Chapter 12 #2
Post-breakfast studies became part of their routine during those winter weeks at Santa Cruz.
Though spell books existed, most of the art and history of witchcraft was passed down in the oral tradition, for it was too dangerous to write down their ways, so much of Lina’s education came through stories.
The origin of magick itself was murky, going back so many thousands of years that no one knew where it had first cropped up.
But from the beginning, magick wielders had stood out, whether they were revered or reviled. Thus, secrecy was paramount.
“We’re used to hiding in plain sight,” Anne told Lina, her lip curled in distaste. “Otherwise, men have a habit of killing us.”
Lina learned about bloodletting knives, how a witch could not make one herself but required the consent and magick of another to do so.
(“That reliance helps us work together, to trust one another,” Anne explained.) She learned about the hereditary nature of magick, how witches sacrificed blood and mystics risked their minds to channel power into their curses and prophecies, and how magick demanded a payment equivalent to the magnitude of its use.
She learned that curses could cover all manner of subjects, from illusions to healing to warfare.
And she learned that Anne Boleyn, however detached from her own power she might feel, was an extremely competent witch.
Lina had not known it when she’d made her rescue plans, but the curses Anne had cast that fateful day had been of great complexity and risk.
Lina felt unexpectedly honored to be tutored by her.
Though she had no magick in her own veins, Lina could have happily spent a whole year diving into the intricacies of witchcraft.
But with every day that passed, Lina knew that another woman’s life hung in the balance as witch hunts became an increasingly common way to demonstrate faith to the Holy Roman Empire.
By the middle of January, even though the wintery conditions were far from ideal, Lina and Anne set out on the three-week journey to Orléans.
The plan they concocted was simple enough.
Ever since Lina had lost her status as a queen, she had realized how easily society overlooked common women, especially those past a certain age.
No one would look twice at a pair of middle-aged women traveling from Spain to France…
especially if they were dressed as nuns.
In Europe, piety was the perfect disguise.
Lina had not worn a habit since she impersonated Sister Agnes, and from the moment she put it on, the gray wool scratched constantly at her skin, a reminder of the life she had assumed—taken?
—in her bid for freedom. The wimple and veil felt as though they were trying to choke her, and it took most of Lina’s self-possession to keep from ripping the entire headpiece off.
Marguerite sent them with a young carriage driver named Guillen, a set of fine horses, and enough coin to secure them comfortable food and lodging along the way.
If anyone were to ask, they were two nuns on a pilgrimage between Santa Cruz de Madrid and the Saint-Mesmin de Micy Abbey in Orléans.
There were guest quarters near the abbey where they would stay while attempting to make contact with Gisa d’Arc.
Lina found their lodgings humble but pleasant, and wondered anew at how accustomed she had become to simple living.
Nearly a month to the day from when they’d left Madrid, Guillen deposited his passengers in the heart of the city on a brisk February morning, close enough to the northern bank of the Loire River that Lina could see glimpses of the flat blue water between the buildings.
Marguerite’s information had sent them to Rue de Bourgogne, where Gisa d’Arc was purported to live and work.
The old Roman road was paved with cobblestones, bracketed by timber-frame houses and sturdier limestone buildings.
“Well, here we are,” Lina said, looking down the road, not at all sure what would await them if they indeed found Gisa’s abode. She had never met a mystic before.
“Marguerite does find the strangest things for us to do,” Anne mused, adjusting her own holy robes. She seemed about as comfortable in them as Lina was.
Lina had a suspicion that Marguerite had offered up this mission to Anne as a reward…
or perhaps as a distraction. Getting the grieving, furious witch out of the country had been a clever move, but it wouldn’t be long before Anne decided it was time to get her revenge on Henry.
Seeking out mystics and saving witches were sure to keep her attention diverted from England, at least for the time being. [*2]
They walked down the street together, peering at every door for a sign of the d’Arc mystic.
Lina knew they must have appeared suspicious—why would two nuns be looking so curiously into people’s windows?
—but the disguises must have been good enough, for no citizens of Orléans spared them a second glance, or often even a first one.
Abruptly, Anne stopped. “This is it,” she said, pointing at a wooden house on their left.
“How do you…” The question died on Lina’s tongue.
A beech tree was carved into the door, many-limbed with branches reaching up toward the casing.
Tiny, intricate leaves dotted its branches, interspersed with flowers, whose petals drifted down to encircle the tree’s roots.
A fairy tree, just like the one from Jeanne d’Arc’s visions in Domrémy that supposedly cured all ills.
If nothing else, Lina was certain they were in the right place as she knocked.
The door swung open a moment later, revealing a tall, striking young woman in her twenties. Her chestnut ringlets were piled atop her head, a few errant curls falling into her face as she narrowed her eyes at the visitors on her doorstep.
“You are late,” Gisa d’Arc informed them in French, turning with a swish of her skirts and retreating into the gloom of the house. And—was that a sword hanging from her waist?
Lina and Anne exchanged an uneasy look before stepping inside.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find in the den of a mystic, but it was not…
this. The home of Gisa d’Arc looked more like a university than anything else, with shelves lining every wall and tables filled with arcane and modern instruments.
An astrolabe sat next to a tiny clock on a chain, the newly invented pocket watch.
A pair of bronze celestial globes whirred and turned of their own accord, while a series of interconnected vials and tubes dripped unidentifiable amber liquid into a clear glass bottle in time with the globes’ turns.
Birds sang to one another from fine-wrought cages dangling from ceiling beams, and potted plants—many of which Lina could not have identified—took up residence in every sunny windowsill and corner of the house.
The space should have felt cluttered, but Gisa had kept her home neater than any palace (or convent) Lina had ever seen. Which made it all the more of a surprise to see the mystic frantically stuffing scrolls and tools into three large leather bags.
“Neither of you has a bad back, do you?” Gisa asked. She looked up at Lina and swept her gaze from head to toe. “Hmm. I’ll give you the lightest one.”
This was…not the greeting Lina had been expecting. Had this mystic already delved too deep into her power? Was she already mad? Lina gave her head a little shake and cleared her throat.
“You are Gisa d’Arc? We’ve come—”