But the greatest revelations were the letters from the many powerful figures who had heard of her reputation and written her for advice. Though the archbishop’s letter was phrased in all sorts of complicated religious language, the ridiculous gist was that he was constantly being invited to this or that nobleman’s banquet and eating to excess, and he wanted to know what he should do.
The noblewoman wrote to complain at nauseating length about her quarrels with her husband.
The wealthy merchant very directly posed the question of exactly how much he would need to give to the poor in order to assure his own entrance into heaven.
Katerina replied seriously and conscientiously to every letter she received, and some of her drafts remained. However, in between her replies to these absurd questions were written short sentences, apparently to herself. Are these trials God has sent to test me? she wondered. They wrung distress from this nun, who was only trying to deepen her faith.
It seemed that the process for canonization had taken place entirely outside of Katerina’s participation. She had written many times attempting to decline, but the letters that came back only showed growing support and that sainthood was close.
As Lawrence committed to memory the names and doings of the many powerful people in the letters, he felt progressively worse and worse.
It was written in the diary that a representative of the village had come to her one day and, having explained the circumstances to her, asked for permission to begin calling her a witch.
Katerina had sympathized with the villagers and had agreed, as long as she would be the only one to suffer the consequences. Just as Fran had said, she had lamented the weakness of humans, writing in a tangled and distraught hand.
And then suddenly, the diary became much more diary-like. She wrote of the changing seasons, of her dogs, and later their puppies. When she had to hunt birds, she asked God’s forgiveness for doing so. So her diary went.
Meanwhile, letters from nobles continued to come, but no evidence remained of her replies. She had even ceased to write about the condition of the villagers.
Lawrence wondered if she had freed herself of their burdens, realizing that her own faith could not change them, nor could it change the world.
Toward the end, her diary seemed filled with pleasant, joyful things. Lawrence slowly closed it. It was beginning to grow dim outside, and the sun would soon set.
He added a log to the hearth and went past the skin partition into the back room. Holo wanted to check the bookshelves for anything else that might be of use, but upon reaching the room, Holo opened a wooden window there and gazed out of it.
Katerina seemed to be sitting in the chair, and for a moment it seemed that she and Holo were looking out the window together.
“I can see the falls,” Holo murmured. “’Tis a good view.”
Drawn over by her words, Lawrence stood behind Holo and looked out the window. He could indeed see the waterfall past the trees. Looking opposite the waterfall, there was a small space that seemed to have been plucked free of underbrush and was covered in a layer of snow.
It wasn’t hard to imagine it being a flower garden, perhaps.
“She might have just sat down here and closed her eyes for an afternoon nap,” said Holo, and she poked Katerina’s head very lightly.
One might reasonably conclude from her diary that she had indeed had such a lovely last moment. Lawrence smiled a sad smile, and Holo put her hand to the window. “The wind’s gotten cold,” she said and closed it tight.
Holo wasn’t usually the type to close a window. Perhaps she was scared of continuing their conversation here.
Any conversation carried out in the presence of a body, no matter how happy the memories it might be regarding, would always end up sadly – all the more when the person in question, who had been called a nun, a saint, and both in life and death, was at the mercy of the whims of others.
Once she had closed the window, Holo returned to the room with the hearth. Lawrence followed, but could not help looking back over his shoulder once.
They might call the villagers or the landlord presumptuous, but he, too, was using Katerina’s sainthood for his own purposes. But he decided not to think about it and followed after Holo.
A merchant chased profit and only profit. He held that indulgence, that excuse in his heart.
Later, Fran and Col returned. Fran was unable to hide her surprise at finding Lawrence still in the cottage. She gasped a little at seeing the bloodstained book of scripture in Lawrence’s hand.
Fran looked at Col and then back to Lawrence.
In his hand was her past and the present that continued from that past.
Fran’s gaze dropped to the floor.
A merchant had to pursue profit at all times.
“You’ll be drawing that map for us, then.” Lawrence felt he could hear the sound of her fists clenching the fabric of her robe. “We have our own convictions, too, after all.”
Fran nodded, still looking down. A droplet of water fell to the floor. “… I understand. I promise.” She wiped the corner of her eyes and then looked up. “Thank you.”
Lawrence smiled, accepting Fran’s thanks, but his gaze was elsewhere.
The embers in the hearth collapsed, sending up a puff of sparks.
Lawrence’s eyes were directed outside the cottage. “It’s still a bit early for thank-yous.”
Fran, having been a chaplain, seemed to understand what he meant. She nodded again and asked him the question directly. “What do you plan to do?”
“As before, you’re a silversmith dispatched by the bishop, that should be fine. But as another goal, I’d like to add that we’re here to confirm particulars regarding the canonization.”
Fran seemed confused for a moment, but she was a clever girl. She soon realized Lawrence’s aim and slowly nodded.
“I’ve no intention of selling Katerina off. Instead, I’ll state that her canonization is ongoing, so that the landlord won’t give us any trouble.”
Fran nodded again and spoke more clearly this time. “Understood.” The sound of distant hoofbeats could be heard. Fran wiped her tears again, holding close the bloodstained scripture book she had taken from Lawrence. “Let us go, then.”
When she looked up, her face was firm and undaunted, the words she spoke worthy of the girl who had lived on the battlefield.
Chapter Six
Consider the term high horse.
The old knight was on a literal high horse as he looked down at Lawrence, backlit by torches.
“You’re the one they say came from Ruvinheigen?”
Had they decided to run, without Holo’s aid they would probably have been caught by these knights somewhere on the road to town. Behind the old knight was a contingent of soldiers mostly comprised of farmers from the area wearing hastily thrown-on leather armor. It would not have been a good idea to attempt to escape into the night with them in pursuit.
From that perspective, waiting in the cottage was the right choice. But it was still unclear whether things would go well or not.
Just as they had discussed, Holo and Col were still in the cottage, with only Lawrence and Fran venturing out.
“That’s right,” Lawrence replied, and the old knight turned to his soldiers and gestured with his chin.
He had introduced himself as the landlord appointed governor, so Lawrence thought he might produce a document proving as much.
But instead what was thrust at Lawrence was the point of a spear.
“You saw nothing and heard nothing here. Or else you never came at all.” If they did not understand his meaning, they did not value their own lives, he seemed to imply.
But if he had planned to kill them, he would not have bothered with a conversation. Lawrence calmly looked up at the governor.
“What’s your answer?” The governor’s tone did not waver. If they did as ordered, perhaps they would be allowed to leave. And whatever Lawrence and company migh
t tell the Church after that, it would be after the fact. It would not be hard to keep their heads in the sand.
But if they defied the order…
They were in a forest. No one would answer their cries for help.
It did not take a clever merchant to arrive at the obvious course of action.
And yet this is how Lawrence answered.
“We have been sent by the bishop in order to render the legend of the angel in silverwork.”
The governor’s right eyelid twitched. “And you may tell them you failed in your goal. Ruvinheigen is very far from here. No one will doubt you.”
“Yes, that is quite true.”
The high-handed governor seemed visibly relieved, even from the ground. Kings and emperors who had built their nations had often themselves been the lords of small, meager lands. They had risen through the ranks, coming to control the other lords in their area through their sheer capacity as people.
If so, this acting was probably the most this governor was capable of.
“However, that was not our only purpose.”
Lawrence could hear the governor draw a sharp breath.
“Do you know who the saint that lies in the cottage behind me is?”
“Saint…?” the governor replied dubiously.
Lawrence continued, “Her name is Katerina Lucci. She earned the trust of many a noble, and her application for canonization has been submitted to the pontiff in the far south. She is a genuine and true saint.”
“…”
Such a mixture of surprise and doubt would render anyone expressionless.
The governor’s eyes regarded him, full of worry.
“We’ve been sent to investigate as part of the canonization process. After all, she was a woman who hated appearing in front of others. For a long time her whereabouts were unknown, but she was finally located, so…”
If this lie was true, nothing would come of silencing Lawrence and his companions now. If the governor or the landlord harmed them, they would be harming their future selves as well.
“However, the honored sister has passed peacefully away. There are many who without a title would treat even God as a cur, a beast, but I know the landlord here understands the way of things. I shall be sure to make note of that in my report. And incidentally…” Lawrence looked the governor evenly in the eyes. “I presume that you will need to consult with your honored lord?”
As though struck by a magic spell that caused time to begin moving again, the governor returned to his senses. He wiped sweat from his brow. His mouth twitched, probably out of his efforts to maintain his facade of authority.
But before words of anger could leave his mouth, a voice sounded from behind him.
“It certainly seems that way.”
The old knight looked back over his shoulder as though pulled.
In the center of the hastily assembled troop of farmers turned soldiers were a few proper fighters, and from among them emerged a single man.
He was slender and middle-aged, to whom a high, shrill voice would seem appropriate.
Yet he did have an undeniable aura of command, and it seemed entirely fitting for the governor to dismount from his horse and come to his master’s side, though the lord dismissed him.
He approached Lawrence alone, perhaps disliking being petitioned indirectly.
“I am Kirchner Linguid.”
Lawrence had not expected the man to introduce himself. Apparently he had no intention of immediately calling Lawrence’s claims into question.
Lawrence started to take a knee in a bow, but Linguid stopped him with a hand.
“I am Kraft Lawrence of the Rowen Trade Guild,” he said, standing.
“Mm.” Linguid nodded, and after heaving a heavy sigh, he continued, “I’ll put it to you straight, then. Do you have any proof to support your claims?”
For a lord to dismount and say such a thing immediately proved his hesitation. All the more so given the tough words spoken with a tough attitude.
Lawrence realized that he was a small player in a tight position, just trying to stay alive.
“What might I bring forth as evidence?” Lawrence asked, and for a moment, Linguid was at a loss for words.
He opened his mouth as though angry, either because he thought he was being mocked or simply because of what Lawrence had asked.
“I have heard nothing of this supposed canonization. Something so important should certainly have reached my ears. So speak. Have you proof?”
When a timid man’s face went red from anger, you could be certain the rage in his heart had been sparked.
But there was no need to further wound his pride, so Lawrence quickly replied, “This involves many people in various positions. Someone like me isn’t provided material proof. But if I might propose an alternative, I could list some of the names of the nobles who’ve charged me with this duty.”
The world of the nobility was a small one, and Lawrence had heard that they all had a good understanding of who was connected to whom. Especially in a region with both Church and pagan inhabitants, where continued existence could only be ensured by constant groveling, Linguid would be well aware of such things.
Lawrence cleared his throat, opened Katerina’s diary in his mind’s eye, and spoke.
“Baron Lans of Rien. Sir Marth of Dorenne. Marquis Ivendott of Singhilt. Archbishop Corselio of the Lamann Archdiocese.”
Lawrence paused for a moment and watched Linguid’s reaction. He seemed to recognize some of the names and stood there mutely. Lawrence continued.
“There’s Sirs Dune and Maraffe, and Countess Roez from the Linz duchy. And in Ploania…”
Lawrence was preparing to continue, but Linguid stopped him with a hand.
His face was pale with fright.
Lawrence had only listed the names located in the north of Ploania. As someone who had had to deal with the religious conflicts in the area, they would have been names Linguid was familiar with.
And there was one more important thing.
All these nobles had been involved in an important affair regarding his own lands, and yet he had known nothing. It suggested the possibility that he was seen as a pagan power, an enemy of the Church.
If this Lawrence truly had come to confirm a canonization, then doubting the man’s word was too dangerous for someone in Linguid’s position to risk. It was all he could do to go along with it.
“F-fine, I understand. So… what must I do?”
It would have been a lie to say Lawrence did not feel some pity for the terrified lord, but past that he felt only anger. Merchants were said to be the least scrupulous people in the world, but even as a merchant he found Linguid pathetic.
Lawrence had hoped a landlord would have had a bit more pride, but he did not let the thought show on his face. He merely smiled. “Please, do not worry. You weren’t consulted regarding the canonization simply because this region is a complicated one. I understand that you’ve had trouble governing it.”
Linguid was probably twice Lawrence’s age, but he nodded like a child. Perhaps he had been born in the wrong place.
“But as you can see, the cottage has been beautifully kept. It’s clear to me that you, my lord, are a faithful and pious man. I am sure that when they hear of this, those responsible for managing this matter will be relieved to hear it.”
“Th-that’s right. I imagine so.” He smiled a simpering smile.
Next to Lawrence, Fran made no reaction, either because she simply had that much self-control or else she had seen enough bloodshed on the battlefield and would invite no more.
“But this process being what it is, it must proceed in secret. Can I have your word that you will keep this quiet while the canonization proceeds?”
“… But that’s…”
“There are many, many obstacles,” said Lawrence, which Linguid gulped at and nodded.
The plan had succeeded.
Once Holo emerged to make doubly sure, none o
f these men would even think of approaching the forest or the lake.
Lawrence was about to speak the words he had agreed upon with Holo ahead of time. But just then–
“That’s her!” called out a voice at this most inopportune moment.
Linguid whirled around, and Lawrence, too, searched for the source of the voice.
What met his gaze was a single soldier carrying a spear. He wore a battered iron helmet and breastplate and was obviously an experienced fighter.
The man took three steps forward. “That’s her! That’s her!” he said.
Lawrence thought he heard Fran hold her breath.
“What do you mean, ‘That’s her?’”
“That’s her, boss!”
Regardless of how weak a ruler Linguid was, no retainer would dare call him “boss.” This man had to be a paid mercenary.
He spat on the snow as he looked at them with dubious eyes. Or more accurately, he looked at Fran.
“It’s just as the villagers said!”
“The villagers?” said Linguid, looking doubtfully back at Lawrence and Fran. His eyes seemed to apologize for the rudeness of his hireling, but Lawrence made a reassuring gesture.
“Aye, the villagers were talking about a dark-skinned silversmith, and that’s got to be her!”
It seemed that Linguid went stiff, but that was probably a mistake. Because it was Lawrence who froze, and in doing so, his vision shook.
“T-tell me, then! What do you know?”
At Linguid’s words the man spat again and smiled a thin smile. “I know there’s nothing so absurd as the idea that these two are from the Church.”
Linguid turned back to Lawrence and Fran, openly looking at one, then the other. He was not trying to gauge their mood, but rather their reactions.
“Don’t let ’em lie to you, boss! That tanned silversmith is named Fran Vonely, the black priestess of the Scarlet Hawk mercenary band!”
The man advanced without hesitation. He pointed the iron-tipped, battle-worn spear directly at Fran. “She was the chaplain of the Kirjavainen mercenary troop, which made a bit of a name for itself in Ploania. My own band’s got them to thank for quite a bit. They got my friend of twenty years in Kardin Gorge.”
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