Daughter of Mystery (43 page)

Barbara grinned to herself at the thought of Margerit proposing new mysteries to that august and learned body. “Best not to count on it.”

“True,” Margerit agreed, not seeing the grin. “And I’d rather not wait that long. I’ve had another thought: a petition that they stop their ears against those who wish harm on others. If Hennis hasn’t acted yet, that might make the counter even stronger.”

“And thwart every local busybody who’s praying for his neighbor’s milk to sour!” she laughed. “I think you reach too far with that one.”

* * *

It took half a day casting about and asking directions to come upon a village church not too far off their path that would serve Margerit’s purposes. An offering that halved their remaining funds convinced the priest that Margerit had a great deal of prayer to do that required a day of quiet and solitude. For it wasn’t enough to perform the mystery she had worked out in her head. Margerit insisted on a full study: testing and adjusting and observing, until she felt the work was perfected. Barbara could only watch as Margerit gazed around, tracking and commenting on the visions only she could see, and then chime in with her own parts and choruses as directed.

But when they came at last to the true celebration, even she could feel a change in the air of the chapel: a movement, a soundless hush as if the stones themselves had paused to take note of their words. A prickle ran down her spine. It wasn’t that she had ever doubted, but this…this she could truly believe.

For the rest of the journey they stopped at any church they passed and repeated the rite. It was a little thing, really. No more than a quarter of an hour from start to finish. The sense of hearkening that Barbara had felt was never repeated but it didn’t matter. The saints had heard them, she was certain of it.

* * *

They both walked, the last day. The horse had cast a shoe and with no money left to pay a smith and no desire to lame the beast, they left him with a farmer with the agreement that the horse was his if they never returned to redeem its keep. He’d offered a wagon ride a few miles down the road into the bargain and Barbara was grateful for the chance to blend in. These were Saveze lands and she had been through them often enough on the baron’s business—though never on foot in the now bedraggled gown of a lady’s maid. There was hardly any need for further disguise. Soon enough they were climbing the stony path up to the convent gate.

The heavy iron knocker might as well have been just for show. Visitors could be seen well before they approached the entrance and the door opened just as Barbara reached for the ring. An elderly woman in the gray and black of the order looked from one to the other of them and asked, “Now which one of you would be Margerit Sovitre?”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Margerit

Margerit’s first thought was to panic but even if word of the charges had gone ahead of them it should make no difference to their reception here. The portress smiled at her startled reaction but misread the reason. “No, I’ve had no vision of your arrival. There’s a letter come for you. The Mother Abbess has asked me to bring you to her immediately on arrival.”

They were allowed to wash and tidy themselves first, but beyond such niceties evidently the orders were firm. They were taken to an austere but cozy sitting room and, having made their courtesies, the letter was put into her hands.

She recognized the direction immediately as LeFevre’s hand although the heavy wax seal was not one she had ever seen him use. When she broke it there was a brief flash of
visitatio
. To protect the seal? She had read of such things being used by royal scribes but it seemed excessive for a simple letter. She beckoned Barbara to join her and spread out the page on the table between them.

Maisetra
, it began with no other salutation.
If Barbara has remembered my advice and if all the heavens are watching over you, this should find you safely. If not, then I pray God keep you wherever you may be. Do not reply to this letter. I will know if it comes into your hands and that will suffice.

So that had been the mystery woven into the seal. Had it recognized her hands specifically? She tucked away the curiosity for later.

I send it now when there is news to tell but they have not yet thought to put a close watch on me. I think I will not dare to write again until this matter is settled.

And what did he know of the matter? She scanned ahead impatiently and then returned to continue reading.

All your people are well and safe for the moment although your aunt is greatly distressed as you may imagine. I do not know what came to pass at your guildhall, but the charge that has been raised is treason. And as the charge was raised by Estefen Chazillen—

She noticed that he, like Barbara, still balked at giving him the title of the man they had served so long.

—
I suspect it was a trap laid for you in some fashion. Barbara can tell you of the reasons for thinking this. But his plan misfired when you escaped. No clear proof has yet been offered and treason cannot be judged in absence. If you return, it must not be until you are ready and able to defend yourself and demonstrate his guilt. Chazillen has already overplayed his hand. He tried to seize Tiporsel House but Mesner Pertinek laid claim of hearth-right
—

She looked at Barbara questioningly who responded, “It’s complicated. A nobleman can extend certain immunities to the place he resides.”

—
and called the prince as witness to uphold it. Chazillen has the backing of Princess Elisebet as you may have guessed and there are men in her livery who were seen leaving the city on your trail. I pray you will be safe. Do not leave Saint Orisul’s unless you can answer the charges. And do not return, under any circumstances, until you have come of age and you both are free to act on your own behalf, no matter what news you may hear. I have no confidence in your guardians when the game is played at this level. Trust Barbara; she knows the law. And tell Barbara to remember the spotted pony. Your servant, René LeFevre.

Margerit sat still, letting the content of LeFevre’s message settle into her understanding. Some parts were a complete mystery, others told little new but confirmed much they had suspected. So Aunt Bertrut was safe for now. Her library, her papers were safe. And if the breaking of the seal had sent a message, then LeFevre could pass that message along to the others.

The abbess waited patiently until Margerit met her gaze once more and said, “We ask for sanctuary. Is there something…a proper form we must follow in asking? Do we—?”

“No, child,” she answered. “It’s enough to say it to me. I won’t ask how long you wish to stay—” she began.

Margerit interrupted. “We don’t know.” She turned to Barbara who shrugged. “We need to…to solve some problems and—”

The woman held up a hand to stop her. “I don’t need to know what brings you here. But if you plan to stay for some time, then you need to know what we expect of you. You will lodge in the strangers’ dormitory. There are only a few guests at this time.”

Margerit felt a sharp disappointment, but what had she expected: a private apartment? The list of rules was short and not onerous. They were not to leave the grounds. They were expected to attend ordinary daily services but need not rise for the nighttime ones. They were expected to share in the daily work of the convent. And beyond that they were free of the place, including the gardens and the library. That was welcome news to hear. But of course there would be a library; the school at Saint Orisul’s was famous.

They were shown to the dormitory and given clean, plain clothes of the sort the secular students at the convent school wore. The guesthouse was built to house considerably more visitors than it held at the moment. There was a woman come to deliver her daughter to the school—she would be leaving soon. Two had come for some unrevealed spiritual purpose. There was an elderly pensioner who clearly had settled in to spend the remainder of her life. Margerit looked around at the available beds and went to place her small bundle of possessions on one at the end of the room.

“Maisetra,” Barbara said in her even professional voice. “Might I suggest one of the beds closer to the fire? I expect mornings will be cold.”

Margerit barely heard the question. “Barbara, have I done something wrong again? Why the ‘Maisetra’?”

Barbara looked around, then pitched her voice low for only the two of them. “Margerit, we aren’t private anymore. Not here. I need to give you the…the respect of your position. For them. For the others who will hear it. And I need to do it all the time or I’ll forget.” She leaned closely and Margerit felt her warm breath in her ear as she whispered, “When I say ‘Maisetra’ to you, it means ‘beloved.’ Always remember that.”

* * *

They met the community as a whole for the first time at the evening meal. In addition to the sisters and the few guests there were two groups of girls distinguished mostly by dress: the secular students, brought to take advantage of the convent’s reputation for scholarship, as well as for the practical benefit of being removed from worldly temptations and hazards; and the postulants, learning alongside them but destined to take the veil. Margerit noticed something odd and in the brief period between the prayers and the reading, when ordinary conversation was allowed, she asked her neighbor, “Most of the sisters seem to be, well, older. But I see postulants and novices in plenty—what happens to them?”

The woman smiled. “We’re a teaching order. After training for a while here they go out to our daughter houses to teach in the schools for a time.”

“I know about the teaching,” Margerit said. “My governess, Sister Petrunel, was of your order.”

“Petrunel? She’s in charge of the school at Eskor now, you know. Yes, some go out as tutors or governesses—it provides a great deal of our income. But that’s for an age of steadiness and maturity. It wouldn’t do at all for the younger women to be living in the world like that. Ah, the reading starts, we must be silent.”

When the meal was at an end, the two new arrivals were called up to the abbess’s table to be made known to the community at large, but as they approached, there was a sudden cry from the end of the table. An old woman—Margerit judged from her wrinkles and frailty she might be past eighty—fixed the two with a look of childlike delight and exclaimed, “Lissa and Bezza! You’ve come back! How kind of you to visit your old teacher.”

Their escort whispered, “She means nothing by it. Sister Anna’s mind has been wandering of late.”

But after the introduction had been made, Margerit ventured, “My mother…she was a student here once. And I think she was sometimes called Bezza—Elisebet Fulpi she was then. They say I am very much like her in appearance. Do you think…?”

The abbess nodded thoughtfully. “Sister Anna would likely have been here in the house at that time. Perhaps she does see your mother in your face. She comes and goes through time, these days. Sometimes she’s a girl again, sometimes she becomes lost at the door to eternity. We pray that she will find her path easily.”

Barbara stepped forward, staring at Sister Anna in fierce concentration. “You put a name to me too,” she said, almost to herself. And then she dropped to kneel before the old woman and grasped her hands. “Lissa—who is Lissa? Who did you see in my face?”

The nun looked around and moved restlessly. “Lissa? I don’t know any Lissa.”

But Barbara wouldn’t be put off. “Was Lissa
my
mother?”

“Mother,” she repeated vaguely. Then, “Mother—why did you leave me here, Mother? Why don’t you visit me anymore?” It was the voice of a lost child.

Margerit took Barbara by the shoulder and pulled her away. “Let her be. Who knows whether she meant anything by it.”

But Barbara turned to her with the same fierce look. “‘Lissa and Bezza’ she said. And your mother was Bezza. She said them as if the names went together.”

But there was no more sense to be had from Sister Anna that evening and they were left to spin what-if tales between them as they lay closely together that night. That, at least, was allowed to them by the customs of the guesthouse. And if they were quiet and discreet, then after the lamps were out they might exchange caresses that made up for the distance maintained in daylight.

* * *

Margerit had heard the requirement that they share in the daily work of the convent with some trepidation. Her life had fitted her for very little of a practical nature. She knew how to dance and do fine embroidery but not how to mend torn clothing. She could plan and preside over a dinner party but not cook one. And she’d never come closer to housecleaning than knowing which of the servants owned each task to be done. She was willing, though she suspected they would find her of very little use. But when she laid out the matter to the sister who took them in charge the next morning, she was met by amusement.

“I don’t think it will be necessary for you to scrub floors. I see by your fingers that you do a bit of writing.”

Margerit reflexively hid her right hand under the other as if it had been Aunt Bertrut scolding her once again. Realizing what she’d done, she held up her fingers where even two weeks on the road had failed to erase the ink stains entirely. “More than a bit. I was studying at the university.”

“We can always find a use for someone with a neat hand. And as you’re a scholar, perhaps you might assist the teachers as well, if you have the skill.”

Margerit hastened to add, “Barbara is a scholar too, for all that she’s my armin.” It had occurred to her that they might not see past Barbara’s station when assigning work.

Barbara herself ventured, “Might there be something to be done with your archives and records?” She explained, “I want to search…to see what I can learn about the Lissa that Sister Anna mentioned. What better way to find my way around them than to help with the clerking?”

“There may not be a Lissa,” the sister cautioned. “Last month she was telling us stories about the time she spent at court—all imagined. Or rather, you will likely find dozens of Lissas—it often seems like half our girls are named Elisebet.”