Daughter of Mystery (33 page)

* * *

She hadn’t been among the small group that examined the hostel for suitability. Her first glimpse was after she’d asked LeFevre to make arrangements to see that it was cleaned up and provided with various necessities. But from the reactions of Hennis and Iakup he’d worked a minor miracle in the few days since she’d spoken to him. The chapel alone was little altered, as the neighborhood folk had been expected to keep it up as the price for access. Behind it, the old refectory had been provided with tables more suitable for study and writing. The understory had been returned to its original purpose as a stable. And one of the former guest rooms had been refurbished and an old veteran installed as caretaker and porter.

As the members wandered through the rooms inspecting their new guildhall, Giseltrut commented, “It must be nice to be so rich that you could simply forget you owned a place like this.”

Margerit’s first thought was to protest that she hadn’t forgotten, she simply hadn’t known. But that wouldn’t answer the woman’s jab. Even more than she needed to help bind the guild’s diverse personalities, Margerit wanted the friendship of this loose community of woman scholars. “A year ago,” she began, “I would have been desperately jealous of you.”

Giseltrut blinked at her in puzzlement.

“A year ago, I wasn’t poor enough to be a student. When I was a girl, I dreamed about running away from home and disguising myself as a boy to attend lectures. There wasn’t any other way it would have been possible. They would have tracked me down and locked me up, of course. My guardian had my reputation to maintain. I didn’t even know about the poor-scholars then, but if I had I would have been willing to throw away everything I had for the chance to be one of you.”

“Then you would have been a fool,” the woman said scornfully. “I enjoy the study of course—I’m good enough at it and it’s better than taking in laundry or mending. But I’d trade it in a heartbeat to marry a merchant’s son and have a household of my own. It’s well enough now at the scholars’ hall but I’ll be lucky to find work better than clerking or as a copyist. I have no talent at teaching, so there’s no governess post waiting for me.”

They had wandered around again to the refectory where the others had gathered. Margerit tried once more. “Of course I was a fool. I won’t pretend I don’t prefer being rich enough to study over being poor enough. But I would have taken either gladly.”

Giseltrut shrugged and moved away. Margerit could think of no further answer to her. It was a waste, an injustice. There should be other callings for a learned woman than scribbling or trying to drill some lawyer’s daughters in French and Latin. Perhaps she could…what? Hire a handful of them to manage her library and do translations? That wasn’t an answer. They needed real work—something that wasn’t dependent on a single patron. And she had no idea what that might be.

* * *

It wasn’t until the fourth visit to the hostel that the guild managed anything resembling serious work. At that first convocation of the whole guild, there had been a fumbling attempt to read through the Atelpirt ritual. But no one had thought to review the requirements in advance. When they had finished sorting out the stations and roles, it was found that they had only plain altar candles and not the thin tapers called for or any of the other minor
apparatus
. At Hennis’s insistence they went ahead, but though Margerit watched carefully throughout the ritual, she neither saw nor felt any of the signs she had come to associate with the notice of the saints.

Perhaps that was to be expected, she thought. How much practice did it take to bring the parts together? What proportion of the participants needed to bring some level of skill? The same questions were on others’ minds. Frizo turned to Hennis and shrugged. “Nothing. I hope we aren’t wasting our time.”

“It will come,” the other said.

Iakup broke in impatiently. “How many times do we need to go over cradle prayers before we move on to important matters?”

“Enough times to succeed in touching the divine—or whatever you choose to call it.” It was Antuniet who answered him, as usual. If Iakup were impatient with the slow methodical development of the guild, she was impatient with his impatience. “If our
vidators
say nothing happened, then nothing happened and we need to try again. Otherwise how will we know why our ‘important matters’ fail—as they will at first.”

“So we keep repeating ourselves until Frizo says we’re done? What makes him the expert?”

Giseltrut interjected quietly, “Not only Mesner Salun. I felt no response. It’s not a certain sign—I miss a lot of the smaller workings. But something this focused? And with no distractions? I should have felt something.”

“How many of us are there who can recognize a
visitatio
?” Petro asked. “I know I wasn’t invited for my sensitivity to visions. I assume there are others who bring a different set of skills as I do. But how many of us will know when we’ve achieved something?”

They had discussed the importance of signs and portents in the theoretical, but Margerit had picked up only fragments of information about people’s specific knowledge and talents. Everyone looked around at each other, unwilling to be the first to speak. Was it reflexive caution for skills as often condemned as honored? Or in this particular crowd was it a reluctance to admit their lack?

Hennis made no move to press the question but at last Frizo offered, “No secret here. During some mysteries I hear…feel…no, hear a sort of buzzing—like a gnat. From what others tell me, it happens only when the saints are answering. I can’t tell much more than that.” He chuckled. “I got kicked by a horse once and my ears were ringing for a month. Christ himself could have been talking to me then and I wouldn’t have noticed, but it came back with time.”

When he’d finished, Morpirt offered that the saints had never spoken to him and he had some doubts they spoke to anyone. “But once I was there for a physical manifestation, so I know that mysteries can work true miracles. And if mystic visions make it easier to craft true mysteries, that’s good enough for me.”

Margerit waited until nearly all had spoken, expecting someone to offer an experience similar to her own as each laid claim or disclaim to
visitatio
. There were only a handful of
vidators
. For others, the response came as a ringing in the ears; a touch of warmth like sunlight; a glow; Antuniet’s unreliable flickering lights. At her turn, Margerit hesitantly described her experience at the mystery for Saint Mauriz. “It isn’t always like that,” she added. “It seems to depend on the celebrants and the nature of the mystery. Only the old public ones have such grand effects.”

Several of the guild members made noises of disbelief. Filip voiced his aloud. “You don’t need to invent details to impress us. You got that out of one of the old saints’
vitae
.”

Margerit looked over to Antuniet, expecting some confirmation. She’d believed in her visions enough to test them. But Antuniet ignored her plea, staring off past her at some suddenly fascinating corner of the chapel.

* * *

Nikule was the only person who seemed genuinely impressed. He hadn’t spoken up at all in the sharing of skills. It seemed common knowledge that the talents he brought to the guild were minimal. But as the others drifted out to the streets or stable to leave, he came to her—she almost would have said shyly—and asked, “Has it been like that for you all your life?”

She nodded.

“I remember—” he began. “I remember when you were small, you could never be still in church. Always talking and pointing and trying to run off into the aisles. Was it because…?”

Again she nodded.

He breathed a mild oath and shook his head. For a moment it looked like he would say more but thought better of it and turned to leave with the others.

* * *

In the confusion of the start of the new university term and the beginnings of the guild, Margerit had begged off on most of the engagements that Aunt Bertrut offered up. The restrictions of Lent gave her some relief but even in that season there were too many invitations and visits to be juggled easily.

Bertrut finally put her foot down one wet afternoon, finding her staring out at the rain and fretting that the weather would keep half the guild at home as it had kept half the students from lectures. “This won’t do, dear. People are asking after you. I can’t tell them you’ve become an anchorite. Now Charul has brought us a very kind invitation to the Ovinzes’ to hear that new poet and I want you to accept.”

Margerit knew not to push too far. Barbara had been harping on the same note lately.

The events that Mesner Pertinek brought access to were not different in the kind of people attending, only in the balance. There were fewer representing the new money—mostly those with a personal connection to the hosts. There were more from the fringes of the noble families, the people who had known each other for generations, even if their stars might be in eclipse today. These were not the hot-blooded marriage mart events where guest lists were ruthlessly pruned to eliminate the unsuitable. Discussions in the card room were more likely to cover politics than the cut of a new coat and the dancing ran to old-fashioned long sets.

After introductions to the hosts, Margerit was shown to her seat by a distant cousin of some sort of Uncle Pertinek—it was still odd to call him that—who thus fell in the category of safe but entertaining. He filled the space around the recitations with engaging but totally meaningless conversation. When the audience rose at last to take refreshments, Margerit looked in vain for her aunt and ended up instead being delivered to the orbit of her uncle where he stood in conversation with a uniformed man of similar age.

“But Charul,” the other was saying, “do you think they’ll actually carry through with the succession council this time? We’ve heard it all before.”

Mesner Pertinek turned slightly to acknowledge Margerit’s presence and said, “I believe your aunt was abducted to make up a hand of quadrille. Chalfin, have you met my wife’s niece? Margerit, this is Mesner Tombirt Chalfin, Major Chalfin I should say. Chalfin, Maisetra Margerit Sovitre.”

He took her proffered hand. “Yes, I’d heard you’d fallen into the noose at last. Sovitre? Why is the name familiar?” He fixed her with a piercing glance and frowned as she dipped a curtsey. “Sovitre…yes, old Marziel’s mystery heiress. That tweaked the nose of the
Efrankes
party right enough. Young Estefen was counting on that fortune.”

And at that his interest in her was at an end for he picked up the previous thread. “Now Charul, will he go through with it at last? I swear he was trying to wait out the old guard past the grave.”

“As the prince wills, but there will be a council before or after. I think he knows as well as any that it would be better now.”

Chalfin scowled. “It’s the French woman making him wait. Every year her boy gains a step closer. And as they say, an unclaimed horse goes to the man in whose pasture it’s found. But I’ll be damned if I let some foreigner take up the crown.”

Uncle Pertinek answered mildly, “There are plenty who say the same but mean the Austrians.”

“Do you?”

“My friend,” he said, throwing up his hands in a grand shrug. “I will not be sitting on that council no more than will you. What I might say means nothing. But I will tell you, if my cousin asked for advice, I would tell him to choose the heir most likely to keep us strong and at peace.” He hailed another passing cousin. “Simun, would you be so kind as to take my niece in to dinner? She’s bored to tears listening to old men talking politics.”

As she was led off, the debate continued. “Charul, I swear you are either the most spineless man I know or the most honorable. Damned if I can choose.”

Her new companion rolled his eyes conspiratorially and muttered, “Save us from old men and politics! Are you enjoying the evening?”

She hardly knew what she answered. The close of the party could not come too soon. There was nothing here to interest her as much as the contents of a single page of her waiting books.

Chapter Forty-Two

Barbara

For the first few meetings of the guild, Barbara had claimed watch over Margerit. But when they settled into serious work she grew restless. These matters had always been theirs to share—Margerit’s and hers. It was difficult to be there and yet not there, playing the invisible servant with the other armins. The last straw came as the guild debated what text to use to develop their new mystery.

“There’s no point in creating out of nothing,” Iakup Choriaz argued. “Everyone agrees that the Lyon rite provides the simplest and most elegant models. The university at Rome uses nothing else these days for new compositions.”

Some agreed, but the objections were many. “Better to adapt the existing mysteries for the saints we’re invoking,” Mesnera Rezik insisted.

Amituz objected, “That guarantees an ugly patchwork. Some sort of uniformity of style would be good, but I don’t care to go to the French for it.”

They ran through all the arguments that she and Margerit had explored while working their way through Fortunatus. As if no one had ever thought them through before.

Margerit had been finding her feet in the debates and entered into the fray with confidence. “You can’t treat the saints as if they were interchangeable pieces, like a set of plates you could serve any dish on. Why else would we invoke Mauriz to protect Rotenek but back in Chalanz it was Saint Andire? It isn’t just the chance of who the church is dedicated to. If Saint Peter protects Rome, why can’t he protect every city? Why do we invoke Chertrut in our tongue but celebrate Aukustin in Latin? There’s more going on than just elegance of language.”

“You’re making this too complicated,” Amituz countered. “The meaning of the words is the important thing.”

“But meaning isn’t that simple,” Margerit protested. “When we were working out what went wrong with the new Mauriz
tutela
, Barbara pointed out that they’d changed all the old Helvizen dialect for the simple Latin of the Lyon rite and even though the words were supposed to be the same it entirely changed the meaning.”