She lifted her eyes up, and her gaze snagged upon the simple wooden cross. She hadn’t prayed—really prayed—in a long time. She hadn’t wanted to need God. Hadn’t wanted to need anybody’s help. But if God didn’t help her this time, she didn’t know who else could.
Throughout the lonely day, she alternated between kneeling, praying, and pacing. By the time the shadows had begun to lengthen with the coming of the evening, her mouth was parched and her stomach ached from hunger.
When the door rattled, she held her breath, hoping to see Christina carrying water and food. But the nuns who had attended the prioress earlier stood in the passageway. Two of them stepped into the room and took hold of Marian’s arms.
She tried to ask them to remove her gag and give her something to drink, but her voice came out garbled. As they guided her forward and out of her room, she craned her neck for the sight of Christina. Where was the friendly young nun?
The nuns led her outside into the large yard to a center patio-like area. Overhead the sky was turning violet, the wispy clouds like lace. The air was cool, and although a smoky scent wafted around her, it was pleasant.
The moment they freed her hands of the twine, she’d bolt away, retrieve her money, and escape from this place. But instead of unbinding her, the nuns pushed her down to her knees in front of a post and repositioned her hands so that she had no choice but to hold the post.
Around her, the yard grew silent. Other nuns had gathered a short distance away, and they stared at her with a somberness that set her on edge. At a jerk of her gown and brushing aside of her hair, Marian stiffened. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see a stick swinging down toward her. The rod connected with her shoulder and back with such force, a scream tore from her dry throat. The gag muted it, but in the silence of the yard, it echoed nonetheless.
Oh Lord Almighty help her. They were beating her.
As the cane fell against her back again, Marian arched in an effort to avoid the blow and the pain. But it slashed through her, causing blackness to descend. Her only prayer before she slipped into oblivion was that God would take her out of this nightmare and return her to the present where she belonged.
~ 12 ~
PERSPIRATION MADE A STEADY TRAIL down Sir William Durham’s backbone beneath the well-fitted cotehardie that buttoned down the front and ended at his hips, falling over his breeches. The May afternoon wasn’t especially warm, but his body pulsed with an urgency to return home.
He drove his faithful stallion hard, and his three squires did likewise with their steeds. Of course, they had their arming swords as well as their large battle swords and could combat any peril they might encounter, even if they wore no armor. Nevertheless, Will didn’t want trouble.
At the reports of the uprisings in Essex, Will had cut short his tactical meetings in Dover on the coast. So had most of the other knights after they’d received word at midday that the royal official, Bampton in the Essex village of Brentwood, had been forced out of town on the tip of arrows.
The word was that Bampton had only been attempting to collect the unpaid poll taxes in Brentwood. The royal official had called a peaceable meeting of the surrounding villages. But tempers had escalated, and the men of the community had refused to cooperate. Eventually they’d chased Bampton off.
Will hadn’t necessarily been rankled by that particular news. It was the third poll tax within the past four years, and Will agreed—as treasonous as that might be—the newest levy to pay for the war against the French was both brutal and unfair. Some protest against the taxes was to be expected.
What he didn’t like was the unrest spreading across the southeast part of the country, making its way toward Kent, toward his home, toward his sons.
“The horses are needing respite and refreshment, sire,” one of the squires called as the Canterbury city walls rose steadily before them.
Will wanted to growl out his objection. His family estate was not far from Canterbury. They were almost there, and he wouldn’t relax until he rode through the gates and saw both Phillip and Robert alive and well.
However, he bit back his grumbling and instead gave a curt nod. He might be hardened from war, but he wasn’t so callous that he’d make the horses suffer needlessly. Therewith, he could use the opportunity to visit his sister and warn her of the turmoil. Already Canterbury had been stirred by the recent preaching of a priest by the name of John Ball. Ofttimes after Sunday mass, when people exited the service, Ball preached to them about the unfairness of being bondmen without rights and the need to go before the king and state their cause.
The Archbishop of Canterbury had imprisoned Ball for three months for such unlawful preaching but had been under increasing pressure from his parishioners to release the man. Whence last Will had ridden through Canterbury and the surrounding countryside, John Ball had been preaching again and inflaming the people, even though the archbishop had forbidden it.
Will’s gaze strayed to the field at his left flank, the dark loam, rich and thick, freshly plowed and tilled. Men, women, and children alike dotted the land, tunics tucked into belts revealing their bare feet. Men wore snug-fitting coifs and women broad-brimmed straw hats. From all appearances, they seemed peaceable enough. In fact, none of the laborers they’d passed during their journey had appeared to be revolting.
As they neared the walls of Canterbury, instead of entering through the Riding Gate, he steered them toward St. George’s. There, they passed by the cattle market where the stench of manure was strong and the bleats of weaning calves rose in the air.
He surveyed the double towers on either side of St. George’s palisade, noting they were manned. Even so, the gate was wide open, the town seemingly without a care. He could only shake his head at the idiocy of the city guard. The walls had been refortified in recent years to act as a defense against the French, not to make the city look pretty.
Didn’t they understand that because Canterbury was close to the coast as well as on the road to London, that if the French invaded, Canterbury would be one of the first towns attacked?
For that matter, any troublemaker could enter and wreak destruction.
With a shake of his head, Will guided his stallion through the gatehouse. Ahead, the fish market displayed strings of perch, trout, and salmon on open racks, and the odor of fish drying in the warm sun wafted toward them.
The market wasn’t as busy now that Lent was past, and they easily maneuvered through the carts and stands of husbandmen and tradesmen selling wares. The long whitewashed wattle and daub walls of St. Sepulchre Priory stood out amidst the other weathered, gray businesses that lined the narrow street. The convent wasn’t large, but it had been home to his younger sister for nigh ten years. She’d gone in as a girl of ten, a mere postulant. Last year, she’d finally taken her vows.
Will wasn’t allowed to visit oft, as the prioress kept the women under her charge to a strict regime. But because of his continued donations, the prioress allowed him some leniency.
He reined alongside the tall arched gate that led inside the convent grounds and rang the bell to alert the women they had visitors.
The nuns moved slowly, and it took long minutes ere he and his squires were admitted. While a lay sister brought water for their horses, Christina came out to greet him, directed them to a shaded nook, then offered a simple fare of cheese, oatcakes, and frothy ale.