Free Bitter Greens by Kate Forsyth

across the shoulder as I moved out of line. I was too miserable to care.
    One by one, we filed into the refectory, taking our place at the long wooden table, ready to break our fast, if not our silence. No one waspermitted to speak at meals, as I had discovered to my cost on my first morning at the abbey. Tired, rumpled, chilled to the bone, I had spooned up a blob of the cold congealing gruel and said sardonically to my neighbour, ‘Surely we’re not meant to eat this? It looks like pigswill.’
    My punishment had been to scrub the floor of the lavatorium till it  gleamed.
    One of the sisters mounted a small pulpit, where she proceeded to read aloud a depressing tale of some saint or another, martyred by having both her breasts cut off – a charming vocal accompaniment to our meal.
    Sœur Olivia made a stirring motion with one downward-pointing finger, and obediently I passed her the cauldron of gruel, first ladling myself some. It was thin and grey and tasteless. I glanced at Sœur Emmanuelle and laid one finger on my tongue, the signal to pass the honey. She met my eye, smiled maliciously and passed the honey down the table, away from me. I sighed and stirred the mess with my wooden spoon, unable to bear the thought of putting it to my mouth. I imagined I was at Versailles, eating fresh-baked sweet rolls with plum jam and a cup of steaming chocolate …
    Someone nudged my hand with the pot of honey. I looked up and saw Sœur Seraphina nodding her head at me, her thin brows drawn together in concern. I jerked my head in thanks and ladled some honey onto a slice of rough brown bread, but my throat was too dry, my chest too tightly constricted with misery, for me to eat. After a few nibbles, I let it lie on my plate. The littlest novice, Sœur Mildred, had scraped her bowl clean and picked up all the crumbs left on her plate with one small moistened finger. Now, she eyed my untouched food longingly. I passed her my plate and she devoured the bread and honey in seconds.
    Sœur Seraphina frowned. She caught the eye of one of the lay sisters and rhythmically stroked her right forefinger and thumb up and down her left finger, as if milking a cow. The lay sister brought her a jug of milk and poured it into a cup, which Sœur Seraphina then passed to me with an emphatic nod. I scowled at her but drank a mouthful, not wanting to suffer any more punishments for disobedience. I was too tired and too heartsick to bear any more.
    The milk was frothy and warm. I drank the cup down and felt better for it. Sœur Seraphina nodded, pleased. The bell rang – how I hated the soundof that bell – and we rose as one, the bench loudly scraping over the paving stones as we pushed it away from the table with the backs of our knees. One by one, we filed away from the refectory, our steps ringing hollowly on the stone, to the chapterhouse. Vaulted and pillared, the chapter room was hung with heavy tapestries to try to keep out the cold. I had to sit with the novices on a hard wooden pew at the back of the room, though I was so much older than them all. Sœur Emmanuelle sat with us, her cane in her hand in case any of us dared to whisper or fidget or cough or fart.
    I did not really listen, fixing my eyes on the nearest tapestry, which showed a white unicorn sitting with its front hooves in the lap of a fair-haired maiden in a gorgeous medieval gown. The embroidered grass was studded with flowers, and the two overarching trees were hung with pomegranates. Small beasts – rabbits and squirrels and badgers – watched from the shelter of the forest, not noticing the hunters creeping closer with their dogs and their spears. I stared at this tapestry for an hour every day and still I found new things in it – a nest of baby birds, a hunter who looked sad, a ladybird on a leaf. As usual, I let my thoughts drift away … to Charles, always to Charles.
    I thought of that time at Fontainebleau when I had crept away from the ballroom to meet with