Hood

by Jenny Elder Moke

  “It’s not that bad,” Little said. “I managed it.”

  “Only because you’re all height and no width.” Adam wedged himself through the window, grunting as his shoulders popped free of the narrow frame. He stepped into the room, looking around curiously. “So this is your room, Isabelle?”

  Her cheeks colored red, and she was grateful for the low light. “Was my room, yes. The loose section of wall to my mother’s chamber is over here.”

  “All right, we’ve got to do this quiet and quick,” Adam said as he and Little took up their positions beside the wall. “Otherwise we’ll have the whole place down on our heads. Little and I will pull these stones. Patrick and Helena, be ready to move. Isabelle, get your mother and get her out, quick as you can.”

  Isabelle nodded, shaking the jittery tension out of her hands as Little pulled the first stone. He and Adam worked fast, piling up each rock neatly beside the wall and revealing the dark interior of the adjoining room. Isabelle crouched low, peering into the void, a nervous spiral of dread rising from her stomach and up the back of her throat. It was too quiet, everything too still. Why was there no light?

  “Something is wrong,” she whispered, just as Little stuck his head through the small opening they had created. She knew the response before he drew back, his expression grim.

  “Bad luck, sister. Your mother’s not here.”

  “Where else could they hold her?” Adam asked.

  Isabelle shook her head, pushing back on the panic that threatened to rise up within her. “I…I do not know. I thought surely this would be…I do not know.”

  “Patrick, check the rest of the dormitory and the cloister below,” Adam said.

  Patrick nodded, moving on silent feet out of the room. Isabelle pressed her arms into her sides, trying to wrangle her thoughts. Where else could they keep her mother? What would Robin do?

  “The chapter house,” Isabelle said, looking up. “The sisters use it for confession and penance. It is on the ground level, on the opposite end from here, and it faces the inner cloister. Perhaps the Wolf thought it would be a more secure location to keep her.”

  Patrick slid back into the room. “I count at least ten guards below. There’s a room on the far end that has two guards stationed right out front.”

  “The chapter house,” Isabelle confirmed, her heart sinking further.

  “You got any other secret ways to get in there up your sleeve?” Adam asked.

  Isabelle shook her head. “There is nothing but solid stone beneath our feet. There are the night stairs at the far end of the dormitory leading down to the cloister toward the chapel. The sisters will take those stairs from the chapel when they have finished matins.”

  Adam peered out into the open dormitory. “We’ll have to take our chances. Little, do you think you could draw the guards off the door long enough for Isabelle to slip in?”

  Little laced his fingers together, cracking his knuckles. “Be my pleasure.”

  “You can’t just go in there with your staff swinging and start cracking heads,” Helena said. “You’ll bring the entire lot of mercenaries down on us.”

  “We don’t have much of a choice,” Adam said.

  “What about a distraction?” Patrick asked. “I could cause a disturbance down at the other end of the dormitory, chuck some rocks or something. That ought to get their attention.”

  “Wait,” Isabelle said, crossing to the small chest beside her sleeping pallet and rummaging around inside. She pulled back, holding up a habit with a fine coat of dust from lack of use. “My spare habit. A bit short around the ankles, but it should do the trick. I can pass through the cloister as if I am just leaving services and ask the guards for help, draw them off. Then one of you could get into the room to find my mother.”

  “What if the Wolf’s men recognize you?” Patrick reasoned. “If those mercenaries in Lincoln knew you, it’s possible these men could, too.”

  “Well, it is not as if you could pass for a sister,” Isabelle pointed out. “I do not have a spare wimple to cover your head. What other choice do we have?”

  “Patrick’s right,” Adam said, scratching at his chin. “We can’t risk the guards recognizing you.”

  Isabelle looked down at the habit in her hands, shaking out the skirts again before lifting her eyes to Helena. The girl stood with her arms crossed and her feet braced apart, more like a swaggering outlaw than a pious sister of the order. It seemed the others had drawn a similar conclusion, however, for they all stared at Helena expectantly. She furrowed her brow in confusion.

  “What?” she demanded.

  Isabelle held up the habit with a little shake.

  Helena’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, I’d rather lick a dead bird.”

  “You are the only one of us who could conceivably pass for a sister without getting caught,” Isabelle whispered.

  “I don’t do the disguises bit,” Helena said. “I’m not like the rest of you with the fake accents and ridiculous stories. Just give me a good clean shot and I’ll take it.”

  “That’s not true,” Patrick whispered, taking one of her hands in both of his. “You’re the cleverest of us all. We need you to do this, and you can. Please, Helena.”

  The girl shifted uncomfortably under Patrick’s steady attention, the tense moment stretching out between them across the heavy bootfalls of the patrol below. Finally the girl’s shoulders relaxed and she scowled at Isabelle, snatching the habit from her outstretched hands.

  “If a single one of you so much as snorts, I’ll cut your tongue out,” she said, shoving them out of the small room.

  “There is a well on the far side of the cloister,” Isabelle whispered, leaning her head out of the narrow confines of the stairwell to gesture to the small stone enclosure. “Tell them the handle has stuck, and ask if they can help you unstick it. It often sticks in the wintertime and can be stubborn as a mule to draw back up.”

  “Maybe for hands that are more used to prayer than hard work,” Helena muttered, pulling uncomfortably at the front of the habit. “How do you wear these bloody things? I feel like I’m going to trip just trying to cross the walkway.”

  “You grow accustomed to it,” Isabelle said. “And it won’t be for long, just enough to draw the guards away from the door. The chapter house is situated along that wall. If the men give you any trouble, simply continue around the cloister to the chapel on the far side. The sisters will still be in prayer and you can slip past the chapel and return here. Just stay clear of the other sisters. They will know you are not one of them and raise the alarm.”

  “If they give me any trouble, I’ll give it right back,” Helena said grimly, patting the sword belted to her side under the habit. Isabelle had talked her out of carrying her bow and quiver, but the girl would not part with her short sword or the daggers stuck into her boots. Isabelle could hardly blame her.

  “You’ll do brilliant,” Patrick whispered behind them, briefly laying a hand on Helena’s shoulder. “As you always do. And we’ll be here waiting for you.”

  Helena twisted to look at him, a rare shadow of doubt passing over her features as she touched her fingers to his. But then the girl caught sight of Little grinning behind him in the stairwell and her scowl returned.

  “One word, Little, and you’ll need a funnel to pour your ale down your throat,” she said.

  Little shrugged, though he wiped the grin from his face. “Might be an improvement.”

  “Go, quickly,” Isabelle said. “The sisters will be back soon.”

  Helena nodded, dropping her head and muttering to herself as she scuttled across the walkway surrounding the grassy expanse of the cloister. Isabelle held her breath as the girl passed under the first archway, nearly barreling over a mercenary crossing through. He tilted his head, looking after Helena, and Patrick and Little pressed forward behind Isabelle, ready to step into the fray. But Isabelle held up her hand, staying their actions and her own heartbeat as the mercenary shook his head
and resumed his watch.

  A shadow passed along the wall only a second before another mercenary crossed the threshold to the stairwell, so close Isabelle could smell the rot of meat and wine on his breath. She flattened herself against the stones, closing her eyes and praying as hard as she could that he would not give the stairwell more than a cursory glance. Her heart thumped loud enough that it was all she could hear, obliterating even his footsteps, but several seconds passed and she wasn’t seized from her hiding spot.

  She opened her eyes with a sigh, the lingering scent drifting away as the man continued on his path. The relief lasted only a few seconds as the low rumble of speech reached her from somewhere beyond the stairwell. She couldn’t make out the words at first, but her stomach clenched at the undeniable tenor of suspicion in the voice.

  “—not a bloody farmer, woman,” he said, his words clipped and harsh. “You want a well fixed, fix it yourself. Get out of here.”

  Helena’s response was too low for Isabelle to make out the words, but she winced at the general tone. It sounded neither pious nor subservient. Patrick stiffened beside her.

  “What did you say to me?” the man’s voice rang out, clear and angry. He moved into view, and Isabelle leaned forward a hairsbreadth to catch sight of Helena. The girl stood under an archway, her head bowed but her shoulders raised, the mercenary between her and the stairwell. The man took another step forward, grabbing her roughly by the arm.

  “You sniveling little chit, I’ll teach you to show respect to your betters,” he said, drawing back as if to slap her. Helena’s hand flattened against the habit, where she wore her short sword, her fingers drawing the hem up to access the weapon. Patrick’s sword slithered loose of its scabbard, Adam and Little only a breath behind. Two more guards blocked Helena, their expressions hard and bleak. Isabelle’s heart slammed against her ribs.

  “Sister Helena!” she cried out in a shrill, nasally voice. It sounded tight and uncertain, and she forced that familiar note of pompous superiority into it. “What is taking so long? I requested water for our sisters in prayer. I did not intend you to fetch it from the river!”

  Helena’s head shot up in surprise, which one of the mercenaries mistook for guilt. He prodded her in the back, a grin spreading over his face. “You’re in for it now, lass.”

  “Sister Helena, have you gone dumb as well as deaf?” Isabelle continued in Sister Catherine’s voice. “Where is our water, please! The sisters are so parched Sister Margaret can hardly speak her prayers. Do not dillydally.”

  Helena muttered something that sounded like it was coming through her teeth, her shoulders still raised in a defensive posture.

  “What was that? Speak up, child, the Lord Almighty himself cannot hear you.”

  “I said the bucket is stuck,” Helena ground out.

  “The bucket is—oh, for heaven’s sake, Sister Helena, ask those fine gentlemen to help!”

  “I did,” Helena continued, her voice pitching higher. “They refused to help me.”

  “They would do no such thing, would you, gentlemen? We simply must have water for our sisters in prayer, I insist. Help Sister Helena with the bucket.”

  “That’s not our job, miss,” said one of the mercenaries, though he sounded doubtful of himself.

  “Yes, I see your job is to parade on an endless loop about my cloisters, disturbing the peace of all of us, causing a ruckus on holy grounds. And yet you cannot complete a simple task such as hauling up a pail of water? Shall I speak to your master about your manners?”

  Isabelle winced, worried she had gone too far with Sister Catherine’s admonishments. She held her breath in the small eternity of silence before the mercenaries spoke again.

  “No need for that, miss. We’ll help her fetch the water.”

  “Good,” Isabelle cried, her voice pitching even higher with relief. “Bring an extra bucket for our troubles, if you would.”

  The men grumbled, but they followed after Helena to the well on the far side. Little clapped Isabelle on the shoulder. “Bloody brilliant, sister.”

  “It is not over yet,” Isabelle murmured. “I still need to reach the chamber doors without being seen.”

  “Quick, before they get back,” said Adam.

  Isabelle nodded, the staccato pace of her heart sending energy thrumming along her nerve endings as she slipped out of the stairwell. Her mother was one unguarded door away, and all she had to do to reach her was move lighter and faster than air. Her blood hummed, fingers dancing in time to her heartbeat as she flew across the open space and pressed herself against the first stone pillar, the open air rushing past her as if to expose her. The shadows hung deep between each arch, the chamber doors seeming a mile away from where she crouched.

  She glanced back to the stairwell as Adam waved sharply toward the next pillar, signaling for her to move. She nodded and darted across, not even daring to breathe as she reached the arch. Another guard clomped by where she had stood seconds before, his heels thudding against the packed earth. She waited a few breaths before collecting herself, moving to the archway that stood before the chapter house door.

  Adam signaled again, and she sent a prayer into the heavens above as she closed the distance to the door, setting both hands on the heavy knob. It grated loudly as she turned it and the screech seemed to echo all around, but as she glanced back, it was obvious it had only sounded so deafening to her. She twisted the knob desperately and it gave way, the door shuddering open.

  She tumbled inside the room, throwing her body against the door to drive it shut again, the movement echoing. Three small windows let in only a smattering of light at the far end of the empty room, and it took several moments for her eyes to adjust. Something within her cringed at the impression of columns and benches along the walls, the site of so many of Sister Catherine’s cruel punishments for her. She preferred to castigate the novices in the chapter house as if she were the prioress herself. Isabelle shook off the specters of her past, moving beyond the first column as she pressed deeper into the room.

  “Mother?” she whispered as she moved. No sound greeted her, but she was not sure if that was a comfort or a concern. A narrow table lined the wall in the back of the chamber, where her mother would sit while the sisters made their confession, a collection of letters scattered across the surface. These letters were fresh, as was the single candle burning beside them and the block of sealing wax still partially melted. Maybe her mother was not in as much danger as she feared if they were allowing her correspondence. Still, there was no sign of her mother here. Where had they taken her?

  She hurried to the table, scanning the letters to search for any clue of her mother’s whereabouts, when the door behind her creaked open. She froze, caught out in the open with nowhere to hide as the door shut, trapping her with whoever had entered. She reached down to her boot, sliding Patrick’s knife from the top and gripping it tightly as she turned to face the intruder. But it was not a mercenary who greeted her with pinched lips and narrowed eyes.

  “Sister Catherine, what are you doing here?” Isabelle asked in disbelief, taking in the sister’s attire. “And why are you wearing my mother’s robes?”

  “Isabelle,” Sister Catherine said, her tone even more pinched in surprise. “I should ask what you are doing here in my chapter house.”

  Isabelle narrowed her gaze. “What do you mean, your chapter house? You are not the prioress.”

  Sister Catherine contemplated her for a moment, tapping her index finger against the length of the rosary she kept at her belt. She glanced at the letter Isabelle still held in her hand, her mouth tightening into a thin line. Isabelle crumpled the paper against her tunic protectively.

  “Much has happened since you were arrested for attacking that poor soldier carrying out his duty,” Sister Catherine said, sweeping across the room toward her.

  “Why are you wearing my mother’s robes?” Isabelle ground out again.

  Sister Catherine sniffed. “These are n
ot Marien’s robes anymore. They are mine now.”

  Isabelle pressed harder on the paper. “What do you mean?”

  “After you were arrested—”

  “For protecting the villagers of Kirklees,” Isabelle objected.

  “For shooting a soldier,” Sister Catherine said sharply. “The soldiers came here to speak to all of us. To find out if there were any more…renegade elements within our congregation.”

  “I am not—”

  “Do not interrupt,” Sister Catherine said sharply. “Marien refused them entry to the priory, which I told her would only anger the soldiers and bring them back in greater numbers. And of course, it did. They returned, with reinforcements.”

  The Wolf. She bit her tongue to stop from saying it aloud.

  “And then, when you disappeared from their custody, it was determined that your mother helped you escape.”

  “Why would anyone think that?”

  Sister Catherine tilted her head to Isabelle with a knowing look. “Well, it certainly was not any of us.”

  “No, it was not,” Isabelle said curtly.

  “The men arrested your mother, and the sisters needed a guiding light in her reckless absence. They elected me as prioress in her stead.”

  Isabelle shook her head. “You have always envied my mother’s position. Of course you would swoop in like a vulture the moment you saw an opportunity. These men are killers, Sister Catherine. And all you care about is gaining a title.”

  “How dare you speak to me in such a manner,” Sister Catherine said, drawing herself up. She gave Isabelle a withering look. “You cannot imagine what the sisters have been through because of you and your mother’s selfish actions. And now you come sneaking in, dressed like an absolute heathen, endangering the sisters once again. I should call the guards on you.”

  Isabelle pointed the knife at Sister Catherine. “You will not do anything of the sort.”