“I’m Marian Creighton.” It couldn’t hurt to give her real name, could it?
The nun’s brows furrowed. “Creighton . . . I have not heard this family name. From where do you hail? Your accent and your garments—they are foreign.” She nodded to the neatly folded pile of clothes at the head of the pallet.
Marian’s fingers flew to her body beneath the blanket. Someone had attired her in a flowing robe—perhaps a habit similar to the one this nun wore. She patted her thigh. Her pouch of coins was gone, and she prayed it was safe in her stack of clothes.
“I don’t remember much of what happened.” Marian’s mind spun as she searched for the right words, anything that would make her entry into Canterbury in 1381 sound believable. It was 1381, wasn’t it? “What day and year is it?”
“The year of our Lord thirteen hundred eighty-one, on St. Augustine’s day.”
“St. Augustine’s day?”
The nun’s forehead remained wrinkled, and a new worry filled her eyes. “Can you not recall the circumstances that brought you to us or the date?”
Marian shook her head. She didn’t want to lie, but what other choice did she have at this point?
“Then you have lost your memories. I have heard of such a malady happening before. I knew of a lad who was kicked in the head by his goat—”
More footsteps in the hall outside the door brought the nun’s conversation to a halt. She clamped her lips closed and ducked her head.
The footsteps paused by the door. “Sister Christina?”
The nun rose and kept her head bowed, as though in deference to the newcomer who filled the door with her short, squat frame. “I thought I heard voices.” The newcomer didn’t speak above a whisper, but the censure in her tone fairly shouted. The wrinkles in her portly face identified her as an older nun.
Sister Christina shook her head and answered by making motions with her fingers—apparently some kind of sign language.
The older nun gave a curt sign in return, which caused Sister Christina to scurry off without so much as a good-bye. Only then did the older nun enter the room with slow, measured steps. Her rounded face contained none of the kindness or compassion Sister Christina had shown. Instead, her lips were pursed sternly, and her expression was severe.
“I see that you have awoken.” The whisper was faint.
Marian nodded, again not sure how to reply. She supposed the less she said about herself, the better.
“I am Prioress Margery.” She watched Marian as though expecting some sort of response.
Worry wormed through Marian. Should she rise to her knees and bow? Kiss the woman’s hand? What exactly was appropriate?
The prioress’s frown deepened at whatever breech of etiquette Marian had committed. “Have you come of your own volition, or did your family bring you to us?”
The question confused Marian.
The prioress’s eyes narrowed. “Then Sister Christina is correct. You have indeed lost your memories?”
“It would appear so,” Marian whispered back. She would survive better if she pretended to have forgotten her past. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about giving wrong information.
The older nun stared with unrelenting curiosity as though attempting to identify Marian, the same way Christina had. Then her gaze went to the pile of Marian’s belongings. “Since your family appears to be one of some means, we shall do our best to discover who they are and their intentions regarding your stay here.”
Distant bells began to ring, and at their sounding, Prioress Margery pivoted and exited the room using the same slow steps as before.
When the scuffling faded down the hallway, Marian sat up, letting the wool blanket fall away. Her head spun, and she blinked back several waves of dizziness.
Her vision cleared, and she tugged at her gown. She was indeed wearing what appeared to be a nun’s outfit, a loose-fitting white garment, but without any of the black trimmings. Her body felt strangely unencumbered. She wiggled, and mortification washed over her. Someone had taken off her bra and underwear and had placed a thin nightgown-like garment on underneath the robe.
She groped for her stack of clothing and searched through it. Her fingers came into contact with her lacy undergarments folded and at the bottom of the pile next to her sandals. But she couldn’t find the pouch of money or her pearl necklace.
Dizziness hit her, and she pressed her hand against her forehead to ward off a wave of panic. She’d been awake for less than five minutes, and already she was in big trouble. She was penniless in 1381.
~ 11 ~
HOW COULD SHE possibly survive without money?
Marian scrambled around the pallet and blanket to see if the pouch and jewelry had become tangled in the bedding. What if the items hadn’t crossed time with her? The possibility was too awful to consider.
She reached up and felt her ears. The pearl studs still were there. If the earrings had stayed with her, then surely the other things had as well, which would account for the prioress assuming she was wealthy.
Marian stood, and the robe-like garment fell down to cover her bare feet. It was ten sizes too large, and without her undergarments, she felt entirely bare underneath.
Quickly, before anyone else passed by her room, she donned her panties and bra. She considered changing back into her skirt and blouse but then decided against it. She’d garner less attention if she remained in the nun’s clothing, at least for the time being while she searched for her coins and pearls.
During the hunt, she could also explore St. Sepulchre for the location of the wellspring. If the water source wasn’t available until after the earthquake that happened next year in 1382, then she would start searching for St. Thomas ampullae that contained the original holy water.
She picked up and unfolded the head covering someone had left beside the pallet. It was a simple piece of cloth, but as she draped it over her head, she wished she had access to a YouTube video with directions for attaching it correctly.
Once she secured it as best she could, she slipped on her sandals and padded to the door. Since she’d slept for the majority of the day, she couldn’t waste another minute. After all, she only had one week. That’s what she’d told Ellen in the note—to wait a week before checking the column head in the crypt. If Ellen went every day, she’d only put herself in danger and chance giving away the hiding place.
Although Marian wasn’t sure how the whole exchange process worked, she hoped Harrison’s theories about the nonlinear, overlapping of time held true, and that whatever day she placed the holy water in the crypt would line up with that same day in the present.
Marian peeked into the hallway, glancing both ways down the long corridor. Seeing that it was deserted, she tiptoed a few steps to the open door of the room next to hers. It was identical, containing nothing but a straw pallet on the wood floor. Each of the closet-like chambers down the rest of the hallway were the same.
The last room was bigger than the others but was locked. Through the barred window on the door, she could see shelves lined with clay jars and colored glass vials for tinctures, cordials, and ointments. A worktable stood at the center, holding a balance along with mortars and pestles of various sizes. The pungent aroma of garlic, sage, rosemary, and other herbs blended together and filled the air.