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The very last thing Lauren had needed was a visit from Donella Gramiren. Not that Morwen had anything against Donella, but the girl was even sillier and more impractical than Lauren was. In a larger group of friends, there might have been other girls to keep them grounded. But as far as Morwen could tell, Lauren and Donella fed off each other, coming up with ever more fanciful ideas, inventing little stories about how the world ought to work. That was ridiculous enough for two grown women at the best of times. Now, in the midst of a civil war, they might get someone killed.
Still, Morwen kept their secret, though it pained her to do so. It had been bad enough when Lauren flouted the rules and started sleeping with Wallace. Sister Dervila, the circuitor, would have had them caned and thrown out of the convent, if she had known. But Donella and Andras...oh, Earstien. They weren’t...doing it, were they? No, they had better not be.
How could they all be so selfish and stupid? How could they risk everything for fleeting pleasure? Morwen was appalled by her sister and Donella, but she had thought better of her brother.
It would have been nice if Andras—and Lauren, too—had shown some consideration for what Morwen thought. She was their older sister, and yes, maybe she had gone into the convent, and maybe she wasn’t with them all the time. But she was still their sister. As the days went by, however, she became uncomfortably aware that both of them preferred Donella to her. It hurt. She tried not to be bitter about it. She tried not to take it out on the Gramiren princess, who really was a very sweet girl. But she found herself praying for the day when Donella was gone and life at the convent could go back to something like normal again.
Except that even without Donella, things would still be out of sorts. One morning, about a week after the princess’s arrival, Morwen went to the storeroom at the end of the visitors’ dormitory, looking for the pine soap to wash down the floors. She had asked two of the novices to do it, but the girls said the door was locked, and Morwen had the key. When she got to the storeroom, she was on the verge of unlocking it, when she heard a sharp, high-pitched little squeak, and then a very tiny squeal, like a small animal being strangled. Then heavy breathing, and a man’s voice, in a low whisper, saying something and laughing.
A moment later, Lauren’s voice, out of breath and gasping: “That’s it. Oh, darling, that was amazing!”
Wallace’s voice, still chuckling, but slightly louder: “Was that the first time?”
“Yes,” said Lauren. There was a soft smacking sound. “No, don’t touch it anymore. I’ll have to scream if you do!”
Morwen turned on her heel and told the novices to go clean the windows in the vestry, instead. As for herself, she decided to do something in the cellars for a while, so she didn’t learn more about Lauren and Wallace than she already had.
“Honestly, what a selfish pair of fools,” she grumbled, as she went down the narrow, dark staircase. Anyone could hear them. Anyone with a key—which was most of the senior nuns—could walk in on them. Oh well. If they didn’t want to listen to the voice of reason—the voice of an older, wiser woman—then too bad for them.
She decided to take inventory of the soaps and polishes. Nearly all of the wounded men were gone now; Wallace was very nearly the last one. But in the time they had been at the abbey, the nuns had been obliged to clean much more often than usual. Now that the men were leaving, it might be time to find out what needed replaced. Mops and brooms wore out, too. And then there were the casks of vinegar. You couldn’t make vinegar overnight. She needed to know how much more the abbey would need to put down this autumn, and whether they still had enough to last until October.
With her little wax tablet and stylus in one hand, and a tin safety lamp in the other, she walked through the vast, low-vaulted cellars, checking supplies and making notes of how much was left. This was a pleasant job for her. She had never minded the dark, and she liked keeping things orderly and mathematically precise.
Her last task was to go into the wine cellar and check on the vinegar casks. They were at the back, in a very old, very quiet chamber. There was a door at the far end which, according to convent legend, led to the crypt of the abbey church. Morwen had never seen it open, though.
As she was checking the level on the last cask, she saw a light in the next chamber and heard voices coming from it. A girl’s voice, whispering and giggling. Morwen thought instantly of some of the sillier novices, and started down the row of barrels, ready to remonstrate with the girl for not showing proper decorum. But then there was a man’s voice, too. And not just any man’s—it was Andras’s voice.
“You really think no one’s down here?” he asked.
“Of course not,” the girl replied. That was Donella, obviously. Morwen ducked behind the barrels, but not before she caught a glimpse of the princess’s long, blonde hair.
The light of their lantern drew closer, flickering, and then was still as Andras set it down. They were on the other side of the rack of barrels from her, only five or six feet away.
“I know what you want,” Donella said, in between quick, frantic kisses.
“Of course you do, clever girl,” said Andras. He started unlacing his trousers. “You brought the oil, didn’t you?”
Oil? Morwen wasn’t sure what on earth that meant. She moved into the deeper shadows at the end of the chamber, where she felt, rather than saw, the handle of the last door—the one that led to the crypt. She twisted the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Bending down, she tried to find the keyhole. But then she felt the board and the nails, and she realized someone, long ago, had built a small wine rack in front of it. There was no getting out that way.
“Lovely,” she thought. She tiptoed back to the end of the row of barrels, hoping she might slip past Andras and Donella without their seeing her.
She peeked around the corner and saw something so astonishing and perverse that she instantly wondered if she’d gone insane. Donella and Andras had started stripping their clothes off, and as Donella pulled up her dress, Andras reached in and pulled out a...a male organ of procreation! He was stroking it with his hand—rubbing something wet and glistening all over it. Then he turned, bending over a beer barrel, and Morwen slid back out of sight again.
What was this horrid, black magy? And how had Donella gotten ahold of such powers? And more to the immediate point, what were they going to do now if both of them had male genitals? Purely in the interests of natural philosophy, Morwen braced herself and took another look. She instantly wished she hadn’t, because Donella was taking her brother—little Andras, who had always been so sweet as a child—she was taking him in the “Thessalian fashion”! And there was no mistaking the look of bliss on his face. He loved it.
She didn’t look again after that. Or at least not more than once or twice, when one or both of them cried out, and she felt obligated, as an older sister, to check if there had been some injury. As far as she could tell, though, Donella and Andras were enjoying themselves with utter abandon. They had relations in nearly every possible way that two people could have them. Even when Donella changed herself back into a woman, they still couldn’t do things the normal way. Or, actually, they could. But they did everything else, too.
Morwen was thoroughly disappointed in Andras. Not because he liked “Thessalian” sex. That was frankly something she had always suspected about him. Certain hints in his letters about his “friends,” and hints in their mother’s letters too, had made her wonder if he really liked girls at all. Or if he did, whether he enjoyed men just as much. That was all very bad, of course—a sin according to the church, and a crime according to the laws of Myrcia. But Morwen wouldn’t have minded it quite so much if he had found one nice boy and been discreet about it.
No, what filled her with revulsion wasn’t the sex itself. It was learning that Andras turned out to be yet another Byrne who couldn’t keep his pants on. Who couldn’t control himself when it mattered. Just like Lauren. And just like their mother, and dozens of their notorious ancestors. It made her wish she had a less sordid heritage, like a family of burglars or pirates.
Some people (including her own mother) had accused Morwen of being frigid over the years. But she wasn’t. She was perfectly capable of feeling desire. She had liked boys, just as her school friends had. She had admired their form on the athletic fields and felt a thrill when they danced with her at parties. But she had too much self-respect to give herself over to a passing urge, no matter how powerful it might be. She had never been able to understand why the rest of her stupid family couldn’t figure out how to control themselves the way she did.
Eventually, when Andras and Donella finished and cleaned themselves up (using yet more of Morwen’s precious soap and cleaning rags), and they had left the cellars, she was able to escape. She spent the rest of the day in the stables, helping the novices muck out the manure, trying to forget what she had seen and what she knew about her brother. And trying to forget the scandalous secret she had learned about Donella’s sexual magy. But forgetfulness never came.
“At the very least,” she thought, “I know now why Andras is so reluctant to marry Princess Elwyn.”
Much to Morwen’s relief, Donella left the abbey the next day. Lauren was sad and Andras wistful. Morwen would have danced with glee if it had been in keeping with the dignity of a nun.
That very same day, a letter arrived for Morwen from Atherton. It turned out to be from Penny Ostensen, daughter of Duke Lukas. And cousin of Princess Donella, for what it was worth. It had been months since Morwen had met the girl in the cathedral at Severn. She recalled that Penny had been struggling with her feelings for young King Edwin, and she opened the letter, hoping to read that the girl had mastered her desires and was happy again.
Sadly, it seemed the very opposite had happened.
Dear Sister Morwen,
I am sorry to trouble you, but you did say I could write if I needed to. I regret to say that my need has never been greater. I have tried to forget the young man we spoke of this past summer, but I simply cannot.
The letter went on for two pages, describing in copious detail how the boy king had written to her, claiming he was still in love, and that this message had utterly undone the poor girl. She couldn’t think of her schoolwork now; she couldn’t take pleasure in food or drink or the conversation of her best friends.
I know I must sound pathetic, Sister Morwen, but all I want to do is stay in bed. If I could stay there until I died, I would do it. I hate myself for feeling this way, but it never ends. I keep hoping things will change, but they don’t.
Do you think there might be a place for me at your convent? Somehow I think it might be easier if I were in a safe place, away from the world, where I knew he wouldn’t ever be able to visit me or write to me. I think it might be easier to forget him then. Especially if I had vowed to keep myself pure forever. I think that might make things easier, don’t you?
Yours in hope,
Penny
Morwen shook her head, said a prayer for the poor thing, and started her reply.
Dear Penny,
I am sorry to hear that you are still pining for your young man. I hope you have been praying often. In situations such as yours, I am sure it doesn’t seem as if prayers are doing any good. But sometimes Earstien changes our hearts slowly, over time. Keep praying, and eventually you will find yourself free.
I think you are very wise to tell this boy not to write to you. If he persists, you might consider throwing any further missives straight into the fire. As Sister Moirin, our infirmerer, would say, a clean break heals quicker than a partial one.
As for your request to join the convent, I must caution you again that a sister’s vows are not the solution to all life’s problems. They are the outward sign of an inward resolution. They aren’t magysk spells, by any stretch of the imagination. This is particularly the case when it comes to the vow of chastity.
Morwen reread those last two sentences and winced as she remembered Donella’s unearthly powers of transformation.
It is very important that when girls come to join us, they do so as an affirmative choice, rather than simply as a way of avoiding problems out in the world. When you are running away, Ovida tells us in her Epistles, what you are running toward matters as much as what you are running from. Avoiding a boy is not a reason to join a convent. You must actually want to be part of a religious community.
If you are serious about a religious life, ask your governess to let you visit some of the communities in the Atherton area. There are several, and I toured them all when I was considering my vocation. You might also speak to the Dean of the school chapel and his wife. Above all, keep praying. Earstien loves you, and he will give you his Light when you truly seek him.
Please write again if there is anything I can do to help.
Yours,
Sister Morwen Byrne, LO
She sent the letter off, hoping it might give the girl some comfort, and barring that, at least some sound and practical advice. Then she went and organized the novices and postulates into three teams for a really thorough top-to-bottom cleaning of the convent.
As she had hoped, things went more smoothly with Donella gone. And much though she loved her brother and sister, and much as she had come to like her new brother-in-law, Wallace, she was frankly starting to look forward to their departures, as well. It would be so lovely when everything was back to normal.
Sadly, that was not to be. A little over a week after Donella had left, Morwen was getting ready for bed again after midnight prayers, when Sister Anne Heath, the sacrist, came to fetch her.
“The abbess wishes to see you. Quickly, please.”
Morwen wondered if she had done something wrong. She wondered if the abbess had found out about what Lauren was doing with Wallace, and what Andras had been doing with Donella, and if so, whether the blame would fall on Morwen.
Her heart sank when she went into the abbess’s upper parlor to find Sister Alberta sitting with many of the senior nuns of the convent. There were Sister Joyce, the prioress; Sister Moirin, the infirmerer; Sister Dervila, the circuitor; Sister Dymphna, the librarian; and Sister Susan, the kitchener.
“Sister Morwen,” the abbess said, in a grave tone, “do you know why we’ve summoned you?”
“No, sister,” Morwen replied, wondering how she was going to explain why she had allowed her family to pollute the convent with their flagrant immorality.
Sister Moirin said, “I trust you know that Sister Irma has been feeling poorly lately.”
“Yes, sister.”
Sister Irma was the treasurer of the abbey, and Morwen had indeed noted that Irma hadn’t been at prayers for several days. She wasn’t here at this meeting, either.
The abbess bowed her head and said, “Sister Irma passed away an hour ago.”
Morwen gasped. Sister Irma had always been frail, but perhaps for that very reason, she had seemed indestructible. She seemed to keep going and going, never tiring in spite of her age. And now she was gone.
“May Earstien receive her to the Light,” Morwen murmured, and the prayer was echoed by the rest of the nuns in the room.
“In the morning, we will consult with Brother Anthony of the Basingstoke Priory about her funeral,” the abbess continued, “but there is another matter to be considered, and that is who will take her place as our treasurer. The entire chapter will vote, though if I may say so, my recommendation will carry considerable weight. So advise me, Sister Morwen. Who do you think would be fit for the job?”
She couldn’t imagine why they needed her opinion, or why they had called her here in the dead of night to ask for it. “Well, sister, there’s Sister Constance. She’s the deputy treasurer. Wouldn’t she be the obvious choice?”
“She says she doesn’t want it,” said Sister Joyce. “But she made a recommendation to us—one we are inclined to adopt, in fact.”
“Sister Morwen, we were thinking of nominating you,” said the abbess.
“M-me?”
“Yes, you,” said Sister Dymphna. “You did a wonderful job this past summer visiting our wool factors and the Bishop of Severn.”
“And you’ve done marvelous things as the deputy chamberlain,” said Sister Joyce. “It’s a lot cleaner around here since you took over.”
“Yes,” said the abbess. “You’ve got a good eye for detail. And you’re not afraid to stand up to people. You weren’t even afraid of Sir Halvor when he was here. I have to tell you I was most impressed by that. Most impressed, indeed. That will be good practice for dealing with merchants and moneylenders.”
This was so much more than Morwen could have ever hoped for. The treasurer was one of the most senior positions in the abbey. After the abbess herself, it was arguably the most powerful. Part of her wanted to accept; part of her was screaming that she deserved this, and that this was a better use of her skills than scrubbing baseboards and washing windows. But it wasn’t right for the job to go to someone so young while older, more experienced nuns might want it.
“Thank you, Sister Alberta,” said Morwen, kneading her hands and looking at the floor. “Thank you, but this is too much of an honor.”
“We’re not offering you a knighthood,” said the abbess with a smile. “It’s a job. And it’ll be a difficult one. Not to boast, but our abbey has an annual income greater than three of Myrcia’s ten dukes, and greater than six of her ten bishops. Unlike them, of course, we do not hoard our wealth or waste it on finery. We invest part of it carefully and expend the rest on the improvement of our lands and on charity for the poor and sick of three shires. And we’re doing this in the midst of a civil war. Keeping all these funds flowing in and out will be your responsibility.”
“We wouldn’t offer the position to you if we didn’t think you were the best woman for the job,” said Sister Joyce. “So what do you say? If Sister Alberta nominates you in chapter tomorrow, will you accept?”
Morwen closed her eyes and whispered, “Please let me be worthy of this.” Then, aloud, she said, “Yes, I will.”