The Mystic Marriage

by Jones, Heather Rose

  “Maisetra Chazillen was called away to the palace,” she explained. “There were questions about the construction of the furnace and she didn’t want to risk delaying the work.”

  Now that was too much. “She’ll be at the new workshop?” Jeanne asked. She’d set her heart on Toneke’s company, however shared.

  “Yes, but she said we should continue without her. I know all the steps for this one.”

  But Jeanne’s mind was decided. “Some other time. It won’t ruin anything to delay for a day. Marien!” she called. “Has the driver left yet? We’re going to the palace instead.”

  “Mesnera,” Anna began, “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t you worry,” Jeanne assured her. “I’ll tell Maisetra Chazillen it was all my fault. I’m not in the mood for alchemy today.”

  She found Antuniet deep in conversation with the salle-chamberlain in a room transformed by carpenters and masons. The bare abandoned bakehouse was gone and the lines of what it would become were clearly seen. “Toneke, you’re working miracles in this place!” she called by way of greeting.

  Antuniet looked up, startled. “Jeanne? What are you doing here? What’s gone wrong?”

  “Nothing at all,” she said lightly, crossing the room to tuck her hand under Antuniet’s arm and look around her shoulder at the plans laid out for discussion. “I wanted to see what you were doing.”

  “But Anna—”

  “Now you aren’t to blame Anna. She gave me your message and I ignored it.”

  Antuniet pulled away and looked over at the waiting chamberlain to say, “Will you excuse us for a moment?” He bowed and moved away to speak with the carpenters. “Jeanne, you didn’t leave her alone, did you?”

  “She’s hardly alone. That guardsman is there and I think your housekeeper is about somewhere. She won’t come to any harm because I left any more than she would before I arrived.”

  “Jeanne, I needed that process completed today. And Efriturik will be there any time now. It’s completely unsuitable for Anna to be alone with him; what will her father say? I was depending on you.”

  “No, Toneke! This really is too much!” Jeanne protested, stung by the rebuke. “Do you expect me to play chaperone to your apprentice? Or to be ordered around like an apprentice myself? I share your work to be with you, but you weren’t there.”

  Antuniet’s face fell, as if that thought had never occurred to her. “Oh, Jeanne, I’m sorry. I was wrong to expect…” Her mouth twisted in distress. “Well, it can’t be mended at the moment. Anna will have the sense to turn Efriturik away and we can make up the batch later. And since you’re here, will you stay? I’d like your opinion on some of this.”

  She’d been expecting a quarrel. The apology should have mollified her, but instead, with the grievance washed away, there was left a bitter taste of guilt at her own thoughtlessness. She was used to fiery arguments and passionate reconciliations. This soft yielding confused her.

  With a hesitation that spoke of the fears she was quelling, Antuniet laid an arm across Jeanne’s shoulders to bring them together over the drawings. That was more apology even than the words.

  Jeanne leaned into her. It was enough for now.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Barbara

  It was a certainty, Barbara thought, that disasters and unexpected guests always sought out the busiest week in the year. Yesterday it had been a frantic message from Antuniet’s apprentice asking if Margerit could come assist with the process. And though Margerit had previously begged off from alchemy this week to prepare for the All Saints castellum, away she’d gone. And now, here was Ponivin interrupting the dinner guests with the news that, “A young person is at the door who says he is Mesnera Lumbeirt’s cousin.”

  It took her a moment to remember what he might be talking about. The invitation had been given so long ago and there had been no response. And to send him with no notice? What could his parents be thinking? Ponivin was still waiting for instructions. “I believe that would be Eskambrend Chamering,” she confirmed. “Take him—” No, she couldn’t just send him down to the kitchen as if he were an errand boy without some sort of welcome. “Take him to the drawing room. I’ll be there in a moment.” She rose, saying, “Margerit, forgive the interruption. I’ll see him settled and be back as soon as I can.”

  Her memory of Brandel had been of a slight, dark-haired youth, full of quick energy. He was more subdued now, standing in the middle of the room next to a small valise and looking around in wonder. He pulled off his cap hastily when she entered the room and bowed stiffly. “Mesnera Baroness, I have come at your invitation.”

  The poor boy looked like a fish out of water. “It’s Mesnera Lumbeirt, properly speaking,” she said briskly. “But you’ll learn all those things in good time. Let Ponivin take your bags and come here by the fire.” And to the butler, “Could you ask Mefro Charsintek to prepare a room? The one at the end of the hall might do.” It had an excellent view but was too small to be comfortable as a guest room. “Or whatever she thinks best.”

  Brandel was still staring at her in awe. Well, and no wonder, when the last time he’d seen her she was in men’s riding clothes, not an evening gown. She reached out her hand to him. “Come, you must be freezing. I’m sorry not to be prepared for your arrival but we had no warning. Did the letter go astray? And did you travel all this way by yourself?”

  He shook his head at the last question. “I had a ride with a drover who was bringing bullocks to town. He had me handle the wagon while he managed the cattle. I would have written but I didn’t know the direction. And I knew that once I got to Rotenek someone could tell me where Baroness Saveze lived.”

  The implications of his little story sank in. “You haven’t run away, have you?” She shook him by the shoulders. “Do your parents know where you are?” This was more serious than a lack of notice.

  “No, Mesnera!” he stammered. “They know I’ve come. Papa said—” The explanation came as if by rote. “Papa said that I could come to Rotenek if I pleased, but I’d have to find my own way here. And so I did.”

  Barbara recalled Maistir Chamering’s surly dismissal of his son’s adventurous fancies. And her aunt’s comment on his opinion of her own visit. He didn’t approve but he didn’t forbid it. Perhaps this was as far as his approval had gone: that Brandel could accept the invitation if he were bold enough to seize it with no assistance.

  “Well, you’re here now, and the first thing you’ll do in the morning is write your mother to let her know you’ve arrived safely. Now here’s my housekeeper, Mefro Charsintek. She’ll show you to your room and get you all settled in. And if you’re hungry—which I have no doubt—you can go down to ask for something from the kitchen, but don’t be a bother because they’re still sending up dinner. I need to return to my guests but I’ll come see you when they’ve gone.”

  * * *

  There was no time to see her cousin properly welcomed in the rush before All Saints. For the first few days and with a twinge of guilt, Barbara begged Bertrut to look after him. Bertrut was quickly relieved of that task by her husband, who had far more experience dealing with young men and who offered to take Brandel around the city and see to certain other necessities such as a proper wardrobe.

  Barbara’s attention was instead focused on the last rehearsals Margerit was conducting for the revised castellum. It had been too complex, she’d said. Too reliant on the skills of the principals, given the large number of those required. What might have worked smoothly as designed for the disbanded Guild of Saint Atelpirt—filled with dedicated scholars—had weaknesses when celebrated by the Royal Guild of Saint Adelruid, whose celebrants were chosen by rank and seniority rather than ability. They had rewritten the text together. Her own part was to know the strengths and flaws of the nobles who must take the principal roles. Margerit’s part was to tailor the mystery’s cloth to those shapes without sacrificing the effectiveness of the petition. Even long past the time when chang
es could be made, she was fussing over a word here and a gesture there. “Margerit,” Barbara said firmly at last, “there’s no purpose to this. It’s time to dress for the dinner.”

  Last year’s celebration had set the tone for the new mystery, combining what had previously been an irregularly celebrated ambassadors’ ball with a public Guild Dinner for the castellum. Given one likely guest, Barbara was unsurprised to see Jeanne attending alone, though Antuniet’s company was unpredictable even at the best of times. Barbara would have preferred to avoid Kreiser’s company herself, but there was a time to retreat and a time to engage. She maneuvered herself from one conversation to another until she came up beside him as if by chance.

  “Are you enjoying our weather?” she asked idly. “I had the impression that last year you found Alpennian winters somewhat cold.”

  He turned, as if they were resuming an interrupted conversation. “No colder than the weather back home.” He shrugged. “And my time is not my own; I go where the emperor sends me. His business takes no account of weather.” An odd smile came over his face, as if at a secret joke. “Or you might say that his business takes a great deal of account of the weather.”

  Barbara took up the challenge as eagerly as if their words were blades. A feint, a thrust easily beat away, another parried. He gave no ground. A casual mention that some of the young attachés at the embassy were organizing a pheasant hunt for the two Atilliet boys. “They’ve grown quite fond of Friedrich—almost inseparable—and said he mentioned how he misses a chance to shoot. Perhaps you’d like to join us? But no, I recall you are old-fashioned and favor the sword over the gun.”

  No chance that Elisebet would give Aukustin leave for that! Barbara thought. That’s only for the illusion of even-handedness. Riposte. “I’m surprised Baron Razik has time for hunting at the moment. I understand he’s been assisting the princess’s alchemist in an important project. He seems to have something of a talent for the art.”

  There. That one had slipped past and won a touch. She had promoted Antuniet beyond her current status, but even should Kreiser discover that, it would be little comfort to him. She curtseyed formally, indicating that it was time to move on. One didn’t linger in long conversation at affairs of this sort.

  The celebration began the next morning with no disasters or delays. Even without the visitatio of the truly sensitive, Barbara could feel the improved flow of the mystery. The revisions had helped, but even more would be the repetition that would slowly settle the ceremony into the bones of the celebrants. How long would it take for Margerit’s castellum to feel as natural and inevitable as ancient mysteries like the Mauriz tutela? Though the Mauriz proved that even the inevitable could be changed. The Mystery of Saint Mauriz had been celebrated again this year with the new Lyon-based rite. Princess Annek had returned—though returned was hardly the right word—to the Lyon text for her own parts for reasons of politics and diplomacy, reassuring Margerit in private that it was not due to any loss of faith in her analysis.

  Barbara brought her attention back to the ceremony as her branch of the guild laid the next course of their turris, then passed the focus on to the next branch in turn. Close familiarity with the text left her free to cast an eye over the guests who sat quietly in the farther parts of the nave. Margerit, as usual, was ensconced in a corner of the choir, where she could best observe the fluctus as the structure built.

  It was the armin’s instincts that would never entirely fade that drew her attention to a woman standing in the shadow of a column where the less exalted guests were watching. It wasn’t her appearance that caught Barbara’s eye, though she was clearly foreign. The style of her pelisse suggested Rome, perhaps, though the warm brown of her skin and the tightly curled black ringlets falling from beneath her fashionable turban spoke of origins much farther south. No, it was the intensity of her gaze that had arrested Barbara’s glance. If she had been watching the space before the altar where the celebrants gathered, Barbara would have concluded that she saw the phasmata generated by the mystery. But she was staring at just that corner of the choir where Margerit sat with her sketchbook. And that called for further consideration. But when the towers had all been raised and bound together and the missio pronounced to conclude, Barbara looked back toward the column to find the foreign woman gone.

  On the following morning, Barbara was finally able to turn her attention to the problem of Brandel. He had been drawn by dreams of adventure and the romance of taking up the sword. It had been nothing but truth when she’d told Maistir Chamering that the world of his fancies was fading, yet it was a useful lure to focus his mind on more serious matters. She’d promised her aunt he would have a gentleman’s education and a courtier’s training. Most boys his age would have been off to school for some years now but that wouldn’t do. A private tutor would make up the deficiencies in whatever his village schooling had been, and then the usual terms at the university for polish. More if he had the aptitude.

  “But why do I need a tutor, Cousin Barbara?” he asked as they set out. “I can read and write well enough and I know the histories. What does an armin need with geography or rhetoric?”

  They had settled on “Cousin Barbara” once Bertrut had drilled him on the proper forms of address for both public and private. Barbara thought he almost regretted not being asked to call her “baroness” at every chance. Well, he’d learn soon enough how little that connection would serve him if he strayed outside his place. And for the moment, to set an example, she was paying more attention to convention herself, having chosen a dark coffee-colored walking dress for the expedition rather than her usual riding clothes.

  They went on foot today for Brandel’s closer experience of the city. Perhaps on their return she’d let him lead the way to see if he remembered how to get them home again. To answer his question she turned to Tavit with a conspiratorial smile. “Tavit, where is Metonfels located? What is the principal produce and industry of that region?”

  Her armin rattled off the town’s situation, the quality of the land and that it was known for the excellence of its wine but that the woolen mills now stood idle because cheaper cloth was to be had abroad.

  “And why might you want to know that, Tavit?” she continued.

  He returned her sly smile. “Because Lord Seuz has lands near Metonfels and his rents have fallen with the close of the mills. His wife’s brother had been a major buyer but now trades in imports. Lord Seuz will be holding a banquet next month that will strain his resources, but the honor of Seuz must be upheld. And he cannot avoid inviting his wife’s relatives. And there will be a great deal of excellent wine served.”

  Barbara watched Brandel digesting the connections threading through his answer and their relevance to an armin’s duties. He frowned. “So Lord Seuz might get drunk at his own banquet and start a fight with his brother-in-law?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Barbara replied. “But if it should happen, I would expect my armin to have predicted it. So we are going to the university district to speak to a few people about finding you a tutor. But I thought we might stop by Perret’s salle on our way.” That was the sweetener.

  Excitement leaped in his eyes. Tavit must have been telling tales again. “I’ll be learning dueling from Mefroi Perret?”

  She grabbed Brandel by the wrist and pulled him around to face her, halting in midstride. “If I ever hear you’ve been dueling, I’ll pack you off to your father before the next dawn.” She released him and resumed walking, waiting until he had scrambled to come even with her again before saying, “In all my time I’ve only fought one duel, and that was meant as murder, not as a test of honor. No one with any sense is eager for a duel. You will be learning the art of defense, and the sword is only the beginning of it. You should learn to shoot as well. But Perret can’t be expected to waste time on raw beginners like you. If you’re respectful and convince him you’re willing to work hard, he may assign one of his students to teach you.” It wasn’t entirely tr
ue. If she requested it, Perret might be willing to provide the occasional lesson, but she didn’t care to spend her credit with him to that end. And she was taking Brandel’s measure: he was willing to go to great lengths for something he’d set his heart on—his presence in Rotenek was proof enough of that—but he might not value what was given freely.

  When they had finished at the salle, they turned south. The Red Oak tavern had been the first place she’d turned when looking for gossip concerning Aukustin’s tutor Chautovil and for the same reasons it was her first stop again today. It was the chosen haunt of many of the more serious and sober students and there was always news of positions sought and offered. As if the thought had summoned him, when they came through to the quieter inner room to find an empty table, Barbara spotted Chautovil himself, looking more like a student than a respectable tutor, with his carelessly-tied cravat and his over-long hair falling in untidy chaos. The man looked up in startlement from the corner when he saw her.

  “Now here’s a lucky chance,” Barbara said as they approached. “You may know—” The second figure behind him came into view, explaining his half-guilty look. Barbara offered a slight curtsey, saying, “Mesner Atilliet, I hope you are enjoying the day. May I take the liberty of introducing my cousin Eskambrend Chamering? He’s newly come to town. Brandel, this is Aukustin Atilliet, Princess Anna’s half-brother. And Maistir Chautovil, his tutor. Might we join you, Maistir Chautovil? You might be able to help with my errand here today.”