Authors: Gael Baudino
Omelda's wrists had been tied to her ankles. The pain, searing up her spine and through her shoulders, precluded any mental silence or oblivion. “But wouldn't . . . you rather do . . . something else?”
Dinah gave a crooked grin that Omelda was unable to decipher. “Not much for a girl to do, is there, Omelda?”
“Well . . .”
“'Cept become a wife, or a nun.” Clad in her breeches and shirt, Dinah laughed. “A whore, a housewife, or a nun! How 'bout that?” She winked at Omelda. “Now, if I were a real man . . .” She gave two or three thrusts of her hips. “. . . then I could do other things. But I'm not. And God made me so.”
Omelda was trying to look at something else besides the face with the little upturned mouth and the little downturned eyes. “I wish I were a nun.”
“Aw, they don't take girls like you.”
Omelda stared at her, beyond her. They did. They would. They had to.
Please, Natil, come home. I want to go back, but I want to stay sane.
Just then, the door opened, and the two young men returned. Norman closed and fastened the door. Edvard was already reading aloud from a letter in his hand:
“
Francis Aldernacht to Claire Aldernacht, the second of May, 1500, Furze.
”
“What's the matter with those messengers?” said Norman, annoyed. “That was over a week ago.”
“Never mind,” said Edvard. “Let me read.
Wife, I recommend me to you,
as if anyone would recommend Pierre for anything.” Edvard's eye fell on the two women, and he patted Dinah's bare buttocks with a friendly hand. “Oh, my little darlings! We'll get back to you in a minute. You just enjoy yourselves: don't let us interfere.” He went back to the letter. “Let me see . . . oh, here:
letting you know that, blessed be God--
really Pierre!
—I am well, and enjoining you to keep the commandments of the Church and the teachings of Our Lord Jesus Christ in your thoughts, words, and deeds.
”
Norman smirked, cleared his throat. Omelda stared up at Dinah. Dinah's eyes—still downturned—were half closed, as though she were mentally counting coins.
“All right,” said Edvard. “Here it is:
I am become increasingly distressed by Father's irrational ways with the family's money, more so now than ever, for he speaks of plans that truly endanger the integrity of the Aldernacht firm. Recently, he had a speech with the local bishop, Albrecht (a godly man, though rather witless), and actually talked of entering a monastery. He has, of course, persisted in his determination to loan money to the wool cooperative, and nothing I have been able to say has swayed him from this ill-advised move.
”
“Nothing,” said Norman.
“Well, would anything Pierre had to say sway you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well, then.”
Omelda was hearing their words as though through a layer of gauze and wool: the accumulated pain of a week's worth of abuse, culminating now in half-dislocated joints, was blurring the room, the brothers, even Dinah. She wanted to scream, but knew that if she did, the present torments would seem as nothing compared with what would follow.
Softly, though, from within her, filtering up through the pain, present even before she became consciously aware of it, came the whispering sound of plainchant Nones.
Nunc Sancte nobis Spiritus, Unum Patri cum Filio
. . .
“Listen,” Edvard was saying. “This is even better:
I thank Jesus and all the saints that I am a source of sound advice for my father, though it grieves me that I am so ignored. But others value me highly, and Baron David a'Freux asked me many questions about my investments, in particular the tobacco plantation in Spain. I had the honor of advising him well in this matter.
”
Norman laughed loudly. “Tobacco again!”
“I'm not worried about tobacco,” said Edvard. “I'm worried about our money.”
Norman nodded. “Grandfather is going to . . .”
Deo Patri sit gloria . . .
“. . . spoil everything.
I
certainly have no intention of dying a pauper because—”
“Hush,” said Edvard. “Listen:
But Father persists, despite my best efforts.
Damn that old senile fool! Both of them!
I fear that other measures might have to be taken in order to restrain him. I pray you, therefore: consult with Bishop Etienne, and find out whether the reverend gentleman has come closer to our way of thinking.
”
Norman blinked. “Bishop Etienne?”
Edvard tossed the letter onto the table. “Oh, I overheard that. They're trying to have Grandfather declared mad. Or incompetent. Or something like that. It won't work.”
“Pierre might have Bishop Etienne,” said Norman, “but Grandfather has Charles.”
“Yes, that's it exactly. The Church binds and looses in heaven, and Charles binds and looses in Gold Hall.” Edvard became aware once more of the women on the bed. “Oh, my goodness, we have been ignoring you, haven't we, sir?” He prodded Dinah's rump. “Having a good time with the wenches behind our backs?”
“Always, Mister Edvard,” said Dinah.
Omelda closed her eyes.
Surrexit, ac Paraclito
went the voices, and despite her previous frantic efforts to suppress the intrusive music, she now allowed herself to drift with it. The chant was slow, steady, comforting.
“Should we give Mother the letter?”
“Of
course
we should give Mother the letter,” said Edvard. “Otherwise, when Pierre asks about it, she won't have gotten it.”
“Oh . . . that's right . . .”
“But since Bishop Etienne isn't going to be able to do a great deal about Grandfather, I suppose . . .” Edvard folded his arms, contemplated Dinah's bare behind. “Dear God,” he mused. “I could die for a rump like that.”
Norman chortled. “Some have.”
“What a way to go!”
“Yes. Yes, indeed. You come in with a spurt, and you go out with a spurt.”
“Any any number of spurts in between!” Edvard was already slipping out of his clothes, his erection full and straight. But he was still thoughtful. “I suppose we'll have to do something about grandfather ourselves.”
Norman looked intrigued. “Do you have something in mind?”
“I do.” Edvard reached down, tweaked the rounded womanflesh before him and left a bruise behind. “In with a spurt, out with a spurt. I think we may have a little job for our . . .” He laughed, tweaked again, left another bruise. “. . . country buck here!”
Norman understood, joined in Edvard's laughter.
Eyes half closed, Omelda drifted.
In sempiterna saecula. Amen.
***
The bargaining in Furze was lengthy, and, at times, loud: Jacob, for all his age and his beliefs about his heart, was perfectly willing to shout down even the lustiest young businessman of the city. In truth, though, Natil noticed that much of his bluster was feigned: an obvious attempt to find out what the men of Furze were really like, whether their toadying at that first banquet had been the product of desperation or a symptom of general spinelessness.
But Paul and his friends passed Jacob's test, and they were therefore rewarded with a signed agreement and the certainty of Aldernacht money, advice, and support. The terms were neither parsimonious nor prodigal, the debt incurred neither too large nor too small. The cooperative would have to struggle to make their payments, but that was, as everyone knew, good: the fight would keep them active and alert.
Natil, though, saw that her master did not particularly savor his success. In fact, Jacob had grown more pessimistic as the bargaining had proceeded; and his off-handed comments and careless dismissals of certain subjects told the harper that he was brooding increasingly on his lost wife, upon his children, upon his grandchildren . . . upon his entire life. He stoutly maintained still that he hated music, but when he retired, he now customarily had Natil play for him until he slept. The harper played the harp . . . and played along with the charade, too, for, to her eye, Jacob needed music now as he needed air and water and food.
And, indeed, the music seemed to help; and whether Natil dredged up old elven melodies that brought tears to her eyes, or played bawdy songs she had heard in the square that afternoon, or even lapsed into plainchant or into Hildegard's rhapsodic hymns, the old man, with perhaps a mistiness that no one save Natil ever saw, would drift off into dreams that could not but be far more pleasant than his waking life.
Natil's own dreams were mixed: pleasure and pain mingled seamlessly. Hadden and Wheat saw the stars, and, in their wanderings, began to feel that union with their world and those who inhabited it that was the birthright of the Elves. They still did not know what was happening to them, knew only that they wanted more of it; but despite their unmistakable alteration, their transformation from human to elven, from limited consciousness to immanent perceptions, Hadden and Wheat were still ignorant of the existence of the Lady, had no sense of the all-encompassing patterns. In her dreams, Natil called, cried out, shouted to them, but dreams were but dreams: the two did not hear. The Lady . . . they had not a clue that She even existed.
And then there was the forked tree: she had seen it again. Light still streamed from its cleft, putting the shadows and the rain to flight, but its meaning and the existence were mysteries to her. Icon? Symbol? Reality? Natil did not know. But she took it as a sign, a sign from the Lady. It meant
something
, and she, like Hadden and Wheat, was sure that it would not be kept from her.
But her waking hours had become a burden for her; and if Jacob was finding solace in her harp, it was more than likely because she herself had come to take her instrument for her sole, unalloyed comfort. She was no longer an Elf, the Lady was beyond her, the patterns were gone, but she at least had her harp and her music; and those who listened to her play—Jacob, Manarel and the servants, her fellow musicians, or she herself—could still derive from it something that was a little more than mere enjoyment.
Francis, though, obviously heard nothing more than plucked strings. As much as Natil had noticed the father's growing despondency, she had also become aware of the son's increasing tension. He was agitated, distracted, and had refused to add his signature and his approval—not that it mattered much to Jacob—to the agreement with the cooperative. Now he could often be heard muttering to himself, and he appeared to be spending a great deal of time writing letters and posting them by private Aldernacht courier.
“Francis?” said Jacob that night when she mentioned it to him one night. “Oh, him.” He settled down in bed, folded his hands behind his head. “I imagine you're right, girl. He
is
up to something. He and Claire have been sniffing Bishop Etienne's rump. They want to have be declared mad, and they want his help. They think that we're living fifty years ago, and that bishops still have something to say besides
Burn the fucking heretics!
”
Natil flinched.
Jacob noticed. “A few yellow crosses in your family, Natil?”
The harper smiled thinly. “They never bothered with crosses for my folk.”
Jacob's eyes widened. He whistled. “What were they? Cathars? Spirituals? Or did they get caught up in that Waldensian stuff a few years back?”
Natil touched a harpstring. “If I told you
Elves
, you would not believe me, would you?”
A smile added more wrinkled to Jacob's face. “You've got a sense of humor, girl!”
Feeling as though an abyss had opened within her, Natil smiled, nodded.
“All right, then, we'll leave it at Elves!” Jacob laughed. “Now
that
would give Siegfried a turn, wouldn't it? Elves . . .” But in the middle of his laughter, his eyes grew hard, and he muttered an oath. “Damn that meddling priest. I'll have him . . .” He groped, spluttered. “I don't know what I'll have him.”
Natil understood. Harold's absence—and what that absence signified, both for Harold and for the wool cooperative—had been the source of a palpable sense of unease in the household. No one talked about it, but everyone, including Jacob, was thinking about it.
But it was more than unease for Jacob: it was anger. Accustomed to having his own way in all things, he was enraged by what he saw as the insolent temerity of a man who could steal outright a piece of Aldernacht property . . . with complete impunity. A move against Siegfried, though, would jeopardize or even destroy the cooperative deal, giving the Inquisitor exactly what he apparently wanted. “He got Harold,” said Jacob, “and I'm convinced he got Fredrick, and he's after . . .” He shook his head. “I swear he's after the wool cooperative.”
“Does Paul know?”
“Paul and his boys didn't know until I told them. Farthest thing from their minds. But now they're starting to notice things: people listening, people watching their houses.” Jacob snorted. “Of course, anybody in this whole damned city could notice the same thing. Everyone's watching everyone else. Everybody's getting paid to say something or to say nothing.” He frowned. “Maybe Francis is right.” He suddenly looked at the door and picked up an earthenware cup from the bed table. “I said, Maybe Francis is right. Maybe . . . ah . . . um . . .”
He suddenly sat up and hurled the cup at the door as hard as he could. It hit squarely with a loud crack, shattering in a splash of crockery.
“I'll teach you to listen at your father's door!” shouted Jacob. “You young whelp!”
Natil sat, eyes wide, a little stunned. She had not foreseen it. Of course she had not foreseen it.
Manarel opened the door a crack. “Did you need me, Mister Jacob?”
“Was Francis listening again?”
“No, sir. He has not been here this evening.”
Jacob gave a harrumph. “First time all week, then. All right, Manarel.”
“Very good, Mister Jacob.”
Manarel closed the door. Jacob lay back down. “Sometimes he's there, Natil, and sometimes he isn't. But he's there often enough.” He turned despondent. “Maybe Francis is right about Furze. But I'm betting that he isn't. Men like Paul and his boys deserve a chance. Siegfried isn't going to give them any, and so it's up to me. But I just wish . . .”