ALYCE had feared she would not sleep at all, as visions of what might be danced behind her closed eyelids, but all too soon, Mistress Anjelica was shaking her to wakefulness, a candle in her hand.
“Wake you now, little ones,” she murmured. “You’ll want something warm in your stomachs before you ride out into the cold. At least it looks to be a fine day dawning.”
It was, indeed, a fine day, once the sun came up—bright and sunny, if very cold. The king had assigned a ginger-haired young knight called Sir Jiri Redfearn to escort them, along with half a dozen of the household guard. Jessamy had decided to bring along her nine-year-old, for a surprise visit with her sister. A maid also rode with them, for they would stay the night in the convent’s guest house, and a manservant to manage the single pack horse.
Their little cavalcade was on its way not long after first light, wending its way northward along the east bank of the river, past the seminary called Arx Fidei, and then into the foothills. They rode slowly, perhaps in deference to Jessamy, for though fit enough, she was of an age to be mother of all of them save the maid and the manservant.
The short winter day was drawing to a close as their party crested a hill and came, at last, within sight of the convent’s bell tower. The gold of the dying sun kissed the snow before the barred convent gates, and shone in rainbow shimmers on the mist beginning to rise as the day’s warmth faded and the shadows lengthened. As they picked their way down that last slope toward the entrance, a bell was ringing out one of the afternoon offices.
“There it is, my dears,” Jessamy announced. “Notre Dame d’Arc-en-Ciel, the royal convent of our Lady of the Rainbow. The order began in Bremagne, did you know?”
When both her young charges shook their heads, Jessamy continued affably.
“Well, then. Its foundation dates back several centuries, to the site of a very ancient holy well now contained within the grounds of the Mother House at Fessy, near Remigny. The well had long been a place of popular devotion, perhaps even pre-Christian, but one spring afternoon, after a very emphatic rain shower, an apparition of our Blessed Lady appeared from within a rainbow. It was witnessed by three young girls of noble family who had stopped to pray for a sign regarding whom they should wed.”
“What kind of an apparition?” Marie wanted to know. “What did it look like?”
“Well, it’s said that our Lady appeared as a young woman little older than yourselves,” Jessamy replied, “arrayed in a sky-blue robe and veil and clasping a rainbow around her shoulders like a shining mantle. No one knows precisely what she told them, but within two or three years, they had gained the support of the Archbishop of Remigny and had persuaded the king to give them a generous endowment of land just outside the city, where they established a convent for the domestic education of young ladies of gentle birth.
“For their habit, they adopted the pale blue of the apparition’s robes, with a white wimple and a band of rainbow edging to the veil. The vowed sisters wear it on a blue veil, and also on the bottom of the scapular—which is a sort of tabard or apron—and novices take a white veil with rainbow edging, but you’ll wear neither—though you will wear the blue habit. Those who come for the school do not take binding vows, of course. Like you, they come for finishing as proper ladies, though some do stay—which you will not. But this will be a sheltered place for you to spend your next few years. I promise I shall stay in touch regularly.”
They had reached the convent gate by now, whose arch displayed a rainbow picked out in mosaic tiles, and Jessamy bent to pull a tasseled rope that rang a bell within. Almost immediately, a tiny aperture opened at eye-level and a pair of hazel eyes peered out.
“Blessings upon all who come in peace,” a musical voice said. “How may I assist you?”
“I am Lady Jessamy MacAthan, mother of Sister Iris Jessilde, and I bring two new students seeking refuge beneath the Rainbow,” Jessamy said easily.
“Under our Lady’s grace, all who seek shall find such refuge,” the voice replied. “A moment, if you please.”
The aperture closed, they heard the sounds of thumping, of metal against metal as a bar was withdrawn, and then a wicket gate opened in the larger door, just high enough for a single rider to enter, crouched down. Drawing aside, Jessamy nodded to her daughter, who urged her pony through the opening, then gestured for Alyce and Marie to follow. Except by special permission, men were not permitted within the walls of Arc-en-Ciel, so their escort would retire to lodgings in the nearby village for the night. Meanwhile, Jessamy and the maid followed behind Alyce, Marie, and Jesiana, and the servant with the pack horse gave its lead over to a nun who led it through the doorway.
Inside, Jesiana was already off her pony and hurtling toward a slight figure in blue robes and the rainbow-edged white veil of a novice. Three more blue-robed women were waiting a little beyond, on the bottom step leading up to the chapel door, all wearing the sky-blue veil of professed sisters. The one in the center, a handsome woman of indeterminate years, also wore a silver pectoral cross.
“Welcome back to Arc-en-Ciel, dear Jessamy,” she said quietly, holding out both her hands in greeting. “And these must be the two demoiselles of whom you wrote.”
“They are, Reverend Mother,” Jessamy replied, dismounting. “And thank you for meeting us in person.”
She went and bent to kiss the woman’s hand and then embrace her. Alyce and Marie also got down from their ponies, coming shyly forward as Jessamy beckoned.
“Mother, these are Alyce and Marie de Corwyn, daughters of the Earl of Lendour,” Jessamy said, with a sweep of her hand. “Girls, this is Mother Iris Judiana, in whose charge you will be for the next several years.”
Dutifully Alyce and Marie came forward to dip in pretty curtsies and kiss the mother superior’s hand, earning them a faint smile of apparent approval.
“I bid you welcome, dear daughters,” said Iris Judiana. “Sister Iris Rose will take you to the robing room, where you may clothe yourselves in the habit of our order. We shall meet you in the chapel shortly, where you will be enrolled beneath the Rainbow. Jessamy, I believe your Jesiana has already gone with her sister to the parlor. You are welcome to join them for a few minutes, if you wish, while the girls prepare themselves. I believe you know the way.”
“Yes, Mother, thank you.”
With a nod to the mother superior and a wink to Alyce and Marie, Jessamy hurried off in the direction her daughter had disappeared. At the same time, the novice called Iris Rose gave the newcomers a shy smile and indicated that they should follow, conducting her charges silently into the cloister enclosure. Passage along a short stretch of corridor paved with encaustic tiles in cream and blue brought them at last to an arched door whose rounded door case had been painted like a rainbow.
“In here, please,” Iris Rose murmured, finally speaking, as she opened the door and stood aside to let them enter.
The robing room was cozy and warm, near to the parlor where visitors were received, and had its own fireplace and several screens to provide for the modesty of those who used it. Several robes of pale blue wool were laid out on a table before the fire, along with a folded stack of white wool under-gowns and a pair of cinctures plaited of different-colored cords of rainbow hues. Fingering the lining of a dark blue mantle draped over a corner of one of the screens, Alyce decided that the fur was rabbit, or possibly squirrel. Not so sumptuous as the fox-lined cloaks she and Marie wore at present, but clearly the sisters of the rainbow did not intend their votaries to freeze to death.
“May I assist you with those?” Iris Rose asked, lifting tentative hands toward the cloak Alyce had started to unfasten at the throat. “Oh,’tis heavy as well!”
She hugged the cloak against her body as she gathered up its folds, letting out a faint sigh as her appreciative gaze took in the fine gown of forest green wool beneath, and the deep blue one that Marie wore.
“Ah, me, I fear our habits are not nearly so elegant as the gowns to which you must b
e accustomed,” she sighed. “But we believe they are pleasing to our Lady,” she added, lifting her chin in faint challenge for Alyce to say otherwise.
“No, I’m sure the habits are quite suitable,” Alyce said diplomatically, as she picked up one of the blue gowns and held it against herself to measure its length.
“You’ll find several different lengths and sizes to choose from,” Iris Rose said helpfully. “We never know what our new postulants will look like.”
“We aren’t postulants,” Marie said briskly, shaking out one of the under-gowns. “We’ve come as students.”
“Oh, of course you have,” Iris Rose said lightly. “Please forgive me. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re expected to make vows. I suppose it’s the habit of the habit.” She essayed a tentative grin.
“You will be asked to promise that you’ll abide by the rules governing the school, that you’ll be obedient to the direction of Mother Superior and the sisters in charge of you, but that doesn’t bind you from leaving, when your guardians determine that it’s time for you to go. Surely someone told you that?”
Alyce made herself relax a little and began removing her outer garments, deciding that she liked Iris Rose. Though the other girl appeared to be a few years older than she and Marie, her carriage suggested gentle breeding—though perhaps that came of the convent education. With care, Alyce thought she might be able to find out more about what would be expected of her here; and it was always good to have a friend.
“Oh, of course we were told,” she said, touching the other girl’s hand in reassurance, though she did not yet dare to try establishing any kind of Deryni link. “My sister has heard too many horror tales of girls locked up in convents against their will. Tante Jessamy assured us that this is not the case at Arc-en-Ciel. In fact, she told us that her daughter has been quite happy here—though I must confess, we’ve not met her. I assume that you know Sister Iris Jessilde. . . .”
“Oh, we all know Iris Jessilde.” Iris Rose grinned, her brown eyes taking on a new animation. “She can be so funny—and she’s quite the accomplished embroideress. Very pious, too. But—how can it be that you’ve not met her? Is she not your cousin, if Lady Jessamy is your aunt?”
“Well, I suppose she would be our cousin,” Marie said, from within the folds of outer gown she was pulling off over her head. “But Tante Jessamy isn’t really our aunt. She and our mother were like sisters, so we’ve always called her Tante Jessamy—”
“We only came to Rhemuth in the autumn, so we don’t even know Tante Jessamy very well,” Alyce said, picking up one of the white wool under-gowns. “Before last summer, we hadn’t seen her for years.”
“Oh,” said Iris Rose. “Well, I know that Jessilde went home last spring for her father’s funeral, but obviously you weren’t there yet. So, where did you come from? You don’t sound local.”
Flashing Iris Rose a smile, Alyce stepped behind one of the screens nearer the fire and continued to undress.
“We’re not at all local,” she replied. “We were raised with our brother at Castle Cynfyn, in Lendour. But our mother died when we were very small, and our father has finally decided to remarry. Unfortunately, our new stepmother—”
“—didn’t want rivals around for his affections,” Iris Rose finished for her. “So he’s packed you off to the convent for finishing.”
“Well, we will need to manage large estates someday,” Alyce replied, pulling on the new under-gown. “Our father is an earl, and our brother will be a duke when he comes of age—through our mother’s inheritance,” she added, at Iris Rose’s sound of inquiry.
“I’d heard who your parents are,” Iris Rose said neutrally. “Not that it matters to me—that you’re . . . well, you know.”
Alyce stepped from behind the screen to look at Iris Rose’s back, ramrod straight in its pale blue habit, topped by the white wimple and novice veil. For her own part, Alyce’s own image could not have been more innocent, with her golden hair tumbled onto the shoulders of her white under-gown. Still behind the screen, Marie had frozen, listening.
“Do you mean that?” Alyce asked quietly.
Iris Rose turned slowly to face her, brown eyes looking fearlessly into Alyce’s blue ones.
“I do,” she said. “In the years I have been here, I have come to know and love Sister Iris Jessilde. I cannot believe that it is evil to be—what she is. Or what you are.”
Alyce simply stared at her for a few seconds in shock, uncertain whether to take this bald statement as a declaration of trust or a test. But by Truth-Reading Iris Rose, Alyce could see that she believed what she had just said. As she started to reach for one of the blue over-robes, Iris Rose bustled forward and scooped it up instead, briskly rearranging its folds so that she could ease it over Alyce’s head.
“You’re very brave,” Alyce murmured, from within the folds of pale blue wool.
“Bravery isn’t nearly as important as vigilance,” the other girl replied in a low voice, as Alyce’s head popped free. “You should know that there’s a new chaplain recently come here who does not like . . . well, women with minds of their own.” She gave Alyce a meaningful look as folds of pale blue wool fell to ankle-length around her, including Marie in her comments as the younger girl stepped into view once more. “Sister Iris Jessilde would have warned you, but I got to you first. Just be very careful.”
Alyce inclined her head slightly as she settled the skirts of the blue robe. “Thank you, I’ll keep that in mind. But surely you have nothing to fear from him.”
Iris Rose glanced sidelong at the door as she handed one of the multi-colored cinctures to Alyce, then to Marie. “Lady Alyce, I may not be—what you are,” she said in a low voice, “but I do have a mind of my own—and perhaps tend to speak it more often than I should. He believes that women should be silent. He assigns very harsh penances when we’re not.”
“I see,” Alyce replied. “And does this paragon have a name?”
“Father Septimus. He’s young and handsome, and can be very charming, but don’t let that fool you. Mother Judiana knows him for what he is. We’re all hoping and praying that he won’t be around very long.”
Astonished, Marie glanced between Iris Rose and her sister. “But—if he’s that unpleasant, how did he get here in the first place?”
Iris Rose rolled her eyes. “His brother is a bishop down in Carthane: Oliver de Nore. Mind you, he’s only an itinerant one, but he still has a great deal of influence. Any bishop does.”
A clatter at the door latch announced the bustling arrival of a much older woman in the habit and blue veil of a vowed sister.
“Are we ready yet?” she asked, mouth primping in an expression of disappointment as she noted the two girls’ somewhat disheveled locks. “Good heavens, you can’t go to Mother looking like that! Iris Rose, you haven’t done their hair yet. Let me lend a hand. I’m Iris Mary,” she added, as she came to lift a handful of Alyce’s curls. “Dear me, this mane badly needs closer acquaintance with a comb—but you’ll wear it in a plait while you’re here among us,” she said, as she began dividing it into sections to do just that. “Now, which one are you, Alyce or Marie?”
“She’s Alyce,” said Iris Rose, smiling as she began a similar service of Marie’s ruddier locks. “And this is Marie. And you mustn’t worry, girls. Sister Iris Mary isn’t nearly as ferocious as she pretends to be.”
“Goodness, no!” Iris Mary retorted with a good-natured wink. “I am far more ferocious!”
The relaxed banter between the two appeared to indicate that perhaps it was permissible to dispense with overmuch stiffness or formality, though Alyce sensed, without being told, that the limits had yet to be learned, especially for those of her race, and especially in light of the warning Iris Rose had just given her.
Nonetheless, by the time both stood in the full attire of their new situation, each with hair now tamed to a single plait down their backs, the future appeared far less bleak than they had come to fear.
Sister Iris Rose was humming contentedly as she made a last inspection of each girl’s attire, adjusting a cincture here, a fold of skirt there, and Iris Mary was smiling as she brought out two wreaths of dried flowers.
“By rights, these should be made of fresh flowers,” she said, handing one to Iris Rose, “but the truth is, we rarely know enough in advance to prepare them—so dried ones have to suffice. Besides, it’s winter, so the choices are few. But you’ll only wear them for your reception by Reverend Mother, until you’re veiled.”
“I hope that’s only a figure of speech,” Marie said. “We don’t intend to become nuns, you know.”
Iris Mary made a clucking sound, looking faintly amused as she put her wreath on Marie’s head. “Certainly not, child. I can imagine the sorts of tales you’ve heard about life in some convents, but I can assure you that no one is here who does not wish to be here.”
“Then, what’s this about veils?”
“Actually, they’re more like kerchiefs, tied underneath your plait,” Iris Rose assured them. “Not terribly attractive, but they’re very practical.”
“You will receive an actual veil,” Iris Mary added, turning to fuss with Alyce’s wreath, “but it’s simply a plain white one such as any well-bred girl might wear, held in place by a rainbow-plaited fillet rather like your cinctures—and you’ll only wear that on Sundays and other formal occasions. It’s quite pretty. But the reason for having you wear a version of our habit is so that you’ll blend in better with the vowed community, which is less disruptive to us. I promise you that there is no agenda more sinister than that.”
“You see, Mares?” Alyce murmured aside to her sister. “I told you it would be all right.”
“I suppose,” Marie replied, though she still looked not altogether convinced.
To the relief of both of them, their formal presentation to the mother superior was considerably less daunting than they had feared. Accompanied by Sisters Iris Rose and Iris Mary, they made their way out along the cloister walk and through a side door into the chapel—and this, too, was not the dark, oppressive place they had feared.
In the King's Service Page 11