Barbara had said something much the same on that day they first debated Fortunatus together. The Mechanistic Heresy she had called it: the idea that the mysteries could be teased out into equations and formulas if only one knew how to measure them. Fortunatus may have flirted with the heresy but Gaudericus was a serious mechanic.
It was another thing entirely to move from that promise of understanding to its fulfillment. Gaudericus seemed to have created his own language to describe his philosophies: a bastard mixture of the Latin of formal theology with bits of Greek that he used to distinguish his own theories and occasionally a wordless glyph when all available language failed.
At first, Barbara dove as deeply into the text as she did, sorting out the places where he left familiar paths to strike out into the wilderness. Barbara’s Greek was far better than her own and better suited to the obscure language of Gaudericus’s code. But when it came to matching the text’s descriptions with her own experiences and memories she could sense Barbara’s growing frustration.
“You talk about charis and periroe as if you could see it right in front of you!” she burst out one evening after another puzzled description of the oddities at the cathedral.
Antuniet’s words came back to her. Not everyone does, you know. Did Antuniet see things? She wasn’t ready to ask. There was something in the other woman’s cool aloofness that made her want to be sure of her own ground first before exposing herself. Now that she was analyzing them, she saw her memories in a new light. Her childhood visions were coming back in more clarity through the habits of dismissal and denial that had been imposed on her. It was time to unlearn those habits—to stop simply accepting the movement of trees and clouds and re-learn to see the wind.
Margerit put her pen carefully back in the stand and rubbed her eyes. When she started thinking in Gaudericus’s flowery metaphors it was time to stop for the day—the night, really. Once again she’d outlasted any trace of movement downstairs. She felt a twinge of guilt. Barbara had long since gone to bed but Maitelen would be waiting up for her, or more likely napping in the chair by her fire. Margerit had once suggested that she didn’t need to wait up when she was only studying and didn’t have the complexities and ornaments of an evening gown to undo, but Maitelen had responded tartly that she hoped she knew her job better than that.
Once she was changed into nightclothes and alone again, Margerit slipped out of bed for one further question. It seemed strange that she couldn’t recall ever noticing the fluctus—the swirling flow of colors that tracked the forces at work—during her private prayers and celebrations of minor mysteries. It only appeared during the formal public rites. She pulled out the small medallion of her name-saint that she always carried and called to mind the oldest of the daily mysteries she’d learned. One she knew best by heart. The familiar Latin formulas rolled off her tongue almost without thought.
She strained her perception, trying to see actively what had always been a passive thing before. Nothing. Was it a matter of setting? Did it need more people? Was it the nature of the petition? Was it that she, herself, was only a Seer and not a Doer? But no, there had been Chertrut’s blossoms. For all that Gaudericus took a practical approach, her questions still seemed more specific than his answers. Perhaps the best plan was to begin where she had last seen the greater effects. Not at Sunday’s Mass; the Holy Mysteries just…were. If anything, the contemplation of Christ emptied her mind rather than filling it with visions. No, she’d try afterward, when people stayed behind in the cathedral for more personal and pointed conversations with the saints. That would be the time to watch and see what was to be seen.
* * *
Aunt Bertrut was not so much surprised as amused at her apparent sudden devotion. “Is there something in particular you need to pray for?” she teased.
“I’m…studying,” Margerit offered as explanation. “There’s no need for you to stay. Barbara will be with me, of course.”
And Mesner Pertinek, who had happened by no chance to be standing near, offered quietly to see her aunt home. Margerit saw him exchange the briefest of glances with Barbara and found herself wondering what might have passed between them in those hidden negotiations of the world of armins. At what point did Bertrut’s personal life become Barbara’s professional concern?
“Take the carriage,” she offered. “I don’t know how long I’ll be and it wouldn’t do to leave the horses standing. We can walk home.” Indeed, it was only the rules of fashion that made a carriage necessary for the short trip to the cathedral at all.
When the others had been swept away in the crowd of departing worshippers, Barbara asked, “What do you have in mind?” Her tone implied some doubt of the stated purpose. Margerit realized that she hadn’t had an opportunity earlier to share her plans.
“Watching some small mysteries. I didn’t ask—that is, I know I don’t usually need you after Mass on Sundays.”
Barbara shrugged, but it was the shrug that said whatever plans she may have had were set aside.
Those coming to the church to work personal mysteries, Margerit reasoned, would choose the side chapels: the spaces and altars dedicated to the favored saints of the city. She chose the Lady Chapel as her starting place, mostly for the greater traffic it saw. On the opposite side of the aisle from the chapel proper, set against a screen that stood between two pillars, there was a plain wooden bench. Margerit settled herself where she could easily see all those who knelt at the altar, bringing candles, relics, prayers and the other essentials of their petitions. She schooled her mind to a waiting—if not entirely patient—stillness.
Although the Virgin’s petitioners were many—there were rarely fewer than six or eight figures present—it seemed nearly an hour before the first hint of visio brushed against her senses. It came when an elderly woman, a widow by her clothing, drew out a slip of folded paper. She spread it out and tilted it to catch the flickering candlelight. As she stumbled indistinctly through the words written on it, the paper seemed to take on a soft glow. Margerit caught her breath and leaned forward. From the corner of her eye she saw Barbara stiffen and shift her stance to look around, then relax once more. Now the widow folded the paper once more and lit a candle from one of those already burning around the base of the altar. She held the twist of paper into the flame. The light flared, blooming into a quickly-fading haze that enveloped the woman’s hands until the heat of the flame forced her to flick the last scrap into the pooled wax beside the wick. The widow seemed to notice nothing. She whispered her way automatically through an Ave then crossed herself and struggled to her feet and moved slowly out of sight through the next archway.
If she had looked away for two minutes she would have missed it. From another angle, the concrescatio—the flare when the petition was concluded—might have been lost against the light of the earthly candles. And from the look of patient resignation on the widow’s face at her departure, she had no knowledge that her supplication had been heard so clearly. What had she asked for? The shape of her petition was a common one, differing only in the nature of the verses, the symbols on the paper and the saint to whom they were addressed. Gaudericus had indicated that the form of the visio would often echo the nature of the mystery, but as always he had been maddeningly unclear. Perhaps something to do with her hands? But that could mean anything from relief for rheumatism to a plea for skill in some work.
While she was still contemplating those questions, a second flicker of fluctus caught her eye but this time it was brief and off to one side. By the time she had turned her head to follow it, it was gone.
When another hour had passed, Margerit had learned one important lesson: she had been looking too large. The splendid swirls and swellings of color of the formal public mysteries were as the noonday sun to starlight. And like starlight, the flickers and glows of these small personal mysteries were often best seen obliquely. On two occasions, when she stared directly, only mundane objects remained, but when her eyes slid past, the othe
r light returned.
She was beginning to suspect one other thing that Fortunatus had hinted at. The notice of the saints—if that was indeed what she perceived—was not granted for need or for devotion or for depth of learning or even to those most in want of grace. The young mother, come to plead for the life of a child wracked with fever, was lit only by the golden candlelight. An older man who had not brought any petition at all but was making a circuit of the side chapels was followed by the faintest of afterglows as he moved, as if his whole self were a mystery waiting to be invoked. The young man in scholar’s robes who laid out the paraphernalia of an elaborate invocation stirred a bright, complex vision that dissipated abruptly, leaving him untouched by the Virgin’s blessing. For some who were touched, the fluctus sometimes seemed to come from within; for others it centered on the objects and actions of their celebration. Once, when a cloaked figure passed by without pausing, the altar itself shimmered briefly, like the ripples on a lake caused by a passing breeze.
Margerit finally stood, stiff from the chill, knowing that if she were seeing more now than when she sat down, it was because she was learning how to look. And to listen, though she was far less confident that she could distinguish the ordinary noises of the echoing space from any whispers of the saints. But now she knew that if she could learn to look properly, there was much to observe.
She could tell that Barbara was all curiosity but she wouldn’t ask here in public. Margerit leaned close so her whispers wouldn’t intrude on others. “I want to go look at the floor by the main altar. The strangeness during Mauriz’s ritual seemed to happen there.”
In appearance, it was much like the space near every cathedral altar—at least, those that had stood for more than a handful of centuries. Tiles that once had formed careful and artistic patterns were patched with repairs and renovations and intruded on by flat stones whose inscriptions were lost to long years of footsteps. Most of those would mark the graves of men prominent enough in life to earn a more holy resting place after death. Somewhere below, if tradition were believed, was the chamber housing the relics of Mauriz, dating back to the founding of the first church on this site. Once there might have been a stone marking that location, but more likely it had been assumed that the knowledge would endure down the years. And stones might be moved, new foundations laid. The cathedrals of capital cities outgrew their origins and were rebuilt time and again, erasing the traces of the original plans.
Margerit closed her eyes and tried to remember just where it was that the swirling lights had seemed to settle. A meaningful cough from Barbara’s direction brought her attention back. A man in priestly vestments was approaching with an expression poised to choose between helpfulness and officiousness. Margerit didn’t recognize him from the earlier service but there were any number of junior priests at an institution of this size.
“Is there anything you need?” he asked.
She considered an evasive reply. There was no predicting what his opinion might be of women scholars and she wasn’t even certain how to phrase her request. But it was no small thing to speak anything but truth to a priest.
“I’m a—I’m studying at the university and I was…curious about something that happened during the tutela Mass for Saint Mauriz.”
“Perhaps I could explain if you wish.”
Margerit shook her head without thinking how it would look. “It wasn’t that. It was something I saw—something…”
She must have given a certain emphasis to the word “saw” because a look of unexpected understanding came over him. “Are you blessed with phasmata then?”
She nodded with relief at not having to explain.
“I am not so fortunate,” he continued, “but our late archbishop—it was said he sometimes heard the singing of angels during the mysteries. Was that your question? Is this the first time you’ve seen them?”
“No, not the first,” Margerit explained. “It was…there was something different about the service than what I’ve seen back in Chalanz.”
“Chalanz?” he echoed. Another layer of understanding dawned. “You’re the Sovitre girl, aren’t you?”
Margerit could hear what he didn’t say: the heiress. But it showed in the more conciliatory tone to his voice.
“Naturally you must understand that the forms of the mysteries will be different here than in the country.” He sounded as if he envisioned Chalanz as a market crossroads, peopled with farmers and superstitious charm-wives.
She tried not to be offended. “I was trying to remember the forms of the ceremony—what the priest was doing when I had the visions. Bartholomeus only has the general order but none of the liturgy itself. Is it written anywhere?”
“Of course. We keep an expositulum for every mystery performed here. Let me—you say you are a scholar at the university?” From his tone she knew he’d placed her with the mere dabblers. “Then you know how to handle books, I assume. I think I might get you permission. I’ll give your name to our librarian. Come back on an ordinary day and ask for the clerk Iohannes. He’ll help you find what you want.”
* * *
It had gone far better than she feared, despite the priest’s maddening condescension. So the previous archbishop had been an auditor? That made her doubt her concerns. Surely he would have noticed if Saint Mauriz’s rites were flawed in some way. What had led her to think she had made some momentous discovery? But she would see it through and if nothing else today’s exercise had brought her a step closer to understanding Gaudericus.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Barbara
As Barbara watched over Margerit’s vigil in the Lady Chapel, what struck her was how difficult it might be to distinguish divine visions from madness. It was one thing to read a philosopher’s discussion of charis or fluctus, but it was deeply unsettling to see Margerit start at nothing and watch her eyes dart here and there following…what? Small wonder that few people discussed such things openly. How many vidators had chosen to doubt their own senses and keep a fearful silence? How many had been thought possessed? Not all visions had divine origins; who was to tell the difference? She had learned enough of Margerit’s childhood to see how she might have balanced between those paths. So much of what she loved had been dismissed as irrelevant by her guardians. This would have been only one more thing that was never discussed between them. But the rest of the world might not be inclined to that benign neglect. A word, at the right time, might save future grief.
The unexpected watch in the cathedral meant that it wasn’t until Tuesday afternoon that she was able to learn the results of LeFevre’s interview with Mesner Pertinek. Perhaps that was for the best. It would have been a conversation most comfortably held between men alone. She was trailed again on her way to LeFevre’s office. Now that she was watching for them, there had been more than one occasion when she was certain she’d spotted her unknown creditor’s men. Never following as closely as the last time—and not the same man—but neither trying for concealment. She met their eyes, glared daggers and ignored them. So long as they never tried to follow north of the river they were no more than an annoyance.
But still she mentioned the matter to LeFevre. “Have you decided what you can tell me? It would help to have some idea of who they answer to.”
He took out one of his calling cards and wrote a few lines on the back then set it aside for her to take when the ink was dry. “Read this commentary on the Statuta Antiqua Alpenniae. It’s a start, at least, and not one that breaks my word. It won’t explain anything important,” he cautioned, “but it should give you reason to trust that you’re in no legal danger. For what they may do outside the law?” He shrugged. “There’s never any defense against that except to be careful.”
They went from the front office into the smaller room in back where there would be no interruptions from casual business matters.
“He does intend marriage,” LeFevre began with no other introduction. “He understands now that Maisetra Bertrut has no
significant income of her own. Even so, he himself suggested that it be tied up beyond his reach.”
“But…why?” Barbara wondered, waving a hand to encompass the situation as a whole.
LeFevre fixed her with a thoughtful gaze. “He’s a lonely man. Oh, to be sure, the house is crowded enough—too crowded I think for anyone’s comfort. But he’s been trapped by his birth as surely as any debutante. Too well-born to take on a profession that could support a wife. Not well-born enough to attract an heiress. Too poor to support a household on his own. If I may be indelicate, I doubt he’s lacked entirely for female company, but he could hardly afford the class of mistress who could be a true companion for a man of his taste and education. Maisetra Sovitre came to his attention and he learned enough about her to think he might have something of value to offer in exchange for her hand and what comes with it.”
It sounded remarkably cold-blooded when put that way but no more so than most matches. “What is it he has to offer? I assume he expects to take up residence at Tiporsel. Whatever allowance he receives from his family must be barely enough for him to make a respectable presence in society.”
LeFevre held up a finger to stop her there. “That is exactly what he offers: a respectable presence in society. I confess that I’ve been uneasy since Maistir Fulpi returned to Chalanz. However useless he may have been as a social escort, the presence of a man in the household makes a difference. And there will certainly be doors that will be opened for Maisetra Margerit by a Pertinek that couldn’t be opened by money alone. The advantages are hardly one-sided.”
Barbara made a wry face as a thought came to her. “And will she then become Mesnera Bertrut? That would take some getting used to.”
He waved dismissively. “I doubt it. There would be no real advantage to it and I doubt she’d care to be burdened by the requirements of the rank. She doesn’t strike me as the sort to be dazzled by the illusion of nobility and we can hardly expect that there will be children to think of. No, I think they’ll choose the simple contract and she will be plain Maisetra Pertinek.”
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