Viola stepped out of the front doors of the convent. The air was hot and humid that August day. A bead of sweat formed at her brow. There wasn’t even a gentle breeze to brush against her skin. Viola wiped the sweat off with the back of her hand.
A week after she’d given the boy her letter, the workmen finished the roof of the church. She hadn’t seen Frederick since. Viola began to wonder if her efforts had been in vain. Maybe Andry, though a despicable creature, would have been a better choice. But even if she had trusted him, she couldn’t have afforded the payment he requested.
She took the long way around to the gardens. Everyone who didn’t have duties that had to be completed was directed to assist with harvesting the grapes in the vineyard. This year, they had a good crop and it needed to be picked now to make wine for the year. Mainly, Viola thought, to make wine to sell at market.
She hated these menial tasks. At her home in England, her father had servants clean and prepare meals. Farmers plowed his lands, planted the seeds, and harvested crops. Here, Viola had no choice but to assist; otherwise she would be forced to perform even less appealing chores. She was surprised that she hadn’t been assigned to mucking out the stables or emptying out chamber pots.
Her hands, which once had been soft, had hardened with calluses, cuts, and, on occasion, bruises. Her nails chipped. At least, in the last nine months, her hair had grown a few inches. Each night, she brushed it with one-hundred strokes, as her mother had once done when Viola was a child. A few weeks ago she managed to steal a pair of scissors from the infirmary and did her best to even it out. She replaced the scissors before Lucia noticed they were missing. Not that it mattered. Unless she found a way to contact the Queen, she would reside here for the remainder of her days.
The cart stood near the gardens with Horace directing where he wanted each container of grapes to be emptied or placed.
Viola picked up an empty basket and slowly made her way to the back of the vineyard where she could be alone, lost in her thoughts.
“Novice Viola.” Sister Dauphine charged across the gardens. She caught her robes on a vine and yanked it free. “Mother Superior wishes you to attend market with me on the morrow. Sister Collette is ill, and you, apparently, are the only other who has performed this task.” She began to walk away and turned back. “I will meet you at the cart, immediately after prime. Do not be tardy. Neither Horace nor I will wait for you.”
Viola was taken aback. How dare Sister Dauphine speak to her in such a way. She held her composure and watched the sister walk away. The woman had no right to demand a task of her. The words registered in her mind. She could hardly breathe. Excitement filled her. At long last, she was going back to the market. She needed to prepare. Tonight she would write another letter and remove a pearl button from the crucifix for payment. Surely, someone heading to Scotland would take pity on her. After all, she was a woman of the cloth.
With more vigor than she had before, Viola worked. The more goods to sell, the longer they would be there, and the more opportunity she would have to hire a messenger to deliver her letter to Scotland.
* * *
Market day was as she remembered. From the moment they set up their goods, people gathered around to barter. Sister Dauphine kept a watchful eye on Viola, at times making her uncomfortable. She had yet to speak with anyone long enough to see if they would be traveling to Scotland, let alone deliver a letter. Late in the day, Sister Dauphine and Horace left her alone so they could make a few purchases. She hoped to have an opportunity with the few customers who still lingered in the area.
“Sister,” a young voice called out. Viola looked up. Little Frederick ran up to her. “How are you this day, Sister?”
Viola looked for Dauphine and Horace. “I am doing well. How have you fared, Frederick?”
“Better now, sister. I received a letter from my cousin. I have been at market for weeks in search of you.”
Viola’s heart raced. Smart boy, Viola thought. He understood secrecy and hadn’t try to deliver the letter to the convent where it could have been confiscated. “What did he say?”
The boy unfolded a piece of parchment and handed it to her. “I do not know how to read. But my uncle read it to me.”
Maybe the boy wasn’t so smart after all. She glanced down at the parchment. Neat penmanship covered the page. His cousin exchanged pleasantries and stated he had delivered her letter to the newly appointed Bishop of Ross because he was unable to hand it directly to the Queen.
Newly appointed? She hadn’t heard of this appointment, or the fate of Henry Sinclair, the former Bishop of Ross. She thought that he was in Paris and had received the letter that Claire had sent.
Frederick turned around. “I am to show my uncle the merchant quarter. He promised me a knife.”
Viola looked behind Frederick. A large man wearing a sword at each hip and a dagger strapped to his thick, muscular thigh, approached. His small brown eyes darted around catching everything that was happening in the area. His large nose took up half his face and the curls of his dark hair touched his shoulders. Viola grimaced. His hair was longer than her own.
He gave a quick nod as he tipped his hat. “Sister.”
“This is my uncle. Loys de la Veue” The boy’s eyes sparkled with admiration.
Viola nodded, unsure what this stranger would bring. He did not appear to be a military man or a hunter... unless what he hunted didn’t fill a man’s dinner table.
Viola jumped. From the corner of her eye, she thought that she recognized a man standing near a merchant selling candles. But when he turned his head, she knew it wasn’t James, her half-brother. She’d forgotten that she’d seen him here the last time she helped at market. She wrung her hands. The last person she was ready to see was James.
“Are you well, Sister?” Frederick’s uncle asked.
“Yes. Of course.”
He turned toward the direction she had turned from. “You know this man?”
“No.” Viola answered too quickly, regretting the speed of her response.
Loys spoke quietly in Frederick’s ear. The boy glanced up, nodded, and followed the man as he walked away.
He crossed his arms. “You fear him?”
“No.” Viola shook her head and found her composure. “He is not the person I thought he was.”
Loys leaned forward. “Then, who is it you fear? Has he wronged you in some way?”
Viola crossed her arms. “You presume too much.”
“I presume there is a man and he has harmed you in some way.”
Viola slammed a basket on the table and leaned forward. “Of course he has wronged me! He is the reason I am here!”
“Your husband?”
“No. My brother.”
Loys reached for his sword. “If he has taken liberties with your person...”
Viola laughed. “Had he touched me, he would not be walking on this earth.” She lowered her voice. “Though I wish I could ring his scrawny little neck.”
“That could be arranged, for a price.”
Viola paused and glanced back at where she had first seen her brother, James. “Name your price.”
He crossed his arms again and gave a smirk. “Twenty-five sovereigns should suffice.”
“Twenty-five sovereigns?” Viola said slowly. “I could hire a peasant for less than five.”
“Oui, you could. But if you want it done right and not to lead back to you….”
“I agree to your terms.” Her mother’s jewels could be worth close to twenty-five sovereigns, though, of course, they had been returned to England when her father returned home. She could pay him once she found her way back.
“Those are not all of my terms. I expect half up front and the remaining when the deed is done.”
“Half? You could take my money and leave, never to be seen again.”
“Do you not know who I am?”
“Yes. You are Frederick’s uncle.”
“Apparently, my reputat
ion does not precede me. I am Loys de la Veue. One of the most honorable and cunning mercenaries you could hire. Tell me the name of this man, your brother.”
“James Bryant.”
Viola saw Sister Dauphine and Horace, his arms filled with goods, slowly making their way back to the wagon. Loys followed her eyes.
“Describe him.”
Viola thought, “I...” Her mind reeled, watching Horace and Dauphine approach.
Loys whispered. “I will meet you here next week. I will find what I can, and when I see you again, have your description ready.” He turned to Sister Dauphine and nodded. “Sister.”
Dauphine set her purchase in the back of the wagon. “What did he want.”
Viola watched Loys walk away. “He inquired if I had seen someone he is searching for.”
“You best not speak with that man. He is nothing but trouble.”
Trouble indeed, Viola thought to herself. With his assistance, she would finally achieve the revenge she had sought for so long. The demise of her brother.
* * *
For the next few days, Viola thought long and hard about how she would describe her brother to Loys. She wrote out descriptions, attempted to draw his likeness, —to no avail. She could sing, manage a household, even now, scrub a floor. But the words she wrote fell flat on the page. It sounded like any other man fitting James’s description. She needed more if Loys were to succeed in her quest.
The bells tolled for compline. After prayer, she would work on it again before she retired for the night. Maybe with rest, her mind would find the exact words that she sought.
Viola found her place near Anne and bowed her head as the priest watched the women filter into the chapel. She sent up a silent prayer asking God for the insight and the ability. Just then, Viola heard a crash at the front of the altar. Sister Mary dashed in from the stairwell and bumped into a candeltreow. She barely caught it before it fell to the ground.
The room gasped. Viola lifted her eyes in thanks for the answer to her prayer.
The next morning after prayer, Viola waited for the others to leave. No one paid her any mind. She had after all, made her lingering in the chapel a common practice. Instead of exiting out the front door, Viola found her way up the stairs to the bell tower where Sister Mary sat in front of a half-painted piece of canvas, staring at it with a blank expression.
“Your work is beautiful.” Viola broke the silence.
Mary shook her head, her face red. “I only wish to serve Him.”
Viola sat down on the floor. “I understand you are able to bring life to an image in another’s mind.”
Her eyes brightened at the compliment. “Yes, on occasion. Do you wish to submit a drawing for a tapestry?”
“I may. But I dearly miss my brother. Do have the ability to draw out his face so I may see him one last time?”
“Of course.” Mary stood and went to a small table in the corner of the room. “Close your eyes and bring his likeness to your mind.”
Viola did as she was told. She remembered her brother, the details of his face, the last time she had seen him before he vanished from England.
“Tell me what he looks like.”
“Dark hair. Full lips, dark eyes.” She had the same issue describing his looks. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Without her explanation, Mary couldn’t reproduce his image.
Viola opened one eye. Mary was drawing with a charcoal stick. She glanced at Viola, then back to the parchment. Intrigued, Viola made her way over and looked at the drawing. She had an outline of a face and ovals for eyes.
“The eyes, a bit closer.” Mary took a bit of cloth and wiped the charcoal away. Then brought the eyes closer. “His jaw, stronger.” With a few strokes of the charcoal stick, Mary did as she was instructed.
The minutes trickled by. Mary kept a keen eye on the hourglass and turned it when the sands emptied. Viola watched as Mary brought the image to life, giving direction as best she could.
Suddenly, Mary jumped up. “’Tis almost time.”
Time for what? Viola thought to herself. Mary dashed over to the hourglass and watched as the last of the sand fell to the bottom. Quickly, she turned it and grabbed ahold of the ropes. With all her might, Mary pulled, and the bells tolled overhead. Viola was surprised that this small girl could muster the strength to pull on the ropes. After twelve chimes, Mary held the rope steady.
“I believe I have all that is required. I will come to you when it has been completed.” Mary smiled. “Come now. It is time for prayer, then refreshment.” They reached the chapel before the others filtered in.
On her way to the dining room for the midday meal, the abbess stopped her near the doorway. “Novice Viola.”
Viola nodded. “Mother Superior.”
“It has come to my attention that you missed your lesson this day.”
“Yes, Mother Superior.”
“Where were you?”
“In the chapel.”
The abbess sighed. “Next time, inform me of your doings. Otherwise the others will believe you are skirting your duties rather than praying.”
“Of course, Mother Superior.”
The abbess nodded. Viola followed her into the room. Sister Collette sat in her usual place next to Sister Dauphine. Collette was no longer ill, which meant that Viola’s services would no longer be required at market. And if she couldn’t make it to market….
Her scheme to remove her brother from this world was dissolving at an astonishing rate. No. She would not let this happen. Viola glanced across the room and a smile crept upon her face when she spotted Sister Lucia. She’d managed it once, with Alexander’s brother, George. But she didn’t need such a strong potion. Only enough to make Collette ill.
She sat down at the table and a lay servant set a bowl of cabbage soup in front of her. Her smile widened.
Viola sat on the straw mattress and brushed her hair, readying herself for bed. How she missed the long locks that fell down her back. She pondered the letter Frederick had received from his cousin. Henry Sinclair was no longer the Bishop of Ross. She didn’t know if she could trust the new bishop or if the Queen remembered her. Surely, she did. After all, Viola had sent her many letters proclaiming her devotion.
A knock at the door drew her from her thoughts. Sister Mary stood on the other side. She smiled and handed Viola a rolled piece of parchment. She whispered, “My heart aches for your loss. I pray this will mend your heart.”
“My thanks,” Viola whispered, then closed the door.
She unrolled the parchment and caught her breath. True to her word, Mary had indeed finished the drawing of James. It was drawn in ink rather than the charcoal Mary first used and it was perfect. It would be her father’s heart aching when he discovered his beloved son’s death. Then, at least two of the people who had betrayed her would have what was due to them.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After lecture with the mistress of the novices, Viola found her way down to the infirmary. Lucia was on her knees with a bucket next to her. Viola remembered her time scrubbing the floor with Claire. She wondered why Lucia was doing such a menial task when her time was better spent creating potions and healing the sick. After all, wasn’t that duty for the lay servants or to be used as a penitence?
Lucia stood up. “Novice Viola. What brings you down here this day?”
Viola touched her temple. “My head pains me. Would you have a remedy?”
“Of course.” Lucia wiped her hands on a cloth and stepped over to one of the many tables filled with small glass bottles. “I believe I may have something that will work.”
Viola scooted over to one of the tables and peered at its contents. She picked up a random bottle and examined it. “Would this work?”
Lucia glanced up. “No. That is ginger root, used to calm the stomach.”
Viola set the bottle down. Calming was not what she needed. “What about this?”
“That would be lavender. I am searching for white
willow bark. I am certain I set it here.”
“How do you keep the contents of these bottles straight?”
“Under normal circumstance it is not difficult. But the lay servant I was assigned has disappeared and I have yet to acquire and train another assistant.”
That explained why Sister Lucia was scrubbing the floor.
Lucia lifted a bottle. “This is tilleul and this is elderberry. Ah. Here it is.” She lifted another bottle and handed Viola a small piece of bark. “Chew on it for a time. It will cure what ails you.”
Viola set the bark on her tongue and stepped back, knocking over the bucket of water. “Oh my. My apologies, Sister Lucia. Let me assist you.”
Lucia knelt down and began to mop up the water. “All is well. ’Tis my fault for not moving it aside. How do you feel? Better?”
“Yes.” She glanced back at the table. She didn’t know exactly what she was searching for. When Lucia looked down, Viola grabbed a bottle and slipped it in her sleeve. “Are you certain you do not need assistance?”
“Go on. Everyone is expected to assist in the gardens. You do not want to be late.”
With a quick step, Viola left the infirmary and ascended the staircase. She glanced around to ensure that she was alone. She uncorked the bottle and lifted it to her nose—dried rose. She slammed the cork on the bottle and gripped it tightly. Rose would not be an adequate substance to make Collette ill. If she only knew what to search for. She should have asked more questions. She stomped up the staircase and almost bumped into Isabella.
Isabella looked down her nose at Viola. “Should you not be in the gardens, Novice Viola? Or do you wish to spend your days in the kitchens?”
Viola tipped her chin.
“There you are.”
Viola turned. It was Sister Anne.
“What ails you my dear?” Anne squeezed Viola’s forearm.
“I am afraid my head ached. Luica gave me a piece of white willow bark.”
Anne tucked Viola’s hand in the crook of her arm. “Come. We have work to do.”
Isabella pursed her lips. Viola smiled and walked down the corridor with Anne.
A Perilous Beginning (The Pearl Heirloom Collection Book 4) Page 7