Aloud she went on: ″Only Lord . . . Bossman . . . Anthony is even worse than Piotr, because he′s had
nobody
to tell him he can′t have whatever he wants. I think . . . I think he was too much indulged as a child. His mother died when he was young, too, and evidently his father had a succession of lemans who flattered him when they didn′t ignore him altogether, and none of them bore children.″
Ignatius nodded. ″That is what my superiors here have informed me as well. That makes it . . . uncertain . . . that he will carry out his undertaking to release us all. It was originally meant as a mocking joke. Accordingly it would not be safe to reveal ourselves yet, even leaving the minions of the Corwinite cult out of consideration.″
″Yes,″ Mathilda said. ″Looking at it objectively.″
″In fact, we have some information concerning the Cutters′ plans,″ Ignatius said. ″From Edgar Denson, of all people.″
Odard′s brow went up. ″And he revealed it?″
″To Ingolf.″
″For his own purposes,″ Mathilda guessed; there were plenty of men like Denson around court at home.
″Indeed, my child.″ Ignatius nodded.
No surprise to him either,
Mathilda thought.
A knight-brother trains in politics.
″Denson intends to use the Cutters′ own eagerness to kill us as a tool to reinforce his influence with the Bossman,″ Ignatius amplified. ″He evidently fears that it isn′t as unassailable as he would like people to think.″
″Nobody who has to depend on Anthony is in an unassailable position,″ Odard said.
Mathilda nodded. ″Including Anthony. I think he doesn′t know himself what he′s going to do from moment to moment, or whether his boredom is going to overcome his good sense.″
″This is a man not used to being thwarted in anything,″ Ignatius said. ″I have been . . . very concerned at you being so much in his company.″
″Yes,″ Mathilda said again, unhappily.
I can′t very well haul off and give the man what he deserves, though it hasn′t gotten past the odd wandering hand. Yet.
″I know what you mean,″ she replied aloud. ″So far I′ve just let all his hints fly over my innocent head. But I′ve also become good friends with Kate Heasleroad. And he
does
value Kate′s good opinion of him. That restrains him, as much as anything does. He′s intelligent enough to realize she′s the only person he knows who wouldn′t drop him—or murder him—if he weren′t ruler.″
Ignatius nodded. ″That was well and wisely done, my child,″ he observed. ″Both for reasons of prudence, and for itself as a kindness.″
Mathilda shrugged. ″She has all the drawbacks of
my
position back home, and none of the advantages. Plus she′s stuck married to a man I wouldn′t have if he were the only male left in creation, and she′s extremely lonely. I was sorry for her. And she′s not as stupid as . . . well, as I thought at first, though she′s no genius either. Just very . . . inexperienced.″
The priest nodded. ″And I hear that my lord of Gervais has made friends as well.″
″A few, Father,″ Odard said. ″Even the Bossman . . . although I don′t think he really
has
friends. But I amuse him and he likes hearing about the Association; I′ve never met anyone so fundamentally bored. He′s fairly confident I don′t want anything from him in the way of gold or land or offices, too, which must be a relief.″
For once I sympathize with him
, Mathilda thought; she′d had
far
too many people maneuvering for favor around her all her life, or at least as much of it as she could remember.
″Excellent,″ Ignatius said. ″However, the
enemy
is also aware that there is a good chance that the Bossman
will
let us go . . . and even that he may let us go and keep them, or at least keep them for long enough that our trail will be cold. Therefore they will strike. And soon.″
″The Bossman and his guests are well guarded,″ Odard said.
″From mortal enemies,″ Ignatius warned. ″But remember the fight when you were rescued after the battle at Wendell, Princess.″
Mathilda did, and shuddered. ″They have a High Seeker of the Corwinite cult with them,″ she said.
″They do,″ the warrior-monk replied grimly. ″And while the CUT are deluded fools, they speak truth when they say their prayers are answered. They simply don′t realize by
what
.″
″I could wish Heaven were a little more proactive on
our
behalf, Father,″ Odard said.
The priest looked at him for a long moment and then shook his head.
″No, my son, you do not. It is precisely the difference between
our
Lord and
theirs
that we are given
help
, while they are treated like puppets and tools.″
Mathilda nodded. ″What can we do about it? I mean, apart from cutting them into little bits. That seems to work—but we were lucky, and Mary and Ritva were lucky too.″
″If luck you call it,″ Odard said.
They all quirked a shared smile. Dúnedain were not the only ones to read the Histories. She loved them herself; they were far more alive than the chronicles of the world just before the Change, and who knew how much truth had gone into their fashioning, since the distant morning of the world? Perhaps as much as the
Chanson de Roland
or the
Morte d′Arthur
or the ″Ballad of Bowie Gizzardsbane″; nothing in the Quest of the Ring seemed as impossible as firebombs that could destroy cities, or talking by invisible waves. But the Rangers were so
literal
about it.
Then after a hesitation the soldier-monk went on:
″There is something you should know; I have permission to tell it now. Something that happened while we were in Chenrezi Monastery. I was alone in the woods on the mountainside, just before Christmas. And as I prayed—″
He told the story. Mathilda felt her eyes growing wider and wider. Ignatius was fervent, yes—you didn′t become a warrior-monk of Mt. Angel without a real vocation, much less be ordained priest as well. But—
″Are you
sure
, Father?″ she asked; her eyes flicked to the statue of the Virgin.
I don′t doubt that
you
believe it. So that′s why you′ve been so protective since then!
″Very, my child,″ Ignatius said flatly.
He handed her a note. She opened it; the Cardinal-Archbishop of Des Moines′ seal was at the bottom, with a brief note in a scholar′s hand that was also slightly shaky, probably with age:
I believe that Friar Ignatius has indeed been granted the vision he reports.
Mathilda blinked.
I wouldn′t have disbelieved Ignatius anyway.
He was closer to her than Father Matthew now, though she′d known her old confessor since childhood. Having a Prince of the Church confirm it did help, though.
Which means . . .
She felt her heart almost stop, and her voice stuttered a little when she got her breath back:
″But . . . but I′m not that important! The Queen of Angels
in person
told you to guard and guide
me
?″
Astonishingly, Ignatius grinned. ″My daughter, how important you are is something that Heaven evidently knows better than you! Doesn′t He watch over the fall of a sparrow? And are you surprised that the Mother of God is wiser than Mathilda Arminger?″
Odard laughed and licked a finger, miming making a tally in the air.
″He′s got you there, your Highness.″
After a moment she snorted unwillingly. ″Yes, he has.″
″You are a human soul, and all are precious to God, whether Princess or peasant,″ Ignatius said gravely. ″But it was strongly implied that some great purpose is served
through
you. More than your position as heir to the throne, or your role as mother of the next Lord Protector. There is something that
you
are to accomplish.″
It was terrifying and glorious at the same time. She closed her eyes for an instant, taking a long deep breath, then gave the knight-brother a glance from under a raised eyebrow:
″And
you
, Father, are apparently important enough that the Lady of Sorrows drops by to tell you that you′re her champion!″
The priest sighed and put his shapely, muscular hands in the sleeves of his robe, lowering his eyes for a moment. Sometimes it was irritating when clerics assumed humility, as if they used meekness as a form of rhetorical jujitsu. Ignatius didn′t do that, which made it all the more effective; suddenly she felt a little ashamed at twitting him that way.
″My children, that troubles me more than I can say. I hope I am willing to take the martyr′s crown of glory, if that is the will of God. But I am not so lost in vanity and pride that I
wish
for it. Even Our Lord asked that the cup pass from him. Consider the implications.″
She did, and felt herself quail. Only heretics thought that Heaven′s favor meant things were going to go well for you in a worldly sense—her tutors had gotten
that
lesson well home to her, starting with the example of what happened to Christ Himself. The Lord tried those He most loved; the strongest steel came from the hottest fire. The cross you were given to carry up to Heaven′s gate would be just exactly as heavy as you could bear by your uttermost effort plus the essential freely offered Grace, neither more nor less. Still . . .
″If
she
says that this quest is vital, then there′s really no choice,″ Mathilda said. ″Not that there was anyway; I couldn′t desert Rudi. I′m not going to turn back regardless.″
″But the Queen of Heaven also told me something else,″ Ignatius said.
She blinked a little at his smile; he was an undemonstrative man, but for an instant there was happiness in his face that sang despite the matter-of-fact tone:
″You will be tested beyond what you can bear, unless you throw yourself upon Him and His love. In them is strength beyond all the deceits and wickedness you have seen; strength to put them behind you.″
He cleared his throat. ″I will do my best, your Highness.″
″And so will I,″ Mathilda said.
″And so will I,″ Odard added. Then, lightly but with an undertone of wonder: ″Somewhat to my own surprise.″
″As you commanded, my lord,″ Rudi said with a bow and a sweep of his hand towards the piled cargo.
″Well, yes, yes, it seems to be mostly here,″ the Bossman said, flicking aside the trailing dagged sleeves of his new tunic.
And he does that rather badly,
Rudi thought absently.
It takes a deal of practice to wear Association court dress gracefully. I wonder if he realizes what he′s letting himself in for?
I
could always eventually escape back to Dun Juniper, and the merciful simplicity of a kilt!
Anthony Heasleroad paced down the line of pictures with the bells on the upturned toes of his giltwork shoes jingling. A clerk walked behind him, checking off items on a clipboard compiled from museum catalogues of the old world. Some of the paintings were stacked three or four deep, with the finest on the outside. Other treasures besides stood on the lids of the crates that had held them, with wisps of the hay padding still drifting about; cups of carved alabaster, jewels, icons that were themselves jewels of paint and gold leaf, ancient hand-copied books on parchment opened to display the faded glories of their illuminated capitals, worked Church vessels of precious metals, a lotus blossom wrought from ancient ivory in a style as alien as it was beautiful . . .
″Nearly all of the items on the list. My lord,″ Edgar Denson added hastily, and then: ″Your Majesty.″
Rudi Mackenzie kept his face politely blank. Evidently there had been changes in the court etiquette of Iowa, since he′d left.
And to be sure, I have a fair idea whose ideas those ideas were!
Kate Heasleroad was wearing a fair imitation of Mathilda′s cotte-hardi. Some of her ladies-in-waiting were in less skillful ones; they looked a little out of place in the Dubuque City Hall′s plain whitewashed assembly chambers, as much as their floral perfumes did among its faint smell of old lamp oil and harsh soap. The city itself seemed to be ruled partly by an elected Council, all of them present in their best old-fashioned clothing and looking extremely nervous, which wasn′t unreasonable at all in the presence of their—
Whimsical,
Rudi thought.
Sure, and
whimsical
is the best way to think of it.
—whimsical ruler. The Emergency Coordinator of the city looked only slightly less so, and that because he was at court in Des Moines more often.
Rudi caught Matti′s eye as he went briefly down on one knee; the courtesy might have been to Iowa′s ruler . . . or to her.
The which is no substitute for a hug and a kiss,
he thought.
But as close as we can come. For now.
The impulse sparkled in his eyes, and he could see she sensed it; her smile held a reproof as warm as the wind in a blossoming orchard, and as full of a delicate promise.
He′d had enough time to get his good kilt and plaid out of their baggage, and his ruffled shirt and short silver-buttoned Montrose jacket and raven-plumed Scots bonnet. For some reason she was in the male version of Portlander court dress tonight: tight hose, tooled shoes with upcurled toes sporting little silver bells, brown velvet tunic with long dagged sleeves dropping down from the elbows and the Lidless Eye of her house on the breast in rubies and jet, jewels on her belt and dagger hilt. That she and Odard were armed was a good sign in itself.
Her face stayed grave, but with her eyes on him he was suddenly acutely conscious of his own appearance in a way that was rare for him.
Good work
, he mouthed silently, shifting his eyes from her to Iowa′s ruler to show what he meant.
″And you got the savages to haul them back?″ the Bossman said.