“But I believe you might be safe,” he says, sounding hopeful. “Eltz is mostly surrounded by the river, with one side exposed to the forest.”
“What will
that
do to protect us?” My voice bears no reverence, and the bishop stares at me, dumbfounded. I assume he wants to say something that would make me ashamed and fear God, or both, but I see he bites his tongue, for I am in a position he is not. I stand to become Electorate of Eltz one day, and if Plague is on the horizon, with my father slowly deteriorating, that day could come sooner than either of us realizes.
He turns his back to me and faces the altar. His hand touches his forehead, chest, then shoulders, then meets the other and tents in prayer in front of him. I’ve offended him. Just as I am about to say something I hope will make amends, he changes the subject.
“I trust you are aware of necessary tactical maneuvers, Laurentz? This is your second year in your father’s Guard, is it not?”
“It’s my third.” I wait for him to turn around, curious that he would discuss military strategies at a time like this. “You speak of the feuds?”
My father taught me several things—never let your guard down, be civil with your neighbor, and stock the Keep. Feuding between territories is as rampant as the wind that rushes through the Black Forest, and like the forest, you should never turn your back upon it. I feel the presence of the door behind me and wonder if I should excuse myself and make my way back. My father worked hard to establish amicable ties with Pyrmont; surely this news will weigh heavily upon him.
“In a way, it is a type of feud, one I firmly believe is responsible for the fall of many places, Pyrmont included,” he says.
My mind whirls as the soldier inside me begins to organize all there is to do. If there is a band of vagrants unleashing infection upon the strongest of sovereigns, being prepared is of utmost priority. I mentally ready myself for the tasks ahead—alert my father, the Guard, the servants, and pray the knowledge the bishop has given me will keep Eltz from succumbing.
The air in the chapel is heavy and the bishop’s information warrants telling my father immediately, yet he makes no attempt to leave so I can do so. Instead, the bishop moves slowly, and I wonder if he really believes Eltz stands a chance against the affliction. Perhaps he is reluctant to face whatever lies outside.
“Disease and famine have made their mark on Bavaria in the past, and so they shall again. But mind you, Laurentz, nobility has always prevailed.”
He is telling me this so I won’t worry, but I can’t help hearing how his tone has changed from that of a nervous, fearful man to one who speaks as if he has a plan. He paces back and forth before the pulpit, his knuckles bone-white as his hands clutch the cloth.
“The villages surrounding the region are tainted.” His voice is low and secretive. “They harbor all manner of contagion and are responsible for many of the afflictions upon this world. Forgive me for being so bold, Laurentz, but you are well aware of the difference between nobility and the
rest of them
.”
“
Them
?”
“Certainly you understand your place in this world, my young Lord, and that the Church has always protected those with souls worth saving.”
My eyebrows arch at the words that hang in the air between us.
“It is my understanding that the Church protects
all
souls, does it not?” I make no measure to hide my surprise at his implications of how degraded the villages are. I have grown up knowing my place, knowing
theirs
. Peasantry is not admirable, not by any means, but it should be respected, as should all forms of life. But to hear it spoken out loud, by this man especially, fills this space with the strangest of emotions. I may have grown to be bitter about things—my father, the death of my family, what the future holds for me—but I certainly do not hate the world and wish harm to befall anyone in it.
“What exactly are you saying?” My question implies challenge, and by the grave expression his face holds, I see he is up for it. He plumps around his thighs the fabric that nearly drowns him, seats himself in the first pew, and gestures for me to join him. He studies my expression, and then tells me, “You look like your brother.”
I find this hard to believe, because my brother never reached eighteen. He never had the chance to bear scars of disappointment, or of death. He never carried what felt like the weight of the world upon his young shoulders or faced bitterness from the one he pledged to serve.
“You’ve been through your share of dark times, haven’t you, my boy?” he says, making up for the strange silence when I don’t answer him. “I am afraid to say there will be dark times ahead as well, but it’s best to be prepared.”
I give a nod, for preparation is what I’ve already begun to do, and I cannot quite understand why we are sitting here, speaking of things I’d like to forget, when there is so much at stake. The look on my face sparks a light behind his dark eyes, as if I’ve just opened a gate that he is now eager to lead me through.
“There is a source for all the wrong in the world, an evil that gives birth to all other evil. Darkness is a sneaky thing hiding among us, undetected. The sooner we stop it, the sooner we will all be saved.”
“You mean to say there is something more than the Plague?” I ask.
He leans forward and looks into my eyes. “I ask that you keep this between us, Laurentz. As successor to your father one day, you will have an advantage if you are aware of the real dangers among us.” The bishop twists the gold band on his finger. “Heresy is at play here. Be mindful of the cunning woman who hides from the others, if you value your soul.”
Chapter 3
Rune
M
y breath is suctioned to the back of my throat, because when Matilde opens the door, it is not the butcher, but a cloaked figure, and my venture into the forest hits me all over again, hard.
“Are you the crone?” a cautious feminine voice pushes through the open door into the small room where we stand.
Matilde and I are silent, and I feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck rise. I do not like the word “crone.” It is degrading and harsh, and it bothers me to no end that Matilde assures me she has been called much, much worse. I ignore that she tells me I am much too protective of her and stare at the stranger with enough suspicion for the two of us.
Matilde hobbles forward. “It depends who’s asking.”
With slender fingers, the woman pulls the grey hood back, revealing a shock of dark blonde hair that frames a clean, pretty face. She is fairly young, but not as young as I, and dressed nicely from what I can see beneath the heavy wrap that covers her.
“Forgive me, I mean not to offend. I was told to follow the path that divides the village from the forest; there, I would find the crone who could help me.”
Still feeling the sting from her lack of tact, I let the bundle of Blessed Thistle slip from my hand and rest upon the table.
Strangers have called at odd hours before. It’s not unheard of. I suppose it’s not as unusual as anyone assuming Matilde is anything
but
a crone. She has lived in the woods for much of her life, preferring solitude to the bustling, gossip-ridden village. What seems strange here is how obviously Matilde doesn’t try to hide her discomfort.
I study the woman’s face, pay attention to her movements. Her eyes flit around, agitated, while Matilde assesses her in a calculated sort of way. And still, Matilde asks her to step in further. I cannot place what her trouble could be, since she appears neither sick nor in pain. She doesn’t clutch her stomach or ask for tea. Matilde takes on a peculiar determination, ushering the woman to one of the few chairs we own, and then setting about to fill the kettle unasked.
“You seek something,” Matilde states as she adds more kindling to the fire. It is an odd thing, because Matilde usually doesn’t trust guests enough to turn her back to them, although we have very little for her to be interested in stealing. Perhaps Matilde feels confident that I am her second set of eyes and will notice anything out of sorts. When Matilde straightens, kettle in hand, she is very stiff, despite her usual bent stance. “I doubt you will find it here.”
The woman is taken aback. “But I’ve come so far to see you. I am positive you are the only one who can help me with my…my ailment.”
I am a little shocked myself. What bothers this woman is apparently invisible to me, and I fear I will never be as trained as Matilde to be able to read another person well enough that they need not explain.
“Mutti, surely we can at least see what troubles her.”
I have not intervened before, and the woman eyes me curiously. Surely she wonders why I’ve called the old woman my mother, and suddenly my face warms at my error. I am Matilde’s apprentice to anyone who visits, nothing more. The look Matilde gives me makes me wish I had kept my thoughts to myself, and I feel a strong prickling sensation behind my neck. She slowly walks closer to our guest, who now has a sweaty sheen coating her forehead and temples, causing the ends of her yellow hair to twist and curl ever so slightly. Her face is ashen.
Matilde holds out her hand, palm up, implying that the seated woman should rest her own on top of it. A shiver courses through me, but one of excitement and anticipation, and I cannot help wonder what the delicate lines in her hand will say. Despite the odd air to the room and the look she had just given me, I am thrilled Matilde has not ushered me out of the cottage yet, like she has from time to time. My heart hammers away. I realize I might finally be able to see the old magick Matilde often shields me from. “Folk Magick,” she calls it. I’ve learned a little, but I’ve often felt there are some lessons Matilde believes I am not ready for. Hopefully, today will be different, and I amuse myself with wondering if this is what I am to be strong for.
“What do you see, old woman?” The woman’s ill appearance does not match the tone of her voice. She seems too intrigued by the vision Matilde may or may not be able to see.
Ever the wise businesswoman, Matilde barters, “What are you willing to give me?”
The woman pulls a small purse from beneath her luxurious wrap, and unravels the cord looped around her wrist.
“I will give you two thaler. Will that do?” Matilde wrinkles her already-lined face and purses her lips at the offer.
“Your palm speaks, but does not reveal that which you wish to know.”
The audible sigh from the woman makes me uncomfortable. Matilde is not one for causing annoyance. She’s accepted far less for her fortunes, and I wonder what she could possibly sense by insisting on higher payment.
At last an exchange is made. The thin sound of coin against coin chimes as they fall into the open palm, and Matilde’s voice rings clear. “Bring the stones to me.”
Within seconds, I am at the cupboard on the other side of the room, twisting open the wooden knob and brushing aside the rabbit that hangs there curing. I grab the old drawstring bag sitting at the back. It is filled with smooth, marked stones that shift when I carry it back to her. She instructs the pale woman to come stand beside the edge of the table. The string is untied and the bag emptied; its contents, wrapped in a lumpy cloth, fall to the wood with a dull
plunk
.
Nothing but the sound of three breaths can be heard as we hover over the table. The cloth is unwrapped and within it are nearly a dozen pale river stones, each etched with a black symbol different from the next. Matilde carefully moves the stones aside and spreads the cloth flat. She then turns each stone face down so that the etchings are hidden for now.
“You will take a stone, one at a time, and place it upon the cloth,” she instructs the woman. “The stone must be faced down. Do this until all the stones are laid.”
The woman’s hand reaches out, but Matilde’s gnarled fingers stop her.
“Do not be so quick to know what lies ahead for you. You must let your hand sweep over the runes, like this.” Matilde’s hand hovers just an inch above one of the little rocks. “Feel the stone meant to be chosen first. It will call to you.”
It takes a few moments, but soon enough, the woman chooses a stone and places it upon the table.
“This is the rune of Past Influences.” Matilde nods her head for another stone to be chosen.
When the second stone is laid next in line, Matilde tells her, “This is the rune of the Present.”
As a third stone is settled in the row, Matilde says, “This is the Outcome.”
She guides the woman’s hand to the pile of remaining stones, and, after two more are chosen, they are each laid above and below the middle stone. “Now, you must turn them over.”
I lean over the table with wide, wondrous eyes, waiting to see which stones the woman has chosen. Like our guest, I am eager to hear Matilde interpret them for us.
One by one, Matilde turns the stones upright upon the old, warped table. The woman leans over hungrily. “Tell me, old crone. Tell me what they say.” She is too fascinated by the ancient markings to notice how Matilde leans close to me.
“You must leave, Rune,” Matilde whispers. “Take the basket into the woods, gather whatever you can, and don’t return until the sun is setting behind the trees.”
“But…what’s wrong? Tell me what to do, Mutti.”
I want to stay, because I know something is not right. Twice today Matilde hasn’t been well. What if her coughing spell comes back? What if she feels faint? Will this woman know what to do? She shoots me a look telling me I must be on my way. I think I see sadness lingering behind it, only I am too stubborn to try and understand what it could be. All I can see is, once again, I am being forced to leave, just when I had thought everything had changed.
Confused and hurt I hear myself talking back, refusing to do as I am told. “Why don’t you trust me to stay?”
Her hand catches mine, but instead of the reprimand I am so sure I will receive, she is soft and pleading.
“Do as I say, Schätzchen. It will be all right.”
Defiantly, I take my basket, casting a sharp glance at the woman whose fortune awaits her, and then at the woman who insists I am still too much of a child to witness it.
Fine
, I mutter to myself. I lift my cloak from the nail on the wall and fling it around my shoulders. Then, basket in hand, and doing all I can to ignore the earnest expression Matilde holds on her face, I open the door and step out into the forest.