The abbess looks pleased and casts a glance at the chancellor as if to say See? He nods, then raises his eyebrows in a question. At her assent, he speaks, the deep rumble of his voice jarring in this place where I have only ever heard women. "What of our young duchess? what do you know of her?”
I shift slightly, uncomfortable with this strange man quizzing me. “I know that her hand in marriage has been promised to half the princes in europe and that she has vowed to keep our country’s independence.” I cannot help but feel sympathy for our poor duchess. “She has been sold to the highest bidder, for all that she is noble born.”
The chancellor’s eyes widen in surprise and he gives the abbess a quizzical look. “Is that what you teach them?”
“Not in so many words, Lord Chancellor, but you must understand that those who are drawn to Mortain’s work, by their very natures, have no love for the married state or for forced or arranged marriages. Indeed, many have joined our convent to escape those very things.” The abbess’s cold blue gaze clashes against the chancellor’s tired brown one, and some unspoken thing passes between them. Chancellor Crunard looks away first, and the abbess turns back to me.
"We have reason to believe that the French are sending a spy to meet with Baron Lombart in an attempt to purchase his loyalty. The port Lombart controls will be critical should war break out again between our countries. we wish you to intercept this contact before he meets with Lombart. we cannot afford to lose another of our nobles to the French.”
My heart quickens at this new task. It is much more complex than the tavern, a true test of all I have learned, and I am eager to pass it.
“You will accompany Chancellor Crunard as his paramour at Lombart’s hunting lodge in Pont-Croix this evening,” the abbess says. I sneak another glance at the chancellor. He is so old, I am sure everyone will see through this deception. If anything, they will think I am his daughter. “Now,” the abbess continues, “there is much to prepare — ah! Here they are,” she says at the knock on her door.
without waiting for an invitation, Sister Arnette and Sister Beatriz enter the room.
“Go with the sisters and they will see that you are given what you need for tonight. when they are done, they will take you to Sister Vereda. She has Seen this, Ismae, and will tell you all you need to know. Then you will meet Sir Crunard in the courtyard.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother.” I dip into another curtsy. As I follow the two nuns from the room, I struggle to keep from skipping in my excitement.
"We will go to the armory first,” Sister Arnette announces as we step into the hallway.
Sister Beatriz protests. “I think we should dress her first. How will you know what she can carry if you do not first see her gown?”
“True enough,” Sister Arnette says, but the sigh that escapes her makes me think she holds no greater love for Sister Beatriz’s womanly arts than I do.
even so, when we enter Sister Beatriz’s inner chamber, I gape. It is the first time I have been here, and gowns of every sort hang from pegs or are folded in stacks, silk upon velvet, velvet upon brocade, in every color imaginable. Sister Beatriz’s eyes are already searching among the finery. “Ah. This one might work.” She plucks a russet velvet gown from a stack. It has a gold and green embroidered stomacher, and I have never seen anything so fine. She holds it up to me and squints, then shakes her head. “Makes you look sallow.” I am not sure what sallow is, but it is a lovely gown and my eyes follow it longingly as she tosses it aside.
Next, she holds up a gown of vermilion brocade. Not caring for the brightness of the color, I mutter, "Why not just paint a sign on my forehead?”
“You think appearing in stark black like a crow among peacocks will aid your stealth?” she asks.
“No, Sister.”
She gives a snort of satisfaction that I have taken her point, then begins pulling down dozens of gowns from the pegs. But they are too loose or too short or the color does not suit her. Or me. At last she takes down a claret velvet gown and holds it up. She and Sister Arnette exchange a glance. “It is perfect for her, no?”
"Except it is missing a bodice,” I point out.
Sister Beatriz waves my concerns aside. “The bodice is just cut low, in the Venetian style, the better to display your womanly charms.”
Sister Arnette studies the gown, her fingers tapping against her chin while she thinks. “I can work with that,” she finally says, and my heart sinks. I am not sure I can work with it. Or in it, as the case may be.
But that is the end of the discussion, and Sister Beatriz shoves the gown at me. “Try it on so we may see if it fits.” She motions me to a dressing screen in the far corner. I hold the gown as gently as a newborn babe, afraid my fingers will crush the soft fabric.
Behind the screen, I quickly slip out of my habit.
“Here.” Sister Beatriz drapes a delicate piece of linen over the screen. “You will need a finer shift under that.”
Painfully aware of the two older women on the other side of the screen, I slip out of my old chemise, shivering in my nakedness. I am relieved when I finally have the new shift on, then I quickly step into the rich velvet skirt and tie the ribbons at my waist. I slide my arms into the tight sleeves and marvel at how perfectly they fit, as if they’d been made for me.
As I ease the bodice up over my shoulders, I see that Sister Beatriz is right. It does cover my bosom, but only barely. I have always known that I must on occasion pass as a noblewoman, but I am loath to dress as a harlot. “I don’t think this will work,” I call out, too embarrassed to emerge from behind the screen.
Then Sister Beatriz is there, swatting my clumsy fingers aside and doing up the lacings herself. “It is perfect. It will capture every man’s attention so that no one will bother to watch what your hands are doing. Now come with me, Sister Arnette is waiting in the armory. Here are your slippers and cloak. I’ll dress your hair when she is done with you.”
Even though the armory pales by comparison to Sister Beatriz’s dressing room, I much prefer it. Indeed, it is one of my favorite rooms at the convent. In addition to every size and shape of knife and dagger, it holds razor-edged rondelles, used to kill from a distance. Crossbows of all dimensions hang from the rafters, and rows of bolts are lined up on trays. Garrote wires are looped from hooks, as are all manner of leather harnesses and sheaths for concealing the weapons on our bodies. A sharp metallic tang hangs in the air and mixes with the scent of goose fat used for polishing the blades.