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 from 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.”