by Mary Daheim
Rosmairi lifted her arm, the flowing sleeve moving in the darkness like the sail of a phantom ship. Abruptly, the lantern came to rest.
“Well.” Sorcha’s hands flexed several times inside her deep pockets. “Are we to send a boat over or wait and see what happens next?”
Freeing her veil and worrying her lower lip, Rosmairi peered across the indolent, inexorable current of the river. There were no sounds from the vicinity of the convent. While the rules of the Grand Silence were not enforced on the eve of a feast day, it appeared that the inhabitants of Sainte Vierge des Andelys had settled in for the night. Indeed, across the way in the village only a few dim lights could be seen behind casement windows that had not yet been shuttered.
But the lantern near the quay had begun to bob once more with renewed urgency. “By the Mass,” murmured Sorcha, picking up her skirts and heading back along the bank to the path that led down to the river, “I’ll row over to see if someone needs help.”
“Wait, Sorcha,” Rosmairi whispered, hurrying to catch her sister. “If help is needed, the villagers are closer than we are.”
“Then whoever is waving that lantern doesn’t want help from the village, but from us.” Feeling her way for footholds in the darkness, Sorcha climbed down to the narrow shingle. Moments later, her feet touched the rough pebbles. To her right, she could see the little boat tied to a young oak.
“We should tell Mother Honorine,” Rosmairi asserted, stumbling slightly as her sandals slipped on the rocks.
But Sorcha was already in the little boat, untying the knot that held it in place. “We can tell her when we find out what’s going on. It doesn’t seem wise to waste time.”
Reluctantly, Rosmairi clambered into the boat, wrestling with her robes, which had already gotten wet in the sloshing water under the planked seats. Sorcha was pulling on the oars, propelling them upriver against the current. Her back was to the lantern; she had to depend upon Rosmairi to serve as navigator.
“The light has stopped moving again,” Rosmairi noted, trying to find a dry place to put her feet. “I wish the moon would come up so we could see better.”
“It will give little enough light when it does, being the old quarter.” Sorcha set her jaw, feeling the tug on the oars pull at muscles grown stiff from disuse. “God’s teeth, we should have let these cretins come to us, not the other way ’round!”
“We’re almost there,” Rosmairi said in consolation. “Ah, I can see figures—two men at least, perhaps with horses.” A sudden, frightening thought struck her; she put a hand over her mouth. “Sweet Virgin, do you suppose they might be thieves?”
Sorcha grimaced, as much at Rosmairi’s irrational fears as at the ache of her upper arms and shoulders. “Do they expect us to have loaded this beanpod of a boat with the wealth of Sainte Vierge des Andelys? Come, come, Ros, it’s more likely they’ve been set upon by thieves themselves.” She felt the boat bump against an underwater snag and let go on the oars. As she turned to look over her shoulder, a man waded out from shore. A moment later, he had grasped the prow of the little craft in his hands and was pulling it toward the bank.
“Ah, mademoiselles!” He greeted them effusively, his hand stretched out. A spate of French apologies followed, begging forgiveness for every sin from lack of social grace to presumption upon their good natures. Sorcha listened with growing impatience, then put up a hand.
“We would both forgive and forget your importunate signaling in a moment if only you would explain why you are here,” she informed the man in her passable French. “Have you met with danger, or do you seek someone from the convent?”
The Frenchman, who had long since doffed his plume-festooned bonnet, smiled even more broadly, the even white teeth a perfect foil for deep blue eyes and sun-streaked blond hair. “You are foreign,” he said, more amused than surprised, then turned to Rosmairi. “And you, so enchanting in your postulant’s garb, are you also not French?”
Rosmairi was flushing in a becoming manner. “I am a Scot.” She gestured at Sorcha. “As is my sister.” Pausing, Rosmairi heard the second man stir from somewhere near the lantern, which was beginning to dim ever so slightly. “We are puzzled, sir, as to what you want.”
“The game goes on too long,” said a Scottish voice that Sorcha recognized instantly. Father Adam Napier was seated on the ground against the bank, his crippled body drooping with fatigue.
“Jesu,” breathed Sorcha, ignoring a startled cry from Rosmairi. “Father—are you all right?” She all but knocked over the Frenchman as she fled to the priest’s side. “I’m Sorcha Fraser,” she said, sinking down beside him. “Do you remember me from Chartley?”
The sympathetic brown eyes brimmed with warmth as Father Napier offered a weary smile. “If I did not, I wouldn’t be here on a late summer’s eve.” The smile ebbed as his body strained to seek a more comfortable position on the sandy ground. “Praise the Baptist himself, it must be his blessed intercession that brought you from the convent.”
The words skittered in and out of Sorcha’s brain without impression. She was too mesmerized by the likeness of Gavin and Adam Napier, too shaken by the assault on her senses that his brother’s presence evoked. “Father,” she all but gasped, edging closer, “where is he?”
The priest’s dark brows drew together. “Why, Compiègne, of course. You seem to sense the urgency. How can that be?”
Rosmairi and the Frenchman had drawn within a few feet of Sorcha’s flowing hem, but she paid them no heed. “It’s not sensed—it’s something I know.” She placed her hand on her heart. “Here, Father.”
“Ah.” He nodded, the fusty hood slipping from his dark hair, which seemed a bit thinner than when Sorcha had last seen him. “Then you will go to Compiègne at once?”
“Of course!” Sorcha pressed the hand hard against her breast, feeling the rapid beating within. “Did he ask for me?” She was breathless, her face aglow with excitement.
“He did, though I questioned his wisdom.” Father Napier’s smile had faded, replaced by pain and worry. “I tried to tell him it was useless, but he insists you can help him. It would seem,” he added wryly, “that your brother has great faith in your persuasive powers.”
Sorcha felt her jaw drop as her fingers clutched the drab fabric of her bodice. “My brother?” She fell away from the priest, her excitement withering like delicate blossoms under a scorching sun. “Jesu,” she whispered, her hand now covering her face. “I thought … I didn’t realize ….” As if from far away, she heard Rosmairi kneel beside her. “My wits are addled,” Sorcha declared with forced briskness. “Somehow, I misinterpreted what you were saying, Father. Please explain, what troubles Rob?”
Father Napier was fingering his beard; the puzzled expression he had briefly worn now cleared as enlightenment dawned. But before he offered to clarify his statement, he glanced at Rosmairi. “So you are the other sister, my child. You bear a marked resemblance to Rob, if not to Mistress Sorcha.”
“That’s true,” Rosmairi replied without interest. For quite different reasons, she also seemed bewildered. “Forgive me, Father, at first I thought you were someone else.” A swift, sidelong glance at Sorcha elicited no response. “You are … Father Adam Napier?”
“Aye. I became acquainted with your brother through a Recollect friar, the renowned John Fraser. And I met your sister once in England, by chance, near Chartley.” He paused, gesturing at the Frenchman. “Please let me introduce my companion, Armand, the Sieur d’Ailly.” The white teeth flashed as d’Ailly made a lavish bow. “He has,” Father Napier continued with a grateful smile for the Frenchman, “been my legs as well as my courage for the past year or more. I fear the dampness of England succeeded in providing me with more suffering to offer up to the greater glory of God.”
A fleeting sense of compassion touched Sorcha, but so deep was her disappointment and so great was her curiosity that she could no longer control her patience. “What of Rob, Father? Is he with your own brother, Ga
vin?”
“Gavin?” Father Napier’s visage turned deceptively bland. “I don’t believe Rob has seen Gavin since Chartley. Or wherever it was they knew one another.” With determination, he forced himself into a more erect posture. “At this moment, Rob is in Compiègne, expending his efforts to deter a most devout but misguided young monk from carrying out a dangerous, reckless mission.” Father Napier didn’t seem to notice that Sorcha had paled at his dismissal of Gavin’s whereabouts. “Rob tells me you have a way with you when it comes to dealing with wrongheaded young men—such as the King of Scotland. He begs you to join him at Compiègne and speak with Brother Jacques.”
Momentarily, the priest’s recital about Rob and an unbalanced monk put Gavin Napier out of Sorcha’s mind. She stared at Father Napier, then turned to Rosmairi, who was looking equally puzzled. “Could you explain more specifically what this Brother Jacques intends to do? Is he bent on burning Huguenots at the stake, or marching on Rome to make demands of the Holy Father?”
But the priest merely gave a little shake of his head. “It’s best for Rob to tell you the rest. The less you know until you reach Compiègne, the better.” He placed his hand on hers. “Will you come, my child?”
“I ….” Sorcha closed her eyes and grimaced. “Holy Mother, how can I refuse? We Frasers keep together, after all.”
“We do,” Rosmairi asserted, standing up and shaking sand from her habit. “We can get horses in the village.”
“ ‘We’?” Sorcha craned her neck to look up at her sister. “But Ros, you can’t leave the convent!”
“I can if Rob needs me.” The fine features sharpened. “I’m but a postulant. Mother Honorine won’t interfere.”
“She will have no opportunity,” Father Napier said quietly. “You must leave now. With Saint Christopher’s protection, you should reach Compiègne by nightfall tomorrow. I will remain here, with the good priests in the village church. I can then explain to Mother Honorine, and in any event, my presence would only slow your journey.”
Before Sorcha could comment, Father Napier whistled softly. Nearby, horses stirred in the bracken. D’Ailly vaulted up the embankment, calling to the animals. Moments later, the little party was in the saddle, with Rosmairi riding pillion behind the Frenchman. They rode in silence toward the village, though as the tall, slim spire of the church drew closer, Sorcha held back with Father Napier.
“Please, I must ask—what became of your brother, Gavin, after Fotheringhay?” The words were whispered, but on the still summer night air, they seemed unnaturally loud.
Father Napier didn’t turn to look at her. The bearded profile remained motionless, staring straight ahead. “It matters not to you where Gavin went,” the priest answered at last. His voice was suddenly heavy, not just weary but old. “Wherever he may be, you cannot reach him.”
Sorcha’s hand tightened on the reins. She wanted facts, not enigmas. If Father Napier has not been a man of God, she would have sworn aloud and demanded the truth. But so implacable, so remote, was the priest that she bit her tongue until she felt the taste of blood. Nor did she speak again until it was time to bid Father Napier farewell at the iron gate of the village church.
Chapter 18
Their pace across the Île-de-France had been steady, if tiring. At dawn, they paused long enough at a farmhouse near Gisors to eat and rest the horses. The farmer was generous with fresh-baked bread from his own wheat field, while his wife magically produced eggs and cheese. After the meal, Rosmairi asked if she might buy some clothing; she felt it inappropriate to ride through the countryside in her postulant’s garb. Though the farmer’s wife was twice Rosmairi’s size, after a great deal of rummaging under the staircase, she presented her guest with an outmoded pale green gown that almost fit.
“ ’Tis old,” the woman explained apologetically, her plump cheeks flushed from exertion, “but it’s seen many a wedding, feast day, and baptism in its time.”
At first, Rosmairi had protested, thinking perhaps that having kept the gown all these years, the farmer’s wife might be saving it for a daughter or granddaughter. But the woman had insisted Rosmairi take it, remarking cheerfully that if the gown traveled to Compiègne, it would go farther in its lifetime than she would in hers. After an embarrassed moment in which Rosmairi realized she had no money with her, Armand d’Ailly slipped several gold coins into the woman’s pudgy hand.
“For your hospitality as well, Madame,” he said with a deep bow and that glittering smile. “Your kindness is exceeded only by your generosity. And such remarkable eyes! Ma foi, were ever sapphires so blue?”
The woman had flushed again, while her jowls jigged with mirthful pleasure. A few minutes later, the three travelers were back in the saddle, cantering across the rich farmland, through the rolling woods, and past the tiny villages built of gray stone. They reached Beauvais by midafternoon, pausing at the monastery for refreshment. It had turned very warm, with the air stirring fretfully through the leafed-out trees lining the dusty road to Compiègne. In the heat of the day, they stopped again to drink from the slow-moving waters of the Oise. Rosmairi slept for a while, but Sorcha remained awake, despite the fatigue that seemed to tug at her very bones.
A few feet away, d’Ailly sat on a tree stump, vigorously rubbing his shoulder muscles. For the first time, Sorcha observed him carefully. The young Frenchman had been a pleasant companion. His lustrous blond mustache added maturity, as did his exuberant self-confidence, yet Sorcha decided he was probably not much older than herself. His riding clothes were well cut, if more dapper than a Scot or even an Englishman would wear. He was just over average height and sufficiently muscular to convince Sorcha he could defend them against a roving bandit or a zealous Huguenot. He spoke with wit and eloquence, changing easily from French to English, occasionally uttering appropriate phrases in Latin. He also had let his eyes linger on Rosmairi—at least after she had discarded her postulant’s habit.
The sun had shifted, so that it shone directly down on Sorcha. She stood up, moving into the shade almost at d’Ailly’s elbow. “You are from these environs, Seigneur?” she asked, casually dropping down beside him.
He stopped rubbing his shoulder and rested his hands on his knees. “I come from not far away,” he replied with a friendly smile. “Somewhat north, toward Amiens.”
The place name caught Sorcha’s attention. “Is that where you met Father Napier? He studied there, I’m told.”
A faint line of tension touched d’Ailly’s cheerful visage. “So he did.” The Frenchman inclined his head toward Sorcha, as if conceding a point in a game. “My parents knew him. I was still a youth in those days.”
Sorcha refused to avert her gaze, which seemed to hold d’Ailly’s deep blue eyes captive. “And?” She fairly breathed the word, loading it with husky urgency.
But d’Ailly raised his palms upward in a typical French gesture. “And I grew up. Father Napier came and went, as was his calling.” He shrugged. “Now, because he was a friend to my family, I assist him when I can.” The white teeth flashed. “It’s quite simple, is it not?”
There was a slight hesitation before Sorcha responded. “It would seem so. Your family is still at Amiens?”
In the shade of a beech tree, Rosmairi stirred as an insect buzzed close to her ear. D’Ailly watched with some concern and didn’t speak again until the insect left Rosmairi in peace. “Alas, my mother and father have gone to their heavenly reward.” He crossed himself briskly, the blue eyes abruptly cast down.
“You live at Ailly then?” Sorcha wondered briefly why she was bothering to wring these facts from the reluctant Frenchman, yet she felt obliged to press on. For such an extrovert, he aroused her perverse curiosity with his reticence.
D’Ailly sobered at the question. “Our chateau burned to the ground some years ago. That,” he added with a sharp edge to his voice, “is how my parents died.”
“Oh—I’m sorry.” Sorcha sat back on her heels, feeling her cheeks flush. No wonde
r he hadn’t wished to talk about his past. Certainly neither she nor Rosmairi would want to discuss their unhappy love affairs with a virtual stranger.
But d’Ailly had resumed his cheerful countenance. “We will be at Compiègne by supper time. It lies not quite an hour away along the river.” He got to his feet, the short cape of his riding habit flowing gracefully from a high embroidered collar. As he raised his arms to stretch, a crackling sound from a nearby copse diverted his attention. D’Ailly turned, as did Sorcha, to see a young man in a white monk’s robe emerge from the huckleberry bushes.
“Seigneur!” The young monk stopped in his tracks, leaves clinging to his garments, a brown smudge on one cheek. “I was told you would not be back.” He spoke petulantly, his full lower lip thrust out, the colorless eyes accusing.
Under the birch tree, Rosmairi sat up with a start. She blinked at the monk, then at Sorcha and d’Ailly in turn, a bewildered expression on her pink face.
D’Ailly stood very still. “You were told an untruth, it would seem,” he said mildly, and then smiled. “Brother Jacques, why have you strayed so far from Compiègne?”
In answer, the monk paced back and forth several times, shaking his head and clenching his hands. “I go to Paris. I promised God I would. Madame Serpent is dead.”
Sorcha was standing up, moving slowly in Rosmairi’s direction. Brother Jacques was the name Father Napier had mentioned in connection with Rob’s summons. Doubtless there were a hundred Brother Jacques in the Île-de-France, but it seemed likely that this was the monk whose mission disturbed Rob. Sorcha recognized the reference to “Madame Serpent” as Catherine de Médicis, the Queen Mother of France. She had recently died, unmourned by a nation that had never taken the devious Italian to its heart.
The monk had stopped pacing, his hands now clasped in front of him. “She always lied, you know.” Brother Jacques seemed to have eyes for no one but d’Ailly. “She was supposed to be a faithful daughter of Rome, but she was not. And she misled her son, Henri. She misled everyone. Except the Devil, who claimed her evil soul.” He lowered his head slightly, the sun casting an unnatural glow on his tonsure. “So now I must go to Paris.” The colorless eyes widened, like those of an innocent child who has just announced he is going to do a great mischief and expects to go unpunished.