“Dear Kira…vai…en…Kirjavainen Mercenary Troop?”
There, on a piece of paper between the pages of a bloodstained scripture book, was written the name of a mercenary band. Lawrence brushed the soot away and looked more closely, reading the writing there. Next to the band’s name, there was another name, the addressee of the letter.
“Fran…Vonely.”
It had come from the pack Col had carried in Fran’s place, so it was not surprising he had been carrying something that was addressed to her. Lawrence found himself murmuring her name, because in front of it was also written a title.
“Troop Chaplain, Fran Vonely.”
The moment he saw those words, Lawrence felt a great shock, as though he had been struck on the head with an iron rod. He did not even hear Holo trying to get his attention as he paged through the letter.
The characters were blurred in places and smeared with blood, soot, and grime, sometimes too badly to be read. But Lawrence could tell that it had been written by someone in the Kirjavainen mercenary troop—and by someone who was far away from Fran. At the top of the second page, the scribe had written, “May they reach your prayers from this far-off land,” followed by a simple list of facts, all in a peculiar hand.
“Decurion Martin Ghurkas killed in the battle of Lydion.”
“Betrayed on the Lavan plains. Pursued by the soldiers of Marquis Lizzo. Cursed by God. Lienne the sutler died that night of injuries. He went in his sleep and left no will.”
“Heimann Rosso, the centurion who’d been sheltered by the count, was betrayed and arrested. He passed in the dungeon in fine form and was always worried about you.”
And then, the last piece of paper.
“In the town of Miligua in the Nacculi diocese, in the month of Saint Rafenne, executed by hanging. A last message for you was ‘I’ll see the angel before you…’”
The last page was badly crumpled, and there was more written, but it was so thoroughly blurred that it was not legible.
Lawrence stood there silently, and when he finally spoke, it was a simple, low “Ah” of understanding.
Young but trusted by nobility. Used to hard physical labor. Bold and fearless as a mountain bandit. And for all that, still graceful and refined.
Kieman had said she was a silversmith born on the battlefield. Fran herself had told Hugues she had been a slave—and those two meanings now connected.
In her mercenary band, as arrows and swords rained down upon them, to protect her comrades-in-arms, Fran had raised the shield of faith against the fear and despair of death.
Given all that, Fran’s reason for seeking out the legend of the angel must have naturally changed. The last piece of paper was wrinkled, the writing blurred—and it pointed to one thing.
The dear friend of whom Fran had spoken had been the centurion that was hung.
He had only to recall the legend of the angel. The doors to the heavens were flung open, and the angel ascended.
He had been looking for a special meaning in those words, but all that was needed were the words themselves.
There were countless stories of the misery that was life in the latter days of a mercenary troop. For Fran to have lived through it meant she passed through that hell. The words “from this far-off land” betrayed that much.
And it was just as Hugues had said. Those with teeth and claws are the first to die.
The troop chaplain could do nothing but pray. And since prayers did nothing to stop a sword, they were spared participation in battle.
And so Fran had lived.
“Come, you.”
Holo’s words brought Lawrence out of his reverie, but she said nothing more.
“Sorry.”
She could probably guess what he was going to say next just by his expression. A wind blew from downriver, skimming along the surface of the waning flow, through the space between Lawrence and Holo and up into the forest, taking some snow with it as it went.
“Can we not help her?” Lawrence said simply.
Instead of replying, Holo held out her hand as if asking for the scripture book.
“So?” she said, looking up after she finished reading the letters and the scriptures.
She might not have worked out the details, but she probably understood the larger plan. After all, Col had expressed his own opinion for once and had gone chasing after Fran. That alone was not something they could ignore.
“I know all I’ve got is my cheap sympathy.”
“So why, then?”
Lawrence smiled in response, but not because he was trying to fake it. What he had to say was simply embarrassing.
Holo glared at him dubiously and grabbed his ear. But Lawrence’s smile remained. His thoughts were just that foolish.
“I was just thinking that it would be nice if the world were a gentler place.”
Holo did not let him go.
Lawrence’s eyes remained on her.
“I was thinking how lovely it would be if things would go just a little more smoothly. How nice it would be to get past reality and common sense. Something like that.”
Fran’s mercenary troop had been unable to avoid reality. Fran had lived on, and Lawrence could not imagine that she truly believed she could find the miracle that had so eluded her comrades.
A water mill would be constructed, and if her luck was bad, Fran would be killed. And even if things did not go that way, comparing those who had died to those who had lived still showed the truth of the world. Any child who had been beaten for misbehaving knew that much.
But Katerina had contented herself with being called a witch, with being reviled, abiding in that cottage with nothing but her faith, all to glimpse a legend that common sense dictated she would surely not see.
She concerned herself with neither cheap sympathy nor false miracles.
The world had its kinder moments. That was what she had believed.
“You truly are a fool.” Holo made a baffled face and sighed a deep sigh. She let go of his ear as though she could no longer stand to go along with such a fool. But with her other hand, she curled her little finger around Lawrence’s ring finger. “You know the world really isn’t that happy a place?”
Holo was a wisewolf. She could see right through the silly notions of her companion.
“I know. Still—”
“Still, what?”
If he answered wrongly, she might leave him right then and there—or so he would have thought until quite recently.
Lawrence took Holo’s hand and drew her close. “Don’t you want to help this stubborn girl, with her painful past and a goal she can’t give up?”
Holo bared her fangs. They were very white. “If you fail, I won’t forgive you.”
“Of course,” Lawrence said, lightly bumping Holo’s forehead with his own. “Of course,” he said again.
“But what exactly do you plan to do?” Holo finally gave in and asked as they made their way back to the cottage.
“Nothing too difficult. I’m just going to refer to Katerina as a saint.”
“…So you’ll sell her?”
“No. Not at all—all I have to say is that we’ve been employed for the service of confirming her application for canonization.”
That implied nothing less than that the powerful figures responsible for canonization decisions were paying attention to this region. If Lawrence and his companions met with an unnatural accident or if mysterious action was taken against the villagers, the landlord would immediately find himself in serious trouble.
“But even the most foolish lord would investigate the matter, especially if he’s a coward. Even if she is being considered for canonization, he’ll soon discover that we’ve nothing to do with that. So what would that possibly…?” Holo said but trailed off as she realized.
Her displeased expression was just as Lawrence predicted.
“I did say I needed your help, didn’t I?”
“…I thought you meant my knowledge,�
�� grumbled Holo, her lips twisted in a sneer. But she said nothing further.
“In the legend of the angel, it’s said that there was the howl of a great beast. If you’ll lend your help, it’ll be simple to put on a show that will prove Katerina’s sainthood beyond any doubt.”
“Mm.”
“The truth is that Katerina’s canonization proceedings have stalled. So long as the Church doesn’t publicly confirm her sainthood, there will be no financial incentives in the form of valuable holy relics. And if there’s nothing of value, how could I sell it?”
“A rather makeshift plan, if you ask me,” Holo interjected, unamused.
“You could at least call it ‘cunning.’”
Holo sighed, as though to say they were one and the same.
“So all we need to do is tell the landlord as much. As money and faith are intertwined, if rumors start to spread, it won’t do him any good, we’ll say.”
For a landlord trapped between the Church and the pagans, this would constitute a strong argument indeed. He ought to stay as quiet as a well-trained hound.
Of course, there was no telling whether they would be able to hold the landlord off for long. But Lawrence was sure this would buy them enough time.
Enough for Fran to be able to give up on the angel legend, anyway.
“Well, I suppose it’s better than turning tail and running away,” said Holo, tossing another piece of firewood onto the cottage’s hearth.
Katerina Lucci was one step away from being publicly declared a saint by the Church.
Her diary was less a diary than it was a simple record of her daily activities. But that was more than enough to come to understand the person Katerina had been and the circumstances in which she had lived.
She had been consulted by an archbishop whose name was known even to Lawrence, as well as a noblewoman and a wealthy merchant. She spent her days replying to such correspondence, as well as studying topics of concern to the Church and translating the scriptures and copying important documents.
Those activities alone were evidence of a serene and pious life, but in her diary, Katerina had also recorded some of her innermost thoughts.
She had turned over her translation of the scriptures to a bishop upon receiving his request to do so, but when the lending period had ended, he had refused to return it. A book merchant had held her manuscript against her will in exchange for money. The Church council had deemed theology not a subject suitable for women to consider, and she had been forced to write under a false name.
But the greatest revelations were the letters from the many powerful figures who had heard of her reputation and written her for advice. Though the archbishop’s letter was phrased in all sorts of complicated religious language, the ridiculous gist was that he was constantly being invited to this or that nobleman’s banquet and eating to excess, and he wanted to know what he should do.
The noblewoman wrote to complain at nauseating length about her quarrels with her husband.
The wealthy merchant very directly posed the question of exactly how much he would need to give to the poor in order to assure his own entrance into heaven.
Katerina replied seriously and conscientiously to every letter she received, and some of her drafts remained. However, in between her replies to these absurd questions were written short sentences, apparently to herself. Are these trials God has sent to test me? she wondered. They wrung distress from this nun, who was only trying to deepen her faith.
It seemed that the process for canonization had taken place entirely outside of Katerina’s participation. She had written many times attempting to decline, but the letters that came back only showed growing support and that sainthood was close.
As Lawrence committed to memory the names and doings of the many powerful people in the letters, he felt progressively worse and worse.
It was written in the diary that a representative of the village had come to her one day and, having explained the circumstances to her, asked for permission to begin calling her a witch.
Katerina had sympathized with the villagers and had agreed, as long as she would be the only one to suffer the consequences. Just as Fran had said, she had lamented the weakness of humans, writing in a tangled and distraught hand.
And then suddenly, the diary became much more diary-like. She wrote of the changing seasons, of her dogs, and later their puppies. When she had to hunt birds, she asked God’s forgiveness for doing so. So her diary went.
Meanwhile, letters from nobles continued to come, but no evidence remained of her replies. She had even ceased to write about the condition of the villagers.
Lawrence wondered if she had freed herself of their burdens, realizing that her own faith could not change them, nor could it change the world.
Toward the end, her diary seemed filled with pleasant, joyful things. Lawrence slowly closed it. It was beginning to grow dim outside, and the sun would soon set.
He added a log to the hearth and went past the skin partition into the back room. Holo wanted to check the bookshelves for anything else that might be of use, but upon reaching the room, Holo opened a wooden window there and gazed out of it.
Katerina seemed to be sitting in the chair, and for a moment it seemed that she and Holo were looking out the window together.
“I can see the falls,” Holo murmured. “’Tis a good view.”
Drawn over by her words, Lawrence stood behind Holo and looked out the window. He could indeed see the waterfall past the trees. Looking opposite the waterfall, there was a small space that seemed to have been plucked free of underbrush and was covered in a layer of snow.
It wasn’t hard to imagine it being a flower garden, perhaps.
“She might have just sat down here and closed her eyes for an afternoon nap,” said Holo, and she poked Katerina’s head very lightly.
One might reasonably conclude from her diary that she had indeed had such a lovely last moment. Lawrence smiled a sad smile, and Holo put her hand to the window. “The wind’s gotten cold,” she said and closed it tight.
Holo wasn’t usually the type to close a window. Perhaps she was scared of continuing their conversation here.
Any conversation carried out in the presence of a body, no matter how happy the memories it might be regarding, would always end up sadly—all the more when the person in question, who had been called a nun, a saint, and both in life and death, was at the mercy of the whims of others.
Once she had closed the window, Holo returned to the room with the hearth. Lawrence followed, but could not help looking back over his shoulder once.
They might call the villagers or the landlord presumptuous, but he, too, was using Katerina’s sainthood for his own purposes. But he decided not to think about it and followed after Holo.
A merchant chased profit and only profit. He held that indulgence, that excuse in his heart.
Later, Fran and Col returned. Fran was unable to hide her surprise at finding Lawrence still in the cottage. She gasped a little at seeing the bloodstained book of scripture in Lawrence’s hand.
Fran looked at Col and then back to Lawrence.
In his hand was her past and the present that continued from that past.
Fran’s gaze dropped to the floor.
A merchant had to pursue profit at all times.
“You’ll be drawing that map for us, then.” Lawrence felt he could hear the sound of her fists clenching the fabric of her robe. “We have our own convictions, too, after all.”
Fran nodded, still looking down. A droplet of water fell to the floor. “…I understand. I promise.” She wiped the corner of her eyes and then looked up. “Thank you.”
Lawrence smiled, accepting Fran’s thanks, but his gaze was elsewhere.
The embers in the hearth collapsed, sending up a puff of sparks.
Lawrence’s eyes were directed outside the cottage. “It’s still a bit early for thank-yous.”
Fran, having been a chaplain, seemed to under
stand what he meant. She nodded again and asked him the question directly. “What do you plan to do?”
“As before, you’re a silversmith dispatched by the bishop, that should be fine. But as another goal, I’d like to add that we’re here to confirm particulars regarding the canonization.”
Fran seemed confused for a moment, but she was a clever girl. She soon realized Lawrence’s aim and slowly nodded.
“I’ve no intention of selling Katerina off. Instead, I’ll state that her canonization is ongoing, so that the landlord won’t give us any trouble.”
Fran nodded again and spoke more clearly this time. “Understood.” The sound of distant hoofbeats could be heard. Fran wiped her tears again, holding close the bloodstained scripture book she had taken from Lawrence. “Let us go, then.”
When she looked up, her face was firm and undaunted, the words she spoke worthy of the girl who had lived on the battlefield.
CHAPTER SIX
Consider the term high horse.
The old knight was on a literal high horse as he looked down at Lawrence, backlit by torches.
“You’re the one they say came from Ruvinheigen?”
Had they decided to run, without Holo’s aid they would probably have been caught by these knights somewhere on the road to town. Behind the old knight was a contingent of soldiers mostly comprised of farmers from the area wearing hastily thrown-on leather armor. It would not have been a good idea to attempt to escape into the night with them in pursuit.
From that perspective, waiting in the cottage was the right choice. But it was still unclear whether things would go well or not.
Just as they had discussed, Holo and Col were still in the cottage, with only Lawrence and Fran venturing out.
“That’s right,” Lawrence replied, and the old knight turned to his soldiers and gestured with his chin.
He had introduced himself as the landlord appointed governor, so Lawrence thought he might produce a document proving as much.
But instead what was thrust at Lawrence was the point of a spear.
“You saw nothing and heard nothing here. Or else you never came at all.” If they did not understand his meaning, they did not value their own lives, he seemed to imply.
Spice and Wolf, Vol. 12 Page 14