But if he had planned to kill them, he would not have bothered with a conversation. Lawrence calmly looked up at the governor.
“What’s your answer?” The governor’s tone did not waver. If they did as ordered, perhaps they would be allowed to leave. And whatever Lawrence and company might tell the Church after that, it would be after the fact. It would not be hard to keep their heads in the sand.
But if they defied the order…
They were in a forest. No one would answer their cries for help.
It did not take a clever merchant to arrive at the obvious course of action.
And yet this is how Lawrence answered.
“We have been sent by the bishop in order to render the legend of the angel in silverwork.”
The governor’s right eyelid twitched. “And you may tell them you failed in your goal. Ruvinheigen is very far from here. No one will doubt you.”
“Yes, that is quite true.”
The high-handed governor seemed visibly relieved, even from the ground. Kings and emperors who had built their nations had often themselves been the lords of small, meager lands. They had risen through the ranks, coming to control the other lords in their area through their sheer capacity as people.
If so, this acting was probably the most this governor was capable of.
“However, that was not our only purpose.”
Lawrence could hear the governor draw a sharp breath.
“Do you know who the saint that lies in the cottage behind me is?”
“Saint…?” the governor replied dubiously.
Lawrence continued, “Her name is Katerina Lucci. She earned the trust of many a noble, and her application for canonization has been submitted to the pontiff in the far south. She is a genuine and true saint.”
“…”
Such a mixture of surprise and doubt would render anyone expressionless.
The governor’s eyes regarded him, full of worry.
“We’ve been sent to investigate as part of the canonization process. After all, she was a woman who hated appearing in front of others. For a long time her whereabouts were unknown, but she was finally located, so…”
If this lie was true, nothing would come of silencing Lawrence and his companions now. If the governor or the landlord harmed them, they would be harming their future selves as well.
“However, the honored sister has passed peacefully away. There are many who without a title would treat even God as a cur, a beast, but I know the landlord here understands the way of things. I shall be sure to make note of that in my report. And incidentally…” Lawrence looked the governor evenly in the eyes. “I presume that you will need to consult with your honored lord?”
As though struck by a magic spell that caused time to begin moving again, the governor returned to his senses. He wiped sweat from his brow. His mouth twitched, probably out of his efforts to maintain his facade of authority.
But before words of anger could leave his mouth, a voice sounded from behind him.
“It certainly seems that way.”
The old knight looked back over his shoulder as though pulled.
In the center of the hastily assembled troop of farmers turned soldiers were a few proper fighters, and from among them emerged a single man.
He was slender and middle-aged, to whom a high, shrill voice would seem appropriate.
Yet he did have an undeniable aura of command, and it seemed entirely fitting for the governor to dismount from his horse and come to his master’s side, though the lord dismissed him.
He approached Lawrence alone, perhaps disliking being petitioned indirectly.
“I am Kirchner Linguid.”
Lawrence had not expected the man to introduce himself. Apparently he had no intention of immediately calling Lawrence’s claims into question.
Lawrence started to take a knee in a bow, but Linguid stopped him with a hand.
“I am Kraft Lawrence of the Rowen Trade Guild,” he said, standing.
“Mm.” Linguid nodded, and after heaving a heavy sigh, he continued, “I’ll put it to you straight, then. Do you have any proof to support your claims?”
For a lord to dismount and say such a thing immediately proved his hesitation. All the more so given the tough words spoken with a tough attitude.
Lawrence realized that he was a small player in a tight position, just trying to stay alive.
“What might I bring forth as evidence?” Lawrence asked, and for a moment, Linguid was at a loss for words.
He opened his mouth as though angry, either because he thought he was being mocked or simply because of what Lawrence had asked.
“I have heard nothing of this supposed canonization. Something so important should certainly have reached my ears. So speak. Have you proof?”
When a timid man’s face went red from anger, you could be certain the rage in his heart had been sparked.
But there was no need to further wound his pride, so Lawrence quickly replied, “This involves many people in various positions. Someone like me isn’t provided material proof. But if I might propose an alternative, I could list some of the names of the nobles who’ve charged me with this duty.”
The world of the nobility was a small one, and Lawrence had heard that they all had a good understanding of who was connected to whom. Especially in a region with both Church and pagan inhabitants, where continued existence could only be ensured by constant groveling, Linguid would be well aware of such things.
Lawrence cleared his throat, opened Katerina’s diary in his mind’s eye, and spoke.
“Baron Lans of Rien. Sir Marth of Dorenne. Marquis Ivendott of Singhilt. Archbishop Corselio of the Lamann Archdiocese.”
Lawrence paused for a moment and watched Linguid’s reaction. He seemed to recognize some of the names and stood there mutely. Lawrence continued.
“There’s Sirs D’une and Maraffe, and Countess Roez from the Linz duchy. And in Ploania…”
Lawrence was preparing to continue, but Linguid stopped him with a hand.
His face was pale with fright.
Lawrence had only listed the names located in the north of Ploania. As someone who had had to deal with the religious conflicts in the area, they would have been names Linguid was familiar with.
And there was one more important thing.
All these nobles had been involved in an important affair regarding his own lands, and yet he had known nothing. It suggested the possibility that he was seen as a pagan power, an enemy of the Church.
If this Lawrence truly had come to confirm a canonization, then doubting the man’s word was too dangerous for someone in Linguid’s position to risk. It was all he could do to go along with it.
“F-fine, I understand. So…what must I do?”
It would have been a lie to say Lawrence did not feel some pity for the terrified lord, but past that he felt only anger. Merchants were said to be the least scrupulous people in the world, but even as a merchant he found Linguid pathetic.
Lawrence had hoped a landlord would have had a bit more pride, but he did not let the thought show on his face. He merely smiled. “Please, do not worry. You weren’t consulted regarding the canonization simply because this region is a complicated one. I understand that you’ve had trouble governing it.”
Linguid was probably twice Lawrence’s age, but he nodded like a child. Perhaps he had been born in the wrong place.
“But as you can see, the cottage has been beautifully kept. It’s clear to me that you, my lord, are a faithful and pious man. I am sure that when they hear of this, those responsible for managing this matter will be relieved to hear it.”
“Th-that’s right. I imagine so.” He smiled a simpering smile.
Next to Lawrence, Fran made no reaction, either because she simply had that much self-control or else she had seen enough bloodshed on the battlefield and would invite no more.
“But this process being what it is, it must proceed in secret. Can I have y
our word that you will keep this quiet while the canonization proceeds?”
“…But that’s…”
“There are many, many obstacles,” said Lawrence, which Linguid gulped at and nodded.
The plan had succeeded.
Once Holo emerged to make doubly sure, none of these men would even think of approaching the forest or the lake.
Lawrence was about to speak the words he had agreed upon with Holo ahead of time. But just then—
“That’s her!” called out a voice at this most inopportune moment.
Linguid whirled around, and Lawrence, too, searched for the source of the voice.
What met his gaze was a single soldier carrying a spear. He wore a battered iron helmet and breastplate and was obviously an experienced fighter.
The man took three steps forward. “That’s her! That’s her!” he said.
Lawrence thought he heard Fran hold her breath.
“What do you mean, ‘That’s her?’”
“That’s her, boss!”
Regardless of how weak a ruler Linguid was, no retainer would dare call him “boss.” This man had to be a paid mercenary.
He spat on the snow as he looked at them with dubious eyes. Or more accurately, he looked at Fran.
“It’s just as the villagers said!”
“The villagers?” said Linguid, looking doubtfully back at Lawrence and Fran. His eyes seemed to apologize for the rudeness of his hireling, but Lawrence made a reassuring gesture.
“Aye, the villagers were talking about a dark-skinned silversmith, and that’s got to be her!”
It seemed that Linguid went stiff, but that was probably a mistake. Because it was Lawrence who froze, and in doing so, his vision shook.
“T-tell me, then! What do you know?”
At Linguid’s words the man spat again and smiled a thin smile. “I know there’s nothing so absurd as the idea that these two are from the Church.”
Linguid turned back to Lawrence and Fran, openly looking at one, then the other. He was not trying to gauge their mood, but rather their reactions.
“Don’t let ’em lie to you, boss! That tanned silversmith is named Fran Vonely, the black priestess of the Scarlet Hawk mercenary band!”
The man advanced without hesitation. He pointed the iron-tipped, battle-worn spear directly at Fran. “She was the chaplain of the Kirjavainen mercenary troop, which made a bit of a name for itself in Ploania. My own band’s got them to thank for quite a bit. They got my friend of twenty years in Kardin Gorge.”
Linguid practically jumped back from Lawrence.
If the world of the nobility was a small one, the world of mercenaries that were paid to fight for them was a small one as well. Could they escape from this? Even if he said nothing, if they went through Katerina’s things, there would be nothing left to do.
“They made important enemies left and right, and finally their leader was hung on suspicion of being a pagan. No matter how you reckon it, there’s no way she’d turn into a friend of the Church.”
“I-is this true?!” said Linguid, his voice sounding like a strangled chicken.
The man looked askance at Linguid’s irritating voice and then hefted his spear threateningly. “Just ask her yourself.” He grinned and not only because he had probably earned himself a bonus.
His eyes burned for revenge—no—for the chance to kill someone strong, someone whose glory was in the past.
“S-so? Is this true?” Linguid demanded as he looked at Fran.
Fran looked down and said nothing. There was no evading this. Fran’s appearance and characteristics were unmistakable.
Lawrence directed his gaze at the cottage, then spoke.
“I’m sure the angel knows the truth.”
“Wh-what? What do you…” Mean, Linguid was going to finish, but he didn’t get the chance.
Fran swatted away the spear that was pointed at her like it was a fly.
Lawrence was just as impressed as anyone. It was easy enough to describe, but with a spearpoint at one’s belly, actually doing it was not nearly so easy. It took either long experience or else a deep and abiding faith greater than any fear.
Fran took a step forward, and Linguid staggered back, perhaps able to feel the implacable something within her.
She took two steps forward, and Linguid took three back, and the man whose spear she had slapped away again pointed it at her.
“Fran Vonely, aren’t you?”
Instead of answering him, she removed her hood. “And if I say I’m not?”
Her movement when pushing the spear aside and walking forward had been so natural that the man had not been able to react immediately. Fran looked back at him and smiled.
“The villagers called this faithful nun a witch simply for their own meager profit. And now these sly nobles are paying their gold to have her dubbed a saint, this time for profits far vaster. And here, this landlord would destroy all trace of her just to build a water mill to satisfy his own piddling avarice. What do you think of this—of all of this?”
The man seemed not to understand what was being said, and Linguid looked at her as though she were God herself, here to deal divine justice.
Fran very distinctly smiled and then looked at Lawrence. He had no idea what she was trying to do.
He did know that very soon Holo would appear atop the waterfall, there to terrify all present. Lawrence considered that and decided to try to stop Fran.
But he was not in time—perhaps it was Katerina’s power.
“My name is Fran Vonely. Am I a saint? Or am I a witch?” She was directing her hellish sermon to the farmers from the village, most of whom had been rounded up for this duty. She projected her voice with perfect clarity. “You all know what the right thing was.”
The murmur that arose was the sound of all assembled swallowing nervously.
Most of the soldiers there were residents of Linguid’s land and knew perfectly well what they were doing. Spending their days trapped between pagan and Church beliefs, it was the faithful who always suffered the most—and who always had the most to fear.
“You’ll know for certain when you do. After all, the angel is always watching.”
There was a sound like a whistling wind—it was the sound of the man thrusting his spear without so much as a word.
He scattered the snow and cleaved the air, trying to pierce Fran.
The speed of the movements was far beyond anything Lawrence the traveling merchant could hope to stop. Very clearly, he saw the tip of the spear sink into Fran’s side.
“You witch!” the man screamed, pulling the spear back and preparing for another thrust.
“Stop—!” Lawrence shouted, trying to leap at the man, but he was too late.
But the spear only grazed the top of Fran’s shoulder, slicing her robe.
This was no miracle. A loosed arrow went into and back out of the man’s right leg.
“—Ngh!”
The man crumpled to the snowy ground, looking at his leg in disbelief, at a total loss for words. It was one of the villagers that had loosed the arrow—a hunter, by the look of him. Faces were full of fear, breathing ragged, rough.
Everyone feared death. But Fran had sparked that fear anew.
“Protect the saint!” someone shouted.
A skirmish began immediately, and it was unclear who was an ally and who an enemy.
Chaplains had nothing but words to wield on the plain of battle. Just as they could give courage to those whose legs were weak with fear, they could comfort those whose death was nigh.
There were many here who feared divine punishment for having gathered around Katerina’s cottage to harm the forest and lake where the angel’s legend lingered. And true to her reputation as the black priestess, Fran had controlled them with her words.
Though her left flank was soaked in red, her expression had not changed, and she faced the landlord and spoke. “See for yourself what the truth is.”
Lawre
nce thought Linguid was about to nod, but he just fell right on his backside. Such was the force of Fran’s character.
Fran turned on her heel and began to walk.
“Wh-where are you—” Lawrence knew it was a foolish question, but he was unable to stop himself from asking.
Enough blood was seeping from the wound in her side that she stained the snow red with every step. She neither turned around nor stopped, but she did answer: “To see the angel myself.”
Lawrence could not clearly hear her over the clamor of the fighting, but he understood what she meant. More than anything else, he felt the power of the faith that fairly radiated from her back.
At this late hour, it was neither hope nor delusion but pure conviction that drove her to bear witness.
He took an unthinking step, reaching out and putting his hand on his shoulder, but not to carry her back to the cottage and bandage her wound.
“Do you hear it?” Fran asked. Her voice was weak, perhaps from blood loss, and thanks to the noise around them, Lawrence asked her to repeat herself.
“It’s the howl of a beast.”
Lawrence shivered. He looked over his shoulder, knowing exactly what her words pointed to.
With animalistic roars, the men fought. Whatever their goal had been, they swung swords and spilled blood. Questions of Church or pagan were meaningless; they were each of them beasts, fighting only to preserve their own lives.
The sound, their voices, combined in a bestial roar, mixing and echoing into the sky.
But why had Fran mentioned it? Was it to mock them? Out of contempt? Or a cold laugh at this, the true nature of the world?
As Lawrence held Fran up and helped her walk, he finally realized. He had not imagined it. And it certainly had not been Holo. He recognized the sound. It reached his ears, a low howl: Oooooooooo.
At that moment, Lawrence remembered what Holo had said, that the lake was surrounded by mountains like a bowl. That the human notion of the mountains answering a shouted call was the product of their foolishness, she had said.
And then he remembered what Fran had told him in the cottage—that the water could overflow and powerfully.
Spice and Wolf, Vol. 12 Page 15