For the next three days, while the duchess and King Charles come to know each other, the duchess’s councilors and a delegation from France sequester themselves in the privy chamber and wrestle over the details of the marriage contract. The king is of no help, for whatever point of contract the duchess’s advisors insist on, he agrees to, until his own advisors throw up their hands in disgust. I think once more of Arduinna’s last arrow and all that it has bought us.
Deep in the bowels of the castle, in a room tucked well away from observers, another series of meetings is held. The first of these is a private meeting between Crunard and me. In the rush of all that has happened, I had nearly forgotten about him, for he is still so new in my life, it is hard to remember I have a father.
I find him sitting in his cell, thinner than when I last saw him, and with the lines of fatigue etched more deeply in his face. When he sees me, he leaps to his feet and strides to the bars. “You are safe!”
“I am safe.” I tilt my head. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”
“The guards—there have been rumors, stories flying about you riding out, but no one could give me any details.” He appears to rein in his emotions somewhat. “I was worried for you, that is all.”
“I appreciate your fatherly concern, but as you can see, I am fine. I do come bearing news, however. The duchess and the French king are to be married.”
His eyes widen. “He agreed?”
“With a bit of persuasion, yes. But more importantly, she has agreed, and he appears to care for her, and there will be peace.”
Crunard closes his eyes. “Peace,” he says, the word bittersweet with all that he has lost.
I cannot help it then—I step forward, my voice gentling. “I come to bring you a boon. The duchess, as a sign of her appreciation for my help in this matter, has agreed to investigate the whereabouts of your son—my brother—herself. She will seek him out or learn what has happened to him, and if he is still alive, she will have him safely returned to Brittany. She has given her word.”
Some of the grayness leaves his face, and his mouth twists in a sour smile. “And he can find me here, rotting in a prison for dishonoring us all.”
“The duchess is in a forgiving mood,” I tell him. “She has already pardoned many of those who crossed her. Perhaps she will pardon you as well.”
His hands grip the iron bars. “And if so, what does that mean for us?”
I step back then. “Why should it mean anything? Why should I care at all for the man who abandoned my mother when she needed him most, who left me to be raised as an orphan, who betrayed his entire country? What makes you think there is any us to be considered?”
His gaze meets mine steadily. “Because I know the daughter to be a far better person than the father was, and I hope that she will see that the most recent of his crimes were committed out of love for his children.”
I stare at him a moment longer, then leave without answering his question.
The second meeting is a convocation of the Nine, called in order to hold the abbess accountable for her crimes and to determine the rightful punishment.
On the first day, a delegate from each of the Nine arrives, called to the convocation by Father Effram’s summons. The abbess from the Brigantian convent here in Rennes is the first to arrive, followed by Floris and the high priestess of Arduinna. Father Effram—I cannot quite manage to call him Salonius, for I am still not certain I believe that he is; it is just the sort of trick the gods like to play—presides over all.
The abbess of Saint Mer arrives, a wizened old woman with wild gray hair and seashells strung around her neck like jewels. She is accompanied by two girls, one on either side, both followers of Saint Mer. I try not to stare, but I have never seen the sisters of Saint Mer before and they are startling to look at.
Beast is here, representing the followers of Saint Camulos, as their rank is closely tied with their order’s hierarchy. A tall older man with dirty bare feet and a thick walking staff is introduced as the head of Saint Cissonius’s order.
Mortain himself will take his place among the Nine. When he steps into the room, silence falls, as thick as a heavy snow. All eyes turn toward him, for these are people who have devoted their entire lives in the service of their gods, yet they have never met one face to face before. One by one, they sink into deep, reverent bows, their foreheads nearly touching the floor.
“Please, rise,” he says, then makes his way to the seat that is for him. It is hard to tell in the torchlight, but it appears as if a faint tinge of pink has risen in his finely sculpted cheeks.
Two of the seats are empty. Amourna is no longer worshiped so much as her name is invoked when one is seeking true love. There is not any convent or abbey that serves her, and I cannot help but wonder if there ever was.
Dea Matrona too is not worshiped in a formal way, but instead finds her place in the homes and hearths and fields throughout our land.
Just as the Brigantian abbess calls the meeting to order, the door opens. An ancient, bent-back woman shuffles into the room, her long, gray hair nearly reaching the floor, her old homespun brown gown faded and closer to rags than a gown. She too has a staff, which she leans heavily upon. Slowly, she shuffles across the floor and takes the empty seat left for Dea Matrona.
Everyone stares in surprise, but she gestures impatiently for them to proceed.
The Brigantian nun begins speaking. “We are here for an accounting of the crimes of Sister Etienne de Froissard, who has posed as abbess of the convent of Saint Mortain for the past seven years, even though she bears none of his blood. She has wronged the gods by posing as a daughter of Mortain, and she has betrayed the trust placed in her with that position. She is also charged with endangering the girls put in her care, and has been accused of the murders of Sisters Druette, Appollonia, and Sabina.”
And so it begins, the abbess’s—my mother’s—trial. Father Effram assured me that they never sentence anyone to death, else I am not certain I would be able to get through this. For all the anger I hold for her, for all the wrong that she has done, she did it out of love and a desire to protect me. I do not know if I will ever be able to resolve the two.
“Sister Etienne, what say you to these charges?”
The abbess looks almost na**d without her distinctive headdress and habit, like a magnificent hawk who has lost all her feathers. She turns and looks at me, and even now, her head is not bowed in shame or remorse. I hold my breath, wondering if she will try to pull me into it, try to paint my actions with her own motives. She will not know that I have already told the members of the convocation that I too am not of Mortain’s blood, although I did not learn of it until mere weeks ago.
But instead, she surprises me. “I accept responsibility for all that I am accused of. I would say only this in my defense: The previous abbess betrayed her duty to her young charges long before I did. I did not know of the existence of this convocation, else I might have tried to bring her before it. But I saw no other way to protect the girls. To protect my own daughter.”
The Brigantian nun turns to Mortain, her manner becoming slightly nervous, as if she is not certain how this should all proceed in front of a true god. Or a former god. “Do you wish to handle this matter personally, as is your right?”
Mortain shakes his head. “No, I would leave it to the convocation to decide and will respect its decision.” In truth, he is not nearly as angry at the abbess as I am, for he feels that without her, he would never have had me, and for that, he has told me, he will forgive her much.
“Very well. We shall withdraw to discuss sentencing—”
Her words are interrupted by a sharp, single rap on the floor. It is the old crone. Everyone turns to stare.
“I claim her as ours,” she says. “She has proven herself such a devoted mother, let her serve the Great Mother awhile. Ten years.”
Everyone glances around somewhat uncertainly, as no contact has been made with those who serve Dea Matrona in quite some time. Indeed, I think they all thought that she too had begun to fade from this world.
“Are there any objections?”
There are not. And so it is decided.
As the convocation breaks up, the various abbesses and priests pause long enough to greet one another and exchange a few words. It is not often they are all in the same room, and there is the sense that they have much they would like to discuss. A handful approach Balthazaar, wanting to see this miracle made flesh.
I stand off to the side, watching. Forgotten for the moment, the abbess makes her way over to me. We stare at each other. She has grown thin these last few days, and her face is drawn. “I am sorry,” she whispers. As I stare into her hollow, gaunt face, it feels like the first true thing she has said to me in years. I nod, acknowledging her words. She looks down at her hands. Her nails are ragged and bitten to the quick. “I would ask one last indulgence, if I could.”
I do not know that I have it in me to grant her anything, but I keep my voice level. “What is it?”
“May I hold you? Just once before I go, for I have not been able to do so since you were three years old. If I could have one wish before I die, it would be that.”
Her request sneaks in under my guard and lands a painful blow, reminding me sharply that for many years, she was nothing but a young mother trying to be with her child. “Yes,” I whisper. Slowly, as if unable to believe in it, she awkwardly wraps her arms around me, then pulls me close. I am not quite able to allow myself to relax into her embrace, but I do not resist, either. Some small, tentative thing passes between us. She gently kisses my brow, then reluctantly pulls away. “Will you ever forgive me?” she asks softly.
That small, tentative thing pulses inside me. “I will try. That is all I can promise. I will try.”
She starts to leave, then stops. “May I come see you? When my sentence is served?”
I stare at her a long moment before I say, “Yes. But do not come back to the convent. Send word instead, and I will meet you.”
Her eyes widen at my mention of the convent, and I see a hundred questions in them, questions about what I will do next, where I will go, and who I will be with. But our time is up. Dea Matrona’s priestess is at her side, her ancient clawlike hand reaching out and pulling at the abbess’s sleeve. “Come” is all she says. With one last look at me, the abbess leaves.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
THE DAY OF THE BETROTHAL CEREMONY dawns clear and sunny, as if God and His Nine are all as happy about this day as we are. A feeling of joy lies over the city, relief to be celebrating an impending marriage rather than a crushing defeat and untold deaths.
The cathedral is nearly empty as the duchess and the king of France pledge their vows. Only the privy councilors are in attendance, along with one French advisor and the French regent herself. I study this woman who was behind so much of the hostilities between our countries and wonder what drove her.
The duchess does her best to ignore the regent. I do not think they will ever be close.
Ismae, Sybella, and I are also in attendance. The duchess invited Mortain as well, but this made the poor bishop so nervous that Mortain declined.
Once the ceremony is concluded, the royal party turns their attention to signing the marriage contract and the peace treaty between Brittany and France. The three of us are not needed for that.
Just as she did when we were forced to attend chapel services back at the convent, Sybella begins whispering in church. “Ismae, are you still able to see marques?”
“I don’t know,” Ismae confesses, then looks around the few gathered in the cathedral. “No one here bears one, and I have not seen anyone marqued since . . . since three days ago, but perhaps it is simply because no one is ready to die just yet. And you? What of your gifts?”
Sybella nods. “I am still able to sense people’s nearness, as always.”
