Daughter of Mystery (30 page)

She wished even more that Barbara’s strict propriety would allow her to join them at the long empty table. Hadn’t she said that she’d shared the baron’s table on occasion when they were informal at home? But the farthest she would unbend was on those rare occasions when Aunt Bertrut went out alone and Barbara would consent to share a supper sent in to the library while they studied.

But Uncle-to-be Pertinek had fallen into the habit of dining at Tiporsel House on any evening when they stayed in, always accompanied by one of his cousins for form’s sake. It brought a sense of family back into her life. He was witty and well-read and seemed genuinely interested in her studies. It was easy to see why Aunt Bertrut thought they would suit.

* * *

It was one of those cozy dinners, on a rainy night that made her glad to have skipped the opera. An unusually long delay before the serving of the fish course was explained by the butler’s harried, “Maisetra, your presence is requested downstairs. Barbara…there’s been an accident.”

Her heart skipped a beat at the possible events that word might cover. Even as Aunt Bertrut was asking “What—?” she was up and making her excuses to the guests.

As she followed Ponivin quickly down the back stairs toward a noise not quite rising to uproar he reassured her, “She’s in no serious danger but I’ve sent for a surgeon.”

In the next few seconds a cascade of images passed through her mind. Thrown by a horse—no, there was no place she would have been going today that would be far enough to ride. The night was dark with the storm and windy—a carriage accident? Timbers blown down from a building?

Barbara was seated close by the hearth in the servants’ common room, soaking wet and hunched over to clutch her ribs while a splash of blood trickled out from under the cloth pressed to the side of her head by one of the grooms. As Margerit entered she struggled to rise but was held none too gently down in the chair.

Margerit flew to her side. “What happened? Where—?” She turned back to Ponivin. “You sent for a surgeon—who? Delecroix?”

“Not him,” Barbara said thickly. “Muller. He does for Perret when there are accidents at the academy. Army surgeon. Knows what to do with a scratch.”

“Scratch!” She knew Barbara was making light of it for her sake, but there was so much blood. “How bad is it?” She directed the question at the groom, figuring that would get her more truth.

“Hard to say, Maisetra. Scalp wounds always bleed like a stuck pig. But I didn’t see any bone, so—”

“Hold your tongue, man!” Ponivin ordered and he fell silent.

Margerit knelt where she could see Barbara’s face more clearly. “What happened? Who was it? That same man?”

She began to nod, then evidently thought better of moving her head. “Him and three or four of his friends.” She told the story in short, clipped fragments. “I had to jump and wade the last bit—that’s where all the water comes from.” Her jaw was clattering by the end of the speech.

And no one had thought to get her out of the wet clothes. Margerit began barking orders. Hot blankets. Build the fire. When she began unfastening Barbara’s coat the groom hastily handed over his position to the least squeamish of the kitchen maids as Ponivin shooed the male servants out of the room.

The sodden clothing had been replaced by blankets by the time the surgeon pushed his way through the crowd outside the door. He took in the scene at a glance and set to work. His first words to her were, “If you mean to swoon, get out now. If not, make yourself useful and bring me as much light as you can manage.”

He grilled Barbara on her injuries then pulled back the blankets to poke and prod the places she had been holding close. Margerit felt a flash of outraged modesty but Barbara seemed not to care. She looked so thin and fragile like this: near-naked and bereft of her usual driving energy.

“Not broken, but cracked perhaps,” Muller said. “Some sort of club? Well, cracked is likely. Now let’s see about sewing this up.”

Enough hands were required for the process that Margerit found herself holding the lamp, though she had to look away once he had begun. By the end, she suspected she was nearly as pale and shaking as Barbara was, though with less cause.

The surgeon took her aside as he washed his hands and tools afterward. “She guards for you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Not for the next couple of weeks, she doesn’t. The ribs should heal well enough if she stays quiet but watch out that cut doesn’t fester. Heads are a bad business. Have someone sit up with her this first night. If she starts breathing oddly, try to wake her. Give her as much broth as she’ll take down—nothing solid until I’ve seen her again tomorrow. And give her a drop or two of this in each cup.” He handed her a small vial from his bag. “I’d say only if she needs it for the pain but her sort never admit to that, so just give it to her anyway. I’ll be back tomorrow sometime.”

“Wait,” Margerit asked as he gathered up his things. “What about…are there any charms, any mysteries that would help the healing?”

His face was tired when he answered her. “You’d probably know better than I would. They say a prayer to Benedict helps against the fever and I suppose it can’t hurt. I’ll put her in my prayers but I don’t deal in charms. I’ll stick to the work of my hands and leave that sort of thing to you.”

* * *

Barbara was too exhausted to protest when she was carried as a limp burden up to her room. While she was being made comfortable, Margerit sought out her aunt. The dinner guests were long since gone.

“I’m sorry for leaving you alone. Did Ponivin explain? It all got so busy I forgot to send word.”

“He told us something,” she answered. “But…Margerit, your dress!”

She looked down. No point in asking the housemaids to try to get those stains out. “Never mind, it’s only a dress. Aunt, I’m going to sit up over Barbara tonight—the surgeon suggested it. So don’t expect to see me in the morning.”

“Surely someone else could—”

“No,” she interrupted, “they can’t. This is my responsibility.”

Not alone, of course. Some unlucky girl would draw the lot of popping in every few hours to bring a fresh tray and make sure the fire was kept going. But Margerit claimed the right to sit at Barbara’s bedside and hold the cup for her to sip and talk softly while she tossed and moaned trying to find a less painful position to sleep.

Muller’s drug seemed to do its work eventually and she fell quiet for several long hours. Margerit prayed—to God, to Saint Benedict, to everyone—and for the first time wished she knew all the little charms and rhymes that every dairymaid and scullery girl seemed to learn. Against burns, against the scab, against bleeding, against the wet cough, against the cramp. She’d always considered them little better than fortunetelling, but what good were grand cathedral mysteries when what you needed was to close the cut of a knife? Barbara looked so pale. Another hour passed, then there was wakefulness and pain once more. More broth, more drug.

Sleep failed to come this time and to distract them both, Margerit began asking questions—meaningless everyday things at first. Why was the house named Tiporsel? For the crest of the first owner carved over the gate. You could still trace the outlines of the bears in the worn stone. Who had it belonged to before the baron purchased it? She didn’t know. The drug slowed her answers but not her wits. What would the garden look like in the spring? Rows of tulips and daffodils lining the paths. It was left rather wild down by the landing because of the floods. In summer the lavender filled the air, but the household was rarely there in summer. And then the question that had been teasing at Margerit ever since the evening they first met. “How did it happen that you became my godfather’s duelist?”

Barbara closed her eyes and for a while Margerit thought she might have fallen asleep again. The story, when it came, chilled her. “I was…oh, eleven? Twelve? Barely of an age when the first signs of womanhood might appear. Estefen had newly decided he was a man. And he had decided that his uncle’s possessions were his to play with. I was lucky—someone happened by before it went too far and the baron took matters in hand. He gave me a choice. He would order that I was never to be alone with Estefen and he would make sure that I was always protected. Or he would have me taught to fight and I would have his authority to do whatever I needed to protect myself. I chose the second.

“My teacher—this was my first teacher, not Perret—my first teacher was a thug who specialized in dark alleys and tavern brawls. The next time Estefen laid a hand on me I nearly killed him. He’s never forgiven me for that. I couldn’t have done it a second time at that age; surprise is a powerful weapon. But once was enough. When the baron saw that, he put me in training for an armin.

“I was just a girl. I worked hard—I always worked hard for him. But what he saw at first wasn’t strength or even skill but the sheer bloody-mindedness necessary to kill a man if that was what the moment called for.” She opened her eyes but stared off at the ceiling rather than meeting her gaze.

“People don’t understand. It isn’t about being strong. I’m not—not compared to most men. Nine times out of ten, being an armin is just a matter of being there. And in that tenth time, nine times of ten it’s your wits that win the day. I’ve only ever killed two men: one for him and one for you. And the one for him was more a matter of honor than protection. But when I had to, that’s what I did. That’s what keeps you safe. This—” She reached up to touch the bandage on her head and winced. “This wasn’t about you. This was someone telling me ‘I want something from you and I can hurt you if I don’t get it.’ I made a mistake. I thought they only meant to scare me. Now I know better.” She was quiet again for a while and this time her breathing slipped into the slower cadence of sleep.

Margerit rubbed a hand across her cheek to smooth away the moisture there. She had always thought there was something silly about the obsession Barbara put into her training. The near-daily lessons. The repetitive drills, alone in her room, when she could be studying or resting. She’d never wondered what it might take to keep yourself at that edge of readiness every moment of every day. And all to keep someone else safe with no shield left for yourself. No shield…but there were other kinds of shields.

She picked up the notebook she had been studying before to pass the time and turned to the section where she had been analyzing Saint Mauriz’s ritual. There was one section that she had traced back to an ancient
lorica
quoted in Pontis. Only the words were there, but
loricas
had a typical shape and form and Antuniet had shown her the way. She might not have the original mystery, but she could build a new one. She glanced over at the medallion of Saint Margerit that she’d been fingering during her prayers. Mauriz had been a soldier and the symbols of armor came naturally for him. Margerit had survived attacks as well—though it wasn’t part of her usual patronage. She knew all the standard mysteries for her namesake. There were parts that could be interwoven into the
lorica
easily. The first step was a fair copy of the text with room to note her experiments. There was a pen and ink on the table and a third of the night yet to fill.

In the hour just before dawn, at the twentieth variant, the
charis
rose up under her hands as she invoked the saints’ names. She watched in awe as it spread in a golden shell to cover Barbara’s sleeping form. And then, with the final words of the prayer, it coalesced around her, sinking in past the bedclothes to form a second skin just under the fleshly one—a breastplate and shield to keep her safe from harm.

Margerit stared at her hands as if they belonged to someone else. A wave of exhaustion passed over her—and no wonder; she’d been awake the night through. But this—this was what Fortunatus hinted at. This was what Gaudericus struggled to describe. This was what had built Tanfrit’s reputation. She had created a new mystery and called on Saint Mauriz and Saint Margerit and they had answered her and lent their grace to her will. And now that she’d done it once, she could do it again. From now on, whether she knew it or not, Barbara would no longer be standing alone against her enemies.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Barbara

The surgeon had ordered she was to do nothing until he had come again, so Barbara decided to be up and about as usual by that time. But even leaving the bed for necessary things left her with a pounding headache and every movement clutched her ribs like an iron band where the bruise was taking on the color of raw liver. She had woken at dawn, groggy and suspicious of the surgeon’s remedies, to find Margerit curled asleep in a chair at her side. Some of the night came back clearly; other parts were blurred.

The day dragged out in fretful inactivity and she tormented the housemaid who came to see to her needs until Margerit returned, still yawning and pale, to scold her and require obedience.

“You aren’t going downstairs today, so there’s no point in demanding help to do so. If there’s anything I need, Marken is here full time for the moment.”

That was hardly what she wanted to hear. She slapped at the bedclothes in frustration and winced at the effort. “There’s no need for that. I’ll be up and about by tomorrow for certain.”

Margerit stood over her, making her feel like a petulant child. “You won’t be on watch until you’re properly healed.”

“But you don’t understand,” Barbara burst out. “This had nothing to do with you. I won’t let it interfere with my duty.”

Margerit stared at her in bewilderment. “Nothing to do with me? Anything that happens to you has to do with me.”

“No.” Barbara fumbled to explain. “I mean, I had no right to be injured on my own business and deprive you—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Margerit interrupted. She sat down on the edge of the bed. Barbara looked away, uncomfortable at the scrutiny. “Something you said before, about not crossing the line. Is that…did he know he could push you into that trap last night? Because you were afraid—not afraid, but reluctant to defend yourself from the start? Because it wasn’t in my defense?”