The Girl, the Gypsy & the Gargoyle Page 6

  The mason held his hands out wide. “So, do you mean to try the Troll’s Eye or not?”

  Jassy shrugged. “It sounds like a profitable adventure.”

  “No. Never!” Laurel blurted.

  “There’s no rush,” crooned the mason. “Go whenever you’re ready.”

  “Never,” she repeated. But her heartbeat thumped in her ears. The Troll’s Eye would be there, tempting her. “Never.” She said it louder, and it sounded false even to her. “Never,” she whispered.

  Master Gimpel flipped up his hood and his voice was smooth, soothing. “When you’re ready. Now. Jassy, meet me at the workshop at dawn and we’ll see how you like stone. Come to the workshop on the south side. I’ll tell the gatekeeper to let you enter town early.” He stepped forward, and before either could say anything, he took Laurel’s herb basket from her arm. “Here. I’ll carry that.”

  “No. Jassy will—”

  “No arguing, now.” He strode off, dragging his left foot and leaving a distinctive track through the snow.

  Laurel looked at Jassy, who glanced back up the mountain toward his cave. He was worrying about Antonio, Laurel guessed.

  “I can go with Master Gimpel,” she said quickly.

  Jassy hesitated, looking after the limping figure. “Are you sure?”

  Laurel nodded decisively. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Then she turned and trudged after the mason, following him up and out of the dreary valley, without looking back. Once on level ground, Laurel insisted on taking her basket back. “I’ll hurry on ahead, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  The mason nodded and continued his slow limp back toward town.

  Laurel hurried, almost running through the growing twilight. One thing she vowed: if she ever did travel through a Troll’s Eye, it wouldn’t be alone. None of the townsfolk or the priests would do. It had to be Jassy. She needed his experience in traveling.

  She shoved away the memory of the mason’s scarred face. For three days, the Troll’s Eye was open. Surely, that was enough time. Pulling her hood closer, Laurel brushed a stray hair from her forehead. And the thought came: Master Gimpel would have been a handsome man without the scars. Her fingers crept to her face and felt the familiar eyes, nose, and cheek.

  She dropped her hands and dashed through the town gates, waving at Edgar, but not stopping at his questions. She raced through the streets and didn’t stop until she reached the inn, just as fat raindrops started to fall.

  She stamped the mud and snow from her boots and rushed in. Symon, the innkeeper, bustled forward, wiping his hands on his apron. “Mistress Laurel! Master Raymond has been worried. Hurry on up. I’ll bring supper in a few minutes.”

  She nodded and trudged upstairs. The weary day suddenly descended on her. She had been early to the workshop and then walked out to the cave and back. Each step felt like lifting yet another statue. All Laurel wanted was a good night’s sleep.

  TWELVE

  A SAD, BUT COMMON TALE OF STONE DUST

  “Laurel! At last!” Her father’s face was pale, drawn.

  She stepped in and kissed his leathery cheek.

  “How is Antonio?” Father Colin sat at the table beside the window. He had been the acting head of the cathedral chapter before Father Goossens had been brought in to take over. Father Colin was broad-shouldered priest, yet for a man of his size, he moved with a comforting gentleness.

  “Not good. You should visit him before it’s too late. The trail of the Gypsy wagon is easy to follow,” Laurel said, suddenly guilty that she had not thought of this earlier.

  “That bad? Yes, I’ll find their the cave tomorrow,” he said. Then he rose and offered the chair to Laurel.

  “No, I’ll sit here.” Laurel sank onto the bed and tugged off her boots. She wiggled her cold toes and sighed in relief. Still bent over, she dragged the boots to the fire and returned to the bed. All she wanted to do was lay down and sleep. But it was too quiet.

  Looking up, both men were watching her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked sharply.

  Master Raymond clutched the edge of the table and leaned toward her. “My drawing. It’s missing.”

  For a moment, she didn’t understand. Then she remembered that she had taken his new drawing of the cathedral with her that morning. Was it only that morning? The day had been so full it seemed like months ago. She yawned. “I took it to the workshop. I wanted to study it while I worked.”

  They both stared at her.

  “What?” Laurel demanded and looked anxiously from one to the other.

  Father Colin patted her shoulder. “We meant to send it to the Cardinal today. We want to appeal directly to him with the plans. We think we might persuade him to allow construction to continue. When it was missing, we worried—“

  She understood instantly, “—that Father Goossens had taken it again. He knows you want to go over his head to another authority.” There were certainly enough gossips among the priests, so Father Goossens likely knew everything Father was doing. “I’m sorry. I meant to bring it back, but the Gypsies needed me.” She sighed and dropped her face to her hands.

  “Laurel, I’ve been so worried.” Her father turned to Father Colin. “The corner workshop, the one that Master Gimpel has started to use. Look there.”

  Chapter politics again, one cleric against another. Laurel closed her eyes and rubbed her temple. Why couldn’t they just build? It was for God’s glory. Didn’t they see that?

  Father Colin nodded at Master Raymond, “I’ll go now and find it.”

  As he stepped out, Symon appeared with steaming bowls of lentil soup and a loaf of bread. Weary, Laurel barely managed to finish eating before she wrapped herself in a blanket and slept.

  Sometime later, in the dead of the night, she woke suddenly. From the stable yard below came the soft whicker of a horse. Then, from inside the room, a cough.

  Laurel leaned up on her elbow. Small slivers of moonlight filtered through the window shutters. Master Raymond sat on the edge of his bed.

  He coughed again, one hack after the other, until it deepened into a racking cough that made his chest heave.

  Laurel jumped from her bunk and quickly lit a candle. When the coughing continued, she thumped his back, hoping to dislodge something. “Your cough is worse!”

  His thin body shook with each blow, but she kept at it until eventually the coughing spluttered out, leaving her father sagging and wheezing. In the candlelight, she saw that the gray of his beard now sprinkled his temples, and his face looked leaner, his nose sharper than she’d ever noticed.

  “Father, sit.” She ushered him to the edge of the lower bed where he sat hunched. “You should be over that cough by now.”

  He waved his hand, as if swatting away the question. “It’s just a cold.”

  Hope flooded through her. Just a cold. “Be still and I’ll make some tea.”

  But then he coughed again and this time, he dug under his pillow and pulled out a rag. He muffled the sound of his cough with the rag, and then dabbed at his mouth. The rag came away dark. He was spitting up blood.

  “Father!” A deep despair clutched at her and she fought it by throwing her arms around him.

  “There, there, child. There’s nothing you can do.” Awkwardly, he stroked her hair. His beard was scratchy and he smelled like the incense burned in the cathedral. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  She could barely force the words, “How long?”

  “I’ve been coughing up blood for maybe a month.” He didn’t sound scared, just matter-of-fact.

  It was stone dust. Dame Frances always said, “Stone masons leave their youth and health in the quarry.” When one became sick, she left herbals. But Laurel had never known the herbals to do more than relieve the cough for an hour or so. As master architect, Master Raymond avoided much of the stone dust, but he still made frequent trips to the quarry. Stone dust was affecting him slower than it did the masons, but it had just caught up to him. She should have
suspected this. No, she told herself fiercely, it’s just a chest cold.

  Laurel spun away to the fireplace, stirring up a fire and setting a small kettle to boil. Their lodgings—paid for by the cathedral chapter—were directly over the kitchen, so they had a tiny fireplace that vented into the main fireplace, the only inn room so lucky. As long as she could remember, this simple room had been home. Laurel and her father ate all their meals in the dining room, and Symon’s maids cleaned their rooms, which relieved Maser Raymond from any domestic chores and left him free for his work.

  Though they ate in the dining room most days, they did have two mugs and two spoons for the odd times like this. Laurel rummaged in her herbals basket, but there was only mint. No tansy to help him sleep.

  Laurel dropped a generous pinch of crushed peppermint leaves into a square of coarse linen and tied twine around each sachet. She filled two mugs with steaming water and dropped in the mint to steep.

  Then, she gritted her teeth against a sudden fear: he had been coughing up stone dust for a month! She leaned over to catch the pungent steam and breathed deeply, trying to calm herself.

  When her father coughed again, she winced, but refused to look at his rag. It did not have blood on it, she tried to tell herself. It was only a cold.

  She padded to the fireplace and realized her feet were frozen in the cold room. She raised her toes, letting the fire warm them. But nothing could defrost the fear that now held her.

  Forcing a smile, she picked up Father’s mug. “Drink. It will help you sleep.”

  If only miracles could really happen, she thought.

  He curled bony fingers around the cup and breathed deeply before taking a sip. “I’m not afraid.”

  “I am.”

  “Father Colin will take you to Dame Frances.”

  “Don’t.”

  “I must—”

  “No! Just drink. Tomorrow. We can talk then. Not now.”

  He dropped his eyes to the cup and sighed. Then he blew on the hot tea, rippling the surface, and took a noisy sip. A cough caught him, and he held the cup away to keep spilling it on himself. When the cough passed, he sipped again, and then closed his eyes and let the steam warm his cheeks. By now the tea was cooler, so he took a longer drink and another until the mug was empty. At last, Laurel helped her father lay back down. The tea worked: his breathing grew regular, and he slept.

  Wanting some comfort herself, Laurel picked up her stone bird, the tiny gargoyle her father had given her. She dragged the stiff chair from the window to the fireplace. Pulling up her legs, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and clutched the bird to her chest. The flames burned yellow and orange; a red coal flared briefly, like a door opening and shutting. Is that how the Troll’s Eye would look when it opened and shut? She had no choice now. Besides the money to build the cathedral, her father needed a miracle and he needed it now.

  At last, Laurel crawled into bed and fell into a restless sleep. She dreamed of a gargoyle with flower petals cascading from a bag on his back. The flower scent poured over his face, burying him with a heavy, sweet odor. Then he was screaming: “Let me out! I repent!” But there was no escaping from the solid stone.

  Laurel woke in a panic, fighting covers and gasping for breath.

  “Let me out! Let me out!” she screamed silently. Pulling the covers off her face, she breathed deeply and tried to calm down.

  And then she found herself out of bed, staring at her father. But there was no comfort there. She pulled on her shoes, wrapped a shawl over her head and trudged through the muddy streets to the cathedral. She shoved open a heavy side door and entered. Darkness enveloped her, but she knew her way. Like a blind man, she knew the exact number of shallow steps that wound up, around the outside of the east tower. One hand trailed the wall. Already the smooth walls and the rhythmic walk up the steps had a calming effect. After fifty-seven steps, she turned left and found the door to the sculpture room.

  Moonlight streamed in through two windows onto the mounds of hay that had covered the remaining statues. She stretched out, pillowing her head on a Saint Stephen—the patron saint of stonemasons—and tucked her feet between two long-necked gargoyles whose twisted faces were comforting in their familiarity. She sighed in relief—home, at last. Now, she could sleep.

  THIRTEEN

  WHEREIN THE GIRL SEEKS COURAGE

  Laurel was up before dawn and back home before Father woke. Quietly, she tied a couple new sachets of peppermint and left them for Master Raymond’s breakfast. She looked around the familiar room, wondering what she should take on her journey and decided to pack just her stone bird, and a change of clothing. She didn’t know what else she would need.

  There were many questions to answer: should she explain to her father that she would be gone for a couple days? Would she have to convince Jassy to go with her? When could they leave? She needed fast answers. There was no time to waste.

  She was back outside—a fine mist was falling now, a gentle spring rain—and at the oak cathedral doors in time for the hour of lauds, the early prayers scheduled for the hour before dawn. She shoved the cathedral doors, and when they gave way, she stumbled, almost falling into the nave. She shook rain off her cape and threw back her hood. Then, she stilled, letting the peace, the quiet of the cathedral wash over her.

  Under a long row of arches, a cleric strode sedately toward the altar. His dim lantern measured his progress, pace by pace. He lit the candles in the large candelabra one by one, slowly chasing away the cave-like darkness.

  The nave usually looked solemn and spare to Laurel. Now, great shadows from the candelabra, the wooden pews, and the arches gave the room a sudden opulence that startled her. She was pleased she had come to early prayers, pleased the cathedral could still surprise her.

  Staying near the back, Laurel bent her head in prayer and let the cathedral wrap her with peace. The untutored quarry stone had been taught to pray by the touch of talented masons. Like other pilgrims before her, Laurel prayed with the hope that her needs would reach the heavens: prayers for Master Raymond’s healing, for Antonio’s healing and for a successful trip through the Troll’s Eye. Prayers for courage to make the trip.

  The first rays of sunlight shot through the stained glass windows far above her and suddenly the ceiling glowed as if she was looking into the gates of heaven itself. A good omen. Yes, she could go through the Troll’s Eye. She would go. The light meant it was dawn and the skies were clearing.

  She wondered if her father was awake yet, wanting, needing a brew of herbs and not finding her, thinking she was downstairs in the tavern kitchen or out tending to someone. If she and Jassy went through the Troll’s Eye today—and she hoped they would—tomorrow would be even worse for her father.

  Slipping her hand into her pocket, she found and clutched her stone gargoyle bird, glad she had brought something familiar with her. She should hurry or she’d be late to meet Jassy, but somehow haste seemed inappropriate inside the cathedral. Years slid by as she watched the candles burn shorter. The sun slept daily within the tiles, the moldings, the columns, the stone arches. The sun’s rays were daily woven into netting that trapped and slowed time. The cathedral would live for centuries.

  A cleric stopped beside her. “Daughter, why do you weep?”

  She hadn’t known she was crying. “I don’t know.”

  The cleric raised an eyebrow, puzzled. He hesitated a moment longer and then strode on.

  And Laurel whispered, “Because I need a miracle. And I’m scared of what a miracle might cost me.”

  She rose from prayers and went to the door. But she stopped to turn around, to lean her back against the rosy stone and commit the sight to memory. Then she squared her shoulders and whispered to the cathedral, “I hope.”

  FOURTEEN

  AND SO, BEGINS THE JOURNEY

  Jassy stood in the doorway of the workshop, wearing sturdy boots and his thick but ragged red cloak. At his feet was a pack. He looked rested, better
than his haggard face of yesterday. Somehow, he had managed to sleep, which was more than she had managed except for the short time in the workroom.

  She took his hands and pulled him aside.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Her voice shook as she explained her father’s illness. “He won’t last another year,” she ended.

  Jassy lifted her chin until their eyes met. “You’re going inside the Troll’s Eye,” he said flatly. “And you want me to go with you.”

  Laurel held her breath, waiting for his answer. She would beg if she had to. No, she wouldn’t try to trick him with emotions. Either he would go or not. But–oh!–she didn’t want to go alone.

  “Yes, I’ll go. I told you that we repay our debts and we are at least twice indebted to you for taking care of Antonio.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. But I’ve been thinking about Ana-Maria’s warning. She said that the curse came when a person looked through the Troll’s Eye. Maybe we can go through the doorway without looking.”

  “We’ll ask. But we must go today. Now.”

  “Just like that?”

  “You are a Gypsy,” she whispered, trying for a light tone.

  He burst into a big laugh and nodded. “I am a Gypsy. And, in fact, I already told Ana-Maria we were going.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  They whirled to see Master Gimpel coming around the corner of the cathedral.

  “Nothing,” Laurel said.

  Following the mason into the workshop, Laurel went straight to the red stone.

  Master Gimpel’s eyes lit up. “You want to try the Troll’s Eye.”

  Jassy answered for both of them. “Yes, we want to try it.”

  “Why now?”

  Laurel inhaled sharply. Master Gimpel couldn’t say no, not now. “Father is sicker than I thought. Last night– We must go today.”

  “Ah. You need the white-flowered vine.” The mason considered a moment, and then said, “Do you have supplies? Food, travel equipment?”

  “Yes,” Jassy said.