“Silence!” The abbess stands abruptly, cutting off my words with a swipe of her hand. “Do you think to educate your betters? You tell me nothing new. When you have served Mortain and studied His ways for a score of years or more, then you may presume to lecture me on His precepts. But not until then.” Her cold blue eyes full of anger, she crosses to the window and stares out into the convent’s barren garden. “And what of Duval? Do you love him?” The mocking tone of her voice suggests I wish to roll naked in the mud with pigs.
I close my eyes and reach inside for the spark of the presence I now carry, hoping to borrow its strength. “I do.”
When she turns back to me, her face is pinched with fury. “You would throw away all that we have given you for a man’s love?”
“Not a man’s love,” I say softly. “But Duval’s. And I would find a way to serve both my god and my heart. Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.”
Her head rears back, as if she has been struck. “So now you are an expert on the will of Mortain?”
I do not flinch. “I came face to face with Him on the battlefield before Nantes. He was not as I thought He would be.”
Her lip curls in disdain. “You saw Mortain? He came to you in a vision?”
“No, Reverend Mother. In the flesh, or such flesh as the saints will wear. He spoke to me and called me daughter, and I found peace with Him. I wish to serve in honor of His mercy rather than His wrath.”
I can tell she wishes to punish me. At first, I think it because I have defied her, and then I realize it is because I have seen Mortain and she has not. “You cannot expect to take your final vows now.”
“I do not want to take my final vows, Reverend Mother.” In truth, I am surprised at how much I do not want to. I think of Annith facing the rest of her life sealed away in the convent, never leaving its walls. I think of Sybella stuck in some hellish assignment that is surely driving her mad. Is that truly what Mortain wishes for them?
Besides, now that I finally have some choices in my life, I have no desire to hand them all back to the convent. “The convent focuses on only one aspect of Mortain’s glory, Reverend Mother. I want to better understand these other parts of Him before committing to such a path.”
“Clearly I was wrong about your devotion to your duties and obligations.” The abbess looks at me as if I am some lowly worm, and it is all I can do to hold fast to my newfound strength.
“You misunderstand me. I am committed to serving Mortain. It is the convent I am uncertain of.”
Her nostrils flare and her lips grow white. She breathes hard for a moment, then, clenching her jaw, she lifts her skirts and storms from the room.
Exactly one fortnight after her thirteenth birthday, Anne of Brittany is carefully dressed in finery befitting a duchess. When she is done, Isabeau kisses her on both cheeks, then Anne turns and leaves the abbey of St. Brigantia. A small procession of attendants accompanies her: myself, Duval, Dunois, and François. The abbess of St. Brigantia also comes with us, as does the abbess of St. Mortain. Night has fallen, and torches light our path as we wind our way to the main entrance of the city, where the drawbridge is closed to us. When she reaches the moat, Anne steps away from our small group and stands alone before the city gates. She raises her young, clear voice and speaks the ancient words that all the rulers of Brittany have spoken and promises to guard the privileges and liberty of both the nobility and the common people of her country.
In answer, the crowd erupts in joyous cheers. They are eager to receive their new duchess, and heavy chains rattle and clank as the drawbridge is lowered. A great clang rings out when it reaches the ground, as triumphant as any bell. The city now open to her, Anne alone steps onto the drawbridge and enters.
Trumpets blare and children shout and throw small handfuls of seeds and dried flower petals as the crowd escorts her to the great cathedral. As demanded by custom, Anne will spend the night in prayer before her coronation in the morning. The six of us will stand over her and watch her, but from a distance. This is a vigil she must keep alone. Her burden is made lighter, however, by the coronation gift Duval has given her: six thousand English troops to fight at her command.
It is a long night, but that is just as well, for every one of us in that church has much to think upon. Many times throughout the dark hours, I feel the gaze of my abbess settle on me, puzzled and brooding. I am surprised when I realize this bothers me not at all. Whatever hold she once had over me is gone.
Duval is another matter, however, and every time he glances at me I feel it just as surely as if he has reached out and run his finger along my soul. It is all I can do not to smile at the sheer wonder of it.
Although the brightly colored glass windows hide the sky outside, I can feel the moment night gives way to morning. As dawn breaks, Duval edges closer to me. When I look up at him, our eyes meet, and even in that solemn place and this most solemn of occasions, I cannot help but smile. His hand moves, and when I look down at it, I see that he is playing with the red ribbon he took from my own hair. He has tied nine knots in it, invoking the blessings of the nine saints. As he reaches for my hand, my heart begins to pound. Does he think to pledge ourselves now, before the duchess and God and all our saints? While I am certain of my love for him, I do not yet know if this is what I want.
He holds my hand gently in his and before I can snatch it back, he wraps the ribbon around not both our wrists, but mine alone. He leans in close, his whisper so quiet I can barely hear it. “Whenever you are ready, or if you never are, my heart is yours, until Death do us part. Whatever that may mean when consorting with one of Death’s handmaidens.”
A small bubble of joyous laughter rises up from my heart, and I lean over and seal his vow with a kiss, not caring that God and the saints and even the abbess of St. Mortain might be watching. For while I am Death’s daughter and walk in His dark shadow, surely the darkness can give way to light sometimes.
COMING IN SPRING 2013: HIS FAIR ASSASSIN, DARK TRIUMPH
Sybella sought refuge at the convent of St. Mortain but was instead trained as an assassin, her broken, tattered spirit pieced back together by the nuns so she could do her god’s dark bidding. But Death, sensing how very close to despair and madness she truly is, sends Sybella a glimpse of hope in the form of a wounded knight whom she must risk everything to rescue—never suspecting that it is her own heart that stands in the balance.
Grave Mercy (Book I): His Fair Assassin, Book I (His Fair Assassin Trilogy) Page 37