Chapter Six
St. Margaret’s of Loch Doom
“Sir Estevan. Estevan!”
Someone kicked his foot, and Estevan found himself on his feet before he even realized he’d awoken. He found himself towering over Anaxandra and, woozy because he’d jumped up so fast, nearly falling onto her. She had to reach out to steady him.
“Are you well?” she asked.
He rubbed his eyes, finally standing without assistance. “Aye,” he said. “I stood up too fast, I suppose.”
“My apologies,” Anaxandra said, looking at him with concern. “Are you sure you are well?”
“I am.”
“Then Mother Michael needs you,” Anaxandra said. “Come with me.”
He did. A glance over his shoulder showed his brother and cousins all sleeping still.
He was the only one awake. It was still dark, though he thought he could see a hint of dawn coming in through the ventilation windows high in the sanctuary.
Everything felt cold and damp, as the fire was down to the embers now, and a layer of blue smoke hovered about six feet off the ground. He was walking right through it.
“What’s amiss?” he asked. “Why does Mother Michael wish tae see me?”
Anaxandra glanced at him. “The ill woman has awakened,” he said. “She keeps drawing something in the dirt and speaking words we do not understand. Mother Michael hopes you can communicate with her.”
Estevan wasn’t so sure. Maybe he’d been ambitious thinking he could, since he knew the language so long ago.
Scratching the back of his head, he was doubtful, but kept silent as they reached Mother Michael and the other nuns who had been assisting the ill woman.
As he drew near, he could smell cloves strongly, something they were using in their medicaments.
The injured woman had a paste on her wounds, which he assumed the clove smell was coming from.
But they could also hear her coughing.
The ill woman was also out of her cot and sitting on the ground, coughing and sniffling.
It was clear that she was sick. The nuns were standing around her, puzzled, as she used a stick to draw in the hard-packed earth of the sanctuary.
When Mother Michael noticed Estevan, she pointed to the drawings.
“Mayhap you can help us,” she said. “She has been trying to tell us something, but we know not what. We cannot convince her to get back into bed because these drawings seem most urgent. Can you ask her, please?”
Estevan was still a little groggy as he dutifully leaned over the sick woman to see what she’d drawn in the dirt. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, and the light was bad, so he turned to Anaxandra, who was standing behind him.
“Wake my brother, please,” he told her. “I’ll need his help.”
Anaxandra rushed off. He watched her return to the sleeping warriors in the corner before returning his attention to the woman sitting on the ground.
She had been looking at the drawings she’d made in the dirt, but when she heard his voice, she looked up at him.
Yesterday, she’d had a good deal of fear in her expression when he came near, but this morning, the fear was diminished somewhat.
Now, it was replaced by a feverish countenance, but as Estevan looked at her, he could see that she realized he and his brother and fellow knights had brought her to safety.
They were not her enemy. When their eyes met, she pointed at the scribble in the dirt.
“Hj?lp mig,” she whispered urgently.
Mig. Estevan knew that meant “me,” but the other word sounded suspiciously like “help.” Was it possible she was asking for help?
Or thanking him for help? He tried to think back to those days when he knew the language somewhat, thinking of what to say to her.
He did remember the word for name because, long ago, the lads he used to play with had asked him what his name was in their language.
He pointed at her.
“Namn?” he asked.
Her eyes widened a little when he spoke a word she understood. That seemed to excite her.
“Leonore,” she said. “Leonore Callia.”
“What did you ask her?” Mother Michael asked.
Estevan turned his head in her direction. “Her name,” he said. “It is Leonore Callia.”
A sigh of satisfaction went on among the nuns who were standing around, including Mother Michael. Now they were getting somewhere.
“God be praised,” she said softly. “We have her name. Leonore. A beautiful name. Will you ask her where she comes from?”
Estevan wasn’t sure how to do that. He crouched down, a few feet away from Leonore as she watched him anxiously. The first thing he did was put his hand on his chest.
“Estevan,” he said. “Estevan.”
Leonore stared at him a moment in confusion before realizing what he was telling her. “Leonore,” she said, hand on her own chest. “Mitt namn ?r Leonore.”
“Mitt namn ?r Estevan.”
That short exchange brought some delight. Leonore’s face lit up and she laughed, probably with relief that she was getting somewhere with the language barrier. As Estevan smiled politely at her, Mother Michael patted him on the head, as if he were a dutiful child.
“Ask her where she comes from,” Mother Michael said eagerly. “More importantly, ask her where she belongs. We must send her home.”
Estevan sighed heavily. “I’m not sure I’m skilled enough tae ask her that,” he said. “I dunna know enough of the language tae be clear, I’m afraid.”
“Let me try.”
They both looked over to see Kaladin standing there. He was sleepy, but alert, rubbing his eyes as he gazed down at Leonore. But Estevan frowned.
“What makes ye think ye can do better than me?” he said. “Ye dunna know the language either.”
Kaladin crouched down next to his brother. “I was home with Papa as he did business with the princes of the isles while ye were fostering in England,” he said. “Ye only played with some of those children when ye were very young. How much can ye know?”
Estevan pursed his lips with annoyance. “Fine,” he said. “Ye try tae communicate with her. Let’s see ye ask her where she’s from.”
Kaladin was determined to show up his brother. He looked at the woman and gestured to himself. “Kaladin,” he said. “Jag ?r Kaladin.”
Leonore’s features brightened again, the same way they had with Estevan. “Kaladin,” she repeated. “Kan du hj?lpa mig?”
“Aye.” Kaladin nodded. “Ditt hem?”
He had only asked her where her home was.
It should have been an equally short answer.
But Leonore’s reply was long, painful, and complicated.
No one, even Kaladin and Estevan, knew what she was talking about.
She was gesturing north and south and then waving her hands about.
She was also becoming more upset as she spoke, and by the time she finished, she was weeping.
Kaladin and Estevan looked at each other in confusion, and concern, realizing they really couldn’t communicate with her well at all.
Not well enough to truly understand her.
“Ye dunna know what she said?” Estevan asked his brother.
Kaladin was loath to admit he’d failed. “Just a few words,” he said. “I know the word for ‘home,’ and she asked about help, but beyond that… I’m afraid I only understood very few words.”
“What did she say?”
“Something about her home being in the north and she’d been brought here.”
“Brought where?”
“I dunna know.”
Estevan realized they’d bitten off more than they could chew. As Kaladin continued to try to communicate with the women, Estevan stood up and faced Mother Michael.
“I fear we only understand just a few words,” he said. “We know her name is Leonore and we believe she’s asked for help, but beyond that, we dunna know anything more.”
Mother Michael accepted his explanation, and her sense of concern returned. “We must communicate with her,” she said. Then she cocked her head thoughtfully. “Mayhap we do not understand her language, but she may speak another.”
Estevan wasn’t sure what she meant, but Mother Michael pushed past him, kneeling down near Leonore. She fixed on the woman, who continued to cough and sputter.
“Intellegisne me?” she asked softly.
Leonore’s eyes widened. After a moment’s shock, she nodded firmly. “Ita facio,” she said.
As Mother Michael smiled, Estevan understood what the woman had said. “The language of the church,” he said. “If the woman attends church, then she knows it.”
Mother Michael nodded. “With the Northmen, one can never tell,” she said. “Sometimes they worship their pagan gods, but it seems Lady Leonore knows something of Latin. I should have thought of it earlier.”
Estevan stood up stiffly from his crouched position near Leonore. “I thought my brother and I would be able tae help more,” he said. “’Tis true that there are Northmen, still, in the north of Scotland. Not as much as there used tae be, but they’re still there.”
Mother Michael nodded in understanding. “Let us determine if we can find out more about her this way,” she said, her focus still on Leonore. “Ubi est domus tua?”
Where is your home?
It was a simple question, or perhaps not so simple the way Leonore began to speak again, gesturing with her hands.
She went on and on, speaking haltingly in Latin, but enough so that Mother Michael and the rest of them began to understand her, just a little.
Anyone who was part of the church, as Mother Michael and her fellow women were, would have known Latin because that was the language they prayed in.
The language of all masses. And Estevan and his fellow warriors would have known it from their early education.
It was, therefore, a universal language, and one that seemed to be telling a harrowing tale.
Lady Leonore was no lady.
She was a queen.
But that was as far as Estevan and Kaladin got. Titan suddenly appeared behind them, having been awakened at Estevan’s request by Anaxandra.
“Mateo is ill,” he said in a low voice.
Estevan and Kaladin turned to him. “Ill?” Estevan repeated, confused. “What do ye mean? He was perfectly fine last evening.”