But unexpectedly the nun’s eyes opened and fixed on her face with a glitter of awareness. Her voice croaked drily in an attempt to speak and Barbara propped her up further and fed her small sips from a cup, wary lest it lead to choking.
She pushed the cup away at last and asked huskily, “Is this how you try to win forgiveness?”
Barbara was startled to have her own thoughts echoed that closely. She nodded agreement.
“You won’t have it from me, Lissa,” she continued more strongly. “Oh, you were always so proud and haughty, but you’re no better than you should be. You weren’t as a girl and you aren’t now.”
She was being taken for her mother again, no surprise. But the venom in the old woman’s accusation was startling. She reached for a response that might draw her out. “I’ve always tried to behave as I should.”
“Tried! You think you’ve fooled them.” A fit of dry coughing interrupted and Barbara held the cup for her to sip again. “They may be blind, but I know. I know.”
“What do you know?” Barbara asked, leaning closer to catch anything she might say.
“I know you don’t spend your nights inside these walls. And I know the look of a woman who’s been with her lover. Repent that, if you can, else there’s no forgiveness.” She coughed again, repeating, “No forgiveness.” And then she slept.
When the midnight prayers were done and others came to take the watch, Barbara tried to slip quietly into bed beside Margerit without waking her. But her mind spun endlessly turning over what Sister Anna had said. I know the look of a woman who’s been with her lover. Was she still speaking of Lissa or were she and Margerit being accused? They’d tried to be discreet. Was it that obvious even to an addled old woman? No, proud and haughty she’d said and Barbara was sure no one could accuse her of that. Had that been meant for her mother? Sister Anna had been wandering in her mind for some time. Yes, that was it. The accusations, the venom, it was only a phantasm of her failing memory. Because it didn’t make sense. It didn’t…The last pieces fell into place like stones dropping down a long empty well with only the faintest sound to mark their final goal. She gasped aloud at the realization.
Beside her, Margerit stirred sleepily, asking, “What’s wrong?”
Barbara hesitated. She couldn’t bear to be right, but even more she couldn’t bear to be wrong. She had to be sure. No secrets; no silences. But there were no secrets—there was nothing to tell. Not for certain. Not yet. Into that hanging silence came the soft toll of an unscheduled bell, counting out years of service come to their final end. “It’s Sister Anna,” she whispered. “She’s left us.”
“Oh,” said Margerit, more awake now. “Should we—?”
“No, there’s nothing for us to do now. We can pray for her in the morning.” The moment had passed. Her promise stood broken for good or ill.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Margerit
When the day arrived at last, Margerit thought it should have been heralded by the ringing of all the bells in the tower. Even the ordinary bells for a Sunday hadn’t chimed yet when she slipped out of bed, shivering in the dark. Barbara stirred beside her but was hushed with enough reassurance to return to sleep. There was no place in the dormitory to store personal possessions beyond a change of clothing, so she had whole distance of the building to traverse and down to Sister Marzina’s office to retrieve the papers she had prepared. Signing and witnessing must wait until later in the day but this part needn’t wait further. She brought them back, along with a small lamp, and sat carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Come back where it’s warm,” Barbara said sleepily.
“I have a birthday gift for you,” Margerit whispered, trying not to wake the other guests.
“Aren’t you supposed to receive gifts on your birthday, not give them?” Barbara teased. But she sat and swung her legs over the edge of the bed in order to draw the blankets around both their shoulders.
She knew, of course, what the document was. Margerit handed it over and held the lamp, watching Barbara’s eyes trace over the words.
Ego, Margareta Sovitre, manumisi Barbara Arpik…“No,” she said firmly. Before Margerit could exclaim in confusion she explained, “Not by that name. I served you simply as Barbara. Release me by the same name.” And then Margerit could hear a grin in her voice, though it was lost in the lamp’s shadows. “Or if you will, say, ‘The woman Barbara, who has served me well and faithfully as my armin.’ It closes the circle neatly.”
“If that’s what you want,” Margerit said doubtfully. “But will it serve in law?”
“There’s no one else it could describe. It will serve well enough. Now put out the lamp and come back to bed. There’s still an hour before rising and I think today will be a busy day.”
* * *
They had the abbess and Sister Marzina to witness—the two who had been brought most closely into their secrets.
“And what will you do now?” Mother Teres asked.
“Leave you,” Barbara answered. “But it may be best if we don’t say when or to where.”
The abbess had already explained carefully the limits of her assistance, whatever her sympathies might be. But when they’d left her, Barbara asked Sister Marzina to stay a moment. “There’s a favor I’d like to ask. Could you arrange to send a message this afternoon to Mefroi Cherend? He keeps the hiring stable in the village. Ask him if the spotted pony is for sale—say there’s a girl who needs a ride.”
Margerit understood the message no more than Sister Marzina did but the latter repeated, “‘Is the spotted pony for sale, a girl needs a ride.’ It does occur to me,” she added, “that if one of you were feeling poorly and needed the quiet of one of the infirmary cells, and the other were to stay to watch over her, it might take some time for most people to notice whether you were there or gone.”
“Thank you,” Margerit said warmly.
“For what?” And then she embraced her and asked, “Are you certain this is the right choice? You have a true gift from God. I’d hate to see that lost if things go badly for you. You could have everything you need right here.”
It wasn’t the first time Margerit had heard her urgings in the weeks they had worked together. She smiled, but she stepped away and took Barbara’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Not everything,” she responded.
Sister Marzina looked from one to the other of them. Margerit could tell the moment when realization dawned. “I will deliver your message,” Marzina said with sudden coldness and she turned away.
“That wasn’t wise,” Barbara whispered. “Have a care who you expect to share our joy.”
* * *
Margerit took Marzina’s suggestion and found she had developed a deep hacking cough that was sure to disturb the others staying in the guesthouse. She had to endure dosing with an unpleasant-smelling draught but it won them a small room to themselves, apart from the general traffic of the convent. It would have been an enjoyable luxury if they meant to use it. Sister Marzina duly returned with the response that the spotted pony was best seen to advantage by moonlight, if a buyer cared to view it.
“And what is that all about?” Margerit asked when they were alone at last.
“Do you remember in LeFevre’s letter? He said that if we needed help to remember the spotted pony? It was something that happened when I was a small girl—only he and I and Cherend would remember it. Cherend—he was always Marziel Lumbeirt’s man, not Baron Saveze’s. Even if LeFevre hadn’t made the suggestion I might have gone to him for help. At the very least, I know he won’t betray me.” She bit her lip, thinking. “The moon is up now, but we don’t dare leave by daylight. He must mean us to come after dark. You might want to see what rest you can manage. We’ll get little enough tonight.”
* * *
There were other exits from Saint Orisul’s beyond the front gates with their exposed pathway up from the village. There was the cellar cut deep into the rock that had its own entrance on the
side where the wagon road came up. There was the sheep gate that opened onto a maze of narrow tracks climbing the mountainside. And there was the nearly forgotten door that had once been the shortest route to the old wellhouse outside the walls, before the new pipes had been installed to bring the water in. That was how they left, after the evening meal had been delivered and most of the community was at services. There was barely enough moon to see their way down the steep slope but that meant there was little to betray them to any watching eyes or even simply curious ones.
The season not being one for much travel, they were unsurprised to see only a single carriage standing ready in the yard. The owner would be spending the night elsewhere—Cherend kept a stable, not an inn, having little use for people and a great deal for horses. Still, there was no telling who else might be about. Barbara led them around the back—skirting the courtyard where dogs would bark—and into the shadow along the fence. The moon was nearly down when Barbara shied a few pebbles at an upper window then pulled back into the darkness to wait. A door opened with a silhouetted figure. Barbara must have recognized the outline for she started forward. Margerit trailed after.
The door shut behind them in a cozy kitchen with the stove built up to a level that said they were expected. “I’ve been awaiting you any time these four months,” was all the greeting they received. “Ever since that efrankis sent word, for all he said you wouldn’t move until now. That friend of yours has been eating me out of house and home and I couldn’t even put him to work in case he was recognized.”
“My friend?” Barbara asked suspiciously.
He’d crossed to the interior door and called out, “Hey! It’s them.”
Margerit had only a moment to wonder if they’d been betrayed after all when a second man came through the door. “Marken!” she exclaimed in relief, seeing his broad familiar face.
He nodded at them as if the day were nothing out of the ordinary. “Maisetra. Barbara.”
Margerit couldn’t resist making the correction. “It’s Mesnera Barbara now.”
He eyed Barbara narrowly but with no visible reaction. “Is it? That will take some getting used to.”
* * *
They left as soon as light permitted in the dawn. A carriage on a frozen road with horses changed at regular intervals made for a far shorter trip than two riding in tandem through muddy farm paths. It was still a long time to keep one’s face hidden away. The cold at least excused concealing mufflers and cloaks when stopping for the night, and the eccentricities of well-born travelers might account for meals served upstairs—not even in the comfort of a private parlor. But even before they came in sight of the sprawl outside Rotenek’s walls, Margerit was exhausted and frayed to threadbare nerves.
The gates were the point of greatest risk. Perhaps no one was watching for them. It had been four months, after all. But there were only five gates to watch and it was within the gate warden’s duties to examine every vehicle if he chose. Better to enter on foot, leaving Marken to deal with the carriage, as if they were only passing in and out on everyday business. LeFevre had sent an assortment of clothing and Barbara suggested the loose scholars robes of the sort worn every day for classes. It would conceal the ill fit of the men’s clothing worn under them and one student was much the same as another to most observers.
“I thought you said I couldn’t pass as a man,” Margerit joked.
Barbara grimaced, sorting through the selection for the least offensive to her taste. “No, I said I could pass for a woman better than you could for a man. In any event, it’s only for a short walk across town.”
Short was an exaggeration. It was nearly the entire width of Rotenek from the Tupendor Gate to Lamsiter and they must avoid the actual university district where their faces might be known. At the other end, there was a long, tense wait until darkness once again gave protection against watching eyes. The woolen scholars’ robes were meant to guard against drafty lecture halls, not the chill of the nighttime streets and Margerit thought she would never be warm again by the time they slipped out of the shadows to pull the bell-rope by the office and heard the tread of feet descending the stairs.
The door was opened with no light and Margerit caught the flash of LeFevre’s worried face before he closed the door behind them again. His feet sounded on the wooden steps as Barbara guided her blindly to follow him up, whispering a warning in her ear where the stairs turned sharply. When they emerged into the soft glow of the parlor, LeFevre turned to gaze at them and Margerit could see tears glittering in his eyes. He dashed them away unashamedly and said, “Come here by the fire, you must be freezing! Ianni, tea please! Where’s Marken? I can see you met up with him.” He gestured at their clothing and for the first time all day Margerit felt embarrassed to be seen in breeches.
“We entered the city separately,” Barbara explained briefly as they both huddled close to the fire.
There was a clattering of china as LeFevre’s secretary brought a tray in from the next room, asking, “Shall I go out to fetch more dinner? There’s nothing left in the house but half a loaf and some cheese.”
“I’d rather not risk being seen to do anything out of the ordinary while they’re here,” LeFevre answered. “See what you can make out of nothing.”
“Are you watched so closely?” Barbara asked. “We took as much care as we could.”
“Not constantly, but often there are strangers poking around, asking questions of my neighbors. You can stay here tonight but I want to find a safer place in the morning.”
Margerit had finally recovered enough to speak without her teeth chattering. “Safe will be when the charges are answered. Tell us everything you know. Do they have the full text of the mystery?”
LeFevre pulled a chair next to the ones they had taken by the fire. “I think, perhaps, you need to tell me what you know first. The accusations spoke of a mystery but there are all manner of rumors. Exactly what was the purpose of this mystery? Barbara told me a little, when she—” He looked back and forth between the two of them as if uncertain how much of that quarrel still remained. “—when she was concerned about it. But there seemed no harm in it.”
And so Margerit poured out the whole story, not omitting her own folly and mistakes. “I tried to correct it—to cancel it—when we were traveling. But I don’t know how well it worked. We did learn that the travelers had arrived safely. But I have reason to believe that Hennis Lutoz tried to work the full mystery at some point.”
Barbara added, “Our best hope—though I doubt he’d be willing—is if Lutoz would testify that Margerit knew nothing of the ritual’s deeper intent. But that would require confessing his own part.”
“Mesner Lutoz won’t be testifying to anything, I’m afraid,” LeFevre said.
Margerit gasped. “I killed him?”
“Why would you think—” LeFevre began. “Lutoz is very much alive. But back some months ago he was struck mute. Some called it witchcraft; others say apoplexy. I’m inclined to the latter. Sometimes it takes men that way, taking away all language. He can’t even write sense, they say.”
“Would that have been on All Saints Day?” Barbara asked.
“I’m not sure. But shortly after, Estefen produced his proof.”
Iannipirt interrupted to offer something of a soup he had produced from the bread and cheese and a few other bits of the nothing that the apartment contained. “Enough to keep body and soul together for the night,” he said apologetically. “And I thought you would want me to make the bed ready for our guests.”
“Ianni, you are a treasure,” LeFevre said lightly as the secretary retreated once more into the back room.
Margerit was torn between the hunger for news and that of her stomach, but the latter won for a time. With the soup consumed, LeFevre sat back and asked, “Now why might you think you had something to do with Hennis Lutoz’s affliction?”
She told him, with Barbara filling in the parts that an ordinary man might need explained. “It
was my petition that stopped his mouth. But that means I can undo it—that is, I can ask the saints to have mercy and forgive him.”
Barbara seemed less certain. “Remember what Mother Teres said about pride. Not everything happens because you arrange it.”
“But it’s our only chance if he’s to testify.”
LeFevre said cautiously, “They say he’s gone mad. There may be no truth to be had from him in any case. What other plans have you made?”
“Barbara says that if we can lay a countercharge of treason against Estefen, in the presence of the prince, then our charge must be answered first. That gives us time.”
He turned away from her and looked steadily at Barbara. “Only someone of noble birth can raise a charge in the royal court. Margerit can’t.”
“But I can,” Barbara answered. “I learned a few things at Saint Orisul’s.”
He nodded gravely. “The debt is canceled; there’s no risk to you knowing now. And, as you say, you have the right to make the charge.”
“So all we need,” Margerit said, “is some way to smuggle two accused traitors into the royal court at a time when Estefen is there as well.”
“Arranging the time and place is the least of your problems,” LeFevre said. “The succession council—they’ve been meeting at least twice a week since December and the wrangling seems to move no further forward. Estefen is always there among the princess’s supporters and Aukust, of course, can’t escape the duty. Mesner Pertinek could attend if he chose, but I think he would be suspect if he showed up with strangers in tow.”
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