“At the expense of ours,” she murmurs.
Duval nods. “Yes, for it has the undeniable effect of essentially tying his hands where Brittany is concerned, because if he makes a move to aid us, he finds himself embroiled in war with France once again.” In spite of Duval’s ire, there is also a note of begrudging admiration at how neatly the French regent has boxed us in and cut us off from our own allies.
“What of the English forces? Have any more of their troops arrived in Rennes?”
Captain Dunois shakes his head, looking almost ill. “No, Your Grace. The rest of the English troops will not be joining us here in the city.”
Her brow creases in puzzlement. “Why not?”
Dunois takes a deep breath. “They will be staying in Morlaix.” He and Montauban exchange a glance. “They are holding it as surety against payment for their aid,” he says softly.
“And so the net tightens,” mutters Duval in disgust.
When the council meeting is over, the abbess rises and heads my way. I pretend I do not see her and mutter into Sybella’s ear, “Distract her for a moment, would you?”
She smiles wickedly. “But of course.” I do not linger to see how she does it, although part of me would like to, because I am certain it will be entertaining. Instead, I slip away to the old chapel. I do not know if I will find Father Effram there, but other than the council meetings, the chapel is the only place I have ever seen him.
I walk slowly, hoping he will see where I am headed and that his curiosity will compel him to follow.
Even if he does not, I could certainly do with some quiet contemplation and prayer right now. I have no earthly idea what to do. With the duchess and her council—nay, the very country—so beset by enemies and turmoil, I can hardly bear to add to it by telling them of the newest in a long line of betrayals. And yet . . .
And yet surely those who have been wronged by the abbess’s choices and actions deserve justice, if not vengeance.
The chapel is empty but for the nine flickering candles in front of the nine niches. As I stare at the Nine, an emptiness opens up inside me. Even the comfort of prayer has been taken from me, for I am no longer certain whom to pray to. I ball my hands into fists and force myself to take a deep breath.
“Lady Annith? Is that you scowling at my altar?”
I whirl around. “Father Effram! No, I wasn’t scowling. Well, not at your altar, at least. Only at all the weighty problems that bedevil us.”
He cocks his head to the side. “And by us, you mean the duchess and Brittany? Or is there some other us?”
The man may be older than time itself, but he is nobody’s fool. “Father, I would have you hear my confession.”
He blinks in surprise, but he is not half as surprised as I am. “I did not know that followers of Mortain must needs confess their sins.”
“That is part of what I must confess to you.”
His curiosity is as pungent as the incense burning in the chapel’s censers. He motions for me to follow him to a small corner. “I cannot imagine you have anything to confess, my child. Surely you move within your god’s grace—”
“But that is what I must tell you.” Tell someone. The secret presses against me, so heavy and full that I fear it will burst from me like an overripe plum from its skin.
But once we are seated and his kind, curious eyes are on me, all the words that were crowding to get out flee before the immenseness of my confession.
“What is it, my child? What troubles you?”
“How great a sin is it to spend your entire life pretending you are one thing, only to find out that you were not that thing at all?”
“I assume you are talking of yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What thing did you pretend to be?”
“A daughter of Mortain, sired by Him to be His handmaiden.”
“And you are not His daughter?”
“No. I have learned that I am not.”
“Ah.” He leans back in his seat. “And now you feel as if you’ve tricked everyone?” When I nod, he tilts his head and studies me. “How old were you when you came to the convent?”
“A babe.”
“Well, then.” He spread his hands wide. “It cannot be your fault at all. If the convent made that assumption and had no methods for confirming such claims . . .”
“But they were tricked. Someone knew. My mother, the abbess, for one.”
His eyes widen in surprise, and I proceed to tell him the whole sordid story. It rushes out of me in one enormous surge of relief.
When I have finished, he looks at me with a gentle expression. “Surely you must know that you are innocent in all this?”
While I wish to believe this, I cannot. I look down at my hands, which are tangled in my lap. “Not so innocent, Father, for I have killed men.”
He takes my hands in his own, forcing me to look up at him. “I believe He will understand, for even Mortain has been known to make mistakes.”
I recoil in surprise. “Surely He has not!”
“Ah, have you not heard the tale of how He took Amourna by mistake when it was really her si
ster He was after?”
“Well, yes, but that is just a story those who follow Salonius tell. It is not what actually happened.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No! We at the convent know what truly happened.”
“So say the followers of each of the Nine.”
I sigh in exasperation, and he holds up his hand. “I did not say your version was wrong. But think on it: Why would they tell a story about a god as feared and revered as Mortain making a mistake?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” In truth, I am in no mood for theological puzzles.
He leans forward. “To show that even someone such as Mortain is capable of making a mistake.”
“But He is a god!”
“He is a god, but not God.” He points heavenward.
I do not know what to say that. Instead, I change the subject. “One more thing, Father, and then I will leave you to your duties. Whom do those who worship the Nine answer to?”
“Their gods, of course.”
“Yes, but in matters of more earthly jurisdiction. I know there is a council of bishops who oversee the new church’s matters, but surely they do not hold authority over the Nine, do they?”
“Authority? In what way?”
“If someone must be brought to account, much like a Catholic priest might be stripped of his office, who would address such matters?”
“Are you speaking of your mother?”
“Yes.”
He leans back, sighing. “That sort of thing has not come up in a very, very long time, but when it has happened in the past, a convocation of the Nine was called to preside over and judge such things.”
“And that is?”
“A council, a convocation, attended by the heads of each of the Nine, where the matter is brought before them and they decide what punishment, if any, is to be meted out.”
“And how does one call a convocation of the Nine?”
“A message is sent to the high priest or priestess or abbess of each of the Nine, and they in turn each send a representative to attend. But again, it has not been done in years. Certainly not in my lifetime.”