Shroud of Shadow (10 page)

Jacob steepled his fingers, peered at Francis through his spectacles. Beneath his feet was the skin of a large lion, a fitting rug for the desk of the Aldernachts, and on an impulse, Jacob kicked off his shoes and burrowed his toes into the warm fur, smiling in a manner guaranteed to disturb Francis.
I'm not dead yet, you young whelp. My heart isn't what it used to be, and my pecker might kill me yet, but I'm no corpse. You'll just have to wait.

But, inwardly, he was shaking his head. Francis: so much like him, so little like Marjorie. But then, he had driven Marjorie away: she had had no influence in the growth of her children. Fitting, then, that Jacob be at last confronted with his own reflection, a reflection determined to devour him.

“We'll go to Furze next week, Francis,” he said slowly, surprised to find a catch in his voice. Marjorie had been gone for almost thirty years: odd that her absence should still affect him so. But though he could not clear his mind of the past, he could clear his throat of tightness, and he swallowed and settled his spectacles. “You'll be able to see for yourself.”

***

From Hypprux, Natil and Omelda made their way south across the vast flax fields that surrounded the town and made it wealthy. The road was a narrow ribbon of dirt, the close-sown flax crowding up against it. Above them, the sky pressed down like a burnished plate, squeezing the travelers between heaven and earth.

This was the way Natil traveled, the way she had traveled for the last century: slowly, on foot, in the open. But while she herself had no complaints about such a life, she knew that the terrible openness of the plains and the nights spent far from any shelter save trees and perhaps a ditch were a constant torment for her companion. Sleeping beneath the sky, playing and busking in roofless plazas and squares: what little security Omelda had once possessed was now gone, and Natil could give her nothing with which to replace it save the wanderings and uncertainties of a harper's life.

They stopped to eat in the meager shade of some neglected trees. What had once been a stream wandered nearby, a muddy ditch whose water had probably been diverted for irrigation. Omelda took her food silently, but though the dullness in her eyes told Natil that it was sext more surely than any distant tolling of cathedral bells, the young woman did not ask for aid. She seemed resigned, discouraged, depressed. She could not learn what Natil presumed to teach.

Presumed to teach. The harper winced. How could she presume to teach anything when her own encroaching humanity made her less than sure of it herself?

She glanced at the sky, a gesture that had become for her as habitual as Omelda's sweeps at her ears . . . and just as fruitless: she was looking for something that would not exist for five hundred years. She was looking for a glitter. She was looking for a 747. She was looking for hope.

Omelda spoke. “Where are we . . . really going, Natil?”

Natil felt herself squirm inwardly. What had she hoped to do? Had she really thought that there was sufficient time left to her to do anything? It was not a matter of technique: it was a matter of living. What had made her think that, fading as she was, she could teach Omelda how to live?

“I . . . have business in Malvern Forest,” she said.

Omelda nodded. “Does . . . it include me?”

Natil kept her eyes averted.

Omelda nodded, sighed. “I can't learn what . . . you want me to learn. I know that now.”

The harper found herself unwilling to admit defeat. “You could learn, given time.”

Omelda fixed her with dark, clouded, disbelieving eyes. “But there isn't time, is there?”

Natil was fighting with herself. She wanted to say that Omelda was right. She wanted to give up, to fade, to stop this endless fool's errand of trying to help a world that was far too damaged for any kind of mending.

But a few feet away, a girl with demons in her head was sitting beneath a scrubby tree, and five hundred years ahead and two thousand leagues to the west, George Morrison and a woman as yet unnamed were standing in a run-down diner. Natil was seeing the present, the dying, but she—perhaps, maybe, it could be so—was also seeing the future . . . and the living.

She was not seeing the past and the pain and the despair: she was seeing the present and the future. She was seeing faces.

And she caught her breath. Because she was suddenly unwilling to fade.

For a long time, she sat silently, examining Omelda. Finally: “Do you want to go back to your convent?”

Omelda's eyes had closed, and she had slumped back against the tree. There was nothing above her but a few bare branches and the endless sky. There was nothing ahead of her save . . .

“It was safe there,” she whispered, “but I'd go mad if I went back. I don't want to go mad.”

Natil nodded. “Then we must go elsewhere.” She rose, picked up her harp and her bundle.

Omelda opened her eyes. “Where?”

Natil pointed to the east. No 747 confirmed her course, but she knew it nonetheless. “Ypris is in this direction. It is a young town, recently rebuilt. There is wealth there. We will find you a position.”

Omelda dropped her head. “Natil . . .”

Natil took her hand, pulled her to her feet. “I said that I would teach you. It will take time, and you will have to learn to endure your voices for a while, but I promise you . . .” She felt an inner tremor, pressed on in defiance of it. “I promise you that I will be with you until you are well. I might have to travel, for I must earn my bread; and I might have to leave you at times, but I promise that I will always be back . . . until . . .” She squeezed Omelda's hand. “. . . until your voices are stilled.”

She led Omelda to a crossroads. They turned east, towards Ypris.

Albrecht had seen Rome. They could have Rome.

They, in this case, were the cardinals and the Curia, the sycophants and hangers-on and assorted parasitical little (try as he might, Albrecht found his generosity failing him here) human beings who presently governed Holy Church. Michelangelo might carve stone until his strong Florentine arms dropped off, and Raphael could paint until the colors blinded him without altering in the slightest the fact that Rome was a smelly city full of people so concerned with gold and glory and worldly matters that they had done much to shatter the faith of an entire continent.

And Bishop Albrecht, riding the trail that switch-backed up the slopes of Shrinerock Mountain, crossed himself, because his thoughts really were getting rather out of hand. He stopped his horse, gave the thoughts and the memories a good shove off the edge of the cliff, and listened, satisfied, as they were dashed to bits on the rocks far below.

Mattias, his chief clerk, reined in also, motioned for the other clerks and notaries to go on ahead. “A fine day, Excellency.” His voice was cheerful amid the passing clop of hooves and swish of tails.

“A godly day, Mattias,” said Albrecht. And it was, too. The grasslands, though rank and overgrown—all that was left of formerly rich pastures—swept out towards the north, green with the arrival of spring. Even Furze looked promising from this altitude. The cathedral
could
have been progressing, the economy
might
have been improving. From a distance, anything was possible, and it was such a warm, pleasant day that Albrecht was willing to believe the best. “A godly day,” he repeated.

With a nod to Mattias, he tugged at the reins, and his horse took him up the road toward Shrinerock Abbey. The landscape below grew greener with distance, Furze grew smaller, and, oddly enough, Saint Adrian's spring, though it bubbled out of a cave near the base of the mountain, grew louder and louder, until its sound attained the strength and constant presence of a guardian spirit.

Albrecht, as was customary, had given the abbey formal notice of this annual visitation and examination several weeks ago. Dame Agnes, the abbess, ran such an exemplary convent that Albrecht had never yet had cause to register anything about Shrinerock save
omnia bene
, but one of the duties of a bishop was to visit the women's religious houses within his diocese; and certainly Shrinerock, well run and placid, was an exceedingly pleasant duty in a cure beset by financial ruin and an arrogant Inquisition.

Dame Agnes was pious, efficient, and thrifty; and she and her ladies invariably approached the visitation—which, in other houses, was frequently a rather frightful ordeal—with cheerful equanimity. But when the wooden gates did not swing open at the approach of the bishop and his party, when Dame Agnes herself did not step out of her abbey, crosier in hand, all ready to escort him to the chapel; when, instead, the elderly porter assigned to the gate stared at him from the loophole with an expression of consternation and bewilderment on his gnarled face, and he heard a woman's voice shouting:

“
O my God! It's Bishop Albrecht! Someone run and call Dame Agnes!
”

. . . Albrecht realized that something was wrong.

This was most strange: along with the other papers he had brought, Albrecht had a receipt from Dame Agnes herself, written in her own hand, in the very best Latin, and sealed with the abbey signet, acknowledging his notice to her of today's visitation. He had assumed that all would be ready for his arrival. Such had always been the case.

Until now.

Still bewildered, though apparently concluding that it would not do to leave the Bishop of Furze waiting in front of a closed gate, the porter opened the heavy wooden doors, giving Albrecht and his men entrance into a clean, simple courtyard with neat herb gardens. Nothing amiss here, certainly, and from what Albrecht could see as he waiting, still astride his horse, the entire abbey exhibited the same care and attention and good housekeeping as the gardens.

Odd. Very odd.

Dame Agnes—plainly out of breath—arrived in a few minutes. A novice—arriving from an opposite door—brought the crosier and thrust it into her hands. The nuns—exchanging many a look of something close to terror—assembled hurriedly. The abbey church was hastily prepared for the customary high mass, and the chaplain knelt at the door to kiss the episcopal ring.

Albrecht did his best to act as though nothing were amiss, and he managed to celebrate mass with dignity and attention. But his thoughts were running slightly ahead of him, and he unrobed afterward with the fervent hope that the upcoming meeting in the big hall of the castle that served as a chapter house would explain matters.

But, no: worse and worse. Dame Agnes had apparently prepared no formal receipt of the summons to visitation, and evidently had to send her prioress and subprioress to rummage through chests and files for the documents relating to her election and installation, the
status domus
, and the charter granted to the abbey by Baron Martin delMari when he turned the ruined castle over to the Benedictines.

The parchments arrived. Albrecht took them from the prioress and subprioress and nodded his thanks, disliking intensely the fact that Agnes was crimson with embarrassment and her nuns, from the obedientiaries down to the novices, were obviously frightened. Siegfried, he thought, might appreciate such reactions, likewise the members of the Curia, but not Albrecht of Hamburg.

Troubled, therefore, Albrecht laid the requested documents aside and said that he was sorry that he had inconvenienced the abbey in such a manner, and that he would defer the personal examination of the nuns until the next day.

“Dame Agnes,” he finished. “Would you dismiss the good sisters?”

Agnes nodded. She signed to the nuns that they could leave.

Albrecht cleared his throat. “And please remain behind after they have left, Dame Agnes. We obviously have to talk.” With a glance at Mattias. “Alone.”

The nuns filed out of the hall. Mattias, with a knowing air, herded the clerks and notaries after them. Agnes stood silently in her place, hands clenched within her sleeves, and the door of the hall closed with a sound not dissimilar to the shutting of a tomb.

Albrecht passed a hand over his face. This was not at all the impression he wanted to create. But, “My dear Dame Agnes,” he said, “I think you need to explain some things.”

Dame Agnes, though, was so mortified that she knelt before him and repeated the
Confiteor
in fright. Albrecht, just as mortified, raised her to her feet, led her to a chair, and made her sit down.

He hobbled over to another seat as Agnes produced a small handkerchief and dabbed at her temples. “Forgive us, Excellency,” she said. “This is so . . . unusual. This is just so utterly . . . unusual.”

Albrecht, who could think of nothing particularly unusual about anything save the nuns' reactions, nodded slowly. “I was under the impression that you'd be expecting me.”

“Well, yes,” said Agnes. “But—by Our Lady!—not so soon after, you see.”

“After?”

Dame Agnes dropped her handkerchief to her lap. “After Brother Siegfried.”

Siegfried? Albrecht flushed a little, cleared his throat. “Dame Agnes, I beg you: start from the beginning.”

A long pause. Agnes stared at Albrecht as though she stood accused of some crime she knew nothing about save that she had obviously committed it because she would not otherwise be accused of it. “Siegfried arrived last week. We'd already received your notice of visitation, and Siegfried had sent a messenger the day before, so we welcomed him . . .” She paused again. Albrecht was staring carefully at his thumbs, trying very hard not to form any opinion in particular. “I hope that was all right,” she said quickly.

It certainly was not, but, “Of course it was all right,” Albrecht said just as quickly. “Pray, continue.”

Agnes put her handkerchief away, having collected what scraps of her composure she could find. “He celebrated mass,” she said, “and then we went into chapter. One of his assistants—I think it was Giovanni—preached a sermon, and then Siegfried asked for the usual documents. He was Your Excellency's deputy . . .”

Deputy!
Albrecht fought to keep his eyebrows from lifting towards his gray hair.