The Highlander’s Dilemma

by Emilia Ferguson

  Thoughts of brigands, outlaws, footpads and other desperate men overwhelmed her. She heard the crack of a twig near the path and sprang ahead, running along the path. Footsteps. Someone is following me.

  Heart thumping in her chest, she ran along the road. Then something hit her from behind and she screamed. The blow repeated, making her vision break into dancing stars.

  “Hey, look! It's a girl!” a coarse voice shouted. An answering whoop went up from near her shoulder. She tried to sit up, but her head was aching and she was tired, so tired. She closed her eyes.

  Then everything went black.

  When she awoke, an age later, it was because a sound had woken her. She lay with her eyes shut, listening for it. Singing. Singing wove around her head and as she breathed in, she smelled the sharp, clean smell of lavender and the smell of frankincense.

  Leona moved cautiously, feeling something soft below her. She was warm and covered with a coverlet. She smiled. The harmonies grew and wove around her, the sweet dulcet tones of a hymn.

  I'm dead. I'm dead and in heaven. Those are angels.

  She smiled again and stretched, sitting up. If she was dead, then Conn would be here too. She was reunited with him again. She recalled the thugs in the forest, shuddering. She was safe now. Safe and beyond all danger. She opened her eyes.

  She was in a whitewashed room, the light filtering through a single window high in the wall. The bed linen was plain and white, the roof vaulted. A crucifix, plain and unadorned, was fixed to the wall. She smelled lavender and heard a rustle of robes.

  “Welcome, daughter,” a gentle voice said in French. “I am Sister Ignatia. This is the convent of the Poor Clares in Bois. Welcome. A farmer found you in the woods, unconscious. He brought you here. I am so glad you've come back to us from the realms of death.”

  Leona closed her eyes. She was not, after all, in heaven. She was in the village of Monte Boise, in a convent. She closed her eyes, feeling a dull thud of despair. She was not dead. Conn was not here.

  She shivered, remembering the woods, the men shouting, and the terror. What happened to me?

  The nun smiled at her softly, seeing the spasm of terror, it seemed. “Whatever happened in the past, you are safe now, my child,” she whispered. “All past sins are cleansed from you when you enter these precincts and ask for forgiveness.”

  Leona nodded dully. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Because she was a fallen woman now. Whatever those thugs had done to her, the nun seemed to think she had a need to be forgiven. Her body felt bruised and shaky and she wanted to die, thinking that those men had violated her.

  I am a thing of shame.

  She curled up and wept. Sister Ignatia sat with her and tried to comfort her, and when she shook her head, refusing to be comforted, the kind woman sat back and prayed. Leona let the Latin words flow over her, a cleansing benediction. She knew enough French to almost understand.

  Lord, cleanse away our sister's shame and let her come to us renewed and whole.

  Leona closed her eyes and added her own prayer to the holy sister's words. Lord, let me put all this behind me. Let me find a new life.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ARRIVAL IN A VILLAGE

  ARRIVAL IN A VILLAGE

  The cart rolled on and on through the trees, its motion jolting Conn and setting him into an uneasy sleep.

  “Welcome, son, to the village of Monte Bois.”

  Conn blinked sleepily at the priest, who sat at the reins of the cart, talking in the same soothing monotone in which he had been talking all day. Conn shook his head, trying to force himself to wake up and stay focused on the holy man's words. “Monte Bois?” he asked. “We're here?”

  “Yes,” the priest replied, smiling at him. “Since you've missed most of the journey, I shall have to explain. Following my delay at Annecy, I decided it would be prudent to take a detour through the hills to reach Cleremont faster. We will stop here for some repast, and then continue until nightfall. I will leave you at an inn on the road to Cleremont.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Conn agreed. “And I'm sorry I was asleep.” He blinked, amazed at himself. The night out in the woodlands must have left him more exhausted than he thought.

  The priest smiled. “Not at all, my son. I trust that, had brigands set upon us, you would have sprung into action. This road has become extremely dangerous. The Comte does not manage the woodlands as he should and there are many outlaws, alas. My fellow priest, here in Bois, does his best with them. We are almost at the abbey. You will meet him soon...”

  Conn let himself be soothed by the priest's reassuring voice as the cart rattled and jolted down the roadway through the forest and into a small village. He barely noticed the village, before they were heading up the other side of the valley, climbing until they reached a great, low stone building with a church beside it.

  “Here we are. This is a Franciscan abbey,” the priest explained. “My sister has taken orders with the Poor Clares, and the convent is adjacent to where the holy brothers stay.” He and Conn jumped down from the cart, handing the reins to a brown-clad monk who greeted the priest warmly. “Her name is Sister Marcia now. I will visit her later. If you follow me through to the refectory, we might be in time to dine.”

  Conn nodded, and followed the priest into the low, crumbling brick building. The smell of baking bread assailed his senses as they moved down the winding corridors, making his mouth water. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to restrain the urge to go straight to where the food was.

  “Ah, Father Antoine!”

  “Father Tobias.” Conn's companion greeted the shorter priest fondly, and then lapsed into rapid French, gesturing at Conn and then back to himself, his long, knotty fingers eloquent as they conversed together. At length he turned to Conn. “My brother in Christ greets you. He invites us to share the evening meal.”

  “Thanks be to God,” Conn said feelingly.

  The priests smiled at him beatifically and they all made their way through to the refectory. Father Antoine explained that he would go and visit his sister before the evening prayers, leaving Conn momentarily stranded. Left without his ability to converse, Conn smiled mutely at the monks who sat opposite him, who smiled uncertainly back.

  He bit into the bread and smiled, a gesture which made the monks grin happily.

  “Good,” Conn enthused.

  “Est bien?”

  “Good,” Conn enunciated. “Very good.” He patted his belly and the monks all laughed. Conn was just getting into an animated, if completely silent, discussion about farming turnips, when the priest returned.

  “Ah, my young friend. My sister reports a miracle!”

  “Oh?” Conn stared.

  “Yes!” the priest said. He looked awed. “Just a few hours before our arrival, a farmer came to the convent. He had with him a woman, grievously injured. She was too injured to speak at first, but, when my sister inquired as to her story, it came to light that she was one of your countrymen. Could this be the cousin that you seek?”

  Conn stared at the priest. Leona? Here? Was it possible? “Father?” he asked tentatively.

  “Yes, my son?”

  “Your sister...did she mention the name of the young woman?”

  “No, my son,” the man shook his head. “It seemed the woman did not give her name. Forgive me this ill news, but my sister confided that the girl is much...affected. It seems her memory is gone. She has no knowledge of her identity or immediate past. My sister only knows she is of your kind because she spoke in Gaelic a little.”

  Conn stared at the man. He felt like someone had bludgeoned him in the chest, breaking his heart. “What? Father! Is she hurt? Ill?”

  “I don't know, son,” the priest said softly. His thin, bony hand covered Conn's. “Let us eat now. Then my sister will bring her to speak with you. You cannot enter the convent, but Marcia will bring her to the garden. It is warm enough to converse outside, praise God.”

  “Ame
n,” Conn echoed dully. If this broken, confused woman was Leona, what had happened to her? Had the count harmed her?

  If he has driven Leona mad, I'll kill him.

  After what seemed an interminable time, the priest stood, thanked his brothers, and tapped Conn on the shoulder. “Come, my son. Mayhap you will help this woman. None of us speaks Gaelic. Hearing it may awaken her memory.”

  “Mayhap,” Conn agreed quietly. He followed him through a door. They found themselves in a fragrant garden.

  “Wait here, son.”

  Conn stood under the apple trees, chafing at the delay. Then he heard a footfall on the grass.

  A young woman stood before him. She wore a long white shift and her hair was hidden below a veil. She looked at the ground, hands clasped before her. Then she looked up at his face.

  It was Leona.

  Conn's heart flopped over. He smiled, elation firing his veins “Leona?” he breathed. “My dearest. It's me!”

  Leona looked at him blankly. “Comment to t'appelles?” she said in French. She stepped back, fear in her blue eyes.

  Conn stared at her. “Leona?”

  Behind her, he heard a woman cough. Saw a nun, clad in a gray habit, look worriedly at him. She shook her head, closing her eyes sadly.

  “Leona,” Conn whispered. “Do you not know me?”

  “Pardon?” The woman, who was Leona, but not her, replied. “Je comprends pas.” Her voice was flat.

  The nun shrugged despairingly. Stepped forward. Patted her shoulder. “Bien, bien.” She made small soothing noises, taking her hand.

  Nodding a farewell, the holy sister turned away and led her, stiff-legged and reluctant, back into the abbey, cooing as if to a small baby.

  Conn staggered back. Sat down heavily on a bench. Breathed in fragrant herbs and covered his face. “She does not know me.”

  He sobbed. The woman he saw was as beautiful as porcelain. She was his Leona. However, she had frozen inside, the shock and terror robbing her of her wits. It had taken her away, leaving her a fragile vessel, empty of the soul that had made her who she was. She was in another world, beyond his reach.

  Conn sat in the garden sobbing. When the priest came to find him he stared at him, cheeks wet with tears. “She doesn't know me,” he said, his voice small, uncomprehending. “It is her. My kinswoman; Leona. It is her. But she knew me not at all.”

  The priest sat down beside Conn, taking his hands in his own. “I am sorry, my son,” he said softly. “But she is safe here, and well cared for. Perhaps it is for the best that she does not know you. Perhaps it is the will of God that she stay here and become a holy sister. His ways are mysterious, and He led her hear for a reason, of that I am quite sure. Come. Let us pray.”

  Conn closed his eyes and let the soft, familiar Latin of the Lord's Prayer wash around him. He breathed in fragrant herbs, rich earth, and the dew of evening and wished that words could wash clean his soul.

  He had found Leona. However, he was too late. She had already gone away from him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A NEW IDENTITY

  A NEW IDENTITY

  “Marjorie?”

  Leona blinked where she sat before a loom, and then turned, remembering the name the kind sister Marcia had given her. “Yes?”

  “Ah! You are doing good weaving. Good!” she indicated the loom, smiling encouragingly.

  Leona smiled back hesitantly. “Thank you.”

  “If you can finish another two cloths like that, we shall not want for swaddling for the poor infants this month. Bless you, Marjorie.” she encouraged.

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  “Not at all.”

  Leona smiled again as the woman patted her shoulder fondly, then walked out again, leaving the scent of herbs from the still room behind her. Leona shook her head at herself, chidingly.

  Having to lie to the nuns, pretending to have forgotten her whole past, was wearing on her. I wish I did not have to fool them. But how could I know they would bring Conn here? I had to pretend.

  She had known it was Conn. Of course she had! She screwed her eyes tight, stopping the tears as she recalled him. Seeing the sadness in him was the most terrible thing she had seen.

  I tortured him by pretending not to know him. It was cruel. Nevertheless, she had to do it. She could not go back. Her happy life with Conn had been crushed that day on the road.

  If I married him after...after what those brigands have done...I couldn't forgive myself.

  The thought of what must have happened when she was unconscious haunted her. She had been told by Sister Allectia that she had been brought in, wounded and half-dressed, by a farmer. Though she had said little more, the implications had been there. She might have dismissed the idea had not her courses been missed this month. They should have arrived on the day she had come here. However, she had been here a week now, and there was no sign of them. She might be with child.

  It was a frightening, awful thought. Or it would be, anywhere but here. The nuns will care for me.

  Sister Marcia had all but adopted her. They all believed her half-crazy, but all the sisters treated her with a distracted gentleness that moved her. If she were to have a child, they knew her story. She thought that they would understand. Her child would have a home among the orphans the sisters cared for.

  Perhaps I could take holy orders. Stay here with them forever. Help the poor, like they do.

  It was a pleasant thought. Here, she could start her life anew and find meaning in it through dedicating herself to serving the poor. Perhaps the good sisters were right in saying she had been led to their door for a good reason. They already said her gifts for weaving and sewing were a blessing to their work.

  “Marjorie?” a voice said. She looked up to find Sister Marcia there with a younger woman at her elbow, dressed in the gray habit of the order. Sister Marcia and the young nun were smiling at her kindly.

  “Yes?”

  “Marjorie,” Sister Marcia said gently, “this is Sister Florentia. I said you would teach her to sew. Your young eyes are much keener than mine, and I think you have a greater gift than I do.”

  Leona smiled. “Thank you, Sister.” She looked at the earnest, pretty face of the young nun beside her and decided she liked her already. “Come, Sister,” she said, moving up on the bench where she sat. “Let me show you.”

  “Thank you,” the young nun breathed.

  “Not at all,” Leona murmured.

  As they worked, Florentia chattered to Leona. She was the daughter of a merchant before she came here, she explained. After traveling with him and seeing the desperately poor people in the cities they visited, she had decided to follow a path of service to the destitute and sick. She was learning about herbs from Sister Marcia, and spent all her time in the still-room with her and Sister Allectia.

  “...And why Sister Marcia thinks I should learn to sew, I have no idea,” she said stubbornly. “It has little application to nursing the sick!”

  Leona laughed. “Perhaps she wants you to take time away from the still-room?”

  “Mayhap!” Florentia giggled. “I never thought of that. I'm glad I met you.”

  “Me too.”

  They sat sewing in silence. Leona watched her stitches carefully, noting that there was some improvement already since the lesson had begun.

  “I understand you have no memory of your past,” Sister Florentia asked after a while.

  “I have...snatches,” Leona hedged, not wanting to lie in a holy place.

  “I imagine you were a fine lady somewhere,” Sister Florentia beamed. “In a big castle, with servants and knights to do as you bid them. And lovely dresses and a horse to ride! Where else did you learn to sew so finely?”

  Leona smiled. “Mayhap, Sister.” She bit her lip. The young nun had come closer to the truth than she would ever have suspected.

  “It's fun to imagine,” Sister Florentia said. “You are good to imagine stories about.”

 
Leona laughed. “Thank you. I think.” She made a wry face.

  Sister Florentia giggled. “I'm glad I had to learn to sew. Or I wouldn't have met you.”

  “I'm glad too,” Leona agreed.

  Leona wondered as they sat together in friendly silence if that had not been the good sister's intention all along. She had probably seen that Florentia could bring her out of her silence, while she could help to ground the otherwise easily-distracted Florentia.

  I am starting to like this place.

  Listening to Florentia's happy voice as she described a nettle rinse for infections of the eye, Leona found herself feeling a deep contentment such as she had never felt before. Surrounded by women who seemed eager to be friends, she realized that she had missed the company of other women her own age all her life.

  I wonder if I could stay?

  The days blended in a seamless pattern: morning prayers, breakfast, gardening. Sewing, prayers and luncheon. Sewing, visits to the poor, more prayers, dinner and bed. Every day rolled seamlessly into another and, by the end of a week, Sister Marcia asked Leona a question. “Marjorie, if you would like it, you could take orders. Become a nun, like us. Stay here and serve the poor. Would you like that?”

  Leona closed her eyes, thinking a moment. To her surprise, her heart was torn. While part of her missed her home and would give almost anything to return to it, there was part of her that knew it was impossible. She craved the peace and harmony of this life. “I would like a day to think about it, Sister,” she said softly.

  Sister Marcia's soft face spread into a happy smile. “Of course, Marjorie. Take as long as you wish. We will not do any ordaining of anyone until next week at the earliest. Take your time.”

  Leona nodded. “Thank you, Sister.”

  They silently went off to dinner together.

  Dusk was settling on the abbey lands and Conn breathed in the scent of dew on wet grass, and then hefted the mallet he held.

  A few more blows and this fencepost will stay put.