Anger flares in the abbess and for the first time I feel the iron will I have only vaguely sensed before. “Who are you to say what the god of death needs or doesn’t need? Mortain is an old god and has no desire to be forgotten and fade from this world, which is why He chooses to bestir Himself in the affairs of man.” She stares at me for a moment longer, then the tension leaves her, like a wave going out to sea. “What do you know of the old gods?” she asks.
“Only that they were once the nine old gods of Brittany but now we call them saints. And we must leave them an occasional offering or prayer if we do not wish to offend them or incur their wrath.”
“You are close,” the abbess says, leaning back in her chair, “but that is not the whole of it. The old gods are neither man nor God, but something in between. They were the first inhabitants of our land, sent to do God’s bidding in this new world He had created.
“At first, the relationship between gods and man was a difficult one, the gods treating us much as we treat cattle or sheep. But soon we learned to honor them with prayer and offerings, which led to harmony between us. Even the early Church, when it arrived, was content to let us honor the old gods, although we learned to call them saints then. But lately, that has been changing. Just as France has gobbled up most of the smaller kingdoms and duchies so it may claim all their power for its own, so too does this latest pope work to extinguish any trace of the old ways, wanting all the prayers and offerings for his own church.
“So now more and more put aside the old ways and traditions that honor the gods of Brittany. But not all. Some still raise their voices in prayer and make their offerings. If not for that worship and supplication, the old gods would fade from this world. Surely you can understand why Mortain would not wish that. He feeds off our belief and worship much as we feed off bread and meat and would starve without it.
“So, it is our job to believe and to serve. If you choose to stay here and take the vows, you will be sworn to serve Mortain in any way He asks of you. In all things. In all ways. We carry out His will. Do you understand?”
“Is that not murder?”
“No. You would not expect a queen to wash her own clothes or lace her own gown; she has her handmaidens for that. And so it is with us; we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.”
She leans forward then, as if eager to tempt me with what Mortain offers. “If you choose to stay, you will be trained in His arts. You will learn more ways to kill a man than you imagined possible. We will train you in stealth and cunning and all manner of skills that will ensure no man is ever again a threat to you.”
I think of my father and of Guillo. I think of all those in the village who worked so hard to make my life a misery. The young boys who threw stones at me, the old men who spat and stared at me with terror in their eyes, as if they expected me to snatch the souls from their old, wrinkled bodies. The younger men who fumbled clumsily at my skirts in dark corners, guessing correctly that my father cared not for my safety or reputation. It would be no hardship at all to kill the likes of them. I feel like a cat who has been dropped from a great height only to land on her feet.
As if plucking my thoughts from my head, the abbess speaks again. “They won’t all be like them, you know.”
I look up in surprise and she continues. “Those Mortain sends you to kill. They won’t all be like the pig farmer.”
My ears are deaf to her warning. I am certain all men are like that, and I would kill them all gladly.
But she presses further, to be sure I fully understand. “He will ask for sacrifices, but it is not your role to question. Only to serve with love and obedience.” A whisper of emotion crosses her face, a memory of some pain I can only guess at. “That is the nature of our service,” she says. “Unquestioning faith. Can you do that?”
“What if I say no?”
“Then you will be taken far from here and given to a kind, gentle man in need of a wife.”
I weigh the choice that is no choice at all. To be removed from the world of men and trained to kill them, or to be handed to one like a sheep. “If you think I am fit to serve, Reverend Mother, I will do so gladly.”
She smiles and leans back in her chair. “Oh, you are fit to serve. You have already passed the first test.”
Something about her smile makes me uneasy. “I have?”
The abbess nods to the shattered goblet on the floor. “Your wine was laced with poison. Enough that a sip would kill a man twice your size. You experienced slight discomfort, nothing more.”
I am shocked into silence as she so easily confesses to poisoning me, and I remember the warm, dizzy feeling I had earlier.
“Now come.” The abbess stands, walks over to the door, and opens it. “Annith will get you settled. Welcome to the convent.”
Chapter Three
When I step out of the reverend mother’s office, a girl just slightly younger than I am is waiting. Just like the abbess, she is strikingly fair, with eyes the color of the shifting sea and wisps of pale hair escaping from her veil. Next to her I feel shabby and tattered, as if my very presence is a sacrilege in a convent full of beauty. But the girl smiles at me and tucks my arm through hers as if we have been friends since birth. “I am Annith,” she says. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”
As much as I want to go with her, as much as I want to embrace this new life set before me, I hesitate. There is something I need to understand first. “Wait.”
Annith tilts her head to the side. “What?”
“If I hadn’t passed the test, would she have let me die of poison?” A chill scuttles across my shoulders at how close I came to meeting Death face to face.
Annith’s face clears in understanding. “But no! The abbess would have fetched a bezoar stone to neutralize the poison or called for a tincture of amaranth to revive you. Now come.” She tugs gently at my arm, and she is so certain and reassuring that it chases away my last remaining doubt.
Our footsteps echo faintly off the stone walls as Annith leads me down a corridor. Doors line the walls on either side of us, and I wonder what secrets these rooms hold and how soon I will be allowed to learn them.
Annith stops when we reach a long chamber with clean, white walls and a row of beds. Fresh air pours in from the window and I hear the sound of waves casting themselves upon the rocky shore beyond. A nun in a midnight blue habit works at a table with a mortar and pestle. At our arrival, she carefully puts her task aside before turning to greet us.
She is of middle years, and her black wimple does not flatter her olive skin. It does, however, match the faint mustache on her upper lip. I am filled with relief that she is not beautiful like the others. At least I will not be the ugliest one here.
“The reverend mother sends a new patient?” The note of eagerness in the nun’s voice strikes me as unseemly.
“Yes, Sister Serafina,” Annith says. “She has had a bad beating, with many bruises. Possible broken ribs and injuries to her internal organs.”
I stare at Annith with new respect. How has she learned all this? Did she listen at the door? Looking at her fresh, delicate face, I find it hard to imagine her doing anything so deceitful.
The nun wipes her hands on a linen cloth and goes to a plain wooden cupboard to retrieve a glass flask. It is not as elegant or ornate as the crystal goblet, but it is every bit as fragile. Even so, she thrusts it into my hands and motions me to a wooden screen in the corner of the room. “Evacuate into that, if you please.”