by David Waid
The wagons traveled on through rolling valleys and Teresa couldn’t help but be distracted. The farthest north she had ever been before was Torino. Now she saw places that she’d only read about, like Lyon and Dijon, though only for the brief time it took to pass them. According to Bukhardus, spending the night in any of these places would slow them down. Occasionally, the tall man would ride ahead or linger behind to arrange the purchase of supplies, but the wagons themselves never came closer than the distant outskirts if it could be helped. They traveled on in this way for two weeks and Master Bukhardus seemed pleased with their progress. By Father Hugh’s reckoning, the Maestro would now be sailing along Portugal’s southern coast, near Lisbon, perhaps.
As the merchant wagons passed through a tiny, nameless village, Teresa sat once again on her perch, trying without success to use the magic that was her supposed birthright. The chant Father Hugh had taught played on in her mind. Its gibberish had become second nature. She settled back into the calm place beside the silent driver and relaxed. The wind died off to nothing and, though the day was cold, she felt the sun’s perfect warmth.
In a meadow by the road, on the other side of a fieldstone wall, a cow with a swollen udder looked up, flicked its ears and lowed. In that moment, something Teresa had been grasping ineffectually at for weeks was forgotten and, being forgotten, slid effortlessly into her possession. Sitting atop the wall was a little white rock and, with her mind, she gave a gentle push. The stone wobbled, and she thought it would do no more, but then it flipped a finger’s length into the air and was lost, falling out of sight. It took a moment for the significance of what had happened to penetrate the trance that held her. When it did, Teresa jolted up, startling the driver at her side.
“Was ist das?” he said.
“Nichts,” she replied. “Ich schlaf.” I fell asleep.
“Oh-ho.” He smiled, ruffled her hair and turned back to the road.
A surge of excitement filled her and she tried to keep her face calm. She had to tell Father Hugh. Twisting in her seat, she started to slide open the door behind her, but stopped. She pictured the priest’s reaction if she were unable to reproduce her magic beneath his relentless stare. Imagining his sarcasm, she dropped her hand and swung back to the rutted road. Nothing would take away the excitement of this moment; it was hers, she would enjoy it while she could. Even thoughts of Father Hugh’s disapproval could not quench this.
Further practice that day was impossible; she couldn’t calm her mind enough to concentrate. Over the following days, however, she did, and found herself able to slip into that peaceful mindset with increasing ease. Her ability to move things, halting and uncertain at first, grew stronger and more sure. The idea of performing for the priest, however, still caused Teresa’s heart to thud uncomfortably against her ribs.
She never said a word, yet the priest detected the change in her mood.
“Your spirits seem to have lifted,” he said one evening.
“I enjoy seeing France.” She looked away, but could feel him staring. Really there was nothing else to look at in the wagon, but she didn’t want to meet his eyes.
“This is outrageous!”
“What is?”
“In close quarters, when we are deprived of any privacy at all, you still manage to hold secrets against me.”
Teresa said nothing, suppressing a smile.
“Ah,” said the priest. “You may keep it to yourself, then. I suppose there is only so much trouble you can get up to within the confines of this merchant train.” He smiled. “I will take my solace in that fact, as I appear to have no other choice.”
Outside of Troyes, when they were as close as they would come to Paris — though still south of it — Bukhardus went into town and Father Hugh went with him. The priest seemed relieved and perhaps a bit surprised when she did not press to go along. In fact, she wanted to see the city, but even more, she wanted to be alone with the grimoire. He promised to return that evening with news of the potentially dangerous roads ahead. Soon they would part from the Hansa and head for Calais, which stood in lands controlled by the English crown.
One of Bukhardus’ men kept her busy with tasks throughout the day and, dimly, furiously, she suspected Father Hugh’s hand at work. Precious hours slipped away. She passed up and down the line and the door to their wagon was like a taunt. Finally, all tasks completed, she escaped to the wagon, taking out the Maestro’s tome from where it lay hidden in its wooden trunk.
Teresa ran her hands over the leather binding. The first of its incantations had been simple. If this grimoire were like her lessons, its contents would grow more complex and more potent the farther she read. Trailing her finger across the fore edge of all those pages sent a shiver through her spine. What could she do — what could she not do — as a geistmage? She burned to find out. Voices of the Hansa men came muffled through the wagon’s walls as her fingers worked the book’s latches and she opened the cover.
Something inside her stirred at the thought of reaching deep into the grimoire’s wonders — she would not deny that she wanted to. But Father Hugh’s presence was in the room, even if he wasn’t. She could almost see him looking at her with his head aslant, the one visible eye glittering disapproval. Almost, she could hear the sarcasm in his voice. “By all means,” he would say. “Open the book to its very back. It is hard to imagine that those who wrote its mysteries possessed more wisdom than a child.” Teresa sighed. The priest already regarded her as foolish, but she would at least give him no cause. She would proceed only to the second incantation, however simple it might be.
Her resolution was tested, however, as soon as it became clear the enchantment was one which would simply douse a flame or small fire. Teresa marveled that even a spell so pointless as this required the inscription of a magic circle and the making of a watery and expensive paste. It seemed like feeble magic for a geistmage to concern herself with, yet she held to her course and would not read ahead until this new skill had been mastered.
Long before Father Hugh came back from his trip, Teresa replaced the grimoire in its hiding place. When he entered the wagon, the priest found her already reading from the bible. In typical fashion, he seemed suspicious rather than impressed, and doubled the number of times she must repeat her chant before going to sleep.
It seemed her breakthrough with the first incantation had laid the groundwork for success in the second, because that night she managed to snuff the coals in the wagon’s brazier twice. Father Hugh woke each time, suspecting nothing, complaining under his breath and re-lighting the coals. She hugged herself beneath the blankets, feigning sleep and smothering giggles that kept threatening to burst into open laughter.
For the next two days, Teresa practiced dousing the merchants’ cook fires until Bukhardus accused her of collecting damp tinder and forced her to trudge out again for entirely new armfuls. Father Hugh never spoke of what he’d seen or done during his trip into Troyes, but he became increasingly withdrawn as the days passed and several times she caught him looking her way when he thought she wasn’t paying attention. The miles stretched out behind them and Teresa grew concerned for her old teacher. Still, the road passed beneath the wagon wheels and they made their progress.
The first snow fell on the merchant train as they passed through the Marne Valley. All about were the ordered rows of orchards and vineyards, barren of fruit this time of year. The clouds, which had appeared as they’d broken camp that morning, piled higher, grew dark. The sun never made a strong show of it, fading as the day progressed, until they traveled through murky twilight. Cold weather grew colder. The Hansa driver at her side tsked, looked up and mumbled to himself repeatedly and Teresa caught the word, “snow.” Bukhardus barked angry orders from the lead wagon.
At what she supposed might be midday, snow did indeed begin its fall in large, powder-soft flakes. Teresa turned her face up and caught one on her tongue. She hadn’t seen snow since her family’s trip to Torino. It was beautiful.
She wiped the accumulation off the bench next to her and packed it in tiny clumps in her hand. Bukhardus, who knew this road well, pushed the wagons on until they were near Reims. Their travel in the past days had taken them from Troyes on a broad northeasterly arc, thirty leagues from Paris.
A small wood ran up on either side of the road they traveled, overhanging it and providing some slight shelter from the snow and wind. Bukhardus had the wagons stop there, strung out in a line. Between the branches, the snowfall was lighter and made a thin carpet on the ground. The sounds of the men setting up camp echoed. Night, when it came, fell dark, unrelieved by the faintest glimmer of starlight from the cloudy sky.
The magic of the snow and her sense that they were nearing Arras and the next stage of their journey put Teresa in a fine mood, though the others in camp grumbled and chafed their hands together as they went about their business. When she clambered into the wagon and removed her boots, Teresa was frozen, yet her eyes sparkled. Father Hugh huddled close to the brazier with a blanket over his slumped shoulders. Getting settled, Teresa brought the bible into her lap, but the old man held up his hand.
“Not tonight,” he said, staring at the glowing coals.
His mood seemed darker than ever. Teresa sat, quiet and observant, trying to guess what thoughts ran through the old man’s head. Gusts of wind blew against the wagon’s walls.
“On black nights such as this, all men’s intentions go awry,” the priest said.
He spoke quietly and seemed to address the brazier, so Teresa said nothing. Finally, the priest looked up, squinting across at her.
“Come with me to Paris,” he said.
For a time, surprise robbed Teresa of any speech. “We’re going to Ireland,” she stammered at last. “You promised.”
Father Hugh seemed not to hear. “With proper training, even Maestro Lodovicetti will not be able to stand against you. You can exact your vengeance from him then.”
“I’m not going to Ireland for vengeance. I’m going because it’s what Ignacio wanted.”
“Your brother could not have known the danger he exposed you to.”
“We are almost to Arras, and Calais is not far beyond,” Teresa said. “We have to continue. The ship you arranged is waiting for us.”
“No it is not.”
“What?”
“There is no ship. There never has been. It was necessary to tell you this in order to get you to come with me, but it is not true. I am sorry, Teresa, but you need the training you can get in Paris, even if you cannot see it. You need the guidance and protection of my order.”
Something in Teresa’s stomach dropped. Tears tickled the corners of her eyes. “How could you do this?” she whispered.
23. Refuge
Leinster
The road Nairne had chosen took them past the steading of Selig Mór, the man whose house Eamon had run to for help. Nairne stopped to express her thanks to the farmer’s sharp-featured wife. The Mór’s woman stood by the door with her tow-headed children beside her, their running noses pressed to her skirts and big eyes peeking round at the strangers. The man himself was gone with his older sons. He’d sent out a call, raised the alarum, leading a levy of angry peasants off to scour the area for brigand survivors.
The three of them had started from her house late, so the sun hung high above when they resumed the journey. Long lines of cloud crossed the sky like wave after wave of white, furling breakers. Eamon rode in front, with a rope to pull the horse on which Nairne and Caitlin sat. The track descended through a valley that lay between two arms of the mountain. Thin paths branched off the road, leading to farmsteads where feathers of blue smoke trailed away among old stands of alder and oak.
Nairne drew food from a scrip she carried at her waist and they ate a frugal meal of bread and drank from a skin of small beer on horseback. Caitlin took little, chewing in listless silence, sitting in front of Nairne on the horse. As they traveled, Caitlin began to sag and her face grew flushed. At first Eamon thought it was the sun, but the day dragged on and he saw Nairne feel his sister’s forehead and listened to the old woman cluck her tongue.
After a time, they passed from the valley into coastland, crossing a log bridge that spanned a twisting, tree-lined stream. Sunlight filtered through the branches that swayed high overhead. Below, water from the mountain’s snowmelt tumbled past the bridge pilings, cold and clear and burbling over smooth, flat stones. The world’s beauty was a lie, Eamon knew, masking danger and death. He started to spend more and more time looking over his shoulder at his sister instead of the road ahead. Each time he looked back to see if she had grown worse, and each time she had.
Nairne called out, “Yer sister fares poor. The sickness I said would come has arrived. Arra! Sooner and stronger even than I thought. We’ll not make it to the help I’d hoped for.” The old woman’s blind, white eyes rolled. “Keep yer eyes sharp for refuge. It’s not just the weather we need protection from.”
Eamon couldn’t help but look back. Every time Caitlin shut her eyes, it looked as if she died, and a piece of his soul seemed to go with her. Little by little, he was losing himself, he thought. Mother dead. Father Rhys and Baodan no more. Duff laying in a stranger’s house far behind. He’d been told his stepfather would live, but didn’t believe it. When he’d seen him last, the man had been pale and unmoving, lying in the wagon bed between corpses.
Where the path from the mountain met the Dublin Road stood an inn. Two stories high with gabled windows in the roof and walled with a knotty palisade through which Eamon could see a stable and a well. Above the gate on a long pole was tied a twining wreath of holly, signifying rooms to let.
Relief flooded him. “We’ve made it,” he said. Another boy, only slightly younger than Caitlin pulled back the gate to reveal a cobbled courtyard, swept clean of snow. Swinging back to his sister and Nairne, Eamon said, “We’ve made it…” Then he saw his sister. Her eyes were slits, her chin soiled with vomit. The old woman whispered fiercely in her ear. The surge of joy drained from Eamon’s head like water from a broken cup.
Their horses took them in past the gate, but Eamon’s heart had already become small, hard and pitted like a rotten chestnut. They dismounted before the inn and the stable boy led the horses away. The bags were still on the animals, but Eamon gave no thought to the fortune in treasure they concealed. He helped Caitlin and Nairne down and they ascended a short path to the inn’s front door. Entering the common room, his impressions were scattered, a lit fireplace, rough oak beams across the ceiling, several tables and a collection of unmatched chairs.
The hosteller’s wife came bustling up, took one worried look at Caitlin and gave a sharp cry. Crossing herself, the woman backed away. Caitlin leaned against Eamon’s side, eyes partially closed. Two traveling merchants seated at a table rose to their feet, chairs scraping behind them. One lifted a kerchief to cover his mouth and nose.
“Mother of God,” the woman said. “Begone with ye and the pestilence.”
“Nay, lady,” said Nairne. “The girl has fever is all.”
“Ye cannot stay here.”
“We have no place else to go.”
The alewife looked at Caitin. Eamon thought her eyes held pity, but her mouth set in a line. She met his gaze for an instant, but ducked her head and looked away. With a quivering voice, she said, “I’ve lost two to the Death. Ye cannot stay.”
Taking hold of Caitlin with blind, searching hands, Nairne stripped her of coat and tunic, dropping them on the floor.
“What are ye doing?” the woman demanded, but she made no move as the two merchants shrank farther away. Nairne did not reply. She pulled on Caitlin’s arms, working them from the short sleeves of her gown and chemise. The girl looked like she might fall over as she was jerked this way and that by Nairne’s rough tugs. Her eyes were barely open. At last, she stood in the middle of the room, half naked and shivering, her shoulders hunched, thin arms hugging herself. Dirt rings on her neck made the rest of her seem
whiter than snow and her blonde hair hung in disarray.
The innkeeper’s wife held one trembling hand over her own mouth while the other bunched a handful of apron at her waist. Her eyes watered, but still she said nothing.
Nairne yanked one of Caitlin’s arms high into the air and held it there, turning her so all could see there were none of the black, stinking buboes that came with the plague. Nairne’s jaw jutted forth as she repeated this with the other arm and Caitlin swayed like a drunk. “Just a fever,” Nairne said and dropped her hand.
Face crumpling, the hosteller’s wife relented. “Oh, child,” she said. She picked the coat up from the floor, pulling it around Caitlin’s shoulders. “Shame, shame. May God forgive me.”
She half walked, half carried the girl down a short, unlit corridor. “We have but one room unoccupied, though ye may have it and welcome.” Stopping, she opened the door to a drab, windowless chamber. A single bed pressed against the far wall by two stools and a painted chest. Seating Caitlin on the bed, the mistress opened the chest to show it contained blankets. The stable boy came in with the bags and Eamon led Nairne in by the hand as the alewife backed into the hallway. Her gaze travelled to Nairne and then Eamon. When their eyes met, her mouth opened and shut again. Finally, face flushed, she said, “The Virgin’s blessing upon ye all,” and walked out, closing the door.
At Nairne’s direction, Eamon piled blankets on his sister. The old woman had done what she could on the road, yet it was clear Caitlin grew sicker. Muttering to herself, Nairne rummaged the contents of their bags. She sent Eamon to the alewife with three smooth-rubbed shillings for lodgings and food. When he returned, it was with bread, pottage, a wizened old apple from the last of the winter stores and a bowl of goat’s milk that Nairne fed his sister like chicken broth.