He was not concerned. He would write his own report to the grand bishop and send it by special griffin-courier. His message would reach Montagne long before the report carried by Brother Paul, who was traveling by wyvern-drawn coach. Dubois would also send a letter to the provost.
Dubois believed that as a duenna protects her young mistress by reading her diary, it was his duty to protect the grand bishop by finding out his secrets. Otherwise, how could Dubois save His Eminence from his enemies?
9
Politics is like the Opera Buffa. Actors in gorgeous costumes glittering with jewels mince about the stage and deliver their lines, eliciting tears and laughter from the enthralled audience. But when the curtain falls, the actors go behind the scenes and take off their masks. And then the true farce begins.
—Alexandro de Villeneuve, in a letter to his son Rodrigo
King Alaric of Rosia arrived in the city of Westfirth the next day aboard the royal barge, accompanied by a fleet of large warships and a score of yachts belonging to various members of the royal court who were traveling with His Majesty. The king was greeted by the ringing of church bells and the shouts of his subjects who had gathered upon the piers to view the magnificent spectacle.
Shops and businesses had closed for the occasion. People were dressed in their finest. Children clutched small Rosian flags and pickpockets did a brisk business among the crowds jamming the boardwalks. The sailors on the few merchant vessels that had been bold enough or desperate enough to sail into Westfirth paused in their labors to stare at the enormous barge with its glass-enclosed cabin—white trimmed in gold, with matching white and gold silk balloons, one at either end, billowing above the deck. The royal barge was designed for elegant living and slow movement and therefore had no sails. The king stood on deck, waving to the crowds, surrounded by royal bargemen in white-and-gold uniforms.
The merchants and shipowners in Westfirth were glad to see the king, although his arrival meant that the harbor was closed to traffic for the duration of his stay. One reason for His Majesty’s visit was to persuade those merchants who had been too fearful to return to Rosia that the Breath was once more safe to travel.
“Of course, King Alaric doesn’t dare come himself without bringing half the royal navy along with him,” Sir Ander remarked caustically.
He was observing the spectacle from the window in Father Jacob’s room. Sister Elizabeth stood by his side, watching with him.
“Most people won’t look at it that way,” Sister Elizabeth responded cheerfully. She nudged Sir Ander with her elbow. “Only you cynics.”
Sir Ander was about to reply when Father Jacob, who had been quiet all morning, suddenly said sharply, “You have nothing to feel guilty about, Sister Marie. You were right to maintain that contramagic is not evil.”
“Contramagic?” Sister Elizabeth cast a startled glance at Sir Ander, who turned from the window and hastened to the priest’s bedside.
Sitting down beside Father Jacob, Sir Ander said with quiet urgency, “I think it’s time you rested, Father…”
“Contramagic is a force of nature. One might as well say gravity is evil,” Father Jacob continued with spirit. “You and your companions did nothing wrong. You sought knowledge. You sought the truth. Men fear what they do not understand. You attempted to bring about understanding and thus eradicate the fear.”
Sir Ander was sorely tempted to shove a gag in Father Jacob’s mouth to shut him up. The mere mention of the word “contramagic” could result in charges of heresy. Even the tolerant Sister Elizabeth was shocked and uneasy.
Fortunately, Father Jacob crossed his arms and sat back in his bed, falling into silent contemplation.
“Let us hope he comes to himself soon,” was all Sister Elizabeth had to say.
Sir Ander could tell she was disturbed by what she had heard and he could not blame her. He went back to the window and the two of them watched in silence as the royal barge sailed up to the dock at the Old Fort. The dock had been hastily rebuilt to prepare for this visit and stonemasons and crafters hovered nearby, ready to rush in to make emergency repairs if needed.
The royal bargemen stood at attention. The archbishop, dressed in full regalia, was there to bow and gush as His Majesty walked down the red-carpeted gangplank. He was accompanied by his queen, whose jewels glittered in the sun. The king’s gentlemen and the queen’s ladies-in-waiting came next. The yachts bearing the other members of the royal court arrived at the dock, disgorging barons and earls, dukes and duchesses. The ladies, assembling on the ramparts, stared and gasped and claimed to feel quite faint at the sight of the wreckage from the attack and the rocks still stained with blood. The men spoke loudly and angrily of the depredations committed by the Freyans and swore revenge.
Sir Ander thought back to those terrifying moments when men lay on the parapet bleeding and dying. He thought of Brother Barnaby falling to his death, and he was sick to his stomach. He was about to turn away in disgust when a small yacht remarkable for its elegance sailed up to the dock. Sir Ander recognized the bumblebee emblem on the balloons. The yacht belonged to the Countess Cecile de Marjolaine.
Sir Ander was pleasantly surprised, though of course she would be traveling with the rest of the royal party. He was a dunce not to have foreseen that she would be in attendance. He watched Cecile step onto the dock, every movement graceful. She made her reverence to the King and Queen and then walked away, refusing to join the crowd of fawning courtiers clustered around their majesties. Sir Ander smiled when he saw that she soon attracted her own crowd of attendant courtiers.
“Will you stay with Father Jacob, Sister?” Sir Ander asked. “I have an errand to which I must attend.”
Sister Elizabeth agreed to stay with the priest. She had not yet been sent back to the Arcanum, but it was only a matter of time before she received the summons—unless Dubois could successfully intervene.
Sir Ander hurried to his room and swiftly changed into his dress uniform. He buckled on his sword and sadly eyed the dusty state of his boots. He did not have enough time, however, to polish them.
Long ago Sir Ander had loved Cecile de Marjolaine, when she was sixteen, the most beautiful woman at court. He had lost her to his dear friend, Julian de Guichen. Her rejection had wounded him, but he was not the type of man to let such a loss embitter him. He had remained friends with both Cecile and Julian and was godfather to their son, Stephano.
Sir Ander and Cecile had corresponded over the years. Since he studiously avoided attending court, he had not seen Cecile since the two had risked their lives to meet secretly with Julian in his prison cell the night before his execution. Sir Ander hastened onto the ramparts, searching for Cecile among the throng of voluminous silk dresses, jewels, feathers, fans, and petticoats.
Elegant and aloof, she stood out from the crowd. He had no trouble finding her, and once he did, he slowed his approach, taking pleasure in watching the countess from a distance.
She was still beautiful. Poets sang the praises of her silver hair, gray-blue eyes, and ivory complexion. Tall and slender, she moved with artless grace.
Sir Ander felt a strange sorrow at seeing her after all these years and he could not understand what was wrong. She was still the most beautiful woman he had ever known. Except she wasn’t the woman he had known all those years ago. The thought came to him that he might have been looking at a portrait of Cecile de Marjolaine. She was a likeness of herself: cold, remote, detached, revealing no feeling, no emotion. She responded mechanically to the compliments and flatteries, and appeared to be bored with the company and with the proceedings.
And then her gaze fell upon Sir Ander, standing at a respectful distance.
Cecile stepped off the canvas and into life. Her blue eyes shone with pleasure, a faint flush tinged her cheeks, and a smile touched her lips. Sir Ander swept off his hat and made his best military bow. She motioned with her fan for him to advance and graciously smiled at him. Those gathered around her turned to star
e at him in whispering wonder.
“Sir Ander Martel,” said Cecile, holding out a jeweled hand. “I understand you were present during the attack.”
“I was, my lady,” said Sir Ander.
The women murmured their sympathies and looked at him with more interest. The men crowded around him, asking him questions about the battle. Cecile stood near him, her dove-colored silk dress rustling. She laid her fingers lightly on his forearm.
“I find this relentless sunshine fatiguing, Sir Ander. That tower over there offers shade. If you would accompany me, I would be interested to hear your account of the battle.”
Sir Ander said he would be only too pleased. He and Cecile walked off, leaving her friends and enemies to gossip and stare and speculate.
“We have given them something to talk about,” said Sir Ander, glancing over his shoulder.
“Let them,” said Cecile.
They stopped in the shadow of the tower, one of the few left standing after the attack. She rested her hand on the stone wall and gazed out into the Breath.
“It is good to see you, my lady,” said Sir Ander, regarding her with admiration.
“If you go on to say I am as beautiful now as I was at sixteen I will walk away and not come back,” Cecile said with a faint smile. She rested her hand on his. “No gallant speeches between us, dear friend.”
“No, my—Cecile,” said Sir Ander gently.
“I am so glad you are here!” Cecile clutched him suddenly, with an unusual show of emotion. “You were in Westfirth during the attack. I fear Stephano was also in Westfirth. Is it possible … Did you see him? I came here purposefully to find out.”
She talked on, not pausing to let Sir Ander answer. “I have heard nothing from my son. Nothing! He was supposed to report back to me. Poor Benoit is frantic and I—”
“Stephano was here, Cecile,” said Sir Ander, interrupting her. “I wrote to you that I had met him at the Abbey of Saint Agnes. He and his friends and Father Jacob and I traveled to Westfirth together. We were all here during the attack—”
“Oh, God!” Cecile whispered.
“But he escaped,” Sir Ander hastened to reassure her. “He and his friends were on a Trundler boat sailing out of the harbor as the attack began. The last I saw, the Cloud Hopper was heading into the open expanse of the Breath. I will lay you any odds you like, Cecile, that he and his friends escaped safely. The enemy concentrated their fire on the naval vessels, the fortress, the cathedral, and merchant ships.”
“If he is safe, why haven’t I heard from him?” Cecile asked. She shook her head, frowning. “I fear he may have fallen victim to the schemes of Sir Henry Wallace. I would have never involved Stephano if I had known Sir Henry was the agent behind the abduction of the journeyman Alcazar. You know Sir Henry, I believe?”
“To my sorrow,” said Sir Ander grimly. “He was here at the time, in Westfirth. Stephano mentioned he was on Wallace’s trail. Father Jacob warned him to steer clear of the man. Don’t borrow trouble, Cecile. There are any number of reasons why Stephano has not contacted you.”
“The primary reason being that he hates and despises me,” Cecile remarked with a quirk of her eyebrow.
Sir Ander shook her head. “May I ask you a question, Cecile? Why haven’t you told Stephano the truth? That you and Julian were reconciled. That the two of you were married. He would not hate you if he understood that you did not abandon his father.”
“If people knew the truth, Sir Ander, that Stephano was my legitimate heir, my enemies would become his enemies. Let the world think we are estranged, that I make use of him, that I give him money only to keep him from the disgrace of debtors’ prison.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Speaking of my enemies, Her Majesty is causing mischief. I must go.”
Sir Ander could see the Queen speaking to her husband, gesturing at Cecile. King Alaric was observing the Countess and Sir Ander with a frowning glare.
“You are a comfort to me, my friend,” said Cecile. “I will let you know if I receive any news of Stephano.”
“I will do the same,” he said. “God be with you, Cecile.”
Cecile shook her head. “I fear God abandoned me long ago, dear friend. Do not walk with me. His Majesty would be displeased.”
Sir Ander halted her as she would have walked away. “Cecile, you speak of your enemies. Please promise me one thing: If you are ever in need of help, I have a friend you can trust. Sir Conal O’Hairt. You will find him at the Mother House of the Knight Protectors.”
Cecile smiled and left him. She moved languidly, taking her time, refusing to rush. Before joining the King, she stopped to talk to some of the Fort’s guards who were on duty. Sir Ander, watching, saw the Queen whisk out her fan with obvious displeasure and say something behind it to a woman standing beside her, a woman with such an exotic appearance, Sir Ander frankly stared. The woman wore a powdered wig trimmed in feathers that contrasted well with her tawny complexion and her large, dark eyes. Her face was lovely, her lips touched with red, her eyes darkened with kohl.
“Striking, isn’t she?” said a voice at his elbow.
Sir Ander had not heard anyone approach. He looked around in surprise to find the short, pudgy Dubois standing at his elbow.
Dubois gave a self-deprecating smile. “Her name is Idonia, the Duquesa de Plata Niebla, newly arrived in court and already, as you can see, close friends with Her Majesty. But then you keep charming company yourself, Sir Ander: the Countess de Marjolaine. I congratulate you.”
Sir Ander saw no reason to respond. “If you will excuse me, Monsieur, I must return to Father Jacob—”
“How is he this morning?” Dubois asked.
“No change,” said Sir Ander shortly.
“That is a great pity, Sir Ander,” Dubois said gravely. “A very great pity indeed. You are a devout man, I believe. If I were you, I would speak to the one who might be able to help.”
“Who would that be, monsieur?” Sir Ander asked, thinking he perhaps was going to suggest the provost.
Dubois’s answer was startling. “Saint Marie.”
As Sir Ander returned to the palace he pondered this strange suggestion. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Dubois lounging in the shadow of the tower, arms folded, his gaze fixed intently upon the striking Duquesa de Plata Niebla.
“God help her,” Sir Ander muttered.
He started to return to Father Jacob’s room, then stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, he changed direction and took a different route. Outside the chapel, he hesitated another moment, then entered.
Every chapel in Rosia had its marble statue of Saint Marie. Her statue in this chapel was located in a small niche in the wall. Lighting a candle, he placed it on her altar. Saint Marie was portrayed wearing armor and carrying a sword, for she was known as a defender of the faith. She had founded the Arcanum and she had died alongside her knights fighting members of a blood magic cult.
Sir Ander had seen portraits of Saint Marie, including the magnificent painting by the famed artist, Lawrence Moreel, which hung in the Arcanum. The statue looked very much like that portrait. The tale was told that Sister Marie passed as a man in order to study in an era when women were not permitted to enter university. Looking at her, Sir Ander could see how she might have been mistaken for a male with her strong, jutting jaw, high cheekbones, fierce eyes, and proud mouth. She had shaved her head in the tonsure and had explained the lack of facial hair on a childhood disease.
A few loyal friends, among them the priest who would eventually be known as Saint Dennis, had known the truth and had helped her keep her secret. Even in later years, when she was honored and admired and everyone knew she was a woman, she had continued to shave her head and wear priest’s robes.
Sir Ander placed a candle in the holder on the altar and sat down on a low bench placed there for those who wanted to offer her their prayers. As he gazed up at the statue he wondered how to begin. Now that he was here, he felt a little fo
olish. Sir Ander believed that saints could and did work miracles, but he couldn’t help wonder if Saint Marie was working a miracle by speaking to Father Jacob or if Father Jacob’s extraordinary mind had suffered such a terrible injury that he would never recover.
Sir Ander lowered himself to his knees and clasped his hands.
“Blessed Saint Marie, I come to you regarding Father Jacob. I know you are with him. I pray that you are healing him and leading him back to us.”
Sir Ander paused, trying to put his feelings into words. “What I fear is that Father Jacob does not want to come back. I know him. He is enjoying these metaphysical discussions. He would much rather remain with you than return to harsh reality. We need him, Saint Marie. He is the only one who knows the truth about these fiends. He is the only one who can tell us how to fight them and their terrible weapons.”
Sir Ander shook his head. “Father Jacob can be extremely stubborn, Saint Marie. I have heard that you were a match for any man. Send him back. Tell him he has to come home.”
Sir Ander took two more candles, placed them on the altar, and said another prayer.
“Be with Cecile de Marjolaine, Saint Marie. Protect and keep her and my godson, Stephano, from harm.”
Leaving the chapel, Sir Ander was filled with a sense of peace. He didn’t know if that was a sign from the saint or if he was glad to have handed over responsibility for Father Jacob to God.
As he walked back to Father Jacob’s room, Sir Ander reflected on his conversation with Cecile. His heart ached for her and her dangerous, difficult, and lonely life. He would have liked to have told the truth to Stephano, to make him understand all that Cecile had done for her son, the sacrifices she had made and would continue to make. The truth was not his to tell, however. Cecile had her reasons and they were damn good ones.
Outside the palace, an orchestra on the royal barge was playing. Sir Ander paused at a window, hoping to see Cecile again, if only from a distance. The royal party had moved on, however, going back to their barges to dress for dinner with the archbishop.
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