“Sister Vereda is not only old but blind as well. She never eats with us and keeps to her rooms. She is our seeress and speaks with us only when she has had a vision.”
I feel someone watching, and look up to find the reverend mother’s cool blue gaze on me. When our eyes meet, she lifts her goblet in private welcome. The immensity of it all surges through me, leaving me dizzy with my unexpected good fortune. This is my new life. My new home. The one I have prayed for ever since I was old enough to form words. A deep sense of gratitude fills me. I will make the most of this chance I have been given, I vow, and I raise my goblet in return.
Chapter Five
It is a full week before I see Sybella again. What they did to calm her, not even Annith has been able to find out.
She first appears among us at the dinner hour. The entire refectory falls silent when Sister Widona, the nun with the melodious voice and a talent for taming the convent’s horses, appears in the doorway with Sybella at her side.
When the nun leaves to join the other sisters at the main table, Sybella stands for a long moment looking down at our table, proud and scornful. The younger girls are too awed by her to do anything but stare, but Annith scoots over on the bench to make room for her. Sybella ignores her and instead sits next to me. I am exquisitely uncomfortable at this. Annith has been so kind to me, I cannot bear for her to be shunned like that. And yet . . . there is something about this new girl, and I am filled with a dark joy that she has chosen to sit next to me. I glance down at my plate so Annith will not see my secret pleasure.
Sybella is thinner than when I last saw her, but her eyes are less wild, and the shadows are nearly gone. Her haughtiness, however, is untouched. She sits on the bench, her back rigid, and looks neither to the right nor to the left.
Proving she is a saint, Annith offers the branch of friendship once more by asking, “May I get you some stew?”
Sybella glances disdainfully at the food in front of the rest of us. “I do not eat pig slop.”
Her words are as shocking as a slap to Annith’s face. Annith’s cheeks pinken. “I assure you, neither do we. Sit there and starve for all I care.” It is the first time I have seen Annith provoked into a temper.
Sybella does exactly that; she sits and stares at the wall while the rest of us eat our dinners. It has a severe dampening effect on everyone’s appetite, except mine. Having eaten only turnips for years—and old, rotten ones at that—I am always hungry.
After a few minutes of this, Sister Widona rises from the main table, goes to the stew pot that hangs in the hearth, and ladles up a portion. She carries it over to our table and sets it in front of Sybella. “Eat,” she orders. Sybella looks up, and the power of their gazes clashing is nearly audible.
When Sybella makes no move toward her bowl, Sister Widona leans over and speaks softly into the girl’s ear. “Eat, or I will force it down your throat.”
Her words shock me, for I cannot see these gentle nuns doing anything as heavy-handed as that, but the threat works. Staring mulishly at the nun, Sybella begins shoveling the stew into her mouth. Satisfied, the nun returns to the dais.
And so our training at the convent begins, and everything the nuns promised Sybella and me on that first night comes to pass. We study the human body as thoroughly as the physicians at the great universities, poring over drawings of human anatomy that make us blush. But despite our modesty, we learn where the weakest parts of the body hide. How skin is attached to muscle, and muscle bound by sinew to bone, and how these connections can best be severed.
We become well versed in all manner of fighting, with our hands and feet, our elbows, even our teeth. We are trained in every weapon imaginable: knives and daggers, garrotes. We practice with throwing rondelles—small, razor-edged disks—until we can strike our targets accurately. We shoot short bows and longbows—if we can draw them. If we cannot, we are forced to strengthen our arms until we can. Crossbows too are part of our training, for they are highly accurate when one needs to strike from a distance.
Where I truly excel is in the poison workshop with Sister Serafina, the soaking and stewing, pressing and distilling, learning the nature of all the deadly substances and how best to coax their poisons from them and combine them for the desired effect.
But of course, not all are lessons are so compelling. There are long, boring stretches spent studying history and politics and memorizing the noble families of Brittany. We also study the royal houses of France, for according to the nuns, France is the biggest threat to our country’s independence, especially since our duke banded together with other great lords in an attempt to depose the French regent. The deed has not gone unpunished, and hostilities have broken out once again between our countries.
We novices must also learn how to dress in finery and maneuver without tripping. We practice smiling mysteriously and become masters of the seductive glance, peering out from beneath our lashes, our eyes full of promise. These particular lessons make me feel so ridiculous that I often dissolve into fits of laughter and am sent from the room in disgrace.
I alone of the older girls must have extra lessons. Since I am new to the convent and not noble born, I do not know how to read or write, skills the nuns assure me are required to serve Mortain, for how else will I read Sister Serafina’s recipes or the instructions that tell me who to kill? I spend long, frustrating hours alone in the scriptorium practicing my letters over and over again.
While the nuns are strict taskmistresses, they are kind too, rarely raising their voices or shaming us. Mayhap they know that treating us well makes us want to please them all the more, or mayhap they suspect we have had too much shame in our lives already.
I take to this new life like a fish to water, Sister Serafina says. Within the passing of a season, my nightmares grow infrequent and I find myself thinking less and less of the realm of man beyond the convent’s walls. Indeed, it is as if that whole world has ceased to exist.
Chapter Six
THREE YEARS LATER
November is known as the blood month, the time of year when animals are slaughtered for winter. How apt, I think, that my first assignment comes now.
Not wanting to announce my presence to the stablekeep, I steer my horse to a copse of trees just beyond the tavern, then dismount. I pull my cloak tight against the chill wind coming off the sea and slip Nocturne a carrot pilfered from the convent kitchens. “I will be back soon,” I whisper in her ear.
I turn from my horse and make my way through the trees and shadows to the tavern. Anticipation bubbles through me, so strong it is all I can do to keep from running to the door and throwing it open. Sybella was first sent out nearly a year ago, and I had despaired of ever getting an assignment of my own. At least I am better off than Annith, who is still waiting. I had thought she would surely be given an assignment before me.
I shove that puzzle aside and focus on the task at hand. This is a true test of all I have learned at the convent. I must be ready for anything and know that I will be judged accordingly.
When I reach the door, I pause, listening to the murmur of voices mingling with the clatter of crockery on the other side. The tavern is doing a brisk business this evening, with the men in from the fields early and the fishermen back with their day’s catch. Good. It is easier to go unnoticed in a crowd. I slip inside. At this late hour, the men are well into their tankards and are far more interested in the dicing going on in front of the fire or in catching the attention of some serving wench than they are in me.
The room is poorly lit, which suits my purposes well. Keeping close to the shadows near the wall as I have been taught, I make my way to the stairs that lead to the second floor, where rooms can be had for the night.
First door on the right, Sister Vereda said.
I am so focused on reaching the stairs and on the instructions going through my head that I do not see the big oaf who has risen from his bench until I run into him.
“Oho!” he cries as he grabs my arms to keep me f
rom falling. “I’ve found a tasty morsel for my dinner.”
His hood is drawn close around his head, shadowing his face, and his straw hat hangs down his back, marking him as one who toils in the fields. Annoyance flickers in my chest. I have no time for delays; I am eager to try my wings. I start to tell him to get out of my way then realize that he could be part of the test the abbess has set for me. I cast my eyes downward. “Someone waits for me upstairs.”
It works too well, for I can feel his gaze on me growing warm. Interested. Instead of stepping aside, he draws closer, backing me up against the wall. My heart beats frantically at being trapped like this, but I force my mind to calm, reminding myself that he is likely just a peasant who is nothing to me. I shove against the oaf’s chest, which is as hard as iron from days spent pushing a plow in the fields. “I will get in much trouble if I am late.” I am sure to make my voice waver slightly so he will think I am afraid.
After a long moment, he steps aside. “Hurry back down to Hervé when you are done, eh?” he whispers in my ear. His big, greedy hand slides down and slaps my rump, and test or no, it is all I can do to keep from gutting him then and there. Keeping my eyes down so he cannot see my fury, I nod, then hurry on my way as he returns to his bench.
At the top of the stairwell, a serving maid struggles with a heavy tray. By the time I reach the landing, she has paused in front of a door. First door on the right.
Jean Runnion’s door.
Use the tools and opportunities Mortain places in front of you. It is one of the first lessons we learn at the convent. “Is that for Monsieur Runnion?” I call out.
Startled, the maid turns her head. “Yes. He asked for his dinner to be served in his room.”
As well he might. He has good reason to stay hidden. Bretons have long memories where traitors are concerned, and we do not forgive easily. I hurry forward. “I will take the tray to him,” I offer. “He is in a foul mood tonight.”
The maid is suspicious and frowns at me. “How do you know this?”
I give her a cold smile. “Because his man warned me of such when he came to fetch me for the evening.”
A look of contempt appears on her face. I am torn between pride that she finds my pretense believable and annoyance that she thinks me a harlot. It is exactly as Sister Beatriz said it would be: People hear and see what they expect to hear and see. But just because we have been trained to use that to our advantage does not mean I like it.
The maid shoves the tray into my hands and I have to grab quickly to keep it from tumbling to the ground.
With one last swish of her skirts, she clatters down the stairs, leaving me alone with only a thick oaken door between me and my first assignment.
Three years of lessons crowd my head at once, bumping into each other like an unsettled flock of pigeons. I remind myself that there is nothing to fear. I mixed the poison with my own hand. It contains a slow-acting toxin, one especially chosen so that I will be far away before the traitor dies, giving me enough time to escape should something go wrong. To everyone else, it will merely appear as if he is in a deep, wine-sodden sleep.
But nothing will go wrong, I tell myself. Shifting the weight of the tray, I rap on the door. “Your dinner, monsieur.”
“Entré” comes the muffled voice.
I open the door, then juggle the tray again so I can close it firmly behind me. Runnion doesn’t even look up. He is sprawled in a chair in front of the fire, drinking from a cup of wine. A jug sits on the floor next to him. “Just put it on the table,” he instructs.
The years have not been kind to him. His face is deeply lined and his hair lank and gray. Indeed, he looks almost ill, as if his guilty conscience has eaten away at his soul.
If so, I am surely about to do him a favor. I set the tray down. “Would monsieur like me to refill his cup before I go?” I ask.
“Yes. Then leave,” he commands. His dismissive manner makes me even happier that he will not be able to order anyone else around after tonight.
As I move toward his chair, I lift a hand to the finely woven net around my hair and slip one of the pearls from it. I bend over to pick up the wine jug, pausing to look at his face. There is a great dark smudge around his lips, as if Mortain has pressed His thumb into the blackness of the man’s soul and smeared it along his mouth to say, Here, this is how he will die.
Thus reassured, I slip the pearl into the wine, swirl the jug twice, then pick up Runnion’s cup and fill it.
I hand it to him, and he takes a sip, then another. As I watch, Runnion looks up from his cup and scowls at me. “Where is the other girl?”
I have overstayed my welcome. “She was busy downstairs and asked me to come.”
Even as his bleary eyes move to my traveling cloak, I begin heading toward the door. I want to be away from here before his wine-soaked mind begins to draw any conclusions.
“Wait!” he calls out, and I freeze, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
“Leave the jug,” he orders.
I look down and see that I still carry the wine jug in my hand. Careless! “But of course, monsieur,” I say, then set the jug on the floor next to him. I risk another glance from under my lashes, but he’s turned back to the fire.
At the door, I pause one last time, waiting until he takes another sip of wine, then another. I cross myself and bow my head, commending the traitor’s soul into Mortain’s keeping. As I reach for the door, it bursts open. A large form stands there, outlined by the torchlight from the hallway. His hood is still pulled up close around his face, but I recognize the hulking figure of Hervé.
Merde! Could he not have waited till I went back downstairs?
I step away from the door and throw a look over my shoulder to gauge the distance to the window. Hervé follows my gaze and swears when he sees Runnion, who looks as if he has passed out in a wine-sodden stupor. While Hervé rushes to Runnion’s side, I take the opportunity Mortain has provided me and bolt for the window.
It is a long ride back to the convent, but my sense of triumph keeps me warm. I want to crow to the heavens that I have served my god and my convent well, but Sister Serafina has told me many times that pride is a sin, and so I do not.
Plus, it would frighten my horse. I reach down and pat Nocturne’s neck, just in case my exhilaration is making her uneasy.
The one sour note in my triumph is the oafish peasant who came upstairs. Part of me wishes I’d stayed to fight with him, tested my skills against his, for surely he would be no match for one trained such as I. We are allowed to kill in self-defense, whether the opponent has a marque or not, and I could have avenged myself for his overly familiar groping.
However, since the whole point of this first assignment is to demonstrate my obedience, I think I have made the right choice in walking away.
The thrill of success is still humming through my veins when I reach the ferryman—the same one who rowed me out to the convent when I first arrived. Tonight, he takes Nocturne and has his son—who is nearly as ancient as he is—return the horse to the stables. As I climb into the waiting boat, his eyes slide away from me, afraid that if he stares too long, he might come to know what I’ve been up to.
I cannot wait to lay my success at the reverend mother’s feet. I want to prove to her that she was right to take me in, that she chose wisely in offering me a home. I want her to see that I have passed her test.
That I was picked over Annith brings me joy, even as my heart breaks for her. But perhaps the abbess has seen some special skill or spark in me, one that makes me shine brighter than Annith and the others.
The boat crunches up onto the stony beach and I step out, doing my best to keep my fine gown clear of the surf. “Thank you,” I say; I wave goodbye to the ferryman, but he is already rowing back out to sea.
Eager to make my report to the abbess, I hurry toward the convent. As I pass the standing stone, I kiss the tips of my fingers and press them to the cold rough surface in a quick prayer of thanks to
Mortain for guiding my hand.
The sun is just beginning to rise, but the chickens are already at their morning scratching. The reverend mother too is an early riser and already sits at her desk. I knock on her open door.
She looks up from her paperwork. “You’re back.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.”
She puts down the unopened letter she was holding and gives me her full attention. “It went well?”
I try not to preen. “Very well. It was exactly as you and Sister Vereda said. The marque was clear upon the traitor, and the poison was just beginning to work as I left.”
“Good.” She nods her head, satisfied. “You are safely returned to us before any will know he is dead. An easy, clean first kill, as it should be. No one saw you?”
“No one. Except for the maid, who thought exactly what Sister Beatriz told us she would think.” I hesitate, filled with regret that Hervé has tainted my first assignment but knowing I cannot risk omitting him from my report, in case he is part of the test. “And a farmer from the fields who tried to delay me. For a dalliance, I think.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up in amusement. “I trust you were able to take care of that?”
“But of course, Reverend Mother.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you kill him?”
“No! He was not assigned to me, nor did he bear a marque.”
“Good.” She seems pleased with my account. “Do you wish to rest for a few hours before joining the others?”
“No, thank you.” I am far too excited to even think of sleep.
She smiles, as if she knows full well why I cannot sleep. “Very well. Once you have changed, report to Sister Thomine in the courtyard. Leave your clothes on the bed, and Sister Beatriz will fetch them shortly.” She gives a nod of dismissal, then cracks open the seal on the letter in front of her. Just before I step into the hall, she calls out, “Ismae?”
“Yes, Reverend Mother?”
Grave Mercy (Book I) (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 4