“Your Majesty.” I curtsied again and stepped back. “You’ve … traveled far, I think. May I offer you something to eat? We’ve some oatcakes.”
The king got to his feet, with much help from Istvan. “Traveled far? I feel it.” He looked it too. His rich garments were crumpled and dusty from his captivity.
Istvan was grim. “Farther still to go. We can’t stay here.”
“But can we leave?” I handed Istvan the pistol and took a good look down the stairs. “Will we be able to?”
“You keep it,” Istvan said, eying the flintlock with distaste. “It likes me not.”
The king was looking from my face to Istvan’s as horrified suspicion blossomed into certainty. “What device is that? Istvan, have I been dreaming? Am I dreaming still?”
Istvan took the king by his shoulders, a brotherly embrace, even to the slight impatient shake. “We all dream, Your Majesty. All of us. And this is the longest, fearsomest dream yet. We are exiled here, out of our long rest, and no way home that I can think of, without a sore change of hard heart by that witch who summoned us.”
“Which?”
“Dalet. The woman with red hair.”
“Oh? Oh. I remember now.”
I thought for a moment that he might faint again, he grew so pale, but Istvan steadied him.
“I remember. She told me her name in my dream. I wanted to come home, and she was asking me to do so. But this is not home, is it, Istvan?”
“No. Not this place. Nor any other in all the wide world.”
The weariness in the king’s face caught at me, and the more familiar weariness in Istvan’s voice drove me to speak. “We must go.”
“If we can.” Istvan retrieved his sword and led the way, warily, down the stairs.
We found the horses where Istvan had left them, far down the hill. We rested there a while, beside the beck. Julian was hungry, as hungry as Istvan was the day I found him fishing. He ate oatcakes and drank water scooped from the stream in his cupped hands. Not very regal. I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps it was his age. I never had the slightest difficulty believing that Julian was a king. His habit of command had nothing to do with it, for he never commanded anything that I can recall. But he seemed well able to command himself.
He had a quiet face, with nothing of the unease and fear that Istvan had displayed when wearing the same features. He looked and sounded tired to me, but I was the one who curled up in a blanket beside the beck. Istvan and Julian merely sat there, an arm’s length apart. If they regarded one another, I don’t see how, for it was hours until daybreak. If they spoke, the fall of water on stone drowned out their words. I let the sound of the beck lull me. I slept.
The sky was ultramarine when I woke, the deepest blue broken as it gave way to a tinge, just a tinge, of the coming daylight. Painters used to reserve that blue for Mary’s robe.
It always lifts my heart to see a whole sky of that color—deepening to the west, bleached ever so slightly at the eastern hem by the promised day. Very seldom do I need to be awake that early, so the sight retains its rarity for me. It would be a shame to earn a living as a baker and to rise early so often that such a blue grew commonplace.
I had plenty of time to admire the sky, for we were off on our journey before there was enough light to see each other by, let alone the path before us. Istvan insisted that Julian take his horse. Mine was not merely gentle but large as well, and strong enough to bear both Istvan and me, if the pace were not too fast.
During the night Istvan and Julian had reached an accord. We were going to Dalager, to ask for help from the prince-bishop’s men, if any were there.
“Why Dalager?” I asked Istvan. “Why not Aravis?”
“Dalager is closer, only two days from here. We’ll need more provisions and another horse. You’re right about riding pillion. No one should have to endure you asking questions in his ear for long.”
“If the prince-bishop did send men to St. Istvan’s to guard King Julian’s tomb, how will you persuade them to help us?”
“They don’t have to help us. Julian will be safer in St. Istvan’s than anywhere else. They can guard him as well as his tomb.”
After that, Istvan paid me no attention except when I dug him in the ribs to make him draw rein for the day. Julian seemed to bear the strain of travel better than I did. Never a word of complaint out of him. Still, we weren’t precisely moving at a breakneck pace.
We traveled with maddening deliberation eastward to the royal road. Once we picked that up, the way was easy though the countryside was hard. Steep and stony, even after an overly wet spring, the land around Dalager was forbiddingly bleak. Only the inns on the pilgrim’s way offered simple comfort, as they had provided it for the centuries of travelers who had come seeking, as we were seeking, Dalager and the shrine of St. Istvan.
Dalager was like a city built on a staircase. Here and there a landing provided space for a little square, just room to turn around and look up or down the steep little valley. Every shop and stall and house in town was built in a jostling row along the steep ravine that led up to the abbey. There, carved from the living rock, St. Istvan’s held the shrine and the royal tombs.
We left the horses at an inn in the valley. In Dalager itself there was seldom space for two to walk abreast, so crowded and narrow were the streets. For horses, no hope. Julian had all his attention on the abbey church far above us. Istvan had all his doggedly set on Julian. And I drank in the sights and sounds; I reveled in the fripperies of Dalager.
Dalager’s stony valley was a bleak place for such excess. Perhaps that is why the frippery seemed all the brighter. Everywhere we saw the emblem of St. Istvan’s, the sign of a heart held in two hands.
There were hearts in hands everywhere: brooches, badges, even ginger biscuits came in the shape of such a heart. Elsewhere, I’m told, this is a symbol of true love: In Dalager, it refers to another kind of fidelity, through which the remains of St. Istvan were brought miraculously to safety among the monks of the abbey. Only his heart—Lidian kings had since brought whole carcasses—but that heart began the tradition of St. Istvan’s that had lived on for centuries, a sacred trust, and the only source of prosperity in the whole bleak countryside for miles around.
Before he was a saint, that ancient namesake Istvan had been a fighter too. He was a chieftain, and he led his people against the Turks. In his last battle, though sorely wounded, Istvan promised his captains that he would lead them once more. The last charge was glorious, but Istvan fell. His captains mourned him even in their victory. So hot the battle had been, they could not find Istvan’s body among the men who had fallen with him.
Istvan’s captains went to the abbey at Dalager and prayed for Istvan’s soul. They distributed alms to the poor in his name. Masses were said for him. The infirm were healed when they prayed to Istvan for a cure. The word got round, and the devotions increased. A miracle: two angels brought Istvan’s heart to the monks of the abbey. The cures increased. A shrine was built at Dalager, and by the time it was finished, the transformation had taken place. Istvan had become St. Istvan, and he was revered.
Dalager welcomed the pilgrims who came to the abbey church. Every new angle of our climb up to the shrine brought us fresh distraction. Vanity of vanities. The whole city was vanity. I stopped and bought some ginger biscuits.
Julian and Istvan climbed on without noticing until I caught them up and offered to share. Istvan looked and shook his head, wordless. Julian beamed at me. “I love these. May we get a garland too?”
“All right. Why?” I started to take a bite of my biscuit. Julian’s expression stopped me. “What is it?”
“You don’t just eat them, do you?”
I gazed blankly at the inoffensive biscuit in my hand. “I don’t?”
“Very bad luck.” Julian broke his carefully in half. “You have to break them first. Then you eat them.” He demonstrated. “Delicious.” I broke my biscuit as symmetrically as I could. �
��Which half first?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
I ate the right half first. It could have been a touch fresher, but it made a welcome change from oatcakes. I finished my biscuit and offered the others again. This time Istvan took one too. He and Julian broke theirs with great ceremony. I finished the last biscuit and brushed the crumbs away.
“And now a garland, if you please, Mistress Rosamer. Rosemary, lavender, or bay?”
“Are those our only choices?” I asked.
“The garland is an offering to St. Istvan. We dedicate it in hope and gratitude. Rosemary for recollection, lavender for protection, bay laurel for victory. Which shall we choose?”
“Bay.” Istvan’s tone brooked no argument.
Julian’s reproachful glance was a masterpiece. “Not rosemary? Does remembrance mean so little?”
“It’s for St. Istvan, isn’t it? I think the bay laurel is more appropriate.”
“Ever my champion.” Julian sighed. “Nothing changes, does it? The next thing you’ll say is that rosemary would serve very well—with lamb.”
Istvan looked at me. “I tried to prevent this. You’re my witness. I tried to keep him from coming back.”
“We could have both,” I said. We had done pretty well out of the dickering for the links of Istvan’s chain in Aravis. “We could have all three.”
“No. The rosemary,” said Istvan.
Julian looked horrified. “No. On no account. A garland of bay laurel.”
I bought both. It did no good. Instead of being annoyed with each other, they were annoyed with me. I don’t know why.
We made our way upward toward St. Istvan’s shrine. The abbey church was smaller than I’d expected, and much darker. It was almost windowless, set deep into the hillside. Candlelight was reflected in pools of water on the floor. If the stone around us wept in the middle of summer, I could only wonder what the damp chill of winter must be like there. My knees twinged with sympathy for the monks kneeling at their devotions then.
The shadows made the interior of St. Istvan seem as crowded as a box room. There were side chapels in which gisants reposed, some cold white marble, some painted wood, cheerful in the blaze of candlelight. Dozens of stone memorials were set into the walls and floor, a jumble of names and dates and pious inscriptions. The air of clutter owed most to the trophies that hung everywhere from the vaulted ceiling: crutches, which looked well used; garlands in every state of decrepitude, all the way to the freshest circlets of rosemary, lavender, and bay, such as we’d brought for the altar; model ships, hung as a plea for safe voyage, some elaborate with sails and rigging, some no more than chips of wood; here a pair of spurs, there a sword; all was disorder—yet every votive offering spoke the same wish, a cry of devotion, a plea made manifest.
The altar was an island of order amid the artifacts of faith. There was a fine sculpture of the Madonna there, the Child on her knees, his stiff little hand held out in benediction. I lit a candle, and my traveling companions made their offerings, the garlands joining the day’s drift of fragrant greenery that festooned the place. I prayed too.
I was grateful for a quiet moment to make my devotions. I prayed hard for the welfare of my family, of my friends, of Neven, and of Madame Carriera’s house in Giltspur Street. I then returned to my oldest prayer, even in trouble my most constant and heartfelt, that the Lord should find it in his gentle heart to make me a true artist.
St. Istvan’s was a good place to pray. The prayers of so many monks might have eased the way, worn the path to heaven smooth with centuries of devotion. I forgot my aching knees, my tired back, and my selfish fears. Even Dalet could not prevail against such holiness as St. Istvan’s. I was doing the right thing, I was sure of it, to stay with Istvan and Julian, to help them all I could.
When I looked up, Ludovic Nallaneen was standing by the altar, his guardsmen behind him. It seemed right to see him there, as if God had dispatched him to guard Istvan and Julian with both the temporal and the holy might of the prince-bishop himself.
I might have expected surprise and disfavor when he recognized me, miles from the prince-bishop’s house arrest. Instead I saw fear and disbelief in his eyes as he recognized Good King Julian, come home at last.
ELEVEN
(In which I listen and learn.)
When Ludovic had seen beyond the impossible presence of Julian to Istvan and me, he said, “You might as well keep the cloak. I had to order another.”
With calm to match Ludovic’s, Istvan thanked him. “I hope our departure did not cause you any hardship.”
Ludovic frowned. “Your arrival poses the difficulty, I’m afraid. The prince-bishop was not happy to have you at large even without your resemblance to the king. It will cause His Grace concern to learn King Julian the Fourth is here with you.”
“You agree he is King Julian?” It puzzled me that Ludovic would accept Julian’s presence with such aplomb. From the look of Ludovic’s men, they shared their commander’s serene acceptance of the situation. I didn’t see how anyone could question that Good King Julian had returned, but it seemed wrong for Ludovic to let the miracle go meekly by. He was so good at asking questions.
“Oh, yes.” Ludovic looked at me. “You’re all right? They’re taking care of you?”
“I’m taking care of them.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I am Julian, yet I am not your king.” Julian’s reminder was gentle. “That much is spared us.”
“King Corm still rules in Aravis,” Ludovic agreed. “Long may he do so. The prince-bishop will be most interested in the circumstances of your return.”
Julian was rueful. “As am I. Two voyages across the river Styx and I remember neither.”
“It was the river Lethe you crossed. Small wonder you don’t recall.” Ludovic looked thoughtful. “Yet here you are. The prince-bishop is sure to ask us why.”
Istvan had listened long enough. “Dalet called him. She must have had some talisman to conjure with.”
Ludovic nodded. “It follows. Yet the abbot assured me that the royal tombs are undisturbed.”
Istvan looked grim. “She called him. Somehow. We must learn what she’s done. Julian’s tomb must be opened.”
“It’s not a tomb. It’s an urn,” I said. “Alabaster, of Viennese workmanship.” They ignored me.
“Let me speak to the abbot,” said Ludovic. “It is an awkward situation. Still, I have the prince-bishop’s authority to do what must be done.”
The abbot was notified. The proper members of the monastic order were informed and the proper cleric called upon make appropriate prayers. The kings remains would be surveyed with respect. All would be done with the most perfect reverence.
We would learn what was missing from the effects interred with the king’s remains, and we would have to guess from that how Dalet had managed her necromancy without alerting the guards or the monks of the abbey.
I followed the discussion as we drifted along the clutter of St. Istvan’s, Julian and Ludovic exchanging views with the abbot, Istvan putting in a word or two as required. I trailed in their wake as we passed chapel after little chapel, among which was the well-guarded chamber that contained the alabaster urn the Viennese had sent to Lidia all those years ago.
Istvan followed Ludovic and the others into the chamber. The guards would have let me pass too. Belatedly I realized what I was doing. I backed up a step and bumped hard into the wall behind me. Julian turned to look at me, and I recognized the stiffness in his expression. It matched my own.
“It’s just occurred to me,” I said, trying not to sound as apologetic as I felt, “what’s in there.”
“My person, or what remains. A disagreeable thought.” Julian looked up and down the curving passage of the ambulatory. “Mistress Rosamer, would you care to bear me company?”
“Please, don’t call me that. Call me Hail.”
“Hail, then. Help distract me, I beg you. I find I would rather talk than think.
On my last visit here, I made an offering of my own. It held pride of place then. Is it still here somewhere, I wonder?”
“What sort of offering?” I followed him back to the nave. We craned our necks to study the trophies overhead.
“A votive crown. A replica of St. Istvan’s crown. We’ll be hard-pressed to find it, if it hangs too high among the cobwebs.”
“A replica of St. Istvan’s crown … Who made it for you?” I was sure I knew the answer.
“Gil did. He grumbled when I bade him use gold foil over base metal. If he’d had his way, this place would have been a shrine to attract thieves, not pilgrims. The less gold, the less occasion for larceny.”
I managed to squeak the name. “Gil Maspero?”
“Heard of him, have you? He had a good opinion of himself, and he always claimed he’d finish famous. Was he right?”
“Yes.”
Julian crowed with laughter. “I hope he never knew it. Insufferable, that would make him. He was hard enough to bear while he was merely the finest craftsman at my court.”
“Or any other.”
“Just what he would have said. How do you know of him?”
While we walked slowly along the nave, necks aching, eyes strained to pick out the shape of a crown, however dusty, among the vast clutter overhead, I told him of my interest in Maspero’s work. Julian listened attentively and I think we were both careful not to let our thoughts stray back to the memorial chapel, back to the urn and its contents.
I spied the crown at last, hanging between a battered dulcimer and a mason’s trowel. Only the gleam of gold, all but lost beneath the dust, betrayed its presence. I had to narrow my eyes to study it, hanging in its wire cradle five feet above my head.
As grimy as it was, the circlet was still beautiful, a ring of linked panels. It did not look merely gilded. Maspero had given it solidity as well as grace.
Julian regarded it with satisfaction. “The original is far older, far heavier, yet no better crafted. I assume it is still safe in the royal regalia.”
[Galazon 00] When the King Comes Home Page 12
