“Just pretend you’re camping, Marian,” she whispered, trying to ignore the ache in her shoulders and back from sleeping on the hard ground.
Her full bladder finally prodded her up from the pallet and out of her room. Her only option was to find the outhouse near the raised garden beds, but the thought of having to go outside in the coldness of the early morning brought swift longing for a warm, cozy bathroom, with its bright lights and warm running water.
“It’s just for a week,” she told herself as she opened the door at the end of the infirmary hallway which led to the convent yard shrouded in the grayness of dawn. She hurried across the grass, which was damp with dew and breathed in crisp morning air laden with the scents of soil and the ever-present aroma of woodsmoke.
At the foulness of the outhouse, she breathed through her mouth. How could anyone ever learn to function without toilet paper and a flushable toilet? After she finished, she wished she could wash her hands or at the very least scrub with one of her scented sanitizers. Instead, she wiped her hands in the wet grass and dried them on her robe.
Slipping back into the convent, she stopped short at the sight of a shadowed figure waiting by the door to her room.
“Lady Marian,” came a rushed whisper.
Marian’s stomach growled in response, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday’s breakfast. At the very least, she could settle for a cup of coffee. They did have coffee in the Middle Ages, didn’t they? When exactly had the caffeinated brew been invented?
She searched the far reaches of her mind to remember that piece of trivia and had the vague recollection that coffee-drinking had come much later.
She’d miss her dark-roasted one-cup from her Keurig this morning. No swinging by Starbucks. Not even a cheap, flavored coffee from the gas station. She’d have a caffeine headache later in the day and should have thought to tuck some Excedrin in her money pouch.
“Lady Marian.” An urgency in the nun’s voice pricked Marian.
Through the darkness still permeating the hallway, Marian couldn’t see clearly, but the outline of a thin, pretty face told her it was Sister Christina, the same nun she’d met yesterday.
“Good morning.”
“’Tis not so good.” Sister Christina glanced over her shoulder to the opposite end of the passageway that led to the chapel and the prioress’s office. “You are in grave trouble.”
“Trouble?” Little did this woman know what kind of trouble Marian would face if she didn’t find any ampullae.
“Prioress Margery has misplaced your dowry.” Sister Christina’s voice was so hushed it was almost inaudible. “However, instead of searching for it, she has decided to make accusations of thievery.”
“My pouch of money?”
“The prioress is accusing you of stealing it.”
“How can I steal something that belongs to me?” Marian wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the accusation.
But Sister Christina was wringing her hands, clearly distraught. “Perhaps if you leave now, you could escape her—”
Sister Christina’s words were cut off by the patter of footsteps. They both turned to see Prioress Margery’s plump frame rounding the corner, followed by four other nuns with their heads bowed and hands tucked into their sleeves out of sight.
“Go.” Sister Christina’s tone was desperate.
Should she run? Marian glanced at the door she’d entered only moments before. She couldn’t go yet. Once she left, she’d have no guarantee of getting back inside, and she needed to check the priory for holy water before moving on.
She would have to face the prioress and what appeared to be her posse. Surely she could speak reasonably with everyone about the bag of money and make them understand she hadn’t stolen it.
The prioress halted in front of her and wasted no time in getting to the point. “Your dowry is missing.”
“It’s not a dowry.” Did a noblewoman’s family give a dowry to the Church when she entered a convent to symbolize her marriage to Christ? Somehow the recollection rang true, but that wasn’t Marian’s case, and she needed to convince the prioress of it.
“It’s money I brought for my journey. That’s all. I don’t intend to stay long and will pay you—”
“Since you have lost your memories, your claims are completely untrustworthy.” The prioress held a simple iron candleholder containing a stubby yellowish candle that emanated an acrid odor and cast long flickering shadows across the walls and down the hallway. It also made the woman’s face appear hard and her gaze unrelenting.
What could Marian say to contradict the prioress? She couldn’t suddenly pretend to have her memories back, not so soon after asserting she’d lost them. “I know enough to understand the bag of money is for my expenses and not a dowry.”
“You have no way of knowing that. With the significant sum, I have no doubt your family intended it to be payment for your new life here. You shall tell me where the bag is at once or suffer the consequences of thievery.”
“The money is mine.” Marian pulled herself to her full height and stared back at the prioress, unwilling to let this medieval woman frighten her. “I can pay you for room and board, but I need the rest.”
The prioress nodded just once, which set into motion the nuns behind her. The nuns rounded the prioress and came toward Marian. It wasn’t until they reached her that they removed their hands from their robes to reveal coarse twine.
“You’re planning to tie me up for taking what is rightfully mine?” Marian tried to step back. But the nuns closed in, preventing her escape. Before she could fight or even raise her hands in defense, the nuns grasped her arms and wrapped the twine around her wrists like pros, obviously having performed the task before.
“This is ridiculous.” Marian wrenched her hands in an attempt to free herself. “You can’t hold me against my will—”
The prioress’s palm slammed against Marian’s cheek, cutting off her words and her breath. Pain sliced across her jaw and cheekbone, making her eyes sting.
The prioress’s hand remained lifted, ready to strike again. “I shall give you one more opportunity to inform me where you put the dowry money.”
“It’s not dowry money—”
The prioress slapped Marian’s other cheek with such force it caused her head to jerk painfully. Then the prioress nodded toward Marian’s room. “Lock her away.”
The four nuns kept their gazes trained on the floor as they dragged Marian into her room. Against her shouts, they tied a gag around her mouth, forced her to her knees in front of the cross on the wall, then filed out silently, closing the door behind them. When a lock clicked into place, Marian stared at the closed door, her face smarting and her wrists burning.
Being trapped in a tiny cell and accused of stealing her own money hadn’t been part of her plan for the morning. It hadn’t been part of her plan in any form.
She attempted to move her hands, but at even the slightest effort, the twine dug into her wrists, making her cry out, except that the rag tied around her mouth was so tight she could hardly breathe.
What in the world had she gotten herself into? And how was she going to get out of the predicament?