Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

ST. CATHERINE’S NUNNERY, ENGLAND-SCOTLAND BORDER

“ B y the end of this, I hope you will have learned your lesson,” Sister Agnes said, her tone frosty. “I doubt you have been reading your prayer book as we have instructed you many, many times.”

Even though the rough stone bit at her flesh, Gemma Bradford remained on her knees. Her body ached from the rigid posture and the cold that seeped from the floor into her bones.

She was repentant, or so it seemed. It appeared as though she had accepted her punishment without complaint, but her heart was nowhere near acquiescence.

In the sixteen years she had been in the convent she had learned how to give the nuns what they demanded while hiding her real self in her heart.

Gemma had been reciting the Adoro te Devote prayer since half past dawn and it was now midday.

“ Jesu, quem velatum nunc aspicio, Oro, fiat illud quod tam sitio; Ut te revelata cernens facie, Visu sim beátus tu? glori?. Amen. ” She took a breath and readied herself to repeat the prayer when Sister Agnes stopped her.

“That is enough for today,” the nun said, her expression stern with tight lines around her eyes that nearly made Gemma narrow her own reflexively. She did not trust the woman. Once upon a time, when she had been a na?ve girl of seven she had, but not now.

“You may return to the dormitory to rest for now. You are excused from the remainder of the prayers until vespers,” Sister Agnes fingered her rosary. “I hope you have learned your lesson and will not be making the same mistake again.”

Gemma bit her tongue.

It would not help her to ask Sister Agnes if forgetting a line in the Eucharistic Prayer, the longest prayer they had, was worthy of being punished for six hours after she had already attended matins in the middle of the night and lauds at sunrise.

“Yes, Sister Agnes,” she said, while carefully getting up from the stone floor. She was starved and exhausted and nearly swayed on her feet. She was eager to eat and rest.

“The time is ticking, Gemma,” the nun added. “It is about time you become a novice and begin your life in the order. You are old enough. Other girls have come here after you and are already postulants. You must choose.”

I would rather swim the channel to the continent.

“I don’t think—” she sucked in a breath. “—I don’t think I am ready yet.”

“You have said that for five years since the day you reached the age of majority.” Sister Agnes said. “You are three-and-twenty, Gemma. When are you going to accept that this is your home and your future? Accept your destiny or continue to resent being here. You have a choice; only you can make it.”

Once again, she bit her tongue.

“We have told you time and time again, forgiveness is the only way to heaven,” Sister Agnes said. “And so is piousness. Your rebellious spirit is pulling you further and further away from His holy spirit. You have tried to run away twice before, despite knowing there is nothing out there for you and nowhere to go.”

“I was young and foolish,” Gemma replied.

And I would do it again.

“I can see why your mother left you with us,” Sister Agnes said. “You are a troubled one.”

All of the nuns were aware of how her mother, the widowed Countess Anna Bradford—now Anna Clarke, the Marchioness of Treston—had abandoned Gemma at the priory when she had been only seven years old, and it was certainly not because Gemma had been troubled. It was because her mother had resented her very existence almost as much as she hated her late father.

“Excuse me,” she hobbled out of the room and padded down the empty, austere corridors to the dormitories. The walls vibrated as the bells tolled for yet another Mass. Soon she would be able to hear the hymns.

As she made her way to the Great Hall—a rectangular building filled with long trestle tables, now empty—her stomach turned sour. Skirting the tables, she walked into the kitchen for her missed meal and made herself a bowl of warm stew and bread before returning to her room and stretching out on her cot in exhaustion.

All I seem to do these days is pray, but is God still listening? Despite my constant requests for rescue, I am still imprisoned in this priory.

She drifted off into a fitful sleep and awoke at the sounds of the three o’clock bells. She had been excused until the sunset prayer, which gave her time to wash, dress and put herself into a semblance of tidiness. As she splashed her face with freezing water from the washbasin, Gemma glumly reminded herself that endless days of the same dull and lifeless routine were all she had ahead of her.

Now dressed in a fresh tunic, she dropped to her cot’s edge and lifted the simple straw mattress to tug out a book. Last year, the Duchess of Islington had sent a parcel of books to the nunnery for the girls to enjoy.

Initially, the books were freely distributed, but once the nuns realized that the books promoted worldly themes such as greed, betrayal and romance they had swiftly taken them back.

Gemma had hidden away her copy of One Thousand and One Nights for weeks until the nuns had given up searching for it. It was now her only source of comfort.

“ She comes, a torch in the shadows, and it is day; Her light more brightly lights the dawn. Suns leap from out her beauty and moons are born in the smiling of her eyes. Ah, that the veils of her mystery might be rent, and the folk of the world lie ravished at her feet ,” she read aloud softly.

In her wildest dreams Gemma could barely imagine someone saying those words to her. In truth, she wanted less than love. She craved genuine affection, protection, and care. She wanted to exist in someone’s eyes and heart and not be treated by people like a rag that her mother had discarded.

Hiding the book once more, she got to her feet and glanced out of the narrow window that was set high in the wall. Gemma thought that the ancient masons who’d build the priory must have designed it so the women could not escape. The weak and gloomy sunlight matched her mood.

“Where do I go?” She heard someone call out. “The cart is laden!”

Attention piqued, she returned to the window, stood on her tiptoes and spotted a cart entering the courtyard. Its thick cover concealed a load of goods and fruits that the nuns could not grow themselves.

A madcap idea birthed abruptly in her mind. If there was any chance she could leave this wretched place she would take it. She was forgotten for now, excused, and could get several hours’ head start hidden in the back of such a cart. She grasped her cloak, the one she wore on cold wintery nights during mass, balled it up and snuck down the corridor.

Gemma glanced over her shoulder as she closed the chamber door behind her and peered down either side of the passageway.

With no one in sight and nothing stirring, Gemma gathered her skirts in both hands to ensure she made no sound and padded her way as silently as possible down the corridor.

She wound through the dim passageways of the convent, familiar with nearly every nook and cranny after years of living within its walls.

She kept her head down as two nuns, chatting with each other, passed her by. One of the nuns eyed her but she kept walking, making it appear as if she were late for mass. The punishment would be severe and cruel if she were to be caught yet again. She hesitated only briefly at the thought but the beckoning song of freedom, of a future far away from the stone walls of the convent, was too compelling for her to ignore.

Gemma shivered as she doubled back and headed to a side door that led into the inner courtyard. Despite the warm summer air that existed during the daytime, the nights were always unpleasantly chilly.

In a dark corner of the corridor that opened into the courtyard, Gemma quickly donned her cloak and tugged her cowl high around her neck. She laced her hood tightly to keep herself warm and to maintain her disguise. The door groaned softly as she pushed it and cracked open the large wooden barrier a fraction of the way. Although it had required a lot of her strength, it was now open just enough to allow her to slip through the thin space.

No one seemed to notice her as she turned her back to the cart that was being unpacked in the courtyard. She tried to blend into the shadows but watched the unloading out of the corner of her eye.

“Only the crates to the left,” the driver instructed the kitchen boys who were unloading the wares. “The rest are for another.”

As the driver excused himself to use the facilities and the boys finished unloading the crates, Gemma saw a window of opportunity present itself. With her heart lodged in her throat, she climbed into the cart and scurried to the back and under the cover within a few seconds, making sure the thick cloth hid her completely. The rattle of the cart was masked as the last of the crates were pulled from around her.

“Holy Father, please help me leave this place and find happiness,” she whispered, clutching at the small wooden cross that always hung around her neck. Her eyes were squeezed tightly as anxiousness and dread flowed through her.

The cart smelled musty and the boards were rough against her skin, but she would take it all if it meant getting away from St. Catherine’s. The cart was preferable to the smell of dried blood, rotten food, and the cold muskiness of a cell floor.

It felt like an eternity had passed before the cart began to move, but when it did, her heart grew even tighter in her chest, as if it was a caged bird, desperate to slip through its bars.

When the cart began to descend the hill without anyone stopping to search it, Gemma finally took a breath and involuntarily uttered a sob of relief.

The bleakness of her future in that wretched, colorless place slowly faded into obscurity as the cart put distance between her and the nunnery. She dearly hoped that whatever lay ahead was much brighter than what she had left behind.

She just prayed that she could get away far enough and fast enough.