“Good morning, miss. Good morning. You must rise now.”
Finally I focus on two figures standing above me: a plump, middle-aged woman with her hands folded low, and the girl who’s trying to wake me—all smiles and energy, a little older than I am.
“There she is!” the girl chortles. “Thought you might never wake!”
“I…uh…” I try to speak through a pang of embarrassment at being found sleeping on the floor when something as luxurious as a bed has been provided me.
“We’ll be waiting outside your door, then,” says the older woman, with more measure. “Be dressed in five minutes, and we’ll tour the priory.” She looks at my mass of curly dark hair. “You’ll veil your head, please. And bring your psalter for terce prayers.”
I get up and stretch the cricks in my back. I hadn’t even covered myself last night, but though there’s no fire, it’s warmer in this room than it ever was at home. I open the chest at the foot of the bed. There’s a gray habit inside, folded neatly, with a veil on top and a set of paternoster beads. I put on Mam’s heavy blue dress instead, the thick wool still smelling of her, even months after her death. There’s no reason to put on any nun’s uniform. I’m only here to work.
Across from the bed is a kneeler and, on it, a prayer book, opened to a picture of the Nativity, and another, thinner book, Saint Benedict’s Rule. Two actual books. Maybe there’s a mistake. Maybe they forgot that I’m a peasant.
The pitcher of water and towel cloth in a niche in the wall make up the rest of the furnishings. The room is simple, but clean—so much cleaner than anywhere I’ve been before. I splash my face with the water, pat my cheeks dry and unpack the few other things in my bag.
I slip a couple of sheets of parchment into the psalter and put my brass stylus in my fitchet pocket, in case I get a chance to draw. But my chaperones are waiting, and they tap once more on the door to hurry me. I grab my wrap and go out to join them, pinning the veil over my tangled braids.
“She let you sleep late this once, miss, since you’ve had a long journey,” whispers the girl as we fall in step behind the older woman. “But tomorrow, you must be up with the prime bell.” No one’s ever called me miss before. Me, a shepherd’s daughter with dirty fingernails.
“I am Sub-Prioress Agnes de Guile,” the woman says over her shoulder. “Welcome to our beloved Priory of Saint Christopher. This is Alice Palmer. She is a novice and a promising scholar, aren’t you, Alice? She will be your guide.”
Alice shifts the attention from herself. “What’s your name?” she asks.
“Edyth. Le Sherman. Of H-Hartley Cross,” I stammer. “I’m here to work—not to be a scholar.”
“Conversae usually stay in servants’ quarters,” says the sub-prioress. “You must have had…connections.”
I’m not sure how to take that.
But something dawns on me, and I turn to Alice. “Wait, you’re a palmer? You’ve been to the Holy Land?”
“Yes, with my parents,” she says wistfully as the bell peals for midmorning prayer. “Before I came here.”
Someone who’s been all the way to Jerusalem and back—the things she must have seen!
Alice wears the same kind of gray habit that was in my wooden chest, and a simple white veil that goes past her shoulders. I guess from the color of her eyebrows that she’s probably ash-blond under there. She has green, wide-set eyes and a kind face—and a lot of freckles. We walk the long hallway and down the staircase to stand in a large, open room that spans the entire length of the dormitory building.
“Well then, Alice,” says the sub-prioress, “after prayers, you may show our new conversa the whole of our home. We will have our lessons here after the midday meal. Welcome, Edyth. I hope you’ll find your place here quickly.”
“Thank you, Sub-Prioress,” says Alice with a bow of the head.
I manage a shy smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”
No great fire roars in the middle of this vast hall, yet it’s hot as summer. The clear leaded windows are fogged with steam. A forest of columns lines the room, and vaulted ceilings radiate the wavy heat downward. It feels good.
“Now I know why my room was so blessed warm,” I say. “But where’s the hearth?”
Alice laughs. “Don’t need one,” she says, pointing to the floor. “It’s under there. This is a warming room. It’s called the calefactory. We have classes here in winter, because there’s no heat in the church, as you’ll soon find out!”
I smile. “Well, I could get used to this. I don’t think I’ve ever been this toasty in December.”
“I’ll show you the rest of the priory after terce. There’s a creepy old chapel that burned down a long time ago. It’s even got saplings growing up through the floor.”
I like Alice. She doesn’t act like a typical nun, noble and aloof.
Sisters file out of the calefactory with Agnes, and Alice and I fall to the back. We exit into a covered cloister surrounding a large courtyard. A blast of cold smacks me, and I long to go back inside. Alice talks and moves very fast, pointing out every door along the cloister, every carving…and every person of interest.
“You want to think that holy places make holy people,” she says under her breath. “But you learn fast here. Whatever was going on at home to make their families dump them at a priory, well, they brought those things with them. We all did.”
I wince. “My family wasn’t like that.”
“Well, I can tell you didn’t choose this,” she says. “It’s written all over your face.”
I feel my cheeks go red, and my heart drops, thinking of Henry’s decision to send me here. “Did you choose? Why are you here instead of some exotic country?”
“I could go places with Father when I was younger, but things change.”
“What happened?”
“Well, Edyth, I’m the tithe,” she sighs. “The tenth child. There were six sisters ahead of me in line to get married. But you know what? I would have joined a convent anyway, really. Especially this one. I came for the library—it’s the largest collection of books in Yorkshire. It’s the best-kept secret for a scholar in a dress.”
“I’m glad it’s going your way,” I laugh.
“I like it here. You will, too. You’ll see. Keep an open mind.”
“I’ll try.” The thought of liking it here hadn’t occurred to me.