I cannot help but smile, for it is such a practical Duval-like thing to say. “Perhaps, my lord. war and Death are known to be closely aligned. But I must speak with my abbess first.” There are still so many unanswered questions about the convent and my service to it.
“Do you plan to remain with the convent then?”
“I do not know yet. All I know is that if I do, it will be different, especially now that I know can no longer trust the integrity of their orders.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
We catch up to the duchess and the others just outside the walls of Rennes at the old abbey of Saint Brigantia. Isabeau is already there, spirited out by Madame Hivern and the faithful Louyse. when Anne and Isabeau see their brother, they give cries of joy and launch themselves at him. For one brief moment, they are not princess and duchess and bastard but a family reunited.
I am surprised to find myself enfolded in Louyse’s sturdy arms as she hugs me to her bosom, relieved to see me unharmed. Not knowing quite what to do with such affection, I pat her awkwardly on the back.
The sisters of Brigantia give us a few moments to enjoy our reunion, then escort us to the rooms that they have prepared for us. They assume, rightly, that we need to rest and refresh ourselves after our journey. In truth, I am travel weary and already mourning the loss of the private time Duval and I shared on the road. A novice opens the door for me, then quietly withdraws. Alone at last, I close my eyes and sag against the thick wooden door.
A faint rustle of fabric startles my eyes open. The abbess of St. Mortain sits in a chair by the fireplace, dressed in her black ceremonial habit. Her pale face gives away nothing of her thoughts.
Fear and regret and remorse shoot through me, ugly, shameful feelings that have me falling to my knees. “Reverend Mother!” I say, my wits leaving me as my forehead touches the cold, hard floor.
“Daughter.” Her voice is icy, and my mind grows blank with panic. I had thought there would be time to think upon all I must say to her. And that I would do it in a letter, which she would read while tucked behind the convent’s sturdy walls, not sitting before me like retribution incarnate.
There is a rustle of parchment. I peer up beneath my lashes to see her spreading a message out on her lap. My message to her. “It seems we have much to talk about.”
“Yes, Holy Mother. We do.” I am pleased that my voice does not shake overmuch.
And then I remember my resolve and rise to my feet even though she has not invited me to. I take a moment to straighten my skirt and compose my features, then meet her gaze steadily. “Chancellor Crunard has betrayed us all.”
Her face is still as marble. "Explain.”
And so I do. I tell her of his stealth and cunning and how he hovered in the background maneuvering people as if they were pawns and destroying lives. when I am done, I cannot tell if she believes me or not. At last she speaks. “If this is indeed true, Chancellor Crunard will have much to answer for.”
I nod, accepting that what I have told her must come as a great shock. “He is secure in the dungeons at Guérande, awaiting whatever justice the duchess and her council choose to mete out.” I grip my hands tightly in front of me. “There is something else, Reverend Mother. Something I must warn you of.” She raises her brows, but does not interrupt, so I continue. “I have come to believe that the marques Mortain uses to guide our hands are much more complex than we thought. I fear they are not always meant to direct our actions but are rather a reflection of what will happen — ”
“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 na**d 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.