The Rising Scythe

by S G Dunster

  The cool, clear voices of the nuns and priests reached them before they came to the chapel. “Ah, we’re late,” Rosalie sighed, rubbing at her eyes. “Now all eyes will be upon us as we walk in.”

  Thessaly gave her a look, and she returned it with a groggy, but winsome smile. Clearly, Rosalie wasn’t entirely sad about this prospect.

  Several heads certainly turned as they walked in. The men who’d been sitting at the table—the other students in particular, kneeling with the priests in dark robes but contrasting in their full heads of hair—lingered in watching them enter and kneel behind the rows of sisters. Thessaly didn’t think anybody could get much of an eyeful, though, with the curtain of black silk poured over her to the knees. She took the opportunity herself to study them out of the edge of her eye.

  There were four young men, as she’d seen before. One had shoulders like an ox and a thatch of corn-colored hair that hung down by his cheeks, cut in a straight line all around as was the fashion. His face was ruddy and heavy-lidded, his lips fuller than Rosalie’s. He breathed heavy, gasping a little as they all rose from their knees, then knelt again in the pattern of mass.

  Two were standing close together, whispering out of the corners of their mouths. One was fair as well, his hair shorter, curling around his face. His friend was slender, with a bony nose and jutting chin and intelligent, observant dark eyes.

  The fourth was a slight man with delicate features; almost womanly, Thessaly thought. His lashes were thick, his brows fine-drawn, and his beard was fussily trimmed to straight, perfect lines around his mouth and chin. He too wore his hair in the latest style, blunt-cut in a neat line at his neck and jawline.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?” Rosalie whispered in a breath barely audible.

  “Who? Which?” Thessaly glanced at the priest who sat at the Abbess’s right hand, with his striking face and flowing locks.

  Rosalie gave her a look and a slight head bob toward the delicate boy, and Thessaly shrugged. “I think I could string him in my bow and make targets.”

  “Well, I am not so large, either. Perhaps we could be a good pair.”

  “You’ve yet to see all the men slated to come to Dunne’s Tor to socialize with the DuCarnes. You can’t choose the first sweetie in the box your eyes land on.”

  Rosalie huffed, shifted her weight. “Why is the kneeling so infernal long?”

  This time she whispered too loud and was heard. There was a rustling while several in the room looked to see who had spoken with pained glances from the sisters and raised brows from the priests. There were also a few soft grunts that could have been suppressed laughter.

  The Abbess turned and looked over her shoulder as well, her gaze cold, penetrating, but the mass didn’t pause.

  Rosalie flushed strawberry pink and didn’t speak again.

  After the experience the night before, Thessaly decided to endure the singe of her fingertips when exiting the chapel rather than unbind herself to touch the holy water. She suppressed her wince as she flicked her fingers through the basin, then tucked the injured hand under her veil.

  They went up to their rooms for a small morning meal. Thessaly’s heart was starting to beat in anticipation.

  Today, she would have lessons from learned men and women.

  Today, she would begin the education she had desired for longer than she could remember.

  True, she’d also have to endure the stuffy rooms and long hours of sitting with needles and notes at the DuCarnes, but there would be Beatrice, who’d proven to be an interesting companion. And perhaps she and Beatrice and Rosalie could slip away for part of the time. Who could stop them? Antonio was sailing around the coast, Lady DuCarne was greatly with child, and Duke DuCarne didn’t seem like he cared overmuch what his womenfolk did.

  “There are sops of bread and ale if you like,” Guzal said, breaking the silence as they went up the stairs. “And then you can sleep an hour or two more.”

  “I’m up,” Thessaly said. “I shall go down directly to the hall. I am sure that the other students start early at their desks.”

  “It shall be a long day,” Guzal insisted. “Some bread and wine, and a rest. Your head’s likely spinning after yesterday.”

  “Like a top,” Thessaly admitted, and let go of her eagerness for a moment.

  It had been a lot to take in, and she did want to jump into the books and letters and figures, but Guzal was right. She needed to give her mind some time to adjust. It wasn’t even sunrise yet.

  Rosalie sighed, threw herself back on the pillows. “He really is lovely,” she said.

  “You can’t be in love already,” Guzal replied, a smile flicking across her sober features.

  “Sure I can. And it’s lovely.”

  Guzal chuckled, and pulled out light-colored muslin gowns, laying them over the back of her chair and brushing them. “Rest,” she repeated, sharpening her tone and giving Thessaly a glare.

  Thessaly obediently climbed back into bed, the warm wine and soft bread doing their job in lulling a few hours more sleep from her, until a knock sounded on the door.

  It was the Abbess.

  “You may come down for the morning’s instruction,” she said, giving Thessaly and her messy hair an appraising look. “Tidy yourselves quickly. It would not be seemly to make the other students wait.”

  “Which of the priests teaches?” Thessaly asked. “I heard one here was Oxford-educated.”

  Sister Elisabet seemed put out. “All the sisters here are learned,” she said. “It is an element of our worship. But Father Raymund, who indeed took a degree at Oxford, teaches Mathematics and Rhetoric to our students. I wish you well on your first day. After the dinner hour the carriage will be at your disposal to take you up to the Tor. I must ask that you come back before the supper hour, or send word that you mean to stay. We are careful about keeping our boarders to a regular schedule.” She gave one last, sharp glance around the room, her gaze resting on Nur, a huge gold bundle of wings and tucked head on her perch, shook her head slightly, and left, shutting the door behind her.

  They came down presently and followed the instructions of a sister they met in the hall to a room directly off the refectory, with windows looking into the field; the quadrangle sat in the middle of the inner arched walkway.

  Cloister, that was what the sister had called the complex, with its arched walkways and garden, and informed Thessaly and Rosalie that there were two cloisters, one for the priests and one for the sisters.

  As she and Rosalie approached the door, Thessaly watched the few men outside there, sitting in the sun, reading, strolling in their dark woolen gowns. The four old men, and the two young ones, including the beautiful one.

  He sat with the others, but stood out, like an angel in a fresco. His dark auburn tresses swept past his shoulders, and his beard touched his collar. His face was pale, perfect, and his lovely blue eyes were captivating, and the expression in them.

  Thessaly stopped still for a moment, looking at him. He seemed to sense her look, and returned it, then rose, walking to the outer door that led into the classroom Thessaly was about to enter.

  Really? Thessaly wondered. Him? This was the Oxford scholar?

  He seemed so very young.

  Slowly, she pulled the door open.

  Two students were inside already, sitting at a bench pushed up against a long table. The pair Thessaly had observed in chapel talking together; one dark and serious, one fair and lively.

  “A pleasure to finally meet the two of you,” the fair one said. Up close, Thessaly saw that his face was freckled all over and his brows near invisible in their fairness. His voice held a lilt of Northern England, Thessaly thought.

  “A pleasure,” Rosalie repeated, flushing and curtsying low.

  “It’s not proper,” the man continued, “but will you please tell me your names so I don’t have to be miladying all the day long? I can scarce keep my mind on the Latin Father Raymund packs us with.”

  The b
eautiful priest waved him off. “Take the tables and benches,” he said. “There will be time for proper introductions later.”

  “I am Hodge,” the man continued, standing stubbornly in place. He held out a hand. “You are?”

  Thessaly took it. “Thessaly d’Ainestille,” she said. “No milady necessary. This is Rosalie Waintree.”

  Rosalie turned a pretty color of pink, glancing in alarm at Father Raymund, biting her lip.

  “Rosalie,” Hodge said, tasting it on his tongue. “Very British. Unlike yours.” He blinked and gave Thessaly a lift of brows.

  “No,” Thessaly agreed, amusement tickling her chest. “I’m not British, though I speak the language proper because I’ve had good tutoring. My Papa trades spice in the Indian seas. I am from everywhere.”

  “From everywhere. I like that. What sorts of spices?”

  Father Raymund cleared his throat, opening the book at his pedestal, and the four of them settled immediately, the two men on one side, Thessaly and Rosalie on the other.

  “This is Rye,” Hodge whispered, indicating his dark, quiet friend. “Short for Raynald. I’m Hodgkins. We’re both of the house of Percy.”

  Rosalie’s eyes widened. “That’s a fine, a grand family,” she hissed back. “How come you to be here in the western wilds?”

  Hodge grinned at her. “It’s a fine family, and quite a large one. My older brother inherited a few acres and a knight’s commission. I’m set to be a priest. Rye’s a cousin. Third? Fourth?”

  “Third,” Rye said. His voice was startlingly low and boomed through the room unabashed.

  “Oh, you shall be a good priest,” Rosalie declared. “You’ve the voice for it.”

  “Shall I?” he said. He glanced at Hodge, and they shared an amused look. Thessaly twitched at a floe, and then decided against it. “Both studying to be priests,” she said instead.

  “A fair pity, isn’t it?” Hodge tossed his head, and his fair hair fell back away from his slender face. “I won’t be passing this face along to any sons or daughters.”

  Rosalie giggled, and Rye’s eyes gleamed sardonically. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He thinks much of himself.”

  “That I do,” Hodge agreed. “And who can blame me?”

  Another student came in at this point. The tall broad blond one. He gave Thessaly and Rosalie a bored sort of smile. His eyeteeth were yellowed, Thessaly noticed, and stuck out from his others like small tusks.

  “This is Thom,” Hodge said, “He’s a third son. Oldest brother’s set to take his father’s place as Sheriff of Lancaster, and the next’ll be a knight. He’s been left to priesthood.”

  “I’ll be a barrister,” Thom said. “I’m off to Oxford once I’m done in this place.” He gave Rosalie an evaluating look, a little more lingering than Thessaly liked. “I like the city. Lots more to find and taste there. I’m not fit for a priest’s robes.” He settled in next to Hodge.

  The small, pretty-lashed man entered then, and Rosalie instantly turned pink. Thessaly was tempted, again, to kick her under the table.

  “Last to come. That’s not usual,” Hodge said. “Introduce yourself to our new fellow students.”

  “But it’s not proper,” the man said, giving Hodge a puzzled stare. He looked at the priest at the podium. “I stopped by the Abbess’s office for some new quills.”

  “Introduce yourself,” Father Raymund said with a note of resignation. “We likely cannot afford to stand on ceremony. This is Miss d’Ainestille and Miss Waintree.”

  “Thessaly,” Thessaly immediately corrected.

  “Rosalie,” Rosalie giggled, putting a palm over her mouth.

  The beautiful man watched Rosalie for a moment, then smiled, his dark eyes sparkling. “Robert,” he said.

  Rosalie offered her hand, rather impetuously, Thessaly thought, feeling her own cheeks warm.

  But Robert took it without hesitation and bowed over it in the most graceful manner possible, overlooking her forwardness, and immediately Thessaly liked him. “I look forward to studying with you,” he said in clipped, though warm tones, and sat down next to Rye.

  Father Raymund opened the thick book he had resting before him on the dias and put a finger on a line. He drew a breath to begin reading.

  It was a lecture of Plato’s, in Latin.

  Thessaly listened avidly, intent on words and debates, meaning and philosophy.

  “You must now write a brief composition, responding to the topic of the Just Man,” Father Raymund pronounced when he had finished and shut the book. “In Latin, of course.”

  Thom groaned, eliciting a slight eyebrow raise from Father Raymund, who moved to sit at the table beside him and soon bent over, lending a few quiet suggestions to the hulking man.

  Thessaly liked that, too. A kind teacher, and a patient one. Things were looking better each moment. She eagerly took one of the pens Robert had brought, put it to a half-sheet of vellum, and began filling it with tiny, cramped lines. She had a lot to say on the topic of Just Men, and Plato, and how it applied to all she’d seen in her life. Would Father Raymund care much what she had to say? She hoped so.

  Seeing the way she bit her lip, and the worry in her face, Father Raymund soon moved from Thom to Rosalie, sitting next to her, helping her with her penmanship as well as murmuring to her about the concepts they’d learned.

  Thessaly filled with joy.

  This was what she’d wanted. Learning from a teacher who cared to teach her, and it was obvious this Father Raymund believed female minds to be as important as male ones.

  He had to, Thessaly reflected, living in an abbey full of learned women.

  Her godfather was incredibly smart, and wonderfully kind, to have brought her here to this place.

  With these rosy thoughts, and in this manner, an hour of composition passed by far more quickly than Thessaly liked. She wrote paragraph after paragraph on the topic of the Just Man, and Father Raymund came and sat and read it. He clarified a few of her points and crossed out a few of her sentences and it was beautiful.

  Simply beautiful, Thessaly thought.

  “Glory, glory be,” Thessaly said as they sat afterward at table in the refectory. Apparently here, there was a small meal between periods of instruction only for the students—the fathers and sisters were absent except for the Abbess, who came and sat at her customary head of table, inking papers and keeping an eye.

  On us, Thessaly realized, looking down the table at the men who’d joined her and Rosalie.

  There were berries, cream, and some hard biscuits. They tasted utterly delicious on her tongue, and the conversation was entertaining. Thom talked a great deal of jousting, and the fights he’d won during his time. He had utterly no desire, Thessaly thought, to be a priest. It was his order of birth alone that brought him to the profession he was being wedged into.

  Women aren’t the only ones without choice.

  The realization fell on her hard, and she thought, for the first time, how her life so far had been a remarkably free one. Was she simply being unrealistic expecting that to continue, and even to broaden?

  Robert sat only a chair away from Rosalie and engaged her in polite conversation, Rosalie striving to swallow down her giggles and answer sensibly. Thessaly heard some of it. They talked of what sorts of books they liked. When Robert realized how shallow a pool that was with Rosalie, he switched to the topic of animals. There resulted a lively conversation about hounds and a particular cat that Robert had befriended as a child. He was, Thessaly thought, an unusual sort of man. Not jolly and courtly like Henri, not fierce and commanding like Antonio. Not dismissive as most of the men she’d associated with. Well, there was the crew of the Espada, but did they count? Thessaly had been like a princess among them. They had to speak with her, and they had to humor her strangeness. They were like her family.

  Rye and Hodge were a fun pair. They spoke sometimes in unison, occasionally finishing each other’s sentences, and were so very, very different. But
it was obvious they enjoyed each other’s company. It was warming to witness, and the halo of such a warm and ready association drew Thessaly in as well, making her feel she was a part of it.

  After the small meal, they went back to the classroom, and one of the older priests—the one who had said prayer over mass that morning—instructed them in Mathematics.

  Thessaly was excited at first, then frustrated. She waited for Father Bertrand, a mild-faced, gentle sort of person, to come and help her. After a long while, he did, sitting carefully and gingerly next to her, explaining the applications of Pythagorus’s theories. Thessaly managed two problems before it was time for the noon meal. She stood and shook herself, following her classmates back into the refectory.

  Lovely, Thessaly thought to herself, settling in next to Rosalie. This time, Guzal joined them, sliding in on Thessaly’s other side.

  She was uncommonly quiet.

  “How are you settling in?” Thessaly ventured to ask.

  “Fine,” Guzal replied shortly. “I’ve been asked to come to the manor this afternoon as well.”

  Thessaly frowned. “We don’t need a chaperone there. Didn’t you want to go about some sewing?”

  “Aye,” Guzal answered, her curved mouth firming up, stirring her porridge listlessly.

  Ah, Thessaly thought, her body suddenly going cold. Ah.

  Was that part of the understanding her father had made with DuCarne?

  She felt sick. She swallowed, hard, and managed to tear her gaze away from Guzal.

  The boys were coming around with wash basins for them to use before the fish course. The abbey seemed to be served by many boys, and all looked much alike to Thessaly. They were boys of the village, she thought, marking the broad features, the contrast of pale skin and dark hair, the startling, light-colored eyes.

  They had a feel about them. Something rich, earthy. Warm. Her heart stirred as a boy knelt by her, offering the bowl, and a dark curl brushed her wrist.

  She reached out just a bare tendril of fire, and let it touch him. He didn’t seem to notice, but she was flooded. An odd, sweet, dark feeling filled her. She let it go, and it was almost like moving from a fire.