“I hear you will be Celia’s spiritual sponsor at the nunnery,” Joachim continued, having put concerns about Cyrus behind him. “I plan to ride over myself for the ceremony, so I shall see you tomorrow.”
Celia, Hildegarde, and I rode down to the Nunnery of Yurt together. Given the circumstances, I had decided not to wish the twins a Happy Birthday. Their parents had announced at the last minute that they would accompany us. Celia, looking at the resignation and reluctance on their faces, which they made no effort to hide, took them away for a few minutes’ private conversation and returned without them, silent but with red eyes. She did not speak the whole journey.
The nunnery was only a few miles from the royal castle, but it could have been located in another kingdom for all the contact we had with it. One could see its church spire, rising above some trees, from the road, but I had never gone any closer. It was a hot day of midsummer, and the sun beat down on us and our black clothing, so I was relieved when we turned down the lane, bright with asters, that led to the nunnery.
The lane took us around the shoulder of a hill and into the nuns’ valley. A low wall, its gate open, circled the nunnery complex. The church itself, surrounded by its claustral edifices and farm buildings, looked peaceful and prosaic. In the surrounding fields the nuns’ tenants, stripped to the waist in the sun, were bringing in the hay. They waved to us cheerfully as we rode past.
“There’s still time to change your mind,” said Hildegarde hopefully. She had been itchy and uncomfortable in her black dress since we left Yurt. “You know they don’t want women who aren’t absolutely sure of their vocations. No one will think any less of you.”
Celia shook her head without bothering to reply.
A priest came out to meet us as we clattered over the paving stones in front of the church. Roses bloomed by the entrance: nearly as good, I had to admit, as in Yurt’s royal garden.
“The Lady Celia, I believe?” the priest said, having no trouble distinguishing her, with her sober, weary eyes, from her flushed and irritated sister. “The abbess awaits you within. And this must be your spiritual sponsor.”
“My name is Daimbert.” I had done my best not to look like a wizard, having even borrowed a belt from one of the knights so as not to wear mine, with its self-illuminating emblem of the moon and stars on the buckle.
The priest noticed me admiring the roses. “Those were a gift, many years ago, from old King Haimeric of Yurt,” he told me proudly. “He sent us the rootstock.”
Our horses were led away and the priest led us inside. Celia was whisked off to meet with the abbess, while two elderly nuns sat down with Hildegarde and me, to spend the next hour making sure we were clear on the details of our roles in the ceremony as family member and as spiritual sponsor.
What am I doing here? I wondered. I didn’t believe any young woman should be a nun, I didn’t think Celia herself really wanted to be one, and I was having trouble taking seriously the words and symbols that the elderly nun was trying to explain to me.
“Then, after you have spoken these words,” she said, looking at me over her spectacles, “dip your finger in the sacramental water and touch Sister Celia three times, once on each eyelid and once on the chin. Use your forefinger.” She was tiny and would have appeared fragile were it not for the cheerful energy that flowed from her. “But remember, don’t speak and certainly don’t dip your finger in the water until the priest has finished the initial prayers and the abbess has led the Amen twice.”
I heard the sound of more hooves outside and concluded that the bishop had arrived with his attendants. Why couldn’t he have been spiritual sponsor instead? I asked myself in irritation. He probably was used to performing rituals like this all the time.
“And you know, I hope,” the nun continued, “that you have to take her by the hand to lead her up to the bishop when it is time for her to make her maiden vows before him. We are very honored that the bishop himself will perform the office today, rather than one of our own confessors. We want everything to go perfectly.” She looked at me intently. “Will you be able to remember all this?”
Hildegarde’s role, I gathered from snatches of conversation from the far side of the room as I repeated my instructions back, would be much simpler. After the rest of the ceremony was over-so that it was clear that the nuns had accepted Celia for herself, not for any payment-Hildegarde would convey to the abbess the stone, the clod of earth, and the applewood staff that symbolized the property which the duchess had agreed to give the nunnery if her daughter really did insist on joining.
“Come,” said the nun briskly. “It is time to go down to the chapel.”
IV
The chapel was hot and stuffy, a small room with an altar at one end and rows of nuns packing the sides. In their black robes and headdresses, they looked very much alike in spite of variations in size, shape, and age. All had wedding rings on their left hands-brides of Christ, I reminded myself. Their faces wore identical expressions of reverence.
Hildegarde and I took our positions at either side of the door, opposite the altar. I looked for but did not see Celia. The room was heavy with the scents of lavender and incense. The nuns must have received some signal I didn’t catch, for they abruptly began to sing in unison, a sweet hymn of praise.
When the hymn ended, the abbess swept in, three priests scrambling to keep up with her like small boats in the wake of a ship. Even in a nunnery, I thought, they used men for priests. It looked as though Celia’s original plan never had a chance.
The abbess was even taller than the twins, and her piercing blue eyes didn’t look as though they missed much. She nodded rather distantly to Hildegarde and me and went to stand by the altar. There was a stone font next to it, like a baptismal font, that I assumed must hold the sacramental water. Forefinger, I reminded myself, both eyelids and the chin.
Then Joachim entered, formal in his best scarlet vestments that Theodora had embroidered for him. He caught my eye for a second but gave no other sign of greeting as he joined the abbess. Each of them gave the other a slight bow, but she showed no sign of kissing his ring. He might be the chief spiritual authority in two kingdoms, but this was still her nunnery and he was here on her sufferance.
The nuns began to sing again, and then the novices entered. They made a striking contrast with the nuns, for they were dressed in white rather than black and thus sprang into relief against the background of the older sisters. They wore no wedding rings. All carried white wax candles that flickered in the still air as they walked.
Although the novices wore identical, very simple white robes, and all had their heads shaved, the differences between them were much more pronounced than between the adult nuns. Many were girls, who would remain novices until they were sixteen and old enough to choose their own vocation. One didn’t look much older than Antonia; she walked with great solemnity, keeping her eyes on her candle. Another, a graceful girl about the same age as the Princess Margareta, had somehow managed to pin or tie her plain white robe in a way to suggest great elegance, without doing anything blatant enough to draw the abbess’s censure. Her shaved head was carried at any angle that suggested that she personally knew that women without hair were much more alluring than women with hair. She looked at me a moment longer than necessary as she passed, raising an eyebrow in a way I would have had to call coquettish. She at least would not be here once she turned sixteen.