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?”