She tilts her head to the side. “Go on.”
I look down and study the wine in the goblet. “I can see them fading sometimes. It’s like watching a flame grow dim in a lantern. And once, I saw a mark. On the blacksmith. He had a faint black smudge on his forehead in the shape of a horseshoe. Three days later he was dead.”
She leans forward in her chair, eager now. “How did he die?”
“He was kicked in the head by one of the horses as he worked.”
“Ah.” A pleased smile hovers at the corners of her mouth. “Mortain has given you powerful gifts.” She takes up the quill and makes a notation on the parchment in front of her. Small beads of perspiration begin to form on my forehead and I take another sip of wine to steady myself. It is hard to air old secrets.
“So,” she says, looking back up at me. “You are well equipped for our service.”
"Which is?”
"We kill people.” The reverend mother’s words fall like stones into the quiet of the room, so shocking that my body goes numb. I hear the splintering of crystal as my goblet hits the floor.
The abbess ignores the shattered goblet. “Of course, many die without our help. However, there are those who deserve to die but who have not yet encountered the means to do so. At Mortain’s bidding, we help them on their way.”
“Surely He does not need our help?”
Anger flares in the abbess and for the first time I feel the iron will I have only vaguely sensed before. "Who are you to say what the god of death needs or doesn’t need? Mortain is an old god and has no desire to be forgotten and fade from this world, which is why He chooses to bestir Himself in the affairs of man.” She stares at me for a moment longer, then the tension leaves her, like a wave going out to sea. "What do you know of the old gods?” she asks.
“Only that they were once the nine old gods of Brittany but now we call them saints. And we must leave them an occasional offering or prayer if we do not wish to offend them or incur their wrath.”
“You are close,” the abbess says, leaning back in her chair, “but that is not the whole of it. The old gods are neither man nor God, but something in between. They were the first inhabitants of our land, sent to do God’s bidding in this new world He had created.
“At first, the relationship between gods and man was a difficult one, the gods treating us much as we treat cattle or sheep. But soon we learned to honor them with prayer and offerings, which led to harmony between us. even the early Church, when it arrived, was content to let us honor the old gods, although we learned to call them saints then. But lately, that has been changing. Just as France has gobbled up most of the smaller kingdoms and duchies so it may claim all their power for its own, so too does this latest pope work to extinguish any trace of the old ways, wanting all the prayers and offerings for his own church.
“So now more and more put aside the old ways and traditions that honor the gods of Brittany. But not all. Some still raise their voices in prayer and make their offerings. If not for that worship and supplication, the old gods would fade from this world. Surely you can understand why Mortain would not wish that. He feeds off our belief and worship much as we feed off bread and meat and would starve without it.
“So, it is our job to believe and to serve. If you choose to stay here and take the vows, you will be sworn to serve Mortain in any way He asks of you. In all things. In all ways. we carry out His will. Do you understand?”
“Is that not murder?”
“No. You would not expect a queen to wash her own clothes or lace her own gown; she has her handmaidens for that. And so it is with us; we serve as handmaidens to Death. when we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.”
She leans forward then, as if eager to tempt me with what Mortain offers. “If you choose to stay, you will be trained in His arts. You will learn more ways to kill a man than you imagined possible. we will train you in stealth and cunning and all manner of skills that will ensure no man is ever again a threat to you.”
I think of my father and of Guillo. I think of all those in the village who worked so hard to make my life a misery. The young boys who threw stones at me, the old men who spat and stared at me with terror in their eyes, as if they expected me to snatch the souls from their old, wrinkled bodies. The younger men who fumbled clumsily at my skirts in dark corners, guessing correctly that my father cared not for my safety or reputation. It would be no hardship at all to kill the likes of them. I feel like a cat who has been dropped from a great height only to land on her feet.
As if plucking my thoughts from my head, the abbess speaks again. “They won’t all be like them, you know.”
I look up in surprise and she continues. “Those Mortain sends you to kill. They won’t all be like the pig farmer.”