Chapter One
E lizabeth sat in pensive silence in the refectory of the convent, staring miserably at her breakfast of cold porridge and boiled fish. She had eaten the same thing, every meal for the last five years of her life: cold porridge and boiled fish. Sometimes, there were boiled beets in the mix. Sometimes, there were boiled turnips. On holy days, there was even boiled cabbage. But the two ingredients that never varied were porridge and fish, served cold to dull the senses and remind the nuns who lived in the abbey of the sinful nature of their desires for earthly comforts and material pleasures - like warm beds and hot food.
There wasn’t even salt.
The young woman bowed her hooded head, and said a perfunctory prayer of appreciation for the food. Then, she immediately asked for forgiveness for the lie she had just told. She wasn’t thankful for the food at all. She hated every bite of it. She missed the lively feasts and banquets from her youth, when she had lived in an enormous castle, and never ate the same meal twice in her life.
Every day, her father’s hunters had brought in delicious fowl and game from the vast, fecund forest that surrounded his lands. The tenant crofters and serfs delivered pork, beef, lamb and mutton, along with garden-grown vegetables, and hearty grains, every week to pay their rents. There had been a dairy within the bailey of the fortress, and no less than ten milkmaids worked around the clock to supply the keep with fresh milk, cream, butter and cheese daily.
Anglers gave them fresh salmon and trout from the River Aln, and succulent seafood from the North Sea. Traveling caravans of merchant traders carried expensive, exotic spices from faraway lands like Andalusia, Firenze and Venetia.
The fiefdom boasted its own orchards and even a fanciful vineyard, although her father was the first to admit the wild, hilly landscape of coastal Northumbria did not provide sufficient nourishment needed for his experimental grapes. Still, everyone ate the dry, shriveled fruits good-naturedly and sipped his bitter tasting wines and juices with smiles on their faces. Elizabeth’s childhood had been a happy one.
Her father’s castle was located near an important river crossing, and was close to the Scottish border. The Great Hall of the fortress had hosted scores of important people every night. The keep had welcomed companies of the king’s horsemen, wandering friars and traveling lairds, along with colorful bards, gleemen, mummers, jesters and riddlers, sometimes for weeks at a time. It had required over a hundred servants just to run the everyday operations of the home. There had been a constant stream of visitors in and out of the place for all of the young woman’s carefree life.
Until her parents had decided to give her away.
The youngest of thirteen children, Elizabeth had been donated to the local priory at the age of twelve. Her father, the liege lord of Alnwick fief, had made the benevolent sacrifice of giving away his daughter to the convent. His kindness would ensure the family’s everlasting favor with the Lord God, and the eternal goodwill of the Pope John.
Every single member of the family would be blessed, in this life and the next, for their generosity; everyone except Elizabeth, who had been damned to a life sentence of silence, poverty and corporeal suffering within the prison walls of the convent. Cut off from the outside world, she had not been allowed to receive even a letter from her mother on Christmas, nor possess a single item of her own, other than her bible, her habit and her veil.
There were eight hours of obligatory prayer at the abbey every single day. The first started at midnight with matins, lauds at three, followed by prime, terce, sext, the midday prayer, vespers and compline. All were the price to be paid for the privilege of living in the priory, along with the other noble women who resided there.
No one had even asked Elizabeth once if she wished to go.
E lizabeth sat in pensive silence in the refectory of the convent, staring miserably at her breakfast of cold porridge and boiled fish. She had eaten the same thing, every meal for the last five years of her life: cold porridge and boiled fish. Sometimes, there were boiled beets in the mix. Sometimes, there were boiled turnips. On holy days, there was even boiled cabbage. But the two ingredients that never varied were porridge and fish, served cold to dull the senses and remind the nuns who lived in the abbey of the sinful nature of their desires for earthly comforts and material pleasures - like warm beds and hot food.
There wasn’t even salt.
The young woman bowed her hooded head, and said a perfunctory prayer of appreciation for the food. Then, she immediately asked for forgiveness for the lie she had just told. She wasn’t thankful for the food at all. She hated every bite of it. She missed the lively feasts and banquets from her youth, when she had lived in an enormous castle, and never ate the same meal twice in her life.
Every day, her father’s hunters had brought in delicious fowl and game from the vast, fecund forest that surrounded his lands. The tenant crofters and serfs delivered pork, beef, lamb and mutton, along with garden-grown vegetables, and hearty grains, every week to pay their rents. There had been a dairy within the bailey of the fortress, and no less than ten milkmaids worked around the clock to supply the keep with fresh milk, cream, butter and cheese daily.
Anglers gave them fresh salmon and trout from the River Aln, and succulent seafood from the North Sea. Traveling caravans of merchant traders carried expensive, exotic spices from faraway lands like Andalusia, Firenze and Venetia.
The fiefdom boasted its own orchards and even a fanciful vineyard, although her father was the first to admit the wild, hilly landscape of coastal Northumbria did not provide sufficient nourishment needed for his experimental grapes. Still, everyone ate the dry, shriveled fruits good-naturedly and sipped his bitter tasting wines and juices with smiles on their faces. Elizabeth’s childhood had been a happy one.
Her father’s castle was located near an important river crossing, and was close to the Scottish border. The Great Hall of the fortress had hosted scores of important people every night. The keep had welcomed companies of the king’s horsemen, wandering friars and traveling lairds, along with colorful bards, gleemen, mummers, jesters and riddlers, sometimes for weeks at a time. It had required over a hundred servants just to run the everyday operations of the home. There had been a constant stream of visitors in and out of the place for all of the young woman’s carefree life.
Until her parents had decided to give her away.
The youngest of thirteen children, Elizabeth had been donated to the local priory at the age of twelve. Her father, the liege lord of Alnwick fief, had made the benevolent sacrifice of giving away his daughter to the convent. His kindness would ensure the family’s everlasting favor with the Lord God, and the eternal goodwill of the Pope John.
Every single member of the family would be blessed, in this life and the next, for their generosity; everyone except Elizabeth, who had been damned to a life sentence of silence, poverty and corporeal suffering within the prison walls of the convent. Cut off from the outside world, she had not been allowed to receive even a letter from her mother on Christmas, nor possess a single item of her own, other than her bible, her habit and her veil.
There were eight hours of obligatory prayer at the abbey every single day. The first started at midnight with matins, lauds at three, followed by prime, terce, sext, the midday prayer, vespers and compline. All were the price to be paid for the privilege of living in the priory, along with the other noble women who resided there.
No one had even asked Elizabeth once if she wished to go.
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