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  “Nineteen seventy-six, when I was working the pipeline.” He held it out for me to see. “Twelve hundred and ninety dollars. One week’s work.”

  It was a check. You could make that out, but not much else. When I looked back up and smiled, he looked at the check.

  “Guess you can’t make it out too good anymore.”

  He folded it carefully, put it back. Glanced again at the diva, who had one foot in the door of Nessun dorma. The strangeness of hearing the piece as a soprano aria matched perfectly the strangeness of the setting.

  “Well, young man,” he said, “we should go back in now.”

  We did, and even before I retook my seat I sensed that something had changed. The audience seemed poised, expectant. And was there a void onstage? One of several court scenes, better than a dozen attendants and functionaries in place. The patterns were wrong. What, I asked, sliding in next to Caroline, had happened?

  A cast member—the forester, she thought—had collapsed and been spirited out, with barely a breath’s hesitation, by two others. Made quite a rattle and bang when he hit the floor. It was a major aria for the ice princess, of course, and with but a moment’s glance toward the commotion, the soprano had flawlessly continued, inching toward the inevitable high C or whatever it was. A woman two rows back had asked her companions, loudly, if this was a part of the show.

  The rest passed without incident, building inexorably to its grandly happy, unrelenting conclusion, soprano soaring like a seabird, tenor stolidly tossing his voice to the rafters, chorus dug in and determined to hold its own, orchestra a clash with horns and percussion.

  Turandot had been wrong.

  Now the riddles were solved, the gong would sound no more.

  And we were outside, moving within moving corridors of other opera-goers, past the bronze dancers, past the diva with her cardboard podium, reclaimed by our lives.

  ***

  Just this side of Sunset Point, Mattie has one of her seizures. Doesn’t happen much anymore, with the medication, but we’re used to it from the old days. Something starts thumping against the seat, I look back, and it’s her legs spasming. I edge off the road, get in the back with her, and hold her till it stops. From the first, right after Mattie was born, Caroline never was much good at handling that. She’d fall to pieces or just kind of go away. As the seizures got worse, so did the going away. I don’t blame her. Or anyone. Things just happen.

  We’re back on the road in four, five minutes, Caroline looking out the window, Mattie sleeping it off. We inch up the hill and around a long curve behind three semis. Our speed drops to 55, 48, 44, 40. Atop the hill we’re able to pass. I roll down the window. The air is fresh and cool. Something with that unmistakable pulse of baroque music—strings, horns, keyboard continuo—plays on the radio. It begins to cut out, like a stutterer, as we gain altitude.

  Mattie wakes, rattles a box of Jolly Ranchers to see how much is left, pops one in her mouth and sucks away. We’re ten thousand feet up and there’s a pinpoint puncture, our air’s hissing slowly out. That’s what it sounds like.

  “What do you want to do about dinner?” Caroline says.

  I’m thinking about a movie I’d like to see. There’s this family. The father goes off to his job every day, it’s exciting work, all about people and solving real problems for them, and he comes home and talks about it over the dinner table, where they all eat together. The mother’s a teacher, so she tells what went on at school, funny things her kids said today, how much better some of them are doing, how others still have problems with fractions or irregular verbs or something like that. The daughter talks about school, too, and her friends, and about track-team practice this afternoon. She’s healthy, vibrant, and isn’t going to die before she ever gets to be an adult.

  “We can pick up burgers at the corner on the way home,” Caroline says. “That work for you?”

  I think of Montezuma’s Castle just miles from here, an entire city built high into a hillside, accessible only by long ladders. Back in the day we’d go on picnics at a little park not far from there. I want to say, “There’s no magic left in my name, little one. No magic anymore in these hills. In the sun, yes, and in the sky. But those are far away.” I don’t, of course.

  We’re into the thick of it now, hill and curve, hill and curve. The drop-offs have shifted to the right, Caroline’s side. In a minute we’ll be there, the highest point, the deepest drop. I pick up speed and Caroline looks over at me. Upset that I’m going too fast? Or does she sense something more?

  I look in the rearview mirror. Mattie has gone back to sleep. Good.

  This is where we get off.

  The Paternoster Pea

  Priscilla Royal

  I blame Mary Reed and Eric Mayer for leading me to Poisoned Pen Press. Discovering their wonderful Byzantine mysteries made me think their press might not reject a series because the sleuth and era were a bit different. Thirteen years ago, I was a very rejected writer…

  And the Press allowed e-mail submissions! Having paid a small fortune in postage, this won my bank account’s heart. The next pleasant surprise was encountering the man I later called The Gatekeeper to the Dream, Monty Montee. He was responsive, encouraging, and professional. When PPP turned down my first quirky modern cozy, I e-mailed to ask if I could submit a medieval. His positive reply arrived almost instantly. I sent even faster. Soon after, Prioress Eleanor and Brother Thomas found a home. I had four glasses of wine that night (I rarely drink) and never felt a thing! Years later, things haven’t changed much. I am still in love with Poisoned Pen Press and all the wonderful people who work there.

  —P.R.

  ***

  Robert Wynethorpe smiled as he walked through a flock of loudly squawking, colorful fowl and stepped over piles of greenish manure in the castle courtyard. He shouldn’t be in such a good mood on this chill East Anglian afternoon, not with the task his father had set for him just ahead, but he never could stay in bad humor for long.

  Ever since his elder brother, Hugh, had gone off on Crusade, Robert had been in charge of the estate. He loved the land, he did, everything that grew in it, and the beasts that grazed it. And, unlike his warrior brother, Robert was good at farming, something their father appreciated because it left the good Baron more time to play his beloved political games in the court of the aged King Henry III. Robert hated politics; he hated fights; and he especially hated having to host this meeting between his best friend and another man, of near equal rank but greater rancor, to settle a nasty quarrel.

  At least he had had the good judgement to seek advice from his younger sister on this dangerous conflict between two men who owed fealty to their father. Eleanor was now prioress at Tyndal Priory, and he was much relieved when she offered to help resolve this issue between the noblemen. Despite her youth, she was gaining quite the reputation as an equitable judge of disputes. Some were even suggesting she was divinely inspired. Having grown up with her, Robert rather doubted she was exactly divinely inspired, but he had always respected her common sense.

  It was her arrival that had just been announced and brought him into the castle courtyard. As he made his way through a small herd of goats, Robert saw her at the gate with her usual attendant, Sister Anne.

  Eleanor was a tiny woman, dressed in virtuous simplicity, who sat serenely on the humble donkey she had named after their beloved father. He wondered why she’d done that, but knowing his little sister’s wicked wit, he decided he might not want to learn what specific parental quality the small gray beast had brought to mind. To know and perhaps laugh would make him feel disloyal to their father, and Robert was nothing if not loyal to family and friends.

  His good mood now vanished like a summer sun behind thunderclouds. Entering the courtyard just behind the two women was the colorful party of Sir George of Lavenham, a man well known for superb horses, fine attire, and profound appreci
ation of the feminine gender. Robert might love George like a brother, but the man’s occasionally injudicious admiration of women had brought his childhood friend into this conflict.

  Some weeks ago, Sir Thomas Edwardston had accused George of seducing his older sister and getting her with child. George had denied the charge. In this case, Robert believed him, but not out of naïve belief in his friend’s virtue. He knew that George avoided virgins, preferring to play with married women who had more experience in the pleasures of the bed. Indeed, had Robert been married, he would have feared far more for his wife’s virtue than for his sister’s even in her pre-convent days. Not that Eleanor hadn’t been a match for any man even in those tender years.

  His good humor returned with the thought.

  “Dearest Sister!” He stepped forward to help Eleanor down from her small mount. Then in an overly bright tone he added, “And Sister Anne! What a joy to see you.”

  Robert did not like Sister Anne and failed to understand why his sister invariably required her company on these journeys outside the priory. The woman was almost of a man’s height and never hesitated to speak her mind on medical matters. Her reputation for scholarship in herbal cures and potions was well known, and Robert had both grown up with and liked educated, intelligent women. But he still preferred them to maintain a modest behaviour in public and to have a softer form than this angular companion.

  Robert looked at Sister Anne riding astride the gray beast with her feet dragging inelegantly just inches above the ground and stifled a snort. Glancing at him, Sister Anne slid off her own donkey without his assistance.

  “Had Father not chosen you to care for the estate in our eldest brother’s absence, Robert, you would have made a fine courtier with that too-silver tongue of yours.”

  “Ah, Eleanor!”

  “And your steward’s dear wife? Will she be preparing the usual room for Sister Anne and me?”

  Robert grinned. The steward’s “dear” wife was a termagant who had long been a source of humor between them. “As we speak. With the requisite water for bathing and fresh rushes for the floors, strewn, at my command, with rosemary and lavender for my dearest sister and the most welcome Sister…”

  The prioress put her hand up to her brother’s mouth. “Shush, Robert. More such lies about Sister Anne and no priest will have time to shrive you of all your sins.” Little escaped his sister’s notice, including his dislike of her chosen companion.

  Before Robert could reply, a muscular arm swung around his shoulder and jerked him backward. “And what has your incomparable steward arranged for your oldest friend?” Robert elbowed George in the gut, which only caused the man to laugh. “It is well Hugh went off to the Holy Land, Robert. A sultan’s warriors would need only a puff of breath to knock you to the ground.”

  Robert frowned. “Less levity, George. We haven’t much time. It’s a serious business, this charge of Edwardston’s. Tonight you and he must come to an amicable settlement. Father was clear he would brook no ill feelings between you two.” He hesitated. “Have you given thought to Edwardston’s proposal that you marry his sister?”

  “I’d sooner marry my best yellow hunting bitch.”

  “The Lady Sarah is hardly a dog, my friend, and it is time for you to think of taking a wife, in any event,” Robert said.

  “Indeed, I would not choose to join hands with an Edwardston kin of my own volition. But had his sister been to my liking, I might have at least considered the prospect. But Edwardston has tried to force her on me with false accusation, and her spawn is that of another man. ’S Blood, Robert! I expect to father my own sons, not borrow them.”

  “But borrow them you will, my lord,” Eleanor interjected, “unless you wish to incur the wrath of my father. Or are you able to produce the real perpetrator of this injustice against the poor woman?”

  “Lady Eleanor! Forgive me. I have forgotten myself. My language was coarse and nothing a woman of your piety and virtue should hear.” George bowed deeply, both to hide his reddened face and to honor the only woman he had ever wanted to marry from the time they were children together.

  The loud clopping of hooves announced the arrival of another party of horsemen.

  Eleanor and her companions turned slowly and watched them enter.

  ***

  Edwardston was dour, a man of wealth and many followers yet increasingly fewer friends. He was a collector of debts, human and pecuniary, and in the collecting saw only the value to himself. Although known for charity, his generosity was calculated and without compassion. As time passed, he found his only true comfort in his priest, who was grateful to Edwardston for his comfortable position, and thrice-daily mass with which he hoped to provide his soul with lodging in Paradise.

  Thus it was that his sole male attendants on this occasion were his priest, who also acted as his physician, and the poor son of a lackland knight, Timothy. Some wondered if the young man was an early Edwardston by-blow, for his narrowed eyes and perpetually creased brow closely resembled his master’s. Others noted that the young man’s expression was not uncommon amongst those who lived with the landed but had nothing of their own.

  Behind Edwardston and his men was a litter carrying the Lady Sarah at such a distance that it seemed almost an afterthought. She also was minimally attended. A solemn-faced woman of indeterminate years rode beside her on a dull-coated mare.

  “’S Blood! He brings both forger and chain, Robert,” George muttered, glancing at the priest, then at the litter.

  “I warned you. He means to have her married.”

  “I swear my innocence! Let me prove it in combat!” George slammed his fist against his chest.

  “My lord father has forbidden it,” Robert whispered. “He wants neither of you dead for such a thing as a woman with child, who, I will repeat, would make you a perfectly good wife with the lands she’d bring. You would gain in rents and he in status. A good match, methinks.”

  “I will not have another man’s leavings for my firstborn.”

  “If you refuse the lady and the true father of her child cannot be determined, then my sister must rule on fair recompense that you both agreed upon.”

  “I respect your sister, Robert, as you know I always have, and will honor my word to your father. But, between the two of us, how can she make such a judgement? A woman given to God can know nothing of men and their ways.”

  “But much of women and theirs, my lords, which may suit us just as well,” Eleanor said as she walked past the two men on her way to the litter.

  “Come, my dear,” she said, extending a hand to the plain-faced woman, dressed in familial black but beginning to bloom in motherhood. “Let us have some wine to refresh our bodies and prayer to refresh our souls.”

  Quickly forgotten by the men, who turned to scowl at each other, the women walked off together in companionable small talk toward the stone stairs of Wynethorpe Castle.

  ***

  Robert Wynethorpe was a generous host, even under circumstances less convivial than he would have preferred. That night the minstrels played in the gallery above while servants rushed through the hall with trays of swan neck pudding, roast salmon in onion wine sauce, and savory spiced venison pies. Red wines flowed, and trenchers swelled with the sweet fat of rich meats.

  Edwardston begrudged a smile when he was presented with a particularly fine slab of salmon. George, who normally reveled in a fine meal, looked pale, but even he picked steadily, albeit dispiritedly, at his food.

  The prioress sat with the Lady Sarah and Sister Anne. Eleanor, honoring the Rule of Saint Benedict, refrained from all meat, ate only vegetables and sipped moderately at the wine. Lady Sarah, looking pinker in the cheek than she had upon arrival, spoke softly in the prioress’ ear.

  And Sister Anne was engaged in a spirited discussion with Edwardston’s priest on the subject of whether Galen or Hippocra
tes had the better treatment for intestinal wind. Robert wished he had seated both of them further away from his own ears, preferably between Edwardston and Lavenham, who were so engaged in their own thoughts that they would be deaf to such a detailed discussion.

  After the main courses had disappeared into the mouths of men and two favored hounds, the prioress put her hand on Sister Anne’s arm and whispered in her ear. The good sister relayed the message to Robert.

  He waved his hand, and the minstrels ceased their play.

  “My lords!” he shouted.

  The guests quieted with reasonable good humor, wine having been generously but not excessively poured. Indeed, many thought the coming entertainment might be worth the attention now requested by their host.

  Robert cleared his throat. “As you know, Sir Thomas of Edwardston has accused Sir George of Lavenham of great insult to his beloved sister and has demanded recompense from him. However, my father has forbidden mortal combat between his liegemen while my brother has taken the cross, thus honoring our Holy Father’s prohibition against Christians killing one another during this holy war. And since neither man has been able to agree on a reasonable solution, the Prioress of Tyndal Priory, a woman respected far and wide for wise and God-given judgement, has agreed to arbitrate the problem. The two men have agreed to abide by her decision.”

  The prioress rose from her chair. A benevolent look crossed her face. Only those closest to her could see the twinkle in her gray eyes. “My Lord Edwardston, you believe your sister has been wronged, and you seek recompense from the man who did it, do you not?”

  “Yes, my lady. I expect him to marry her.”

  “And marriage alone? No other remedy will suit?”

  “Such is only right in God’s eyes, and I abide by God’s will.”

  “And you are correct, my lord. Yet I do believe that your sister and this man must have betrothed themselves to each other before carnal knowledge took place. The Lady Sarah is both a noble and an honorable woman and would never have allowed sinful converse to take place without such a solemn contract, which can no more be broken without the permission of the Holy Father than marriage itself. You would agree?”