“Your Serene Highness,” the monk said, “I am honored to deliver to you the bull of annulment, signed by his grace the Archbishop at Nuestra Senora de los Angeles.” With a bow, he handed it over to Joe, who unfastened the leather strings.
The thick paper was not as heavily decorated as his certificate of citizenship, but that was not important. What was important was that as Joe translated for her, his words dissolved the thing that had become most precious to her in all the world.
Know all by the law of the Most High and the will of His Holy Church and its representative on the earth, Carlos Felipe, Viceroy of the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias, Defender of the True Faith, and General of the Armies of Heaven, that the marriage contracted by Gloria Diana Meriwether-Astor of Philadelphia and Stanford Fremont the Third of Santa Croce parish in this the Royal Kingdom of Spain and the Californias on the twenty-seventh day of February, 1895, is declared null and void for reasons of nonconsummation.
Let it stand as a witness that these persons have contravened the commandments of God to be fruitful and multiply, and are hereby deprived of the benefits of the sacrament of marriage and their vows rendered silent forevermore.
Signed this day in the presence of God and his servants, by the Archbishop of the Mission of Our Lady of the Angels.
Goodness. It took almost as many words to unmake a marriage as it did to create it. But in one thing at least it was utterly wrong. Their vows rendered silent forevermore. That was simply impossible. No matter what words she might be required to recite to Joe in the pursuit of her mission, her vows to Stanford were written on her heart, and they would never be silent as long as she was alive to remember them.
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Joe said, folding up the document and setting it aside. “I am both humbled and heartened by the church’s support in this matter.”
The monk inclined his tonsured head. “Your Serene Highness’s wish to take this lady in marriage is worthy and good. His grace the archbishop, however, wishes to caution you against hasty decisions while you are unwell. Perhaps an engagement of some months may allow you to regain your health?”
“Perhaps it might, but … when you speak of decisions, what do you mean?”
“It is understandable that when you return to San Francisco de Asis and take up the reins of government, there will be many decisions which can be made by you alone.”
“Of course. And I will make them with the support, encouragement, and advice of my bride-to-be.”
The man’s gaze flickered to Gloria and back again. “It might be wise to give the people a little time to absorb the happy news, sire. They are distracted by the preparations for war, and while a royal engagement will lift the spirits of even the most hardened soldier, we must remember that the kingdom comes first, and further changes may be best left to the future.”
“I appreciate your advice.” Joe inclined his own head graciously. “However, it is my firm belief that one or two changes of an economic nature can only benefit the kingdom, especially one on the brink of war. We will make the formal announcement of our engagement tomorrow, if that is convenient for your household, sir?”
Thus addressed, Ignatio de la Carrera flushed with pleasure. “I can think of nothing more convenient, sir. The rancho will be roaring with joy.”
Joe looked a little pained at the thought, and touched his forehead with his napkin. “Once we have announced our engagement, then, the next announcement will be that the skies shall be opened to airships.”
“Sire!” The monk stepped back, as though Old Scratch himself had risen up through the floorboards. “That is blasphemy!” He closed his eyes and began to whisper what Gloria could only assume was a prayer for his prince.
“I am the Defender of the True Faith, Your Excellency. It is not likely that I would commit that sin. No, it is time that my kingdom came into the nineteenth century, with every mode of transport available to assist in the betterment of its citizens’ lives. I will dictate my wishes to all the missions, if you will be so good as to send men with them.”
“Your Serene Highness, I must protest! This goes against every tenet of our faith!”
“Not every tenet,” Joe said gently. “Holy Writ cautions us not to fly in the face of God. It is only man, with his faults and poor understanding, who has translated this to mean we should not have airships. Nothing in the word of God forbids it, and—” He paused until the monk opened his eyes, clearly fearing the worst. “And I am under no obligation to obey the commandments of men. Only of the God I serve.”
Gloria barely kept herself from staring at him in astonishment. Where had a rough-and-tumble man, the son of a witch, learned such things about Holy Writ? She must ask him at the first opportunity, for clearly there were depths to her faux fiancé that she had not appreciated before.
Certainly the bishop did not appreciate them in the least. “It is impossible,” he said flatly.
“With God, all things are possible,” Ignatio de la Carrera found his voice long enough to reply.
Joe beamed. “Exactly. That is the point of learning, is it not? To correct the old and misunderstood, and apprehend the new?” His gaze settled on the bishop, and Gloria felt the tension thicken in the air. “It is important to me that the holy brothers are in agreement with me.”
“You will find it an uphill battle,” the monk said bluntly. “This is too much—too sudden—it must be studied, discussed, a Council held—”
“It must be obeyed,” Joe said quietly. “What I ask of the missions is little enough. An engagement. A few airships. I am not advocating witchcraft, you know.”
The monk swallowed his horror that such a word had even been introduced into the conversation. “I—I did not say you were, sire.”
“The wisdom of the holy brothers has been my mainstay since I took the throne. But if some prove themselves wiser than others, it is not inconceivable that they should be elevated to positions of greater authority. Do you not agree?”
The monk stared at him. Joe’s gaze did not falter. Gloria and de la Carrera did not dare move. Or breathe.
At last the monk’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and Gloria dared to draw a breath. “Your Serene Highness is the anointed of God, both by blood and by revelation,” he said at last. “I will consult with the monks here, and send the messages expressing your wishes. But sire, I beg that you prepare yourself for the reluctance of those … less visionary.”
“I shall,” Joe assured him. “Your loyalty is a gift from God, and deeply appreciated.”
Gloria had no doubt that a generous donation to the church would be forthcoming, and possibly a promotion to a mission more prosperous and influential even than this one. But it was a low price to pay to make the bishop of San Luis Obispo de Tolosa the narrow edge of the wedge.
For once their plans were under way in truth, airships would be the least of the country’s concerns.
Chapter 8
The last time Evan had been in the river crossing of Santa Croce, he had been operating the behemoth in the firm belief that his pursuit of Gloria would soon find her, if not well, then at least alive. Now, here he was in the company of her husband and the Viceroy, who could be said to be alive, if not well.
He was breathing. That was something.
The boy who looked so much like Joe had slept all the way across the country, though Evan suspected it was not true sleep at all, but a state of semi-consciousness that was frightening in itself, since he murmured and flinched as though he were seeing terrible visions. With every mile the train progressed away from the coast and its chain of missions, Evan gave thanks on one hand and prayed on the other that it would go faster—faster.
“Come,” Captain Fremont said as the train finally rocked to a standstill at the station. “This is just a whistle stop. We do not have much time. Riley, we must leave the bags to you.”
Fortunately, they did not have much in the way of luggage. One canvas holdall contained all their effects, le
aving both Evan and the captain free to manage the Viceroy on and off the trains and into seats next to a window, where he could slump against the isinglass and give a fair impression of a man asleep.
“There is the Queen,” the captain said with visible relief. “They got our message. A more welcome sight I could never hope to see, save that of my wife with my ring on her finger once again.”
Evan had to agree that the sight of Gloria and Joe safe and well was nearly all he could ask for in this life, too, except perhaps another glimpse of Isabela.
“I dunno why we’re putting up with him,” Riley grumbled. “If it was me, you’d have left me in San Luis to sleep it off.”
“If it was you, you’re right,” the captain said cheerfully, his shoulder under that of the Viceroy. With Evan on the boy’s other side, they walked him through town toward the moorage on the river. “But Joe is ill, not drunk, and he’s too valuable to Evan here to leave him lying about like unclaimed luggage.”
“It’s not catching, is it?”
“Not at all,” Evan assured the man. “He suffers from an affliction of the brain, with results similar to being struck on the head. That is why he cannot wake up.”
Satisfied that his own brain was in no danger of catching something nasty, Riley bounded up the gangplank and into the small crowd of the riverboat’s crew, who were waiting at the rail.
“Welcome back, Captain!” a man called from the wheelhouse, having already begun the ignition sequence for the great steam engines in the rear. “We’ll have her under way in a jiffy.”
“The faster, the better,” the captain called back. “We’ve got a sick man here who needs Clara’s care without delay.”
The captain guided Evan and the Viceroy into a cabin at the stern, and with no little effort, they got him laid out in the bunk tucked into its snug cabinet. “Is there anything else we can do for him?” The captain was breathing as heavily as Evan himself, with the effort of having hefted someone the length of a country over two days.
“I do not think so,” Evan said. “I believe the best thing for him is to rest undisturbed.”
“He won’t have any trouble with that. Come. I have an itch to take my own wheel again and pretend that I have some control over something.”
Under the captain’s experienced hand, the riverboat pulled away from the dock and was soon churning its way upriver. The banks turned to walls, which soon turned to cliffs. Had Evan guided the behemoth through that twenty-foot pool there, or gone ashore at that grassy inlet where a fall of rock had formed a meadow over the centuries? Had that been where he had sat and rested, while a boat that might even have been this one passed him without his realizing what it was?
For the river was considerably deeper. Then, Evan had been able to walk in the middle of it for some miles, but now he doubted it would be possible for even five. How were the witches’ villages constructed, and where were they located that they were in such imminent danger of being flooded?
An hour before sunset, he had his answer. With a shout, someone in the crew waved at something overhead. In a massive hollow that had been weathered out of the cliff nestled a village like a toy in a child’s hand. Evan gazed upward, astonished, at the series of stone houses and towers, from one of the windows of which fluttered a red cloth.
The riverman must have a sweetheart there.
But they did not stop. On the contrary, the engines worked mightily against the stronger current, the great bronze and iron wheels in the stern turning and meshing and heaving them through the water at a pace faster even than a steambus on a straight road.
They passed under an arch of red rock, rounded a point, and Evan caught at the rail as the captain pulled back on the four acceleration levers and cut the engines. They coasted past what was clearly a quay, or a series of them, one holding nothing more than a tubular metal tank bobbing in the wake of their passing. Then, with the skill of a dancer turning his partner on the ballroom floor, the captain brought the riverboat about in midstream and nosed it up to the quay facing downstream, as neatly as you please.
Already there were people streaming out of the doors and hopping over the low stone walls of the village, which tumbled from its original hollow in the cliff down a slope to end in a series of terraces and sunning decks, much in the style of a Greek village Evan had once seen an etching of in a magazine. With a tingling sense of shock, he realized that these were not people—they were skeletons—no—impossible. Skeletons could not move with such grace and speed, nor snatch up their ruffled skirts in order to run.
Las brujas.
Evan let out the breath he was holding. At last, he was seeing the legendary witches of the river canyons with his own eyes. Women who struck terror into the hearts of the Californio soldiers, though the latter would be the first to laugh with false bravado and say, “They are just women, the dregs of society.”
They did not look like dregs. They looked positively terrifying.
And now the excited, streaming crowd parted to allow two women to descend the stone steps of the terrace closest to the water. One was tall and majestic, with the figure of a woman of some years and experience, an embroidered silk shawl over her shoulders and wrapped around her waist. The other was perhaps a head shorter and several pounds rounder, but no less the recipient of respect. Both wore crowns of red roses—and with a second shock, Evan realized where he had seen flowers arranged in that manner before.
At the ball at the rancho. Both Gloria and Ella had worn roses just like this. Did that mean they were witches, too? Why had they not told him?
But there was no time for questions. He jogged down the corridor to the captain’s cabin to find the Viceroy exactly as he had left him, twitching and moaning. Captain Fremont came in and leaned over him, his face grave. “Let us get him ashore as quickly as we can. And do not forget to call him Joe.”
“That should not be difficult. Every time I see him I think it is Joe.”
“Good. There is time enough once he is recovered to allow a very few to know who he really is.”
“Agreed.”
They got the limp form upright between them, their shoulders taking his weight. The most difficult bit to manage was the gangway, where the captain went down first, being the taller man. The Viceroy’s dragging toes had barely made landfall when Clara gasped and ran to intercept them.
“Who—who is this? Is it—? Can it be my—?”
Smoothly, the captain said, “This is Joe, your boy, Clara, come back to you after all these many months of imprisonment. He needs your skill immediately.”
“What is wrong with—him?” Clara had turned white, her fingers cupping Joe’s chin as she tried to pry open one eye. “Captain, please! What has happened?”
“He has been poisoned, ma’am,” Evan told her. “Tincture of ergot. Can you help him?”
“Help—! Santa Maria and all her holy angels, there is nothing I would not do for my own—son! Come quickly. Bring him to my stillroom. We have no time to lose.”
When he had deposited Joe’s limp body on the cot in the neat chamber, Evan stretched his back and looked about himself. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bottles of liquids—yellow, green, brown, and red—and boxes and small bags that must contain seeds, bark, and powders. The ceiling beams had been made from individual logs, and from them hung bunches of herbs and the garlands of dried red chile peppers the Californios called ristras.
As Clara hurried from one shelf to another, she said over her shoulder, “And who are you, sir? How were you able to diagnose his poison?”
“My name is Evan Douglas, ma’am, and while I am a doctor by education, I have never practiced. Well, until I came out here, where it seems there is far more demand for cures of the body than cures of the mind.”
“This is a hard country for those who do not respect it. Evan Douglas, are you? The ways of the Mother are mysterious indeed. Hand me that jar of salve, there at the end of the second shelf.”
Evan fetc
hed it for her. “He purged himself at the beginning of our journey two days ago, and he has not eaten anything since.”
“I am not surprised. What do you know of ergot?”
Evan had been racking his brain over that very question since the moment Isabela had shown him the swollen grains back at the rancho. “I cannot remember much other than that it produces visions and stomach pain, and restlessness, all of which I have witnessed on the train. And constriction of the veins, if I am not mistaken. Some have been known to lose their limbs for lack of blood. Many die. Hence our urgency in reaching you instead of depending on the Californio apothecaries.”
“No one is going to die on my watch,” Clara said grimly. “Come. Our task is to restore the blood flow and to help him breathe. If you will prepare a tea of willow bark and ginger, I will apply this salve to his chest. You will find a kettle kept expressly for medical use in my kitchen next door. The steam engine that heats the village keeps it on a low boil constantly, for just such times as this.”
While she unbuttoned the Viceroy’s shirt, Evan loped out and found the kitchen. And then … for one stunned moment he forgot the urgency of his mission, and stared, unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
A woman in pants was bent over the boiler, clearly in the final stages of a repair. Or a theft. For she lifted a pipe bent in a double angle in the manner of David lifting the head of Goliath, while steam issued with a hiss from the aperture where it had been. “Aha! Got you. And no one will miss you, either, once I stick a bit of hose in there.”
Wrench in one hand and pipe in the other, she turned to meet Evan’s astounded gaze.
“Why, Evan! Where on earth did you spring from?” Alice Chalmers demanded. “Say, you ain’t going to tell anyone I’m taking this part, are you?”
Fields of Gold: A steampunk adventure novel (Magnificent Devices Book 12) Page 8
