by Jill Morrow
“Julia,” Kat continued, “you said you knew for a moment what the other girl knew. Do you remember any of it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Think. Where were you?”
“It’s like a dream…”
“Where were you?” Kat made no effort to hide her urgency.
“England,” Julia said, surprised. “Lincoln, England.”
Lincoln. That sounded familiar. Stephen’s eyebrows rose as he remembered why. “That’s where Frannie went on her last trip. Didn’t she say that she felt Asteroth there?”
“Who’s Asteroth?” Julia asked, but Kat ignored the question and plowed ahead.
“Where in Lincoln?” she demanded.
“Um…a priory. I guess that’s sort of like a convent, right? It’s called Saint Etheldreda’s. Isobel hates it.”
“Isobel?”
“That’s the girl’s name. Isobel. She has fifteen summers.”
Kat frowned a little as she processed the archaic age reference. “What year does Isobel live in, Julia?”
Julia turned pink. “This can’t be right, Mom. I must be making this up somehow. I keep thinking that the year is 1360.”
Stephen’s stomach turned. “He’s there, then,” he whispered. “In the flesh. Made physical in fourteenth-century England.”
“But how?” Kat stared into space, apparently searching for a more effective line of questioning. “Julia. Tell me about the man you saw with Isobel.”
Julia fidgeted as she turned an even deeper shade of pink. “Mom, maybe I’m just coming down with something. This stuff can’t mean anything. It’s like astrology. Right?”
“Spill it, Julia.”
Julia threw her father a beseeching look.
Sometimes Kat’s tenacity drove Stephen nuts. He himself had been fairly hard-nosed when younger, willing to drive any point home if it could benefit him in some way. Age had mellowed him, however. It seemed to him now that not every situation came equipped with an answer and that some circumstances even required a bit of slack. Here they sat, drilling their daughter over admittedly upsetting events. Part of him longed to commiserate with Julia, to wrap her in his arms and carry her as far away from Baltimore as possible. He knew in his heart, though, that there was no running from Asteroth.
He would not get the “favorite parent” award tonight.
“Answer your mother,” he said.
Defeated, Julia returned her gaze to the floor. “His name is Hugh.”
“Hugh?” Kat pulled back, momentarily derailed by an unexpected response.
“Isobel’s in love with him,” Julia added faintly.
Even Stephen could tell that there was much more to the story. “And…?”
Julia squirmed. “You know, Dad. She’s hot for him.”
Stephen recoiled a bit, not sure that he wanted to know exactly what that phrase meant to his thirteen-year-old daughter.
Fortunately, Kat did not share his squeamishness. “How does Hugh feel about Isobel?” she asked.
Julia’s shoulders slumped as she averted her eyes. “Isobel thinks he likes her because he’s all over her every chance he gets.”
Stephen swallowed, then managed to meet his wife’s gaze. She, too, understood that most of the story rested in what Julia did not say. Obviously, Isobel’s sexual experiences had gone far beyond Julia’s readiness to absorb them.
A revolting thought crossed Stephen’s mind. “Kat. Is Hugh—”
She nodded.
“Then—”
“—there’s more to it than we know,” Kat finished for him. “And I don’t think we have much time.”
Stephen flopped back onto the bed. “We need Frannie,” he said, staring at the ceiling. “We need her more than we’ve ever needed anyone in our lives.”
Julia’s head shot up. “She’s there.”
Stephen raised himself up on his elbows. “Where?”
“I think she’s at Saint Etheldreda’s. Isobel heard Hugh say something to someone named Francesca, but she didn’t see anyone.”
“How did Aunt Frannie get there?” Kat asked.
“I don’t know.” Julia licked her lips.
“What we really need to know is how to get her back,” Stephen said glumly.
“I don’t know that, either,” Julia said. “What is going on? I don’t understand any of this.”
Footsteps clattered up the stairs, shattering the surrounding silence.
“Claire!” Kat jumped up. “I can’t believe I forgot about her.”
Sure enough, Claire’s tousled head peeked around the doorframe.
“Are we ever going to eat?” she asked. “I’m hungry. Isn’t the pasta ready yet?”
Stephen made himself sit up. “I’m sorry, honey. I forgot about the pasta. I’ll be down in a few minutes to throw it into the pot.”
Claire’s lower lip protruded. “Everybody always forgets about me,” she said. “I’m starving, here.”
“Give me a break.” Julia scowled. “Sometimes there are more important things to do than eat.”
Claire could never stay angry for long. She galloped over to her sister, wedging herself between Julia and Kat as if that space were her reserved seat.
“Did you go back to that place, Julie?” she asked, face aglow. “Did I miss us talking about it?”
Julia’s fingers worked through a lock of hair. “It’s nothing, Claire, okay?”
“No, wait.” Kat raised a hand. “We’re a team. Besides, I’m starting to think that the two of you hold different pieces to this puzzle. Claire, this place where Aunt Frannie is…what if I told you that it was England?”
Claire’s face brightened. “Cool! I thought it felt different.”
Stephen reached out and drew her between his knees. “Not just England, Claire, but England over six hundred years ago.”
His daughter processed the information for a moment, then grinned. “Double cool,” she said.
“You are so bogus!” Julia exploded. “As if you know anything about this stuff!”
Once again, Kat interceded with a firm hand on Julia’s shoulder. She stood and turned to face her younger daughter.
“Here’s what I’m wondering, Claire,” she said, shrugging her shoulders as she fought for nonchalance. “I’m wondering how Aunt Frannie got there.”
Claire cocked her head and studied the ceiling. “That’s an easy one, Mommy.”
Kat blinked. “It is?”
“Sure.” Claire rose from the bed, tugging at Stephen’s hand in an effort to make him follow. “She took a bridge. Come on, Daddy. My stomach’s growling.”
“A bridge?” Kat repeated, confused.
Stephen allowed his eight-year-old to pull him toward the door. Claire’s thoughts had obviously flitted to other topics. She was chattering about some sort of math homework that she wanted him to see. He glanced at Julia, who still looked pale and shaken. Kat had moved to her side. She gripped Julia’s hand tightly, her mind clearly straining to fit this latest clue into the story.
A bridge.
Stephen tried to catch his wife’s attention as Claire led him through the bedroom door. Somewhere deep inside his being, Claire’s words made perfect sense.
If he only knew why.
19
ISOBEL PLUNGED HER NEEDLE INTO THE WHITE CLOTH stretched taut across her embroidery hoop. If she tried very hard, she could almost block Dame Margaret’s nasal drone from her ears. A warm breeze floated through the window, urging her to fling her sewing to the ground and run outside. Adventure seemed possible today, for she’d encountered Hugh twice that morning. Twice! And, as if that wasn’t portentous enough, he’d actually seemed pleased to see her. A delightful shiver enveloped her, lifting her spirits from the damp priory chamber where she and the two other novices stitched away under Margaret’s gimlet glare.
The first encounter with Hugh had come about quite innocently. He had been sitting outside the guesthouse when the novices dragged out the priory
bedclothes for airing. He’d been whittling, his long fingers nimble as they turned the small piece of wood over and over in his hand. She’d smiled. He’d smiled back, an unusually wide grin that had made her heart sing. She’d sent a sidelong sneer toward Elinor and Anne beside her. Surely they’d noticed the exchange. Ever obedient, they’d turned their eyes to the sheets as if sheets were all they needed for eternal happiness.
Then, as if that one chance meeting had not been enough to rekindle all hope, Isobel had seen Hugh again on her way to the chapel for Divine Office. Of course, she shouldn’t have noticed him at all. Her eyes should have been fixed on the ground before her, a fact she remembered when Dame Margaret dug a bony elbow into her ribs. Still, all the jabs in the world could not deny his presence. He’d peered through the fence balustrade as if just waiting for her. She’d managed to send him a radiant smile before Dame Margaret hustled her away.
A day had passed since the odd intrusion of the dark-haired girl. Isobel was inclined to believe that she’d conjured that meeting in the half-awake hour before dawn. It made no sense within the waking world. Besides, here were shared glances with Hugh, glances that seemed bursting with hope that had not existed in the meadow of her dream.
Her embroidery needle stopped. A sigh escaped as the heady scent of wild roses wafted past her nostrils. Oh, to be away from this stone-cold place, gathering up wildflowers to bring home to her beloved!
“Well, then.” Dame Margaret’s voice cut through her reverie. “Have we nothing left to stitch today, Isobel?”
Isobel narrowed her eyes. How stupid her father had been to ever believe she possessed mystical powers. Had she possessed any magic at all, Dame Margaret would now lie in a crumpled heap at her feet.
She shifted in her chair, pointedly ignoring Margaret’s gaze. The other novices stitched away, reddened cheeks the only sign that they dreaded a battle. Elinor’s neck remained rigid as she bent diligently over her needlework. Nervous and stringy, she was a terrible seamstress. She was, however, so docile and obedient that nobody in the priory seemed to care. It was always, “Why can’t every novice be like dear Elinor?” Anne was a different story. It pleased Isobel to know that, in due time, Anne would brew her own amount of difficulty. She was pretty and round, with the desire to believe every word she was told. Girls such as Anne had served Isobel’s family for years. The combination of ripe body and slow mind always led to babies. Had Isobel a voice, she might have pointed this out to her aunt Alys long ago.
Of course, Dame Margaret had made it clear that the time to tell Madame Alys anything at all had passed. Margaret’s step had grown quick and determined since the day Alys had taken to her bed. The mistress of novices was everywhere now, poking her beaky nose into every nook of the priory, from kitchen to chapel. She’d even taken to carrying about Alys’s large ring of keys, a sure sign that she’d elected herself acting prioress of Saint Etheldreda.
Isobel wrinkled her nose. The sheer gall of that withered hen ever supposing that she could replace Madame Alys!
The girl straightened with surprise. When had she become loyal to her aunt? Perhaps blood ties were stronger than she’d thought.
“Return to your needlework, Isobel,” Dame Margaret said sharply.
If that was the only way to gain silence, then Isobel would do it. But, oh, the boredom of it all. She gazed down at the crumpled cloth in her hand. Her fingers felt blunt and clumsy these days. No color-drenched pictures came to life beneath them. She’d always been an adequate needlewoman, but she sorely missed the effortless inspiration she’d possessed for too short a time.
Dame Margaret snorted. “Much will change now that I am in command.”
Isobel’s head shot up. She willed one of the girls beside her to ask exactly who had placed this worm in command, but although Elinor’s cheeks grew even redder, neither of the novices bothered to look up from her work. They were no better than the great fat cows of the Lowlands, who thought of nothing beyond their next cud.
Margaret met Isobel’s narrow-eyed challenge. “Yes, Isobel. I have placed myself in authority. Someone must act. Alys spends her days abed, and Father Gregory is too concerned with her illness to recognize that someone must set things to right here.” Although the day was warm, she drew her cloak tightly about her thin body. “This is long overdue. I can finally return Saint Etheldreda to God’s fold.”
Isobel knew that it would be in her best interests to feign agreement, but she could not. Her gaze hardened into a glare. Her mouth pursed in disgust.
Dame Margaret sniffed. “You have reason to fear me.”
Isobel flinched, furious that her anger might have been misinterpreted as fear.
Dame Margaret’s voice rose. “You and I both know that you have no vocation. You are with us because you were born to wealth and because you are kin to Alys. But no doubt about it, you are foul to your core, a rotten apple set to spoil the whole barrel. You have perhaps clouded your aunt’s vision, but I am made of stronger fabric. You will not run amok in our priory, making sport with our boarders and mockery of our vows. We need boarders, God help us. Poverty cannot be choosy. But you, my dear, are expendable. You can rot in the cellar if that is what becomes necessary to cleanse this priory of your sin.”
Isobel’s needle shook with the trembling of her hand. She aimed its point at Margaret’s midsection, ready to express her rage with action since words could not come.
Incredibly enough, words did come.
“Gracious,” someone said in cool, measured tones. “Dame Margaret, such bile cannot possibly benefit the balance of your humours.”
Margaret’s gasp hung on the air. The novices looked up. Madame Alys stood in the doorway, a stately vision in emerald green velvet. The paleness of her skin only emphasized her glittering gray eyes. Elinor and Anne straightened as one on their hard wooden stools. Dame Margaret blinked rapidly. Isobel watched her neck quiver with each gulp.
Alys reached out her hand. Each long, elegant finger seemed sculpted in marble as she turned her palm upward.
“My keys, Margaret.” Her voice might have been made of marble as well.
Margaret rose stiffly to her feet. “You are well, then,” she said flatly, reaching for the key ring at her waist.
“Yes.” Alys allowed a monstrous gap of silence to fill each corner as Margaret fumbled for the keys. Isobel saw no reason to conceal the smirk that tugged at her own mouth. She let it blossom.
The jangle of many tiny bells from outside mingled with the clang of metal on metal as Margaret dropped the key ring into the prioress’s waiting palm.
Alys closed her fingers over the keys. “I thank you, Dame Margaret, for assuming responsibility above and beyond the call of duty while I lay indisposed. Might I trouble you to continue your service? Those bells will be peddler Kate on her monthly call. Would you be so kind as to offer her some ale?”
“Yes, madame.” Margaret’s words, muttered through clenched teeth, were barely audible. She held her head high as she walked toward the door.
Alys’s penetrating stare landed on her niece. In spite of herself, Isobel’s smirk flew from her face. She squirmed.
“Oh, and Margaret,” Alys began, “do allow Elinor and Anne to help you. They may return to their needlework later.”
Wordlessly, the two little novices bobbed quick curtsies and scurried from the room behind the mistress of novices.
Alys’s relentless stare remained unmoved. It took every ounce of Isobel’s strength to keep her own eyes raised. She examined each feature of her aunt’s face: the broad forehead, straight nose, full mouth. She noted the brilliant strands of red straying from beneath the soft green wimple. Alys, she saw, was quite beautiful, a wild bird of rare plumage forced into unnatural captivity.
In the end, there was no way to avoid the demanding gray eyes. Alys’s gaze called her to account, demanded responsibility where Isobel usually felt none was warranted.
Alys stepped toward her, circling her seat as though
cornering prey.
“And what, my little poppet, would you do with him if I let you?” Her voice was cool and melodious. Isobel wondered if she herself might have possessed such a voice had one been granted her.
Alys continued. “Would you sneak to his side under cover of night? Oh! I had quite forgotten. You already do.”
Isobel’s chin jerked higher.
“No, no, let me see.” Alys stopped to consider, one finger pressed lightly against her cheek. “You are young. Your thoughts most likely stray toward romance. Perhaps you would run away with him. Do you fancy a cottage by the sea? Do you dream of hours in his arms?”
Isobel felt her face grow hot.
“Ah.” Alys stooped until they were eye level with each other. “Never think yourself a mystery. You cannot speak, but your intentions are more than clear.” She rose and turned away. “Very well, then. It is to be little Isobel borne away in Hugh’s strong arms.”
Isobel rose to her feet, hands clenched into hard fists. Her aunt swept around in a swirl of skirts.
“Sit, Isobel,” she said, and the rock-solid core in her voice made Isobel obey.
Alys gave a curt nod. “Listen well, for we shall not have this conversation again. If Hugh loved you, I’d be inclined to let you slip away. I could easily avert my gaze while he carried you into the night. I suspect that our hearts are similar, for you are my kinswoman, and I recognize a fire in you that I think I once possessed myself. I know the emptiness of reaching for the man who should be ever by your side, all the while knowing that the love you share can never be acknowledged.”
Isobel’s jaw dropped. Madame Alys? In love? The room began to spin as she realized that her aunt’s beloved could only be Father Gregory. Why, he was old, hardly an object worthy of desire. And Aunt Alys had been a nun for many years now. She couldn’t possibly understand what it meant to burn with the flaming desire of true love.
As if she’d read the thoughts, Alys’s stern expression broke into an unexpected smile. But what was this? There was something else in her aunt’s visage, and Isobel recoiled as she recognized what it was. Pity!
