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“Well, here we are, darlings. Together again.” Morwen’s mother raised her glass. “If only Sophie and Lauren were here.”
Morwen, her father, and her brothers raised their glasses, too. The mood was pretty somber, though. They all knew there was going to be a battle in a few hours, and only Pedr looked as if he had any enthusiasm for the fight. From what Morwen could gather, the Earl of Hyrne had bullied and whined until the council had approved his idea for attacking Keelweard. But even if they had knuckled under in the end, Morwen’s parents clearly still thought this was a bad idea.
The Byrnes were supposed to be having breakfast in the little parlor off the lay dormitory, but most of the food was untouched. Morwen wasn’t even fighting, and yet, she felt too nervous to take anything but a few sips of wine. Her brother Andras looked even more distracted. He didn’t even appear to have noticed his plate of eggs and potatoes at all.
“Do try to eat something,” said Flora, patting her younger son on the shoulder as she rose from her chair. “We have a long day ahead of us.” Rounding the table, she said, “Morwen, dear, can I have a quick word with you?”
They went together down the long dormitory, past officers studying maps and pikemen playing with dice. At the far end, there was a dark corner, and that was where they stopped.
Morwen asked, “Is there something I can do?” She had in mind setting up the dormitory as a hospital again.
Her mother had other ideas, though. “In point of fact, there is. Darling, have you given any more thought to what I asked you before? About taking a husband, I mean.”
“Oh, Mother. Is this really the moment?” sighed Morwen. Her mother’s penetrating glare let her know that in the world of Flora Byrne, this was, in fact, the moment. “No, I haven’t. And I’m not going to do it. I’m sorry.”
“Listen, dear, the war might be over today, one way or another. Or it might go on for years and years. Unfortunately, I have lost my influence over the Earl of Hyrne.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Morwen severely.
“Don’t be such a prude, dear. It’s a serious problem. He won’t listen to reason anymore, and what he needs is a good, strong woman who can force him to do—”
“Absolutely not,” said Morwen, crossing her arms. “In the first place, a married woman’s first responsibility is to her husband, according to the Epistles of Ovida. The earl’s wife should support him and give him the benefit of her honest advice, not influence him to do whatever you want. But whatever she does, and whoever she is, she won’t be me, because I’ve taken my vows, and I’m never getting married!”
“Vows are made to be broken,” the duchess said.
Morwen threw up her hands. “Yes, Mother, I realize that’s your attitude, but it’s not mine.”
Her mother carefully composed herself and smiled again. “If not Lawrence, what about King Edwin?”
“He’s barely 15, and I barely know him. And even if he were my age and my best friend, I’m still a nun.”
Her mother glared at her. “If we win the battle today, I will be writing to the Bishop of Keneshire. I’m going to start the process of getting you out of this place.”
“You’ll have to drag me out of here with a team of oxen.”
“Don’t tempt me. What do you think will happen if I offer another big donation for the abbey, and for the cathedral in Keneburg, too, on the condition that you’re released from your vows?”
“You...you wouldn’t dare,” said Morwen.
“I’ll do what I must. I don’t imagine you’re so vital to the running of this place that they’ll pass up a thousand Sovereigns to keep you around. I always thought you were the smart one, Morwen. But apparently you’re just stubborn.”
“Well, we know where I get that from, don’t we?”
She left her mother and went straight down to the chapel, where she asked forgiveness for being a disrespectful and disobedient daughter. She had always tried to obey her parents when she was growing up, but they made it so difficult. Especially her mother.
It would have been nice to think that the abbess would refuse the huge donation and tell Duchess Flora where she could take her bags of gold. But a thousand Sovereigns was a lot of money, even for an abbey that had vast land holdings. Morwen did the books for the abbey now, and she knew how far that money would go. Off the top of her head, she could think of dozens of good uses for it. New roofs for the convent buildings, better drainage for the lower fields, a new press for the priory bookmakers, meals for elderly shut-ins—the list went on and on.
When she thought of it that way, was it selfish of her to refuse? Was she letting her pride get in the way of a plan that would benefit the abbey?
It didn’t take her long to answer that question: “No! This isn’t about pride or about money or about things the abbey needs. It’s about a promise I made to Earstien.”
If her mother wanted the abbey to have that money, she could give it freely, anytime she wanted. But it was horribly wicked to condition the gift on Morwen breaking her vows. It was like some melodramatic romance story—the kind of thing Lauren and Donella wrote—where an evil nobleman offered to help a poor girl’s family if she surrendered to his lust. It was blackmail, pure and simple.
As she knelt in prayer, she made another vow. If her mother really went through with this, and the bishop said she was no longer a nun, then she would run away. She would go to another convent, under a new name. She would go to Odeland and join a convent there, if she had to. She would go to Minerto and live as a desert hermit. She would never, ever marry the Earl of Hyrne or Edwin or any other man, not if she had anything to do with it.
And if they caught her, and dragged her bodily to the altar? What then? Well, then she would refuse to sleep with her husband. Normally, that was a wife’s duty, of course, but if she didn’t consent to the marriage, she wouldn’t really be married, not according to Earstien’s law. Or the law of Myrcia, for that matter. She would lock herself away and refuse to let her supposed husband into her bed. She would defend herself if he tried to force himself on her.
If all else failed, she could refuse food and drink and waste away. Suicide was a sin, but most Ivich scholars considered that if a woman had to kill herself to preserve her chastity, the sin fell on the man who forced her to it, not on her. One of the saints of the Glaube church was a girl who had done just that: Hilchen of Severn. She was a servant girl who had thrown herself in the cooking fire to avoid her lecherous master’s advances. Morwen wasn’t sure she could throw herself in a fire, but starving herself was something she thought she could manage. She had never had a large appetite, anyway.
Having made this resolution—to resist her mother’s plans to the bitter end—she felt a tremendous sense of relief. It was all in Earstien’s hands now, not hers, and not her mother’s. She left the chapel and headed for the storerooms.
The sky was getting lighter. In a few hours, there would be dozens of wounded men—maybe even hundreds. Even if no one else was planning for a hospital at the abbey, she could do it. As treasurer, that wasn’t really her job anymore, but it was something she could do to pass the time, at the very least.
As she crossed the garden, she saw a tall figure pacing slowly around the fountain. It turned out to be her brother Andras. He looked rather worried about something. Most likely he was nervous about the battle.
“I’ll pray for your protection,” she said, coming over to him. “But I’m sure you’ll be alright. You’re quite the swordsman, or so I’ve been told. And Earstien has a plan for you; I know it.”
He snorted. “Mother has a plan for me, you mean. She took me aside and laid down the law. If we win this battle, she wants a royal wedding to be part of the victory celebration. Meaning me and Elwyn, of course.”
“Yes, she just informed me that she’s going to bribe the bishop to get me out of my vows, whether I like it or not. I can have my choice between the Earl of Hyrne and Edwin.”
“I would ask if they get a choice in the matter, but this is mother we’re talking about, so we both know the answer.”
“I’ve decided I’ll kill myself like Hilchen of Severn if I’m forced to marry.”
Andras’s lip quivered slightly. “I think I’d rather kill myself than have to tell Donella that I’m marrying Elwyn for real.”
She put a hand on his arm. “Andras, you can’t marry Elwyn. You simply can’t.” She remembered the lurid scene she had accidentally witnessed down in the vaults between her brother and Donella. “I know you and Elwyn are betrothed, but you and Donella have...well, you’re married already in the eyes of Earstien. It would be a terrible sin to abandon her now.”
“Yes, I know that,” said Andras, with an irritated wave of his hand. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You have to do your duty,” she said. “And your first duty is to the woman who is your wife now in all but name. That comes before your duty to mother and her lust for power.”
“H’m...I suppose that’s true.” His face brightened. “I guess we can always elope, if it comes to that.”
“There you go. Perfect.” Generally speaking, elopement was frowned upon by the church, but as with suicide, there were situations where it was considered justifiable. Morwen was pretty sure this had to be one of them.
From across the garden, there was shouting and the sound of running feet.
“Andras! Andras, come quick!” King Edwin jogged up the path while trying to fasten his sword belt at the same time. “Andras, fighting has started down by the river. Someone got spooked and started shooting, and now the Gramirens are bringing up pikemen...,” Edwin gasped, trying to get his breath back, “and I think this is it. I think the battle is starting!”
Andras gave Morwen a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in no time, and you can help me plan how I’m going to elope.”
He and Edwin rushed off, joining a steady line of officers and knights pouring out of the lay dormitory now. Morwen said a quick prayer for them all, and then went to the storerooms to start gathering bandages and herbs.