Chapter Six
I am presented to Julianna and her mother the duchess in Julianna’s solar. Duchess Marguerite is a smiling, rounded woman in late middle age, her hair gone to silver and her face softening into comfortable beauty. I have seen her from afar before, but she would not recognize me. She pats me kindly on the arm and welcomes me to Haverston, and her castle.
“Hugh’s castle now, surely, Mother,” Julianna says.
Duchess Marguerite smiles at her daughter, and I can’t help but smile with her. The duchess has been the duchess for some time, and Haverston is hers; Haverston is happy to be hers. If she had been home when — but I won’t think of that now.
“I’m pleased to have you here, young Rhia. Do make yourself at home. I hope you can recover here from your terrible ordeal.” She’s referring to Connor’s cousin’s fire.
I blink back tears and look at my feet.
Julianna shows me to a small closet room in between her bedchamber and the solar, which is to be my chamber. “Normally I’d set up a handmaid in one of the rooms down the hall, but I told mother you still had fears from the fire, and should stay in here. I think it’s better to keep close while Gantry’s in the castle.” Smiling, she pats my arm just as her mother did, tells me I’m doing fine, and sets me to work at once.
I must keep up Her Highness’ wardrobe, see to her breakfast, which I bring from the kitchen on a tray. I am to write her correspondence and supervise her personal servants, of which she has none here. I am to accompany the princess when she sits and embroiders with the duchess and the duchess’ guests, minor gentry staying here in the castle.
I am her chaperone and her companion on outings. These outings include visits to the hospice to Heal people, which many in Talaria consider shocking. Those visits also anger the priests, especially, by report, Bishop Gantry. He preaches the strict line about every Healer a kirche Healer, all magic belongs to the Star Lord.
But there aren’t enough Healing priests to help everyone who is ill in Haverston, and without the princess, more people would die. People look at Julianna with longing and fear in their eyes.
I do not blame them — I look at her that way myself.
Her Highness is like no one I’ve ever seen, although I have spent my life around some who think quite well of themselves. But she outshines and outmaneuvers everyone she comes into contact with. It’s like basking in sunlight when she smiles, which can stun the unwary. When she visits the hospice, the priests glower from corners.
I hide in opposite corners, holding poultices and simples, all but unnoticed in my mourning clothes. I look in no one’s face, and so far have seen no one I know. But the Wasting has mostly struck the poor, and usually merchants can call Healers to their own houses.
With the Wasting has come the rain, and the ground is too wet and cold to plant early crops. The farmers try anyway, only to watch the green shoots rot where they sprout. The market is a dismal affair, and everyone tightens their purse-strings. Duchess Marguerite talks of importing food from the southern counties, and Julianna visits further victims of the Wasting as more of the poor and middling-poor succumb to it.
I know the town far better now than I ever did when I lived at my father’s house. The poor quarters are more squalid than I believed, in my large merchant’s mansion, with its own large garden and servants to tend to most chores. The dirt floors and vermin-infested bedding of people who haven’t made it to the hospice make me nervous, while Julianna seems not to notice them at all.
She works tirelessly to Heal any who will accept her. I drop to exhausted sleep each night in my narrow bed, not even bothering to read the books on handmaid etiquette I’m supposed to study. My family moans from the dark corners of my mind, and the faces of the dying join them.
They all whisper of illness and death and witchcraft, and Bishop Gantry chants in my dreams. The demons chant with him, and I push his hand with its bloody knife back night after night. I sleep fitfully when at all.
～
Although I have been here almost two weeks now, I have not yet been to chapel for fear of seeing the bishop. Connor informed me this morning that I must go tomorrow morning or raise suspicion. Today has been going much too fast: it’s late afternoon, and I’m airing Her Highness’ gowns.
My hair springs out of its band in wisps — unruly curls that refuse to tame. The new short style doesn’t quite fit my small face, making me appear even younger than my eighteen years. My gray morning gown swishes as I wander from task to task. The day is cool and damp from the early afternoon rain, and dark with heavy clouds. I remember Julianna left her gloves in her solar.
The room glows with soft gray light, the large windows in the false turret and along the long diagonal wall letting in all the daylight this late spring day has to offer. The furniture sits gracefully in the long shadows thrown by the russet curtains, elegant and brocaded and smelling of Julianna’s perfume. Her embroidery sits in its basket by the fireplace, the rose chaise angled to catch the most heat.
As I spot the gloves, there is a knock on the door. My hands clench, and rehearsing the proper lines, I pull on the heavy latch.
I open the door to a face I have only seen inside my head before. I blink, my mouth open.
“Bishop Gantry presents his compliments to Her Royal Highness and would like, would like …” says the young man, trailing off. His brown eyes widen in his dark face, as he begins to recognize me.
I stare at Orrin in shock. He was in seminary with Keenan. I have never met him, but I look enough like Keenan. And he looks just like visions Keenan sent to me.
His mouth gapes open.
“Would like a moment of her time,” says the person behind him, and I jump at the nasal voice, feel my pulse shatter. Gantry is here as well. With Orrin, Keenan’s friend, who I’m sure has recognized me.
My tongue aches, bleeds a bit before I realize I have bitten it. “I — I — she —” I stammer, swallow, fight nausea. “H-her Highness is — isn’t, isn’t here. She, she is in Her Grace’s sitting room, my L-lord Bishop. She asked not to b-be disturbed until dinner.” I look at his boots, keep my eyes averted. Let him not look at my face. I sneak a look at Orrin.
He stares at me. The whites of his eyes stand out starkly against the dark brown of his irises, and his darker skin. He seems to be in shock.
Gantry, annoyed, glares at us both.
I rip my gaze from Orrin.
Gantry tries to push the door open. My body freezes and burns in terror of him, of his voice, and I start to shake, pushing back. “I will wait for her here,” he says, but I cannot move, and so the door stays where it is, glued to my shoulder and hands.
“I am sorry, my Lord Bishop,” I rasp, looking at the ground, trying to disappear.
“I must speak with her immediately. Go and fetch her, and I will wait here.”
I hold my breath to keep from panting. I am afraid to leave the safety of my lady’s rooms; he is too close, and my knees wobble, threaten to dump me on the floor.
I stammer and fumble a curtsey. “Please, my Lord Bishop, it would be improper,” I whisper. I feel his glare; it burns on my body in carved patterns under my shift.
He turns and wordlessly stalks down the hall. I know my face is bloodless as the corpse I should have been.
Orrin stares at me. Gantry, striding away, calls him sharply, and he winces. “The Star Chamber closest to the doors in the chapel,” Orrin whispers. “Directly after dinner.”
I shudder, nod. What can I do?
“Please don’t, don’t —” I choke out, and he touches my hand, draws away.
“I won’t,” he says, and leaves. What can I do? I choose to believe him. I watch the swirl of their robes from under lowered lashes. That flash of annoyance as Gantry looked past me into Julianna’s room — he knows where she is. I know suddenly that he wanted the room empty: he’s looking for something.
I shut the door and latch it, lean on it, trembling. Slowly I open my mind, reach
ing out to the corridor. My eyes close, and I sense the bishop’s thoughts as stray wisps. He wanted in this room — he wants to see her rooms, her things, he wants to try something. Anger and anticipation swirl around him as he moves further toward the stairs and then all I sense is the lingering smell of tansy and swampwort. My fear keeps me from sensing more from him, or his own magic does.
Orrin is a little easier, but mostly I get fear and sadness and a deep shock. Emotions I could read easily from his face, and no help from the Sight at all.
Shaking, I pull awareness back into myself. Julianna has been coaching me, but my power is so strange to me now. I tried to tell her that my Sight is a specious power at best — I can’t always tell what people are thinking. I can’t always See anything at all.
Or that’s how it used to be. I don’t know why the visions have been so strong since she Healed me. I try to control them, but they rush at me or rush away, and what I do See is a confusion of blurred images and feelings I sometimes have trouble making out. The visions feel like the enemy.
I’m afraid of where this new strength comes from. Why can I sometimes tell what people are thinking without trying, and sometimes not, and why does it always feel like power is running through me? But surely if it were demons, I’d know it. Wouldn’t I? My scars glow with a pale green light that only I seem to be able to see. I wish I knew what it meant. I wish I could talk to someone about it. I wish I hadn’t heard the bishop’s voice today, before I was ready for it.
That voice — I run for the garderrobe in the bathing room, barely make it, retching. That voice that rips through my body like claws through wool. I heave up my lunch, sit on the floor.
I know Julianna is disappointed in my progress: her sighs and moues of impatience when I can’t read Connor in the next room are hardly subtle. I know he is fighting my Sight now; he doesn’t want me to See his thoughts.
Other times when visions rush at me from others, it’s information that I don’t understand. My skin burns in rhythms to chants and demon hisses, and I can’t seem to tell her that, either. Mostly I wish I’d never had the Sight at all.
I stand slowly and smooth the soft gray fabric of my skirt, remembering that a princess’s handmaid does not sit idle. I wash my mouth out with the water in the pitcher in the corner, wipe my face.
I’ll tell Julianna about Gantry’s visit when she returns, but I’m keeping Orrin to myself just yet. I don’t know why I don’t want to tell anyone — what if he tells Gantry? I don’t know if I can trust him. But I will find out what he wants, first.
Meanwhile, Julianna’s gown must be pressed for dinner. My hands don’t seem mine as I open the wardrobe, select a wine-red satin, and heat the iron in the fire.
～
The chapel is chilly and dark but for a few lamps. The ceiling soars over the altar at the far end of the chapel, and I can hear the ocean clearly against the cliffs. This is the opposite end of the castle from the tower where I convalesced.
I make my way to the Star Chambers, heart hammering. Tapestries hang in the doorways decorated with the great star, and push aside to rooms little larger than tiny closets. There is a lamp burning in the closest one, shining green-yellow on the stonework.
I don’t know what Orrin wants. I hope he hasn’t told Bishop Gantry anything.
“Rhiannon,” I hear, and I gasp, spin. Orrin stands just inside the doorway. I walked right past him.
“That is your name, right? Rhiannon? Rhiannon Owen —”
“Rhiannon Owen is … dead,” I whisper.
He winces.
I study him as much as I can in the dim lamplight. He’s slender, only a little taller than I am. His face is smooth and dark, with high cheekbones and a hint of stubble on his chin. His close-cropped hair is wiry and much curlier than mine. He looks sad and worried.
Orrin opens his hands in a helpless way, and I try to smile.
“Rhia. Call me Rhia, here.”
“I — I was … close to Keenan.”
It is my turn to wince. I turn away.
“He was — he used to talk about you. You look a lot like him,” Orrin says. “I miss him very much.”
I blink back tears, staring at the wall. “I do, too,” I whisper, and I’ve admitted to treason. Or blasphemy. Maybe both. I am not supposed to be alive. And he’s working for the man who thinks he killed me. Connor is right: I am stupid.
I turn back to Orrin. “Please, please do not turn me into the bishop. I really don’t — I really don’t want to die. And I swear I’m not a witch. Not really.”
Orrin shakes his head. “I would not. I — I don’t think he should have accused you. Keenan told me — he told me of your Sight. It isn’t witchery, not how we were taught.”
My eyes sting a little. “I have found that it’s dangerous to say such things. You’ll have to be careful around Bishop Gantry. He is … not a tolerant man.”
Orrin shakes his head. “No, he isn’t. He is a very frightening man. I don’t trust him. I have written to the monastery in Corat for a transfer, but I don’t think I’ll get one. And now — now that I know you’re here …”
I stare at him, afraid to hope. “If he — you —” I fumble. “I hope you get your transfer. It would be safer for you to go.”
“I don’t know about safer. Safer for you — I promise I won’t give you away. But he makes me feel nervous. I’ve written to the archbishop. I think Bishop Gantry — I’m not sure he’s entirely sane.”
I reach out, almost grab Orrin’s arm. “Oh, not Archbishop Montmoore,” I say, and he nods cautiously at me. I shake my head at him. “You should write to Cardinal Robere. He will help you.”
He looks askance. “Why not the archbishop? He is the more direct superior.” I can only shake my head at him. “What happened, what did Gantry do to you?”
I open my mouth to tell him something, make up something, but no sound emerges. I feel a sharp tingle along the runes on my body, and I find I can only gasp for air. He takes my arm, helps me to collapse onto the stone bench, and sits beside me.
He sighs, wipes his eyes. “I don’t know you, really. Only what your brother said. But I loved your brother,” he says, and I feel his heart, See his love, and gasp. Loved my brother. As in, they were lovers. I try not to stare in shock. How did I not know?
I think back to everything Keenan said, or Sent me, about Orrin. Was there more tenderness, extra warmth to his voice and mind? I don’t understand how I could have missed it. I grab Orrin’s hand, clutching at this unexpected remnant of my brother.
“I will trust you,” he is saying. I look in his eyes, try to See more. Although that is probably rude.
“I didn’t know. He didn’t tell me,” I whisper.
Orrin looks away. “I know. I didn’t tell my family, either. But he was going to. I swear.”
I nod, squeeze his hand. “I believe you.” Tears run down my face. “I — I have missed him so much. I am glad you’re here.”
Moonlight trickling into the chamber through the window catches the glint of tears in his eyes. I struggle with my breath.
Orrin lowers his head. “I miss him, too,” he says, and sobs shake him. I pull him awkwardly into my arms, and he clutches at me. His grief rumbles through us both, and I can’t hold back anymore.
I feel a deep trembling within my limbs, in my stomach, in my lungs. Sobs break from me, and we are holding each other, tears pouring, raw weeping. It is the first time I’ve been held since before … everything. I weep for Keenan, for Mum and Da, for my life, holding onto Orrin with something like desperation in my limbs.
It is some little time before I can gather myself together. Trembling, I pull back, wiping at my face. Orrin produces a handkerchief, which I take gladly. “But what about you,” I ask.
“I have these sleeves,” he says, and I snort, very unladylike. “They’re dark, and no one will suspect a thing.” I like him already.
I sigh, try to smile. “I will speak to my friends, ask if they ca
n request a transfer for you. They, um, they know Cardinal Robere, so they might —”
“Your friend is the princess,” he says, cautiously. And my heart constricts, suddenly worried.
“I am her handmaid. She is, she is —” I flounder. He grabs my hand again.
“I won’t tell, I promise. Not a word to Gantry. But I do … wonder.”
“Please don’t wonder,” I whisper, and stand. “Don’t ask questions. Don’t let — don’t let the bishop know anything, or even suspect —” and I can’t say anymore. “Please be careful.”
He nods, his eyebrows raised, and I retreat. I don’t know how I’m going to tell Connor about this.
Chapter Seven
The damp of the morning seems to seep into my bones as I accompany Julianna to morning chapel. I haven’t decided what to tell her or Connor about Orrin, but I’ll have to tell them something — he knows who I really am, and that’s dangerous for all of us. It would be best if he could be transferred. Safer for him, too. What if Gantry tries another demon spell? Will he try to make Orrin help him?
The chapel in daylight is only a little less daunting. The ceiling rises to an arch that frames the west-facing windows with their lacy stonework. Whitewash covers the walls and ceiling beams, and bright murals grace the panels below the windows. Golden wood in fancy cutwork rises to a balcony to the left near the front, and under it a gentry box with padded benches for pews. More golden pews march back from the altar in a short neat row.
The chapel isn’t as large as I thought — no more than forty people could fit comfortably seated, including the balcony. Our kirche in town is easily three times the size. But this is a jewelbox of a chapel. I would be charmed, were it not for the service to come.
Julianna greets the duchess and her ladies as we come down the aisle, and there is polite curtsying all around. I find my hands clenching fistfuls of my dark skirt, and try to relax them. Julianna and Marguerite smile and turn to ascend the tiny spiral stair to the balcony.
I find myself suddenly standing alone, awkward, not sure whom to follow. The ladies are filing into the box to the side of the altar, and servants are milling and sitting in the pews behind me. I feel stupid, not sure if I was supposed to go up with Julianna or not.
A Ragged Magic Page 6
