BACKGROUND CHECK

by

Edward Stasheff

 

 

            "Yon lies the abbey, wizard!" the dragon roared, trying to be heard over the wind whistling past them. 

            "Excellent!  Thanks again, Stegoman!" Matt called.  "We couldn't have done this without you!"

            "'Tis nothing!  I do enjoy a visit to the Moncairians!"

            "Which has nothing to do, I'm sure," Matt muttered under his breath, "with their legendary hospitality and the beef haunch they always feed you." 

If Stegoman heard, he tactfully didn’t reply.

            Matt turned around in his seat to look at Montmartre riding the scales behind him.  The dignified old duke looked like a frightened child, eyes wide, jaw set, and clinging for dear life to one of the dragon's spine fins

            "We're landing soon!" Matt yelled, pointing at the earth.

            Montmartre gulped and nodded, his face apparently unable to decide if it wanted to be white or green.

            Stegoman swooped down in narrowing circles above the abbey, mainly to lower altitude but also to give monks below fair warning to clear the courtyard if they didn’t want to be crushed.

            The long green dragon dropped his tail and cupped his wings at the last minute, slowing and dropping to the dusty courtyard in a relatively smooth landing.  With quick movements born of long practice, Matt swung his leg over the fin and slid down Stegoman's flank to the ground.  Already the abbey porter was jogging from the abbey gatehouse toward them.

            "Well met, Lord Wizard!" the porter called, waving.

            "How did you know it was me?" Matt asked, walking forward to shake the monk's hand.

            "Who else rides upon a dragon!" the monk smiled.  "Indeed, what dragon lets himself be ridden like a horse?"

            There was a low rumbling behind them as Stegoman narrowed his eyes at the monk.

            "… as a sign of friendship and loyalty between man and the Free Folk!" the monk backpedaled furiously, then switched topics.  "Tell me, you of the most free, hath your journey hungered you?"

            Stegoman snorted, wisps of smoke drifting from his nostrils, and shot the porter a sideways glance.  Umbrage struggled with hunger.  Hunger won. 

            "Well… 'twas a long journey…" Stegoman conceded.

            "I shall summon the kitchener posthaste!" the monk declared.  "I'm sure he can quickly provide a meal for a guest of your, uh, stature."

The flattery had the desired effect, and the dragon looked appeased.  "I thank thee," Stegoman said, licking his chops and casting a covetous glance at the livestock pens, "but I appear to have something stuck to my back.  Lord Wizard, if you please?"

Matt looked up, sighed, climbed up the dragon's flank, pried Montmartre’s white-knuckled fingers off the fin he clung to, and helped lower him down.  The old man collapsed to the ground and kissed the earth, mumbling curses, oaths, and prayers, the general gist of which was that he loved the earth and only the earth, would never leave it again, and that hussy the air meant nothing to him.  Matt had to pull the duke to his feet before he initiated carnal relations. 

            "What brings you to our humble abbey, and in such haste?" the porter asked. 

            "We need to speak to the Abbot," Matt replied.

            "Then I shall lead you to him." The monk smiled.  "He is training novices to use the staff, but I'm sure he can spare time for you."

            Matt assumed the porter was referring to the weapon, not the Bishop's crook—but then again, given the Moncairians, maybe he was.  The Order of Saint Moncaire was a martial monastic order.  To take final vows as a Monk of St. Moncaire, novices had to become both priests and knights.  Fierce and devout, they had formed the backbone of the Queen's army that defeated the usurper and his sorcerer at Grellig Plain.

            Sure enough, they found the Abbot in the inner courtyard, running novices through quarterstaff training.  When he caught sight of Matt and Montmartre approaching, he passed instruction off to a young sergeant-brother and strode toward his guests.

He was a massive bear of a man, muscles on his muscles, and looked completely out of place squeezed into a monk's habit.  He sported the biggest, reddest, bushiest moustache in the northern hemisphere, framing a broad grin beneath it. "Duke Montmartre!  Sir Matthew!" he boomed.  "To what do we own the honor of your visit?"

            "Something unpleasant, I'm afraid," Montmartre said, having recovered his composure. "Sorcerers.  We're gathering information for the trial of one in Bordestang."

"Sorcerers?"  The Abbot’s cheerful face briefly fell into a scowl.  "Aye, you'll have all the help you need and more.  Just ask your favor, and I'll grant it.  But!" the Abbot said, face growing jovial again, "while we do, cross a staff with me!"

Matt blanched.  He'd managed to blunder his way through the last war thanks to his membership in the college fencing club and a YMCA boxing class back when he was a kid.  He could muddle his way through a fist or sword fight… but quarterstaffs?  Matt didn’t know a thing about them, and had been too busy to learn.  Thankfully, Montmartre saved him.

            "'Tis been a while, aye," the old man said, "but methinks one never forgets how 'tis done. Loan me a staff, and I'll meet your challenge."

            A novice appeared before the duke had even finished speaking, offering Montmartre a staff.  Apparently, everyone had been expecting (and perhaps hoping for) this.  Accepting a challenge, after all, was the only honorable thing to do. 

             Montmartre and the Abbot tapped staffs to begin the round, stepped back, and began sparring.  It was immediately clear—to Matt at least—that the Abbot was pulling his blows out of courtesy, and Montmartre was only pretending to be old and slow, holding his best moves in reserve.   

            "Now, Lord Wizard," the Abbot said almost casually over the regular cracking and whizzing of the staffs, "What would you know of me?"

            Matt pulled a rolled parchment from a scroll case. "Have you ever seen this man?" he asked, unrolling a charcoal sketch of Ortho.

            "Which man?" the Abbot asked, eyes locked on Montmartre’s staff.

            "This man," Matt said, "the one in the picture I'm holding out to you."

            The Abbot threw a quick glance a Matt.  That was all the opening Montmartre needed.  With speed no one would have guessed the old man possessed, Montmartre lunged forward, hooked the butt of his staff behind the Abbot’s knee, and pulled. The Abbot hung motionless in midair for a split second, arms pinwheeling, then thudded to the ground in a cloud of dust.  For a moment, silence reigned.  Then the Abbot burst out laughing, and everything retuned to normal. 

            "Well struck, well struck!" he said, holding out a hand for Montmartre to help him up.  "'Tis been a while for you, my eye!" he said, lunging up to his feet.  Montmartre merely smiled politely, but Matt caught the brief spark of pride in Montmartre’s eyes—the smug satisfaction only an old man could feel when putting a young whippersnapper in his place. 

            "Now Lord Wizard," the Abbot said, turning toward him, "Let me see this portrait of yours."

            "You ever seen this guy before?" Matt asked, holding the sketch out.

            The Abbot studied it for a moment.  "Aye, about twenty of them," he nodded. "Which one is this?"

Matt sighed.  Of course Ortho would fail to register's in the Abbot’s memory—he failed to register in anyone's memory.  Ortho was neither handsome nor ugly, but worse: utterly plain, average, and forgettable.

            "Well, do you remember a man named Ortho?" Matt prompted.

            "Oh!  Ortho, aye!  Yes indeed!" the Abbot smiled, nodding vigorously.  "Him, I remember.  What would you know of him?"

Matt and Montmartre locked glances briefly.  Well, that part of Ortho's story was confirmed, at least—he had been here.

            "Uh… well, everything," Matt said.  "What can you tell us about him?

            "A godsend!" the Abbot said, turning back to Montmartre and tapping staffs again.  "'Twas a refugee, a fugitive, who did appear at our gates mere days before the usurper's armies did besiege our abbey."

            Matt nodded silently.  The timetable fit.  Ortho would have arrived at the abbey less than a week after Father DuVois was killed… and the sorcerer who murdered him disappeared.

"I knew the moment I saw Ortho that he had been a soldier," the Abbot continued, parrying and riposting with almost mechanical precision.  "'Twas the way he held himself, the way he moved.  Sure enough, I was right!  He enlisted as a lay brother and foot soldier almost at once.  God had delivered one more stalwart defender to our walls!"  The Abbot was fighting more seriously now; he had underestimated his opponent and been embarrassed for it.  He needed to reclaim his honor.  "Ortho was here when you, Sir Guy, and the Queen did arrive to defend our abbey, I do believe."

            Matt's eyebrows rose slightly at that.  He hadn't known his and Ortho's lives had already intersected before they officially met.  It was a curious coincidence—except that in this universe, Matt wasn't sure anything was a coincidence.  It was much more likely to be the will of God or Satan… so which one was behind this?

The Abbot launched a series of two feints followed by a vicious strike at Montmartre’s head.  But the old man managed to parry and dodge the attack, wearing a thin smile of grim satisfaction; he'd seen that move before, and knew the counter to it.  Matt noticed that every novice's head was turned toward the duel by now.  They moved their quarterstaffs in lazy, token gestures of practice, watching the fight.

            "Ortho fought with us at Grellig Plain, too," the Abbot continued. "Second rank shield wall—but managed to survive the battle with only flesh wounds, if you can believe that!  Not a great warrior, by any means… but solid, very solid."

            Or secretly using magic to survive, Matt thought.  "So if he was just another footman," Matt asked, "why do you remember him so well?"

            "Because he did tend to the wounded after the battle, alongside the infirmarers and apothecaries, though he was wounded himself."  The Abbot scowled for a moment.  "Mind you, he had one wound before he ever joined us."

            "Oh, really?" Matt perked up.  "What happened?"

            The Abbot shrugged.  "I know not.  'Twas a gash in his side—I did assume he was waylaid by outlaws on his journey here."

            Montmartre and Matt exchanged glances.  The Abbot couldn't know it, of course, but that minor detail confirmed another aspect of Ortho's story.  The Abbot noticed Montmartre's momentary distraction and pounced on it, batting Montmartre's staff aside and jabbing the butt hard into his chest.  Montmartre staggered back and fell.

            "Well fought, well fought!" The Abbot smiled broadly, offering a hand to help Montmartre up. "Now again!  Again!"  The Abbot was enjoying himself immensely.  Matt reminded himself yet again that beneath the Abbot’s grizzled, mature exterior lived a boy of about thirteen.

            "Now, what want you of Ortho, Lord Wizard?" the Abbot asked, tapping staffs to begin yet another round. "How doth he enter into a story of sorcery most foul?"

            "Well," Matt began, "what would you say if I told you Ortho was accused of being a sorcerer and killing a priest?"

            The Abbot turned to stare at Matt with an expression that was simultaneously incredulous and skeptical.  Montmartre's staff cracked into the Abbot’s chest, but he hardly seemed to notice.  He knocked Montmartre's staff away with the casual gesture of a man swatting a fly. 

"I would say you must needs have the wrong man!" the Abbot declared.  "Half the men in Merovence look like yon portrait.  Ortho is no more a sorcerer than I!"
            "And why do you say that?"  Matt asked.

            "Because no sorcerer can enter holy ground," the Abbot answered, turning back to the quarterstaff match.  "We did use our chapel for an overflow infirmary after the battle, and Ortho did cross in and out all day long."

            "He could have been a repentant sorcerer," Matt pointed out.

            "Aye, could be—but doubtful."  The Abbot’s swings became faster, fiercer—the accusation clearly angered him.  "Not this man."  The Abbot shook his head.  "He did feel too much guilt and shame for something, for whenever he was not working, he was praying or confessing.  No sorcerer hath ever shown so much remorse—nor, methinks, ever could."  A vicious blow knocked Montmartre's staff clear out of his hands, and the Abbot pivoted to sweep a kick at the old man's ankles, toppling him to the ground again.  

            "Mind you, 'twould not surprise me to learn he had the Gift," the Abbot continued, turning to Matt.  "Those under his care did heal amazingly fast—but if so, he must needs be a wizard, not a sorcerer!"  The Abbot turned to help Montmartre to his feet, thanked him for the bout with a little bow, and set aside his staff.  He'd won best out of three, and was apparently satisfied with that.  Montmartre couldn't quite suppress a look of relief. 

            "Indeed, Ortho had more of the monk than the villain about him," the Abbot declared, turning back to Matt.  "He knew the prayer schedule of the monastery—Matins, Laud, Prime, Vespers, Compline—and knew every Latin psalm by heart.  A soldier and a monk!"  The Abbot suddenly grinned broadly.  "Aye, that is why I do remember him so well, Sir Matthew—I never forget a possible recruit for the Moncairian Order!  Had he not left without warning, I'd have him here in russet this moment!  Now, Lord Wizard, what else would you know of Ortho?"  The Abbot had clearly closed off the topic; he would hear no more words against Ortho. 

            "Well, uh… that about wraps up the questions about Ortho," Matt said, mentally switching gears.  "We've got other questions, though…" Matt paused, wondering how he could phrase the next question in a way that wasn't leading.

            "Did priests fleeing Astaulf's reign pass through your abbey?"  Montmartre asked, breathing heavily.

            Well, Matt thought, exasperated, so much for subtlety.

            "Aye, I believe so," the Abbot agreed. 

            "And were any of them fleeing from the Bloodhounds?"

            Great! Matt thought.  Now we're leading the witness!

            "Mmm."  The Abbot’s face darkened slightly at the mention of Malingo's sorcerer teams tasked with hunting down and corrupting or killing priests.  "That I know not.  But I know one who might."  He turned back toward the practicing novices.  "Brother Gilbert!" he called.

The sergeant-brother who had taken over training the novices immediately laid down his staff and jogged toward them.  

            "Brother Gilbert found accommodations in the guest house for such fugitive priests," the Abbot explained.  "If anyone knows their stories, 'twould be him.  Good man, Gilbert," the Abbot said thoughtfully.  "He'll make Squire in three or four years, I doubt not.  Wouldn't be surprised if he gets knighted—not surprised at all!"

            In other words, Matt thought, interpreting the subtext of the Abbot’s words, don't question his honesty.

            Matt studied the novice as he approached.  He was a pair of shoulders attached to a man in a brown robe, his face open and honest with the energy and joy of the young and the zealous.  But Matt was most struck by this age—he was a teenager, sixteen at best.  If he was well on his way to being a Knight and Monk, then he must have joined the Moncairians when he was just a boy.

The young brother trotted up and bowed obediently.

"Brother Gilbert," the Abbot said, "May I introduce the Duke Montmartre and Her Majesty's Wizard."

The boy's eyes widened, and he bowed again, more deeply this time.  "Your Lordships!" he exclaimed.  "How may this humble servant of God assist you?"

"We understand you know something of the priests fleeing the usurper’s reign who did arrive at your gates," Montmartre began.

"Aye, milord." Gilbert nodded.

"Were any of them fleeing Malingo's Bloodhounds?"

"Aye, milord, half a dozen at least."

            "And how did they manage to escape the Bloodhounds?" Montmartre asked.

            "Well, in most cases, the Frank warned them," Gilbert said.

 “Wait… who?” Matt said.

“The Frank,” Gilbert answered.

“His name was Frank?” the Abbot asked, brow furrowed.

“Nay, he was a Frank," Gilbert clarified.

"Hold on, I'm confused," Matt said, holding up his hands. "Who the heck is Frank?"

"The man who did warn the priests to flee, ere the Bloodhounds found them," Gilbert explained.  "We never did learn his name, you see.  He dared not warn priests in person, for fear one might identify him, under torture, as a traitor to Astaulf's reign.  In truth, only one priest ever even saw the man!" 

"So if he never actually met the priests," Matt asked, "then how did he warn them?"

            "With notes," Gilbert answered simply.  "All know that clergy can read, you see.  So the priests did receive a letter warning them to flee, that the Bloodhounds were coming."

            "Yeah, but most people don't know how to write," Matt pointed out.  "So that pretty much limits this 'Frank' to the clergy or gentry."

            "Or scribes," Montmartre added softly.

            "Well… aye, now that you mention it," Gilbert said, slowly nodding.  "In truth, that never crossed my mind… but yes, I suppose it must be so."

"Yet you say one man did see the Frank, yes?"  Montmartre pressed.  "How did that happen?"

Gilbert looked down.  "Well… in truth, it was the letters that forced the Frank to show himself the only time he ever did," Gilbert said softly.

"I'm not following you," Matt shook his head.  "How did a letter force him to appear in person?"

"For that the simple country priest he did try to warn with a letter…" Gilbert shifted uncomfortably, staring at his feet.  "Well, the good father could not read."

"A problem the church seeks to rectify, mind you," the Abbot interjected quickly, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable.  "But with so few who can read the Good Book… and so many parishes in need of a priest… well, these things do happen, Lord Wizard."

This was clearly a sensitive issue for the Moncairians.  Matt figured the best course of action was to ignore it and push on.  "So then this 'Frank' had to warn the priest in person… right?" Matt asked.

"Aye."  Gilbert nodded.  "He did wake the priest in the black of night and tell him to flee.  And he was right, for the Bloodhounds were in the village by morning."  Gilbert shuddered.  "This good father said his rescuer never revealed his name, but was clearly of Frankish descent, for he was dark of hair and eye, fair of skin, narrow of face, and had a little Frankish accent.”

Matt and Montmartre exchanged glances.  That was a perfect description of Ortho—and a thousand other men, unfortunately.

The young novice paused, then shrugged.  “Over time, we of St. Moncaire simply began calling him ‘the Frank.’  T’was as good a name as any, I suppose.”

"So…" Matt said, moving on.  "How did this ‘Frank’ know the Bloodhounds were coming?"

"Who can say?" Gilbert shrugged. "Mayhap he was one of Astaulf's soldiers, or a county bailiff, or a shire reeve.  Perhaps even a nobleman!  For there were rumors, mind you, of barons and knights who did secretly work against Astaulf's reign while pretending to support it."

"Could the Frank have been one of Malingo's sorcerers, you think?" Matt asked.

"Nay," Gilbert said, shaking his head firmly.  "That I doubt."

"Someone infiltrating the Bloodhounds, then using their position to warn priests that sorcerers were closing in on them?" Matt asked.  "Why do you doubt that?"

"Why, because… because he…" the young brother was at a loss for words.  He looked to Abbot for guidance, but the bear of a man only frowned back at him, equally stumped.  Matt could practically hear their thoughts: Was that even possible?

Yet Matt suspected he understood.  To a medieval mind, the idea of entering the den of sin and depravity that was sorcery and not being corrupted by it was beyond imagination.

To them, perhaps.  But not to Matthew.

True, it would require a rare person.  Someone, for example, with the piety of a monk, the courage of a soldier, and the analytical mind of a bureaucrat. 

"Thank you, Lord Abbot, Brother Gilbert," Matt bowed.  "I think we have all we need for now."

"Wouldst you speak for Ortho's defense at his trial?" Montmartre asked the two monks.

"Aye," they said in unison.

"It’s the day after tomorrow," Matt said.  "Think you can get to Bordestang in time?"

"We shall be on the road before dawn tomorrow," the Abbot said firmly.

The four men went through the typical parting pleasantries, then Matt and Montmartre turned to head back across the courtyard toward Stegoman.

Montmartre waited until the monks were out of earshot.  "Ortho is Frankish," he murmured softly, "though he tries to hide his accent."

"So are at least half the men in Merovence," Matt replied.

They walked for a moment in silence.

"The Abbot did recognize Ortho's portrait," Montmartre pointed out.

"And said it looked like twenty other men," Matt answered.

"How else would Ortho know the story of the Frank?"  Montmartre demanded.

"Because he was a Bloodhound," Matt sighed.  "They probably knew about the Frank—and, for all we know, caught and killed him long ago," he explained.  "If Ortho knew enough about the Frank, he could impersonate him long enough to save his own skin."

Montmartre stopped and turned to face Matt, face angry.  "What will it take to convince you, Wizard!?" he demanded.   

Matt stopped and turned to the old man.  "It's not me you have to convince," he said.  "It's the angry villagers whose priest was murdered—and that'll be hard, very hard!  I'm only asking the questions they'll ask."  Matt resumed walking.  "All we have right now is… well, what in my world would be called "circumstantial evidence"—hearsay and eyewitness accounts.  But the eye can be fooled, Montmartre, memory mistaken, and… well, people lie."

"But they dare not question the word of a monk!" Montmartre exclaimed.

"I'm not so sure about that," Matt said slowly.  He was remembering a certain Father Brunel, administering the Eucharist to the shriven witch Sayeesa—and the peasant mob screaming to hang them both.  "What we really need," Matt continued, "is proof—a solid chain of hard evidence that can't be denied or argued with, that points to a single, irrefutable truth.  Hopefully, that truth will be what Ortho told us… but, well…"

"Ah, I see," Montmartre said, nodding in sudden understanding. "You must needs prove it to yourself first."

"Uh… well…" Matt looked down.  "Yeah… I suppose so."

"Then let us do so," Montmartre declared.  "Where to next, Wizard?"

"To the part of the story that doesn’t make sense," Matt said with a shrug.  "Why would someone trying to save priests suddenly kill one?"

They lapsed into silence as they approached Stegoman, a dozing coil of green scales next to a pile of bones picked clean, sleeping off a food coma.  How, exactly, does one waken a sleeping dragon without becoming charcoal?

Thankfully, Stegoman peeled open one bleary eye and stared at them.  "So soon, Sir Matthew?"

"I'm afraid so," Matt answered.  "We’ve got a lot to do, and not much time to do it in."

"Oh, very well," the dragon answered grumpily, picking himself up and stretching his long serpentine back. "Where would ye go next, Wizard?"

"To western Languedoc, near Toulouse," Matt answered, climbing up Stegoman's side.  "To the village of Monteville, where Father DuVois was murdered."

 

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