Tracing the Shadow (23 page)

How different from the bland painted smile of the statue in the chapel.
Even touching the book sent a little tingle through her fingertips; she could feel the Faie’s power emanating from the pages.

“I need your help,” she whispered. “My friend is very sick. I think she may be dying. Please, dear Faie, is there anything you can do for her?”

“
Mortal child, is your memory so short?
” The Faie’s eyes gleamed, like moonlight silvering clear water. “
Don’t you remember? I protect you, and you alone.
”

“But you’re a Faie. You’re supposed to grant wishes.” Celestine’s throat ached with the effort of holding back her tears.

“
I can no more heal your friend than I could your mother.
”

“If”—and Celestine clutched the book tightly—“if I were to bind you to Rozenne instead of me, could you heal her then?”

“
I am bound to you and you alone.
”

“So there’s nothing I can do to save her?” This feeling of utter helplessness brought back the black, bleak terrors of those lonely days in Lutèce. She slid to the floor, crushing the book to her, her only comfort and shield against a rising tide of fear.

Fever candles burned in the hushed dormitory, emitting the scent of cleansing herbs to fumigate the air and to ease the labored breathing of the sick girls. But even the medicinal vapors could not mask the sickly stale sickroom odor that now seemed to permeate the whole building.

Katell sat at Rozenne’s bedside, her head drooping. Celestine touched her shoulder and she started awake, rubbing her eyes.

“How is she?”

“Still very feverish. Sister Kinnie says to sponge her with a damp cloth. But every time I do, she shivers and pulls away, as if it’s hurting.” Katell gripped Celestine’s hand, staring up into her face, her eyes clouded with worry. “Celestine, I don’t want to hurt her. It’s bad enough that she’s sick. But to make her cry out like that…it can’t be doing her any good.”

Celestine held on to Katell’s hand. Another shiver of apprehension went through her body as she looked at Rozenne. A strange rattling, wheezing sound was coming from her throat. She seemed to be struggling to breathe.

“Katell,” she said, remembering hearing that sound once before in a drab attic room in Lutèce. “Go fetch Sister Kinnie. Go now!”

For once Katell didn’t stop to argue. Celestine leaned over the bed. She stroked Rozenne’s face and her hand came away damp and chill with sweat. At her touch, Rozenne murmured something inaudible and her fingers twitched fitfully.

“Rozenne,” Celestine said urgently.

Rozenne’s lids fluttered. Beneath the half-open lids, Celestine saw the whites of Rozenne’s eyes. “Can you hear me?”

“Ce…les…tine…?”

Rozenne knew her. Celestine clutched her friend’s hand tightly. “Stay with me.” It was a command.

“So tired…”

“Hold on, Rozenne. Don’t go to sleep yet. Sister Kinnie’s coming.”

Rozenne’s breathing was becoming more choked and irregular. The sound terrified Celestine.

Help me, Faie. She’s drifting away, and I don’t know if I can bear to lose her.

A faint luminescence began to glow in the gloom. Rozenne’s eyes opened, but they were dulled and wandering, as though she could no longer focus on Celestine’s face. Misty light illuminated the bed and silvered her livid features.

“Ohh,” whispered Rozenne, “Blessed Azilia…?”

Celestine glanced around to see that the Faie was floating behind her in the guise of Saint Azilia. It hovered in the darkness, long locks of gilded silver falling over its shoulders, blue eyes radiating an expression warmly suffused with love and concern. Slowly, the Faie raised slender fingers in a gesture of welcome, arms open wide as if to embrace the girls and draw them to itself.

Rozenne lifted her hands, reaching out to try to touch the shimmering vision. In the soft light emanating from the Faie, Celestine saw the sudden beatific smile that lit her drawn features.

And then Rozenne’s outstretched hands dropped limply back onto the sheet.

“Rozenne.
Rozenne!
” Celestine, heart frantically drumming, shook her friend by the shoulder. “Oh no, please no…” But although Rozenne’s eyes were still open, they stared blankly through Celestine, into the Faie’s fading glimmer and beyond…

Celestine sat, clutching the book to her, as a sobbing Katell helped the sisters wrap Rozenne’s limp, lifeless body in a sheet and carry it down to the Infirmary, where it would be washed and prepared for burial. Around her she could hear the other Skylarks talking in hushed whispers.

“Did you see…there was a light around her as she died…”

“You must have been dreaming.”

“It was so pretty. All silver and gold, like summer starlight…”

“Was it an angel, come to take Rozenne to heaven?”

But Celestine was so angry with the Faie for failing to save Rozenne that her whole body shook.

“Which one of us will be next?” The shrill voice startled her. She looked up to see Gauzia standing in the center of the dormitory, her eyes burning with indignation. “Listen to you silly sheep, bleating about angels and silver light! Rozenne is dead. Don’t you understand? Her life is over. And yours will be too if you stay here.”

“You said your father was coming. With a carriage.” Deneza glared at Gauzia. “It’s been days since you wrote to him. So where is he?”

“Yes,” said another of Gauzia’s friends. “You promised us.”

“Perhaps he just doesn’t care about you.”

Celestine heard Gauzia gasp.

“Of course he cares about me. But he’s a very busy man—”

“So busy that he can’t even spare a carriage to take you away from here?”

Gauzia was floundering. And in spite of all Gauzia’s past unkindness, Celestine felt a little pang of pity. Maybe Gauzia had been lying to herself all this time, convincing herself that she was so much more to her father than yet another inconvenient daughter to be fed, clothed, and educated.

“Then the Abbess didn’t send my letter.” Gauzia, white-faced, had recovered enough to invent another excuse. “I demand to speak to the Abbess!”

“We’ve heard enough of your little fantasies, Gauzia de Saint-Désirat,” said Deneza cuttingly. “If that
is
your real name, of course.”

The moonlit dormitory was hushed in sleep when Celestine returned. She had been sitting, keeping vigil in the chapel by Rozenne’s open coffin. She was not afraid to keep company with the dead. Rozenne’s skin was so pale in death, like the smooth ivory wax of the best shrine candles. Her face was peaceful but expressionless, like a doll’s.

All Celestine wanted now was to sleep, to lose herself in a place where no dreams would torment her. As she pulled the blanket up around herself, she heard the faint sound of stifled sobbing coming from the bed beside hers. Gauzia’s bed.

She lay a while, staring into the darkness, uncertain of what to do. She felt too bruised, too vulnerable to risk provoking Gauzia’s caustic tongue. Perhaps the sobs would subside soon…

But then she remembered Gauzia’s face, white with shock.

“Gauzia.” Celestine placed her hand on the heaving shoulders.

“Why?” Gauzia raised a face glinting wet with tears in the moonlight. “Why didn’t Papa come for me? Doesn’t he care if I live or die? Even if he was too busy, he could have sent a servant. He could have sent some medicine.”

“Perhaps he never got your letter.”

“Oh, I’m sure he got it. He just didn’t want the inconvenience!”

“I’m sure there was a good reason—”

“How could you understand? You never knew your father.”

Celestine withdrew her hand. Hervé’s beloved face flashed into her memory, smiling affectionately at her over the rim of his spectacles as he drew a little sapphire flame from a crystal and shaped it into a flower for her.
Never tell anyone your true name or parentage.
“No,” she said as she slipped back into her own bed. “I never knew my father.”

There was a little silence, then Gauzia hissed, “And if you ever tell another soul about this, I’ll make your life so miserable you’ll wish you’d died from the lung sickness too.”

Celestine, Katell, and Koulmia huddled together as the cold wind blew in across the convent cemetery from the sea. Celestine had found some hellebores in the bare wintry garden and placed the white and green blooms on the freshly dug grave. She had cried so much that she had no tears left anymore; her eyes, stung by the harsh wind, felt raw and dry.

Rozenne was dead. Soon Katell would move down to the Novices’ dormitory. One by one, all those Celestine cared for were being taken away from her.

That evening at candlelit vespers, when the moment came for Celestine to sing the solo line in the Blessing, her throat tightened and only a whisper came out. She could see Sister Noyale frowning perplexedly at her as her beating hand moved on, sustaining the pulse of the music. She could sense the other Skylarks around her shooting little glances of surprise at her over the tops of their choir books. And then another voice, rich and strong, took over her part.

Gauzia.

When the service was over and the girls were filing out of the chapel, a firm hand descended on Celestine’s shoulder. She looked up to see Sister Noyale staring piercingly at her.

“I—I’m sorry, Sister.” Celestine could not meet Sister Noyale’s forbidding gaze.

“Fortunately Gauzia had the presence of mind to cover for you.” Sister Noyale’s hand pressed against her forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever. Good. Nevertheless, we’d better not take any risks.”

Celestine did not miss the look of triumph that flashed across Gauzia’s face as she passed her. Sister Noyale beckoned Celestine to follow her into the side aisle and Celestine followed, dreading the inevitable scolding that was to come.

“Sing me a scale.”

Celestine took a breath and opened her mouth. Two of the Novices were extinguishing the candles and the wreathing smoke irritated the back of her throat. A husky, dry sound issued from her mouth.

“Sing on,” ordered Sister Noyale as the chapel grew darker. Celestine saw the two Novices slipping quietly away, leaving only the Eternal Flame watch lights burning at Saint Azilia’s Shrine. But still she could not find her singing voice. She shook her head. “I—I can’t, Sister Noyale.” It was as if all the tears she had shed had washed away the music.

“It may be just a simple head cold. But the voice is a delicate, fragile instrument. It must be treated with care or permanent damage may be done.”

“Damage?” Celestine heard a note of warning in the choirmistress’s voice.

“You are not to sing a single note, Celestine, for the next fortnight. I want you to whisper when you speak to your friends—difficult for a young girl, I know. You must rest your voice. Every day you will drink a tisane of comfrey to soothe your throat. And you will wear a warm woollen scarf around your neck.”

“I don’t have a scarf—”

“I’m going to teach you how to knit one. That will keep you occupied while the others are at choir practice.”

Sister Noyale was going to teach her how to knit? Celestine was so astonished that her mouth dropped open. She had never expected the forbidding choirmistress to be capable of such a gesture; it almost felt like kindness.

“Losing a friend is hard to bear at any age.” Sister Noyale’s voice drifted back to Celestine as she trailed after her through the darkened chapel. “But time will heal your sadness…and your voice will return.”

In the dormitory that night, Celestine lay awake into the small hours, unable to sleep. The frame of Rozenne’s bed still stood next to hers, stripped of its mattress and linen, which had been taken away for fumigation.

Will I ever be able to sing again? Or will I spend the rest of my days here as a lay sister, knitting and making healing linctuses?

“
Is that really what you want, Celestine?
” The Faie’s voice was faint but clear as falling rain. “
To stay here forever?
”

Forever? No, what am I thinking?
Restlessness seared through Celestine like a fever as she stared up into the darkness.

CHAPTER 18

The sun was setting over the sea and a lacy film of mist was slowly unrolling across the bay. Celestine, well wrapped against the chill in her Novice’s robes of dove grey, knelt to place a bunch of winter hellebores and snowdrops, freshly picked, on Rozenne’s grave.

“The winter hasn’t been so harsh this year, Rozenne.” She had taken to coming here at dusk to share her thoughts with her dead friend when she needed time to reflect on what was happening in her life. “Five years. I can’t believe it’s been five years since you left us.” She straightened up. “And Sister Noyale says that soon I’ll have to make some difficult choices about my future. I can’t imagine living anywhere but here now. But suppose I’m offered the chance to go to Lutèce?”

After the last ravages of the sickness took little Sister Eurielle, life at the convent had slowly resumed its normal pattern. Under Sister Noyale’s patient tuition, Celestine and Gauzia learned to write musical notation and were set to work to copy choir parts from the great missals of sacred music in the convent library. This year, Sister Noyale had even let them teach the youngest Skylarks their scales and exercises.

Yet, busy as her days were, Celestine often found herself looking out beyond the convent walls, gazing at the sky or the distant sea. Twice today, Sister Noyale had scolded her for making mistakes in her copying and she had been obliged to start the part again.

A sense of yearning washed through her again, as strong as a spring tide. But yearning for…what? This restlessness, when it came, swept all other thoughts from her mind. Never before had the convent walls seemed so confining.

An ordinary vespers on an ordinary day…The Novices were in the choir stalls, Sister Noyale was conducting, and the other sisters were sitting in their customary places in chapel. Elderly Sister Gwendoline had nodded off as usual, and her gentle snores could only be heard in the softest passages of the singing.

Celestine was the leader of the sopranos; opposite her stood Gauzia, leader of the altos. Nurtured by Sister Noyale’s strict training, Gauzia’s voice had gained strength and richness in the lower notes, whereas Celestine’s upper register had developed clarity and brilliance. No longer rivals but equals, Celestine had come to realize that when they sang together, it was a thrilling, exhilarating experience.

Celestine rose for her first solo. Glancing out into the chapel, she noticed a stranger seated beside the Abbess. A man. It was very unusual for visitors to attend vespers. And there was something about the way that he sat, unmoving, listening with rapt attention as she sang, that distinguished him from so many other visitors who yawned or shifted restlessly through the services.

This man, she told herself, has come to hear the music.

As soon as the service was over, the Abbess rose and ushered her guest out. Twenty-four pairs of eyes fixed on the fair-haired young man as he walked beside the Abbess toward the doors. As soon as the Novices reached the side aisles, they burst into excited whispers.

“Did you
see
him?” squealed Deneza, grabbing Gauzia by the arms.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Koulmia sighed. “He must be of noble birth.”

“But who is he? Why is he here?” Gauzia ran to the doorway to gaze after him.

Celestine alone said nothing.
If I speak, it will break the spell.

“He’s probably another of the Abbess’s nephews,” said Katell dismissively. “They’re always coming to visit Auntie Ermengarde.”

“I’d have remembered one as handsome as that,” retorted Koulmia. “His hair…so long and so silky…”

“Stop drooling, Koulmia, and go and extinguish the candles.” Sister Noyale appeared, holding her folder of music.

Celestine remembered that it was her turn to help Koulmia and went to follow her. But Sister Noyale stopped her.

“No, Celestine. I want you and Gauzia to come with me.”

Gauzia looked at Celestine, one auburn brow flaring quizzically. They hurried after Sister Noyale, hearing Koulmia’s disappointed wail echoing around the empty chapel.

“It’s not
fair
…”

“Come in quickly, girls, and shut the door,” ordered the Abbess. “We don’t want to let our visitor catch cold. This old building is very drafty, Monsieur de Joyeuse.”

A fire of driftwood was blazing in the Abbess’s parlor and by its light Celestine saw the visitor rise to his feet to greet them.

“Monsieur de Joyeuse, may I present our two most promising singers? This is Celestine, and Gauzia.” The girls curtsied dutifully.

“Demoiselles.” The visitor bowed. “May I say how much I appreciated your performance? You, Demoiselle Celestine, shaped your phrases with genuine understanding and artistry.” His voice was so pleasant to listen to, almost like a caress. “And you, Demoiselle Gauzia, you showed great flare in your interpretation.”

He was paying them a compliment! Celestine stared resolutely at the floor, aware that her cheeks had flamed hot red. She could not remember the last time she had been so close to a man—and such an attractive young man at that. Beside her, Gauzia was far less shy, smiling at him boldly.

“Monsieur de Joyeuse has an exciting proposal to put to you girls,” said the Abbess, settling herself in a cushioned fauteuil beside the fire.

“Excellent reports of your choirs have reached the court, Sister Noyale. Prince Enguerrand’s tutor has spoken very favorably of the music-making here.”

Sister Noyale gave a curt nod, as if she were unused to receiving compliments too.

“And so the young prince is planning to come here with his mother, Queen Aliénor, to the service on Saint Azilia’s Day.”

The Abbess was nodding vigorously. “Such an honor,” she burst out excitedly. “The royal family coming to visit us here!”

“The prince has requested me to write a new setting of the service for your choir to sing, Sister Noyale.”

“You honor us, Maistre,” said Sister Noyale in level tones.

So he’s a composer.
Slowly, Celestine dared to raise her head. The firelight flickered across Monsieur de Joyeuse’s face, catching burnished glints of gold in his long, fair hair. He was smiling at her as he spoke, and it was a smile of such pleasant warmth that she felt as if her heart were melting.

Before Celestine and Gauzia reached the dormitory, all the other Novices came running up to pester them with questions.

“Who is he? Why is he here? Tell us!”

Celestine blinked. She heard Gauzia explaining as if from a long way off. The squeals of excitement soon brought her back to reality.

“Prince Enguerrand here? With Queen Aliénor?” shrieked Koulmia, clutching Celestine’s hands. “What an honor!”

“But just think, all the courtiers will accompany them in their fine clothes, and we’ll be in our drab, grey habits,” complained Gauzia.

“They’re coming to hear you sing, not to look at you,” said a dry voice. Katell had appeared in the doorway. As Senior Novice, soon to be faced with the decision whether to take her vows, she had not been judged to have enough talent to be sent to the choir of Saint Meriadec like Angelique. “And, royal visit or no, there are dormitory duties to be done before anyone gets into bed. If you must gossip, do it as you sweep and tidy up. I’ve seen cleaner pigsties. Koulmia, have you been eating in bed again?”

“Why would I do that?” Koulmia said in aggrieved tones.

Katell shook out her blanket and a little hail of crumbs and three brown apple cores fell onto the floor. “Just clean it up.”

“You’re such a slave driver, Katell,” grumbled Koulmia, taking the broom from Celestine, who was standing, staring into the middle distance. “Well, look who’s smitten with Monsieur de Joyeuse!”

“I was just wondering,” said Celestine hastily.

“I wouldn’t wonder too much,” put in Gauzia with a malicious little laugh. “He’s Maistre de Chapelle, isn’t he? With a choir of pretty boys?”

“What do you mean?” Celestine did not understand.

“Are you really that naïve, Celestine?” Gauzia said pityingly.

For the second time that evening, Celestine felt herself blush as she realized what Gauzia was implying. “I’m sure Monsieur de Joyeuse is not like that!” she cried. He had smiled so warmly at her; surely she had detected something more than good manners in that greeting? It was as if they had an unspoken understanding, even though they had never met before.

Four months passed and still there was no music from Henri de Joyeuse. Spring softened the bare branches in the convent orchard with a white snow of apple and pear blossom. The harsh winds ceased to buffet the promontory, and were replaced by gentler southerly breezes. The days grew warmer and the girls shed their thick winter robes and wore lighter linen dresses. Celestine began to wonder if she had dreamed the whole episode.

“Perhaps he’s been too busy to compose,” she said wistfully to Katell.

Celestine was chopping vegetables from the kitchen garden when she received the summons to go to Abbess Ermengarde. Wiping her hands on her apron, she arrived to find Sister Noyale unwrapping a large package in the Abbess’s parlor. The Abbess was fussing around behind her while Gauzia stood watching with folded arms.

“This arrived by special courier this morning,” Sister Noyale explained, lifting out a plain leather-bound folder and opening it. On the first page, written in a bold, black hand, was the simple inscription:

Canticles for Saint Azilia’s Day. Dedicated to my honored patron, His Royal Highness Enguerrand, prince of Francia.

So it was finished! Celestine glanced at Gauzia, wondering if she felt as dizzily excited as Celestine did.

“Well, Noyale?” said the Abbess impatiently. “What kind of piece has Maistre de Joyeuse written for us? Let’s pray he hasn’t composed anything too difficult for my girls to sing. We don’t want to look foolish before the prince.”

Sister Noyale looked up from the score. “It’s challenging. He’s made few concessions to the girls’ youth and inexperience. But if we work hard, I’m certain that it will sound wonderful.” Her brown eyes glowed with an enthusiasm that Celestine had only rarely glimpsed before.

“I know you love a challenge, Noyale,” said the Abbess, “but if you think it’s too difficult, you must tell Maistre de Joyeuse now and get him to change it.”

“Here’s your part, Celestine, and yours, Gauzia.” Sister Noyale took no notice of the Abbess.

Celestine had been chopping onions for the evening soup and although she had carefully rinsed her hands before coming to the parlor, she sniffed her fingers, wiping them on her apron before touching the precious manuscript. Gauzia was already leafing through the pages.

“Do you think this is his own hand?” Celestine asked, looking at the strong black strokes on the staff.

Gauzia gave a careless little shrug. “Busy composers use a copyist.”

“Oh.” Celestine was disappointed. She had imagined that the pages she was holding had been hand-scribed by Henri de Joyeuse, that he had sat up late into the night, feverishly scribbling down these very notes especially for her to sing.

The Canticles were difficult. More difficult than anything Celestine had ever had to learn before. It was not so much that the notes were hard to pitch accurately, but more the way that the individual lines were woven together. It was little consolation to know that Gauzia was equally challenged by Maistre de Joyeuse’s composition. She became obsessed with the drive to get to know this music as intimately as possible. As she sang alone in the empty chapel, she held in her mind the image of Henri de Joyeuse feverishly writing down the riot of notes flowing through his brain, lamplight like a golden halo burnishing his fair hair.

As Saint Azilia’s Day approached, the Abbess began to fuss about the flowers for the chapel. Everything must be “perfect—no, better than perfect—for our royal guests,” she insisted. The Skylarks were set to work binding floral wreaths and garlands to decorate the chapel; the Novices brought out ladders and, tucking up their long robes into their belts, climbed up to hang the garlands around the chapel pillars.