by Alma Boykin
The Prioress raised one finger in protest. “Father André, this is a religious house, even though it is under the temporal patronage of the Empress and the spiritual patronage of Saints Agatha and Martin.” Mother Alberta sounded just a slight bit annoyed and a faint crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Guest Elizabeth has comported herself with modesty and reverence, enough so that our novice mistress has encouraged the postulants to observe and learn from her conduct.”
Elizabeth looked down at the floor as her face warmed. That’s why I keep finding postulants and novices waiting wherever I go? Holy Godown, help me to be what your daughters believe I am. She held her tongue.
“Father André, should the archbishop and his majesty feel that, despite the Reverend Mother’s observations, the convent does not meet their definitions of a religious house, the sisters currently assisting me at St. Kiara-by-the-Market are most willing to provide Lady Elizabeth with shelter until the time of her hearing,” the stranger informed his colleague.
The sisters assisting him at St. Kiara’s? Oh, he must be Father Pascual, Lazlo’s spiritual advisor! He doesn’t sound happy with Fr. André for some reason. Maybe André’s insult of the Sisters of Service irritated him, since the sisters provide some staff for St. Kiara’s works of mercy. A new warmth began in Elizabeth’s heart and spread to her entire body, helping her relax and calming her racing heart. Lazlo had always spoken highly of Fr. Pascual.
The clerk interrupted her thoughts. “Sarmas, remain here. Do not leave these walls, do not speak to anyone save your spiritual advisor.” Another cough interrupted him and he stopped. “Ah, anyone except your spiritual advisor and the sisters here,” he amended. Elizabeth stopped her little smile before the men could see it. “You are forbidden to send for anything from Donatello House except undergarments.”
She looked up, meeting his eyes. Elizabeth said nothing. Instead she stared into his nervous, muddy-brown eyes as he began flushing with shame and he glanced, pleading, to Fr. André for support. Elizabeth bowed. “I hear and obey his reverence the Archbishop and his majesty’s words.”
“After the trial you will be permitted to speak with a spiritual advisor before your sentence is carried out. Select carefully, Sarmas,” Fr. André growled.
Utterly serene, Elizabeth raised one hand in protest. “Forgive my confusion, Father, but I was unaware that I had already been tried and sentenced. If that is the case, perhaps it would be better for me to hear the sentence now.”
“The trial is in three days. Examine your soul, Sarmas, and your conduct. Godown knows what some prefer to keep hidden.” With that warning Fr. André stood up. He gave a curt nod in the Reverend Mother’s direction and stormed out, avoiding all contact with Elizabeth as he marched past her. The clerk followed after bowing more politely to Mother Alberta. Father Pascual remained seated.
The quiet clicking of Mother Alberta’s prayer beads was the only sound in the room until the faint chime of the hour bell rang. After the melodious tone faded away, Mother Alberta stood. “Guest Elizabeth, Father Pascual wishes to speak with you. Afterwards, I believe that prayers for those in authority would not be improper.”
“As you say, Reverend Mother,” Elizabeth murmured, bowing as the prioress glided past, the beads still clicking.
“Please sit, Lady Elizabeth,” Father Pascual invited. She pulled a chair around to face him, keeping the table between them and leaving the door open. He noted her precautions and shook his head, exasperation in his bright green eyes. His half-restrained energy reminded her of a hound, eager to run, but with an inner sureness that soothed her. “You do not know me, but I am Father Pascual of St. Kiara-by-the-Market.”
She nodded to him. “My husband has spoken of you, Father, and has benefitted from your guidance.”
“Your husband’s generosity has brought assistance and comfort to many, my lady, although that is not why I sought to speak with you.” The balding, beardless man leaned forward a little. “Word spread quickly of the charges against you, and of your retreat. There has been a steady stream of parishioners coming to St. Kiara’s to pray for you and for your husband.”
The room blurred as tears filled her eyes. “I hope there have not been any reprisals,” she managed to choke out.
“No, and there will be none. I came to learn if you had a spiritual director, and if he had been contacted.”
She shook her head. “No, not since Fr. Karl retired. I did not want to make Lazlo uncomfortable by seeking direction from you, Father, and I’ve not taken the time to speak with the priests at St. Gerald’s about the matter.” After seeing Clellan there, I’ve been afraid to, lest one of them get dragged into politics. That never ends well.
“Has Lazlo found a director?”
“Yes, father. In his last letter he said that he’d joined a small congregation, St. Donn-at-the-Rocks, and Father Franco’s direction and advice give him great comfort.” Thank you, Godown, for that.
Fr. Pascual smiled as if a weight had been lifted from him. “That is a blessing. Do you seek spiritual direction, Elizabeth, daughter of Godown?”
She shifted out of the chair and onto her knees, pressed her hands together and lifted them up to him. “Yes, Father Pascual. I am lost and in need of guidance, and my heart is afraid.”
He took her hands between his. “Godown helps all who call upon Him. Tell me, and we will pray for His aid.”
The bell chimed the next hour before Fr. Pascual gave her his blessing and released her. “I will return in two days, and will accompany you to the palace.” His tone brooked no argument and she made none.
After he left, she went to the chapel and prayed as Mother Alberta had recommended, then returned to her cell and began working through her notes, memorizing the passages and texts she needed most. There are only two topics I know anything about: military life and religion. Duke Clellan should have done more homework before attacking me with religion.
On the third morning, the day before the start of Winter Fair, she and Fr. Pascual waded through knee-deep snow to the Palace, surrounded by Palace guards. Such heavy snow rarely fell in Vindobona, and Elizabeth couldn’t keep from smiling at the children out playing. The morning deliveries had already flattened and dirtied the snow in the main streets, and by noon soot would darken the white stuff to dingy gray, but for now the world looked as pure and soft as when Godown had created it. “Do you fear, Lady Elizabeth?” the priest inquired, only his eyes visible between his muffler and his cap.
“No, Father. I have done all I can, to the best of my abilities. If it is Godown’s will that it does not suffice, I accept that.” Mother Alberta had a letter for Lady Ann to send to Lazlo if the trial went against her, telling him of her love. “Godown knows what is in our hearts.”
She heard a quiet snort from behind the thick wool muffler. “Indeed He does. Would that more of His children kept that thought in mind.”
Once they reached the palace precinct, the guards hurried them into the building through a courtyard door, away from the eyes of the curious. “Father, you can go no farther,” one of Clellan’s men warned, stopping the pair just outside the antechamber of the hearing room.
Fr. Pascual raised one hand in blessing. “Godown guide you and all those here. Go in His peace.” As she bowed to accept the blessing, he pressed a folded page into her hand. She slid it up into her sleeve, out of sight of the others.
“Thank you, Father.” She straightened up and turned to face the doors and Duke Clellan’s man. He seemed angry that she obeyed without protest. Am I supposed to wail and shriek like the girls in those horrible romances? Perhaps she was.
To her surprise no one searched her this time. Instead the guards led her through the anteroom and directly into the hearing chamber, stopping long enough to allow her to remove her heavy coat and gloves. The blue and light-brown walls, the heavy table with the seats behind it, the gathered nobles standing along the walls, all remained unchanged and she blinked, feeling very young. It was as
if she’d stepped back thirty years, to her confrontation with Count Eric Windthorst, the apostate who’d invited Turkowi into the heart of the Empire, granting them use of his lands and funds while accusing her of treason. But she was no longer seventeen and a stranger. And she recognized the cases and boxes set out on the table, as well as the cloth-draped box under it.
The door shut behind her with a dull thud. Elizabeth took a deep breath and clasped her hands at her waist, holding her prayer beads. She kept her eyes fixed on the table at the end of the room, ignoring the men who watched and weighed her. Their opinions mattered, but not just yet. What do you see? An ugly, older woman in a plain, worn dress and headcover, a woman not unlike the Sisters to whom you give your charity gifts? Look again, gentlemen, because looks are very deceiving. I’m armed and armored.
The door at the head of the room opened and a herald called, “His majesty, Thomas, by the grace of Godown Emperor of the Eastern Empire. His reverence Archbishop Laurence.” With a rustle of fabric and creak of leather, the men bowed and Elizabeth curtsied as Thomas of Babenburg and the archbishop took their places.
“You may rise.” Elizabeth stood up and noticed Duke Paul Clellan standing to the emperor’s left. Archbishop Laurence sat at Thomas’ right hand. Father André stood, no, lurked was a better word, in the corner between the prelate and the door. The archbishop’s sober brown and black robes with light brown trim at the collar gave him an air of dignity. The same could not be said for Paul Clellan, resplendent in maroon and sporting a yellow waistcoat. The rustle and muttering from Duke Starland and Duke Karl Grantholm, among others, told Elizabeth that she wasn’t the only one discomfited to see an Imperial councilor in Selkow’s color. Emperor Thomas, in dark blue and white, seemed to fade into the wall, eclipsed by Clellan’s brilliant plumage.
“Duke Clellan will speak for the throne,” the emperor announced.
Elizabeth schooled her features into polite curiosity as Clellan picked up a sheet of paper from the stack on the table. “Elizabeth von Sarmas, you are accused of possession of banned technology, of immoral conduct, of heresy, and of treason. How do you plead?”
“Not guilty your majesty, your reverence.”
“Then how do you explain these?” He swept his hand to the side, indicating the cases laid out on the table. A guard, wearing gloves, opened one and turned it to show the contents to the emperor and archbishop. At the archbishop’s nod, with obvious reluctance the man picked up the case and carried it around so the nobles could see what it held. Elizabeth already knew, but looked anyway. It was the necklace with the green plaztik and silver wire pendants. “Well, Sarmas?”
“They are jewelry and bits of Lander equipment that I’ve found over the years. A Lander timepiece is in the altar at Bellevue’s main chapel, placed there with his reverence’s blessing after Godown granted my prayers five years ago. Perhaps I misremember your majesty, your reverence, but there is no law against making jewelry from pretty things that have been blessed and found harmless.”
“Lander technology is banned, Sarmas. Don’t play games with words,” Clellan warned, almost shaking his finger at her.
“Duke Clellan, if that is so, please explain why there are electric lights and generators in the Palace, and why we use water filters devised by Lord Baben himself, Godown’s peace be with him. Plaztik and bits of broken glass and metal are things. Pretty things, as you can see from the other pieces, but just things.”
Emperor Thomas leaned over and whispered to Archbishop Laurence, who had begun frowning. The archbishop murmured in reply, the younger man straightened up and announced, “The charge is set aside to be discussed later. Proceed, Duke Clellan.”
Clellan glared at Elizabeth, as did Fr. André. Elizabeth kept her expression placid, not wanting to look pleased with the emperor’s decision. She’d struck a blow that the others would have trouble refuting. Clellan sniffed and picked up a new page from the stack. “You are charged with denying the truth of the Great Fires and with arguing against the truths of the Holy Writ, while living in indecency with a man not married to you. Your impiety and your dabbling with cursed things by not reporting Lander weapons to the proper authorities endanger the Empire by bringing the wrath of Godown onto the Empire. What say you?”
She met the archbishop’s eyes. He was the one she needed to persuade. “Your majesty, your reverence, I do not deny the reality of the Great Fires, for the Holy Writ, in ‘The Book of Flames’ Chapter three, verses one through ten, says clearly that Godown sent first a warning, then the Fires, and when many saw but chose not to believe He sent them again, destroying two-thirds of all electrical technology and power supplies. In His wisdom He left physical evidence as well for those who choose to see.
“I disagree that the Flames touched human flesh directly, for there is nothing in the Writ nor in the writings of St. Gerald and St. Sabrina nor in the earliest accounts of the Empire saying that the Flames burned people, only their equipment.” For the first time she unclasped her hands, spreading them open. “If I misunderstand the Writ, I apologize and beg for correction.”
Before the archbishop could speak, Father André leapt in, wagging his finger at Elizabeth, his face almost as red as his stole and belt. “You misread, Sarmas. The Writ says nothing, but St. Mou’s writings are clear: the Flames burned, tormenting and punishing justly those who failed to open their hearts to Godown’s words.”
“In his ‘First Book of Meditations on the Writ,’ St. Mou speaks of the pains of disobedience, indeed, Father. But even in the third meditation of that collection, he wrote that, ‘Godown’s flames tormented their hearts by destroying the tools of the sinners’ pride, forcing them to turn to Godown for aid. And yet still some refused to turn, and Godown left them in their sin, where they perished at the hand of their fellow sinners until those who remained accepted the truth and believed.’ If you mean the descriptions in ‘The Judgment of St. Mou,’ I can only point out that the first copies, those held in the cathedral archives here, date only to a hundred years ago at best, suggesting that they are attributions rather than the saint’s own words.”
André exploded from his corner, eyes bulging, shaking his fist at her. “You lie! You put false words in—”
“Enough, Father André,” Archbishop Laurence interrupted, raising one hand. “Lady Elizabeth is correct in both her quotation and her dating of the Judgment, which is, as you know, a commentary and elaboration rather than St. Mou’s own words.” His smooth, rich voice filled the room, stilling the murmurs from the nobles. He leaned forward, looking at Elizabeth. “Your command of scripture is remarkable.”
She sensed the question behind his words. “Your reverence, I was a professed postulant for over fifteen years before being released from my vows. I did and do my best to serve Godown, learning His Writ and studying and meditating on His words still.”
Laurence tipped his head to the side as he continued leaning forward, his interest and curiosity obvious. “Why were you released from your vows?”
“Because I had no true vocation, your reverence. I was put into the postulancy at age five for political reasons.” The archbishop’s eyebrows rose and his mouth turned down at the corners. She continued, “I searched my heart after I reached the age of discernment, your reverence, but found no true calling. Godown gave me other gifts, and so when I reached the age of legal majority, your predecessor released me from my vows without penalty or prejudice.”
“Ah. I was not aware of that fact. Thank you Lady Elizabeth.” He sat back in his chair and picked up the symbol of Godown on its chain around his neck, letting the gold pendant swing. “Your understanding of the Writ and of church teaching is correct, although it would be better for you to be less aggressive about it in the future.”
Even though I’m right? Shhh, he’s being diplomatic and you’d better too. She bowed her head. “As you say, your reverence, so shall I do.” So that’s that, correct, Clellan? No heresy means no treason and we can all go home and do
more productive things, like enjoy Winter Fair.
Apparently not: Paul Clellan, a determined expression on his round face, jaw set, picked up a third page. “You have passed information to your lover, information that could harm the Empire.”
Her hand went to her heart and, surprised, Elizabeth demanded, “What lover?”
He sniffed and rolled his eyes. “Col. Lazlo Destefani. Apparently you still fail to understand the reason for your separation.”
Elizabeth did not roll her eyes, although she wanted to. “Duke Clellan, I have passed no information that was not authorized. Col. Destefani answers to you and to the foreign ministry, not to the military, except for his pay and duties should the Empire come under attack.”
Clellan held up a letter in Lazlo’s writing. “If you are innocent, why are you and your lover exchanging coded messages?”
“Excuse me?”
His face growing redder, he waved the page at her, then shook it. “This letter, that arrived four days ago.”
Confusion turned to anger in a heartbeat. Through clenched teeth she enunciated, “I have not read that letter yet, Duke Clellan, so I cannot tell you what it says that might be in a code.” You bastards are reading our mail? That’s beyond the bounds, far beyond. Grumbles and growing numbers of murmurs from the nobles on both sides of the room warned that she wasn’t the only one angered by the news.
“Here, in the military dot code, it says ‘Have had treatment. No ill effects. Godown be praised.’ What treatment requires secret code? Is this more Lander work?”
Elizabeth raised her hand to her mouth, as if embarrassed and uncomfortable. “I… that is, I hesitate to say in open court, your majesty, your reverence, Duke Clellan. Surely you gentlemen understand that there are some medical matters spouses prefer to keep private.”
“Lovers, not spouses,” Fr. André corrected.
“Especially spouses who are lovers, that is correct, Father. A certain delicacy prevents me from saying more, with your pardon.” Forgive me, love, she thought at Lazlo. The implication of her words sank in and Clellan seemed to grow pale, then redden again, eyes bulging, and he took an involuntary step back from her. The murmurs and coughs behind her, and Emperor Thomas’ now crossed legs, announced that her hint had struck home. Oh ho, not as faithful as you should have been, were you? How many of you have become familiar with the uses of spikewort salve, hmmm? There’s a good reason Godown encourages monogamy and chastity in marriage. And why you need to use protection outside of it, idiots. She clenched one hand to keep from laughing.
