Peaks of Grace (The Colplatschki Chronicles Book 5)

by Alma Boykin

  Odile, dismayed by the way the bishop’s visit was starting, raised one hand in mild correction. “I have memorized the Writ along with the liturgies, greater litanies, and the primary commentaries and sermon collections. Godown granted me a quick memory, for He who gives the ill gives the remedy.”

  “Humpf.”

  She decided to change topics. Exhaustion could make anyone snappish, after all. “If your excellency would like to rest before attending to business, the guest rooms are ready for you and your staff,” she offered.

  “No. The sooner I start work, the sooner you can be on your way to your new houses and his Majesty can have a correct account of his holdings.”

  She took a deep breath and counted to four. Do not say anything. Do not attempt to correct him. Let your works speak for themselves. “Certainly, your excellency. This way, please.” She led him to her office, where the ledgers waited, along with a stack of testimonies from the major donors to the house. “Our records, your excellency.”

  “You are dismissed. I want wine and something to eat at the next chime. Mark, get in here,” he called. Someone pushed past Odile, knocking her off balance. She caught herself against the cool plaster and wood of the doorframe before she fell. “Move slower, Mark, Godown cursed her with blindness.”

  “Yer’ excellency,” a low voice replied.

  Odile took herself off, stopping once she rounded the corner to say a quick iteration of St. Basil’s plea for patience. I am not impressed, Godown. Your servant is not— she stopped the thought. Forgive me for uncharitable thoughts. No doubt he is tired.

  Their next meeting, following the afternoon work period, proved more congenial. “Reverend Mother, I am surprised by the quality of your records. This is not what I had been given to expect from a house in such a backwards part of the kingdom.”

  “Thank you. Godown blessed us with good leaders and several excellent accounts keepers, plus our donors have access to the records. It serves as an incentive toward care,” and honesty.

  “Hmm.” She heard pages turning. “Why do you pay five percent to the deSarm family?”

  “Because everyone on the deSarm lands pays five percent of anything we sell to Lord and Lady deSarm. They use those funds for defense, road and bridge repair, and emergency assistance in times of dearth or disease.”

  Fingers drummed on the page. “They are stealing, in other words. Ten percent is to go to his majesty, who returns what is needed to the county.”

  She pursed her lips. Should she correct him? “Perhaps Lady deSarm and her husband are unaware of that new policy, your excellency.”

  He grunted, then dismissed her. Oh Godown, lord of peace, please may Lady deSarm not cross paths with him. I do not think even Master Roy could keep her from doing something rash. Odile let the sisters assigned to guest care deal with the bishop’s men. She retired as soon as the night chime sounded. She needed rest and fresh wits.

  Edmund Roy, Master Sylván, Goodman Alberti, and the other donors waited in the dining commons for his excellency the next morning. Odile did not want to hear the interview, but she needed to be there, if only to pray for peace. She settled into a chair out of the men’s way, close to the kitchen door in case the sisters on preparation duty needed assistance. Perhaps it is as well that his excellency seems to have no further business with me, she thought, fingering her beads in comforting habit. Bishop Paulus’s homily about obedience and resignation to one’s place had not sat well with Odile. First, he’d skipped over two verses in the scripture text, something that always irritated her. And he’d drawn heavily from a collection of St. François’s sermons that were non-canonical, to put it charitably. Perhaps I am in error, Lord, but I doubt St. François had time to meditate on visions of the Leblanc family’s future rise to power during the Great Fires. If he had, she suspected the other saints must have been rather peeved with him!

  “You are in mourning, Master Roy?” Sylván squeaked.

  “Yes. Lady Marguerite lost our child two days ago, Godown grant it mercy.”

  A flurry of sympathetic and understanding voices greeted the news, and Odile bowed her head. Is there a family that has not lost a child? I can’t think of one. Her own mother had given birth to another son, who had died of the summer flux like so many did. Please, holy one, may we rediscover how the Landers kept their children alive, if it is Your will.

  “Godown be with you,” she heard Bishop Paulus boom.

  “And with your spirit,” the men and Odile chorused.

  “You may be seated.”

  She listened with half an ear to the initial talk, mostly recitations of numbers and facts that she already knew. Her attention snapped back into focus when she heard papers scraping over the surface of the table. “This is all very well, and your testimony speaks well of the faith of the sisters here, but his majesty has found no need for this house to remain open, even with this information. In fact, given the higher population, I am disappointed that the valley is not providing more support for his majesty’s efforts for the church.”

  “All efforts for the church are to be commended, I’m sure, your excellency,” Goodman Alberti said. “But why should we contribute to him rather than to the church, as we have done in the past?”

  “Because he is your king,” Paulus snapped.

  “Oh? Has the church given the Sarm valley to Frankonia?”

  Odile squeezed her beads so tightly the chain cut into her finger. Ow. The bishop growled, “What do you mean? This is Frankonian land, given by Lord Geoffrey deSarm to Phillip of Frankonia as a dower for his sister.”

  “It appears that your excellency has received incorrect information,” Roy said, his smooth, formal tones a balm to Odile’s ears after the bishop’s harsh words. “Lord Geoffrey never remarried after his first wife’s death—in fact, no wedding contract was even drawn up. Lady Marguerite Thomasina Antonia deSarm inherited the lands and the Sarm Valley and all its residents and revenue remain outside of Frankonian jurisdiction.”

  Odile flinched as a hand with a large ring on it slapped the wooden table, making a loud clunk. “No, you are in error, if you believe that his majesty does not hold title and possession of this area. Lady deSarm may indeed manage it for now, but until there are legitimate heirs, his majesty must oversee the defense and management of this area for the safety of Frankonia. And it does not need a convent, especially considering the sisters’ apparent inability to improve the morals of the area.”

  Wood scraped on stone as chairs shot back from the table and men jumped to their feet. “Hold!” Edmund Roy and Master Sylván both called. Odile, furious, kept her head bent, hiding her face until she could control herself as a prioress must. What is wrong with you, Paulus? You just as much as called Lady deSarm a whore to her husband’s face. He has every right to challenge you before the Episcopal Council over that breach of your responsibilities.

  Roy continued, voice tight but under control. “I believe that, given the gravity of the accusations leveled against my lady wife, an appeal to the Episcopal Council is the best remedy to this matter.”

  “If Marguerite deSarm is your wife, then you are both outside the graces of the church, since she is already married to, and remains married to, Gregory Berlin of Louvat, his majesty’s trusted advisor. All the more reason to reform this area and bring it under royal leadership.”

  “And his majesty and the church getting all the goods, chattels, and income from the convent’s lands, while depriving us of the sisters’ pastoral care and ministries, have nothing to do with this?” Master Sylván sounded remarkable calm, calmer than Odile at that moment.

  “Of course not. That is just a benefit,” the last word slowed, then stopped. Paulus bristled, “You are trying to trick me.”

  “No, your excellency, just to clarify the situation and the interests involved.”

  A chair scraped and Paulus grunted as he stood up. Is he as heavy as Sister Basilia said? It sounds like it. “The house is closed. The sisters ar
e to leave in a week if not sooner, and for your disobedience and failure to respect properly appointed authority, as well as living in sin with an already-married woman, Edmund Roy and Marguerite deSarm are banned from the church’s grace until they repent. I depart tomorrow, should Godown bring you to wisdom and you truly desire to seek forgiveness. Leave these walls.”

  The men departed, their voices hushed but intense. Odile waited until she heard Paulus’s heavy steps fading from the dining commons before she stood. The half-chime sounded, announcing the call to the noon meal. Odile rinsed her hands and accepted a jar of spoons from the novice on preparation duty. The young woman rearranged the chairs and replaced the benches as Odile helped set the tables. A dispute over property was no reason that the sisters should delay their meal or an excuse for those with empty hands not to help when needed.

  Sr. Geraldina found a note on Odile’s desk when they returned to the office, in Edmund Roy’s “rather shaky” hand, telling the reverend mother that the donors were preparing an appeal and would send it north the next day, Godown willing and weather permitting. And that the sisters would not be forced to leave. She also found the list of which sisters would go where, and the two women puzzled a bit.

  “I am not familiar with two of these houses, your reverence. And if his excellency is concerned about duplication of works, why are twelve sisters going to three houses in Belleaire? Is the Frankonian capital that large?”

  Odile could not recall. “Which houses?”

  “St. Alice-on-the-Market, St. François-the-Royal, and St. François-Riverbend. Only St. Alice has a hospital or school attached to it,” Sr. Geraldina said. “I am quite confused, your reverence. And why twenty to St. Verna-of-the-Marshes?”

  That house Odile had heard of, and she made St. Alice’s Spindle. “Because the atmosphere is unhealthy, and there is a great deal of sickness in that area,” especially among sisters and others who did not catch the miasmatic fever as children. “In light of Master Roy’s note, I believe it is best to keep this information back until we have the official word from the Episcopal Council.”

  “I heartily agree, your reverence.”

  The news of the convent’s closure left the sisters reeling. Odile spent the night in her office, comforting the distressed and calming the angry. It helped diffuse her own anger with the foolish pride of all involved, including her own. Forgive me, Godown. Help me to be open to Your will and ways for me.

  She also waited until after his excellency Bishop Paulus left to speak to the gathered sisters. They crowded into the dining commons, as quiet as could be. Odile sensed an expectant tension in their silence. “This house will not close until the full Episcopal Council has heard the appeals. Godown is with us in this, because the council was already scheduled to meet in New Dalfa in a month to discuss common business.” A murmur passed through the women. “Even so, it would be wise for us to prepare for relocation. And to prepare those who depend on us for the news, so that they are not left completely without resources.” Just mostly without them. “Master Roy and Lady deSarm give their word that, should King Phillip attempt to enforce Bishop Paulus’s decision by force prior to the Episcopal Council meeting, they will stop the Frankonians.” A rustling, whispering sigh of relief flowed around Odile. How sad, that we expect him to do the worst, most foolish thing.

  As weeks passed into months, the sisters of St. Gerald’s-Under-the-Mountain worked and prayed. The uncertainty wore on everyone, making tempers short and diminishing the store of mutual patience and charity, until finally Reverend Mother Odille had enough. She rested an elbow on her desk and massaged her forehead through the soft fabric of her head-cover’s brow band. “And then what?”

  Sr. Martina rustled, as if also rubbing her head. “And then she called Sr. Basilia a cow.”

  “Sr. Timothé, who has never said a cross word that anyone can remember, who can see the best in anyone,” who is so naive that she might be one of Godown’s true holy innocents, “called Sr. Basilia a cow.”

  “Yes, your reverence. And then Sr. Basilia upended the feed-bag and poured the dust onto Sr. Timothé’s head.” A thoughtful pause. “Timothé, it appears, suffers from grain-dust sneezes.”

  Godown, please send me a sign about how to keep peace and ease the tension before something truly bad happens. “I will think about this, Sister. Thank you.”

  As tended to happen in her life, Godown answered Odile’s prayer in a decidedly unexpected fashion. She woke the next morning and heard deep, profound quiet. She blinked, listening carefully for wind whistles and the calls of the farmers driving their teams to work in the fields, but no sounds reached her ears. She dressed and walked to the door to the herb garden, opened it, and sniffed. The air smelled wet and fresh, and sounded even quieter. Hmmm. She ventured farther and stuck her hand out from under the cover of the walkway around the garden. Cold feathers brushed her hand. She crouched and felt the ground. At least ten centimeters of snow already covered the ground within the garden.

  After the morning service she found Sr. Martina and Sr. Sabina. “That is a wonderful idea, your reverence,” the churigon agreed.

  “Indeed. We need the diversion, and the snow is so soft no one can get hurt.”

  So, following the noon meal, the senior sisters chased everyone else currently at the convent out into the snow. As Odile had anticipated, the first snowball found a target within minutes of the women getting outside the walls, and soon novices, orphans, and professed sisters all laughed, yelped, and hurled snow back and forth. Odile found a safe place beside the wall and listened to the laughter and shouts, smiling. Without wind, they were safe from cold-sickness, and Odile and the other seniors did not intend to let the women stay out long enough to get frost-nipped. Once she heard the others starting to get quiet, Odile nodded to Sr. Martina, put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. When the others turned to look, Odile and Martina beckoned and led them back inside. They’d need to dry off, of course, but the others sounded much more relaxed and happier. Odile suspected there had been some special targeting, but since she hadn’t seen it, she couldn’t discipline anyone for it.

  As late fall shifted to deep winter, the sisters returned to their customary ways, with a few new additions and missions. Several of the women worked with the valley’s herbwives, teaching them about the more complicated tinctures, the ones that included distilled spirits and false-poppy. Other of the nursing sisters went from house to house as called, teaching the women, and a few interested men, more about caring for the aged and eternally-innocent, and basic first-need care. To no one’s great surprise, many people thanked the sisters but turned down the offer of learning. “I thank ye, but I’ve got no time, Sister, to learn more than the basics,” seemed to be a common response. Odile and the others just nodded, doing what they could.

  And for once, they caught the first of the winter cough before it could spread to all the children. It was Sr. Timothé who noticed the child, as she reported later. “Bright eyes, listless and quiet, but not fever flushed. And when Goody Douker brought him by the fire, he began that cough-whoof-cough we all know.” Odile made St. Misha’s sign. “I left them with instructions for the wet-warmer and a jar of chest rub. And Goody Douker promised to keep Alen in bed until two days after the fever breaks, no other children allowed in the house.” She sighed. “And I warned the families on either side of the house to be ready.”

  “Indeed. I’m not sure anything moves faster than the winter cough, unless it is the spotted itch,” Sr. Sabina said. Odile twitched, remembering her own bout with the harmless but miserable affliction. Well, harmless if you caught it as a child: older adults tended to die.

  The women also spoke with the different guild leaders and community heads. Should the Episcopal Council decide to close the house, the valley’s leaders would remove all food, livestock, and other consumables so they would not go to waste. And so they could not be taken to Frankonia for Phillip’s use, although no one mentioned that possibility
aloud.

  Odile listened to the reports about the disbursement and made St. Alice’s sign. “Forgive me, but does it not seem that we have had more than the usual run of good years?”

  Sr. Alice Misha tapped her stylus against the chair arm. “It does, your reverence. Were I a suspicious woman, I’d think Godown had granted a bounty ahead of a coming dearth.”

  The familiar sound of hands on heavy cloth told Odile that everyone had made a saint’s sign. “I believe that perhaps we would be remiss if we did not look over our plans for what we will do in case of flood, drought, fire, or a major avalanche or land slip. Godown does help those who prepare,” although perhaps not as much as He looks after fools and small children.

  A week before midwinter a messenger arrived from deSarm Hall. “Reverend Mother, Lady deSarm and Master Roy wish to speak to you, along with Master Sylván and the other senior men of the valley.”

  Two days later she rode in a sledge up the long hill to the Hall. They’d gone a week without new snow, but cold came instead. The weak winter sun barely peeped over the mountains to the south before hiding again, leaving part of the valley in shadow for much of the short days. Odile pulled her heavy caped coat tighter and tucked her hands deeper under her arms. Cold kills the flies and fleas, she reminded herself. In fact, we probably need to set out bedding and clothes to freeze any creatures. A good freeze and airing worked almost as well as washing when it was too cold to do laundry and bathe.

  “Ah, St. Gerald’s bridge! A good sign, your reverence,” the sledge driver exclaimed.

  “Indeed.” She smiled.

  They arrived without incident at the Hall, and strong hands helped her out of the sledge. “This way, your reverence,” a woman said, and Odile felt a hand under her elbow. “Mind the steps. We shoveled all four of them, but they may be a little slick yet. There’s a thick scuff mat at the top.” The subtle reminder helped as Odile counted the steps, then wiped her boots. “Lady deSarm wants to meet in the smaller hall. It is warmer.” The hand left Odile’s arm and she used her stick, sweeping ahead of her for thresholds, furnishings, dogs, and thoughtless people. “This way.” A door creaked open. “Two steps down and the bottom one is short, your reverence. Everyone trips.”