by S G Dunster
“You are welcome,” he replied. “I almost envy you, you know.”
“Envy,” Thessaly laughed.
“Aye. Fresh to the arts, and learning. My father found it a pleasure to practice. I did not possess the talents he did. I do not come close to possessing the sorts of talents you have. I thought they’d faded from the world. But here you are, a sprout on a sterile field.” His eyes glittered oddly for a moment, and Thessaly saw the envy, saw the sadness.
She didn’t know how to answer.
“I’ll take you to the library after supper, and let you begin to look through all the old writings. It may be we can find some old enough that you could make use of them. Spells, channels of practice. From before the magicks were so regulated. I mean, of course, so divided in two.”
Thessaly nodded. She hoped. Oh, how she hoped. And she loved her godfather for bringing her that hope.
“I have one more thing I’d ask,” she said as they approached the morning room once more. “Henri . . . I’ve never visited my mother’s grave. Could you bring me sometime?”
He turned sharply, as if startled. Thessaly started, too. “What?” he asked.
“My . . . mother. I know she was not buried in the churchyard. I’ve . . . never been to her monument. Sometime, could you take me?”
“I apologize,” Henri said. He put a hand on his breast. “Of course, I will bring you, if you wish. Just . . . be prepared.”
“For what?”
Henri shook his head. “It’s a sorrowful thing, Thessaly. Sorrowful. Her monument. The place where finally she rests. People around here do not celebrate wytchery. I tried to get her the burial she deserved, but,” he shook his head, “even all the wealth in the world cannot convince a cleric. And in the end, unless I wanted a mob on my hands, I had to respect the wishes of the people I serve.”
Thessaly swallowed. “Of course, Henri. But still, I would visit her resting place.”
“Indeed. We shall make a visit, then, soon.” Henri gestured gracefully, and she passed him back into the morning room. “And now, we must focus our wits and sharpen our arguments. To battle.” He nodded slightly at Antonio, brow furrowed, expression dark as he poured over Moore’s pamphlet.
“Indeed,” Thessaly sighed.
Chapter 9
I
t turned out to be a debate both bloody and fiery, windy and peppered by a great many unsavory words.
Antonio did not want his daughter learning mathematics. He did not want Thessaly to learn the art of disputation. “Utter tripe!” he roared. “You ought to know better, Henri. If my daughter were to take up the subjects listed here, she’ll be so shrewish when Loredan comes back to take her to wife, she’ll cut glass with her beak!” Antonio stood, flinging the pamphlet back on the table. “No. This is not fit. I shall not—“
“Papa,” Thessaly said, standing as well. “You well know I can do as I choose.”
A long, tense pause, and it was as if the forces collected around them—temper, anger, and the truth of what Thessaly had just declared.
The gauntlet had been thrown. She was right, and all in the room knew it. If Thessaly desired, she could run off into the woods and live there forever. Make her way to wherever she wanted to be, with nothing to hold her back or hold her down. She was a powerful, destructive force, and nobody could force her into anything.
But she wanted her father’s blessing, his support and approval.
They stared at each other—dark, almond eyes sparking and rounder hazel blinking back a sheen of tears. Thessaly hated herself for it. It was a womanly thing, to cry in the face of conflict, and would only serve to push her father further into his set prejudices.
“I wish for maths,” she declared, straightening, putting force into her voice. “And rhetoric. And languages. And Papa, I shall learn the finer arts as well. I shall. No beak here.” She touched her face. “I promise.”
Thessaly heard Loredan stifle a laugh, and in that moment, wished him gone. This was not a conversation he needed to hear.
“You are my daughter. You do as I say.”
“I will do as I will,” Thessaly replied. The earthy floes trembled, squirmed against their bindings. “And if you will oblige me, my will, will include embroidery, music, French, and courtly niceties.”
“Speak your mind,” Antonio roared. “Continue, daughter, and see where it gets you.”
“Tonio,” Holystoan said.
Antonio quieted immediately in the face of Holystoan’s suddenly serious tone.
“She has a mind that needs to think, needs to learn. It seems to me the young Loredan does not mind this and, in fact, finds it diverting and pleasing.”
Loredan. Thessaly shivered, and tried not to look at him. This was humiliating. She felt like a cow at block.
Antonio let out his breath in a rude gust. “He says that now,” he gestured wildly in Loredan’s direction, “but when he’s debating the price of silk, and losing to a tongue sharp as a dirk—”
“He’s not you, Tonio. And Thessaly is not Thessalia.”
The words hit Thessaly in the gut near as hard as they seemed to hit her father. Her mother, a harridan? Her father had never said such. The few times she had brought him to speak of her mother, he had described her as genteel, sweet, all the graces combined in a perfect being. He’d held her up as an example of what Thessaly ought to be.
“There is no place in the Kernish wilderness to learn mathematics and disputations of philosophy,” Antonio sad a moment later, a note of triumph in his voice. “All the great universities are in the path of cannons, crossbows, and Vasam Scolpi.”
“There may be a place,” Henri said.
Loredan shifted in his seat. Thessaly glanced at him and found his face full of sympathy for her. Her heart slowed a bit and warmth filled her.
“Where, Henri?” Thessaly asked, trying to breathe deeper. “You hinted at such. What have you found?”
“Indeed, tell me of this scholarly haven you’ve found amongst the acres of ponies and sheep,” Antonio’s voice was sharp with sarcasm, but it held less of an edge. Perhaps a hint of hope as well.
Has the battle been won, then? Thessaly wondered. Her hopes soared in spite of her, bringing fire with them. “Vinculum,” she murmured, and folded her arms tight over her chest, watching Henri, waiting.
“It’s a place not far away, in fact. I could visit often, even every fortnight if it made you easy, Antonio. There is a Brigittine abbey on the northern coast, in a town called Minehead. I have holdings there—they bring ore to my coast. I know many of the chief citizens, and I have made endowments to the sisters and their brother priests of books and coin, as well as some land. They know me and respect those who are mine. There is a manor nearby, and a lady most refined and learned lives there who has high-born girls already in her tutelage. She is sought after locally for her skills in music and needlework. She has refined tastes and is a kind woman besides. She would be an excellent choice to teach Thessaly the finer arts of housewifery. It is the safest place possible, Tonio, and,” he glanced at Thessaly, “there is the possibility of all goals being met.”
Waintree, at least, was very interested. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “I assume there are some visitors of significance to this place as well, seeing as the lady is so well-thought of?”
“Indeed,” Holystoan said gravely. “Many visitors come to Dunne’s Tor for the pleasure of country sport, and great merchants stop to trade in woolens. DuCarne—that is the family—has also a share in the tin mines in town.”
“What of the sisters in this abbey you speak of?” Thessaly’s father asked, looking up finally. “I’ve heard of the Brigittines, but not much.”
“Learned, genteel. Rather strict,” he added, lifting a brow at Thessaly and Rosalie in turn. “But they have an impressive library, and can instruct in Latin, Greek, French, any language you will. They are learned in sums, and the priests who administer rites to the sisters are learned as well. One or
two had their degree at Oxford.”
Thessaly was caught. She watched her father. And she turned away so she couldn’t watch him. She wanted this. It seemed so perfect . . . almost too perfect. She gritted her teeth, kept her face and floes calm, and waited.
“It sounds lovely,” Rosalie burst out. “Papa, shall I go there?”
“Aye,” he said fervently. “You’ll be safe, and in the path of those who can make you comfortable in life. Thank you, sir,” he nodded at Holystoan. “You’ve answered a hard trouble.”
“Thessaly must come,” Rosalie said anxiously. “Or papa won’t let me—“
“She shall go,” Antonio grumbled. He gave Thessaly a dark, brooding look. “And I shall expect letters monthly. I do not want to hear you are neglecting music for mathematics.”
Thessaly continued to keep her face and body calm.
It was won, then.
“Aye,” she managed, but couldn’t keep a little of the relief from her voice. “It seems a satisfactory situation.”
“Loredan?” Antonio asked, turning sharply to face the man, still seated, listening quietly.
“I am for it,” Loredan said easily.
“Then what objection can I have? You’ll be the one joined to a mind full of all manner of unsuitable topics. I’m going to your tilting fields, Henri; I’ve a need of exercise.” He turned on his heel and left, his footsteps distinct enough that they could hear him all the way to the entrance.
“He shall be vexed at me a long while,” Holystoan observed when he had left.
Thessaly lifted her gaze to him. “Thank you, Henri,” she said. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“Nor I,” Loredan confessed, standing and stretching. He sent a smile Thessaly’s direction. “To be honest, I do not mind what Thessaly’s mind is filled with, only that she is happy.”
Thessaly felt a warmth blossom in her center.
Loredan approached her, then reached for her hand. She obliged, and as he kissed it, the warmth flamed and spread through her.
“I’m for the fields, too,” Loredan declared, this time to the room in general. “I’ll need to see how my skills match my future father-in-law’s.”
“Oh, Thessaly,” Rosalie sighed after he left, clasping her hands over her breast.
“Yes, he is a fine specimen,” Henri said. “I approve as well.”
“Find yourself one like that, my girl,” Waintree said, looking after the retreating figure as well, his face warm with admiration.
“It is a man like my godfather who is the true jewel,” Thessaly declared, letting her breath out fully and sinking into a chair. “Indeed, I feel as if I ought to pay you in gold and service the rest of my life.”
Something shifted in her godfather’s face—an odd blend of emotions that Thessaly couldn’t quite suss out. Finally, he nodded. “We’ll see after a few months with the Brigittines how much you thank me. They . . .” he hesitated, as if to search for words more delicate than those he was thinking. “They do not take themselves lightly.”
“Nor do I,” Thessaly declared.
“Well, you shall be well matched, then.”
They stayed at the manor a further few weeks as the ships underwent repairs and preparations for the long journey back around Africa’s horn and the Spice Islands. Antonio, Waintree, and Loredan prepared to leave while Thessaly and Rosalie prepared to stay, and Guzal packed up her small bundle of things as well.
They spent evenings in lighthearted companionship—cards, books, walks in the grounds, an occasional trip to town. Loredan grew more and more in Thessaly’s mind as a piece of life, always thoughtful. A bouquet of white sage. A new censer, inlaid in silver, that gleamed with subtle energy in her sights. A length of rough cloth “for slumming it when you get to the village,” as he put it, golden eyes gleaming with amusement. “Because you will. You’ll want to get out into fields and forests, love. I know you.”
“You do,” Thessaly replied, a bit of wonder in her voice. “Thank you.” She took the roll of cloth, and his hand, for a moment.
“I look forward to seeing how you bloom, my Thessaly.” His eyes grew dark and full of feeling, and he knelt over the hand, kissing it.
It was nearly time for the ships to leave. The cold season was coming close to an end. All around Taunton, farmers harrowed the dirt, turning over the thick matt of greenery that had begun to grow up as the sun warmed the fields, exposing the roots to the air so they would dry and keep the soil below from fallowing further. The markets were sparse; everyone was in a hurry to plant and ride the season to its fullest.
The Santo Miguel fleet’s holds were now all but empty. Antonio and Loredan had fat purses of gold and a few bales of fine-worked wool to take back to Venice before they started the long journey around the dark continent to take in more spices. Antonio was pushing past wisdom already, hovering over Thessaly as Holystoan made several trips to Minehead, the town of the Brigittine abbey, and made negotiations with the family DuCarne for the girls’ education.
Thessaly wanted a look at Holystoan’s library, but her time was taken up by being measured, fitted, and some last English lessons with Cerdic—intense ones now, as this would be the language she would speak for the next several years. Also, she was sad she did not have a chance to ask again about her mother’s grave, but Henri did not bring it up, and it seemed he was forever rushing to and fro—Minehead to Taunton, making arrangements, and as these arrangements were for Thessaly, she didn’t feel she could ask for more attention.
When finally it was time to get aboard ship and ride around the coast into the bay of Bristol, Thessaly’s nerves rose. Rosalie was nearly impossible with glee, anticipation, and delight. She talked without ceasing to anyone who would listen, and Thessaly, Guzal, Waintree, Loredan, Henri, and even her father had their share of listening to her go on about her hopes for meeting “nice people,” “fine ladies,” and, she often confided to Thessaly, well-apportioned men of a young age, a pleasing figure, and temperament.
“Princes ought to pay coin to look upon your sweetness,” Henri declared gallantly. “I’m certain there will be worthies plying you for favors, and many a joust fought over your beauty.”
Thessaly wasn’t so sure. She hoped Rosalie’s dreams would not be dashed at the first man who took liberty of groping her breast. The girl was not titled, only rich. And she was so sweet and artless, she’d make easy prey for men seeking only pleasure. Joao’s court, and the Sforza’s, had underlined to her exactly how much a game it was, courtship, among the nobility.
Rosalie was no player.
Thessaly, herself, was incredibly fortunate to have Loredan. She wished there were another Loredan for Rosalie. In the meantime, she’d have to take good care of her friend.
She sighed, looking over the mountains of fabric her father had bought to see her through the months, years—who knew how long—away from the great cities. She did not care so much, but knew that feathers were also flags, coats of arms indicating to those who cared for the material worth and station of the person who wore them.
Perhaps the DuCarnes were a more rustic family than her father hoped—given to letting fashion slide in favor of comfort and amusement. Who needed a dozen pairs of slashed sleeves in the wilds of Kernow? Loredan had her to rights. And from what her godfather had told her already there were a lot of forests, a lot of ponies, a lot of sheep. A tin mine, an abbey, a small street of shops, a wool-trading market, and the motte-and-bailey at Dunne’s , along with the mansion. The abbey and the mansion were the chief places and had more people between them than were contained in the town proper.
Thessaly hoped that, as Loredan had predicted, she would have time and opportunity to slip away alone, time to practice the arts that were most important, time to shoot and ride when she liked, and find the solitude she needed, and not always be in the company of lords and ladies.
Henri presented her, finally, with a crate of books. He showed her a few—leather-bound, some with an odd oily sh
een. Some had pages black with mold and mildew. Some were delicate, faded scrolls. “Be careful with these,” he said. “I cannot ask at the abbey for copies to be made.”
Thessaly caught his tone and look. She nodded.
He smiled. “You understand. They would likely object to bringing such things inside their hallowed walls at all, if they knew what these crates contained. So,” he nailed the crate shut. “Keep it well hidden. Someplace eventually outside abbey walls, if you can manage it.”
“I shall,” Thessaly assured him.
And then they were off—sails unfurled, anchors drawn up, sailing north, then east around the western tail of Britain. Holystoan was there, too, on the Espada, sharing Loredan’s cabin. As they sailed, the evenings were jolly, full of laughing and recitations. Even Guzal’s sober quietness was broken now and then, and Cerdic was persuaded by Henri to read to them from Chaucer, Waintree sending Rosalie away as he came to particularly naughty passages.
Thessaly and Rosalie and Guzal, too, spent many happy hours in Thessaly’s room talking and reading. Thessaly tried reading Rosalie’s trionfi once more and found it again strangely insipid. It was almost . . . empty. As if the cards had nothing real to say. She read Guzal, though, and they found many dark and spicy omens to chew through and talk over.
“You’ve had an adventurous life already,” Thessaly said. “Have you not?”
Guzal shrugged. “It’s not a life one would wish on a maid of shy disposition and gentle taste. I am very glad to be in your household.” She touched Thessaly’s shoulder lightly and turned away, but not before Thessaly saw the weariness take over the cheerful expression on her face.
The coast grew wilder and more picturesque further west, into the Bristol channel, they went. Her father kept his flags up and guns manned, the ships sailing close together. “We’ve no cargo other than the wool,” he said, “but this is not an easy stretch of shore.”
It was, Thessaly thought, a perfect place for brigands and pirates. Rocky enclaves, small, hidden bays. Dark caves in some of the cliffs. The villages rode down all the way to the coast, and people came out to watch the great carracks sail past. They gathered along the line of hills, pale splotches on the horizon.
