“Oh, I do,” Cerys replied. “Mind you, I wouldn’t want to stay here forever—I don’t think I could ever be a nun!—but my father is only a simple knight. If I expect to marry well, I must be properly prepared to run a noble household.”
“I see,” Alyce murmured.
For the next little while, until time for evening prayers, Cerys chattered away about life at the school and Alyce mostly just listened, though it did give her a somewhat better idea what to expect. She saw Marie briefly before evening prayers, and met Iery, who was quiet but seemed to have a sense of humor.
“I like her,” Marie whispered, as they settled into their stalls for the final service of the night. “Maybe this will be all right after all.”
Bed followed evening prayers, and Alyce lay awake far longer than she usually did, close beside Cerys for warmth. When she finally did sleep, she did not dream.
Chapter 9
“Stand ye in the ways, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein.”
—JEREMIAH 6:16
THEIR new life at Arc-en-Ciel began in earnest the next morning. Jessamy and Jesiana had stayed the night, and rose for early Mass in the convent’s chapel, then broke their fast with Jessilde and the rest of the community before making their good-byes, leaving Alyce and Marie to settle into their new situation as best they could.
By and large, this proved far less difficult than they had feared. The nuns, for the most part, were gentle and kind, and quickly warmed to the lively and talented sisters from Lendour. Acceptance came more slowly from the other girls, but they, too, gradually began to relax and include the newcomers among them. Marie and Iery got on famously, and Cerys proved to be amiable and genuinely kind, and soon included Alyce in her friendship with another girl their age, called Zoë, who would quickly become Alyce’s particular friend.
For the rest, Alyce soon decided not worry. If a few of the girls kept their distance—and some of the nuns as well—most of them were no worse than indifferent, and seemed not to mind that two more Deryni were now among them. The way had been paved by Jessilde, who apparently had long since proven her harmlessness to the satisfaction of the community.
Which left the demoiselles de Corwyn to contend with the reason they had come to Arc-en-Ciel in the first place: to continue their education as young ladies of gentle breeding.
They found the cycle of instruction in the convent school somewhat different from what they had known in their father’s hall, where they had studied many of the same subjects as their brother. Though Alyce had always been the stronger student, both were competent in the basic skills of reading, writing, and ciphering, and had a far better background than most of their classmates in history, the classics, and languages.
These accomplishments, while acknowledged as commendable, were considered far less useful than the domestic skills that were the focal point of the curriculum at Arc-en-Ciel: household management, simple physicking, and even surgery, along with the regular regimen of devotion and religious instruction that one might expect in a religious establishment.
And of course, there was the ubiquitous needlework to occupy hands not busy with other tasks: sempstering and fine embroidery, mending, spinning and weaving—all reckoned to be essential skills in the repertoire of all gentlewomen, if only so that they might oversee such work by others when, eventually, they must run their own households. Music, drawing, and dance provided a further soupçon of gentler diversion. The purity of Marie’s voice soon singled her out for extra tutelage in choir and musical ensemble. Alyce’s fine calligraphic hand raised appreciative eyebrows in the convent’s scriptorium.
“Your calligraphy is exceptionally clear, my dear,” Sister Iris Althea told her, casting her gimlet glance over a fluent practice page. “Already, your work is more than good enough to serve in any lord’s secretariat. If you continue to apply yourself, you could be a true artist.”
“Thank you, Sister,” Alyce murmured. “I have been fortunate enough to have excellent teachers.”
“And they have had a worthy pupil,” Sister Iris Althea said graciously. “I wonder if you would be willing to try your hand at some fine copy work for the library? We have several volumes that have become finger-soiled and difficult to read, despite the reminders I give our girls to take care in their handling, and I have been wishing to replace them for some time.”
Alyce allowed herself a shy smile, unused to being acknowledged for an adult accomplishment.
“I hope that I may be of assistance, Sister—if you truly think my work is good enough.”
“Oh, ’tis more than good enough, child—or, I should say ‘Lady Alyce,’ for this is not a child’s work. As you come to know our library, you will find many manuscripts in regular use that are not nearly so fine.” She smiled and gently cupped Alyce’s cheek, smiling with genuine warmth. “I shall speak to Mother Judiana about you, dear. It seems that Lady Jessamy has brought us yet another treasure.”
The very next day, Alyce was given her own carrel in the scriptorium, close to one of the fireplaces and near to a glazed window, though the winter sun offered little in the way of illumination. Still, there were candles aplenty, as many as she needed, and the space became a favorite personal haven in the days and months ahead. In time, it also became a place to tutor other students of promise, including her friend Zoë Morgan, whose quick wit and sense of humor often brightened her day.
Half a dozen others gradually admitted Alyce to their circles of more particular friends. Marie likewise found a few special friends with whom to share girlish confidences.
As for the rest, those who were indifferent at least were not hostile, and soon allowed the newcomers to settle into quite tolerable anonymity. The two sisters found that the school habit helped a bit, since everyone looked more or less the same, differing largely in height and girth and the color of the braids hanging from beneath each shoulder-length veil or kerchief.
Among the sisters, Alyce found somewhat more ready acceptance. Sister Iris Rose shifted from mere acquaintance to actual friend, as did Iris Mary; and Jessilde MacAthan became a friend as well. And ruling them all, Mother Judiana showed herself unfailingly benevolent, wise, and fair-minded.
The sole note of discord that gradually arose was the antipathy that soon developed between Alyce and the chaplain of whom they had been warned. There were three priests responsible for the community’s spiritual well-being—offering daily Mass, hearing confessions, and teaching the odd catechism class or bit of church history in the convent school— and with two of them, she had no problem. The eldest, called Father Deuel, was a semi-invalid, and could be crotchety when his arthritis was bothering him, but seemed to embody everyone’s idea of what the perfect uncle or grandfather should be: genuinely fond of all his charges, and inclined to turn an indulgent eye on all but the most serious transgressions.
The next in seniority, Father Benroy, was equally indulgent, with a fine calligraphic hand and failing eyesight that kept him mostly confined to the very close work of the scriptorium. Over the first few weeks of Alyce’s regular presence there, the pair of them developed a cordial working relationship based on mutual respect for one another’s artistry, and Benroy soon began to offer her extra tutelage.
The third man had none of the positive qualities of the first two: Father Septimus de Nore, who taught catechism, prepared the girls for Confirmation, and was known to be an extremely punctilious confessor, especially of Deryni. Only a few days after their arrival, Jessilde repeated Sister Iris Rose’s warning, and stressed the importance of absolutely avoiding him at confession.
“He abuses his office, if there’s any whiff of a Deryni ‘taint’—and you and I and Marie are more than merely tainted,” Jessilde confided, during the hour of recreation the girls were allowed with the community before evening prayers. “There’s nothing to be done about the classes he gives. He’ll try to bait you, but you mustn’t let yourself be drawn into argument with him. Eventually he’ll win, whether he’s right or not—and as a priest, he has the authority to make life difficult for us.”
“That hardly seems fair,” Alyce muttered. “Who does he think he is?”
Jessilde gave her a sidelong glance. “‘Fair’ has nothing to do with it, Alyce. He’s the brother of a bishop—and moreover, a bishop who hates our kind. There’s been many a burning in Carthane attributed to Oliver de Nore—and the two brothers are cut from the same cloth. If Father Septimus chooses to enforce the letter of law—and he usually does—he can be extremely difficult.”
“
He
couldn’t burn anyone—could he?” Alyce asked, shocked.
“Not here—and certainly not without cause that absolutely couldn’t be ignored,” Jessilde replied, with a shake of her head. “I’m sure that you would never be so foolish as to give him such cause.
“As for lesser transgressions—well, fortunately, Mother Judiana has enough rank to protect us usually.” She cast a fond glance toward one of the fireplaces in the common room, where Judiana sat laughing and smiling with two other sisters and several of the older students. “She’s a duke’s daughter by birth—and the superior of Arc-en-Ciel always ranks as a baroness in her own right: one of the perquisites of it being a royal convent. We were founded by a Bremagni princess, you know.”
Alyce nodded thoughtfully. “I knew that,” she said vaguely. “But—is she really the daughter of a duke? I wonder that she’d be allowed to take the veil.”
Jessilde laughed gently. “You don’t yet know Mother very well. She’s a very strong-minded woman, and a very kind and good one. But she comes from a very large family—two brothers and four sisters—so I’m sure her father was happy enough to see her enter the convent. I know he sent her with a handsome dowry. She was the favorite of his daughters, and she found her vocation at a very early age.”
Alyce guessed that such a background probably would make Mother Judiana a very formidable opponent, if crossed. Fortunately, she soon learned that this formidable nature was focused on being advocate and defender for those in her charge, whether sister or pupil. Though Father Septimus blustered a great deal, and settled into a pattern of confrontations with Alyce in catechism class, his frustration only mounted as he discovered himself unable to follow through on any of his veiled threats.
“I don’t expect that you are even capable of understanding the concept of redemption, Mistress de Corwyn,” he muttered so that only Alyce could hear, one afternoon as she tried to slip out of his classroom after a particularly acrimonious class debate on salvation and redemption. “And I don’t recall that I have ever seen you at confession. Of course, I would expect a soulless Deryni like yourself to avoid that sacrament whenever possible—and to lie, if you cannot. Your kind are damned anyway.”
Alyce held her temper only with the greatest of effort. The rest of the class had already fled from the classroom, but the priest had moved between her and the doorway to block her escape. Beyond, she could see Zoë and Cerys lingering just outside the open door.
“With all respect, Father, you are, of course, entitled to your opinion,” she said quietly. “However, Father Benroy is my confessor, not you, and will vouch for my faithfulness to my religious duties.”
“You insolent hussy!” Septimus hissed, stepping closer and glaring down at her. “Pretending piety and innocence, when every word that passes your lips spreads corruption! I
will
check with him, you know.”
“You are welcome to check with whomever you like,” Alyce said evenly. “But the state of the soul you do not think I have is the affair of my confessor alone—and God, of course. But certainly not you. Good day to you, Father.”
With that, she dropped him a curtsy—correct to the letter in technical exactitude but devoid of any genuine respect—and darted past him, seizing the arm of the astonished Zoë to propel her and Cerys on along the corridor. All three of them were shaking by the time they gained the safety of the cloister yard—though at least Father Septimus had not followed them.
“Alyce, you mustn’t taunt him!” Cerys whispered, eyes wide. “He’s a pompous idiot, and everyone here knows that, but his brother
is
a bishop.”
“All true,” Alyce agreed, “but he is
not
my confessor! And he can’t excommunicate me just because I voiced an opinion differing from his.”
“Don’t be too certain of that,” Zoë murmured.
But the matter seemed to drop there. There were no repercussions during the following week—and Father Septimus was coolly civil enough in class. Still, Alyce told Father Benroy about the incident, and Jessilde—and also Mother Judiana, when Jessilde urged her to go to the convent’s superior.
Judiana heard the report in silence, making no pronouncement about the relative appropriateness of the behavior on both sides; but before summer’s end, a new chaplain came to Arc-en-Ciel, a merry catechist called Father Malgar de Firenza, and Septimus de Nore found himself transferred to a prestigious parish in Cassan. Nothing was ever said of the circumstances behind this transfer, which had also been a promotion for Father Septimus, but all the community breathed a little easier for his departure.
That summer also brought a surprise visit of old friends from home: Sé Trelawney and Jovett Chandos, knighted the previous Twelfth Night in Rhemuth, who arrived bearing letters and gifts for the demoiselles de Corwyn from their brother and their father. With the two young knights came their old tutor from Castle Cynfyn, Father Paschal Didier.
The arrival of two handsome young men at Arc-en-Ciel set many a heart aflutter, even though the pair were allowed no farther than the guest parlor and chapel. The bearded Father Paschal inspired more thoughtful contemplation, elegant and somewhat exotic in his flowing black robes and the black, flat-topped cap of the R’Kassan clergy, with knotted prayer beads wrapped around one wrist.