how Saint Istv’n rode the White Stag. She was stroking her hair now. “Do you see why I brought you here, Erszike?”
Although she could hear the forest around her, the rustling and scurrying, and the crackles of the dying fire, she felt the stones of the Wartburg pressing against her, so that she could not breathe.
“To escape the landgravine?” But she knew, as she said it, that it was not the reason.
Cec’lia took her hand and looked at the spot where the thorn had pierced, which had already stopped bleeding. “To give you a choice.”
M’rta stroked her hair again, but now it offered no reassurance. “You could help the T?nd’r, Erzsike. If you stayed at the Wartburg …”
She had not noticed when the piping had stopped. S’ndor lay by the fire with his mouth open, snoring slightly. He had taken the baby from his daughter, and it lay beside him, wrapped in his ragged coat. Green curls tumbled over the baby’s eyes. Its thumb was in its mouth, and it made a sucking sound in its dreams.
Erzs’bet looked down at the mark on her finger. Then she said to Cec’lia, “M’rta and I have to get back before dawn. Will you distribute the money?”
“There’s more,” said Csilla, because Mrs. Mad’r had stopped.
“Is there?” said Mrs. Mad’r. “You see, I don’t know the rest. We know our stories only in fragments. But your grandmother knew more of those fragments than anyone.”
“Yes,” said Csilla. “You’re missing the most important part.”
The chapel was filled with the thump of boots sewn from embroidered leather, the shush of sleeves edged with ermine.
I am a cloud, thought Erzs’bet. I am a mist, creeping across the room. I am invisible, like air …
“Elizabeth!” said the landgravine. “Father Conrad, this is the Princess Elizabeth.” The pearls in the landgravine’s hair glowed in the light that came through the stained glass window, turning her left cheek a delicate blue. “Elizabeth, surely you know enough to kiss the Inquisitor’s hand?”
It happened, as Erzs’bet knew it must, when she bent to kiss the wrinkled fingers, dirty under the nails and wearing an iron ring engraved with a cross. Out they tumbled, the rolls that she had stolen from breakfast, stolen for the woman who waited in a corner of the scullery, anxiously holding a child whose head was wrapped in a ragged scarf. How carefully she had wrapped them in her skirt, how carefully she had held her skirt so they would not fall out. And now they lay on the chapel floor, where boots stepped aside and skirts drew back to avoid them. What good was it being at the Wartburg, when all she could do to help the T?nd’r was steal rolls? Lenke, the scullery girl, could do more than she could.
“Bread?” said the landgravine. “Why do you need bread?” She watched the rolls rolling, as though she had never seen bread before.
Erzs’bet felt as though she could not breathe. What should she answer?
“Speak, child,” said Father Conrad. “Speak as truthfully as our Lord taught us.” He smiled, a smile that he might have thought was kind. But his eyes glittered like steel.
What had M’rta whispered, lying beside her at night when she could not sleep? The T?nd’r could call the blossom from its bud, the rabbit from its burrow, the fox from its den. They could smell the storm coming while the sky was still blue. She was one of the T?nd’r, but none of these skills would help her now. What good did it do her, having the blood of the Moon?
Then suddenly she heard it: soft, insistent. The cooing of doves in the courtyard. Usually they stayed in their cote beside the kitchen, where they were kept for their eggs, and for pie.
“Come,” whispered Erzs’bet. “Come to me.” It was not much, it was probably less than nothing, but it was what she could do. Because she was one of the T?nd’r.
“What was that, Elizabeth?” asked the landgravine.
“Speak up, child. Father Conrad can’t hear you.”
Then a rush of wings, and the doves, so many of them, white and brown and gray and speckled, were stepping over the chapel floor—pecking, pecking, until the very last crumb was gone.
“Surely these are the birds of God.”
Erzs’bet turned to see who had spoken. There was a boy standing beside her. He was tall and thin and slightly stooped, as though ashamed of his height. His eyebrows rose to a peak in the middle, which gave him a look of perpetual curiosity. Like the landgrave’s, she thought, and, suddenly realizing who he was, looked down again at the floor, where the doves were still searching for more bread. She noticed that his boots were covered with mud.
“You don’t remember me, Princess. Or if you do, I’m sorry for it. I seem to remember that I was a particularly unpleasant boy.”
“Ludwig! I thought you weren’t arriving until—well, later.” The landgravine did not look particularly pleased to see her son.
“I left the university as soon as I heard that my father was ill. But I find that I have arrived only in time to pray by his body.” He looked toward the chancel, where the landgrave lay beneath his crimson pall, in a cloud of incense. Erzs’bet saw that although he seemed calm, his eyes were red, as though he had been weeping. He turned back to the landgravine. “Surely the princess meant this bread for the poor. The landgrave himself would have done no less. The Word of God traveled as a dove to announce our Savior. Isn’t that right, Father Conrad? I think these birds rebuke us for our impiety. Here, Princess. Give this to those who need it.”
The purse jingled as he dropped it into her hands, sending the doves flying upward, while velvet sleeves fluttered to protect faces. They flew around the beams of the chapel, then out through the door and up into the blue of the sky. She clutched the purse carefully and watched as Ludwig walked up the steps to the chancel, then knelt beside the landgrave’s body, with his head in his hands. She thought, He is not like Herman, and perhaps in time I could like him, just a little.
“So she married Ludwig,” said Csilla, “and they lived happily until he died in the Crusades. Then she went into a convent, where she lived for the rest of her life. And the people said she could perform miracles, like curing the sick. So they called her a saint.”
“Is that the end?” asked Mrs. Mad’r. “I’m glad you told it to me. It’s not like in the official history books, is it?”
“It never is,” said Csilla.
“And you know all of your grandmother’s stories, like this, so complete?”
“Of course,” said Csilla, wondering why Mrs. Mad’r should doubt her.
“Csilla,” said Mrs. Mad’r, “I want to tell you a story that I know you have not heard. But first we must have some dinner, and then we must take a walk into the forest. Do you think that you’re strong enough? It’s not too far.”
“I’m all right,” said Csilla, although as she sat up, she felt the nausea again. But she was going to be brave, like her father.
Mrs. Mad’r wrapped a shawl around Csilla’s shoulders. “This dress used to be Susanna Martin’s. That’s Mrs. Martin’s daughter. You look a little like her—it was her passport we used to get you on the airplane in Vienna. It’s going to be colder in the forest. Are you ready, Csilla?”
“Yes,” said Csilla, although she did not know what she was supposed to be ready for.
They walked down the back steps and through what had once been a garden. It was dilapidated now. Weeds grew in the flower beds, and the pond was covered with scum. But some ancient peach trees still stood to mark where an orchard had once been. Soon the garden gave way to rhododendrons and mountain laurels, and then an oak forest, and they were walking along a path littered with oak leaves. Sunlight came down through the branches above, and the shadows of the trees stretched eastward. The sun was beginning to set. The forest was silent, except for the occasional call of a bird or the rustle of a squirrel in the treetops.
“I wonder if Erzs’bet’s forest was like this,” said Csilla.
“Older,” said Mrs. Mad’r. “This forest was cut seventy years ago for lumber. These are young trees. No, this reminds me of another forest.” She walked on for a moment in silence. Leaves crackled under her shoes, and a twig broke with a loud snap. Then she continued, “Once, there was a girl named Margit.”
