Free The Marsh King's Daughter by Elizabeth Chadwick Page B

folly.'
    Nicholas bowed in deference to her years and authority, but he could not let her words go entirely unchallenged. 'But you may find that you have destroyed what you sought,' he said, remembering Miriel's bitter remark that if she ever yielded, it would be because the best part of her had withered away.
    The Abbess sighed. 'It is a risk I must take. You must understand that there is no place for the girl outside of St Catherine's. Her family has entrusted her to us, and for various reasons there would be little hope of her making a respectable marriage if she returned to her own community. As far as I am concerned, today's incident was just another lesson she has learned the hard way.' The nun's expression grew stubborn. 'She will come into the fold; I will not let her stray.'
    She bade him frosty goodnight. Long after she had gone, Nicholas lay on his back, his arms pillowing his head, and thought about the day's happenings. They troubled him, but, like the Abbess, he had a pragmatic streak. It was a pity that the girl had been forced into the convent. He felt sorry for her, but she would not be the first young woman to suffer the fate, and it was the way of the world. Soon, as the Abbess said, he would be gone. He had his own way to make, a new life to forge. While grateful to the nuns for his life - to Sister Miriel in particular - they had no part in his future.
    Closing his eyes, he turned on his side and dreamed of wealth, of salt spray in his face, and of the deck of a sleek, beautiful ship beneath his feet.
     

    Miriel was accustomed to enduring bread and water penances. Not a month had gone by without one since her arrival at St Catherine's. For two days she was confined to a solitary cell, bare of furniture save for a thin mattress on the floor of beaten earth and a crucifix on the limed wall. The wind whistled through the barred shutters and it was unbearably cold. She wrapped the scratchy woollen bed blanket around her shoulders like a cloak and paced back and forth across the tiny room in an effort to keep warm. At one point she contemplated tearing the mattress into shreds and setting fire to it with the tiny cresset lamp that was all she had for light. It remained no more than a notion. The bracken stuffing would only give off heat for a short while, and her punishment would be redoubled. She would endure; it was only two days.
    Sister Adela brought her a loaf of coarse brown bread and jug of water each morning, but Sister Euphemia was on hand to oversee the proceedings and there was little opportunity for the girls to speak.
    'Are you all right?' Adela managed to whisper on the second morning as she entered the cell. She looked pale and frightened. Perceived as the novice closest to Miriel, she was being made to witness her friend's humiliation and punishment as a warning of what happened to transgressors.
    Miriel forced a smile and touched her head. 'I will survive,' she said. 'It will grow back in time.' Her wimple covered the shorn spikes of hair that were all that remained of her glorious tawny tresses. Since the charge raised against Miriel by Sister Euphemia was grave indeed, the Abbess had approached St Catherine's priest concerning Miriel's punishment. Full of righteous disgust, Father Gundulf had quoted biblical verses about a woman's hair being a symbol of vanity and whoredom, and pronounced that Miriel's should be shorn to her scalp to remind her that she was God's servant.
    It had not been easy. There were huge, hand-shaped bruises on her arms where Sister Euphemia had pinned her fast, although Euphemia herself walked with a limp where Miriel had put in several useful kicks. They had burned her hair on the fire, purifying by immolation that which was unholy.
    'The man has moved into the guest house,' Adela added with a swift glance over her shoulder. The shuffle of Euphemia's footsteps was growing louder. 'He said to tell you that he's leaving on the morrow and he wishes you