Was this an apothecary? Or at the very least the part of the infirmary where the nuns kept their herbs and medicines?
She almost smiled at the wonder of what she was seeing and smelling. She was most definitely in another era. She held out her hands and wiggled her fingers. Then she pinched her arm, just to be sure she was there in the flesh and not merely having a vision.
The cool dampness of the hallway, the mustiness in the air, the scratchiness of her robe. The sensory details were too real for a hallucination or dream.
While her body lay unresponsive on a bed in the present, she was definitely alive and experiencing the past. She didn’t know how such a thing was possible, but she was doing it.
She rattled the apothecary door. Then she stood on her toes to inspect the shelves better, hoping to glimpse the outline of a St. Thomas pilgrim ampulla. But without a light to dispel the darkness of the coming evening, she couldn’t see the contents clearly enough. Maybe she’d have to wait until morning to convince Sister Christina or one of the other nuns to allow her inside.
With excitement humming through her, she started down another long hallway, passing by what looked to be a dining room on one side and a simple schoolroom of sorts on the other. She paused to peer inside both of them. Not a person was in sight.
Where was everyone? Perhaps they’d all gone to the chapel for Vespers.
Yes, that was it. Nuns were required to attend the services. And their absence gave her the perfect opportunity to snoop without anyone being aware of what she was doing.
Picking up her pace, she continued down the passageway, searching for her money and pearls as well as ampullae. Even with the growing shadows, she could see that each room was sparsely furnished without material comforts or decorations . . . and not a sign of her belongings.
Perhaps the prioress had confiscated her valuables under the assumption that they would provide payment for her room and board. With each passing minute, the thrill at being in the past began to fade under the steady but growing urgency thudding in her chest.
A low and rhythmic chanting in Latin wafted down the hallway and grew steadily louder as she drew nearer to a set of double doors. The nuns would likely soon finish Vespers and exit from the chapel. What would they say if they found her wandering around the nunnery? On the other hand, she only had several more rooms left to explore. She could finish if she hurried.
She poked her head through the open door on her left to discover it was a storage room of some kind, containing blankets, pallets, extra habits, a few washbasins, and a stack of towels. Everything was plain-colored and made of coarse linen or wool, certainly a far cry from the fluffy cotton and patterned material of modern towels and sheets.
She veered across the hallway, opening the door of the opposite room. The chamber was windowless, but enough evening light remained in the hallway to fall upon the few rudimentary pieces of furniture—one of which was a desk-like table.
Was this an office of sorts? Perhaps belonging to the prioress?
Marian crossed to the desk. Amidst what appeared to be stacks of thick parchment, ink bottles, and quill pens, her hand brushed against a lumpy pouch.
Her money.
She snatched it up and skimmed the rest of the table in an effort to locate her pearls. Down the hallway, the chanting had ceased.
Should she take the coins and leave? Perhaps she could find a nearby inn to use as a home base for the week where she might have more independence than she’d have at the nunnery.
Or perhaps she ought to stay. After all, she was inside the convent where she was safe and could investigate every possible location of the original spring that had been used to fill ampullae with holy water. If she didn’t find anything, she could always move on then.
First, however, she had to secure her money. She left the office-like room, crossed to a nearby exit, and made her way outside as quietly as she could. A quick survey in the twilight revealed high stone walls that surrounded the convent. A smaller shed-like building sat to one side. An outhouse was placed well away from the main building near several rows of raised garden beds, with a thick stand of trees and brush beyond.
With hurried steps, she made her way toward the raised beds. Maybe she could hide the pouch somewhere among the trees, under a stone, or in a hollow of a log. She needed to work swiftly and return to the confines of the little room inside the convent before anyone noticed she was missing. Then in the morning by the light of day, she’d investigate the building and grounds again.
She ducked under a branch and squeezed past twigs that clawed at her robe and head covering. She pushed through the overgrowth until she reached the far convent wall. Down the wall a dozen paces was a door. Was this the back gate of the convent Sister Christina had mentioned?
Marian edged her way along the wall to the door. It was crafted of rough planks that were curved to fit an arched opening in the wall. A long wooden beam barred anyone outside from coming in. But it wouldn’t prevent her from going out—when she was ready to visit the cathedral.
She wanted to take a peek on the other side and get a glimpse of how Canterbury looked in 1381. But the sightseeing would need to wait for another day. Instead, she made swift work of hiding the bag of coins beneath two stones before returning the way she’d come through the dense copse of trees.
When she reached the main building, darkness had begun to settle. She found the door near the chapel and reentered the building. The hallways were as quiet as before, and she could only assume everyone had retired to their rooms for the night. As she crept along, she only had to hide once—in the empty dining room—as someone passed by.
Finally reaching her room, she lowered herself to the pallet and pulled the wool blanket over her. The thin straw-filled mattress provided little cushion, and she turned first one way then another, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. She hadn’t slept on a floor since her childhood when she’d had sleepovers with friends. Even then, she’d had an air mattress to lie on in her comfortable flannel sleeping bag.
Here the ground was cold, the straw in the pallet was abrasive, and the blanket smelled stale. She couldn’t keep from wondering who had used it before her and when it had last been laundered.
She had no pillow either, so she wadded up her discarded skirt and blouse underneath her head. Lying on her back, she stared through the darkness. Without her alarm clock, laptop cord light, or flashing cell phone alerts, the blackness was almost suffocating.
The silence, too, was overwhelming. No whirring of the heating unit, no distant thrum of highway traffic, and no buzz of outdoor lights. Gone was the chatter from a TV or the strains of Harrison playing his violin. It was as silent as death. Silent enough to hear footsteps padding down the hallway a short while later.
As the steps neared her room, she made herself lie completely motionless and pretend to be asleep. The person paused in the door, stood for a minute, then retreated the way she’d come.
She had no idea yet who might be friend or foe. But one thing she did know was that in the morning, she needed to start developing friendships if she had any hope of making her trip to 1381 successful.
* * *
Marian’s restless sleep was broken by the ringing of a bell in the middle of the night and again at dawn. She didn’t know much about the routine of nuns, but she suspected the bells were the summons to more prayer in the chapel.
By the time faint light permeated Marian’s tiny room, she was stiff and cold. The wool blanket and the layers of her robes hadn’t been warm enough to stave off the chill from the May night.