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Authors: Heather Rose Jones

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BOOK: Daughter of Mystery
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He strode from the room, pushing through the people standing closest to the door. Barbara didn’t relax until she heard him shouting distantly for his horse to be fetched.

LeFevre accepted a glass of wine from one of the waiting attendants and once again cleared his throat. “Please forgive the interruption. I fear the young man has suffered a disappointment.” With a repetition becoming ritual, he once again shuffled the papers before him and continued reading.

Now the document fell into the usual pattern. The servants were remembered. Distant relations and absent friends received gifts or keepsakes. The local notables were granted their tokens. A sum to the cathedral in Rotenek and another to the village church at Saveze for Masses to be said. It continued for several pages, as the baron’s circles had been extensive and eclectic and reflected long years of tightly woven webs of relationships. LeFevre sipped at the wine again and began a new section.

“To my goddaughter, Margerit Sovitre, in token of the love I bear for her, I leave the remainder of my properties, holdings, goods and monies, as will be detailed in the attached inventories, with the sole exception of the manor of Firumai and the sum of ten thousand crowns, which I commend to Prince Aukust in true loyalty and in the certainty of his justice.”

There was an uncomprehending silence for a moment then a gasp ran through the room as people contemplated the baron’s rumored wealth and calculated what that “remainder” might entail. Barbara allowed herself the hint of a smile. She knew he had intended to thwart Estefen’s smug expectations but thought the church would figure more prominently in the strategy. This—this was a slap in the face above and beyond a social death knell. Estefen’s debts were crippling, though small enough compared to his former expectations. The baronial estate, encumbered as it was, would provide little but the requirement of upholding his new station. He couldn’t even sell it, as it was bound to the title. She spared some pity for Margerit’s situation: she had inherited a fortune and along with it the deep enmity of a man with powerful friends.

Margerit herself looked confused. Her uncle looked stunned, with a rapidly growing awareness lighting him from within. It was only when Barbara turned back to LeFevre and saw him gazing at her with a worried look that it occurred to her what she had not yet heard in the will.

LeFevre raised his hand for silence and continued, “—with one stipulation that will be detailed below. Regarding the woman known as Barbara who has served me well and faithfully as my duelist. It had always been my intent to see her established in her chosen course of life and it is to my sorrow that I could not live long enough to accomplish that goal. I would not see her cast out alone and friendless into the world, without protection or support. Therefore the woman Barbara is to be included in that portion of my possessions that I leave to my goddaughter Margerit and—”

Barbara thought at first that she hadn’t heard correctly—and no wonder, given the roaring in her ears that drowned out the burst of startled exclamations among the crowd. They meant nothing. The world had narrowed to her and LeFevre and the treacherous papers in his hands. She approached the desk slowly, her voice husky with disbelief. “He promised I would be free! You were there—you heard him!”

LeFevre glanced up at her briefly then looked back at the papers as if unwilling to meet her gaze and said, “If the will were silent on this matter, then a verbal statement might be taken into consideration. But the document is very clear.” And low, so only they two could hear, “Barbara, my hands are tied.”

She slammed a palm against the desk. The baron had been many things, but he had always been a man of his word. “He
promised
!” The swift descent from dark amusement to despair had left her light-headed. Someone—she didn’t know who—laid a hand roughly on her arm and she instinctively spun away, breaking the hold and falling into a crouch with her back to the windows and her blade drawn. A woman screamed. Around the room chairs scraped the floor as people came to their feet.

Barbara’s anger was washed away by a flood of panic at what she’d done. There was no law that would back her. No excuse that would stand. She saw the shocked look on LeFevre’s face. It had never occurred to him not to trust her and she’d failed that trust. Even as she edged backward to keep everyone in sight, she wondered if flight were possible. In an eyeblink her imagination took her out the window, had her stealing a horse, fleeing into the mountains, then…what? In two more minutes someone would have run to fetch help and there would be more weapons in the room and she would need to kill a man…or be killed…or both.

Chapter Nine

Margerit

The remainder of my properties.
There had been no time to think seriously on what that meant in the chaos that followed. And then Barbara was backing slowly toward the edge of the room with her sword out and her eyes darting wildly. Margerit knew how it must look but she’d seen Barbara’s face when she spun around. In that brief instant there had been no anger, no murderous intent, no emotion at all. Only afterward had she realized what she’d done. And now the room felt like the moment between the lightning flash and the crack of the thunder.

Without any thought or plan Margerit rose and walked slowly toward her, stretching her hand out in entreaty. Her heart was pounding. When she came within inches of the blade’s point she hesitated. Barbara backed up another step and then the tip of her sword wavered and dipped toward the floor. She seemed paralyzed. Margerit closed the distance in two short steps and reached out to touch her lightly on the wrist. She closed her other hand around the base of the blade. Quietly, so that only the two of them could hear, she said, “Barbara, you’re frightening them—I’m afraid someone will do you an injury.”

“Don’t…please,” Barbara pleaded. “It’s sharp.”

“I know,” Margerit answered. She could feel the edge against her palm but she held firm. “Give me the sword. Let go. Please!”

So gently that the steel moved not a hairsbreadth, Barbara released her grip. Margerit took the hilt in her other hand and held the weapon lightly, tucked into the folds of her skirts. Her palm stung and she clenched it into a hidden fist.

The moment she stepped back, there was a rush of some of the bolder men. Margerit tried to protest as they seized Barbara by the arms and forced her to her knees but no one paid her any mind in their haste to make up for their former timidity. She raised her voice, hating how it quavered. “Maistir LeFevre, I think we can solve this problem simply enough. If Barbara has been given to me, then
I
will free her.”

LeFevre held up his hand to stop her. “I think it would be best if I finished reading this clause.” He wiped his balding forehead with a kerchief and took up the papers again. “‘And to ensure that my wishes in this matter are carried out, it is stipulated that Margerit is to take and maintain the woman Barbara in her own household and Barbara is to serve her as armin until such time as both of them shall have attained their majority. And if these conditions are not met, then my legacy to both Margerit and the crown is forfeit, save that each will be given five thousand crowns, and the residue of my estate will be given instead to the Convent of Saint Orisul, for the benefit of my soul.’”

The gathered crowd again erupted in noisy comment and speculation. Margerit heard her uncle begin to speak and raised her voice over them all. It was her one chance to see it through before she lost courage entirely. “Please, Uncle, let me speak.” From the look he returned her she knew there would be a price to pay later. Her voice was shaking even more now but she continued. “When I came here today, I had no expectation of being remembered with anything more than a token. Instead, I’ve been left a fortune beyond what I can imagine. Five thousand crowns is still far more generous than anything I had a reason to expect. What is the harm to me if I forfeit an inheritance that I’ve never touched in order to see justice done? Give Barbara her freedom and let the convent have its fortune. I will be content.” In the back of her mind, a voice whispered,
Is this worth the price?
And the answer,
Let her be what I can’t: free.

LeFevre was watching her with a startled and bemused expression but just as he might have spoken, Uncle Fulpi’s voice cut through the room. He had pushed his way to her side and looked as if he wanted to shake her. “You will do no such thing! You may be too foolish to see what you’re throwing away, but that’s why you have guardians. You have no power to alienate any part of your inheritance if I forbid it.”

“I’m afraid it’s true, Maisetra Sovitre,” LeFevre confirmed.

For the first time the magistrate spoke up, adding, “I believe that Prince Aukust will also have some opinion on any action that would greatly reduce his gift.”

Her uncle’s voice turned harder. “You needn’t concern yourself with this matter further, Margerit. I have no intention of allowing this,” he glanced at Barbara with an expression of distaste, “this unwomanly freak into my house. There are only two years until the conditions of the will are fulfilled. Something will be arranged.”

The moment was slipping away. If she couldn’t give Barbara her freedom, she could at least try to keep her safely close by. Her uncle’s looming presence was daunting but an unfamiliar strength flowed into her from her clenched fists—one on the hilt of the sword still half-hidden in her skirts and the other in a white-knuckled ball. She looked over at LeFevre and asked, “Could you read that last part again? I’m not certain I understood it perfectly.”

A small smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he bent over the sheaf of papers with a faint cough. “And to ensure that my wishes in this matter are carried out, it is stipulated that Margerit is to take and maintain the woman Barbara in her own household and—”

“Uncle,” Margerit interrupted. “I’m afraid the will is clear. If I’m not to forfeit, then nothing different can be arranged.” Before he could respond, she turned and took two quick steps over to where Barbara still knelt. In a quiet but firm voice she asked, “Barbara, do you promise to serve me as well and faithfully as you served my godfather?”

Barbara hesitated and Margerit thought she could see the reflection of all those other roads that had briefly stretched before her. “I promise,” she said.

In the impulse of the moment, Margerit stretched out her hand to her—still clenched tightly—and glared at the men holding Barbara with what she hoped was a commanding gaze. They loosed their grip and Barbara reached out to take the hand and press it to her lips. Margerit winced slightly as her fingers relaxed and saw the faint smear of red left on Barbara’s fingertips. Barbara had seen it too and jerked her gaze up in concern. Margerit locked eyes with her and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Barbara nodded just as faintly then rose to her feet as Margerit handed back her sword and she returned it home. As Margerit turned back to LeFevre’s desk, she saw Barbara step into the same post she had always taken with the baron: one step behind and to the right. She glanced back briefly. Barbara’s expression was relaxed now—as if the world had returned to spinning on its true axis. The rest of the room was staring and whispering but she paid them no mind.

LeFevre once more shuffled his sheaf of papers, bringing all eyes back to him. “That’s all there is of note. There are the inventories and lists but they needn’t be included in the public reading. Maistir Fulpi, perhaps Maisetra Sovitre’s guardians could meet with me in the next day or two to begin on the details.”

And then, it seemed, the reading was over. In the milling confusion of the exodus, Barbara stuck to her as if they had been harnessed together. There was a delay at the carriages for Uncle Fulpi, who had stayed to make further arrangements. Then a brief argument when he returned to find the new armin ensconced inseparably at her side in the smaller chaise. She had hoped for a respite at least until they returned home, but he joined her for the ride, first shouting, then cold and cutting and at last retreating into a stony silence. It took no dissembling, when they arrived, to plead a headache and retreat for her room. Barbara mounted a rear-guard action against her aunts’ sudden solicitude as they pursued her with insistent offers of tea and cold compresses. She answered Barbara’s continual questioning looks with a steadfast shake of the head until she finally was able to close the door behind them and turn the key in the lock. Released at last from the need for control, Margerit sat on the edge of her bed, her hands still clenched in her lap. Abruptly she began crying in deep tearing gasps.

It took some time for the storm to abate. She became aware of Barbara once more when she ventured, “Maisetra, should I call someone?”

“No!” She hadn’t meant to be so forceful. She saw Barbara stiffen into her waiting pose as if rebuked. When her voice again could resolve itself into words, she said, “He was so angry. So angry. I’m frightened. What will he do?”

“Estefen?” Barbara inquired crisply.

Margerit looked up at her in confusion. “Uncle Fulpi. I’ve never defied him like that before. I never…he was so angry.” His shouting in the carriage still rang in her ears. “I’ve never…I don’t know how I could…and even so I failed.” That was what filled her with despair: that she had risked all to defy him and won nothing from it.

Barbara took a tentative step forward. “May I speak?”

Margerit was startled. She had been talking mostly to herself. When she said nothing, Barbara repeated, “May I speak?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

Barbara knelt down at the bedside, but it seemed more an intimate gesture than a servile one. “You were magnificent. You were like Penthesilia on the plains of Troy. Defeat is not dishonor. And I will never forget what you tried to do for me. What you offered to give up.”

Margerit blinked at her. She followed the sense of the words but not their meaning. But the silence had been broken and Barbara pressed further. “Let me see your hand.” She touched the back of her fist and Margerit finally unclenched it and stared at her palm where she had grasped the sword. The cut was the barest scratch; it had long since stopped bleeding. She felt like a small child about to be scolded for rough play as Barbara found a small cloth on the dresser, moistened it from the water pitcher and carefully cleaned off the smear of blood. “Do you want me to bind it up?”

BOOK: Daughter of Mystery
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