Daughter of Mystery (26 page)

Margerit finally stood, stiff from the chill, knowing that if she were seeing more now than when she sat down, it was because she was learning how to look. And to listen, though she was far less confident that she could distinguish the ordinary noises of the echoing space from any whispers of the saints. But now she knew that if she could learn to look properly, there was much to observe.

She could tell that Barbara was all curiosity but she wouldn’t ask here in public. Margerit leaned close so her whispers wouldn’t intrude on others. “I want to go look at the floor by the main altar. The strangeness during Mauriz’s ritual seemed to happen there.”

In appearance, it was much like the space near every cathedral altar—at least, those that had stood for more than a handful of centuries. Tiles that once had formed careful and artistic patterns were patched with repairs and renovations and intruded on by flat stones whose inscriptions were lost to long years of footsteps. Most of those would mark the graves of men prominent enough in life to earn a more holy resting place after death. Somewhere below, if tradition were believed, was the chamber housing the relics of Mauriz, dating back to the founding of the first church on this site. Once there might have been a stone marking that location, but more likely it had been assumed that the knowledge would endure down the years. And stones might be moved, new foundations laid. The cathedrals of capital cities outgrew their origins and were rebuilt time and again, erasing the traces of the original plans.

Margerit closed her eyes and tried to remember just where it was that the swirling lights had seemed to settle. A meaningful cough from Barbara’s direction brought her attention back. A man in priestly vestments was approaching with an expression poised to choose between helpfulness and officiousness. Margerit didn’t recognize him from the earlier service but there were any number of junior priests at an institution of this size.

“Is there anything you need?” he asked.

She considered an evasive reply. There was no predicting what his opinion might be of women scholars and she wasn’t even certain how to phrase her request. But it was no small thing to speak anything but truth to a priest.

“I’m a—I’m studying at the university and I was…curious about something that happened during the
tutela
Mass for Saint Mauriz.”

“Perhaps I could explain if you wish.”

Margerit shook her head without thinking how it would look. “It wasn’t that. It was something I saw—something…”

She must have given a certain emphasis to the word “saw” because a look of unexpected understanding came over him. “Are you blessed with
phasmata
then?”

She nodded with relief at not having to explain.

“I am not so fortunate,” he continued, “but our late archbishop—it was said he sometimes heard the singing of angels during the mysteries. Was that your question? Is this the first time you’ve seen them?”

“No, not the first,” Margerit explained. “It was…there was something different about the service than what I’ve seen back in Chalanz.”

“Chalanz?” he echoed. Another layer of understanding dawned. “You’re the Sovitre girl, aren’t you?”

Margerit could hear what he didn’t say:
the heiress
. But it showed in the more conciliatory tone to his voice.

“Naturally you must understand that the forms of the mysteries will be different here than in the country.” He sounded as if he envisioned Chalanz as a market crossroads, peopled with farmers and superstitious charm-wives.

She tried not to be offended. “I was trying to remember the forms of the ceremony—what the priest was doing when I had the visions. Bartholomeus only has the general order but none of the liturgy itself. Is it written anywhere?”

“Of course. We keep an
expositulum
for every mystery performed here. Let me—you say you are a scholar at the university?” From his tone she knew he’d placed her with the mere dabblers. “Then you know how to handle books, I assume. I think I might get you permission. I’ll give your name to our librarian. Come back on an ordinary day and ask for the clerk Iohannes. He’ll help you find what you want.”

* * *

It had gone far better than she feared, despite the priest’s maddening condescension. So the previous archbishop had been an
auditor
? That made her doubt her concerns. Surely he would have noticed if Saint Mauriz’s rites were flawed in some way. What had led her to think she had made some momentous discovery? But she would see it through and if nothing else today’s exercise had brought her a step closer to understanding Gaudericus.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Barbara

As Barbara watched over Margerit’s vigil in the Lady Chapel, what struck her was how difficult it might be to distinguish divine visions from madness. It was one thing to read a philosopher’s discussion of
charis
or
fluctus
, but it was deeply unsettling to see Margerit start at nothing and watch her eyes dart here and there following…what? Small wonder that few people discussed such things openly. How many
vidators
had chosen to doubt their own senses and keep a fearful silence? How many had been thought possessed? Not all visions had divine origins; who was to tell the difference? She had learned enough of Margerit’s childhood to see how she might have balanced between those paths. So much of what she loved had been dismissed as irrelevant by her guardians. This would have been only one more thing that was never discussed between them. But the rest of the world might not be inclined to that benign neglect. A word, at the right time, might save future grief.

The unexpected watch in the cathedral meant that it wasn’t until Tuesday afternoon that she was able to learn the results of LeFevre’s interview with Mesner Pertinek. Perhaps that was for the best. It would have been a conversation most comfortably held between men alone. She was trailed again on her way to LeFevre’s office. Now that she was watching for them, there had been more than one occasion when she was certain she’d spotted her unknown creditor’s men. Never following as closely as the last time—and not the same man—but neither trying for concealment. She met their eyes, glared daggers and ignored them. So long as they never tried to follow north of the river they were no more than an annoyance.

But still she mentioned the matter to LeFevre. “Have you decided what you can tell me? It would help to have some idea of who they answer to.”

He took out one of his calling cards and wrote a few lines on the back then set it aside for her to take when the ink was dry. “Read this commentary on the
Statuta Antiqua Alpenniae
. It’s a start, at least, and not one that breaks my word. It won’t explain anything important,” he cautioned, “but it should give you reason to trust that you’re in no legal danger. For what they may do outside the law?” He shrugged. “There’s never any defense against that except to be careful.”

They went from the front office into the smaller room in back where there would be no interruptions from casual business matters.

“He does intend marriage,” LeFevre began with no other introduction. “He understands now that Maisetra Bertrut has no significant income of her own. Even so, he himself suggested that it be tied up beyond his reach.”

“But…why?” Barbara wondered, waving a hand to encompass the situation as a whole.

LeFevre fixed her with a thoughtful gaze. “He’s a lonely man. Oh, to be sure, the house is crowded enough—too crowded I think for anyone’s comfort. But he’s been trapped by his birth as surely as any debutante. Too well-born to take on a profession that could support a wife. Not well-born enough to attract an heiress. Too poor to support a household on his own. If I may be indelicate, I doubt he’s lacked entirely for female company, but he could hardly afford the class of mistress who could be a true companion for a man of his taste and education. Maisetra Sovitre came to his attention and he learned enough about her to think he might have something of value to offer in exchange for her hand and what comes with it.”

It sounded remarkably cold-blooded when put that way but no more so than most matches. “What is it he has to offer? I assume he expects to take up residence at Tiporsel. Whatever allowance he receives from his family must be barely enough for him to make a respectable presence in society.”

LeFevre held up a finger to stop her there. “That is exactly what he offers: a respectable presence in society. I confess that I’ve been uneasy since Maistir Fulpi returned to Chalanz. However useless he may have been as a social escort, the presence of a man in the household makes a difference. And there will certainly be doors that will be opened for Maisetra Margerit by a Pertinek that couldn’t be opened by money alone. The advantages are hardly one-sided.”

Barbara made a wry face as a thought came to her. “And will she then become Mesnera Bertrut? That would take some getting used to.”

He waved dismissively. “I doubt it. There would be no real advantage to it and I doubt she’d care to be burdened by the requirements of the rank. She doesn’t strike me as the sort to be dazzled by the illusion of nobility and we can hardly expect that there will be children to think of. No, I think they’ll choose the simple contract and she will be plain Maisetra Pertinek.”

“If she accepts.”

LeFevre chuckled. “Yes, if she accepts! I don’t know her well enough to guess at that, do you? But I think he won’t delay long in making the offer.” He laughed again. “Mesner Pertinek mentioned that he had been expecting something like our little chat but hadn’t the vaguest idea who to approach. I assured him that there were no brothers or cousins lurking in the wings—that she was
femina sola
—but that if she asked I would be happy to draw up the contracts and settlements for her approval. He seemed much relieved. I don’t think it would have suited his dignity to beg permission from some
burfroi
to pay her suit.”

It wasn’t until she had returned home that Barbara remembered the scribbled card still sitting on LeFevre’s desk. It hardly mattered—he’d admitted he could tell her nothing important. It was hardly likely there was anything in the ancient legal tract that could help her deal with her shadows. Only time could unravel that puzzle.

* * *

Barbara put less stock than Margerit had in the promise of access to the cathedral library. But whether it was an unexpected respect for the sincerity of her scholarship or a less surprising respect for the likely size of her donations, the name Sovitre had indeed been passed on to the clerk who oversaw the books and archives and they were allowed to enter and grudgingly told to request what they would.

“I was told you had a written text for the ordering of the public mysteries performed in the cathedral,” Margerit explained.

He only grunted and disappeared for some time among the shelves, returning with an old-fashioned tome whose binding might have been almost any color before centuries of handling turned it black. He set it out on the central table, shared only with two young boys who seemed to consider their time there more punishment than treat. The librarian’s laconic demeanor dropped briefly as he recited a long list of instructions. “The book stays on the table; when you’re done, you call me. Corners only, no smudges. If you can’t read without dragging your finger across the page you don’t belong here. No pricking, no underlining. No notes.”

It would have been the height of condescension if it weren’t so clearly a rote speech. Barbara had heard it many times before, back when it had been the baron’s name opening the door for her.

As Margerit sat and began to turn the first few pages to get her bearings, habit stepped in and Barbara glanced around the room to note all the entrances, the hidden spaces, the lines of sight that would allow the least conspicuous watch. She saw the librarian taking note of her precautions with a sniff and a shake of his head. Well, he guarded his own and so did she. Both rituals might be equally unnecessary in this case, but neither would be omitted.

Margerit’s identification of the desired text was marked by a quickening of breath and a twitch as she remembered in time to keep her finger from the page. Barbara found it hard not to smile as she noted both the librarian’s dagger-gaze and Margerit’s careful tracing in the air, half an inch above the parchment.

“Barbara, look here,” she whispered, beckoning.

She stepped closer and bent over the table. It was a long text, of course, with the parts for the main celebrants picked out in rubrics and centuries of notes on the staging directions cluttering up the margins.

“Here. This is when the
visio
went strange.” Margerit pointed above the page to a benediction marked for the principal priestly celebrant. “But,” she delicately turned over to the next page, “I don’t remember this. It was shorter, I think, and then there was a bit from the choir that I don’t see anywhere in here.”

She looked up and caught the eye of the librarian who still glared, ready to pounce at the slightest infraction. He came over and asked, “Are you finished?”

Margerit shook her head. “Maistir Iohannes—”

“Brother will do,” he interrupted.

“Brother Iohannes, I was wondering…the
expositulum
for Saint Mauriz’s mystery—the formal one for his feast day—it looks different from what I remember from last month.”

“Well of course it does,” he said sourly, “since our Mauriz wasn’t good enough for the new archbishop. Too antique he called it. Too countrified. Well it’s been good enough for Rotenek since the days of Bishop Dombert but now we must follow the habits of Lyon. Of Lyon! If it’s the new ceremony you want, I’ll find a copy.” He once more disappeared back among the shelves.

“That must be it,” Margerit said excitedly. “If the new archbishop made a change, that explains why—” She didn’t complete the thought for Brother Iohannes was returning with a folder of loose pages.

“It hasn’t been copied out fancy yet. His Excellency wants it bound in place of the old one, but that would mean taking the binding apart and the prince won’t have it. Not his choice, of course, but no one wants the fuss now when—” He shut his mouth abruptly. Even his newfound garrulousness evidently stopped short of reference to Aukust’s mortality. “Well, here it is. Don’t worry about keeping the sheets in order, the catchword will keep them straight. The round hand there, that’s what’s left from the old text. Hard to change the common responses, of course—no one would follow them. And the parts there marked for the prince, don’t mind them. He said he’d been speaking the same part for near sixty years and he was too old to change now. So what’s written there isn’t what he used. But these here—the priest’s lines and the hymn that you mentioned—those are from the Lyon model. Had to change them round, of course, since Rotenek’s not Lyon and Mauriz isn’t Blandina. It’s a patchwork mess if you ask me, but nobody asked me.” He retired to his writing desk still muttering.