Canterbury, 1184 AD, April 15th – Abbey of St Mildrith

  “Again, Aveline!” the ever-so-familiar voice scolded her. “How many times must I tell you that we do not insult our fellow sisters?”

  Ava’s mouth begged for mercy, her cries for her to stop muffled by the repulsive taste of soap, an expensive luxury in England. Her hands were raised, fumbling and grasping as she tried to comb through the woman’s hair, even as she dodged the young girl’s flailing limbs.

  The chapter house, where Ava’s punishment was taking place, was older than the cloister, its stone walls holding the night long after dawn had broken. Benches were carved into the walls in a shallow curve, worn smooth by generations of habits and restless hands. Light fell through two narrow windows, cutting the chamber into pale stone and shadow. At the far end stood a plain chair and a lectern, with the Rule of St Benedict placed upon it. Above them hung a tapestry of the Sign of the Cross.

  “Aveline! Stay still! I take no pleasure in this either!”

  When the woman was finished cleaning Ava’s mouth with soap, she clasped her hands before her and bowed her head in prayer.

  “Dear Lord, forgive this child, for she knows not how she has sinned.”

  Ava glared up at her, her blonde hair bound into a messy bun, loose strands clinging to her damp cheeks. The woman only looked back at her with mercy.

  “Lady Grainne!” Ava protested, the words thick on her tongue. “I was in the right this time! Beatrice was being mean to me again!”

  The nun’s eyes softened with sadness, though a firmer resolve soon settled over her expression.

  “I will speak to Beatrice,” Grainne said, turning her gaze aside, “and the pair of you will reconcile.”

  She drew a Bible from her waist and began to read aloud.

  “Ecclesiastes, chapter seven, verse nine: ‘Do not be quickly provoked in your spirit, for anger resides in—’”

  “The lap of fools,” Ava finished, spitting out the last of the bitterness from her mouth. “I know, I’m sorry, but I disagree with her on everything. How can someone speak so callously about our roles in the world? We are training to be Sisters of St Mildrith to help others in need, not because we are weak. Does she have no pride in her faith?”

  Ava’s eyes burned as she spoke, her gaze never leaving Grainne’s face.

  “Aveline,” Grainne said softly, “I do not understand you. You are one of the most promising novices in the priory, and yet you act so brazenly.”

  She lowered herself to her knees before Ava and gently brushed her thumb across the girl’s cheek.

  “Why?”

  Ava hesitated, spitting the lingering taste of soap from her mouth as she looked at Grainne, adorned in her humble black gown, her veil and wimple arranged with care.

  “Lady Grainne, it is because I understand scripture,” she said at last. “I cannot sit back and allow Beatrice to disrespect our cause or our convictions. We do not sit and pray because we are weak. We pray because there is strength in placing ourselves in the hands of the Lord.”

  Her eyes drifted upward to the Sign of the Cross above the lectern.

  “That is why,” Ava continued, her voice unyielding, “and I will keep arguing with Beatrice until she agrees with me. Until she is correct.”

  Light crept through the narrow windows of the chapter house as Grainne sighed, lifting a hand to her brow in weary frustration. When she extended her other hand to Ava, the girl spat another defiant swath of soapy saliva onto the stone floor.

  “Aveline,” Grainne said quietly, “I cannot favour you. You insulted one of your fellow novices. But please, for my sake, apologise to her. Try to refrain from arguing with her. Washing your mouth is as painful for you as it is for me.”

  Ava rose slowly from the cold cobblestones.

  “Come,” Grainne added more gently, “let us get you to the dormitory. Abbess Mathilda is leading the choir today. You said she has a voice sent from the angels, did you not?”

  At those words, Ava’s face brightened, the tension in her shoulders easing. The Abbess’s voice had always soothed her, especially when Beatrice tested her patience.

  “Then let us get you ready,” Grainne said, a faint smile touching her lips. “You may be a prodigy when it comes to your studies of the Bible, but your voice is far from that of the angels.”

  A small chuckle escaped both of them as Grainne wrapped her arm around Ava’s. Together, their shared smiles seemed to soften the hard stone of the chapter house around them.

  …

  Abbess Mathilda began with the same line every time.

  De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine. (Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.)

  Ava rose from the congregation’s bench half a second late and paid the price for it. The novice beside her happened to be the last novice she wanted to stand near.

  Then again, Lady Grainne likely orchestrated this.

  Beatrice stood with vigour, face bright with that same smile Ava hated to see. Her foot dug sharply into Ava’s. It took all her concentration not to squeal.

  Miserere nostri, Deus. (Have mercy on us, O God.)

  Chant settled into her chest and left again, steady as breath, and Ava followed it as best she could, shaping words that never seemed to sit right in her mouth. She stood among novices at the rear of the choir, voice threading into a single, pale sound, thin where others rang clearer. Stone caught each note, thinned it further, and returned it colder.

  Worn wood pressed into her fingers; she knew every notch by feel. Beatrice sang at her side, chin lifted too high, mouth shaping each syllable with careful reverence, voice steady and sure where Ava’s wavered. Of all the things that irritated her in the abbey, Beatrice sat comfortably at the top. Ahead, closer to the altar, Grainne stood with professed sisters, posture held with practised stillness, dark lashes lowered, voice carried forward with theirs.

  At the front, Abbess Mathilda led, age softened into grace, voice clear and unbroken, lifting where all else flattened. Watching her, Ava felt her own voice falter into habit, into quiet obedience, until sound no longer felt like something she chose to give.

  Tibi, Domine, honor et gloria. (To you, O Lord, be honour and glory.)

  Ava kept singing, half-distracted by the Abbess’s voice. Commanding and stern, yet awfully calm, each note sounded perfectly practised, combed into place. Grainne was an exemplar, a model to follow, but Mathilda was something otherworldly, untouchable. Ava could imagine herself becoming like Grainne one day. To command such mastery over the choir as Mathilda did?

  She could only dream.

  …

  The next day, light crept over the Abbey of St Mildrith, pale and deliberate as it spilt across the stone.

  The young sister-in-training stirred with a yawn. Straw pallets were a far cry from luxury, the fibres prickling through thin blankets, but she had no right to complain.

  They were still better than the slums.

  “Good morning, sisters!”

  The novices slept in a long, open hall, crowded with nearly thirty young women, their beds lined in rows along the walls. Ava felt heat rise to her cheeks, a faint, reluctant smirk tugging at her mouth as the ever-cheery Constance, her personal favourite sister, greeted them all with the same irrepressible smile and morning cheer.

  “Good morning, Constance,” Ava replied, drifting toward her.

  Constance’s hair was a bright, unruly ginger, freckles scattered thickly across her nose and cheeks, as if the sun itself had marked her. Before Ava knew it, Constance was already headlong into her, arms wrapped tight in a warm embrace.

  “Sister Aveline! Good morning! Are you ready for Lady Grainne’s readings today? She’s always so good at them.”

  Ava grinned as she returned the embrace, not quite as warmly, but the sisterly affection was mutual.

  “Of course,” Ava shuffled her legs back slightly, nearly losing her footing beneath Constance’s weight. “Lady Grainne told me today’s reading will be on—”

  “What has the two of you so excited? Did you forget what you said to me, Aveline?”

  Ava sighed. She knew that cadence, that tone. It could only be one person.

  She turned, and to her dismay, there stood Sister Beatrice, her dark hair tied back, two loose strands framing her face.

  “I called you a simpleton. A Judas,” Ava said, tapping her chin as though searching her memory. “Ah—what else was it?”

  She snapped her fingers.

  “Right. A Pharisee too.”

  Ava nudged Constance’s shoulder with a crooked smile, but Constance didn’t return it.

  “Ava, come on. That wasn’t needed—”

  “Aveline.” Beatrice’s voice dropped low and quiet. Ava turned to face her fully.

  “Your mouth is still foul, even after Lady Grainne’s cleaning…”

  Beatrice then let out a thin smile.

  “Perhaps if your parents had raised you, you would have learned some manners—and learned not to run your dirty mouth at those of us who have standing beyond these walls.”

  Beatrice put one hand on her hip, the other covering her mouth, yet Ava could still see it—her smile, condescending and scornful.

  “Maybe your parents knew you would grow up to be such a filthy—”

  Ava didn’t hear the rest.

  Her hands moved before the thought caught up with them. She shoved Beatrice hard in the chest. Beatrice staggered back into the pallets with a cry, blankets slipping loose as she fell onto her back.

  Gasps rose around them. Yet the cries were muffled with limbs colliding with flesh.

  Ava lunged after her, more clumsy than fierce, knees striking the edge of a pallet as she went down with her. They tangled in blankets and limbs, the breath knocked from both of them.

  “Someone call Lady Grainne!” Constance cried. “Ava and Beatrice—stop it!”

  Beatrice kicked out wildly, her heel catching Ava in the side. Ava gasped, the air leaving her in a sharp rush.

  “You brawl like a beast!” Beatrice spat, scrambling to her feet.

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  “Shut up!” Ava shouted, shoving at her again as hands finally seized her arms and tore her back.

  The sounds of Ava’s fellow sisters were muffled by her heart beating as fast as it could, her vision blurring with tears, her single focus on shutting Beatrice up. For good.

  After what felt like an eternal struggle, a commanding presence finally cut through.

  “Aveline! Beatrice! What in God’s name are you two doing!”

  The two of them turned to the side and saw Lady Grainne, arms crossed, fingers tapping her bicep, her expression furious.

  “It hasn’t even been a whole day since you last fought. What’s the matter with you two? If you carry on arguing so much…”

  Silence.

  “I will go to Abbess Mathilda myself. And it will be her fury you see next, not mine.”

  Grainne paused. She gave Beatrice a nasty look first and then turned to Ava.

  She gulped. She expected fury, hell’s wrath incarnate. But Grainne looked only empty. Disappointed.

  “Do I make myself crystal clear?”

  “Yes! Lady Grainne!”

  “Good,” she turned to Ava next. “Count yourself lucky, Aveline. If it weren’t for the fact that you have morning readings, I would’ve washed your mouth again.”

  Ava blushed and looked away, twirling her hair.

  “With twice the soap.”

  …

  Grainne sat gracefully beneath the stone arches of the cloister, her legs folded beneath her, her eyes glistening as the sun caught the deep green within them. Her light brown hair, ever drawn into a neat bun, had loosened in a few fine strands, stirred by the cool breeze of southeast England.

  “Okay, okay, children,” Grainne beckoned to the novices gathered before her. They numbered roughly fifteen; the other half were with Lady Alice in the chapter house.

  “Come. It is time for morning reading. Let us read the word of God.”

  Ava was the first to sit on the grass. She got as close as she could to Lady Grainne, sitting as elegantly as she could, trying her best to imitate her. But she couldn’t quite manage it; her hair did not sit as well, and she could not place her hands in quite the same way.

  Constance sat next to Ava, her face as bright as her hair, freckles standing out when she smiled. The bun her hair was meant to be in had already come loose, red strands spilling down over her novice robes, adding some much-needed colour to the drab cloth. Whilst Ava approved, she knew it was only a matter of time before one of the Sisters corrected her cheery friend—if not them, then the Abbess herself.

  But not Grainne. Grainne was stern, sure. She knew how to make those mouth-washing sessions hell. But she wasn’t cruel. Ava knew Grainne wouldn’t chastise Constance.

  Finally came Beatrice, a faint bruise still visible on the left side of her cheek. Ava couldn’t help but smile, just slightly. Serves her right. Ava would rather be feared than disrespected again.

  She felt a nudge from Constance as Beatrice settled far to the left of Ava, her gaze sharp with disgust and fear.

  “Ava, you’re better than petty arguing,” Constance whispered, leaning close, careful to keep her voice low. “Just apologize to her and leave it in the past.”

  “Apologize?” Ava could barely keep her anger in check. Grainne turned a fraction at the edge of her vision, but nothing more.

  “You want me to apologize to her? She’s made the past nine years here a living hell. Even the other street peasants were kinder to me than her.”

  “Ahem,” Grainne said gently. “Are we all set and ready, girls?”

  Ava, Beatrice, and Constance nodded at once, with the other novices following suit.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Let us begin.”

  Grainne smiled as she flicked through her Bible. The book was worn and weathered, humble in its make—no ornamentation, only leather and parchment. She craned her neck down a fraction as she began to read.

  “Micah, chapter six, verse eight,” Grainne said, her voice carried on the serene winds of St Mildrith Abbey.

  “He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”

  The wind whistled faster, as if praising Grainne’s voice, as if nature itself demanded an encore to her readings. Overhead, three pale clouds drifted slowly apart across the blue.

  Grainne let the last words settle before her eyes moved back to the page.

  “Micah, chapter six, verse nine.”

  “The Lord’s voice crieth unto the city,” she read, her voice steady beneath the arches, “and the man of wisdom shall see thy name: hear ye the rod, and who hath appointed it.”

  The seasoned nun closed the Bible gently, lifting her head and brushing her veil aside as she regarded her novices with an endearing gaze.

  “Would anyone like to share their interpretation of the Word?” Grainne asked.

  Ava opened her mouth to speak, but, as always, Beatrice beat her to it. Her hand shot up faster than Ava could blink.

  “Micah, chapter six, verse eight,” Beatrice said, her chin lifting a fraction with each word. “‘To walk humbly with thy God.’”

  She cast Ava a fleeting glance and muttered, just loud enough to be heard, “Someone could use some humility…”

  Then she turned back to Grainne, head shaking with quiet dismay.

  “It means we are all made in the Lord’s image,” Beatrice continued. “But each of us has our appointed place. Men are fashioned for the trials of the world, to fight for His kingdom upon the earth. We women, are better suited to intercession—to prayer, to tending the wounded, to holding fast to the spiritual matters that bind Heaven to this world.”

  Grainne nodded as Beatrice lowered her hand to her lap once again.

  “Sister Beatrice, that was a thoughtful reading of the passage. Thank you.”

  Ava felt Grainne’s gaze settle on her. Heat crept up her neck as she tried, and failed, to hide behind her veil.

  “Sister Aveline,” Grainne said gently, “you wished to speak. Tell us—what is your interpretation?”

  Ava nodded, then rose to her feet—meek in gesture, bold in motion—the only novice standing in the cloister. She looked down at the others, but her gaze lingered on Beatrice.

  “I disagree,” Ava began, her voice steady despite the heat in her chest.

  “‘Do justly.’”

  She lifted her chin.

  “Take note. ‘Do justly’ is the first command named.”

  She turned away from Beatrice, fists curling at her sides.

  “We are told to walk humbly with the Lord, yes—, but humility is not the same as silence. To submit ourselves to the Lord, in humility and in His absolute glory, is to uphold His sacred covenant on this earth.”

  Grainne’s brow furrowed slightly as she lifted a hand toward Ava, not to stop her, but to steady her.

  “Please,” she said. “Continue.”

  Ava did not miss a breath.

  “To turn away from injustice, to bear false witness by our silence—that is not mercy, nor humility, before the Lord.”

  She turned back toward Beatrice, her eyes bright.

  “I will never turn my back on someone in need,” Ava said, voice firm, she stole a glance towards Beatrice.

  “My gender be damned.”

  Constance’s face flushed, redder even than her hair, as she tugged at Ava’s habit.

  “Ava, I don’t think this is the time—”

  “Oh, yeah?” Beatrice rose to her feet as well, the two girls staring each other down.

  “How exactly are you—an orphan, no coin to your name, no skills beyond a foul tongue and the temper of a wild beast—meant to help anyone ‘in need’?”

  There it was again: that roaring thud in her chest, her ears ringing, her fists tightening.

  Grainne had seen enough.

  “Both of you,” she said, voice firm. “Sit down. Now.”

  Both girls dropped back onto the grass, though neither broke the other’s gaze.

  Grainne’s eyes moved between them, the warmth she had worn at the start of the reading now tempered by steel.

  “This is not a hall for vanity or for cruelty,” she said. “Nor is it a place for pride to dress itself as piety.”

  Her gaze lingered on Beatrice especially long. Before long, she sighed and looked to the sky. It was a sunny day, with clouds overhead, three to be exact, split apart from each other in an orderly fashion, creating a triangular shape.

  “Look up, girls.” Grainne pointed up to the sky above, a gentle breeze blowing past as she said so.

  “Aveline is right.” Grainne began, Beatrice gave her a scornful look, until Grainne finished, “And so is Beatrice.”

  Ava now returned the glare in full force.

  “Both of you are right, and both of you are wrong.” Grainne kept counting the clouds, performing a circular motion with her index finger, repeating the count.

  One. Two. Three

  “I will read it again.” She flicked through her Bible once more.

  “He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”

  Ava and Beatrice sat in silence, knowing better than to interrupt Grainne. Pilgrims came from beyond the sea to seek her counsel—Antichoch, they called it. Ava wasn’t really sure how it was spelled. Wherever it was, it was far from here. When they came, they brought gifts fit for royalty, and Grainne turned them away every time.

  That had always troubled Ava. Why would anyone refuse such gifts?

  “The clouds above us,” Grainne smiled as she stared at them, “They came from one cloud, and split off into three, but their essence is intertwined.”

  “Justice. Mercy. Humility,” Grainne said, her voice scarcely louder than the wind.

  “All three are threads of the same cloth. If you pull one free and cast the others aside, the whole unravels.”

  She lifted her eyes to the drifting clouds.

  “Without mercy, justice hardens into cruelty, and forgets the faces it was meant to protect.

  Without humility, mercy loses its way and becomes a kindness given for comfort rather than for truth.

  And without justice, humility folds in upon itself, mistaking silence for holiness.”

  Her gaze returned to the girls, warm, almost tender.

  “The Lord does not ask you to choose which of these you will keep.

  He asks you to carry them together, even when their weight is heavy.”

  Grainne looked at Ava first.

  “The weight of these threads is a heavy burden on the heart indeed, and we thank Jesus for giving us the strength to carry the burden onwards.”

  She placed her hand on her chest and closed her eyes.

  “Amen,” Grainne said.

  “Amen.” The novices echoed.

  …

  “Lady Grainne.”

  Ava knocked on the door, leaning against the wood. From within came the faint scratch of quill on parchment. Each brief pause, Ava imagined, was Grainne searching for the right word.

  “Abbess Mathilda?” Grainne called. “Is that you? Or Alice—oh, Alice, I told you, we can go to the meadows tomorrow—”

  The door flew open. Ava stumbled inside, nearly pitching into Grainne’s small study, hair and veil tangled as she went down on one knee.

  “Aveline?” Grainne gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  Ava righted herself, brushing dust from her skirts and reaching to fix her veil, but Grainne caught her hand.

  “Never mind that! Look at the hour!” Grainne’s voice was tight, caught between scolding and worry. “If anyone else saw you here, you’d be put to silence for a week.”

  Ava’s cheeks burned. She looked away.

  “But no one will find me. Please, Lady Grainne. I need your help.”

  Grainne turned aside as Ava looked up at her with wide, deep-brown eyes.

  “Aveline, you little trickster. Do you think me so soft? Do you think I would not tell the Abbess?”

  Ava’s lashes fluttered again. Grainne met her gaze at last and let out a tired breath.

  “Lord above… what am I to do with you?”

  She closed the door and gestured to the stool. “Sit. Not on the bed. Now—what is troubling you, child?”

  Ava perched on the stool beside Grainne’s desk while Grainne settled back on her bed, her posture—still regal—looser than in the cloister. Ava fumbled her thumbs, her thoughts drifting back to earlier that day, when Grainne had pointed to the open sky.

  “Lady Grainne… if I am not meant to place justice and action first in the name of God, then what should I do? How can action not always be righteous?”

  Grainne’s fingers pressed into the bedclothes, giving Ava the silence she needed.

  “If action is not righteous, then…” Ava’s voice broke. Tears welled in her eyes.

  “Then you should have left me to starve all those years ago. At least then Beatrice wouldn’t always pick on me.”

  Her habit darkened where the tears soaked into the cloth.

  “Oh, child, do not say that. You are a gift to us all here, truly.” Grainne rose and reached to cup Ava’s face, but Ava swatted her hand away.

  “Action can be just,” Grainne said gently, “but the heart of it is restraint. Anyone can claim to walk in the Lord’s light. Knowing when to sheath your sword—that is what separates those who watch from those who are truly pious.”

  She paused, watching the tears track down Ava’s cheeks.

  “I cannot favour you in this abbey,” Grainne said softly, “but know that I care for you. You will always be my favourite troublemaker, my dear little Aveline.”

  Ava sobbed, letting her words escape through broken speech.

  “Then why—why did my parents abandon me?”

  Grainne let the silence sit between them, watching Ava come apart.

  “My dear,” she said, catching Ava’s face between her hands so she could not look away, “do not let such thoughts hollow you. Whatever the reason, few parents part with a child lightly. Some wounds are born of fear, not of unlove.”

  Ava saw something ache behind Grainne’s eyes as she held her gaze.

  “But they are the ones who lost,” Grainne said, her voice softening. She tapped Ava’s nose, then, with sudden mischief, poked at her ribs, finding every place she knew would make her laugh. “They did not get to see what a bright—”

  Ava flinched, then snorted despite herself.

  “—mischievous young woman you’ve grown to be.”

  Ava’s laughter intensified, then died out. Her thoughts drifted back to Beatrice. Her smug face. Worse than that, her theology. Ava did not know if she disagreed because Beatrice was wrong, or because she was so smug she could not bear the thought that she might be right.

  “Grainne,” Ava whispered, “do you think it’s true? Do you think our place is purely to pray, to sing, and to care for wounded warriors?”

  Grainne looked away, her gaze lingering on the parchment she had been writing upon.

  “That is a difficult question. We women are often more fragile in body than men. But…”

  She reached for a drawer and drew out a small silver sigil, its threadwork worn with age: a knight on horseback, sword raised.

  “There is an Order of knights, the best the Duchy of Normandy has to offer. They take women, too. It is rare, but those women show their devotion through faith and works.”

  Ava’s eyes widened, still wet with tears. Awe replaced her sorrow as she reached toward the sigil, stopping just short of touching it.

  “Do they fight Saracens? Do they deliver justice?”

  Grainne stayed silent, Ava continued in awe.

  “What are they called?”

  Grainne fell silent. Her hands twitched at her side as she regarded Ava with a quiet, melancholic look.

  “…Do not worry about that, my child.”

  She drew Ava into a final embrace.

  “Just know that you are deeply loved.”

  The two of them sat, cuddled in each other’s embrace. Ava took in Grainne's scent, that of springtime and joy; for a moment, Ava prayed that this moment would never end.

  …

  “Ava? Where have you been?” Constance whispered as Ava slipped back into the dorm. Constance lay curled in her bed, as usual. Whenever Ava worried about her, she stayed awake for her.

  Constance and Grainne were the only people Ava trusted completely.

  “I’m sorry, Connie. I had to talk to Lady Grainne for a bit.”

  Ava eased into her bed, moving as quietly as she could so as not to wake the other novices. The straw pallet was already warm with Constance’s body heat.

  “What did you ask her?” Constance whispered. “And what did she say?”

  Ava hesitated.

  “She told me of a place,” Ava said at last.

  “Normandy. Where they accept women as soldiers in the name of God. Where women travel to the Holy Land, and teach the Saracens the errors of their ways.”

  Constance cuddled closer. “That’s… kind of cool,” she murmured. “The world’s a big place, isn’t it? We’re lucky to be safe here, in St Mildrith Abbey.”

  Ava stared into the dark.

  “I’m going to Normandy.”

  “And here we get to eat, and sing, and pray and—” Constance’s voice faltered. “What did you say?”

  “I’m leaving,” Ava said quietly.

  “…What?” Constance said.

  Ava could not see in the dark, yet she had no need to; she felt warm liquid trickle from Constance’s face.

  “I have to go,” Ava began, “If there’s an Order of holy warriors that might accept me, I have to join, it’s my calling.”

  Constance pounded Ava’s chest, “Who cares about your calling, don’t go!” she yelled. Ava heard the ruffling of other novices; some heard her outburst.

  “I’ll wait,” Ava whispered. “One month. Then I must go.”

  Constance’s grip loosened, her hands falling back to the blankets.

  “A month,” she repeated, like she was testing the weight of the word.

  Ava stared into the dark, suddenly afraid of time itself.

  Constance turned away from her, curling in on herself. Ava felt the space open between them, cold and final as they lay side by side.