Gosford's Daughter

by Mary Daheim

  D’Ailly chuckled good-naturedly. “Perhaps, perhaps. But not yet, Brother Jacques. For now, you must go with us to Compiègne. I have with me the charming sisters of Robert Fraser.” He extended a hand toward Sorcha and Rosmairi, who stood close together in the shade. “You admire our cher ami Robert, do you not? Won’t you honor his sisters with your company for a few days?”

  As if he had noticed them for the first time, Brother Jacques all but jumped off the ground. “Ah! Sisters to Robert?” He leaned forward, peering at Sorcha and Rosmairi, who instinctively grasped each other by the hand. “They are very beautiful, are they not?” He turned quizzical eyes on d’Ailly. “Are they pure?”

  Sorcha opened her mouth to snap back a reply, but d’Ailly moved swiftly between her and Brother Jacques. “Would you expect our Robert’s kin to be anything but the most virtuous of demoiselles? Why,” d’Ailly went on with a note of hurt in his voice, “they have been living in the Dominican convent at Le Petit Andely for the past year.”

  Brother Jacques considered this information carefully, then nodded his tonsured head. “Yes, I, too, am a Dominican. And Sainte Vierge is a holy house.” He stepped aside to look beyond d’Ailly to the two young women. “Mayhap God has sent you to alter my course for reasons of His own. Could it be that I was going to Paris too soon?”

  “It could,” d’Ailly said with a sense of relief. “Come, let us go on to Compiègne. The sun is less intense, and there’s a breeze off the river. Brother Jacques, do you have a horse nearby?”

  He had a mule, tethered just beyond the copse by the road. A few minutes later the little party was following the Oise to Compiègne. Sorcha noted that d’Ailly rode close to Rosmairi, as if offering her protection. Brother Jacques plodded along behind them, occasionally humming snatches of Latin hymns. The monk seemed as pathetic as he was disturbing, and Sorcha’s curiosity mounted. What task had Rob set for her in dealing with this peculiar young man? It would have suited her far better if d’Ailly had let Brother Jacques continue his journey to Paris. Surely he could not cause any more trouble there than he would for Sorcha at Compiègne.

  She could have no idea how wrong Brother Jacques would prove her to be.

  The most obvious change that had overtaken Rob was a lush red-gold beard that grew almost to the cowl of his monk’s robe. Both Sorcha and Rosmairi marveled at how much older he looked, though he greeted his sisters with unbridled warmth. Rob offered d’Ailly a more formal welcome, but Sorcha observed a certain ease in their manner toward one another. As for Brother Jacques, he all but fawned over Rob, who expressed mild surprise—and perhaps relief—that the young man had returned to Compiègne.

  “I feared you had not heeded my advice,” Rob said in gentle rebuke as they seated themselves on stone benches in the priory garden. “You were very determined to go to Paris this morning.”

  Brother Jacques laughed without making a sound. “ ‘Justus ut palma florebit.’ ” Is that not what is said in the offertory hymn from today’s Mass celebrating the nativity of the great baptizer? ‘The just man shall flourish like the palm tree.’ And does not the palm withstand great winds and terrible storms by bending, yet never breaking?”

  “That may be so,” Rob replied, pushing at the unruly lock of hair that even cloistered walls couldn’t tame. “But I’ve never seen a palm tree.” He turned to d’Ailly. “Would you help Brother Jacques seek some refreshment? Despite the feast day, I fear he has fasted too long.” Noting that the young monk was forming words of protest, Rob held up a hand. “Nay, Jacques, you grow thin. You would not bend like the palm—a great gust would blow you down. Go now with the Sieur d’Ailly.”

  Reluctantly, Brother Jacques traipsed from the garden, his sandals slapping on the flagstone walkway. The three Frasers waited without speaking, with the sound of bees buzzing in the night-scented stock and tall, rangy foxgloves. From where Sorcha sat, she could just make out the irregular roofline of Compiègne’s uninhabited castle. To her right stood the priory chapel with its handsome row of cinquefoil windows. The campanile tolled the bells for Vespers, but Rob shook his head.

  “I shall not go this evening. It’s better that we talk while the others are in the chapel. Afterward, I will introduce you to our kinsman, Brother John Fraser—a most remarkable man, I might add.” He gazed from Sorcha to Rosmairi as if to emphasize how much he respected his mentor.

  “I had hopes we might meet him at supper,” Sorcha said pointedly. “Rosmairi and I may not have been fasting, but neither have we feasted. At least not well.”

  Rob’s serious demeanor fled as he grinned at his sisters. “Forgive me, I’ve been remiss in seeing to your creature comforts. But it’s important that we speak privately while we have the chance.” He paused as a half dozen monks walked in solemn silence from the priory through a side entrance to the chapel. When the heavy door closed behind them, Rob visibly relaxed and crossed his legs at the knee under his robes. “You have already met poor Brother Jacques. I assume he struck you as … odd.”

  “Simple, perhaps?” Rosmairi asked almost hopefully.

  But Rob shook his head. “Only in that his mind works in a very direct manner. He is most devout, fanatically so. Make no mistake,” Rob asserted, with a wave of his index finger, “there is need for militancy in the Church to oppose rampant heresy. That is one reason why I am determined to take Holy Orders. But fanaticism is another matter. It leads men not only into physical but spiritual danger. Fanaticism destroys humility. It is like a disease, gnawing away at one’s very entrails.”

  For Sorcha, it was an unfortunate comparison, since what was gnawing at her own entrails was a great hunger. She fervently wished Rob would cease expounding and get to the point.

  “You know, of course, that despite Catherine de Médicis’ professed Catholicism, she played each side of the religious controversy off against the other when it suited her needs.” Rob halted long enough to let the statement sink into his sisters’ brains. Only a slight twist of his lips indicated that he noticed Rosmairi’s glazed expression and Sorcha’s impatient tapping of her foot. “Her son, Henri, has followed her example. It may be that he truly embraces certain precepts of the Huguenot religion. But to placate the Huguenot minority, last winter he had the Due de Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine murdered.” Rob bowed his head and crossed himself, rousing his sisters sufficiently to follow suit. Indeed, they had both attended at least three dozen masses at Sainte Vierge that Mother Honorine had offered up for the repose of the souls of her powerful kinsmen.

  “The Guises and the Catholic League have turned on King Henri,” Sorcha offered, hoping not only to appease Rob by her show of interest but hurry him along with his story. “But it’s said that the League is only a tool for Spain to swallow France whole.”

  “Didn’t the English show that Spain was weak?” asked Rosmairi, whose knowledge of politics had never been deep. “Or was that Portugal?”

  “Spain, ninny,” hissed Sorcha, and immediately conjured up images of plump, glorious oranges.

  Rob ignored his sisters’ conversational byplay. “Philip of Spain has a claim to the French throne through one of his daughters. But the point here is that the League holds Paris. And that Henri III and his Huguenot brother-in-law, Henri of Navarre, have joined forces against the League. The city lies under siege, barricaded, at war with itself. King Henri is weak, as were his brothers before him. And now the family’s strength—Catherine de Médicis—is dead.” Again, Rob crossed himself, though Sorcha thought he did so with less enthusiasm than he had shown for the murdered duke and cardinal.

  “So,” Sorcha surmised, in the hope that Rob had finally reached the climax of his account, “Brother Jacques wishes to go to Paris and join the Catholic League?”

  But Rob smiled sadly and slowly shook his head. “Oh, no. Brother Jacques is going to Paris to assassinate the King.”

  During the next quarter of an hour, against the backdrop of the monks’ clear voices chanting the holy office, Sorcha
found herself utterly bewildered by Rob’s request and the rationale behind it. She understood that Brother Jacques would consider King Henri a traitor to the Church of Rome, perhaps even a traitor to France. But since Henri de Navarre was an avowed Huguenot and next in line to the French throne, Sorcha couldn’t see how eliminating the last of the Valois line would save France for Catholicism. Nor could she possibly envision how—or why—she might have any influence with Brother Jacques in deterring him from his lethal mission.

  “You must realize how Brother Jacques has always been surrounded by women,” Rob explained for the third time. “His father died before he was born; he was raised by his mother and four sisters. There were no other boys or men in the family. Never mind the years he has spent in the monastery. It is still women—our Holy Mother, the saints, the virgin martyrs—to whom he prays and asks for inspiration.”

  Sorcha was on her feet, pacing the flagstone walkway. “But he clearly admires you, Rob. If you can’t dissuade him, how could I?”

  “He may admire me, but he doesn’t heed me.” As Sorcha stamped her foot in front of him, he grasped her by the hand. “You dealt so well with King Jamie. In truth, he’s not much different from poor Brother Jacques. Both were reared in unnatural situations. Both have disproportionate opinions of their own abilities. Both have never known how to act with lasses of their own age and station.” He stopped as he heard Rosmairi sniff indignantly. “Forgive me, Ros, I meant before you became Jamie’s boon companion.” Rob looked at Sorcha from his place on the stone bench. “There is something else you should know about Brother Jacques. He visits someone across the river. It is a woman. She’s a recluse—a hermit, really. He calls her Athene.”

  Sorcha withdrew her hand and abruptly sat back down next to Rob. “He has a mistress?” She gave herself a little shake. “God’s teeth, I shouldn’t wonder that Athene isn’t a laddie. Or a sheep.”

  Rob stiffened, and Rosmairi giggled. “Sorcha,” intoned Rob, wearing his adult, serious expression, “we are speaking of life and death, of heaven and hell. For once, could you not let your mind feast on less earthy matters?”

  It was Sorcha’s turn to look solemn. “It’s not my mind that wants feasting, Rob, it’s my stomach.” She brightened as the monks began filing out of the chapel. “Please, dearest brother,” she implored, hooking her arm through his and tugging at him in earnest, “isn’t it time you combined Scottish hospitality with French cuisine?”

  Despite a moral and spiritual obligation to impress upon Sorcha that the matter of Brother Jacques and King Henri of France superseded her hunger pangs, Rob succumbed to the importunate green-eyed gaze. “I’m not sure how,” he remarked with irritation tempered by his usual good humor, “but you actually seem to have managed to make your cheeks look gaunt.”

  Sorcha clapped a hand over her midsection. “Not half so gaunt as here. I’m cavernous, Rob.” She pulled again at his arm and plucked Rosmairi by the sleeve. “God’s teeth, starving or not, it’s good for the three of us to be together again.”

  “So it is,” agreed Rob, putting an arm around each of his sisters. “I have tried not to think of home and family these past months. But,” he added, with a little catch in his voice, “it’s been hard to walk away from the past.”

  Neither Sorcha nor Rosmairi responded to Rob, but they took up a brisker step as they moved down the flagstone walk toward the monastery entrance.

  The supper commemorating the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist more than fulfilled Sorcha’s expectations. “La soupe à l’oignon, les escargots, la pâté de foie gras, le rôti de porc, les haricots verts, les pommes de terre, les pâtisseries, le fromage and les fruits.” Sorcha recounted the courses in French, carefully stifling a gastronomic eruption. “Ah, food even sounds better in France!” With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Sorcha slumped sideways onto the little divan in the parlor where she and Rob had adjourned after their meal. Rosmairi, whose fatigue had not been feigned, went straight to bed. But while Sorcha was also extremely tired from the long journey to Compiègne, she hated to waste these precious moments she could spend with Rob. Given his usually strict regime at the monastery and whatever plans he might have for her regarding Brother Jacques, Sorcha felt their reunion might be brief.

  “What did you think of Brother John Fraser?” Rob inquired, refilling their wine glasses with a sparkling Vouvray.

  Sorcha couldn’t suppress a yawn. “He’s very learned. I must read some of his works. He is brother to Sir Alexander Fraser, is he not? I recall visiting him at Philorth once or twice. Our Lady Mother is fond of Sir Alexander but says he’s given to bad judgment in money matters.”

  Rob shrugged. “Perhaps. But Brother John says Sir Alexander has done much to enlarge his estates. Our sire has had business dealings with him and has praised him for improving the harbor at Philorth.”

  “Hmm.” Sorcha half closed her eyes, blurring the little room with its charming paintings of the Madonna and Child and its gilded triptych with angels surrounding the Infant Jesus and Saint John the Baptist. She found the history of Brother John and Sir Alexander Fraser extremely soporific. Indeed, she didn’t quite catch most of Rob’s next words until a single name made her eyes open wide and her body stiffen.

  “… As I felt in following the example of Gavin Napier. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a priest, I didn’t know that then, but ….”

  “Rob!” Sorcha had twisted around to look more closely at her brother, who sat calmly ruminating in a tall, straight Spanish chair. “Have you heard news of him? Have you seen him?”

  Rob avoided her eyes by taking a large swallow of wine. “Of course not. I have seen his brother—as you know, I had him send for you. But for all I know, Gavin may be in Cathay.”

  To Sorcha, it sounded as if Rob didn’t much care, either. She sat up, pounding her fist into a small silken pillow edged in gold orphrey. “Damn your eyes, Rob Fraser, has Gavin Napier fallen off the edge of the earth as far as the rest of mankind is concerned? I may not bleat and moan like Rosmairi, but that doesn’t mean I’m any less stricken!”

  Rob put down his fluted wineglass and reluctantly met Sorcha’s angry gaze. He was struck by how much she had changed since they had first set out from the Highlands four long years ago. The long, black hair was as tangled as ever, the wide green eyes still flashed their fire, the strong, full mouth was as prone to laughter as it was to rage. Even her attire was as simple and careless as it had been in their youth. Yet he sensed that beneath that familiar exterior, the faintly wild, untamed lassie of the glens and burns and peaty bogs had hardened her heart—or at least built a wall around it. If she had been a headstrong girl, she was now a willful woman.

  “Maybe,” Rob said slowly, “I didn’t realize how much you … cared.”

  Sorcha waved her wineglass as if in defiance. A few colorless drops spilled onto her gray skirt, but she paid no heed. “I cared. I care. Would you have me set my grieving heart to the notes of a pibroch for the pipes to play over my grave?” She paused to watch her brother grimace at the fulsome words, then wagged a long, slim finger almost in his face. “What truly passes beyond my understanding is that Gavin loves me, too! So why did he leave me? Hasn’t Father Napier—the real Father Napier—ever given any hint of what possesses his cruel brother?”

  “No.” Rob spoke with relief. Father Napier had rarely mentioned his brother, except to praise him for his efforts of impersonation on behalf of the Catholic faith. Had he revealed more, Rob felt he would have had to answer Sorcha honestly—and he also sensed that the truth might wound her more deeply than his ignorance. Calmly, Rob folded his hands inside his flowing sleeves. He’d had little experience offering spiritual guidance, but it appeared his sister needed counsel. “It’s best to accept the will of God,” be began, failing to note that Sorcha’s eyes snapped at the words. “Give thanks to our Lord that you were spared being dishonored by Gavin Napier.”

  “Dishonored, my backside!” Sorcha leaned far forward on the
divan’s edge. “I gave myself to Gavin, and I did it freely, without the promise of holy matrimony to justify the act! God’s teeth, Rob, do you think you’re talking to a moonstruck milkmaid?”

  Rob picked up his glass and drank with fervor. “I didn’t know.” He took another swallow, choked, and shook his head with vigor, as if he could erase the words his sister had just implanted upon his brain. “Have you confessed?”

  Sorcha sat back on the divan, though her body was still tensed. “Of course. At Beauly Priory.” She sighed and lowered her eyes to the hands which held the half-filled glass. “But I wasn’t sorry. I’m still not.” Lifting her head, she tossed the long hair back over her shoulders. “I know that’s wrong. But I can’t lie to myself. Or God.”

  “Jesu.” Rob rubbed his bearded chin with agitated fingers. “Did you accept your penance?”

  “Oh, aye, ’twas dozens of prayers and litanies and fasting and abstinence. I almost starved to death!” She made a strange little noise that was half cry, half laugh. “The true penance is losing Gavin. The other was easy.”

  For several moments, brother and sister sat in silence, neither looking at the other. Outside, a dog howled in the distance and from somewhere down the hallway, a door banged shut. Darkness had settled in, leaving the parlor in shadow as a half dozen candles burned on the marble mantel of the little fireplace.