Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Dry Reds in Summer
The Order of Saint-Mitre convened at the most inopportune of evening hours, cozily tucked away into the side transept by the baptistry, which visitors tended to ignore when the confraternity was around.
They were seated in a haphazard cluster of chairs and pews where, at least, the members set themselves down predictably.
The men were in disarray, and the small number of women massed together just next to the antique wooden table they always carted out to hold the wine and donation box.
The weekly meeting was almost ordinary. Most everyone was present and dressed in out-of-fashion chaperons, the wine flowed a little too freely, the interim archbishop forced them into a prayer before they could start, and not a soul forgot or hid their grapevine brooch.
Almost ordinary indeed, were it not for a sheepish Lieutenant de Filhou standing in the back, and two members sporting wedding bands for the first time.
Their respite was well over. It hadn’t just ended, but crashed and burst into flames.
Oste stood at the front and wielded his glass of wine like a crozier.
He was fond of having something for his hands to do, and fonder still that the solution was something he could retreat into with hearty sips.
Looking across at the confraternity was yet to feel normal to him, even a few years on.
His admittance as a youth had been a shock, but eventually being elected as the next president blew that surprise out of the water.
The members weren’t medical students obligated to listen to his advice during examinations and surgeries; these people were there by choice and listened to him by choice, and he never took their trust lightly.
He owed it to them all to make their attachments worth it.
He glided through the regularities. The congregation received their thanks for the wedding planning, and offered thanks of their own on the clean-up of Saint-Sauveur's various reliquaries. Everyone was reminded to stay hydrated as summer waned, of course, and that they’d need to find replacement cooks for their end of the year social on account of their preferred man fleeing the country on suspicion of fraud and heresy.
He didn’t mention the fighting; they never could here. That was for whispers in the hidden room of their trustworthy tavern. Their greatest purpose lived in secrecy.
Besides, they needed to keep their heads down for a little while longer after the incident where they barely escaped with their heads at all.
One matter could be surveyed with all the gravity it deserved, however. Such was why he’d made Jehan come along. This was no secret. This was public and sanctioned horror that hadn’t yet found its ending. It made Oste’s mouth taste bitter, but he wasn’t swayed from the discomfort of bringing it up.
I am capable, he thought to himself. I am safe.
Oste cleared his throat. “Anyway. Women—”
He paused, and found himself not quite certain of how to continue the sentence.
Melchion de Mazargues, seated at the front, shot up a brow. “Lord, what an agenda note.”
The nearby goldsmith’s wife, Dedèa, spoke up from beside Jeanne with a subtle giggle. “Next week, the point shall be, ‘men’!”
“Oh, no, I want the rest,” said Balthazar. Jehan, hovering behind him, buried his face in his hand.
“Women!” Oste huffed with greater volume.
Thank heavens for the glass he’d already polished off.
“Women have been murdered, you fiends. Yes, those. I know not a soul here is unaware of what’s happened in Cordeliers, so I can at least spare you all the repetition and specifics.
Yes, it has to do with us now. And yes, I have left this as the last note on account of it holding the greatest importance. ”
“Verily,” Jeanne whispered.
“I’ve spoken with some of the proprietors in the district, as well as our good Monsieur le Lieutenant Jehan de Filhou, here. Give us a wave, Lieutenant.”
Jehan, in back, sheepishly did as directed. Oste always appreciated how much he squirmed when a full polite introduction was made.
“Je—The lieutenant has been hard at work, but we can do our own part, besides. I am accepting, no, encouraging volunteers to fulfill requests from the locals to provide a greater sense of security in the evenings in Cordeliers. I have a list of bathhouses and tavern halls who lack their own private guard. Men will—”
Oste tugged out the paper with his scrawled out notes from his pocket and glanced over it.
“—yes, men will have the opportunity to attend late closings and walk the ladies home. There is to be a small stipend for each night, supplied by an anonymous donor, and a promise of free services from the businesses. Mind, this is reserved for those of you with a license to carry your sword.”
“Is he implying there’s those of us without one?” Balthazar whispered to Melchion.
Melchion elbowed him in the ribs.
“In addition!” Oste shouted in the direction of those two men.
“Half the proceeds from our stand at the market will go directly to Les Soeurs de Saint-Sauveur’s fund for food and housing until the end of autumn.
Now, I presume my fellows will be scrambling to sign up for the watch opportunities, so I’m hopeful we can get some additional ladies for our stall. Jeanne…?”
“I’ll arrange the schedule.” The widow sat up a little straighter.
“Very good,” hummed Oste. “Adjacently, before I take questions, comments, complaints, and quips, I would like to again thank the lieutenant for thinking of us for such a golden civic opportunity, and attending for the sake of mutual support.”
He furrowed his brow. “But I didn’t—”
“Is he joining?” Eflamm asked. They were his first words all day.
“Oh, he’s joining?” Dedèa turned around in her chair.
Dorotèa jerked forward. “I knew it.”
“I am only saying a few words!” Jehan shouted. He dragged his palm across his forehead and glowered across at Oste, who flashed a crooked grin. Few things delighted him like turning his work partner ornery. “I don’t have enough time in the day for clubs.”
“Hear, hear,” said Melchion.
“What are your few words?” Oste asked.
Jehan cleared his throat. “You are to report any and all suspicious activity to the authorities—unless forced to make a citizen’s arrest. Injury and mortal harm should be avoided save for necessity, but the Palais thanks all proactive citizens working to ensure a safer Aix.”
“I love the way he repeats that legal jargon,” Dorotèa murmured.
Oste held up his palms. “What if we encounter a criminal on the streets, Lieutenant?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Look, just use your best judgment and find a constable.”
“Do you qualify as a constable in this situation?” a wide-eyed girl in the back circle asked.
“Yes, by law.”
Oste was certain he heard that same girl ask Dedèa if Jehan was married, but he pretended not to hear it.
He leaned back against the wall and tucked his free arm underneath the pit of the other while questions were slung and the rest of the wine consumed.
The late hour brought out a small spot of fatigue he didn’t bother to fight.
It had been a long season—no, year, and Oste thought that by right he ought not feel guilty for a little lowering of his eyelids before the meeting's end. He even pondered skipping the trip to Borvo’s which would, admittedly, be a rarity on his part.
At any rate, he wasn’t sure he’d have the opportunity to take the trip considering who was in attendance.
The physician watched Jehan carefully as he made a show of tactfully answering or politely deflecting the range of questions the confraternity members asked.
The voices skewed towards a woman majority, to Oste’s amusement, and he swore he’d not let it get to the damnable fop’s roguish head, even though he couldn’t deny the lieutenant’s good looks.
Just when he thought he might doze off in front of the rest of the club, the questions and comments came to an end, and Oste was able to officially conclude the meeting.
He pushed off the wall and leaned down to massage his knee after he exuded a soft grunt to bend himself like that; he’d been sore since his return to work.
His constitution didn’t appreciate being thrust back into long hours on his feet attending patients, or crouching on the floor inspecting the dead in bathhouses.
Oste scanned the transept as the members moved Saint-Sauveur’s furnishings back into place and packed up their additions.
Balthazar dropped the table onto Melchion’s foot, which caused a delay and an extraordinary number of curses, and Jeanne’s gossiping about a tavern closure down the road slowed progress even more.
Nothing, however, stopped the lieutenant from strolling up to Oste along the outskirts and drawing in close.
“I’ve invited you before,” said Oste. He inclined his head towards Jehan. “It’s the first time you’ve come.”
“I anticipate you’ll make some smart comment about how I ought to be loath to have attended on account of recent events and the sheer volume of work on my desk.”
“Ah, but now you’ve gone and said it for me.”
“There you have it. I’m downright exasperated.
” Jehan made a show of bowing, even dramatically brandishing his shoulder cape with the Aix emblem and tossing it back behind him.
“I also owed you a visit and, well, figured I could get that out of the way and see an end to your nagging in one fell swoop. Pray, Docteur, will you continue to harass me about my lack of a social life, or have I succeeded on that front? Is my visitation partially pointless or not?”
“It is,” Oste said smoothly. “You’ll be free from my harassment when I am dead, lest I figure out a way to come back and haunt you.”
Jehan scowled. “You’d make a terrible ghost. You’d preface every manifestation with, ‘might I bother you for a moment’?”