Coronets and Steel

by Sherwood Smith

  “‘Lycidas.’ I wondered if that was his or Milo’s.”

  “What’s that poem about?”

  “It’s a pastoral. Elegy. Super dense. About . . . somebody died, right? Elegies are always about death.”

  “On the surface, because that poem packs in a lot of stuff, Milton wrote it after a Cambridge schoolmate was drowned. Okay, I’m done.”

  “What?” I protested. “Nat, that is not even remotely too much information.”

  She looked out the window. “Sometimes TMI is betrayal of confidence, right? I told you, I don’t do drama. So forget I even said anything.”

  Leaving me more confused than I’d been when I woke, only now it was about Alec and me, not about Dobrenica’s politics. “At least tell me what is it you want me to do?”

  She gave an exasperated laugh. “Do what you want. What you have to. I never give advice in heart matters. Hell’s bells! Come to me with cramps, warts, a runny nose and I’ve got a chance of being right half the time. In the tangled world of emotions, nothing’s the same, or right, ever.”

  Fighting a cold, sick sensation, I tried to sift out the warning I sensed in her words.

  She sighed sharply. “In my mind, this was going to be easy. Like saying to a woman: you’re pregnant. Here’s a list of foods to avoid, and to eat, and things to watch out for. I should have known! I’ll add one more thing, then butt out. At age nine or ten we cease to believe we are the center of the universe, but it takes another ten or twenty years to stop acting that way.” Her voice changed. “Course, some of us never grow up. Take me. I’m the loving kind, but not the marrying kind. When I think about the satisfaction of pulling off a difficult birth, or getting a woman safely through a tricky pregnancy—lean your head back, I’m going to comb out that hair. Can you imagine, even in the twenty-first century, some of those mountain women were putting knives under their pillows to cut labor pains?”

  “So superstition is foolish, but you tell me magic works?”

  She threw her arms wide. “We’re humans! How about the high-tech honeys at home who still check their horoscope? Won’t go on a plane Friday the thirteenth? The women here ask for a novena and put a knife under their bed, because in their minds, both work.”

  She talked on about tradition, magic, and superstition as the rhythmic tug at my scalp soothed me.

  First things first. Finish up the last of the marriage business. Gran’s legal marriage, which makes everything work out perfectly.

  Right.

  First to Mt. Corbesc. Time enough for planning after that. I fell asleep, and when I woke, Alec was there.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  WE STUDIED ONE another. I saw tenderness and exhaustion in his face. Then he lifted his hand and lightly touched my cheek and jaw.

  How strange to be so attuned to someone. I felt the anger kindling inside him, and I said, “It’s okay. I was so out of it I hardly noticed a few extra bruises, and it was worth it to make that slime-crawler mad. I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to round two.”

  “Tony sat and watched?” he asked, with a shade of grimness.

  “Yes. But it made him angry. And he was the one who stopped it.”

  “Was he expecting you?”

  “You mean, when Aunt Sisi locked me in the stairwell? No, he most definitely was surprised. Has he turned up?”

  “No. But eventually I will catch up with him.” He said it in his usual light tone, but I felt the undertone of promise.

  I said, “Then, to be fair, another thing in his defense, though personally, if you find him and lock him up I’d rather help throw away the key. I think he could’ve disappeared at the end, there, when I got shot. But for whatever reason, he put himself back under Reithermann’s gun, and for no more reason than I could see except to protect me from his so-called ally.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  Au revoir. . . That’s a promise. I wanted to get off the subject of Tony. “So how’s everything else?”

  “Busy. I can’t stay long.” He glanced at his watch. “Three meetings, one I should be at now. But Nat has forbidden late-night visits.”

  “Right on,” Nat said in the background, and Alec gave her a quick, rather preoccupied smile.

  “—so I stopped to see how you’re feeling, and to ask you if you’d like to go somewhere for lunch tomorrow.”

  “Fine,” I said awkwardly, wishing he would hold me again.

  He left shortly after, and I resolved to make things easier for him by taking care of the last of my business before we met again.

  I napped some more, then Natalie and I had dinner together. A Pedro-cooked meal of salmon poached in wine with baby potatoes and herbsauced vegetables was brought to the apartment—the ultimate in food-to-go. Along with my suitcase that Tony’s people had taken from the inn a couple centuries ago.

  Nat played music, mostly old rock, right up to Jackson Browne’s “Fountain of Sorrows” while we talked about home. Easy stuff, nothing personal relating to the here-and-now. She was funny about her days raised by hippies on a commune, and how aghast they were when she threw away her organic, non-gendered overalls, cut off her hippie hair, and went off to med school.

  She described her friends and their exploits, and I told her about the infamous party at Aunt Sisi’s. Nat laughed in gusts, and then listened with avid curiosity to my story of meeting Tony.

  “I have to admit,” she said when I’d finished, “I’ve always wanted to meet the guy, if only to see if he’s half as hot as everyone says—and if it’d work on me.”

  “He’s hot. But you can’t trust him. I would be as happy if I never see him again.” Even as I said the words, I knew they were not true, and I shifted impatiently, trying to will them to be true. I did not want the complication of Tony in an already overly complicated life.

  “Little ambivalence there?” Nat wiggled her brows.

  “Yes. But I also kept noticing how much he was like me physically, which makes everything confusing. I mean, is that incest, or narcissism, or what?”

  “You’re cousins at two removes, not brother and sister. Does it feel like incest?”

  “No.”

  “He’s got a rep for heavy-duty charm. Not anything he turns on or off at will, which I think would make him disgusting. The thing is, you’ve got it, too. And though you look so much like Ruli everyone says you two could be twins, she doesn’t have it. Maybe that charm is in your genes . . . and when you and Tony are around each other, your radar jumps to high.”

  “Maybe. When he left, he said ‘au revoir, and that’s a promise.’ ”

  She gave a long, low whistle. “Sounds like the wicked count was definitely charmed with Kim. Okay, don’t hurl—it’s time for you to catch some Zs. I don’t want you relapsing. Bad for my rep.”

  I agreed readily enough, for my shoulder was aching by then. But as I settled down on the bed and she curled up in her chair, a pile of professional magazines bought in England beside her, I said cautiously, “How long do I have to be invalid?”

  “You’re strong and healthy, and if you manage to stay out of action for a while you’ll heal fast. So you can do pretty much what you want, outside of drunken binges or horseback-riding. You did lose some blood. Take it easy, and when you feel the urge to lie down, do it. I’ll fix you a sling. Gravity is going to give you the most trouble now.”

  “So I can take a walk?”

  “Take two!” She threw up her hands. “I’d wait until morning. It’s raining outside right now.”

  I fell asleep concocting plausible excuses; I kept telling myself it hardly mattered anymore, but I still did not want anyone knowing where I was going. My instinct was strong and insistent—this last quest I had to make alone.

  As it turned out, I did not need to give her any excuses. Someone rang her bell at about four AM and she slipped out quietly, garbed in her midwife clothes and carrying her bag. At seven I got up and dressed somewhat clumsily with my right hand. It was odd to see those c
lothes again, the ones I’d bought during my Ruli masquerade. Looking at them stirred memories and emotions.

  I slammed the mental trunk hard, and turned to tackle my hair. Since I could not braid or put it up one-handed I brushed it the best I could and left it hanging. Then I found a paper and scrawled sloppily, “Be back at noon—Kim,” slipped on the sling Nat had fashioned for me the night before, and went out.

  The sky was streaked with clouds. The streets gleamed fresh-washed, puddles reflecting the sky, flowers glistening. The city was busy as usual; by seven the business day was already under way.

  I thought Nat had exaggerated, but as I progressed down the street a flurry of attention seemed to move before me, like a scurrying wind. People smiled. Some even bowed. I was beginning to feel like I was outlined in neon.

  The walk to the Waleskas’ inn did not take long.

  As soon as I got inside Anna came forward with a cry of welcome. I had planned to ask for my money and for a recommendation of someone to hire to take me up to the mountain, but Anna displayed her mother’s energy. As soon as she understood what I wanted she yanked Josip from the back, snatched away his apron, and the two of us were bundled into an ancient Volkswagen—a vehicle that appeared to be shared by everyone on the street. The neighbors turned out as soon as they heard the engine start up and cheered us off.

  Shy Josip crouched over the wheel, holding it tightly as we bounced and shuddered our way up into the hills. My shoulder hurt after a mile or so, and poor Josip sent so many anxious glances at me after each pothole I was afraid he’d go off the road.

  He slowed to second gear, which sounded in that rusty metal shell like the engine of a 747 flying into a headwind, so I shut my eyes, held my shoulder with my good hand, and set myself to endure. At least the mystery would soon be solved.

  A couple thousand years later Josip pulled the sputtering car before the gate of the high-walled monastery, parked, and assured me he would happily wait for me if I did not want his escort.

  I thanked him and climbed out wearily. The last part of my quest was nearly done. It felt really, really weird.

  The mellow dull gold limestone walls were smooth and well kept, and the massive wooden gate was as featureless as the walls. I found a bell pull and gave it a couple of hefty tugs. Half a minute later a small, narrow door set into one of the larger gate doors opened, and out came a young man wearing a cassock made of natural wool. He blinked enquiringly at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  I said in Dobreni, “Is Father Teodras in to a visitor? It’s important,” I added.

  His brow furrowed. “I know no Father Teodras.”

  “He hasn’t died?” Shock surged up in me, followed by the corrosive burn of self-mockery. I never thought he’d be dead. But what else, after more than half a century?

  “I don’t remember a Father Teodras ever being here,” was his mild reply.

  “Please, can you ask someone?” I put my hand out to stop him, though as yet he had made no move to shut the door. “Father Teodras. The Cistercian monastery on Mt. Corbesc. I know I’ve got the right place. He was here. This was . . . around 1940, or right before. He—performed a marriage. I need to talk to him about that. If he’s alive,” I added in desperation, and did not realize until I had ended that I had switched to German. “And if he isn’t, I need to see the marriage records.”

  The monk studied my face. His eyes were black and slanted, their expression mildly curious. So different from Tony’s. “This is not our day for visitors. May I ask you to wait a moment?”

  “Yes, thank you!” I added fervently, and as the door closed I tried to still my breathing. My arm hurt, and my emotions were stirring up with a violence that surprised me. I rubbed my arm above my elbow.

  No ghosts now, no mysterious faces. Only the breeze rustling my skirt, causing the clouds to play hide-and-seek with the sun overhead as the tall fir trees soughed and sighed.

  I’d barely made these observations before the door opened again. This time it was a different man, a much older one, whose white cassock was belted by a black cord. He wore a crucifix on a long gold chain, and his hands were posed together in the same way depicted by monks in tapestries a thousand years old. He met my eyes directly; his were hazel, sunken with age, but they held that same expression as the other man’s. Mild, only slightly interrogative. Mostly steady and—secretive? No, that was not it. “Please, come within. I apologize for Brother Marcus leaving you waiting outside,” he said in accented German, his voice deep. “We are not accustomed to many visitors. You seek someone called Father Teodras?”

  “Yes. I—” I swallowed. “I need to talk to him. He performed a marriage, of my grandmother. This was right before the Second World War. It was in secret. He was young, then. If he’s still alive, please, may I speak to him?”

  A smile narrowed the monk’s eyes. “Secret marriages have been forbidden for many years, child.” His smile faded; something of my stunned and sick reaction must have shown in my face as I followed him into a white-plastered hallway that gave onto a well-ordered garden.

  A sun-touched white marble statue of the Virgin Mary stood gracefully above a bed of late lilies, her tranquil face bringing to mind the Mary of the treasure in the Roman church. Beyond this garden lay a plain building. Beyond that a back gate and a kitchen garden. Here and there white-robed figures moved about their business, some talking quietly, some solitary. The ambience was orderly, peaceful, and not particularly otherworldly.

  The elderly monk trod with measured pace around the garden to the building. There we came to an archway. He gestured for me to look through as he said, “We do not permit the world beyond this point. But here you can see Brother Ildephonsas at work.”

  I glanced across an inner courtyard. Chickens cackled and pecked and wandered about the hard-packed ground. In between them sparrows hopped and darted. On a side of the yard was an open shed, in which a thin old monk stood on one side of a table with a still sheep laid on it. This monk held the sheep’s head between his hands as a white-haired monk quickly stitched up the animal’s side.

  “A boar got in among the flock last night.” The monk spoke at my shoulder. “Brother Ildephonsas has a talent with beasts.”

  Two long-haired dogs with thin, pointy muzzles galloped into the yard, plumed tails flying and tongues flapping pinkly.

  One gave an excited yap and thrust his nose into the sinewy hand held down to him for a second. Brother Ildephonsas’ long, homely face creased into a big smile, then he straightened up. When the sheep twitched and shuddered, he folded his hands around its head, and it relaxed. Totally absorbed, he never noticed us.

  Remembering what I’d learned from Nat, I asked, “Is he a Salfpatra?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s Father Teodras I’m looking for. Does this man know him, is that it? May I talk to him?”

  “Brother Ildephonsas cannot speak to you because he made a vow of silence many years ago, when he joined the order,” the monk said gently, and he turned to go back.

  I moved with him, but my steps were slow. “I don’t get it. What does he have to do with—oh, no.” Realization finally hit me, with awful finality.

  The monk said softly, “There was once a young actor named Teodras Vinescos. He traveled in Romania and neighboring countries, and he was a friend to many young noblemen. But that man, that life, was left behind him more than half a century ago.”

  “So the marriage was a fake. That’s what you were trying to tell me?” I said in a hard voice. “Took a while to sink in, but lately I haven’t exactly been quick on the uptake . . .” Tears burned my eyelids, blurring the garden path before my feet. Furious with myself, embarrassed at the thought of climbing into Josip’s car while blubbering, I fought them down.

  My toe bumped a low step. I didn’t remember a step on the way in. I’d been brought to a small room with the cream-colored walls so common in this part of the world. It was lit by windows high on a wall, furnished with lo
ng wooden benches. The only ornament was a simple wooden carved crucifix, mounted between the windows.

  I rubbed my eyes fiercely as I plumped down onto a bench. The old monk sat next to me, his hands folded.

  “I’ve got the story now. I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” I said tightly.

  “Your disappointment is understandable,” was the even reply. “Your grandmother yet lives?”

  “Yes.” I took a deep breath, then expelled it. “At least, I hope so. She too has gone silent. We don’t know why.” I gulped in another breath. This time my voice shook less. “Did he—take that vow because of what he did to Gran? The false marriage, I mean?”

  “That lies between Brother Ildephonsas and God,” he said. There was no reproach at all in voice or face. He and the other guy looked like people who had found the answers. Or at least, for whom the questions no longer mattered in the face of what they had found.

  “I see,” I said, standing up. “Well, thank you for the truth.”

  The monk also stood up, gesturing toward the bench. “You are welcome to remain here for a time, if you wish. Brother Marcus will show you to the gate when you are ready to go.”

  “Sure. Thanks,” I said again.

  “Go in peace.” He sketched the sign of the cross between us, then went out.

  My legs sagged under me. I sat in the quiet room, listening to my own breathing. Still ragged. Poor Gran, I thought. Wearing that ring all her life—and it didn’t mean anything.

  I leaned my head back and breathed deeply, wondering what to say when I got home. If she would hear me. It was too easy to picture her being shocked beyond recovery, but then I thought, don’t borrow trouble for Gran. Deal with your own issues.

  What issues? I was exactly the same person I’d been before Josip drove me up. I was the same person as I’d been at birth. Everyone was the same. Ruli and Tony and Aunt Sisi—the situation was exactly as it had always been. So, outside of my mother’s legitimacy, which she had never questioned (and my mother wasn’t going to care about it when she did find out), nothing had changed.