The Oath

by A. M. Linden

  Aleswina’s lips moved, reciting Annwr’s recipe word for word. When his expression did not change, she whispered louder, “Anna is a midwife, and she knows what needs to be in potions and draughts.”

  “There is no doubt that Annwr is an excellent midwife,” he snapped back. “And if I were a maid having my monthly cramps, then this would be just the thing for it!”

  Aleswina’s pallid cheeks went blotchy red. She drew back as he reached around her to toss the contents of the cup into the bushes outside of the chamber’s entryway. He pulled Annwr’s basket inside, looked briefly through the contents, stopping to smell or taste the powders and elixirs, and then poured a hefty portion of the poppy juice—easily three times what Aleswina had measured—into his cup, filled the cup with wine, and stirred it with his knife, muttering in his own language.

  After he’d drained the cup and taken a few deep breaths, Caelym smiled at Aleswina—showing off his perfectly straight, white teeth—and said, “That, then, is a Druid’s cure!”

  After lying back down, his head resting on his bag and his hand holding his knife underneath it, he went on in a conciliatory tone of voice, “So now you may put the salve on my wound as you have been instructed by Annwr, high priestess of Llwddawanden, most excellent of midwives, and sister to She who is the living embodiment of the Great Mother Goddess Herself.”

  The pot of salve was one of the things Caelym had taken out of the basket and tossed aside in his search for the poppy juice. Aleswina picked it up and pried off the lid. Biting down on her lower lip, she dabbed her fingers into the soft mound of comfrey, egg white, and goose grease. She glanced at Caelym’s bare back and looked quickly away. In the nineteen years of her life, she had never been so close to a man except in the confessional where a wooden wall and heavy iron grill separated her from the elderly priest, safely covered in layers of surplices, chasubles, and vestments.

  She shut her eyes and reached out to put the salve on his wound as Anna had told her she must, only to feel him flinch and hear him give a muffled groan. She tried again with her eyes open. It was not so bad—actually, it was thrilling to be doing the work of a healer just like Anna did.

  By the time she left to sneak back to her room, Aleswina and Caelym were both at peace—Aleswina feeling unaccustomed bravery at having chosen martyrdom over murder, and Caelym content that he had earned the special merit gained by showing kindness to those who are born dim-witted.

  Chapter 11

  Prayers For The Dead

  Rushing to the dormitory, Aleswina was just about to cross the courtyard when she saw a dark shape emerge from the stairwell. She stopped, stepped back into the shadows, and stood frozen, letting Sister Harthwreg, the bell ringer, pass by. Then, with only moments before she’d be discovered out of bed, she lifted her skirts and ran for the stairs. She raced up, taking two steps at a time, and reached the top gasping and out of breath. Now if only she could get down the hall and into her room before—

  It was too late! At the far end of the dimly lit corridor, the unmistakable figure of the under-prioress, Sister Durthena, stood just outside Aleswina’s door, her sword-straight posture making her look taller than she was.

  Acting on instinct, Aleswina stepped out into plain view and walked straight down the center of the corridor. Emboldened by the startled, almost guilty, look on Durthena’s face, Aleswina made the convent’s hand signal for “I had to go to the latrine.” Before the under-prioress could lift her hand to respond, Aleswina edged her way past, slipped into her room, and closed the door.

  Her room was small and spare, with barely enough space for a narrow cot, a tiny side table, and a clothes cabinet in the corner by the window. She took off her night habit as she crossed the short distance from the door to the dresser and let it fall in a crumpled heap beside the bed. She was pulling her day habit on over her head when the first peal of the chapel bells rang out. By the second peal, she was tucking in her hair and straightening her veil. On the third, she opened her door just in time to join the line on its way to the chapel to say the prayers for the dead.

  The prayers for the dead, conducted halfway between midnight and dawn, might more precisely have been called the prayers for the royal dead. This was not because the convent’s founder and namesake had any doubts that the love of Jesus was infinite and all-encompassing; it was because Edeth had promised King Theobold that in exchange for the endowment she needed to erect the abbey’s bell tower, he and his family would have the nuns’ exclusive prayers to speed their path through purgatory—and, realistically, including the dead of all classes in a time of frequent famines, recurring plagues, and almost constant warfare would have taken too long.

  In keeping with the tradition started by the first abbess, the prayers were conducted in English instead of Latin. The current abbess, Hildegarth, presumed that this was a decision made to ensure that even the least educated of the community would be instructed in the fleeting nature of life and the need to keep their minds on the eternal life beyond this one, while, in fact, it was because Edeth had never learned Latin.

  Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for King Theobold, who loved You, his Savior, with all his heart, grant him Your divine mercy, forgiving his sins and taking him up in Your arms that he may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen. Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for Queen Alswanda, beloved wife of King Theobold, who loved You, her Savior, with all her heart, grant her Your divine mercy, forgiving her sins and taking her up . . .

  As Aleswina stood in her assigned place in the chapel, between Sister Erdorfa and Sister Idwolda, the litany of names and supplications fell around her like a soft, warm spring rain, soothing her jittery nerves and helping her heart return to something more like a steady rhythm.

  . . . in Your arms that she may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen. Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for Queen Fridwulfa, beloved wife of King Gilberth, who loved You, her Savior, with all her heart, grant her Your divine mercy, forgiving her sins and taking her up in Your arms that she may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen. Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for Queen Aelfgitha, beloved wife of King Gilberth, who loved you, her Savior, with all her heart, grant her Your divine mercy, forgiving her sins and taking her up in Your arms that she may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen. Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for Queen Redwalda, beloved wife of King Gil-berth, who loved You, her Savior, with all her heart, grant her Your divine mercy, forgiving her sins . . .

  The service might have been conducted in Persian, for all it meant to Aleswina, but she’d heard the litany so many times she could mumble most of it half asleep. Now, as the hot rush of panic-driven daring faded and the cold realization of just how much danger she and Anna were in took its place, she shifted her eyes to Sister Erdorfa on her left and to Sister Idwolda on her right.

  . . . and taking her up in Your arms that she may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen. Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for Queen Witburga, beloved wife of King Gilberth, who loved You, her Savior, with all her heart, grant her Your divine mercy, forgiving her sins and taking her up in Your arms that she may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen.

  Moving her lips in synchrony with theirs, she got through the prayer, only stumbling once, momentarily, over the newest verse—

  Lord Jesus, hear our prayers for Queen Ermegdolin, beloved wife of King Gilberth, who loved You, her savior, with all her heart, grant her Your divine mercy, forgiving her sins and taking her up in Your arms that she may dwell with You in heaven forever and ever amen.

  Between the flickering light of the chapel’s candles and Sister Idwolda singing loud enough for both of them, Aleswina’s pretense fooled even Sister Durthena, who’d spent most of the service watching Aleswina with the eyes of a wary hawk.

  Of all Aleswina’s religious sisters, it was Durthena who liked her least. The two were close in age and, superficially, in looks—both were short and thin, both fair-haired with pale complexions, and n
either one of them smiled very much. But there the resemblance ended. Unlike Aleswina, who’d been sent to the convent against her will, Durthena wanted to be there.

  The daughter of a successful merchant and the illegitimate but acknowledged daughter of a nobleman, Durthena had realized early that neither her father’s wealth nor her mother’s semi-aristocratic status would get her so much as a handmaiden’s place in a queen’s court. And she’d wanted more than that. Seeing the convent as the one place she’d have a chance to earn a position of real power and authority, Durthena had entered Saint Edeth the day she turned twelve.

  From the moment she stepped inside the abbey’s gate, Durthena had put her heart and soul into memorizing its rituals and upholding its rules. At fourteen, she’d been the youngest novice in the convent’s history to take her final vows. By sixteen, she’d advanced from dispensing alms to the poor to overseeing the care and storage of the blessed vessels and relics. By eighteen, she’d had full charge of preparing the altar and laying out the vestments for the visiting priest to conduct mass. Now, at the age of just twenty-one, she acted as the assistant to the prioress, Sister Udella, who in turn answered only to the abbess.

  Glowering from the far side of the chapel, Durthena made no effort to put down her resentment that—just because she was royal— Aleswina got the corner bedroom with the best view and she got to keep a servant on the convent grounds, despite the fact that here, at least, everyone was supposed to be equal in the eyes of God!

  Any other novice who couldn’t remember what day of the liturgy it was or say a simple novena from start to finish without being coached would have been sent away years ago. Instead, the abbess just coddled the stupid little bitch (this last string of words was a mental lapse on Durthena’s part, and she revised it to “Dear Sister Aleswina” and continued her thought) when she should have been telling Dear Sister Aleswina that she’d burn in hell forever if she didn’t learn her catechism!

  Time and again, Durthena had gone to the abbess to report that Aleswina had left food on her plate, come to chapel late and with dirt under her fingernails, just hummed along with the hymns instead of singing, but the stupid little . . . Dear Sister Aleswina never got any worse penance than staying in her room. And then nobody ever checked to make sure she was actually praying for forgiveness and not adding to her sins by taking a nap. Just once, Durthena wanted to see Aleswina get really punished. (And having her burned at the stake for hiding a Druid sorcerer under the shrine of Saint Wilfhilda would have done nicely, if only Durthena had known about it.)

  Somehow aware that she was under scrutiny, Aleswina resolved to do whatever she needed to do to avoid suspicion. For the next five days she became the perfect nun-to-be. What prayers she knew, she said with reverent zeal, and those she didn’t know she mimed with enough fervor to convince even Durthena she understood what she was saying. And above all else, she made a careful show of attending to every word of the abbess’s always erudite, usually lengthy, and often obscure noontime sermons.

  Each of those days, the abbess concluded her midday discourse with a lamentation that the soldiers’ ongoing search remained fruitless. Putting up her hand to silence the murmurs of disappointment (and one faint gasp of relief), she went on in an unwavering voice to say that the guards were still scouring the woods day and night. With that she launched into a closing prayer to the Lord God that He “lend His divine guidance to the king’s guards, leading them to find the heathen sorcerer whereever he is hiding,” finishing with an unintentionally contradictory petition for the safety of “all who dwell here within our holy walls.”

  After joining the others in a prolonged amen, Aleswina waited for her turn to leave the table; each time it came, she returned to the garden, barely breathing until she reached the convent garden and closed its gate behind her.

  Chapter 12

  A Midnight Service

  Whatever Aleswina’s shortcoming at other endeavors, she was a skilled gardener. She could weed with one hand, set in starts with the other, and have a row banked and watered in the time it would take most people to find their trowels and fill their buckets from the well. And that was on a day when she wasn’t trying to hurry! Now her hands positively flew, and no one looking at the garden later would have any reason to suspect that she’d spent most of her time climbing in and out of Saint Wilfhilda’s shrine, taking care of Caelym.

  After emptying his chamber pot, refilling his water jug, and fixing a bowl of whatever she’d managed to sneak off her plate with a portion of the dwindling supplies in Annwr’s basket, she mixed his draught, whispered his name, and reminded him not to cut her throat.

  Caelym’s mood darkened after he finished off the wine and poppy juice, and while he didn’t draw his knife again, he grumbled between swallows that Anna’s draught was “a poor excuse for a healing potion,” and that he “might as well be a sick hare gnawing bark off a willow tree.”

  Muttering about midwives and their miserable tonics and foul unguents, he’d roll over on his stomach while Aleswina got the pot of salve ready to spread over his wound, but before she could begin, he’d snap at her to tell him what the wound looked like:

  The first time he asked, she didn’t know what to say except to stammer, “It—it looks painful.”

  After a long silence, he said, in more halting English than usual, “Ah, I am most grateful for your telling me this, for otherwise its being painful might have escaped my noticing.” There was another long pause. Then he said, “Now, Dear Heart, beloved of she who is the most excellent of midwives, I will tell you that I, like Annwr, am a healer, and would greatly wish to have some small part in the curing of my own wound. However, since it is on my back where I cannot see it, I need you to be my eyes. So saying that, I beg, I implore, I entreat you to tell me more exactly what it is you see. How red is the wound? How swollen is it? Is the swelling hard or is it soft?”

  Three times a day for next three days, he repeated those same three questions, and each time she gave the same answers: “It’s very red. It’s very swollen. The swelling is very hard.” Whether this was good or bad, he didn’t say; but he would let her spread the salve over it with only an occasional moan of pain.

  On the morning of fourth day, she found him shivering and huddled in his dark cloak, groaning at her to go away and let him die in peace. When she returned in the afternoon, he was soaked in sweat, and so weak he could barely lift his head. “Water,” he croaked, and gulped what she gave him, then croaked, “More,” only to fall asleep before she could fill his cup again.

  That night, she slipped out to the garden and crept into the underground chamber to find Caelym lying face down, his cloak thrown off to the side. He was burning with a fever that she could feel without touching him and breathing in shallow, rapid breaths. When he didn’t respond to his name or her touch, she knelt next to him, holding the cup in her lap, and wondered if he was dying.

  Aleswina had no personal sense of belief that went deeper than memorized prayers but, having nothing else, she started reciting those . . . mostly the Psalms, which she knew best and repeating her favorites more than once. Not knowing what else to do, she put the cup aside, picked up the jar with the last of Annwr’s salve, and reached for the candle. Lifting the candle to shine so she could see the wound, she gasped and gave a strangled cry.

  The sharp cry, coming after the soothing stream of poetry, brought Caelym back from fevered and uncomfortable sleep to a fevered and uncomfortable wakefulness. By now he was used to Aleswina being there, so he didn’t jump up or grab his knife. Instead, he took a deep breath to prepare himself for whatever it was about his back that so distressed her before asking, “How red is the wound? How swollen is it? Is the swelling hard or is it soft?”

  Instead of answering, she looked at him with tears spilling out of her eyes and sobbed, “I—I think you must find Jesus now.”

  Speaking slowly—and as clearly as he could through gritted teeth—he replied, “I do not have the stre
ngth to look for anyone now, for I am sick and will not ever get any better if you do not tell me what it is I need to know!”

  With that, he finally pried the answer from her that his wound was swollen up to the size of an apple, and that its outer edge was still very red but the center of it was an awful, horrid, dreadful greenish-yellow.

  “Ah, this is good!” Feeling hope reborn, he rewarded her with his most charming smile. She, of course, looked as she usually did, blank and bewildered, so he explained, “For long days and nights, the spirits of fevers and festering have coursed through my veins, spreading out and wreaking misery where they may. Now—thinking me beaten and helpless—they have gathered together in a single force, meaning to mount their final assault, not knowing that—with you to wield my weapon—I have the means to defeat them.”

  With that he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow, then he dug into his stained leather bag and pulled out a rolled leather packet tied with a tight knot. After a few fumbling attempts, he managed to untie the cord and unroll the packet, revealing a collection of probes, pincers, and scalpels. He selected a small knife with a sharply pointed blade and held it up so that its point glittered in the candlelight. He ran his finger along the knife handle’s intricately engraved surface, murmuring a weirdly rhythmic string of syllables, then looked straight at Aleswina, his dark eyes glowing.

  “You will take this sacred healer’s blade and without hesitation or fear you will stab it into the center of the enemy host, driving them out and scattering their forces into the open air so that it is they and not I who will die!”