by Alma Boykin
Later, Odile couldn’t explain what moved her, except to say that Godown’s hand had been upon her. “He has deprived you of your substance, Guest Marta?”
“Mine and those around me. Greg has taken money promised to the miners and merchants and given it to another, in hopes of obtaining… I know not what, not exactly. And now he has invited this person here, to survey what my husband implies now belongs to the stranger.”
“Findings One, verse one,” Odile heard her voice reciting, “All gifts come from Godown and are His alone to give. In His generosity, He gave us a spark of His own loving kindness, so that we might also be blessed by giving. But we may not give what we have not, and may not bestow that which is not given to us. For giving others’ property or labor is not a gift, but theft, no matter how pure the intention or loving the heart. A child who steals a flower to give to his mother has still stolen, even though he stole out of love. A man who steals bread to feed his children remains a thief, even though he stole out of love.”
“Thanks be to Godown,” Marta replied. “And by law and Writ, a husband who does not do his duty to his wife is not husband in truth.”
“But that lack must be proven before witnesses, not merely accused, as the Book of Flames, twenty, and Glimmerings, seven, warn.” Odile mused for several more paces.
The woman beside her sighed quietly and rattled her prayer beads. They heard the chime marking the fourth bell and joined the silent stream of women going to the chapel for late afternoon prayers. Odile took her place among the other sisters, strangely calm and at peace despite the pain in her hands and shoulder and the days’ sorrows.
After the service ended, Odile sought out Reverend Mother Alice. “Reverend Mother, your daughter seeks a Word.”
“Come, my daughter.” Odile followed her superior down the corridor beside the infirmary, around the corner, and to the office and half-chamber beside the rooms for receiving guests and families. Odile waited as Reverend Mother Alice sat. Her joints must be paining her. She’s limping more than yesterday, and sitting hard, like she did before those big storms in spring. “For what reason do you seek a word?”
“For guidance and discernment for another, one who seeks to do her duty.” Again, Odile wondered where the words came from.
The older woman shifted in the chair, the fabric of her habit rustling, her headdress scraping against the high back of the ancient wooden seat. “Very well. Bring me the Writ.” When Odile hesitated, she added, “It is on the table beside the door, two steps to the right.”
Odile found the door, measured two steps to the right and reached forward. Her fingers touched an embossed and polished leather surface, the cover of a book. She ran her fingers over the spine and recognized Godown’s symbol. She bowed to the book, picked up the large volume, turned, and walked to the waiting abbess.
“Open it.” Odile did, feeling the book grow lighter as another hand reached out to steady it. “Point to a verse.” She took a steadying breath and tried to open herself to Godown’s will, then slid one finger down the page, stopping at a faint line pressed in the thick page. “Interesting. I give you leave to spend tonight in contemplation, Sister Odile, and you are released from your duties until the noon chime tomorrow. Your Word is Battles ten, verse six, ‘Blessed be Godown who guides my arm and strengthens me for duty, who gives victory to those who find favor in His sight’.”
“Thanks be to Godown,” both women murmured, and Odile closed the Writ, replacing it in its place of honor.
She returned to kneel for Reverend Mother’s blessing, and heard herself asking, “May I share this Word with the one for whom I pray?”
A long silence filled the room. Reverend Mother Alice leaned forward and took Odile’s hands between hers. “Yes. Godown grant you wisdom and may St. Kiara’s flame light your path to discernment.” A cool, smooth finger drew Godown’s symbol between Odile’s eyes, followed by Kiara’s flame. She released Odile. “You may begin your meditation following the evening meal.”
“Thank you, Reverend Mother. Godown be with you.” Odile bowed.
“And with your spirit.”
Odile found Marta by tripping over her. “Oof!” Ow! She landed hard on her knee and hands. Ow, that burns, ow, ow.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry sister, I apologize. Andrea dropped my work bag and the beads rolled out, we were trying to find all of them, please, let me help you.” Odile almost smiled at the frantic brushing once she got back on her feet, as Marta and Andrea tried to tidy her. “I am so sorry.”
“As you well know, Guest Marta, Guest Andrea, accidents happen.” I will give her the Word. “Reverend Mother Alice gave me a Word to meditate on. I suggest you do likewise.”
The brushing stopped instantly. “What is my Word?”
She heard both women’s breath hiss with surprise or perhaps dismay as she reported, “Battles ten, verse six.”
“Th— thank you for this Word, Sister.”
Odile dipped her head. “I covet your prayers during my meditations.”
“They shall be yours, Sister.”
Odile skirted past, and heard the women getting back down on their hands and knees to gather the rest of the spilled beads. Thank you, Godown, that I don’t have to worry about that anymore, Odile sighed just a little. Her Aunt Sabra had once tried to teach her beadwork. The experiment had not been a success. Godown bless, but she never gave up hoping that I could learn to sense the difference between the bead colors by weight.
Reverend Mother Alice’s joints had been right. Odile heard the storm winds starting to whine at the second hour after midnight, and the sister on night duty whispered into the chapel, putting a storm-glass over the Presence lamp with a soft clink of glass on metal and a murmured apology. Rain hissed against the roof and the chapel grew cooler after the fourth hour. The rain stopped just as the bell for dawn worship sounded.
Odile remained on her knees in the corner reserved for meditation and deep prayer, barely aware of the quiet singing arising from the other sisters. She rose after they all left, bowed low to the Presence, and returned to her half-chamber for a brief nap. She dreamed of battle, and of a light, not Kiara’s flame but a smaller white light. Warriors clad in pale green joined the battle, guided by the small light, and drove the dark, shadowy forces from the field. Odile awoke as rested and refreshed as if she’d slept all night on the finest bed in the valley.
She found Guest Marta once again walking the covered path around the herb garden. Marta’s distinctive steps gave her away: she dragged one foot oh so slightly. I wonder if she was injured, or if Godown made her so? It matters not. Odile joined the guest and they walked in silence.
After several trips around the garden, Marta spoke. “I thank you for the Word, Sister, and for your intentions.”
“Have you found that which you sought?”
Odile noticed the hum of the bees had disappeared. Perhaps the cool, overcast day kept them in their hives. “Yes. Godown give me strength, yes. I will send word to the bishop to have the marriage removed from the records, as it has never been a marriage in truth.”
“And you have proof.”
The other woman hesitated. “Yes.” She laughed, a small, bitter sound that made Odile wonder just what pain lay behind it. “Yes, I have proof. Conclusive proof, should his excellency Bishop Martín wish it.”
“Then go in His peace, and Godown grant you light to shine on your path and friends in your time of greatest need.”
A little gasp, and a gulp, then, “Thank you, Sister. May He be with you and strengthen you for your calling.”
“Selah.”
That afternoon Odile thanked Reverend Mother Alice again for the Word.
“Indeed, it seems the Word was meant for more than just you, my daughter. News has come that King Phillip wishes to claim the valley for his own. May Godown and St. Michael be with us.”
“Your nephews?”
Master Laplace tipped his head toward the flank of Godown’s Grace,
visible from the road between the convent and the Hall. Marta could just barely see the little building tucked into the shoulder of the small peak, on a flat area with needle-leaf trees below and paper-bark above. “Yes, my lady, Master Oldstone says they settled in well and are quite handy to have around.”
“Very good. New blood is welcome.” New blood who comes by invitation in small numbers, that is.
Esmé made a curious, almost eager sound, and the older riders smiled. She’d started looking for a husband, and while Marta would be sad to lose her best maid, she wouldn’t deny any woman the right to marry, as long as the man met her approval. Otherwise they discussed commonplaces and studied the land around them, Marta looking at the crops as well as trying to keep from imagining what Phillip’s “small group” of “a few hundred men and soldiers” would do to the valley. Strip it to the ground like the lost and wandering did after the Great Fires, Marta suspected. Godown, please give me strength to keep that from happening.
They detoured briefly for Marta to look at the home farm and to speak with Master Sylván. He’d released the contract miners to help with harvest and bringing in the hay, and had gone to the home farm to dicker about supplies for the next year. Marta recognized his horse in the courtyard: no one else rode a plow horse, and the ugly, sturdy beast had a legendary reputation. Marta dismounted as Master Laplace called “Greetings to the house!”
“Godown be with ye,” came back from behind a low, wood-topped stone wall. Master Sylván and Goodman Alberti appeared from around the corner, bowing when they saw Marta. “My lady.”
“Godown be with you,” she said, smiling. “Any problems yet?”
Both men made St. Basil’s crook. “Not yet, my lady, but yesterday’s storm set us back a little. If we get too many more, we’ll be in a pinch,” Alberti sighed. Marta wondered if he’d been born with a morose droop on his lean face. She’d never seen him truly smile, just look less gloomy. As tall as Master Sylván, he lacked the miner’s muscle. In fact, a much younger Marta had once asked the priest if Godown had taken from Alberti and given to Sylván, because the pair combined made one normal-sized, tall, man. She’d gotten an all-night vigil for impertinence.
“Godown will provide, and the sisters are saying extra prayers for a safe harvest,” Marta assured the farm manager.
Sylván looked from Alberti to Marta and back, shifting his weight back and forth, wanting to break into the discussion. “Yes, Master Sylván?”
He blurted, “What happened to my men’s last payment?” She fought off a giggle at his squeaky voice and waited until he added, “my lady.”
Do I tell the truth? If I do it will alienate the men from Greg forever, unless he pulls a miracle out of his hat. But it was their money, not his, she reminded herself. “Master Sylván, Lord Greg took ten percent from the payment and gave it to Phillip of Frankonia. He has also pledged fifteen percent of all the farm produce to Phillip as well.”
The surge of curses made Esmé gasp and Andrea dropped her reins to cover her ears. The two guards behind Marta shifted in their seats and Master Laplace scowled. I’d not heard that one before. And I don’t recognize that, and that other thing’s not possible although it would be entertaining to watch Greg try. I think Sylván’s a little angry. The tirade finished with, “Lord Geoff never took more than five percent.”
Marta held up one hand. “I know. This was done without my knowledge or permission. And King Phillip is on the way to collect the rest. He will bring ‘a few hundred’ of his followers later this week.”
“Lord Geoff never allowed Frankonians into the valley except to trade,” Goodman Alberti protested.
“And I do not care to have them here, Goodman, but I was not given a choice. He who is my husband arranged everything with King Phillip without my consent.”
The men looked from Marta to Laplace and back. For a fleeting moment she thought she sensed something passing among the men, a message or idea or something, then shook her head and shooed away a fly. It must be a man thing. And we need to get back to the Hall before Greg or his people start to worry. “Is there anything you need of me before harvest finishes, Goodman Alberti, Master Sylván?”
“No, my lady,” Sylván squeaked.
Alberti shifted from foot to foot, mimicking Sylván. “You did not invite King Phillip, my lady?”
“No, I did not. But you should be able to finish harvest before he arrives, Godown willing. Yesterdays storms will slow travel outside the valley, I suspect.” We’re sheltered compared to the lowlands, until winter, that is.
“Ah. Very well, my lady.”
She and Master Laplace mounted and rode out, onto the road to the hall. “Lord Gregory never dismounts to speak with the men, my lady,” he observed. “Your father, Godown give him rest, always did.”
“Indeed? Interesting.”
Marta and her ladies returned to deSarm Hall and rode into a storm of rushing servants and shouting men. “What is this?” Marta cried. “Is there a fire?”
No one answered until Master Laplace stood in his stirrups and bellowed, “Stop! Quiet!”
“I repeat, what is going on?”
One of the men dipped a bow. “Lord Greg’s furious, my lady. Nothing’s ready and his majesty will replace all of us if we don’t have the hall prepared in time.”
“No he will not,” Marta barked. She cupped her hands around her mouth so all could hear. “Work steadily but do not rush. No one will be released without my permission. King Phillip will not be here for several more days, and even then he may prefer to stay in the valley, given the size of his traveling party and his interest in hunting.”
A wave of relieved smiles and sighs washed through the courtyard. She nodded to Laplace, who called to the servants, “You are dismissed to your duties.”
“And you are as well,” she told him.
“Thank you, my lady.” He and his men waited until the three women dismounted and servants had taken their traveling cases and horses’ reins before leaving the courtyard.
As always, word had flashed through Sarm Hall about the latest news, and a much quieter hubbub filled the great and lesser halls. Marta saw Berthold, her chief steward, about to open one of the boxes and caught him. “Where is my lord husband?”
“In your office, my lady.”
“Thank you.” My office? Gregory Berlin, I think you have outworn your welcome, even with the staff. “Andrea, Esmé, take my things to my chamber and see that there is wash water for me. I will speak with my lord husband and inform him of my return.”
“Yes, my lady.” The young women bustled off and Marta fingered her beads. She watched the men and women cleaning, unloading things only to move them again, and generally making a mess of her home. I wonder if causing domestic chaos is grounds for separation? No, because then all parents of toddlers and courting women would be petitioning the church for release. The thought helped her regain a little of the cool and calm she needed. Marta gathered her skirts and climbed the stairs to her office.
Greg was not there, but he had been, and had tried to pry open her cabinet. He’d failed, stopped by the metal lining some long-ago deSarm had mounted behind the ornate wood. Fresh dents in the metal document box told of his frustration there as well, and Marta allowed herself a smile.
The smile faded when Esmé came running up. “My lady, lord Greg is in your chamber, going through your dower chest and the wardrobe. He’s made a terrible mess, my lady.”
“I imagine he has.” Marta followed Esmé up to her chamber. A veritable blizzard of fabric, laces, and even her prayer book lay scattered around the chamber, and she winced at the dirty footprint on her finest white underskirt.
“Where is it?” a man’s voice demanded. “Where does she keep it?”
“Where do I keep what, my lord?” Marta called into the room, gesturing for her women to come out. Four upset women escaped in a flutter of skirts and headscarves, and Esmé took them farther down the hall, out of earshot.
“The gems.”
Marta blinked and ventured into the room, appalled to see that he’d heaved the mattress off the bed frame. Bits of straw leaked out of a broken seam. “Neither you nor father gave me any gems,” she said.
Gregory, black hair and mismatched clothes both in disarray, unshaven, eyes wide, stormed over to her, grabbing her upper arms and shaking her. “Damn it, woman, you must have some. All women do. Where are they?”
She stared at him, mouth agape, and for the first time ever he swung, slapping her with his open hand as he shook her even harder. “Where are they, woman? Or did you give them to some stupid saint at that damn convent?”
“I, I never had any gems, my lord. Just our wedding rings, and the chain on my St. Alice medallion.” She stared at up at him. He didn’t smell of beer or other liquor. What was wrong with him?
He slapped her again. “Damn it. Then take the gold off your dresses and give it to me.”
“There is no gold, my lord, only yellow thread.” She tried to keep her voice low and calm, but it shook. She shook even without him jerking her back and forth.
He shoved her backwards, releasing her so hard that she lost balance and landed on her rump. “Useless bitch,” he snarled. “No gold, no gems, no fine clothes, what good are you?” Greg stormed out, leaving her in the midst of chaos.
Absolutely furious, she thought, I’m going to, but instead she burst into tears. Gentle hands began patting her, removing her headcover, stroking her back. Someone offered her a bit of rag and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Andrea knelt beside her and held her, rocking Marta and stroking her shoulder. “Did he hurt you, my lady?”
“He,” she tried to take a calming breath. “He slapped me, two, three times. And shook me.” He’d never, ever done that before. He’d never touched more than her hand before! Marta shook her head and sagged against Andrea’s sturdy shoulder again.