Gosford's Daughter (37 page)

But Rob shook his head. “Only in that his mind works
in a very direct manner. He is most devout, fanatically so. Make no
mistake,” Rob asserted, with a wave of his index finger, “there is
need for militancy in the Church to oppose rampant heresy. That is
one reason why I am determined to take Holy Orders. But fanaticism
is another matter. It leads men not only into physical but
spiritual danger. Fanaticism destroys humility. It is like a
disease, gnawing away at one’s very entrails.”

For Sorcha, it was an unfortunate comparison, since
what was gnawing at her own entrails was a great hunger. She
fervently wished Rob would cease expounding and get to the
point.

“
You know, of course, that despite
Catherine de Médicis’ professed Catholicism, she played each side
of the religious controversy off against the other when it suited
her needs.” Rob halted long enough to let the statement sink into
his sisters’ brains. Only a slight twist of his lips indicated that
he noticed Rosmairi’s glazed expression and Sorcha’s impatient
tapping of her foot. “Her son, Henri, has followed her example. It
may be that he truly embraces certain precepts of the Huguenot
religion. But to placate the Huguenot minority, last winter he had
the Due de Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine murdered.” Rob bowed
his head and crossed himself, rousing his sisters sufficiently to
follow suit. Indeed, they had both attended at least three dozen
masses at Sainte Vierge that Mother Honorine had offered up for the
repose of the souls of her powerful kinsmen.

“
The Guises and the Catholic League
have turned on King Henri,” Sorcha offered, hoping not only to
appease Rob by her show of interest but hurry him along with his
story. “But it’s said that the League is only a tool for Spain to
swallow France whole.”

“
Didn’t the English show that Spain
was weak?” asked Rosmairi, whose knowledge of politics had never
been deep. “Or was that Portugal?”

“
Spain, ninny,” hissed Sorcha, and
immediately conjured up images of plump, glorious
oranges.

Rob ignored his sisters’ conversational byplay.
“Philip of Spain has a claim to the French throne through one of
his daughters. But the point here is that the League holds Paris.
And that Henri III and his Huguenot brother-in-law, Henri of
Navarre, have joined forces against the League. The city lies under
siege, barricaded, at war with itself. King Henri is weak, as were
his brothers before him. And now the family’s strength—Catherine de
Médicis—is dead.” Again, Rob crossed himself, though Sorcha thought
he did so with less enthusiasm than he had shown for the murdered
duke and cardinal.

“
So,” Sorcha surmised, in the hope
that Rob had finally reached the climax of his account, “Brother
Jacques wishes to go to Paris and join the Catholic
League?”

But Rob smiled sadly and slowly shook his head. “Oh,
no. Brother Jacques is going to Paris to assassinate the King.”

During the next quarter of an hour, against the
backdrop of the monks’ clear voices chanting the holy office,
Sorcha found herself utterly bewildered by Rob’s request and the
rationale behind it. She understood that Brother Jacques would
consider King Henri a traitor to the Church of Rome, perhaps even a
traitor to France. But since Henri de Navarre was an avowed
Huguenot and next in line to the French throne, Sorcha couldn’t see
how eliminating the last of the Valois line would save France for
Catholicism. Nor could she possibly envision how—or why—she might
have any influence with Brother Jacques in deterring him from his
lethal mission.

“
You must realize how Brother
Jacques has always been surrounded by women,” Rob explained for the
third time. “His father died before he was born; he was raised by
his mother and four sisters. There were no other boys or men in the
family. Never mind the years he has spent in the monastery. It is
still women—our Holy Mother, the saints, the virgin martyrs—to whom
he prays and asks for inspiration.”

Sorcha was on her feet, pacing the flagstone walkway.
“But he clearly admires you, Rob. If you can’t dissuade him, how
could I?”

“
He may admire me, but he doesn’t
heed me.” As Sorcha stamped her foot in front of him, he grasped
her by the hand. “You dealt so well with King Jamie. In truth, he’s
not much different from poor Brother Jacques. Both were reared in
unnatural situations. Both have disproportionate opinions of their
own abilities. Both have never known how to act with lasses of
their own age and station.” He stopped as he heard Rosmairi sniff
indignantly. “Forgive me, Ros, I meant before you became Jamie’s
boon companion.” Rob looked at Sorcha from his place on the stone
bench. “There is something else you should know about Brother
Jacques. He visits someone across the river. It is a woman. She’s a
recluse—a hermit, really. He calls her Athene.”

Sorcha withdrew her hand and abruptly sat back down
next to Rob. “He has a mistress?” She gave herself a little shake.
“God’s teeth, I shouldn’t wonder that Athene isn’t a laddie. Or a
sheep.”

Rob stiffened, and Rosmairi giggled. “Sorcha,”
intoned Rob, wearing his adult, serious expression, “we are
speaking of life and death, of heaven and hell. For once, could you
not let your mind feast on less earthy matters?”

It was Sorcha’s turn to look solemn. “It’s not my
mind that wants feasting, Rob, it’s my stomach.” She brightened as
the monks began filing out of the chapel. “Please, dearest
brother,” she implored, hooking her arm through his and tugging at
him in earnest, “isn’t it time you combined Scottish hospitality
with French cuisine?”

Despite a moral and spiritual obligation to impress
upon Sorcha that the matter of Brother Jacques and King Henri of
France superseded her hunger pangs, Rob succumbed to the
importunate green-eyed gaze. “I’m not sure how,” he remarked with
irritation tempered by his usual good humor, “but you actually seem
to have managed to make your cheeks look gaunt.”

Sorcha clapped a hand over her midsection. “Not half
so gaunt as here. I’m cavernous, Rob.” She pulled again at his arm
and plucked Rosmairi by the sleeve. “God’s teeth, starving or not,
it’s good for the three of us to be together again.”

“
So it is,” agreed Rob, putting an
arm around each of his sisters. “I have tried not to think of home
and family these past months. But,” he added, with a little catch
in his voice, “it’s been hard to walk away from the
past.”

Neither Sorcha nor Rosmairi responded to Rob, but
they took up a brisker step as they moved down the flagstone walk
toward the monastery entrance.

The supper commemorating the Nativity of Saint John
the Baptist more than fulfilled Sorcha’s expectations. “
La soupe
à l’oignon, les escargots, la pâté de foie gras, le rôti de porc,
les haricots verts, les pommes de terre, les pâtisseries, le
fromage
and
les fruits
.” Sorcha recounted the courses in
French, carefully stifling a gastronomic eruption. “Ah, food even
sounds better in France!” With a deep sigh of satisfaction, Sorcha
slumped sideways onto the little divan in the parlor where she and
Rob had adjourned after their meal. Rosmairi, whose fatigue had not
been feigned, went straight to bed. But while Sorcha was also
extremely tired from the long journey to Compiègne, she hated to
waste these precious moments she could spend with Rob. Given his
usually strict regime at the monastery and whatever plans he might
have for her regarding Brother Jacques, Sorcha felt their reunion
might be brief.

“
What did you think of Brother John
Fraser?” Rob inquired, refilling their wine glasses with a
sparkling Vouvray.

Sorcha couldn’t suppress a yawn. “He’s very learned.
I must read some of his works. He is brother to Sir Alexander
Fraser, is he not? I recall visiting him at Philorth once or twice.
Our Lady Mother is fond of Sir Alexander but says he’s given to bad
judgment in money matters.”

Rob shrugged. “Perhaps. But Brother John says Sir
Alexander has done much to enlarge his estates. Our sire has had
business dealings with him and has praised him for improving the
harbor at Philorth.”

“
Hmm.” Sorcha half closed her eyes,
blurring the little room with its charming paintings of the Madonna
and Child and its gilded triptych with angels surrounding the
Infant Jesus and Saint John the Baptist. She found the history of
Brother John and Sir Alexander Fraser extremely soporific. Indeed,
she didn’t quite catch most of Rob’s next words until a single name
made her eyes open wide and her body stiffen.

“… 
As I felt in following the
example of Gavin Napier. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a priest,
I didn’t know that then, but ….”

“
Rob!” Sorcha had twisted around to
look more closely at her brother, who sat calmly ruminating in a
tall, straight Spanish chair. “Have you heard news of him? Have you
seen him?”

Rob avoided her eyes by taking a large swallow of
wine. “Of course not. I have seen his brother—as you know, I had
him send for you. But for all I know, Gavin may be in Cathay.”

To Sorcha, it sounded as if Rob didn’t much care,
either. She sat up, pounding her fist into a small silken pillow
edged in gold orphrey. “Damn your eyes, Rob Fraser, has Gavin
Napier fallen off the edge of the earth as far as the rest of
mankind is concerned? I may not bleat and moan like Rosmairi, but
that doesn’t mean I’m any less stricken!”

Rob put down his fluted wineglass and reluctantly met
Sorcha’s angry gaze. He was struck by how much she had changed
since they had first set out from the Highlands four long years
ago. The long, black hair was as tangled as ever, the wide green
eyes still flashed their fire, the strong, full mouth was as prone
to laughter as it was to rage. Even her attire was as simple and
careless as it had been in their youth. Yet he sensed that beneath
that familiar exterior, the faintly wild, untamed lassie of the
glens and burns and peaty bogs had hardened her heart—or at least
built a wall around it. If she had been a headstrong girl, she was
now a willful woman.

“
Maybe,” Rob said slowly, “I didn’t
realize how much you … cared.”

Sorcha waved her wineglass as if in defiance. A few
colorless drops spilled onto her gray skirt, but she paid no heed.
“I cared. I care. Would you have me set my grieving heart to the
notes of a pibroch for the pipes to play over my grave?” She paused
to watch her brother grimace at the fulsome words, then wagged a
long, slim finger almost in his face. “What truly passes beyond my
understanding is that Gavin loves me, too! So why did he leave me?
Hasn’t Father Napier—the real Father Napier—ever given any hint of
what possesses his cruel brother?”

“
No.” Rob spoke with relief. Father
Napier had rarely mentioned his brother, except to praise him for
his efforts of impersonation on behalf of the Catholic faith. Had
he revealed more, Rob felt he would have had to answer Sorcha
honestly—and he also sensed that the truth might wound her more
deeply than his ignorance. Calmly, Rob folded his hands inside his
flowing sleeves. He’d had little experience offering spiritual
guidance, but it appeared his sister needed counsel. “It’s best to
accept the will of God,” be began, failing to note that Sorcha’s
eyes snapped at the words. “Give thanks to our Lord that you were
spared being dishonored by Gavin Napier.”

“
Dishonored, my backside!” Sorcha
leaned far forward on the divan’s edge. “I gave myself to Gavin,
and I did it freely, without the promise of holy matrimony to
justify the act! God’s teeth, Rob, do you think you’re talking to a
moonstruck milkmaid?”

Rob picked up his glass and drank with fervor. “I
didn’t know.” He took another swallow, choked, and shook his head
with vigor, as if he could erase the words his sister had just
implanted upon his brain. “Have you confessed?”

Sorcha sat back on the divan, though her body was
still tensed. “Of course. At Beauly Priory.” She sighed and lowered
her eyes to the hands which held the half-filled glass. “But I
wasn’t sorry. I’m still not.” Lifting her head, she tossed the long
hair back over her shoulders. “I know that’s wrong. But I can’t lie
to myself. Or God.”

“
Jesu.” Rob rubbed his bearded chin
with agitated fingers. “Did you accept your penance?”

“
Oh, aye, ’twas dozens of prayers
and litanies and fasting and abstinence. I almost starved to
death!” She made a strange little noise that was half cry, half
laugh. “The true penance is losing Gavin. The other was
easy.”

For several moments, brother and sister sat in
silence, neither looking at the other. Outside, a dog howled in the
distance and from somewhere down the hallway, a door banged shut.
Darkness had settled in, leaving the parlor in shadow as a half
dozen candles burned on the marble mantel of the little
fireplace.

Sorcha finally broke the silence, cradling the
wineglass against her breast and offering Rob a wan, feeble smile.
“Am I going to hell?”

It was Rob’s turn to emit a truncated little laugh.
“No one knows who will go to hell, except God Himself.”

“
Well,” said Sorcha, standing up and
stretching her neck muscles, “I’ve asked God to make me sorry. But
nothing happens. I’ve asked Him to send Gavin back to me. But Gavin
doesn’t come. Mayhap God doesn’t hear my prayers.”

“
He hears,” Rob replied, still
staring off into the far corner of the room. Slowly, he got to his
feet, holding his wineglass before him as if it were a chalice. “I
can’t give you a second penance. But will you make yourself more
pleasing in the sight of Almighty God by helping prevent the murder
of the King of France?”