"A miracle!" Brian almost shouted the word. "A—a good miracle?"
"One I think she would desire only second to this marriage finally to you."
"What—"
"It only may be. Note, I only say it may happen. But if it does, she will wake tomorrow without the scar de Bois put on her cheek."
"That scar?" Brian's voice trembled. His eyes filled with tears. "Oh, James, she would wish that more than anything on earth! I was remiss, James—I have been very very remiss! I have had time to do it, but I should have hunted down that Hell-bound bastard and carved him into fishbait—I should have insisted on standing in for you when he challenged you before Malencontri, that time we dealt with the rogue magickian Malvinne. I should have—"
"Never mind what you should have. None of those things would have erased the scar. This may."
"Of course. Of course—De Bois may yet be alive for me to find him. But James… I hardly know how to ask. Do you have a hand in this possible miracle? I mean—with your, your—"
"Me?" said Jim. "Reassure yourself, Brian! I can swear truthfully in my turn that none of my magick will have a part in this!"
"Then it will be a true, holy miracle?"
"It may be," said Jim thoughtfully, "I don't know. In spite of the imaginings of men like myself, it may be. Remember though, Brian, the word that it will happen is may, not will."
But Brian did not answer. He had fallen to his knees on the dark carpet of damp, fallen leaves, already rotting from the rains of the past weeks. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and folded his hands together, pressing them against his lips. His lips moved slightly. He was silently praying. Jim stood and waited.
"Come, James!" said Brian, suddenly getting to his feet with clear eyes and a strong voice. "We must hurry back to the castle. I must pray in the chapel all this afternoon and night that this miracle may come to pass!"
"Wait!" said Jim, standing where he was as Brian turned and started striding off through the glade. "Come back! I'll get us both to the castle in no time at all when I'm through telling you about this. Geronde must never know that I told you anything. A long vigil in the chapel, the night before the wedding, is bound to make her curious—"
"Why?" Brian stopped and turned, staring blankly at him. "I am a knight and have my own duties to God, and prayers are privy—sacred. She would never ask—as I would not ask her."
Brian came back.
"I must do something," he said. "I cannot just wait for a miracle as wished for as this one, meantime doing nothing to show my desire and thanks to God for it!"
"That's what I've still got to tell you, and I haven't had the chance yet," said Jim. "This miracle will depend on what you yourself do—and what you must do will take all your heart, all your soul and courage!"
"Only tell me what that is!" Brian's eyes were shining in the watery sunlight.
"You must now," said Jim slowly and as seriously as he knew how to do, "spend the time between now and this coming morning with only this in your mind. Miracles are not to be questioned. Avoid giving away any hint of what you know and feel to Geronde. Do not look at her scar more than you ordinarily would. But at the same time never doubt for an instant that the miracle will come to pass. Believe with all that is in you that all of her face will once more be untouched, and never give in to the desire to look and see whether the miracle has happened—in short, your faith in it must be beyond all doubt!"
"I shall do it," said Brian simply.
They looked at each other for a second, and then Brian spoke again, almost gaily, in the sort of voice Jim had heard from him when he was about to go into battle.
"But now take us back by your magick to Malencontri, without further delay, James. I must be about my doing."
Chapter Forty-Five
Back at Malencontri, Jim felt like taking a nap but didn't dare for fear he might sleep all night. It was just as well, for the minute he and Brian appeared in the empty great hall—its three huge fireplaces blazing away, but so far not taking much chill out of the large, uninsulated space—Angie captured him.
"There you are!" she said. "Hello, Brian, any luck?"
"I had a chance at a buck. Magnificent beast, but there were too many branches in the way of an arrow."
"Too bad," said Angie. "We can use any extra food we can get, with winter all ahead of us."
"So James explained to me. But you know, James, Angela, there is extra food and to spare in other castles like those of your neighbors who have lost many more of their people to the plague than you have. They can hardly refuse to share, when you have given them a victory led by a Prince of the Blood, and under the eye of the King himself—a victory to be sung of."
Jim and Angie stared at each other. Then they both turned to face Brian.
"Brian!" said Angie. "Do you really think they'd contribute? Of course I know Geronde would share Malvern's store with us, but the plague touched as lightly there and at Smythe Castle as it did here, and the most she could give wouldn't see us through."
"Certes!" said Brian. "Your other neighbors can well afford to help. Just ask them. Common neighborliness requires their generosity in addition to everything else."
"Never thought of that," said Jim.
"Neither did I," said Angie. "But, Jim, I need you—right now. We're going to take May Heather to Mistress Plyseth and see how she feels about releasing May from being her apprentice—it was your idea."
"As for me," said Brian, "I must be about other matters. I will mention it to Geronde, who can spread the word among tomorrow's guests. See you at supper, if you are not so occupied with this business of Mistress Plyseth you miss that gathering. Bit of an appetite, myself."
He walked off towards the stairs.
"Come on, Jim!" said Angie, with the firmness of a chatelaine secure in a matter where her authority must be recognized, even over the lord of the castle.
Jim had been staring after Brian. He had seemed so much his usual unconcerned self, within a few minutes of committing himself to something that Jim could not conceive of enduring. Was it just that Brian was taking his coming night in the chapel lightly, after all? No, Brian never would—never could—be so indifferent about pledging his soul to an ordeal Jim could imagine only too clearly, knowing the chapel as he did.
No. It was his own, rather wonderful, way of facing whatever lay before him as an ordinary matter. Not with fatalism—far from it—but simply as a duty to be done.
"Coming…" said Jim vaguely, and turned to follow Angie on her way to the Serving Room. They found Gwyneth Plyseth, Mistress there, seated in a chair padded with cushions, watching a slip of a young girl in a whitish dress practicing putting plates into the warming oven for the noontime meal—here, always called dinner.
"—No, no," she was saying to the girl as they came in, "How many times must I tell you! Put the food on the plates and then warm plate and food together—m'lady! M'lord!"
She made an effort to struggle to her feet.
"Sit!" said Angie. "We've just come to tell you something. May Heather's work in the Nursing Room has been so well done we wish to make her Mistress of it. That means we must ask you to release her from her apprenticeship to you."
Gwyneth began to cry. She did not burst into tears as a younger woman might have done. Instead the tears simply began to streak down her gray, lined face.
"Oh," she said, brokenly, "I knew this day would come. May was such a comfort to me, and I was only waiting to see her back here again. So quick to understand. So good to remember! And now you will end up making her Mistress here in my place!—in this Serving Room where I have worked so long!"
She rocked slightly back and forth in her chair, weeping.
Jim melted. Angie, however, was made of sterner stuff.
"Nonsense!" she said. "You're Mistress here. You'll stay Mistress here as long as you can give orders. Who else knows what must be done in this room as well as you? How could we ever do without you? Now, you know that!"
>
Gwyneth snuffled a little and wiped her tears away.
"But May—" she began.
"May will simply come here for a few hours a day to courteously pass on to your new girl what she knows, and help her to do things that would force you to get up from your chair. May's domain is only the Nursing Room, no more."
"Bless you, m'lady—m'lord! And will she beat this new one for me? I'm afeared it's too much for me, though she's nowhere the strength of that devil—begging your pardon, m'lady, m'lord—that very good May Heather. Oh! they don't make apprentices like they used to when I was a girl!"
The new girl looked terrified.
"As for beating, we'll see," said Angie. "You know I don't greatly approve of beatings, just to help make the apprentice remember the right way to do something. I've told May what to do. But, as one Mistress to another should, she will, in all things outside my orders, listen to your wishes in this room. She understands that."
"Bless you again, m'lady. I will give up May, as apprentice, then, with a much less regret. But it is heartwarming of you to still want old bones like mine here. But I would, if God is so good to me, to die in this Serving Room where I have spent so many years."
"Knowing you, you undoubtedly will, still making sure everything is done right," said Angie. She turned to the new servant in the room. "What's your name, girl?"
"Alaine, m'lady, dotter of Will-below-the-Mill, so please you," squeaked the girl. "Ee found me a place here, so's I'd might be not get the plague, so please you." She made an awkward stab at a curtsy.
"Well, be a good girl, Alaine," said Angie, "and May'll treat you kindly."
"Oh, thank you, m'lady!" said Alaine, looking greatly reassured—but not completely. She had heard those words before.
Jim and Angie left, moving towards the Nursing Room.
"Gwyneth and the other old hands are like sled dogs," said Angie after they had walked a little distance. "If one of a dog team breaks a leg and you have to cut her out of harness, she'll run alongside on three legs, trying to still be on the team—did you know the carpenter got up from what looked like his deathbed and went back to work, and is literally flourishing?"
"I do," said Jim. "He almost bit my head off earlier today when I dropped by his shop. He was telling off a couple of his journeymen and simply included me in the list—ah, May, there you are."
"Yes, m'lord, so please you. Will you grant me a moment to put this rat in the slop bin?"
"Certainly," said Jim, and May went off to do it. She was back in the moment she had mentioned.
"Begging your forgiveness, m'lord, but holding rats is bad luck. The little terriers are wonders at killing them, but they will never learn to take them to the bin, alone."
"Hah! Yes," said Jim, in full knightly voice, "my lady wishes to give you some new orders."
Now it was May looking—not alarmed, but cautious.
"Mistress," said Angie—and May's expression relaxed into happiness,"—I'm glad to see so few patients, since I've got an extra duty for you. Idle hands are the Devil's instrument, you know."
"Indeed I do," said May, crossing herself and curtsying at the same time, so that all Superior powers might be equally honored. "I will gladly—"
"It is simply that Mistress Plyseth has a new apprentice named Alaine," said Angie, "and when you have an hour or so to spare, I'd like you to drop by the Serving Room and teach her some things Mistress Plyseth herself now finds difficult to do. You are, of course, a Mistress yourself now, and Mistress Plyseth understands that your helping her is a courtesy on your part—you are in no way under her orders, though, as more youthful than she is, you will defer to her in manners as a younger Mistress should."
"Yes, m'lady."
"One other thing. You know my views on beating apprentices to make sure they remember what they're taught?"
"Indeed, m'lady!" said May.
"I have reminded her of them, so you need only follow her views as you think best. I would not give this advice to most young Mistresses, but you are not afraid of learning new ways."
"I fear nothing, m'lady." said May, stoutly—it was literally true, Jim knew.
"But I will give it to you, because I think you have the wits to use it to advantage. The truth—though it's rarely known—is that an apprentice will learn more and quicker if she or he loves you, rather than fears you. That's because loving you makes her want to be like you, enjoy learning, and be eager to do it right to please you."
May's eyes lit up, but then she looked somewhat doubtful.
"But are they not then tempted to get up to pert or naughty tricks, m'lady—pardon my presumption for suggesting it. One might even sometimes be a bit—" May was plainly remembering her apprenticeship to Plyseth "—stubborn?"
"Well, if they're into anything like that, you'll have to use your own good judgment. But try to gain their love and keep it. That may make it so no beatings at all are necessary."
May's eyes grew big. But, of course, she did not argue—which Jim knew she had never hesitated to do when she objected to something.
"I will, m'lady. But you and m'lord can make people love you, I don't know if I can."
"Try.
"I will, m'lady. I really will."
Jim and Angie left, heading for the tower stairs that would lead them to their own large and comfortable room.
"In fact, I believe you saved his life, ordering him back to work that way," said Angie as Jim shut the door behind them—Ah, peace, thought Jim. Angie would be speaking of the carpenter, once more. She did that occasionally, after a gap in the original conversation, and he could hardly be irritated by it—she had probably caught the habit from him. He was often lost in his own thoughts and forgot that the person he was talking to had not shared them.
"Well, we'll see," he said, heading across the room and sitting down on the bed—to his own surprise. He had meant to sit down in one of the padded chairs, but his body had automatically steered for the bed.
But the bedding and bedstrings upholding it felt good. Friendly and good. He stretched out on his back.
"I thought so!" he heard Angie saying. "What've you been getting up to that would gear you up more than you should be geared, now? No, forget about answering that. Just let yourself sleep."
"I can't," he answered. "With guests here we ought to make an effort to show up for dinner."
"Why?" said Angie. "If it's sleep your body needs? Didn't Carolinus tell you to let yourself rest whenever you felt like it, and eventually, suddenly, this sleepy business would stop—but until then, don't fight it?"
"Something like that…" said Jim groggily. "But…" He could not think what he was going to say.
"Hey, wait!" he heard Angie's voice as if from some distance. "Let me at least get you undressed and under the covers—"
But he heard no more. He was already gone into deep, deep unconsciousness.
It seemed only a moment later that Angie was shaking him. Morning sunlight was once more shouting through the windows of the Solar.
"What? What…" he managed to say.
"It's the last thing I wanted to do to you, the way you are now," Angie was saying. "But you've just got time to get to the chapel steps before Brian and Geronde make their appearance."
"Appearance…" he echoed, bewildered, his still half-asleep brain refusing to make sense of this.
"The wedding, Jim. Their wedding. I'm part of Geronde's wedding party, and you're part of Brian's. We can just make it, if you start dressing now and don't waste any time."
"Why didn't you rouse me before this?" he demanded, suddenly awake and sitting up. He jumped out of bed, abruptly realized he was naked, and at the same time noticed that Angie was wearing a remarkable, new, russet wool robe he had never seen on her before. She also seemed to have gained weight slightly since he fell asleep. It was unbelievable and hard to tell, but it looked like it.
"Come on," said Angie. "I've got your clothes all laid out on the foot of the bed. Come on, n
ow, I'll help you into them!"
"I can dress myself," growled Jim, and proceeded to do so, becoming more and more astonished at the layers of clothing she had laid out.
"Why all this?" he demanded, but putting them on, anyway.
"It's cold outside."
"Not this cold, actually?"
"You'll find out."
"All right," said Jim. "But I could just as well ward us against cold."
"And what would happen to your ward when we went into the chapel?"
Of course… all magic would vanish on the threshold of a consecrated area. And the unheated chapel would not easily shed its stony coldness, despite being packed with all those who could get in.
The chapel was the same temperature as the courtyard—an icebox this time of year. It had not been built with a fireplace, for the simple reason that such would need to be ablaze more than twenty-four hours before the place was used—stone walls, stone floor, stone roof.
"Well, I'll wear my fur-lined winter cloak," he said, "instead of all this."
"No, you won't," said Angie. "You're in Brian's wedding party. No cloaks for the wedding party."
"Why that?" cried Jim.
"Because it's Geronde's wedding and she wants it that way. Now will you get dressed? I let you sleep to almost the last moment."
He dressed, meanwhile catching up on his own thoughts. Waking suddenly like this, his mind had been numb. These Olympic-class sleeps he'd been having lately were so deep he lost track. He had planned this morning to get hold of Brian quietly and early, to ask him about the scar.
Now, he had lost all chance to do that. But, he remembered, as one of the groom's wedding party—along with Dafydd—he was to be with Brian all through the process of the marriage on the chapel steps, even if talking in the chapel was out.
But outside would be a problem, too. Brian was not always the most patient of men, and the antagonism between him and his treasure-hunting, future father-in-law had reached a new high, all the more in that it had never come out into the open between them, so far. But there were few of the Somerset gentry present who did not know of it.