed daunted him.

“So it is of this manner,” Bofort muttered. He made another gesture.

“Deflect!” Parry cried, warning Jolie.

Two crossbow shafts came down from the bowmen in the alcoves. The arrows swerved slightly and thudded into the wall on either side of the girl. Jolie had invoked the spell of deflection, causing the barbs to miss. Conjuration or levitation was difficult magic, but deflection was its simplest aspect, and they had had more than a decade to study it.

“If your guilt were in doubt,” Parry said, “that doubt has been resolved by your action. Come with me.” He strode around the table toward Bofort.

“Clear the court!” Bofort cried. “I will talk with this man alone.”

The guards and attendants hurried out, as did the bowmen. In a moment Parry and Fabiola were alone with Bofort.

“Who are you?” Bofort demanded. “I know sorcery when I see it!”

“I am sure you do,” Parry agreed. “You have practiced it for decades.”

“On behalf of the Church!”

“On behalf of Lucifer.”

“How dare you charge me with that? I gave invaluable magical aid to the [Albigensian Crusade]!”

“You systematically eliminated your competition—in the guise of that support. That was the work of Lucifer.”

“Who are you?” Bofort repeated. “I know of all competent sorcerers, and there are none among the monks!”

“I am the one that got away. You killed my father and my wife. Now I bring the power of that God you wronged, to see that justice is done.”

Bofort reflected. “There was one that escaped! A novice, a stripling, who murdered a crusader and slipped the noose. I had all but forgotten.”

“I had not forgotten,” Parry said grimly. “Now you will come with me voluntarily to the magistrate, or I shall reveal your nature to the personnel of this establishment. That will demolish your reputation as well as your estate.”

“You seek to make a deal, friar?” Bofort sneered.

“My calling requires mercy for the sinner, no matter how grievous his sins may be. Confess your sins, and accept your punishment, and I shall not add to it. Come with me now, and some part of your estate may survive.”

“I cannot come with you,” Bofort said. “You know whom I serve.”

“I serve a greater one.”

“No, you merely serve a different one.”

“Must we try our strength? My Lord supports me; does yours support you?”

Bofort thought about that a moment. It was known that Lucifer quickly lost patience with those who were clumsy in the pursuit or practice of evil. “Perhaps we can after all deal. I will give you information that is worth far more than I am, if you will depart in peace.”

“I seek no deal, merely justice. Come with me; perhaps you can make a deal with the magistrate.”

“The magistrate? He goes with the politics of the moment! You have incited the town against me; there will be no justice there.”

“It’s true, Parry,” Jolie said through Fabiola’s mouth. “The townsmen are massing now to march on this castle. It seems that quite a number of them have suffered at the hands of this man, and now they see their chance to bring him down.”

“So you are finished, sorcerer,” Parry said. “Come with me.”

“I tell you, you would be better off to make the deal,” Bofort said. “I can tell you of the greatest scourge ever to strike this fair land, now in the making. You may be intimately involved; what irony! You can save yourself and all you hold dear, if you know its nature.”

“I make no deals with your kind,” Parry said. “Now come; I will protect you from the malice of the throng.”

“Well, if I must,” Bofort said, and turned as if to walk.

Then a bolt of energy lanced at Parry.

It bathed him in fire, then died. He was untouched.

“So you are braced against physical assault,” Bofort said. “But perhaps not against this.” He made a sign.

Parry held up the cross. Something struck it, invisibly, and bounced back.

“Why you cunning—Hell and damnation! Damn, damn, damn!—rascal!” Bofort exclaimed. “You used a mirror spell to send the curse back at me! There is no cure!”

“Come with me,” Parry repeated.

“I shall not—God be cursed! Lucifer be worshipped! Damn, damn, damn!—come with you, friar! The peons would—animal fornication! Black Mass! Damn, damn, damn!—tear me apart!”

“Then I shall go without you,” Parry said. “Come, Fabiola; our business here is done.”

“For the love of—damn, damn, damn!—what do you expect me to do?” Bofort cried in desperation.

“I expect you to suffer to the precise degree of those you have afflicted with this curse in the past,” Parry said. They walked from the chamber, Lord Bofort ranting behind.

— For Love of Evil, Chapter 4