Working God's Mischief

5. The Connec: Antieux

Count Raymone Garete was an able war leader and a deft administrator, and he had a gift for convincing others of his righteousness. He had been excommunicated several times by several Patriarchs. Excommunication was a potent threat. It terrified Episcopal Chaldareans. Count Raymone, though, made light of such tribulations. Those excommunications had come from Patriarchs considered illegitimate by Connectens so why should they carry any weight?

His latest, however, had been issued by Serenity, legitimately Patriarch via massive bribery. As a man, Bronte Doneto, Serenity bore the Connec and Antieux that abiding grudge. The sole weakness to Serenity’s writ was that he had been run out of office.

Even so, the exiled Serenity had influence and friends. Anne of Menand was especially supportive. The armed might of Arnhand stood behind Anne.

“For the moment,” Raymone told Socia as they lay together. “We need but bide our time. There will be changes when Anselin gets home.”

“And how do you-ouch! This is a boy for sure. He’s trying to kick his way out.”

“How do I what?”

“How do you know Anselin will change anything? Do you know him?”

“I do not. But know his situation. My spies in Salpeno have investigated him thoroughly.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning the new king in Arnhand could become one of our best friends because his mother hates us.” Raymone Garete knew something about the troubles a son could have with his mother.

“Oh! The waiting is almost over! Your little bastard is going to hit the ground running.” She made mock of the Brothen Episcopal Church, saying that. Their marriage had not been sanctioned by the Patriarch. But Raymone did not smile. Socia said, “You need to make your meaning more clear.” She wanted to nudge his thoughts toward something else that annoyed him.

He said, “Anne always treated Anselin badly, blatantly favoring Regard. Some say because Charlve the Dim wasn’t his real father. But Regard is dead. Anne’s own machinations make Anselin the only heir.”

Raymone rested a hand on Socia’s belly. The skin there had stretched till it glistened. Her navel had become a strange little knot that looked like it was about to pop off. His touch was featherlight.

“So Anselin will reverse Anne’s policies just because they’re hers?”

“Some. Maybe most. But he’ll still have to deal with people who aren’t his mother. They won’t let him do whatever he wants.” Half a minute passed while Raymone contemplated Socia’s stomach. “Anne of Menand may find herself locked up in a cloistered nunnery before they finish cleaning up the coronation mess.”

“She’s slippery, though.” Socia could not concentrate on politics. The baby was clog dancing. “So you think we’ve won.”

Raymone Garete thought nothing of the sort. “I haven’t looked at it that way. You could be right. We’ll have a respite, at least.”

“So why so disappointed?”

“It means a huge change in our lives if, suddenly, nobody is trying to kill us and steal everything.”

“I need something to drink. No! Good God! Not wine. Water. Or small beer. No. Better. The water the Master blessed.” And, once Raymone delivered that, “It’s time for Mistress Alecsinac.” She groaned. “The pains are real, now. Yah!” She suppressed a scream. “Now, love! Get the midwives. And the Master.” She had no idea what use the old man could be but he had been there for all the landmarks of her life since she was fifteen. He needed to be there for this-especially if something went wrong.

Terrified, suddenly, she needed Brother Candle desperately.

“Wait! One thing. Who will you marry if I don’t survive?”

Raymone Garete was no genius where women were concerned but he did slip this snare. “No one, heart of my heart. I will go on only to rear my son, in your memory.”

Even that was only marginally acceptable. He should have tried for reassuring.

“What a bullshitter. Go on. Get the midwives.”

* * *

When Brother Candle met the infant Lumiere he was surrounded by women, some unfamiliar. Those he did know included Kedle Richeut, Mistress Alecsinac, and the ladies of Count Raymone’s diminutive court. Those he did not know included a wet nurse and Raymone’s fiercely disapproving mother. Sister Claire had spent her last twelve years cloistered. She had come to see her first grandson at Count Raymone’s insistence.

Raymone’s mother said nothing in his hearing but she was unhappy about the presence of heretics and witches. Nor did she approve of her son’s choice of wife. The border brat was little better than a peasant.

Brother Candle was gracious toward the cross old nun but somewhat boggled. Not once had Raymone ever mentioned his mother. It was obvious he had little love for the woman. So why was she here?

Count Raymone Garete operated by a complex code of his own device. He could not articulate it fully even to himself.

The Perfect would learn later, from Bernardin, that the Count believed his mother had been involved in the death of his father when Raymone was a small boy. There might have been cuckoldry involved. A Connecten romantic love may have gone wrong. Or religion might have been involved. Bernardin would not explore the matter.

Socia was sitting up. Two women were trying to make her more presentable. A touch of vanity not evident before?

“Master. I’m delighted. Come here. Shove those crows out of the way.”

Brother Candle did no shoving. He moved carefully. It was clear which women were Seekers and which were Chaldarean. It was harder to tell which of those honored Brothe and which clung to the lost Viscesment Patriarchy. The Episcopals were offended by his presence. He was a man, and a heretic.

Socia inspired further indignation by patting her bed. “Sit. Look at him. What do you think?”

He said what he thought. “He ought to be in the arms of his mother, suckling his mother’s milk.”

Silence conquered the room. Every woman stared, amazed. Nor was Socia best pleased.

“You’re his mother, Socia. Be his mother. Don’t put vanity between you. Or whatever it is that moves you. Sister Claire. You didn’t nurse Raymone, did you?” Point hammered home, Brother Candle said, “He’s a beautiful boy, Socia. Perfect in every way. Properly raised, he should be a worthy heir to Count Raymone.”

Irked, Socia nodded. She had heard Brother Candle’s opinions about why so many noble sons turned wicked or were just plain incompetent.

It was hard to deny that the greatest, most successful, and best loved lords often gave way to bad sons.

Socia said, “Riann. Hand me the child, please.” She took him from the wet nurse. “He’ll be called Lumiere, Master.”

“Excellent. May the Good God grant that he lives up to his name.”

Count Raymone’s mother ground her teeth and muttered but did not expose herself to censure. She must have been warned.

Brother Candle sighed. This religious contention was mad. When outsiders let it alone the Connec ran as smoothly and painlessly as it had in the shelter of the Old Empire.

Socia said, “You will, of course, be his godfather.”

“Is that wise? I don’t have many years left.”

“Wise? I don’t know. It’s what I want. It’s right. Do you want to hold him?” The baby was asleep, nuzzling her chest.

“I’d end up dropping him on his head. Or something.”

“You would not and you know it. You manage fine with Kedle’s imps.”

“If I fumble one of her devils I won’t have a fire-breathing count jumping on me before the brat stops bouncing. Speaking of fire-breathers, where is he?”

“I don’t know. I saw him after the delivery. He said he was taking a patrol out. Something is happening on the Dechear, up near Viscesment. Maybe Anne and Serenity aren’t being as quiet as they should.”

Brother Candle scowled. On the day his son was born? Bernardin could have handled that.

Count Raymone had to learn to delegate.

Socia became animated. She forgot Lumiere when she got into politics, which this would be if Anne or the Patriarch were involved.

The old man took one of Socia’s hands. He held on while he considered the other women.

He saw little to encourage him about Lumiere’s upbringing.

The boy would follow his father’s path, getting close to no women but his wet nurse and nanny. He would be taught to belittle them or hold them in quiet contempt. That attitude would, in time, come to include everyone not of his own class.

A failing that Count Raymone had, miraculously, avoided.

“Socia, you know me. The eternal pessimist. Don’t take too much to heart my gloomy assessment of Lumiere’s future.”

He had made a decision. For the infant’s sake he would not return to Sant Peyre de Mileage.

Maybe he could get the boy’s feet on the ground before the Good God called.

“Eternal pessimist? You might be a little too positive about your bleak seasons, old man. We could surprise you. So. Get it into your head right now. You stay till you see Lumiere grow into a man.”

“It may take that long to rediscover the Perfection I’ve lost since I met you.”

“Always with the clever words. Always with the jokes. Come on. Take him. I insist.”

There was an edge to Socia’s voice the Perfect found troubling.

He took the infant. One blue eye opened momentarily, unfocused, but Brother Candle imagined himself being cataloged in the mind behind.

Babies did seem like supernatural beings at the beginning.