Read sample Do Not Awaken Love

The Sacred Way, 1048

“She can write a good script,” my mother says, trying not to sound boastful, aware of the sin of pride. But I know that in truth she is proud that I can write, it is a rare skill in a girl my age, from my background. “And I have taught her such healing herbs as I know, from my garden,” she continues.

The Mother Superior nods. “What is your name, child?”

“Isabella, Reverend Mother,” I say clearly, mindful of my mother’s instructions on the way here to speak up and not whisper or shrink back.

“And how old are you?”

“Twelve,” I say.

“And is it your wish to enter the Convent of the Sacred Way? To be a nun here, when you are older?”

“Yes,” I say. “I have been promised here since I was born,” I add, with a touch of the storyteller to my pronouncement. “My birth was a gift from Saint James himself.”

The Mother Superior raises her eyebrows and my mother hurries to explain.

My mother was barren. There was not a saint on whose name she did not call in desperation for a child. The carvings on the beads of her rosary were worn away with her whispered prayers. At last, in despair, already past her fortieth year, she made the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, walking barefoot for twenty days. She would have felt dread at being so far from her home and husband, for she was a meek woman, driven only by quiet desperation, not any bold sense of adventure.

There in the holy place she knelt, feet bleeding from her journey, and swore that should she have a child she would dedicate them to God, to be a nun or monk. Then she returned home, weary and having used up her last hope, for what else could she do, where else could she turn to beg for a child? When after three months she did not bleed, rather than laugh with joy she wept, for she believed her last chance had gone, and that old age was coming to claim her. Instead, it was a child that was coming, and true to her word, my mother promised me to this convent.

“The saint heard my prayers,” says my mother. “And after his great gift to us, my husband agreed to move close to his shrine. We live by the road that the pilgrims take, we offer them water and food from our table daily. Isabella has helped me since she was a small child.”

“What work does your husband do?”

“He is a bookseller and scribe,” says my mother. “He writes letters for those who cannot write, he sells such books as his customers request. Books of learning, to scholars. Many are holy books,” she adds, anxious to make a good impression. “He is a good Christian.”

The Mother Superior is nodding, though I know that my mother could be charged with lying by omission. She is not mentioning that some of those holy books are sold to people of other faiths. My father has customers who are Jews and even, occasionally, Muslim scholars, although they are rarer, since the Muslim kingdoms, the taifas, are all to the South. The Mother Superior would not like to hear about these customers, just as my mother does not like them coming to my father.

“They are heathens,” I hear her chastising my father. “Let them go elsewhere for their sacrilegious texts.”

“They are scholars and men of learning,” my father always replies, and she will huff and mutter to herself and insist that they visit discretely, she does not want people gossiping about us. When she has gone, my father will smile at me and say, “Books are a precious gift, Isabella. They teach us to see the world with new eyes.”

“But what if they contain blasphemy?” I ask, a righteous child who has been raised knowing I will be a nun one day.

My father shakes his head when I say this. “It is men who speak blasphemy when they presume to speak for God,” he says gently. “It is not blasphemy to seek to understand our fellow men, even if they speak of their God with a different name. For God is always God, no matter what name we poor mortals may give Him in our ignorance.”

“He should not be called by any other name,” I say, certain of the Church and my mother’s teachings. “He is God. And it is blasphemy to call Him by any other name.”

My father smiles at my certainty. “Not so very long ago, far south of Galicia, away in Al-Andalus, was a city called Cordoba, where men of learning lived side by side and spoke with one another of what they knew. They shared their understanding of God and they made great discoveries in medicine, in mathematics, in astronomy and other studies. And the women of that city were calligraphers and poets, teachers and lawyers and doctors. There were more than twenty schools, open to all so that any who wished to learn might enjoy the knowledge shared. There was a library with more than four hundred thousand books. It was a community of great scholars.”

“And were they all Christians?” I ask, suspiciously.

“They were Christians and Jews and Muslims,” says my father. “And they made a land of knowledge and culture the like of which has never been seen before. Or since,” he adds, sadly. “Wars led to Al-Andalus being split into many small kingdoms. And now they bicker endlessly with each other, and so the great strides forward that were made are left to fade away.”

“Well, I am glad we live in a Christian kingdom away from the heathen Moors,” I say. “And I hope our king will one day conquer Al-Andalus, for the glory of God.”

My father only nods, having heard my words coming from my mother’s lips for many years. “Let us practice your calligraphy,” he says. “It will stand you in good stead when you join the convent, for an educated woman will rise higher than one who has no learning.”

“I seek only to serve God,” I say. “It is not seemly to seek glory.” But I bend my head to my studies anyway, for there is a little part of me that would like to be praised, who sometimes gives way to the sin of pride and imagines becoming a great Mother Superior or an Abbess, with a convent at my command, known for both my holy demeanour and brilliant mind.

The Mother Superior asks me to copy a verse from the Bible and nods at what I produce.

“Sister Rosa runs our infirmary and she is advancing in years now; she has need of an apprentice. The herbs and other ingredients she uses require a fair hand to label and as you say, Isabella has been taught the beginnings of the uses of herbs. If you do well, child, one day you will run the infirmary yourself, and there can be no greater service to God than to heal the sick that come to us. We care mostly for pilgrims,” she explains to my mother, “as we are placed here, on the last part of the road to Santiago. I am sure she will do well with us. Say goodbye to your mother, Isabella.”

My mother’s eyes shine with tears. In part, of course, she is sorry to lose her only child, to bid me farewell, but at the same time she is fulfilling her promise to Saint James, she is seeing her long-ago pilgrimage come to its sacred conclusion. She is filled with a joyful pride that she, a woman from a lowly estate, has given a daughter to the Church who may one day run the infirmary of a large and important convent. “Thank you, Reverend Mother,” she all but whispers. Her farewell to me is brisk and full of reminders of my sacred duty to obey the nuns in all things and to fulfil her promise to Saint James with reverence. I nod to everything she says, and then Sister Rosa comes to take me into the garden.

Sister Rosa is old, her skin is wrinkled and burnt brown by the sun as though she were a peasant, after all her years tending the garden to fill the still room and infirmary with remedies.

“We pray when we gather the herbs and we pray when we administer them,” she wheezes, “for it is through our prayers that God acts to heal the sick. It is neither our own skills nor the roots and leaves we use, that heal. Both are only conduits for His powers.”

“Yes, Sister,” I murmur.

“You will learn from me all the properties and righteous uses of plants, including trees, as well as all those other things on which we can draw in our work. The elements and humours, of course, metals and stones, and also all those creatures whom God created for man’s use: animals, fish, reptiles and birds. Naturally, you and I will focus on those that heal, but remember that healing comes also through everyday food, work and prayer, not just through the treating of an illness. It is part of our work to ensure that our sisters and visitors eat a health-giving diet. Meat, for example, should not be eaten too frequently, for it may inspire lust and that is incompatible with being a bride of Christ.”

“Yes, Sister.”

“Saint Benedict himself, when writing the Rule by which we live, said that caring for the sick was one of the instruments of good works. And so, you and I are blessed, Isabella, in that each and every day, we will be able to do good works through our humble tasks.”

Sister Rosa, I will discover, talks a great deal, but she has kind eyes and a warm smile. The heady smell of sun warmed lavender is all around me as we walk through the garden, the peaceful stillroom and the infirmary.

For nearly twenty years, this is my home.

The Apple Orchard

“Once again, you have shown yourself a true bride of Christ, Sister Juliana,” says the Mother Superior as the pilgrim leaves us, bowing and promising that he will praise my name at every footstep from here to Santiago de Compostela, for without my knowledge of herbs he might well have died before ever reaching his holy destination.

I bow my head over the mortar and pestle. “I was only doing my duty,” I say. “It is God’s hand that cured him.”

Mother Superior nods. “Indeed. But I have had to speak with some of the youngest sisters for their… unnecessary attention to that young man. I am afraid that in their youth and inexperience, they have been swayed by his name and fortune. As well as his looks,” she adds, getting to the real cause for her concern. She sighs. “Temptation is everywhere, Sister.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say, carefully pouring the ground cinnamon into its container, its sweet smell scenting the air around us. The bark of the tree is very hot in nature and is good for banishing ill humours, therefore despite its expense I use it frequently to dose my sisters, that their humours may be good.

“And yet you were not led astray,” says the Mother Superior with satisfaction. “It shows both your maturity and devotion to God and does you credit.”

“Thank you, Reverend Mother,” I say.

She looks around my stillroom, at all my remedies. The careful script marking each little bottle and jar, the cleanliness and order. “You are a credit to the name you took when you joined us,” she adds.

I think of Saint Juliana, patron of the sick, a devoted Christian who refused to marry a pagan husband and was scarred for her disobedience. “I have not had to face her tribulations,” I say. “I have been well treated here, Reverend Mother.”

She pats my shoulder. “You have worked hard ever since you were a child and your skill with the sick is your reward, by which you serve God,” she says. She stands for a moment but does not leave, gazing out of the window at my neat beds of herbs in the garden, as though turning something over in her mind. “I have a task for you,” she says at last. “You are to leave the convent and travel beyond Santiago de Compostela, to the coast at A Lanzada, to collect a novice, a girl named Catalina. Her father is ill, and she cannot travel alone. You will be accompanied by Alberte.”

“The stable hand? He does not have his full wits about him, Reverend Mother.”

“He is obedient and strong,” says the Mother Superior a little reproachfully. “We all have different gifts, given to us by God. You will also be accompanied by Sister Maria, so that there can be no impropriety in your travelling with a man.”

“Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say obediently, although privately I think that Sister Maria is a poor choice for a companion on a journey away from the convent. She is altogether too worldly for my liking, speaking often of life in the outside world as though it is something to be longed for, not grateful to be set apart from.

“I am entrusting you with this task because of your dedication to our convent,” says the Mother Superior. “I know that you will not be swayed in your faith by seeing the world outside our walls, that you will provide an example to our novice as she journeys here, to view entering our convent as a homecoming, rather than a loss of her childhood freedom.”

I stand a little straighter. “Yes, Reverend Mother,” I say.

“It is so exciting to be out in the world!” says Sister Maria on the morning when we set out.

I watch Alberte hoist her up into the saddle. Being both short and plump she is unable to mount alone. Her horse is skittish and once she is seated, Alberte bows his head to the mare’s muzzle and whispers to her, stroking her neck to calm the beast.

“It is an honour to bring home a young soul who is destined for the spiritual life,” I say.

Sister Maria beams at me as Alberte adjusts her stirrups. “I am sure our Reverend Mother has seen great qualities of devotion in you,” she says without jealousy. “Perhaps she sees a future for you as a Mother Superior yourself and this journey is a mark of her favour.”

I put a foot in my stirrup and lift myself into the saddle in one move. “You should not say such things, for I have no expectations,” I say. “The service I give in the infirmary is all that I desire.” I know that this is not quite true and note that I will need to do penance for the little burst of pride her words gave me, the thought that this journey, if well carried out, might lead to possible future elevation within our community.

Sister Maria is not in the least abashed. She readjusts her habit so that it falls more gracefully from her high seat. “Bless you, Alberte,” she says, looking down at the stable hand with an undiminished smile. “You have an affinity with horses; they listen to you. The Lord has given you a gift.” She is always free and easy with her compliments to those about her. I suppose she means well, although she may not realise that such comments can lead to the sin of pride in others.

“We must make a start,” I say to them both. “We cannot waste time.”

I feel a little anxious as we make our way through the gates of the convent and out into the open farmland that surrounds us. I have not left these walls except for brief walks to forage for plants since I came here as a child, excepting very occasionally to tend to a local noblewoman. To look back and see the convent recede into the distance is unnerving. Alberte’s expression is mostly blank, although he murmurs to his horse from time to time and I note that he watches the birds as they fly past. He is a good-natured lad, I suppose, it is not his fault that he was born with a simple mind. He works hard and is obedient enough. Sister Maria, of course, cannot be relied upon to maintain an appropriate silence.

“The crops are doing well this year,” she announces to no-one in particular. “I believe we will be able to give thanks for a generous harvest.”

As I recall Sister Maria came to us from farming stock, so it is no wonder she interests herself in such matters. I do not reply, hoping that she will recollect in due course that we should obey the rule of silence, since there is no need to speak. My hopes are not met.

“Good morning!” she cries when we pass a farmer and his children in a wagon, on their way to work in the fields.

“Good morning, Sisters,” he returns politely. “I wish you a pleasant journey.”

I bow my head but do not answer, while Sister Maria beams down at his children. “May the Lord bless you,” she says as they trundle slowly by. She twists her head to watch them. “Ah, Sister Juliana,” she says. “I know we are blessed to live a holy life, but I do sometimes think that it would have been a great joy to bear children.”

“There is no greater joy than to serve God,” I remind her a little sharply, but she does not look in the least humbled.

“There is joy in all walks of life,” she says. “For God is in our hearts, whatever work we turn our hands to.”

“Perhaps we may think on that blessing in silence,” I say and at last Sister Maria stills her tongue for a little while.

With Alberte’s orders to stick to a brisk but dignified pace, we reach the outskirts of Santiago de Compostela itself in three days, riding alongside pilgrims making their way to the holy shrine. I must remind Sister Maria on an irritatingly frequent basis to restrict her conversation with those whom we pass. We sleep each night in welcoming houses of God, so that we can be assured of safety and of being watched over by a holy presence, in silence and comfort. I feel a small pang on the fourth day that we cannot visit the great city and pray in the cathedral, but it will only slow us down. There are still two more days’ journey to go and so we pass by the city walls in the distance and continue on our journey, following the River Ulla down its southern side as it widens out into the Arousa Estuary.

“The sea!” exclaims Sister Maria.

“God be praised,” I say. “We are almost at our destination.”

“I have never been to the sea,” says Sister Maria, almost standing in her stirrups to look farther ahead, shading her eyes.

“We are not here to sightsee,” I tell her, but she and Alberte pay no attention, exclaiming together over every little thing they notice as we reach the coastline and the small village of A Lanzada. The sound of the waves lapping, the white-gold sand and the deep blue shade of the sea all catch their attention and it is left entirely to me to seek out the right household.

“I thought it would be bigger,” says Alberte, looking a little forlorn at the sight of the huddled houses along the shoreline. Seagulls scream overhead. I have only ever seen them rarely, when the weather at sea is bad and they come inland to screech in the convent’s fields.

“It is not the size of the village that matters to us, but that it chooses to give up one of its daughters to our holy life,” I remind him.

“Is that the hermitage?” asks Sister Maria.

A rocky outcrop jutting into the sea from the shoreline holds a tiny building, like a miniature church, with a large tower to one side.

“Yes,” I say. “We will give thanks there for our peaceful journey here and again when we leave with the girl, that we may have a safe journey home.”

“What is the tower for?” wonders Sister Maria.

I do not answer her, for a boy has run up to greet us.

“Have you come for Catalina?”

I look down into his wide eyes. “I am Sister Juliana of the Convent of the Sacred Way,” I tell him. “I and my Sister Maria here have come to take Catalina home.”

The boy looks puzzled. “This is her home,” he says.

“She has been promised as a bride of Christ,” I say. “Her true home is at the convent now.”

He only stares at me.

“Where is her father’s house?” I ask.

He points, then runs alongside us as we make our way to the largest house in the village, where a woman is already standing waiting for us. Word of strangers spreads fast in a small village.

Catalina’s father is a merchant of middling means. He is a chandler, supplying ropes and other such necessities to ships both large and small, although his trade is mostly with the smaller fishermen and merchants, not ocean-going craft or grand vessels. He finds himself in ill health, suffering from a growth in his stomach which is likely to kill him soon, for there is no cure. Therefore, he has been taking care of his affairs, including marrying off various sons and daughters who are old enough. He has a houseful of daughters, hence the dedication of Catalina to our convent.

The girl is thirteen years old. She looks nervous at the sight of me. I think of myself at her age, almost twenty years ago, although since I had been told I would come to the holy orders since I was a baby, I think I was more prepared.

“My dear girl,” says Sister Maria, enfolding her in an unnecessary embrace. “We are so glad to see you! It is a great honour to have been chosen to journey here and bring you home to our convent. I am sure you will be happy there and you will become ordained one day yourself; praise be to God.”

Catalina gives a weak smile, but she is brave enough when bidding goodbye to her family the next morning. Our departure is delayed by her mother insisting on us all eating a final and overly lavish breakfast together and her father fussing too much over ensuring her stirrups are well-set for her legs. She has very little in the way of belongings, but of course she will not need anything personal at the convent. Her brothers and sisters and what appears to be half the village have come to bid her farewell, which delays us still further. Catalina’s lower lip trembles a little when her mother weeps while blessing her, but that is natural enough and shows a good heart and a familial devotion which I am sure will in due course become a devotion to the convent. She mounts the horse that Alberte has brought for her by herself and lifts one hand to her family. I see a little tear fall but I look away so that she need not be ashamed of her moment of weakness.

“We will pray at the hermitage for a safe journey home,” I say.

We ride down to the shoreline and then walk past the tall tower to the tiny chapel. It is smaller than our refectory inside, but all places of worship bring me a sense of peace and we pray together, the three of us, while Alberte waits on the beach with the horses. When we emerge, he is staring open-mouthed at the way the waves rush onto the sand and then pull away again. Catalina, perhaps out of nerves, chatters incessantly.

“The tower was built as a lookout against the Norsemen,” she informs us. “They use the estuary to sail upriver and come closer to Santiago de Compostela on their raiding parties.”

“The Norsemen’s raids were long ago,” I point out.

She shakes her head. “They still go on now,” she says, “just more rarely. They try to take women and children, to sell them for slaves.”

Alberte and Sister Maria stare at her, fascinated.

“We need to begin our journey,” I say. “It is already late.”

We mount again and turn the horses inland, ready to journey home.

“Will you miss living by the sea?” asks Sister Maria.

Catalina looks back over her shoulder at the sea, sparkling in the mid-morning sun. “Yes,” she admits. “There is so much to see, it changes every day. And they say it has healing properties.”

“What kind of properties?” I ask.

“Women who are barren go down to the hermitage once a year at midnight for the Ritual of the Nine Waves,” she says. “Once a woman has undressed and been washed in nine waves by the light of the moon, she will have children for sure.”

“That is a pagan belief and practice,” I say sharply. “I will not hear of such nonsense, nor should you repeat it.” I hope the girl will not gossip all the way home; she is worse than Sister Maria. “We will not speak for the rest of the journey unless it is necessary,” I tell her. “It is best to grow used to the rule of silence as quickly as possible, so that it will come to seem natural to you.”

She nods, chastised. I give her a small smile of approval for showing her agreement and obedience without speaking.

Our late departure means that the midday sun burns down on us while we are still progressing along the banks of the estuary, passing small farms as we go. To our right, we pass a large apple orchard, the very first apples turning shining red. The sweetly tart fruits of early summer come as a welcome relief after the bitter greens and heavy chestnut flour of the winter. The breeze rustles through the branches and birds sing. It is a place of great peace, reminding me of my herb garden at the convent. I have missed the garden, even in these few days away from it, the silence and the scent, the mastery of my own little kingdom.

“May we rest, Sister Juliana?” asks Sister Maria.

I consider for a moment. We should ride on, but the sun is at its zenith and the rustling leaves and faint scent of apples calls to me. “Very well,” I concede. “We will rest a little while. The shade will be cooling.”

Sister Maria slides ungracefully down from her horse, landing with a solid thud on her small feet. Her round face is beaming. “May we taste the fruits?”

“No,” I say sharply. “They are not ours to pick, Sister. You should know better.”

But Sister Maria is already holding a red apple in her hand. “A windfall,” she says. “A gift of God to the needy.”

“You are hardly in need, Sister,” I say, looking with disapproval at her ample girth.

Sister Maria is not listening, of course, she is hunting for other windfalls in the long grass. She finds and offers one to Alberte, then another to Catalina, who looks to me for guidance. I am glad to see her hesitation; it speaks of humility and reverence for one’s elders and superiors. “You may accept,” I say. It would be a waste of God’s bounty to let the windfall fruit rot in the field, after all. Alberte is sharing his apple with his horse, the foolish boy. When Sister Maria holds out a fruit to me, I hesitate but then take it with care, wiping a little mud off the red peel. Apples are easily digested by persons in good health, even when eaten raw, and the first apples of the season have a crisp sweetness that is pleasing to the palate. A little further down the slope is an old tree stump shaded by a young tree and I make my way to it, leaving the others behind. I sit down and look out over the fields, then lift my hand to my mouth. I bite, feel the sharp-sweet flesh crunch beneath my teeth and even as I do so, Catalina screams somewhere behind me.

I twist on my seat and look round, expecting the girl to have perhaps disturbed a snake in the long grass, but instead I am faced with Alberte, who is staggering towards me, his face ashen, eye wide, his neck ending in a scarlet slash from which blood is pouring. Even as I rise, he falls, so that behind him I can see Sister Maria struggling in the arms of a man and Catalina running back towards the road, pursued by another man. I open my mouth to cry out and a rough hand comes over my mouth, my left arm is pinned back so hard I think for a moment my shoulder is about to dislocate. I struggle and try to bite the hand and it is taken away for a moment, only to strike me so hard the world grows dark.

Something wakes me. My shoulders ache and my stomach hurts, for all my weight is pushed onto it, I am lying draped over something moving, my head hanging down, longer grass stems touching my face. I open my mouth and vomit spews from it, filling my mouth and nose with the sweet-bitter-sharp taste of apple mixed with bile. My head feels cold even in the sunlight and it takes me a moment to realise that the men who took me have removed my coif, wimple and veil, so that my shaven scalp is exposed to the air. My hands are tied behind my back, I have been thrown over a saddle and when I try to move, I realise I have also been bound to it, for I cannot slide down from the horse. Now I realise that I have also been stripped of my habit, I am now wearing only my shift and my shoes. In terror, I think that I have been violated, that our captors have defiled our bodies, but there is no pain between my legs.

I twist my head to the right and see a horse being ridden ahead of me, the high leather boots of a man, nothing more. I twist my head the other way and see more horses behind me: the first bearing the shaven and unconscious head of Sister Maria, the one behind that the long dark locks of Catalina, whose face is turned towards mine, her eyes open in mute terror. I meet her gaze but only shake my head at her not to make a noise, for if we do, we may be struck again, or our mouths bound up. Beyond Catalina’s horse, I can only make out the legs of two, perhaps three, horses and more leather boots. I cannot see the faces of the riders.

We are no longer on the road. Instead, the horses pick their way through fields, keeping to the rough, overgrown borders or through wooded areas so that my face is scratched by shrubs and low-hanging branches. I keep my eyes shut, for there is not much to see and I am afraid of brambles. But my mind is racing. One word keeps coming back to me. Rus. As a child, my father told me of the Norsemen, whom the Arabs called Rus. They sailed great ships and raided our coastlines, kidnapping men and women, taking them as slaves for themselves or selling them to the Maghreb, across the sea south of Al-Andalus, in the lands of the Muslims. The worst of their attacks took place long before our time, but as Catalina told us, there are still the odd raids, brutal and quick, taking unwary women and children for slaves. I think of the moment of temptation to which I succumbed: the shade, the ripe fruit, the fresh scent of apples in the warm air and curse myself. Poor half-witted Alberte is already dead for my sin and the fate of Sister Maria and Catalina is my burden to carry now, for I cannot think how we might escape. Eyes still closed, I pray for help to Our Lady, though the pain in my shoulders and the ache in my head tells me that my prayers may go unanswered, that my temptation to stray from the path I had been commanded to follow is about to be punished more severely than I could have imagined.

The horses stop in a heavily wooded area, but I can hear the sea again, the rush of waves on the shore not far away and guess that we are somewhere back close to A Lanzada. I think of the watchtower by the hermitage and hope that someone is watching, that they will spot something amiss and come to our aid. It is full daylight, surely a Norse ship would be spotted at once?

But the men have other ideas. They yank us down from the horses, I hear the muffled yelps from Sister Maria and Catalina as they fall to the ground, their bound hands meaning they are unable to break their falls. When my turn comes, I try to brace myself, but it makes no difference, I am half-pulled, half-thrown into the shrubby undergrowth and left to lie there. I dare not move, expecting the men to force themselves on us, but instead I hear them move a few steps away, speaking to one another in a guttural tongue, their voices unafraid, one even laughs. I cannot see them, but I hear them sit down and then faintly smell food that they are eating, bread and apples, no doubt picked from the same orchard where they took us. I can hear them crunching, smell again the faint sweet fresh smell. I look carefully about me without moving. I can see Sister Maria’s feet and some of Catalina’s long hair. I can hear Catalina crying softly.

Time goes by. Occasionally I move a little, only to stop my limbs from going numb. I dare not draw attention by moving a great deal. The men continue to talk between themselves as though they were merely passing the time together in idleness. I hear one snore when he snoozes for a while. They are unhurried, unconcerned at being found out. They must know this place well, know that they are fully concealed. They are waiting for something, but I am not sure what. I see Sister Maria wriggle violently once and one of the men throws an apple core at her with a command, no doubt to be still and silent, then laughs.

They have been waiting for darkness.

The sun sinks. I cannot see it, but I feel the cool breeze of the evening, see the shadows fade and change to dusk. We have been here for many hours. My mouth is dry with the desire for water, for I have not drunk since late morning. At last, one of the men squats near each of us and lets us drink from a waterbag. It is not enough to fully sate my thirst but the few gulps I am allowed are desperately welcome.

They wait a little longer, as dusk turns to night. I think of the watching tower and wonder if it has a light in it, how far out to sea that light might shine. I pray to Our Lady of the Lanzada, the hermitage in which we knelt only this morning, where we asked for a safe journey home. I pray for a miracle.

I am thrown back over my horse, my stomach pressed hard against the saddle, I hear the other two women served in the same manner before the Norsemen begin to lead us further through the woods and then out into an open space, I think we must be on a clifftop overlooking the sea, for I hear the waves closer than ever and beyond the ground I can only make out an empty nothingness of darkness. The stars shine brightly, but the moon is only a tiny crescent, I cannot make out any details by its pale glow. I twist my head this way and that, trying to make out anything, anything at all, the tiny lights of the village or even of a single house. One of the men cuffs my bare scalp and hisses something at me, no doubt an order to be still. I kick out at him and he cuffs me harder. I hang loose again, my face half against the hard leather saddle, half on the horse’s warm flank.

This time, when we are pulled down, we land in soft sand, then are yanked to our feet and made to trudge through it, my feet slipping and sliding as the sand yields to my steps. I and my captor are leading the others closer to the sea. Twice I nearly fall, but the man behind me jerks me back to my feet, pulling my arm so hard it hurts.

When cold water washes over my feet I step back, but the Norseman has other ideas. He forces me forwards. I struggle, for a moment unreasonably fearing that he intends to drown me, which would be easy enough. If I were to fall now, knee-deep in water, my hands bound, I would drown in moments. I am pushed forwards again into the shallows of the sea, feel the wetness cover my feet, my ankles, my calves and the cold embrace of my shift as it becomes soaked, clinging to my thighs and waist. Now I see a moving shape close to us and realise there is a small rowing boat bobbing up and down. I am all but thrown into it, then pushed to take a seat on a rough wooden plank that serves as a bench. In the darkness, I make out the other men, Sister Maria and Catalina joining us. The boat rocks wildly and I want to clutch at the side but cannot. I wonder what is to become of the horses and wonder if perhaps these men have an accomplice here by the shore, a traitorous Galician who is well paid for his silence, trading the lives of good Christians for valuable horseflesh.

Two of the men take up oars and now there is the fast sound of wood against water and the boat begins to move across the waves. Far off along the shore, at last, I glimpse a cluster of tiny lights which may well be A Lanzada, but they are too far away to hear our screams, even were we able to scream.

I twist my head in the darkness and see a faint light in the endless dark waters. The men are rowing towards it. I feel a cold shudder pass through me, certain that a larger boat, a ship, is waiting for us, out there on the waves, showing only enough light to guide us towards it.

We draw closer and closer to the dim light. One of the men in our boat lets out a sudden call and at once, more lights appear ahead of us, illuminating what has been waiting all this time.

The ship fills my heart with fear. Its carved prow is surmounted with the head of a beast and it rocks slowly back and forth on the water as though it is alive. The lights now shining from it should reassure me, but they do not, they only tell me that these men, out here in the deep waters of the sea, are no longer afraid of being caught, that it is too late for the miraculous rescue I prayed for.

Each of us is tightly held by the men in the little boat and passed up to the many disembodied hands reaching over the sides of the ship. Lifted over the waters beneath us, we are then thrown onto the deck. I fall poorly, hitting one elbow so that pain shoots up my arm. I yelp in pain. A hand pulls me to my feet; a lantern is lifted. I come face to face with a man, his face a hand’s breadth from mine.

His eyes are pale blue, like an early morning sky, a colour I have never seen before. His hair is dark yellow, long and coarse, pulled back from his head into a rough plait as though he were a peasant woman, though this is no woman. He towers over me, his shoulders massive and bare under a sleeveless leather jerkin, his muscled arms and even his neck marked with dark blue designs, shapes and whorls I do not know the meaning of. He pulls the gag from my mouth and then says something loudly into my face, but I do not know what he is saying. I turn my face to one side, and he slaps at me to look back at him. He repeats the words, but I only stare at him. He shrugs and drags me towards Sister Maria and Catalina, who are already sitting, their hands tied behind their backs, their tear-streaked faces turned towards me, eyes fixed on me as I stumble my way behind the man. Their captors have left them, gone to join the rest of the crew.

Suddenly I am fighting, hitting and biting, kicking and screaming, not words but only screeching fear. My composure has gone from me. My thoughts of caring for Sister Maria and Catalina are gone, at this moment I care only for myself and my safety, my ability to escape the man holding me prisoner.

But every bit of my strength and desperation is nothing to this man. He half-laughs, then pushes me so that I stagger backwards landing hard on my behind, almost in the laps of Sister Maria and Catalina, their bodies softening the blow.

“Sister Juliana,” whispers Sister Maria, but I do not know what she was planning to say, for the man reaches over and gives her a hard slap to the face, so that she cries out and then hangs her head low, tears dripping from her face in silence. Catalina flinches and her shoulders shake with the effort of keeping her own sobs silent. I sit in silence, though no tears fall from my eyes. My mind goes over and over the moment when Sister Maria asked me if we might rest a while. I think of my hesitation, my agreement. I wonder, if I had said no and kept riding, would we be safe within the walls of the convent that would have hosted us tonight? Or would the Norsemen have taken us anyway? Were they on the road behind us, or hiding in the orchard? Had they already marked us as their victims, was our fate already written, or was there a moment when the wheel of destiny turned? Was it the moment when I reached out my hand for the sharp-sweet scarlet flesh and gave myself over to the pleasures of the world?

Above us, the beast-ship’s head towers over us. I see its open mouth, the carved teeth within, a scarlet-painted tongue rippling out.

“Do not fight them,” I whisper quickly. “They will only hurt you.”

All around the ship orders are given and shouts come in response. I consider screaming for help but know already that it is too late for that now, we are far from the shore and I saw no other ships or even little boats. There is a heavy falling sound above our heads and craning upwards I catch sight of the bottom of a vast dark sail unfurling above us.