Gosford's Daughter (36 page)

“
Please, I must ask—what became of
your brother, Gavin, after Fotheringhay?” The words were whispered,
but on the still summer night air, they seemed unnaturally
loud.

Father Napier didn’t turn to look at her. The bearded
profile remained motionless, staring straight ahead. “It matters
not to you where Gavin went,” the priest answered at last. His
voice was suddenly heavy, not just weary but old. “Wherever he may
be, you cannot reach him.”

Sorcha’s hand tightened on the reins. She wanted
facts, not enigmas. If Father Napier has not been a man of God, she
would have sworn aloud and demanded the truth. But so implacable,
so remote, was the priest that she bit her tongue until she felt
the taste of blood. Nor did she speak again until it was time to
bid Father Napier farewell at the iron gate of the village
church.

T
heir pace across the
Île-de-France had been steady, if tiring. At dawn, they paused long
enough at a farmhouse near Gisors to eat and rest the horses. The
farmer was generous with fresh-baked bread from his own wheat
field, while his wife magically produced eggs and cheese. After the
meal, Rosmairi asked if she might buy some clothing; she felt it
inappropriate to ride through the countryside in her postulant’s
garb. Though the farmer’s wife was twice Rosmairi’s size, after a
great deal of rummaging under the staircase, she presented her
guest with an outmoded pale green gown that almost fit.

“ ’
Tis old,” the woman
explained apologetically, her plump cheeks flushed from exertion,
“but it’s seen many a wedding, feast day, and baptism in its
time.”

At first, Rosmairi had protested, thinking perhaps
that having kept the gown all these years, the farmer’s wife might
be saving it for a daughter or granddaughter. But the woman had
insisted Rosmairi take it, remarking cheerfully that if the gown
traveled to Compiègne, it would go farther in its lifetime than she
would in hers. After an embarrassed moment in which Rosmairi
realized she had no money with her, Armand d’Ailly slipped several
gold coins into the woman’s pudgy hand.

“
For your hospitality as well,
Madame,” he said with a deep bow and that glittering smile. “Your
kindness is exceeded only by your generosity. And such remarkable
eyes!
Ma foi
, were ever sapphires so blue?”

The woman had flushed again, while her jowls jigged
with mirthful pleasure. A few minutes later, the three travelers
were back in the saddle, cantering across the rich farmland,
through the rolling woods, and past the tiny villages built of gray
stone. They reached Beauvais by midafternoon, pausing at the
monastery for refreshment. It had turned very warm, with the air
stirring fretfully through the leafed-out trees lining the dusty
road to Compiègne. In the heat of the day, they stopped again to
drink from the slow-moving waters of the Oise. Rosmairi slept for a
while, but Sorcha remained awake, despite the fatigue that seemed
to tug at her very bones.

A few feet away, d’Ailly sat on a tree stump,
vigorously rubbing his shoulder muscles. For the first time, Sorcha
observed him carefully. The young Frenchman had been a pleasant
companion. His lustrous blond mustache added maturity, as did his
exuberant self-confidence, yet Sorcha decided he was probably not
much older than herself. His riding clothes were well cut, if more
dapper than a Scot or even an Englishman would wear. He was just
over average height and sufficiently muscular to convince Sorcha he
could defend them against a roving bandit or a zealous Huguenot. He
spoke with wit and eloquence, changing easily from French to
English, occasionally uttering appropriate phrases in Latin. He
also had let his eyes linger on Rosmairi—at least after she had
discarded her postulant’s habit.

The sun had shifted, so that it shone directly down
on Sorcha. She stood up, moving into the shade almost at d’Ailly’s
elbow. “You are from these environs, Seigneur?” she asked, casually
dropping down beside him.

He stopped rubbing his shoulder and rested his hands
on his knees. “I come from not far away,” he replied with a
friendly smile. “Somewhat north, toward Amiens.”

The place name caught Sorcha’s attention. “Is that
where you met Father Napier? He studied there, I’m told.”

A faint line of tension touched d’Ailly’s cheerful
visage. “So he did.” The Frenchman inclined his head toward Sorcha,
as if conceding a point in a game. “My parents knew him. I was
still a youth in those days.”

Sorcha refused to avert her gaze, which seemed to
hold d’Ailly’s deep blue eyes captive. “And?” She fairly breathed
the word, loading it with husky urgency.

But d’Ailly raised his palms upward in a typical
French gesture. “And I grew up. Father Napier came and went, as was
his calling.” He shrugged. “Now, because he was a friend to my
family, I assist him when I can.” The white teeth flashed. “It’s
quite simple, is it not?”

There was a slight hesitation before Sorcha
responded. “It would seem so. Your family is still at Amiens?”

In the shade of a beech tree, Rosmairi stirred as an
insect buzzed close to her ear. D’Ailly watched with some concern
and didn’t speak again until the insect left Rosmairi in peace.
“Alas, my mother and father have gone to their heavenly reward.” He
crossed himself briskly, the blue eyes abruptly cast down.

“
You live at Ailly then?” Sorcha
wondered briefly why she was bothering to wring these facts from
the reluctant Frenchman, yet she felt obliged to press on. For such
an extrovert, he aroused her perverse curiosity with his
reticence.

D’Ailly sobered at the question. “Our chateau burned
to the ground some years ago. That,” he added with a sharp edge to
his voice, “is how my parents died.”

“
Oh—I’m sorry.” Sorcha sat back on
her heels, feeling her cheeks flush. No wonder he hadn’t wished to
talk about his past. Certainly neither she nor Rosmairi would want
to discuss their unhappy love affairs with a virtual
stranger.

But d’Ailly had resumed his cheerful countenance. “We
will be at Compiègne by supper time. It lies not quite an hour away
along the river.” He got to his feet, the short cape of his riding
habit flowing gracefully from a high embroidered collar. As he
raised his arms to stretch, a crackling sound from a nearby copse
diverted his attention. D’Ailly turned, as did Sorcha, to see a
young man in a white monk’s robe emerge from the huckleberry
bushes.

“
Seigneur!” The young monk stopped
in his tracks, leaves clinging to his garments, a brown smudge on
one cheek. “I was told you would not be back.” He spoke petulantly,
his full lower lip thrust out, the colorless eyes
accusing.

Under the birch tree, Rosmairi sat up with a start.
She blinked at the monk, then at Sorcha and d’Ailly in turn, a
bewildered expression on her pink face.

D’Ailly stood very still. “You were told an untruth,
it would seem,” he said mildly, and then smiled. “Brother Jacques,
why have you strayed so far from Compiègne?”

In answer, the monk paced back and forth several
times, shaking his head and clenching his hands. “I go to Paris. I
promised God I would. Madame Serpent is dead.”

Sorcha was standing up, moving slowly in Rosmairi’s
direction. Brother Jacques was the name Father Napier had mentioned
in connection with Rob’s summons. Doubtless there were a hundred
Brother Jacques in the Île-de-France, but it seemed likely that
this was the monk whose mission disturbed Rob. Sorcha recognized
the reference to “Madame Serpent” as Catherine de Médicis, the
Queen Mother of France. She had recently died, unmourned by a
nation that had never taken the devious Italian to its heart.

The monk had stopped pacing, his hands now clasped in
front of him. “She always lied, you know.” Brother Jacques seemed
to have eyes for no one but d’Ailly. “She was supposed to be a
faithful daughter of Rome, but she was not. And she misled her son,
Henri. She misled everyone. Except the Devil, who claimed her evil
soul.” He lowered his head slightly, the sun casting an unnatural
glow on his tonsure. “So now I must go to Paris.” The colorless
eyes widened, like those of an innocent child who has just
announced he is going to do a great mischief and expects to go
unpunished.

D’Ailly chuckled good-naturedly. “Perhaps, perhaps.
But not yet, Brother Jacques. For now, you must go with us to
Compiègne. I have with me the charming sisters of Robert Fraser.”
He extended a hand toward Sorcha and Rosmairi, who stood close
together in the shade. “You admire our
cher ami
Robert, do
you not? Won’t you honor his sisters with your company for a few
days?”

As if he had noticed them for the first time, Brother
Jacques all but jumped off the ground. “Ah! Sisters to Robert?” He
leaned forward, peering at Sorcha and Rosmairi, who instinctively
grasped each other by the hand. “They are very beautiful, are they
not?” He turned quizzical eyes on d’Ailly. “Are they pure?”

Sorcha opened her mouth to snap back a reply, but
d’Ailly moved swiftly between her and Brother Jacques. “Would you
expect our Robert’s kin to be anything but the most virtuous of
demoiselles? Why,” d’Ailly went on with a note of hurt in his
voice, “they have been living in the Dominican convent at Le Petit
Andely for the past year.”

Brother Jacques considered this information
carefully, then nodded his tonsured head. “Yes, I, too, am a
Dominican. And Sainte Vierge is a holy house.” He stepped aside to
look beyond d’Ailly to the two young women. “Mayhap God has sent
you to alter my course for reasons of His own. Could it be that I
was going to Paris too soon?”

“
It could,” d’Ailly said with a
sense of relief. “Come, let us go on to Compiègne. The sun is less
intense, and there’s a breeze off the river. Brother Jacques, do
you have a horse nearby?”

He had a mule, tethered just beyond the copse by the
road. A few minutes later the little party was following the Oise
to Compiègne. Sorcha noted that d’Ailly rode close to Rosmairi, as
if offering her protection. Brother Jacques plodded along behind
them, occasionally humming snatches of Latin hymns. The monk seemed
as pathetic as he was disturbing, and Sorcha’s curiosity mounted.
What task had Rob set for her in dealing with this peculiar young
man? It would have suited her far better if d’Ailly had let Brother
Jacques continue his journey to Paris. Surely he could not cause
any more trouble there than he would for Sorcha at Compiègne.

She could have no idea how wrong Brother Jacques
would prove her to be.

The most obvious change that had overtaken Rob was a
lush red-gold beard that grew almost to the cowl of his monk’s
robe. Both Sorcha and Rosmairi marveled at how much older he
looked, though he greeted his sisters with unbridled warmth. Rob
offered d’Ailly a more formal welcome, but Sorcha observed a
certain ease in their manner toward one another. As for Brother
Jacques, he all but fawned over Rob, who expressed mild
surprise—and perhaps relief—that the young man had returned to
Compiègne.

“
I feared you had not heeded my
advice,” Rob said in gentle rebuke as they seated themselves on
stone benches in the priory garden. “You were very determined to go
to Paris this morning.”

Brother Jacques laughed without making a sound.
“ ‘
Justus ut palma florebit
.’ ” Is that not what
is said in the offertory hymn from today’s Mass celebrating the
nativity of the great baptizer? ‘The just man shall flourish like
the palm tree.’ And does not the palm withstand great winds and
terrible storms by bending, yet never breaking?”

“
That may be so,” Rob replied,
pushing at the unruly lock of hair that even cloistered walls
couldn’t tame. “But I’ve never seen a palm tree.” He turned to
d’Ailly. “Would you help Brother Jacques seek some refreshment?
Despite the feast day, I fear he has fasted too long.” Noting that
the young monk was forming words of protest, Rob held up a hand.
“Nay, Jacques, you grow thin. You would not bend like the palm—a
great gust would blow you down. Go now with the Sieur
d’Ailly.”

Reluctantly, Brother Jacques traipsed from the
garden, his sandals slapping on the flagstone walkway. The three
Frasers waited without speaking, with the sound of bees buzzing in
the night-scented stock and tall, rangy foxgloves. From where
Sorcha sat, she could just make out the irregular roofline of
Compiègne’s uninhabited castle. To her right stood the priory
chapel with its handsome row of cinquefoil windows. The campanile
tolled the bells for Vespers, but Rob shook his head.

“
I shall not go this evening. It’s
better that we talk while the others are in the chapel. Afterward,
I will introduce you to our kinsman, Brother John Fraser—a most
remarkable man, I might add.” He gazed from Sorcha to Rosmairi as
if to emphasize how much he respected his mentor.

“
I had hopes we might meet him at
supper,” Sorcha said pointedly. “Rosmairi and I may not have been
fasting, but neither have we feasted. At least not
well.”

Rob’s serious demeanor fled as he grinned at his
sisters. “Forgive me, I’ve been remiss in seeing to your creature
comforts. But it’s important that we speak privately while we have
the chance.” He paused as a half dozen monks walked in solemn
silence from the priory through a side entrance to the chapel. When
the heavy door closed behind them, Rob visibly relaxed and crossed
his legs at the knee under his robes. “You have already met poor
Brother Jacques. I assume he struck you as … odd.”

“
Simple, perhaps?” Rosmairi asked
almost hopefully.