A Scholar of Magics

by Caroline Stevermer

“Nowhere. I signed a two-year contract to teach at the country school nearest to our home place, but I could not weather it. After the first three months, I was wild to leave, but what could I do? A signed contract is a signed contract.” Lambert sighed. “Then my friend Albert asked me to go with him to try out for Kiowa Bob. I went along for moral support, and had no intention of auditioning myself. Once we were there, however, I was weak. Albert persuaded me to try what I could do, and Kiowa Bob hired me. I never went back to the school.”

  “You ran away from school to join the Wild West Show?” Jane’s eyes were wide. “What did they do?”

  “My mother finished out the school year and did so well they took her on to work out the rest of the contract. The school board was mighty happy, as she is nine times the schoolteacher I ever was. My mother was mighty unhappy. She was disappointed in me for running out on a legal obligation and she’s still somewhat annoyed with me about it. That’s why I would rather not go home for a while yet.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you’re not wanted dead or alive after all? How very disappointing.” Jane seemed amused, not disappointed. “What subjects did you teach?”

  “All of ’em.” Lambert thought it over and revised his claim. “Somewhat.”

  “You do have teaching credentials, don’t you?”

  “I had just enough education to qualify for the position,” Lambert replied, “but my best qualification was the ability to discipline the older students. Some of those boys are big.”

  “What does your mother do with them?”

  “They don’t give her any trouble. She just gives them that Look.” To give Jane an idea of the Look in question, Lambert arched one eyebrow and gazed fixedly at her.

  Jane was dubious. “Hm. It doesn’t seem to work on me.”

  “I don’t have the eye for it. My mother does.”

  “You do have an eye, though.” Jane looked thoughtful. “I have a confession to make. When we met, all I cared about was finding a way to meet Nicholas Fell so I could deliver Faris’s message. But by the time you showed me St. Mary’s, I knew that Glasscastle must be even narrower and more wrongheaded than I’d always thought. Vision like yours, and all they can think to do with it is make you shoot a gun. It’s criminal.”

  “But that’s what I do,” Lambert reminded her. “I’m a marksman.”

  “That’s not all you do. In its most basic form, there are two elements to magic.” Jane counted them off on her fingers. “Perception and will. I don’t know anything about your capacity for magic. Even if I did, it would be folly to speculate. But given your powers of perception, I find it intriguing to speculate about your will.”

  Lambert stared at her. “You think I could do magic?”

  “I didn’t say that. In fact, I would go to great lengths to avoid saying that. But I think studying magic might be an idea worth examining. Now that you’re finished catering to Voysey’s whims with the Agincourt Project, you might give it some thought.”

  Lambert hesitated a moment, then said, “I can’t go to Glasscastle.”

  Jane nodded. “It’s no bed of roses, I know, but think about it.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s that I can’t. I’m an American.”

  Jane looked confused. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Americans can’t do magic. Canadians can’t either. Voysey says it’s bred out of us because of the ocean voyage. No one with magical aptitude can survive it.”

  “Can’t they? Where on earth did he get that idea?” Jane demanded.

  “Voysey says they don’t fully understand why yet, but the people who have magical aptitude have trouble crossing water, just like you do. No one with magical aptitude could survive the crossing to the New World. So there was no one left to hand on the aptitude to his descendants.”

  “Nonsense.” Jane put her hat on, adjusted the angle, pinned it firmly in place, and cast the great net of her veil over all. Deftly she knotted the veil beneath her chin to anchor the whole works. “If that’s what the Vice Chancellor of Glasscastle thinks, I don’t think much of Glasscastle.”

  “That’s what Voysey told me. It’s his theory, anyway. But there’s the Latin requirement besides. No one gets in without demonstrating proficiency in Latin. I don’t have any.”

  “That’s a stumbling block, I agree. As for your Mr. Voysey, he can think what he likes and concoct any theory he pleases. All the same, there are Canadian students—and Americans—at Greenlaw and they do perfectly well. I think Voysey must be mistaken. I wouldn’t take his word for anything. Now, back to business.” Jane tugged a map out of the stack before her. “I intend to abandon you heartlessly at a railway station along the way to Ludlow. Since I am rather fond of you, I will let you help me pick which one.”

  “Not using the spindle for such an important decision?” asked Lambert. “I’m surprised at you.”

  “Good idea.” Jane retrieved the spindle and held it out to him, but she did not extend her arm very far. “You try it.”

  Lambert had to move much closer to reach the spindle. He took it from Jane’s hand and dangled it by its horsehair tail. Resigned to making a fool of himself, he asked, “How do I work this thing?” Jane was so close he could feel her warmth.

  “Just hold your hand still and clear your thoughts. I’ll manage the rest.” Jane settled herself mere inches away. “Close your eyes.”

  Lambert held his hand still. In a matter of moments, his fingers went to sleep. Stubbornly, he held on. Silence ruled for the space of several minutes. At last, Lambert couldn’t stand it any longer. “Well?” He opened his eyes to find Jane right in front of him, her remarkably fine eyes as wide with surprise as he’d ever seen them, her nose a scant inch from the tip of his own. Lambert dropped the spindle as they both started violently and drew apart, Jane with the speed of a scalded cat.

  “Leominster,” said Jane, a little too loudly. “I’ll drop you in Leominster. You can easily get the train from there.”

  “Leominster?” Lambert stared at her. What had just happened here? He shook his hand and rubbed the circulation back into his fingers.

  Jane busied herself folding the maps and stowing them in the case. “The spindle hung steady long enough for me to take a good look at the map,” said Jane. “Leominster is much the best place for me to leave you.”

  “Is that what you were doing? Looking at the map?” Lambert thought it over. “You don’t want me with you when you arrive in Ludlow.”

  Jane lifted her chin. Her tone was airy. “I may, on occasion, seem to be mildly eccentric, but even I know where to draw the line. Bad enough I drive my brother’s motor car. I cannot possibly turn up at a respectable place to stay for the night with a personable young man in tow. My reputation wouldn’t stand it.”

  “Oh, just personable, eh? Nice of you not to flatter me. Do you think it will be any better if you turn up unchaperoned?”

  “Perhaps not,” said Jane, “but I’m used to creating that particular sensation.”

  “I’m supposed to be in Ludlow to help you. How will I know where to find you if we arrive separately?”

  “I’ll stop at the Feathers. Choose a room for yourself elsewhere. If we don’t meet by chance, look for me at the church. I’ll make a point of admiring the misericords there before today’s evensong.” Jane seemed pleased by the prospect. “I do appreciate a good evensong service.”

  Lambert helped Jane stow her baskets among the luggage in the back of the motor car. “What are misericords anyway? Which church? What if there’s more than one? England is brimful of churches. Makes me wonder what you people have on your conscience.”

  “Look for the church with the best architecture. Ask someone. After all, you’re traveling to improve your mind. They’ll expect to be asked about the most improving spots for you to visit. The misericords are carved ledges under the seats in the choir. Monks leaned on them to rest when they were praying. Stout fellows, those monks. Even with a nice wood
carving to brace yourself against, that amount of prayer would be hard to endure. Just ask the verger or someone to show you where they are.”

  “How do you know there will be misericords? You don’t know which church it is, do you?” Lambert pulled the canvas cover taut as Jane tied it down over her cargo.

  Jane managed the knots adroitly and tested her work with a brisk tug at each. “Ask for the oldest, least restored church. If they don’t happen to have any misericords, they’ll have a particularly good window or some rare vaulting. Every church has its point of pride. Find it and I’ll find you.”

  “All right. The oldest church in town, before evensong. But if we don’t meet there, I’ll send you a message at the Feathers.”

  “No need for that.” Cargo stowed and canvas tied, Jane pulled her gauntlets on and clambered into the driver’s seat.

  Lambert stood by the crank. “Every need. I don’t want to let the sun go down without knowing exactly where you are and what the plan is.”

  “You know the plan. Find Robin and find Fell.” Jane waved her hand impatiently to signal she was ready for him to turn the crank. “Find out what’s going on.”

  “That’s the plan now.” As he bent to the crank, Lambert did not try to keep the gloom out of his voice. “I’m sure it will have changed by the time we get there. Who knows how many times?”

  At six o’clock, Jane drove into Ludlow alone. The streets seemed steeper than they actually were, an illusion Jane blamed not on her fatigue but on the narrowness of the streets and the overhang of the half-timbered buildings that loomed on either side. In places the upper stories of the black-and-white houses leaned toward one another, as if longing for the far-off day when they could yield to gravity and meet in midair. The Feathers Inn was among the most elaborately fronted. Its black timbering was a bold tracery against its pristine whitewash, as different from the simpler houses as Spanish blackwork embroidery from a hemstitched dishcloth.

  With great caution, Jane steered the Minotaur through the Feathers’ arch to the coach yard within. It would never do to scrape the paint now. With deep relief for the respite after a long day’s drive, she consigned the motor car to the staff of the Feathers, who showed it all the reverence and respect they could not show her.

  Jane knew she’d been right to set Lambert down near Leominster station. Even arriving alone, she created a mild sensation. Fortunately, Jane was no stranger to the phenomenon and she used her force of personality to make things run smoothly as she booked a room and oversaw the transport of her luggage. It was possible that her stay in Ludlow would be lengthy. She’d tried to consider every eventuality when she packed. Firearms she’d left to Lambert. Otherwise, she felt prepared for any contingency.

  The inn, despite its elaborate facade, concentrated more on home comforts than the latest of modern conveniences. Jane found her room quiet and comfortable, a haven of peace after the day spent at the wheel. Once she had freed herself of goggles, gloves, hat, and veil, she sank gratefully into the armchair at the window. There was time to spare for a visit to the church. She didn’t want her meeting with Lambert to be cut short by evensong. But there was no reason to rush off immediately. Nothing more peculiar in the behavior of a newly arrived traveler than to dart out without bothering to wash or rest a moment. The Feathers prided itself on the comfort it offered its guests. It would be criminal not to enjoy it, if only briefly.

  Jane permitted herself a moment of relaxation. It really was a most comfortable armchair. It might have been made to her measurements, it suited her so well. She closed her eyes.

  To be quite still, just for a moment, was all Jane wanted in the world. A moment to think, to set the events of the day in perspective, was all she needed. To clear her thoughts, not only of the demands of the journey but of her own irrational impulses.

  Jane knew she had been wrong to snap at Lambert. She should have thought to tell him to avoid the ferry. Mocking his inability to read a map had been childish. In her own defense, Jane had to admit neither of them had been at their best. They had both been hungry, thirsty, and tired. Lambert’s midmorning lager hadn’t helped things either.

  What Jane could not excuse, no matter how she tried, were her irrational impulses. Jane had enjoyed watching Lambert as they picnicked in the shade of the Minotaur. He had a nice face and a nice voice. She had noticed when she met him that his eyes turned just slightly down at the outer corners, as did the left corner of his mouth. But when she was looking him over after the hornet sting, she had noticed for the first time that the right corner of his mouth turned just slightly upward and when he was telling stories it would quirk up into a half smile when he reached a self-deprecating part. Jane had found herself paying more and more attention to that upward quirk as the picnic had gone on. By the time she ordered Lambert to try the ivory spindle, Jane had been visited by not one irrational impulse but two in rapid succession.

  The first impulse, to which she’d so nearly yielded, had been to kiss Lambert as he sat there with his eyes closed, concentrating on the spindle. She’d been on the very verge of acting when Lambert had opened his eyes and found himself nose to nose with her. The second impulse, to which she had yielded with disgraceful haste, had been to pretend she’d never had the first impulse, no, never, not in a million years. Jane was pretending with all her might, but she could not quite decide which impulse she regretted more.

  Jane sighed. It was nice to be quiet, even if only for a moment. The room was utterly silent. Indeed, the whole inn seemed as quiet as if everyone in it had fallen asleep for a hundred years. It must be unusual, mustn’t it, for such a prosperous place to be so quiet at this hour? What time was it? Jane didn’t have the energy to look for a clock. The chair was so comfortable. It might have been made for her. A moment longer sitting there would be so pleasant. Only a moment more.

  10

  “But O my virgin lady, where is she?”

  Lambert waited in the splendid confines of St. Lawrence’s church, Ludlow, inspecting stained glass, misericords, monuments, and all, until evensong began. He took a seat then and waited through the service. The scale of the place was grander than the chapel of St. Mary’s at Glasscastle, though the ornament was not as rich. The candles did not burn as brightly to Lambert’s eye, nor were the voices of the choir as sweet to the ear. After the choir and congregation filed out, he dawdled until the verger approached him.

  “Do you need help, sir?” The verger’s steely eye warned Lambert not to try any fancy stuff.

  Lambert did his best to look as though he’d come to Ludlow specifically to be improved. “No, thanks. Just admiring the misericords.”

  “Lovely work, isn’t it?” the verger agreed. “The finest you’ll ever see.”

  “You haven’t seen a young lady admiring them recently, have you?” Lambert held his hand level with his upper lip. “About this tall. Dark hair and gray eyes?”

  If anything, the verger looked even more disapproving. “No young person of any such description has been admiring the misericords. Come back in the morning, if you must. The light is better then.”

  Meekly, Lambert let the verger escort him out of the church. The doors were locked behind him. St. Lawrence’s was saved from its admirers for another night. Stained glass and carved wood, not to mention the odd candlestick, were protected for another day.

  Lambert was worried about Jane’s tardiness. He’d followed her instructions. The train from Leominster to Ludlow had set him down in late afternoon. He’d walked up to the town on the hill and booked himself a room over a pub. The rest of his day had been spent in getting the lay of the land, learning which church was most likely to be the kind of rendezvous Jane had in mind, and fixing the pattern of the city plan and the local landmarks in his mind’s eye so that he could find his way through the streets and passageways. It had been pleasant work. Time hung heavily enough on Lambert’s hands that he purchased a two-penny booklet on local history and sat on a bench near St. Lawrence’s to
study it.

  Ludlow, the booklet had informed him, crowned one of the green hills of southwest Shropshire and was crowned in its turn by the vast sprawl of Ludlow Castle, stronghold of the Egerton family, now the Earls of Bridgewater, who had been lords of the marches for centuries. Even before the Egertons won it as reward for their faithful service to Queen Elizabeth, Ludlow Castle had been a strategic point. It had been from Ludlow Castle that young King Edward V had set forth to ride to London for his coronation, a ceremony that had never taken place. The booklet did not go into detail about why not, but Lambert had the vague recollection that wicked uncles were involved.

  Lambert had been distracted from his booklet by the sound of church bells. Time for bell-ringing practice, apparently. The cascade of notes Lambert associated with bells at Glasscastle was a more haphazard affair here. Sometimes the fall of notes dried up for several minutes at a time, only to resume in a completely different pattern. There was none of the sense of deliberation and little of the order and inevitability of Glasscastle bells.

  Still, it had been agreeable, sitting in the shade, listening to the rehearsal, letting the world go on without him. Lambert was in a brown study, staring at nothing, by the time the bell ringers fell silent. Eventually they emerged from the church, walking in twos and threes as they argued over how many pints of ale they were going to put away. Idly Lambert watched them go. His attention sharpened only when he recognized the last of them to leave, a more than ordinarily tall man, his bearing regal, his demeanor striking despite his simple clothes. The last time Lambert had seen the Earl of Bridgewater, he had been urbanity itself at Fell’s club in London, but he looked even more at home here.

  Lambert’s stare seemed to draw Bridgewater’s attention. As if he sensed a watcher, the tall man glanced around as he walked. He spotted Lambert, and to Lambert’s utter astonishment, approached with a friendly smile.

  “Mr. Lambert, isn’t it?” Bridgewater held out his hand as Lambert rose to his feet.