Chapter 1
Father Gavriel Victor glowered at the Mother Superior and shook his head.
“There is no choice in the matter, Mother. The Bishop himself has decreed it. And you have no choice but to comply.”
The woman blinked once, her lips pursed. Her eyes fell to the floor as she contemplated Victor’s announcement. Her head fell forward, the cowl of her habit obscuring her face. Victor saw her lips move. She was praying, he realised. It was fitting that she do so and so he gave her time. Victor clutched his hands and pretended to do likewise, taking the opportunity to look around the room.
The Mother Superior's chambers were bright and airy, unlike many that he had visited over the years. The stout oak desk was uncluttered, papers arranged and the inkwell full. There was no dust clinging to the tapestries that hung from the stone walls and the fireplace had been freshly swept. A simple bed was tucked into one corner with a crucifix placed above it as if ever-watchful guardian. The bed linen was fresh and sweet-smelling, lavender and rosemary, a far cry from the noisome, scratchy sheets he himself had slept on the night before in the village tavern. All spoke of order and care.
That impression had begun forming as he cleared the final turn on the road that led from the village to the Saint Elara’s Mount. Truth be told, it was no more than a hill, but the dying place of a saint deserved a better label than ‘hill’. The convent sat on an island hillock, set in the clear waters of the Eldermere River and accessed over a stone bridge. From afar, it had looked imposing: twin spires, banners fluttering, barred windows and battlements telling of a time, centuries before, when The Faith was still an upstart philosophy in the land of the pagans. The stone walls were stout, built to withstand assault. Even the portcullis was down, as if the inhabitants feared a fresh assault.
Victor had had to rap twice on it with his staff of office before the gatekeeper appeared. The man, a stout, ruddy peasant of uncertain years, had blinked twice, peering at the parchment Victor thrust through the bars. The man could not read, Victor realised.
“Call the Mother Superior,” he had said. “Tell her I come from the Bishop.”
The gatekeeper had bowed and run off.
When the portcullis had finally been raised, with much heaving and haste, Mother Aida Sturm had stood before him. Though a head shorter, she had cut an imposing figure, matching her reputation. Her charcoal grey robes were simple, unadorned and immaculate. The eyes that studied him were steel grey and bright, though they sat deep in their sockets in a weathered, lined face. When he had taken her hand to kiss it, the calluses were hard. And yet, when he had glanced up, her mouth had softened, half-hidden laughter lines appearing as if by magic.
“You are welcome, Father,” she had said. “Please. Follow me. Gerard, see to the Father’s horse.”
As Victor followed the Mother Superior from the gatehouse through the corridors, his keen eye had missed nothing. The grounds were well-maintained, he noted. Though it was autumn, not an errant fallen leaf marred the earth. The orchards were bountiful, the fruit trees heavy with apples and pears. The hedges had been cut and the ammoniacal tang of manure spoke of good husbandry. A glimpse through the kitchen doors revealed pans hanging in beautiful symmetry, arranged in order of size. Even the hinges on the heavy doors had been oiled; they made not even a squeak as they closed. Victor had been impressed.
He usually enjoyed visits such as these, but for other reasons. Remote convents such as this one were often a law unto themselves. The arrival of an Inquisitor always threw them into disarray. He revelled in the blooming of fear on faces, the bowing and scraping, the sudden humbling of proud dictators, the shock of realising that they hadn’t been forgotten about. And that the reach of the Ecclesia was long.
On this occasion, though, there had been none of that. Mother Aida had seated him as she might any supplicant, offered him refreshment and waited patiently, without speaking, for him to say the first word. And so he had.
Usually he relished such pronouncements. But on this occasion he had not. He had handed the order over, waited till she had read it, then said what he had to. Then she had begun praying.
His reverie was interrupted by the rustle of paper. When he looked back, the Mother Superior was studying him, the parchment in her hands.
“You have prayed on the matter,” he said matter-of-factly. She nodded. “And? What did The One True say?”
Now would come the babbling, the entreaties, the lies. But the Mother Superior merely shook her head.
“He did not,” she said softly. “He said nothing. He often does not.”
Again, Victor was surprised. He had a ready riposte for every possible query but nothing for such as this. He frowned.
“And what do you take that to mean, Mother?”
She shrugged. “That this is not a matter God cares to consider at this time.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that we must do as the Bishop requires.”
Victor nodded slowly. “You are correct, of course. So. Have you considered who? You know the requirements, I take it. You read the Order. Do you care to read it again?”
She shook her head. “I do not. My eyes may be failing, Father, but my memory is intact.” Victor opened his mouth but she continued. “The Bishop requires me to send, with you, the most holy of my young initiates. The girl must be no more than twenty, of pure thought, obedient, chaste, literate, with no physical defect and ‘not unappealing to the eye’.” Her voice hardened. “Tell me, Father, why does the girl have to be beautiful? Surely, all the aforementioned qualities are sufficient. What need for physical beauty?”
Victor smiled. At last. A question he could answer without thinking.
“The Bishop seeks the purest of the pure, Mother. For the task he has in mind, no adulteration of the soul must have taken place. The body is the expression of what is innermost. True, it is possible, even desirable in certain instances, for the holy to be deformed or ugly. But for the purpose the Bishop has in mind, the subject must be perfect in every way. Hence that requirement.”
The Mother Superior frowned. “And what is that purpose you speak of?”
Victor shook his head. “I cannot say. I have been sworn to silence. Rest assured, the Bishop has approved it, as has the High Council and the Court of Inquisition. Their seals-”
“Yes.” He saw her fingers trace the embossed wax. “Yes. I see the seals. I have studied them. They are intact. And perfect likenesses.”
Victor gasped. “Do you mean-”
“Not at all,” she said coolly. “I do not doubt their-or your-authenticity. I did question, though, why such a request had come, when none such had come before.”
“Order, Mother,” Victor replied. He permitted an edge to creep into his voice. “Order, not request. We must be clear.”
“Of course,” she sighed. “Order. That is clear. That, and your authority. I must do as you command.” She sighed and looked away. “In all things. As it is written.”
He permitted her a minute. “Well? Your reply?”
She did not look back. Her gaze was on the crucifix above her bed. “What reply can I make? An order is an order. And it shall be fulfilled, if the Bishop requires it.”
“He does.”
She nodded, sighed again, and rose. Victor mirrored her. She gestured to the door and took a step. He followed. She spoke to him over her shoulder.
“I have a girl in mind. She is all things the Bishop requires. I will summon her and inform her of her destiny, her-” She paused. “Her blessing.”
“Yes,” Victor said. “Blessing is the correct word. To be so selected is to be exalted.”
She turned the door handle, opened the door and stood aside. A young nun stepped into the doorway, a young, red-haired, freckled girl with green eyes, in an Initiate’s white robes.
“Yes, Sister?” the girl said, her eyes widening at the sight of a man. Such a sight was rare. Most of the men who called were familiar: dirty, sweaty labourers and peasants. Never had the nunnery ever seen an Inquisitor from the Ecclesia, resplendent in his scarlet robes of office. Never one with a full head of hair, of such height and imposing demeanour. The girl’s jaw hung open.
“Elsa, take the Inquisitor to the guest chambers. See to it that he has all he needs. Bring him food and drink. Instruct the kitchen to supply hot water so that he can bathe. Fetch his saddlebags from the stables.” She sniffed. “And please, close your mouth. We have spiders to catch flies. You need not.”
Victor bowed. The Mother Superior offered her hard hand, and he kissed it. He released it and stood upright.
“The subject?” he said.
“Will be sent to your chambers,” the Mother Superior said. “In an hour. I understand you will wish to question her. An Examination, it is written. To see if she is worthy. It shall be arranged.”
With that, she turned and strode back to her desk. Victor gave her back a fleeting glance, then turned to the girl.
“This way, Father,” Elsa said with a curtsy. “Please follow me.” Her jaw dropped open again, then closed with a snap. She blushed and turned away.
“With pleasure, young maid,” Victor had already cast an appraising eye over her figure. Though she was short, there was pleasing jiggle to her gait. “With pleasure.”
