Tracing the Shadow

by Sarah Ash

  “I know you love a challenge, Noyale,” said the Abbess, “but if you think it’s too difficult, you must tell Maistre de Joyeuse now and get him to change it.”

  “Here’s your part, Celestine, and yours, Gauzia.” Sister Noyale took no notice of the Abbess.

  Celestine had been chopping onions for the evening soup and although she had carefully rinsed her hands before coming to the parlor, she sniffed her fingers, wiping them on her apron before touching the precious manuscript. Gauzia was already leafing through the pages.

  “Do you think this is his own hand?” Celestine asked, looking at the strong black strokes on the staff.

  Gauzia gave a careless little shrug. “Busy composers use a copyist.”

  “Oh.” Celestine was disappointed. She had imagined that the pages she was holding had been hand-scribed by Henri de Joyeuse, that he had sat up late into the night, feverishly scribbling down these very notes especially for her to sing.

  The Canticles were difficult. More difficult than anything Celestine had ever had to learn before. It was not so much that the notes were hard to pitch accurately, but more the way that the individual lines were woven together. It was little consolation to know that Gauzia was equally challenged by Maistre de Joyeuse’s composition. She became obsessed with the drive to get to know this music as intimately as possible. As she sang alone in the empty chapel, she held in her mind the image of Henri de Joyeuse feverishly writing down the riot of notes flowing through his brain, lamplight like a golden halo burnishing his fair hair.

  As Saint Azilia’s Day approached, the Abbess began to fuss about the flowers for the chapel. Everything must be “perfect—no, better than perfect—for our royal guests,” she insisted. The Skylarks were set to work binding floral wreaths and garlands to decorate the chapel; the Novices brought out ladders and, tucking up their long robes into their belts, climbed up to hang the garlands around the chapel pillars.

  Celestine, her robes hitched up to her knees, was up at the top of a ladder held by Koulmia when she heard a sudden commotion below. All the girls had begun to chatter at once as noisily as a flock of starlings.

  “Koulmia!” she called down. “What’s all the fuss about?”

  “He’s here!”

  “Who? Not the prince?” Celestine leaned out to try to see, just at the moment that Koulmia, distracted, let go of the ladder. “Koulmia!” She wobbled precariously at the top of the ladder, making a grab at a pillar to steady herself. “He-elp—”

  “Good-day, Demoiselle Celestine,” said a cheerful voice from below as firm hands caught hold of the ladder and steadied it. “I see I came just in time.”

  Celestine looked down to see Henri de Joyeuse gazing up at her. He must be able to see her bare legs! She climbed down, hastily shaking the tucked-in folds loose.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze.

  “It’s all right,” he said confidentially. “I averted my eyes.”

  She looked up at him then, astonished that he knew what she had been thinking. His face had crinkled into a mischievously playful smile. She didn’t know whether she wanted to slap him or hug him for rescuing her.

  “Is that really Prince Enguerrand?” said Koulmia in a shrill whisper. “Isn’t he rather…young? And he’s dressed in black, like a schoolboy.”

  Even though the girls’ heads were respectfully lowered, every Novice had angled herself so that she could look down the aisle and see the prince and his mother, Queen Aliénor, as they left the chapel after the service.

  “He’s Aubrey’s younger brother, stupid,” said Gauzia in scalding tones. “He is a schoolboy. What did you expect?”

  “I expected someone a little more princely,” said Katell. “So princes wear spectacles?” She made a disparaging click of the tongue. “What d’you think, Celestine?”

  Celestine was still staring after the departing royal party. She was certain now: It was Captain de Lanvaux at the prince’s side, ushering him out of the chapel, beneath the garlands of lilies and white roses, to the open doorway where his bodyguard awaited. The prince’s tutor had spoken highly of the music-making at Saint Azilia’s. Had Ruaud de Lanvaux arranged this prestigious occasion? She felt her heart warm with gratitude as she watched his tall figure, walking with the stiff bearing of a seasoned military man beside the young prince.

  “I think that Prince Enguerrand has kind eyes,” she said. “And a sweet, shy smile.”

  “Remember, girls, whatever you do, keep your eyes modestly lowered at all times,” insisted the Abbess. “Don’t look at the prince or his mother directly. That would be immodest and improper.”

  Celestine expected Gauzia to remind the Abbess that she had been presented to the queen before and did not need to be lectured on court etiquette. But Gauzia was silent, and when Celestine sneaked a look at her, she saw that her face was flushed pink. So even the worldly Gauzia was overcome at the prospect of a royal audience.

  Two tall men of the royal household, resplendent in their uniforms of blue and gold, stood guard outside the Abbess’s parlor. Celestine felt her knees go weak at the sight. But the guards merely opened the parlor door and the girls were ushered inside.

  “May I present our two young soloists, your majesty, your highness…”

  Celestine and Gauzia curtsied obediently. Queen Aliénor was talking with her ladies-in-waiting and she merely gave a brief approving nod. Celestine had never seen such richly dressed women before; the queen’s costume of mulberry velvet was stitched with tiny jewels that glittered in the candlelight whenever she gestured. At her side, her son Enguerrand looked like a young cleric in his sober dark suit. But it was he who leaned forward and spoke to them, his low voice earnest and kind.

  “Thank you for your beautiful singing. The service was truly uplifting. And Maistre de Joyeuse’s Azilian Canticles were ravishing. I’d love to come here and listen to the choir again.”

  Even though she had been forbidden to do so, Celestine could not resist snatching a glance at his face as he spoke and she saw that behind the lenses of his spectacles, his dark eyes were gravely smiling at them. He does look like a young priest; serious yet rather charming.

  “Thank you, your highness,” said Gauzia boldly.

  “Saint Azilia is my favorite of all the saints—after Saint Sergius, of course, Captain,” Prince Enguerrand added with a hasty glance in his tutor’s direction. “Her short life was so tragic, yet so inspiring.”

  Captain de Lanvaux turned around at this and gave an approving nod.

  “You can go now, girls,” said the Abbess hastily, shooing them out of the royal presence.

  Celestine looked back over her shoulder for a glimpse of Maistre de Joyeuse. She had hoped that he would tell them if he had enjoyed their performance. She could just see the glint of candlelight on his fair hair as he listened attentively to one of the queen’s companions, a dark-haired young woman, who was gazing at him with undisguised admiration.

  Disappointed, Celestine turned away and followed Gauzia, who had already left the parlor, her head held high.

  Gauzia stormed off through the cloisters; Celestine ran after her, the sound of their fast-pattering feet echoing around the moonlit courtyard.

  “What’s wrong, Gauzia? Everything went well. Aren’t you pleased?”

  “It makes me so angry.” She spoke at last and her voice was choked with emotion. “To see those daughters of privileged families simpering around Queen Aliénor in their fancy clothes.” She clenched her fists at her sides. “Why did we have to be born helpless women?”

  “Helpless?”

  Gauzia spun around on her heel. “What life is there for us, Celestine? We have no dowries, so we can never hope to marry. We have no money, no status, nothing.”

  “But we have our voices. We could make our careers from singing.”

  “Oh, wake up, Celestine.” Gauzia took hold of her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Try leaving Saint Azilia’s and making you
r way on your own. Just try! How long would you last in the real world? A woman alone is easy prey. We’ve been sheltered here. Protected from the realities of life on the streets.” She let go of Celestine. “It’s different for men. Why can my brothers go into the army, the navy, the priesthood—and all that’s left to me is to be shut away in this dreary convent?”

  Celestine hung her head. She had no answer.

  “Don’t you have a dream? Do you really want to stay here forever?”

  A little spark caught fire in Celestine as if she understood what Gauzia was saying for the first time.

  Forever.

  “N—no,” she said dazedly. “There are things…things I have to do…”

  The sharp clatter of hooves on the cobbles startled them both. Two horsemen rode into the convent courtyard; the first dismounted as the girls stared, carelessly flinging his reins into the hands of the second. A couple of shaggy hounds loped in behind them, pink tongues lolling out of their mouths as they panted.

  “Good-day, little sisters,” he called cheerfully, “can you take me to my brother? I thought I’d pay him a surprise visit.”

  “Your b—brother?” Gauzia was staring unashamedly. Celestine was tongue-tied. With his piercing eyes of dark blue, curling dark hair, and entrancing smile, she had never seen such a good-looking young man before.

  “We’ve been hunting, haven’t we, Locronan?” The newcomer turned to his companion, who grinned and nodded. “Bagged a fine brace of partridge out on the moors.”

  “Prince Aubrey?” Recovering, Gauzia dipped a swift curtsy and smiled boldly up at him. “Please follow me.”

  “Wait, your highness,” cried his companion. “Your mother—”

  “Will be delighted to see us!” called the prince, laughing as he strode after Gauzia.

  As the royal party departed, all the sisters and students lined the courtyard to bid them farewell. Koulmia and Deneza clutched each other, barely able to restrain their squeals of delight as Prince Aubrey rode out of the courtyard, the hounds obediently trotting behind their master.

  “And he spoke to you, Gauzia? He actually spoke to you?”

  “He asked me to take him to his mother. It seems he was expected to attend the service but went hunting instead.”

  “Did you meet him too, Celestine?” demanded Katell.

  Celestine nodded.

  “But little Miss Mouse here was too shy to say anything,” said Gauzia scornfully.

  “Or you pushed her out the way so that you could take precedence.”

  “You take that back, Catty Katell!”

  Katell, hands on her hips, faced her defiantly.

  “Katell, please—” Celestine begged, catching hold of her arm.

  “Celestine!” Sister Noyale said sharply. “Come with me.”

  “You haven’t heard the last of this,” Gauzia said under her breath as Celestine followed Sister Noyale toward the Abbess’s parlor.

  “So you want to steal away my best singer, Maistre?” Sister Noyale said, staring challengingly at him.

  “I don’t think I’m setting a precedent here, am I, Abbess?” Henri de Joyeuse looked to the Abbess for confirmation. “The convent regularly sends girls to sing at Saint Meriadec’s in Lutèce. And excellent choirmistress that you are, Sister Noyale, you know that Celestine deserves the chance to develop her gift to the full.”

  There was a silence. Celestine saw Sister Noyale bite her lower lip. “You’re saying that I’ve taught her all I know. And…you’re right. She needs to be trained by a professional singing teacher like you.”

  Celestine stood watching the nuns and de Joyeuse discuss her future as the topic passed from speaker to speaker like the ball in a tense game of jeu de paume.

  “But where is she going to live while she studies? She’s an orphan, she has no relatives.”

  “She can stay with my family. They’re used to hosting my students.”

  “Are you married, Maistre?” asked Sister Noyale pointedly. Celestine held her breath; for some reason she did not quite yet understand, his answer to Sister Noyale’s question was of more importance to her than she could have imagined.

  “No, I live with my aunt. My aunt was a renowned singer in her youth; she teaches technique to my students.”

  So he’s not married. Celestine felt herself begin to breathe again.

  “I think it would be more appropriate for Celestine to stay at the Sisters of Charity, in the care of Sister Angelique,” put in the Abbess. “If she is to sing daily at Saint Meriadec’s, she will have a companion to accompany her.”

  “Aren’t we forgetting our other promising singer, Gauzia de Saint-Désirat? If you were willing to give them lessons together, there could be no talk of impropriety.” Sister Noyale gazed sternly at the Maistre, as if challenging him to reject her suggestion at his peril.

  “Her tone is distinctive but if she could learn to blend with the other choristers…” The Maistre smiled at Sister Noyale. “Why not? I’m sure that Gauzia will prove an asset to Saint Meriadec’s.”

  “Gauzia’s family would surely make no objection?” mused the Abbess. “Then I will write to the Mother Superior at the Sisters of Charity and ask her to take in our girls as lay sisters.”

  The mere hint that Gauzia might be her companion made Celestine squirm.

  Leave the convent? The prospect was at once terrifying and thrilling. Celestine’s heart had begun to flutter at the thought. She pressed a hand to her breast, trying to steady its wild beating. All her security lay here, confined within the convent walls: her dearest “big sister” Katell, her friends, the reassuring daily rhythm of the convent routine…

  “So you’re following Angelique?” Celestine whirled around to see Katell standing in the doorway, arms crossed, regarding her with a wry, sad smile.

  “I don’t want to leave you, Katell!” Celestine burst out.

  “But you have to go?”

  Celestine could not meet her friend’s eyes. She nodded.

  “Well then, that’s as it should be. Go to Lutèce and make us all proud of you.”

  Was this really Katell speaking? Celestine slowly raised her head.

  “Ever since you first showed us that amazing voice of yours, I knew you wouldn’t stay. Heavens, we’ve been lucky to have you here all these years. You deserve this break, Celestine. You have to follow your dream.” Katell’s voice was steady, but Celestine could see a glimmer of tears in her eyes. “But you have to promise to come back every Saint Azilia’s Day to sing to us.”

  Celestine flew to Katell and hugged her, hard. “Oh, Katell, you’re all bones!” she said through her tears. “Thank you.”

  “What for?” Katell wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron.

  “For standing up for me. I’d never have made it to today without you beside me.”

  “Enough of this nonsense!” Katell turned away so Celestine could no longer see her face. “I’ve got chores to finish.”

  “I wish you were coming to Lutèce with me, not Gauzia.”

  “So do I,” said the departing back, stiff and straight as a broom handle. “Come back and visit. Visit soon. And don’t forget to write!”

  The following spring, the girls traveled by river to the capital city, where Maistre de Joyeuse met them in his carriage at the busy quay. As his driver skillfully negotiated his way between the other carriages jostling for room, the Maistre sat back on the seat, holding on to the strap to keep from being thrown by the violent lurches, and began to explain what lay ahead of them in their new lives.

  “You’ll be tutored in vocal technique by my aunt. She prefers to be called Dame Elmire by her students, but her stage name was Elmire Sorel, and she was once the toast of the opera houses in the city.”

  “Your aunt was an opera singer?” Gauzia clasped her hands together. “That’s my dream—to act, to sing on the stage…”

  “And don’t be deceived by her friendly manner. In the music room, she’s a ferocious tyrant! You�
��ll have to work hard to keep up to her exacting standards.”

  During this conversation, Celestine had begun to feel an unpleasant and disorienting sensation. It was as if a thin, dark smoke were seeping in from the street outside, choking her with a nauseating smell of burning. She clapped both hands to her mouth, afraid she might retch.

  “Are you feeling all right, Demoiselle?” Maistre de Joyeuse was looking at her with concern.

  “You look quite green. You’re not going to be sick are you?” asked Gauzia loudly.

  “It must be the bumpy motion of the carriage over the cobblestones. Would you like the driver to stop?”

  “No!” This inexplicable feeling of terror told her to get away as fast as possible. She felt so panicked that she wanted to wrench open the carriage door, jump down, and run until the feeling evaporated. “Where…are we?”

  Maistre de Joyeuse checked outside. Then he rapped on the carriage roof and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Turn off at once.”

  “Where are we, Maistre?” Gauzia tried to peep out but the Maistre leaned across and hastily pulled down the blind.

  “I apologize. Why the driver chose to bring us by the Place du Trahoir, I have no idea. He may enjoy the sight of criminals swinging from the gibbet, but it’s no sight for civilized citizens.”

  The Place du Trahoir. The name brought back terrible memories like a foul black sediment churned up from the depths of a still, clear lake. This was where they had executed her dearest papa, in the cruelest way imaginable, by searing flames on an oil-drenched pyre. Celestine leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  “So you saw?” She heard the Maistre’s voice as if from far away. “I’m sorry, Demoiselle. We will soon be at my aunt’s house.”

  “I’m feeling much better now.” Celestine forced herself to regain her self-control. What must he think of her? It was not an auspicious start to her new life in Lutèce.