Clicking off her phone, she slipped it back into her purse. She’d do whatever she had to for as long as it took, until she found a way to save Dad and Ellen.
Poor Ellen. She was in for a shock when she arrived in Canterbury.
Marian had written a note to her sister regarding everything that had transpired, her current plans to save Dad, as well as instructions for how to bring her out of the coma. She’d placed the information in Harrison’s safe, along with all the items from Dad’s safety deposit box. Then, Marian had luxuriated in a long, hot shower—likely the last one she’d have for a few days.
After studying several descriptions of medieval clothing, she’d considered trying to find a costume shop for an authentic medieval gown. But she hadn’t wanted to chance drawing even more attention to herself.
Instead, when she’d reached her dad’s house and her wardrobe there, she dressed in what she hoped was a modest outfit—a flowing white skirt that nearly touched her ankles, summer sandals, and a silky coral long-sleeved blouse covered with a cashmere shawl. She also wore the tear-drop pearl necklace her mother had given her.
Marian peered past Bojing and Drake to find that the Bentley was nearing the St. George’s Roundabout. Her stomach fluttered, and she pressed her hand against it only to realize her fingers were trembling.
“Pull off onto Canterbury Lane near St. George’s Tower.” The old square tower constructed of stone stood at the edge of a shopping plaza. With its arched gates, crenellated parapets, and leaded glass windows, it was a remnant of bygone eras, a lone guardian rising tall above the street. A clock jutted out on one side, upheld by a gargoyle, its grotesque face issuing a warning—but of what, she’d never known.
“What’s here that you want?” Drake’s voice was edged with suspicion.
“I need to check on an old landmark. That’s all.” She reached for the ampulla she’d previously tucked in the folds of her skirt on her lap. Her shaking fingers fumbled at the plug from Harrison’s lab. After a long second, it popped loose.
Bojing was slowing the Bentley for the turn, and even though Drake was scowling and staring out the rearview mirror, he didn’t protest.
As the car turned, Marian caught sight of the old city wall ahead past shopping centers. This was it. She only had seconds left.
“Whatever happens to me,” she said to Bojing and Drake, “take me back to Chesterfield Park and not to the hospital. I need to be at Chesterfield Park.”
Then, before either of the men could reply and before she could talk herself out of her mission, she lifted the flask to her lips, tipped it up, and emptied the scant drops of liquid onto her tongue. I need to go to the year 1381, she silently chanted. 1381.
Her last thought was that the holy water was tasteless. Then the world went black.
* * *
Complete and encompassing silence greeted Marian. Had she somehow become suspended in the time-space continuum between the past and the present?
A moment later, the soft scuff of footsteps nearby confirmed she’d arrived someplace—although she had no idea where.
She struggled to open her eyes, but her lids were heavy, her head groggy, and her body lethargic. Beneath her, the ground was hard and cold.
The footsteps drew nearer and stopped beside her. Someone knelt, the movement bringing the waft of dust. Gentle hands slipped behind her neck, lifted her head slightly, and then pressed a grainy rim against her mouth.
Marian’s tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she found that she could part her lips, eager to quench her thirst.
A warm liquid slipped into her mouth tasting of honey and sage. She took several sips of the sweet mixture before the mug lifted and she was lowered back to the ground upon a pallet of some kind. Her fingers at her sides made contact with coarse linen that was filled with a thin layer of something stiff. Was it straw?
Her eyes flew open to the sight of a dull gray ceiling. She shifted her head to take in walls of the same plain color, nothing on them except a simple wooden cross. The room was small enough to be a closet with a narrow rectangular window that allowed in some light, but not enough to ward off the shadows.
Her gaze came to rest on a woman kneeling next to her, a clay cup in her hands. The woman was draped from head to foot in layers of black and white. A nun.
Marian’s heart sped with anticipation. Did the presence of this nun mean she’d ended up in St. Sepulchre Priory on St. George’s Street? The nunnery no longer existed in present-day Canterbury, so she’d had no way of knowing exactly where it had once stood, only a guess from the excavation records. But if she was here, then it would appear that her calculation regarding the location had been correct.
She studied the cell-like room again, noting the cracks in the wall, the spiderweb in one corner, and the barrenness. Even if it wasn’t pristine, overall it was clean.
She’d done it. She was in the past. And not just fleetingly. This time, her body felt firmly connected in some unexplainable way.
What about the present time? What had happened after she’d ingested the holy water in the back seat of the Bentley? Had Bojing returned her to Chesterfield Park as she’d asked? Was she even now lying in a coma similar to the one her dad had experienced?
Gentle fingers brushed at Marian’s forehead, drawing her attention back to the face of the nun hovering above her—a thin but pretty face framed by a tight white wimple, which extended below her chin and covered all of her neck. A long black veil was attached to the coif and draped over the woman’s head, flowing down her back. She also wore a white habit that was adorned with a black scapular and woven belt.
“Where am I?” Marian’s voice was strangely hoarse.
The nun glanced over her shoulder at the open door before leaning in to Marian and whispering, “The infirmary of St. Sepulchre’s.” Marian nodded, but before she could ask another question, the nun continued. “I found you near the back gate of the priory this morn.”
“So I’ve only been here a few hours?”
“All day, my lady. The bells shall soon ring for Vespers.”
If Marian remembered the terminology correctly, Vespers was the evening prayer hour, usually spoken around 6:00 p.m.
The nun offered her another sip of water, and the warm liquid soothed Marian’s dry throat. “Thank you for helping me.”
The nun nodded and smiled. Her eyes were lovely and gentle, framed with long lashes. “My lady . . .” She stalled, clearly waiting for Marian to fill in the details of her name.
Marian hesitated. She didn’t have to be a historian to know that women’s roles had been vastly different in ages past, that most had very little independence and rarely traveled anywhere alone.
Though Marian was fluent in French, she didn’t want to risk pretending to be French since England was at war with France in the 1300s in what had become known as the Hundred Years’ War.
Instead, during her planning, she’d decided if anyone questioned what she was doing alone in Canterbury, she’d inform them she was from a noble English family who’d been living in Denmark and that she’d run away from them. Hopefully, that would account for her accent as well as her ignorance of social customs. From the little she’d gleaned during her quick research, Denmark had been largely influenced by the Church in much the same way as England with similar standards of living.