“But why? Why would they not hang on to those with both hands?”
He shrugs, a most human gesture. “I cannot say. Annith wants to search back through the records and see if she can find more information on what they were.”
“Don’t you know?”
“Each of my daughters is unique, my powers manifesting in each of you in different ways. I cannot guess all the possibilities and how they might reveal themselves.” After a moment, he bends down to pick up another one of the green seedlings in his basket. With his attention still on the seedlings, I reach into my pocket, my fingers closing around the sprig of holly I still carry there. I take it out and gently plant it in the rich earth at the base of the wall. I do not know if it will take root, but feel it belongs here now.
“And you, Sybella?” Balthazaar asks. “Are you happy?”
He has never called me by my name before. I reach for the bucket and carefully pour some of the water on the holly, then sit back on my heels. I had intended to tell him of the hole he left in my life and the struggle I have had to fill it, but that no longer feels as important as it once did.
“Beast has asked for your hand,” he continues.
“What did you say?”
“That it was your decision, not mine. He is a good man. One of the best I have met in this form or my other, but it must be your choice.”
“Yes, I love him.”
He stares at me then, his gaze nearly as penetrating and all-seeing as when he was Death. “I am glad you have found love.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, happy to return to our work. It is enjoyable, this quiet companionship. Certainly not something I could have done with Death. When we have finished with all the seedlings—and watered them—he says, “Annith will want to know where you would like to get married. In the church or the—”
“Here,” I say, looking out at the endless sea, the salt-kissed grass, the ancient standing stones, and the row of seedlings we have just planted together. “I wish to marry here.”
It is the perfect place to start anew.
Author’s Note
So often, stories end with the wedding, or the promise of a wedding, but history tells us that such events are more commonly the beginning of a new chapter. So it was with Anne of Brittany. In truth, she is hard to discern through history—her story having been written by countless men with political agendas, conflicting alliances, stilted views of women, or simply an ax to grind.
To some, she was a schemer. To others, a proud symbol of Breton independence. Some saw her as a hapless pawn, while still others saw her as exerting her influence behind the scenes, as was so often the case with women of her time. From amongst all these accounts, a sense of Anne herself began to come through for me: a fully dimensional person who possessed a bit of all those attributes and motivations ascribed to her. But what I mostly saw was a young girl thrust into an impossible situation who used every resource she possessed to do the best she could for the country she was responsible for.
There is not much written about her after her marriage to Charles, other than to record various pregnancies and financial extravagances. But there were enough tantalizing bits that a picture of what life would have been like for Anne of Brittany in those first days of marriage began to take shape.
By all historical accounts, the regent, Anne of France, was a most formidable young woman as well, not especially willing to concede her power to the young queen. It was hard for me to keep in mind that she was only twenty-eight years old when the events in this book took place. In truth, she deserves to be the hero of her own story: having taken on the regency for her young brother at the tender age of twenty-two, she managed to fend off numerous revolts and attempts to usurp her power, as well as expand the holdings and power of the crown of France.
However, there was so much plotting and conspiring in those first days of Anne’s queenship that the king did indeed have the regent swear to an alliance of mutual aid and agree to desist from agitating unnecessary intrigue within the kingdom.
As for the Breton uprising, I found approximately six lines in three separate sources about an attempted revolt led by Viscount Rohan, which was quickly put down. In that revolt, he invited England to assist him, which provided them the foothold they’d long been seeking. King Henry VII did invade French soil, landing at Boulogne in the autumn of 1492. King Charles of France quickly repelled the advance, resulting in the signing of the Treaty of Étaples. Those few lines were all my imagination needed to construct the bones of the story and thus be able to get to the part I love best—the human drama that lies at the heart of it all.
Once again, I have taken the greatest liberties with the timing of events and the d’Albret family, shamelessly manipulating both to serve the needs of the narrative.
Throughout the centuries, religious orders and houses sanctioned by the Catholic Church have come and gone, some lost to indifference or dying out, and others actively persecuted by the Church itself. It has also been a longstanding prerogative of kings and queens to establish military or religious orders to defend their interests and maintain the standards of chivalry within their kingdom. I like to believe that, over time, the Nine managed to weave their way into the larger tapestry of the Church’s hagiography and remain with us today under different names that are, if we squint back through the lens of time, faintly recognizable.
It is often said that history is written by the victor and it is clear that for centuries women’s stories have been excluded from the annals of history—their contributions diminished, overlooked, or erased altogether. That is one of the joys of writing historical fantasy—getting to reimagine the past with women at the center of their own stories. After being forced to be silent for so long, I feel certain that some of them would, indeed, like to burn it all.
Acknowledgments
Once again, I find myself reaching the end of a book only by the grace and support of dozens of patron saints along the way. First among these is my editor, Kate O’Sullivan, the perennial shepherdess, guiding me ever closer to a book I’ll be proud of.
My agent, Erin Murphy, has been unwavering in her support, not just for this book, but for all my books.
I hold deep gratitude for the entire team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, who continue to amaze me with their skill, professionalism, and passion. I am incredibly lucky to be the recipient of the talents of Mary Magrisso, Ana Deboo, Erika West, Mary Hurley, Margaret Rosewitz, Emily Andrukaitis, and Ellen Fast.
Special thanks to Whitney Leader-Picone and Billelis, who have outdone themselves again, encompassing the theme of this book with yet another stunning visual.
And, of course, no one would even know about the book if not for the talent and support of John Sellers, Nadia Almahdi, Lisa DiSarro, Amanda Acevedo, Matt Schweitzer, Colleen Murphy, Ed Spade, and their entire sales team.
Thank you also to my poor, long-suffering family, who, once again, were understanding and cheerfully supportive as I disappeared into an alternate world that consumed me wholly until I hit “The End.”
Since this book ended up having a lot to do with fathers, a special thank-you goes out to my own—for being there for his family in so many ways and for loving me unconditionally, even when I shocked him by writing about assassin nuns.
But, most of all, I owe the biggest thanks to you, dear readers, those who have embraced my assassin nuns and their world and let me know it in so very many ways. I appreciate all that you have done: reading, handselling, putting the books into the hands of your students, emailing, DMing, tweeting, Bookstagramming, blogging, reviewing, rating, and YouTubing. Thank you so much for allowing my books into your life for a short while. My hope is that they have made it richer in some small way. I know you have made my life richer by far.
Chapter One
Brittany 1485
I bear a deep red stain that runs from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a trail left by the herbwitch’s poison that my mother used to try
to expel me from her womb. That I survived, according to the herbwitch, is no miracle but a sign I have been sired by the god of death himself.
I am told my father flew into a rage and raised his hand to my mother even as she lay weak and bleeding on the birthing bed. Until the herbwitch pointed out to him that if my mother had lain with the god of death, surely He would not stand idly by while my father beat her.
I risk a glance up at my husband-to-be, Guillo, and wonder if my father has told him of my lineage. I am guessing not, for who would pay three silver coins for what I am? Besides, Guillo looks far too placid to know of my true nature. If my father has tricked him, it will not bode well for our union. That we are being married in Guillo’s cottage rather than a church further adds to my unease.
I feel my father’s heavy gaze upon me and look up. The triumph in his eyes frightens me, for if he has triumphed, then I have surely lost in some way I do not yet understand. Even so, I smile, wanting to convince him I am happy—for there is nothing that upsets him more than my happiness.
But while I can easily lie to my father, it is harder to lie to myself. I am afraid, sorely afraid of this man to whom I will now belong. I look down at his big, wide hands. Just like my father, he has dirt caked under his fingernails and stains in the creases of his skin. Will the semblance end there? Or will he, too, wield those hands like a cudgel?
It is a new beginning, I remind myself, and in spite of all my trepidations, I cannot extinguish a tiny spark of hope. Guillo wants me enough to pay three silver coins. Surely where there is want, there is room for kindness? It is the one thing that keeps my knees from knocking and my hands from trembling. That and the priest who has come to officiate, for while he is naught but a hedge priest, the furtive glance he sends me over his prayer book causes me to believe he knows who and what I am.
As he mutters the ceremony’s final words, I stare at the rough hempen prayer cord with the nine wooden beads that proclaim him a follower of the old ways. Even when he ties the cord around our hands and lays the blessings of God and the nine old saints upon our union, I keep my gaze downcast, afraid to see the smugness in my father’s eyes or what my husband’s face might reveal.
When the priest is done, he pads away on dirty feet, his rough leather sandals flapping noisily. He does not even pause long enough to raise a tankard to our union. Nor does my father. Before the dust from my father’s departing cart has settled, my new husband swats my rump and grunts toward the upstairs loft.
I clench my fists to hide their trembling and cross to the rickety stairs. While Guillo fortifies himself with one last tankard of ale, I climb up to the loft and the bed I will now share with him. I sorely miss my mother, for even though she was afraid of me, surely she would have given me a woman’s counsel on my wedding night. But both she and my sister fled long ago, one back into the arms of death, and the other into the arms of a passing tinker.
I know, of course, what goes on between a man and a woman. Our cottage is small and my father loud. There was many a night when urgent movement accompanied by groans filled our dark cottage. The next day my father always looked slightly less bad tempered, and my mother more so. I try to convince myself that no matter how distasteful the marriage bed is, surely it cannot be any worse than my father’s raw temper and meaty fists.
The loft is a close, musty place that smells as if the rough shutters on the far wall have never been opened. A timber and rope bed frame holds a mattress of straw. Other than that, there are only a few pegs to hang clothes on and a plain chest at the foot of the bed.
I sit on the edge of the chest and wait. It does not take long. A heavy creak from the stairs warns me that Guillo is on his way. My mouth turns dry and my stomach sour. Not wanting to give him the advantage of height, I stand.
When he reaches the room, I finally force myself to look at his face. His piggish eyes gorge themselves on my body, going from the top of my head down to my ankles, then back up to my breasts. My father’s insistence on lacing my gown so tight has worked, as Guillo can look at little else. He gestures with his tankard toward my bodice, slopping ale over the sides so that it dribbles to the floor. “Remove it.” Desire thickens his voice.
I stare at the wall behind him, my fingers trembling as I raise them to my laces. But not fast enough. Never fast enough. He takes three giant strides toward me and strikes me hard across the cheek. “Now!” he roars as my head snaps back.
Bile rises in my throat and I fear I will be sick. So this is how it will be between us. This is why he was willing to pay three silver coins.
My laces are finally undone, and I remove my bodice so that I stand before him in my skirt and shift. The stale air, which only moments before was too warm, is now cold as it presses against my skin.
“Your skirt,” he barks, breathing heavily.
I untie the strings and step out of my skirt. As I turn to lay it on the nearby bench, Guillo reaches for me. He is surprisingly quick for one so large and stupid, but I am quicker. I have had long years of practice escaping my father’s rages.
I jerk away, spinning out of his reach, infuriating him. In truth, I give no thought to where I will run, wishing only to hold off the inevitable a little longer.
There is a loud crash as his half-empty tankard hits the wall behind me, sending a shower of ale into the room. He snarls and lunges, but something inside me will not—cannot—make this easy for him. I leap out of his reach.
But not far enough. I feel a tug, then hear a rip of cloth as he tears my thin, worn chemise.
Silence fills the loft—a silence so thick with shock that even his coarse breathing has stopped. I feel his eyes rake down my back, take in the ugly red welts and scars the poison left behind. I look over my shoulder to see his face has gone white as new cheese, his eyes wide. When our glances meet, he knows—knows—that he has been duped. He bellows then, a long, deep note of rage that holds equal parts fury and fear.
Then his rough hand cracks against my skull and sends me to my knees. The pain of hope dying is worse than his fists and boots.
When Guillo’s rage is spent, he reaches down and grabs me by the hair. “I will go for a real priest this time. He will burn you or drown you. Maybe both.” He drags me down the steps, my knees bumping painfully against each one. He continues dragging me through the kitchen, then shoves me into a small root cellar, slams the door, and locks it.
Bruised and possibly broken, I lie on the floor with my battered cheek pressed into the cool dirt. Unable to stop myself, I smile.
I have avoided the fate my father had planned for me. Surely it is I who has won, not he.
* * *
The sound of the bolt lifting jerks me awake. I shove myself to a sitting position and clutch the tattered remains of my chemise around me. When the door opens, I am stunned to see the hedge priest, the same small rabbit of a man who’d blessed our marriage only hours before. Guillo is not with him, and any moment that does not contain my father or Guillo is a happy one by my reckoning.
The priest looks over his shoulder, then motions for me to follow.
I rise to my feet, and the root cellar spins dizzily. I put a hand to the wall and wait for the feeling to pass. The priest motions again, more urgently. “We’ve not much time before he returns.”
His words clear my head as nothing else can. If he is acting without Guillo’s knowledge, then he is most assuredly helping me. “I’m coming.” I push away from the wall, step carefully over a sack of onions, and follow the hedge priest into the kitchen. It is dark; the only light comes from the banked embers in the hearth. I should wonder how the priest found me, why he is helping me, but I do not care. All I can think is that he is not Guillo and not my father. The rest does not matter.
He leads me to the back door, and in a day full of surprises, I find one more as I recognize the old herbwitch from our village hovering nearby. If I did not need to concentrate so hard on putting one foot in front of the other, I would ask her what she is doing
here, but it is all I can do to stay upright and keep from falling on my face in the dirt.
As I step into the night, a sigh of relief escapes me. It is dark out, and darkness has always been my friend. A cart waits nearby. Touching me as little as possible, the hedge priest helps me into the back of it before hurrying around to the driver’s bench and climbing in. The priest glances over his shoulder at me, then averts his eyes as if he’s been burned. “There’s a blanket back there,” he mutters as he steers the nag out onto the cobbled lane. “Cover yourself.”
The unyielding wood of the cart presses painfully into my bruised bones, and the thin blanket scratches and reeks of donkey. Even so, I wish they’d brought a second one for padding. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the boat.”
A boat means water, and crossing water means I will be far from the reach of my father and Guillo and the Church. “Where is this boat taking me?” I ask, but the priest says nothing. Exhaustion overwhelms me. I do not have the strength to pluck answers from him like meager berries from a thorny bush. I lie down in the cart and give myself over to the horse’s jolting gait.
* * *
And so my journey across Brittany begins. I am smuggled like some forbidden cargo, hidden among turnips or in hay in the back of carts, awakened by furtive voices and fumbling hands as I am passed from hedge priest to herbwife, a hidden chain of those who live in accordance with the old saints and are determined to keep me from the Church. The hedge priests, with their awkward movements and musty, stale robes, are kind enough, but their fingers are unschooled in tenderness or compassion. It is the herbwitches I like most. Their chapped, raw hands are gentle as lamb’s wool, and the sharp, pungent smell of a hundred different herbs clings to them like a fragrant shadow. Often as not, they give me a tincture of poppy for my injuries, while the priests merely give me their sympathy, and some begrudgingly at that.
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