Deborah Hale - The Elusive Bride

Or fear?

The nun glowered into the trees. Apparently, her sun-accustomed eyes could not penetrate the green shadows of the forest. “It’s no use,” she barked at the novice. “We’ll have to call out the others to help us look.” With a snort of exasperation, she lumbered off.

As she watched Sister Goliath turn away, a dizzy wave of relief broke over the girl. For an instant she savored the masterful feel of the man’s arm about her, his hand firmly covering her lips. If Fulke DeBoissard had ever taken such liberties with her, she’d have laid him out cold. But this man was nothing like her odious suitor. Indeed, in the few moments of their acquaintance she’d sensed with fierce certainty that he was like no man she had ever known.

Much as she enjoyed the close contact, however, part of her took offense at the man’s presumption. She could hold her tongue well enough without his help. If she had wished to raise an alarm, six stout Crusaders could not have stopped her. She’d teach this bold fellow to underestimate her.

Parting her lips slightly, she ran her tongue over the flesh of his fingers. The man jerked his hand away as though she’d spat hot coals into his palm. She skipped out of arm’s reach with a puckish chuckle.

“I’d better catch up with them,” she whispered gleefully, “before they have the whole priory swarming this place. Stay in the woods until you hear the bell for midday Mass. Then you can both come out and eat your fill.” She pointed to the west. “There’s a stream over that way, where you can drink.”

Lunging forward, the man caught her hand. “My thanks for this aid, lady. I hope I haven’t got you into trouble.” He nodded toward the waning sound of Sister Goliath’s scolding.

Amber sparks of mischief glinted in the girl’s deep-set brown eyes. She flashed him a smile, blinding in its radiance. “Oh, I’m used to it.”

With hardly a rustle of the leaves, she was gone. For an instant her presence seemed to shimmer in the spot where she had stood, bright and elusive as a shaft of sunlight.

“Sister Gertha! Here I am, Sister!” she called. Kilting her habit to her knees, she bounded through the garden.

The tall black bulk of the nun loomed over her at the entrance to the garden clearing. “Where did you get off to, you vexing girl? I was about to raise the alarm. How many times have I told you? You can’t be too careful these days, even out here. Stay with the others. Don’t go wandering into the woods after every butterfly or whiff of wildflowers.”

“I’m sorry, Sister Gertha,” blurted the girl. “I had to relieve myself and I didn’t think I could make it back to the privy in time.”

This frank excuse left the big nun temporarily speechless. Finally she managed to sputter, “Well, I never did hear such immodest talk! Hurry on now, or we’ll be late for Mass.”

The girl knew he must be listening. It brought a tingle of warmth to her loins, speaking of such intimate matters in his hearing. She gave a brazen toss of her head and grinned at her own audacity. Striding up the path to the chapel, invigorated by her little adventure, she began to wonder about the identity of her fugitive. He must be King Stephen’s man, going so stealthily through lands loyal to the Empress. If so, she’d given aid to the enemy. Try as she might, she could not make herself regret it.

Watching from the safety of the forest, the man had to clap a hand over his own mouth to stifle a hoot of laughter. When the glade was deserted once again, and the Angelus bell had begun to peal from the distant priory tower, he reached up and absently scratched his horse behind the ear. Half to himself and half to his mount, he chuckled, “They’ll never make a nun out of that one. But pity the poor fool who takes such a creature to wive!”

Six weeks later, on a stifling afternoon in early September, Cecily Tyrell answered another summons from Mother Ermintrude. Uncertain which recent transgression had landed her there, she entered the prioress’ parlor in an attitude of extravagant contrition.

Mother Ermintrude glanced up from her breviary. “Cecily, come in, my child. We must talk, you and I.”

Was it a good sign or a bad, the girl wondered—the prioress calling her by her English name instead of the Latin Cecilia? Having little use for the insipid saint on whose feast day she’d been born, Cecily Tyrell hated being called Cecilia. She never could imagine herself going meekly to martyrdom, singing hymns.

“If it’s about that business with Sister Veronica,” she burst out, “I’ve apologized, I’ve confessed and I’ve done my penance thoroughly. I just couldn’t believe she had no notion of how men are…well…equipped. I never expected the little goose to faint dead away when I told her. I wonder if Sister Veronica isn’t a bit too delicate for God’s work—”

The prioress’ firm, practical lips twitched. She gestured to a low stool near her own chair. “This has nothing to do with Sister Veronica, nor with the hedgehog you smuggled into chapel last week.”

Cecily reddened. “How did you know about that? Even Sister Gertha didn’t—”

“My eyes are somewhat closer to the ground than those of our worthy Mistress of Novices,” said the diminutive Reverend Mother, with wry understatement. “They sometimes spot mischief even her rigorous scrutiny misses.” Those mild blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “You have enlivened this place, my child, I’ll say that for you. You’ve shaken us from pious solemnity and shown us the virtue of taking delight in God’s creation. How we will miss you—even Sister Goliath.”

Cecily opened her mouth to ask how the prioress had come to hear of her irreverent appellation for Sister Gertha. Then she realized the import of Mother Ermintrude’s benediction. “Miss me? I’m not going anywhere. You aren’t sending me away, are you?” Cecily clenched her hands together in earnest supplication. “I promise, Reverend Mother, I’ll try to do better. I won’t wander off anymore. I won’t jest in the refectory. I won’t—”

The prioress held up her hand for silence. “You have been sent for, Cecily. You must return to the world and take your place in it.”

“Oh no, Mother. I’ll go to Brantham. Just say I may return when Father gives me leave.”

If she could have stayed at Brantham, among the people she loved, it would have been different. But this summons could mean only one thing. She’d be forced to wed and leave Brantham forever. The priory was her second favorite place in the world. Once she took the veil, no one could oust her from it.

The prioress shook her head. “My dear child, have the past months not taught you the folly of trying to mold yourself in directions God does not intend? Our community took you in at your father’s behest—to give you sanctuary in these violent times, to help you recover from the deaths of your brothers and to see if you had a true vocation for the sisterhood. All three charges we have fulfilled. You are safe and sound. You have put the early agonies of grief behind you. And you have proven time and again that you will never make a good nun.”

Angry tears welled up in Cecily’s eyes. “You don’t understand, Mother. I must take the veil. What else is there for me? Banished from Brantham and my people. Slave to the whims of some dolt of a husband. Here, at least, women have power over their own lives. I want that!”

The prioress reached out a smooth, worn hand and touched Cecily’s cheek. “Power? You have learned little from us, I fear. We are brides of Christ. We strive always to serve him with obedience and devotion that go beyond the bounds of mortal marriage. You have a harsh opinion of men, Cecily. Long ago, before I took the veil, I was married to a good kind man—no dolt, I assure you. Have you never met a man you could care for as a husband?”