The younger generation disposed itself on the grass, not without a bit of chatter. Sister Elizabeth clapped her hands. "Pay heed, an't please you! Senior students—write out an answer to this question: 'How could Christ be both fully man and fully God?' "
The older teenagers bent over their slates, frowning. One or two began writing immediately.
Gwen stared. Peasant children, writing?
Sister Elizabeth was going on. "Junior students—are those we call witches truly evil magicians devoted to Satan, or people like any other, but with talents few of us have? Judge by their works, good or evil. Then say if your answer could be true anywhere but on this Isle of Gramarye. As you write out your answer, bear in mind the three parts of an essay."
The younger teenagers frowned at her, puzzled, then looked down at their slates, growing thoughtful.
Gwen was astounded, not only by the fact that these youngsters could write and therefore presumably read, but also at the nun's application of religion to a problem that was, for anyone on Gramarye, an issue of daily life.
"Older children, come near this tree!" Sister Elizabeth took a sheet of parchment from her sleeve and tacked it to a tree trunk. It was covered with arithmetic problems. "Solve these on your slates," Sister said as she glanced back at the senior students—then glanced again. "Garrard! Your eyes on your slate, young man! Truly, one of your age should be above letting your eyes wander without purpose!"
There was a smothered snicker from the teenagers, and one of the boys snapped his gaze back to his slate. The girl at whom he had been gazing glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, then back at her slate with a covert smile.
Sister Elizabeth turned to the youngest children. "Now, then! Let us recite the alphabet!" She held up a hand, but glanced back at the older children and snapped, "Matthew!"
One of the boys looked up, startled and guilty.
Sister Elizabeth stepped over to him and held out her hand. "School is for slates and chalk, naught else. Give me your reed, young man."
In sullen silence, the boy pulled a narrow tube out of his sleeve and gave it to her.
"You may keep the beans," Sister said, "so long as you do not use them. If you are well behaved the remainder of the day, you shall have this reed again." She didn't say what would happen if he didn't; apparently everyone knew. She turned to go back to the youngest students but stopped short as a girl quickly covered her slate with her sleeve. Sister levelled a forefinger. "Ciphering only, Cynthia. I wish to see naught but numbers on your slate."
Other students craned their necks, trying to see what Cynthia had been drawing or writing.
"Eyes on your own slates," Sister reminded them, and they all whipped their gazes back to their work. Sister sighed and shook her head as she returned to the youngest—and Cynthia took out a scrap of cloth to erase her slate. "Now," said Sister, "the alphabet."
The children began to chant with her.
Gwen moved on, shaking her head with amazement. A school for peasant children was unheard of! Still, now that she knew of it, it made a great deal of sense—an order dedicated to the health of the mind would naturally wish to develop those minds as fully as possible.
She was also amazed at the woman's patience. A few days of that would have reduced her to a screaming scold—or a gibbering idiot. She wouldn't blame the nuns if they changed teachers every few days—but from the children's air of familiarity, it was evident Sister Elizabeth was with them constantly. A truly amazing woman, indeed.
The novice at the gate started looking frightened as soon as she realized that Gwen wasn't just an accidental passerby, but she held her ground and stammered, "What would you, milady?"
"Speech with your Mother Superior," Gwen answered. "Good day to you, lass."
"G-good day." The girl's eyes were huge. "Who shall I say wishes speech with her?"
"The Lady Gwendolyn Gallowglass."
The girl swallowed heavily, nodded, and stammered, "Y-yes, your ladyship." Then she turned and scrambled away, leaving Gwen to wonder why they bothered with a gate when the wall was so low—or, for that matter, why they bothered with having a porter.
She took the opportunity to study the layout of the convent. It was very obviously a homemade affair, built with the willing labor of the local peasants—Gwen had a momentary vision of fathers and brothers hauling blocks of stone for the curtain wall and wattle and daub for the buildings. The structures were only larger versions of peasant huts—considerably larger, since several of them were double-storied. But regardless of their construction, their layout adhered to the time-honored ground plan of convent and monastery alike—dormitory, refectory, cloister, and chapel—though the cloister's pillars were wooden and the chapel was of painted boards. Not for the first time, Gwen wondered if the sisters were wise to try to keep themselves secret from the monks, who would surely have aided them with funds and labor had they known.
Of course, they also might have wished to establish their authority over the women's Order, as the nuns feared. That didn't seem terribly likely to Gwen, but she did think there was a definite chance that the Abbot might have forbidden the Order to form.
Her speculation was cut short by the advent of the Mother Superior, hurrying across the grounds so quickly her brown robe snapped about her ankles. The novice trailed along in her wake, still looking scared.
The older nun came up to the gate and curtsied in greeting. "Good day, Lady Gallowglass! You honor our house!"
" 'Tis a house of God, Mother, and 'tis my honor to be herein," Gwen returned.
"Only 'Sister,' an't please you," the nun reminded her gently. "We hold no official ranks past our final vows; 'tis simply my sisters' regard that doth give me precedence. I am only Sister Paterna Testa, like to any among us."
"Your pardon, Sister." Gwen inclined her head. "I come seeking wisdom."
The nun laughed. "You, the wisest witch in the Isle of Gramarye? What wisdom might I offer you?"
"Knowledge of healing," Gwen returned. "I had cause to see, when last I journeyed here, that you and your sisters know far more than I of the healing of the mind."
" 'Tis gracious of you to say so." The nun turned serious with compassion ready in her eyes. "Has your husband gained worse hurts?"
"None new, I think," Gwen answered, " 'Tis not one of my own I seek to cure, but an enemy who might cease to be a foe if she were healed."
"What an amazingly Christian deed!" the novice exclaimed, round-eyed, then clapped her hand over her mouth, appalled at her own temerity.
Gwen smiled with gentle amusement. " Tis not true charity if we wish to spare ourselves trouble thereby."
"But it is true charity when the headsman's ax would be simpler and far quicker," Sister Paterna Testa said, her gaze probing and speculative.
"There are even better reasons than that," Gwen admitted, "though I do not wish to speak of them. Canst tell, Sister, why the wounds of the body heal with time and harden with greater protection of the softer flesh within, while those of the mind fester and grow worse?"
"For that they have not been well tended," the nun said promptly. She held out a hand, turning back toward the interior of the convent.
Gwen accepted the invitation, stepping through the gate with her and toward the main hall.
"You know," said Sister Paterna Testa, "that if a soldier is struck by an arrow but does not die, the barb must be cut out and the wound anointed with healing balms, then bandaged with a poultice."
"Aye, certes."
"Then will the cut flesh grow together once more and the skin seam itself over. Even thus in the mind, the barb must also be drawn out and the balm and poultice given."
Gwen looked up, frowning. "I have given what balm I may."