by Glenn Cooper
“I would like t’ go to the privy closet before I take my morning meal.”
The elderly nun seemed flustered and unsure of herself.
“I sent another girl there, did I not? You’re not supposed to see or speak to one another. Those are my instructions. Wait here till I come back for you.”
Sister Ingrid clopped down the hall in a trot, neglecting to shut or lock the door. From the far end of the dormitory Clarissa heard the sound of a woman crying. Gingerly, she stepped into the corridor to see if anyone was there. When she saw it empty, she began to creep toward the sorry sound.
Some of the doors along the way were closed but others were wide open. Peeking through the open ones she saw rooms identical to hers though unoccupied and unused. The crying grew louder as she approached the last door on her right. She put her head against the wood. A desperate sobbing filled her ear.
It was Fay, the turnip-nosed girl she thought she’d heard months ago. She was sure of it.
“Fay? Is that you?”
The crying abruptly stopped. Clarissa heard a muffled, “Who’s there?”
“It’s me, Clarissa.”
Fay said nothing.
“Can I come in?”
“The door’s locked!”
She looked down. There was a black key lodged in the lock. She glanced down the hall, turned the key, and slipped in.
Fay was sitting on her bed, alone, her eyes red as beets, tears still flowing despite her newly found quietude. But then the girl saw Clarissa’s pregnant belly and she started loudly bawling again.
“Fay,” Clarissa said, “what’s the matter?”
“They took him!”
“Who?”
“My baby!”
“Why?”
“He was finished suckling,” she sobbed, “so they said he was ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To be with his own kind.”
“What do you mean, his own kind?”
“You know. Deep in your heart, you know. What happened to me happened to you, didn’t it? You saw them down there in that horrible place.”
Clarissa had done her best to block that terrible day from her mind and concentrate on her gestating baby. But in her dreams—or nightmares—the smell of the catacombs, the rows of mute, pale, ginger-haired scribes, the shriveled old man who took her as if she were a farm beast—these things came to her in frightening sparks.
“They took your baby down there?” she asked.
Fay bit her lip and nodded.
“What will they do t’ him?”
“When he’s older and can grasp a quill, he will join the others. That’s what I’ve been told.”
“What do they do? What are they writing, anyhow?” Clarissa asked.
Fay went quiet again and wiped her face dry. “They’ll tell you when they take your baby away from you. Sister Sabeline told me because she said I’d done good, and they were going to have me do it again. As soon as I’m ready, I’m to go back to the catacombs. But before that, I’ll be able to see my son.” She sobbed anew. “I miss him so much! He was a quiet one. He wasn’t a smiley boy, but I know he loves his mummy.”
Clarissa was insistent. “Fay, I want you t’ tell me what it is they write.”
“It’s a secret. One that’s been passed along since the early days. Our sons are special-like. They have a gift that comes from God they say. They know when a person will be born and when that person will die. They write that down on parchment, and the monks bind the sheets into great books which they keep under the ground in a library. Our sons are blessed ones. They’re holy scribes.”
Clarissa shuddered. “There were some of ’em that were really old.” She thought of the one who violated her. “Do you mean t’ tell me they spend their whole lives under th’ ground?”
“I don’t know,” Fay said. “I think so.”
“Well, they’re not taking my baby away!” Clarissa declared. “They’re not!”
With that, Fay buried her face in her hands and cried a storm.
Clarissa backed away, and once in the hall, she locked Fay’s door again for both their sakes. Through an open door and through a window, she saw Sister Ingrid scurrying back to the dormitory.
In an instant, Clarissa made a decision. She removed the key from the latch of the open door and closed her fist around it. Then she ran back to her own room, shut the door behind her, and sat back upon her bed trying to compose herself.
Sister Hazel swung the door open, muttering, “Oh my! I left your door unlocked.”
“I did not notice, Sister,” Clarissa said. Just then she remembered the key in her fist.
“Well, it matters not. The privy closet is free now. Come with me, girl.”
Clarissa rose and pretended to swoon. Dropping to her knees she buried the key into the straw of her mattress.
“Heavens, child! Let me help you!” the nun said, grabbing her by the shoulders.
“It’s all right, Sister. The feeling has passed. I’m better already.”
From that moment a single thought would come to consume Clarissa’s every waking minute.
I will not give up me baby.
I will not give up me baby.
But who was she to stand up to the power of Sister Sabeline and perhaps the Abbot himself? She wasn’t even a nun. She was a lowly nonentity. A girl who was useful as a vessel, no more, no less.
And how would she escape from this fortress of an abbey? On an island. In a strange land. Her home far, far away. She could just as easily find the way to see the Pope in Rome as her own village. And if, by chance, she could overcome all these obstacles, how would she survive her journey without benefit of coin?
It was this last consideration she chose to dwell upon. While her father had never deigned to give her a shred of advice, she’d heard him wistfully say time and again how a purse filled with silver could solve any problem if only one would drop into his lap.
Where, she thought, would silver be kept at the Abbey? She’d seen some shiny altar objects at the cathedral, but these were impossibly out of reach. Then it dawned on her: perhaps the Abbot had items of finery and value at his own house.
An audacious plan began to brew in her head, and her desperation drove her to test it one ice-cold January morning well before the dawn. She always slept through the cathedral bells which rang at half past four to call the slumbering inhabitants of Vectis to Lauds, but this morning she awoke.
She prepared herself by lighting a stubby, thick walking candle from her ever-lit room candle. Then she waited until the bells chimed again to mark the beginning of the cathedral service. At the last peal she put her ear to the door, said a quick prayer, and placed her stolen key in the latch hole. She commenced wiggling it and rotating it to dislodge the key she knew was in the other side of the lock. When she heard it drop to the floor with a too-loud clang she got down to the business at hand.
She pushed the purloined key all the way into the mechanism and slowly turned it. There was a clunk as the bolt disengaged. The key worked! She was free!
The vaulted hall was black and deserted and her candle cast wild shadows. She tiptoed through the corridor and left the dormitory, emerging into an icy swirl of snow flurries. She knew the way to the abbot house well enough for it was by the cathedral. A waning half-moon showed itself through gaps in the clouds. She kept to the shadows of buildings and trees cupping the candle with her hand to hide its light from any stray soul who wasn’t in the cathedral and to prevent the wind from extinguishing it. She trod deliberately, wary of slipping on the sleety path. The thought of landing on her pregnant belly terrified her.
Her gown was not intended for inclement weather. She reached the abbot house shivering uncontrollably. Over the clattering of her teeth she heard the sweet chants emanating from the cathedral. Baldwin’s beautifully carved door yielded easily to her push, and, despite her fear of discovery, she was immediately comforted by the warmth of the fire blazing in the great h
earth of his reception chamber.
The fire burned so brightly she hardly needed her puny candle. The room was empty of people but not of objects. No, not of objects. It was replete with all manner of wondrous things: tapestries, colorful rugs, padded furniture, and achingly lovely paintings of Christ the Lord. And silver. Silver candlesticks and plates, and a great silver crucifix on one wall half the size of a man.
In a moment of madness she imagined staying, warming herself thoroughly, immersing herself for a while in the finery of the place. But she shook off the folly and left. She had accomplished her task. She found that the abbot did indeed have silver. Now she only needed to retrace her steps and return to her bedchamber undetected.
Clarissa bided her time, waiting for her courage to build and for the night sky to be moonless. She kept to her routine, doing her ablutions, eating as much as she could for the sake of the baby, and engaging in prayer and meditation. But the nature of her prayers changed. She was no longer reciting her memorized scriptures and psalms; she was praying for the precious life growing within her.
I will not give up me baby.
The month of January passed, and February was upon them. By night, Clarissa kept two blankets over her for warmth and by day wrapped herself in one of them as she paced her room. The purloined key was secreted in her mattress. She didn’t think its absence had caused a problem. The day after she stole it another had taken its place. Sister Hazel, absentminded as she was, had probably thought that she herself had misplaced it.
At night, when she visited the privy closet, she took note of the state of the moon. She reckoned that in less than one week, on the twelfth day of February, the moon would be dark. That would be her night.
Leaving the outhouse one night she saw Sister Hazel escorting a new girl by the arm. But it was more than escorting; it was far rougher treatment. The girl was crying and struggling, looking like she might break and run. Clarissa made eye contact with the girl—strong contact. The two of them seemed to stop time and bond in wordless communication.
The girl—no more than sixteen—had small, delicate features, a perfect chin, high cheekbones, and pearl white skin. Her eyes were moist and acutely sad, seemingly calling to Clarissa to come to her aid.
Time unfroze and Clarissa passed by.
Back in the dormitory Clarissa recognized the new girl’s room by its open door and unmade bed. She resolved to pay her a nocturnal visit.
That very night she used her stolen key to go to her. As quietly as she could, she unlocked the girl’s door and entered.
The girl was awake, propped up high in her bed, illuminated well enough by the candle on her nightstand for Clarissa to see she looked like a frightened, motherless fawn.
Clarissa put her finger to her lips and hushed her. “Don’t be scared. I’m just down the hall.”
“How did you get out of your room?” the girl asked.
“Promise not t’ tell?”
The girl nodded.
“I stole a key. I can come and go as I please,” she declared proudly. “As long as I’m right careful. What’s your name?”
“Elizabeth.”
“I’m Clarissa.”
“You’re with child,” Elizabeth said.
“Well along. Two months to go, maybe three.”
“How did it happen?” Elizabeth asked.
Clarissa hesitated at that. The girl looked too petrified to tell her the truth. “The usual way these things happen.”
“Did they take you down to the crypts?”
“How do you know of that!” Clarissa exclaimed, catching herself speaking too loudly.
“Other girls were talking. They’d heard of dark doings in such a place though none had ever gone there.”
“I can attest that it exists, but more than that I won’t say,” Clarissa said.
Elizabeth responded to her admission by crying. Clarissa sat upon her bed and offered the comfort of a held hand.
Suddenly, Elizabeth staunched her tears, and asked, “This key of yours. Can you use it to give me the pleasure of stealing a few moments of company with another?”
“Who?” Clarissa asked.
“A young monk. His name is Luke.”
Clarissa was stunned. “What will you do with this monk?”
“Do? Nothing but talk, though I think I may love him. We have seen each other time to time on the abbey grounds and have exchanged but a few words. But I can tell he is smitten by me, and I myself have an ache in my heart I can only believe is love. I will ask him to take me away from this place. I do not want to suffer your fate, Clarissa.”
“My fate,” Clarissa repeated softly, dropping Elizabeth’s hand and rubbing her own pregnant belly. “I am not altogether a servant to my fate. They aim to take my baby away from me when he is born and suckled. I will not let that happen. I aim to leave this place too.”
“And go where?”
“Home. In the north country. Cumberland.”
Elizabeth grabbed her hand back. “Will you help me, dear Clarissa? Will you help me see my Luke?”
Clarissa said nothing while pondering the matter. Finally, she answered, “In five days time, when the moon is dark, I will be leaving here. I’ll give you my key then, and you may do with it as you want.”
Elizabeth grabbed Clarissa’s hand again and squeezed it so hard it ached. “You’re like an angel who’s come to me in my hour of need.”
“I’m no angel. I’m just a lass like you who wants t’ go home.”
On the twelfth of February, the night was dark, cold, and cloudy. Clarissa made her final preparations and waited for the cathedral bells to summon all worshippers to the cathedral.
For the past week she’d been requesting extra food and had hidden nonperishables like dried fruit and hard bread in a kerchief, which she stashed under her mattress. When the dormitory was quiet and locked, she bundled the foodstuffs into her spare blanket. Rolled with its ends tied together, it made a fine across-the-chest shoulder bag to hold provisions and booty for her journey.
When the bells rang she waited just long enough for worship to begin. Then, clutching her small candle, she used her key to free herself for the last time.
Quiet as a flea, she unlocked a door down the hall and entered Elizabeth’s room. The pretty girl was waiting for her, fully dressed. “You came!”
“I told you I would. Now, take my key. I’ll lock you in when I leave but use the key to let yourself out. I beg you t’ wait for a good while before you exit. In case you’re caught, say nothing about me and tell them you stole th’ key. I must have time to get off th’ isle. Will you promise?”
“I’ll do as you ask, dear Clarissa.”
“You’ll meet your young monk then?”
“In the stables. I managed to speak to him this afternoon when I went outside to the privy closet. He was waiting nearby in case I emerged. Blessedly, Sister Hazel was attending to another girl with a fever.”
Clarissa embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Then good luck to you, Elizabeth. Be careful. I wish you a long and happy life.”
“And I wish you the same. I will pray you make it home safely.”
Clarissa patted her tense belly. “I beg you to pray that both of us make it home safely.”
Clarissa crept from the dormitory and followed the rehearsed route to the abbot house, where she found everything exactly as it had been during her scouting mission. She helped herself to a pair of silver candlesticks and a silver plate, its rim encrusted with jewel stones. She could not and dared not take more. Her blanket bag was now considerably heavier as she slipped from the abbot house and made her way to the main abbey gate.
She quenched her candle and let her eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. Through the predawn murk she could see the rudiments of the great iron portcullis that secured the entry arch. She prayed the gate was unattended, but if not, her plan was to heave a stone and hope a dim-witted gatekeeper went looking for the source of the noise.
As it happened, the gate was not attended but that created a different problem, one Clarissa had not anticipated. The iron portcullis grate was fully lowered. How would she ever pass? Certainly, she was in no condition to climb over!
Tucked against one of the archway pillars was an iron ratchet wheel. Her heart was beating out of her chest as she grabbed the cranking handle and turned it. With all her weight into it, the wheel moved and ratcheted a turn. The grate raised a mite.
It seemed she’d be able to manage the infernal machine but it wouldn’t do to run off with the gate left open. Someone would notice, and she’d be caught!
An idea came to her which immediately she ascribed to God’s helping hand. A dried branch lay nearby, blown from a tree overhanging the abbey wall. She took the branch and commenced ratcheting the wheel again until the gate was lifted just enough for her to be able to slither underneath on her back. With her shoulder pressing hard against the crank shaft she slid the branch between the ratchet and the nearest tooth of the wheel. When the branch was in place she eased her shoulder off the shaft and heard cracking as the weight of the ratchet crushed the tree limb. But it held the gate in position.
Quickly she got to the ground, lay on her back and with sandaled feet, pushed herself under the portcullis with the terrifying cracking and popping sound of a pinched branch in her ears. If it fell, her baby would be the first to be pierced, and both of them would die a sad, painful death.
Mercifully, she cleared the gap and rose triumphantly at the other side of the abbey wall. Then with all the strength in her body she pulled down on the grate with both hands and hung from it.
There was a snap and the branch gave way, followed by a ground-shaking thud as the portcullis slammed shut.
She turned her back on Vectis Abbey and looked for the path to the ferry.
Horses shuffled and whinnied when Luke, a brawny young monk, came into the stables. It was black and cold, and he was frightened by his own boldness for even being there. “Hello?” he called out in a half whisper. “Is anybody here?”
A small voice answered, “I’m here, Luke. At the end.”
Luke used the slice of moonlight penetrating the open stable door to find her. Elizabeth was in the stall of a large bay mare, huddling beside its belly for warmth.
