better place than to be with women who share this view?”
“But a husband—”
“—would get in the way of it.” I laughed, only a quick, nervous burst of mirth before quieting. “Perhaps I hunger for more religion, Robert. We sowed precious little of it in our house, you must admit.”
“That is why I ask you, Isabella. Such a sudden turn at piety makes me suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what? My intentions? Perhaps piety is what I need. Perhaps the rest of my life was the selfish part. Perhaps I need to devote my time and thought to God. It is a worthy pursuit, Robert. As worthy as being a wife, surely.”
He mulled my words, but plainly he saw I was immovable. “Very well, Isabella. If it is your will. But…let us know how you fare. Is that well with you?” he asked of the bailiff.
The bailiff shrugged and gestured to me to come in. I glanced back at Robert, forced a smile, and then moved forward. The bailiff led me to a small courtyard and an iron gate. A bell hung at the top and he pulled on the rope several times, creating a jangling carillon. We waited, and it was only then that I noticed my heart pounding.
It seemed that many minutes passed, but I knew my own nervousness slowed the crawl of the sundial’s shadow. At last, careful footsteps approached, and then the dark shade of a woman opened the heavy door. She wore the black St. Benet habit, hence the unflattering but adhering designation of this house: Blackladies.
I did not choose this particular house. There were many to choose from, including another nearby in Brewood, the “Whiteladies” of the Augustinian order. But Sir John—who was a generous benefactor to this poor house in Brewood—wrote a letter of my character to give to Prioress Margaret. It was useless to refuse. Apparently, he chose carefully; it took me far from Caverswall where Thomas lived. I said no farewells to Thomas. God knows how he reacted to the news of my decision.
But of course, he should be married soon and forget me.
The sister approached the gate and peered at the bailiff and then me. A white wimple framed her face. She wore a heavy black veil draped overall. Her gown was also black, as was the scapular before and aft of her, tied loosely with a dark cord on which hung a rosary and a ring of keys. Her green eyes were small and rimmed with red, with pale and stubby lashes fanning outward.
“What is it?” she asked without preamble.
“I…I wish to present myself to the prioress.” The nun’s stare cut through me, and I lowered my eyes. Though my resolve was certain, it seemed to have scurried a few paces away.
“Why?”
I raised my head at that, clutching my mantle as a gust of wind swayed it. Why so much opposition? First my family, and now this. I tried to keep exasperation out of my voice. “To become a holy sister, of course.”
Momentarily animated, the nun’s thin brows arched and just as quickly lowered. “Indeed,” she muttered, unlocking the gate. She swung it aside and the metal rasped. “Come,” she said, waiting for me to step within before locking it again.
I looked back at the bailiff with thanks, but he had already departed. My eyes drew instead to the dark skirts before me snuffling against the ground. It is only another door , I told myself. Only another door.
The nun led me down a drafty hall whose floorboards creaked with each of our steps. All the windows were solidly shuttered, for I sensed from a cursory glance that none of them had glass. We climbed a staircase where scant light bloomed from one lonely candle ensconced on a wall in the middle of the gallery. It was raised higher than it used to sit, its former place on the plaster easily discerned by the holes and its soot-stenciled pattern. Squinting, my eyes darted, absorbing the strangely dim surroundings. With a cold pang in my chest, I regretted allowing my brother Robert to depart so soon.
The strong scent of beeswax and oil filled the gallery, and its shining
“But a husband—”
“—would get in the way of it.” I laughed, only a quick, nervous burst of mirth before quieting. “Perhaps I hunger for more religion, Robert. We sowed precious little of it in our house, you must admit.”
“That is why I ask you, Isabella. Such a sudden turn at piety makes me suspicious.”
“Suspicious of what? My intentions? Perhaps piety is what I need. Perhaps the rest of my life was the selfish part. Perhaps I need to devote my time and thought to God. It is a worthy pursuit, Robert. As worthy as being a wife, surely.”
He mulled my words, but plainly he saw I was immovable. “Very well, Isabella. If it is your will. But…let us know how you fare. Is that well with you?” he asked of the bailiff.
The bailiff shrugged and gestured to me to come in. I glanced back at Robert, forced a smile, and then moved forward. The bailiff led me to a small courtyard and an iron gate. A bell hung at the top and he pulled on the rope several times, creating a jangling carillon. We waited, and it was only then that I noticed my heart pounding.
It seemed that many minutes passed, but I knew my own nervousness slowed the crawl of the sundial’s shadow. At last, careful footsteps approached, and then the dark shade of a woman opened the heavy door. She wore the black St. Benet habit, hence the unflattering but adhering designation of this house: Blackladies.
I did not choose this particular house. There were many to choose from, including another nearby in Brewood, the “Whiteladies” of the Augustinian order. But Sir John—who was a generous benefactor to this poor house in Brewood—wrote a letter of my character to give to Prioress Margaret. It was useless to refuse. Apparently, he chose carefully; it took me far from Caverswall where Thomas lived. I said no farewells to Thomas. God knows how he reacted to the news of my decision.
But of course, he should be married soon and forget me.
The sister approached the gate and peered at the bailiff and then me. A white wimple framed her face. She wore a heavy black veil draped overall. Her gown was also black, as was the scapular before and aft of her, tied loosely with a dark cord on which hung a rosary and a ring of keys. Her green eyes were small and rimmed with red, with pale and stubby lashes fanning outward.
“What is it?” she asked without preamble.
“I…I wish to present myself to the prioress.” The nun’s stare cut through me, and I lowered my eyes. Though my resolve was certain, it seemed to have scurried a few paces away.
“Why?”
I raised my head at that, clutching my mantle as a gust of wind swayed it. Why so much opposition? First my family, and now this. I tried to keep exasperation out of my voice. “To become a holy sister, of course.”
Momentarily animated, the nun’s thin brows arched and just as quickly lowered. “Indeed,” she muttered, unlocking the gate. She swung it aside and the metal rasped. “Come,” she said, waiting for me to step within before locking it again.
I looked back at the bailiff with thanks, but he had already departed. My eyes drew instead to the dark skirts before me snuffling against the ground. It is only another door , I told myself. Only another door.
The nun led me down a drafty hall whose floorboards creaked with each of our steps. All the windows were solidly shuttered, for I sensed from a cursory glance that none of them had glass. We climbed a staircase where scant light bloomed from one lonely candle ensconced on a wall in the middle of the gallery. It was raised higher than it used to sit, its former place on the plaster easily discerned by the holes and its soot-stenciled pattern. Squinting, my eyes darted, absorbing the strangely dim surroundings. With a cold pang in my chest, I regretted allowing my brother Robert to depart so soon.
The strong scent of beeswax and oil filled the gallery, and its shining
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