With faces reflecting unease, the other nuns raced toward the building, paying no heed to Sister Christina or her.
“What’s happening?” Marian stumbled to keep up with Sister Christina, who was now practically running.
Sister Christina didn’t answer but plunged into the dense hawthorn, fighting through the spiny twigs, dragging Marian with her. They hadn’t gone far before Marian stumbled and bumped her bruised shoulder. She tried to hold in the pain, but somehow a cry escaped.
“I am sorry, lady.” Sister Christina squeezed her arm but didn’t slow her pace or relent until they were deep in the woods near the wall. Even then, Sister Christina pushed Marian to the ground and began to cover her with brush and sticks, the scent of soil and disintegrating leaves thick in the air around them.
“What are you doing?” Marian was too winded and in too much pain to resist.
“Our habits.” Sister Christina gasped for breath. “They stand out too much. We need to disguise ourselves. Blend in.”
Sister Christina removed both of their veils and shoved the white cloth beneath a pile of dead leaves. Then she situated herself next to Marian and began to cover herself as well. Marian could see that Sister Christina had taken them to a slight dip in the ground that was framed by a downed tree on one side and a pile of brush on the other.
Once they were hidden and their labored breathing subsided, they lay unmoving. New noises echoed in the air—screaming and crying along with the sounds of breaking, splintering, and crashing. A cold dread settled in the pit of Marian’s stomach, and she closed her eyes. More trouble.
She replayed the research she’d conducted on the year 1381. Of course, her internet search had been brief since she’d been in a hurry during her last hours. But from what she’d read, the only major event of 1381 in England had been Wat Tyler’s Rebellion, which had eventually become known as the Peasants’ Revolt. When she’d skimmed the article, she noted the uprising had happened in mid-June. She’d concluded such an event wouldn’t affect her since she’d be gone by the time it occurred.
But at the escalation of the destructive noises outside the convent wall, she squirmed further under the brush surrounding them. What if historians had somehow gotten the dates wrong? What if the Peasants’ Revolt had happened earlier?
Sister Christina resituated some of the leaves and brush. “At his last visit, Will warned me of the unrest.”
“Then the poor are rebelling?”
“At least causing trouble.”
The cold knot in Marian’s middle cinched tighter. Perhaps she hadn’t done her research on the 1381 rebellion carefully enough. No doubt the problems had been stirring throughout the country in the weeks leading up to the actual revolt.
Whatever the case, things were not looking up for her. In fact, things only seemed to be getting worse.
They hadn’t been in their hiding place for long before the sounds of pillaging and looting moved into the nunnery grounds. Smashing and screaming came from inside the convent, and Marian was surprised when Sister Christina’s trembling hand slid into hers. Marian shifted enough to see tears streaking the nun’s cheeks and her eyes radiating with fear.
Marian had never seen Christina without her head covering and wimple, and the sight of the light brown hair was strange. It was cut short in what could almost be described as a bob, but it was blunt and plain without any of the layering that would help frame Christina’s face more fashionably.
Marian squeezed the woman’s hand but then froze at the shout that came from the edge of the woods. Loud male voices seemed to be arguing about whether to search the copse.
Please, God, please. Make them go away, Marian silently prayed. While their hiding spot might camouflage them from a distance, anyone walking nearby would surely see their faces and some of the white of their habits still peeking through the brush.
For what seemed an eternity, Marian hardly dared to breathe, until finally the noises seemed to pass away to a new part of the town, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.
“Do you think we’re safe?” Marian started to push herself up, but Christina stopped her.
“Will strictly instructed me to hide in the woods until he came for me.”
“Who’s Will?”
“My brother.”
“What if he doesn’t come?”
“He will.” She said it with such confidence Marian could almost believe Christina’s brother to be a superhero of some kind.
“Should we at least go check on the others?”
“We need to obey Will. He knows best.”
Marian was too sore and weak to manage on her own and so could do nothing but lie under the brush with Christina, praying that somehow someway she would escape unscathed from this new predicament.
The dip in the ground where they lay was like a shallow bowl, and Marian couldn’t keep from speculating what had caused it—perhaps an underground spring? The branches of the ash tree overhead pointed to it like God’s finger at the top of the Sistine Chapel. Her dad had always said ash trees were believed to have mythical properties. In fact, legends abounded of sacred ash trees next to life-giving wells.
For a while, she plied Christina with questions about the history of the priory and where old wells might have been located. She attempted to give Christina her theory about the possibility that one of the old wells had healing qualities because of its relation to the Tree of Life. And although Christina listened to her without any scoffing, the young nun was no more knowledgeable about old wellsprings than Marian herself.
Finally, Christina conceded that of all the land within the confines of St. Sepulchre Priory, the spot where they were hiding was the logical place for an old well.
The location would do Marian no good at the moment since she wouldn’t be able to excavate it to see if a spring existed. However, she attempted to piece together exactly where it was on St. George’s Street in the present. While it was difficult to get her bearings, she overlapped the present layout with the past and suspected the spring was near the modern St. George’s clock tower, if not located entirely underneath it.
Through the rest of the afternoon and into the evening, Marian pretended ignorance of her past life and allowed Christina to do most of the sharing. She was relieved Christina didn’t lapse into her usual silence but kept up a steady stream of whispered conversation.
She learned Christina was the youngest daughter of a landed knight who had gained favor from Edward the Black Prince for his brave deeds during a major battle with the French that the English had won in large part because of Christina’s father. Her grandfather had also been a valiant knight, and the late king had rewarded him for his service by giving him an estate.
Christina admitted she’d rarely seen her father while growing up, but she didn’t seem the least disturbed that he’d been gone so frequently—unlike Marian, who’d resented every minute of her dad’s absence.
Christina had one older sister who was married and had half a dozen children. She hadn’t seen her sister since she was ten, and again didn’t seem bothered by the distance or lack of relationship. After losing two other brothers, Christina clearly cherished her remaining brother, Will. Her mother was still alive and resided with Will, who had inherited their father’s title and estate. From what Marian gathered, Will had two sons aged eight and six, Christina’s nephews whom she rarely saw.