Come Back to Me by Jody Hedlund

~ 10 ~

THEYWEREBEINGFOLLOWED.

Marian glanced out the rear window and caught a glimpse of the silver Range Rover that had trailed them since they’d pulled out of Chesterfield Park.

“This is nuts, eh,” Drake muttered from his spot next to Bojing in the front of the Bentley. “Foolhardy.”

She didn’t blame Drake for his caution, especially because the police still hadn’t discovered Harrison’s whereabouts. In fact, the local daily news reports had spoken of little else but the ongoing search for the abducted Lord Burlington.

Even with the danger, she had no choice but to venture out. She’d gone first to her dad’s terraced house on St. Peter’s Lane with the excuse that she needed to pick out his funeral outfit as well as gather more of her own clothing. Drake had positioned himself outside the front door and had given her five minutes. The house had been in the same state of disarray as the first time she’d visited it. So, she’d easily located the ancient coins scattered on the dining room floor.

She pressed a hand against her skirt and the pouch of coins now in her pocket. She wasn’t sure what items would travel with her to the past. But since Dad had apparently been able to take whatever he’d had on him when he’d lapsed into the coma—like his watch—she hoped the same would be true for her.

Her already taut nerves stretched tighter. Was she doing the right thing? The question ricocheted through her mind as it had a hundred times over the past hours while she’d prepared to leave.

Drake’s gaze darted to the rearview mirror. “You got what you wanted, miss. Let’s get on to Chesterfield Park straightaway.”

“Only one more stop. I promise.” She pulled her phone out of her purse and scrolled through her photos. She halted at the picture of her, Ellen, and Dad together last Christmas. Harrison had taken the photo at Chesterfield Park in the spacious drawing room in front of a twelve-foot-tall Christmas tree.

Dad was in the middle, his hulking frame dwarfing her and Ellen. His gray hair was unkempt, his smile slight, and his eyes distant, as though his mind was a thousand miles away. Marian touched his face, guessing he actually had been a thousand miles away in the past. He’d probably already known at that point his plans to cross time, had likely been waiting for May when he could steal the St. Thomas ampulla relic when it came to Canterbury Cathedral.

“Good-bye,” she whispered. Even though she had every intention of returning to the present, she needed to see the picture of them one last time. Just in case she didn’t recover . . .

She didn’t want to think about that happening. But going back a year before Dad was risky. There was so much that could go wrong, including not being able to find more holy water—especially if Dad had gotten it from the opening of the wellspring after the earthquake and hadn’t been able to purchase it from the cathedral. It was possible that before the earthquake the flasks sold at the cathedral hadn’t contained the miraculous holy water and had only been an imitation. Even if that was the case, surely the original St. Thomas ampullae were still available. She was resourceful and would find them. Like her dad, she would search for two—one to revive herself from the coma and then one to heal Ellen.

Clicking off her phone, she slipped it back into her purse. She’d do whatever she had to for as long as it took, until she found a way to save Dad and Ellen.

Poor Ellen. She was in for a shock when she arrived in Canterbury.

Marian had written a note to her sister regarding everything that had transpired, her current plans to save Dad, as well as instructions for how to bring her out of the coma. She’d placed the information in Harrison’s safe, along with all the items from Dad’s safety deposit box. Then, Marian had luxuriated in a long, hot shower—likely the last one she’d have for a few days.

After studying several descriptions of medieval clothing, she’d considered trying to find a costume shop for an authentic medieval gown. But she hadn’t wanted to chance drawing even more attention to herself.

Instead, when she’d reached her dad’s house and her wardrobe there, she dressed in what she hoped was a modest outfit—a flowing white skirt that nearly touched her ankles, summer sandals, and a silky coral long-sleeved blouse covered with a cashmere shawl. She also wore the tear-drop pearl necklace her mother had given her.

Marian peered past Bojing and Drake to find that the Bentley was nearing the St. George’s Roundabout. Her stomach fluttered, and she pressed her hand against it only to realize her fingers were trembling.

“Pull off onto Canterbury Lane near St. George’s Tower.” The old square tower constructed of stone stood at the edge of a shopping plaza. With its arched gates, crenellated parapets, and leaded glass windows, it was a remnant of bygone eras, a lone guardian rising tall above the street. A clock jutted out on one side, upheld by a gargoyle, its grotesque face issuing a warning—but of what, she’d never known.

“What’s here that you want?” Drake’s voice was edged with suspicion.

“I need to check on an old landmark. That’s all.” She reached for the ampulla she’d previously tucked in the folds of her skirt on her lap. Her shaking fingers fumbled at the plug from Harrison’s lab. After a long second, it popped loose.

Bojing was slowing the Bentley for the turn, and even though Drake was scowling and staring out the rearview mirror, he didn’t protest.

As the car turned, Marian caught sight of the old city wall ahead past shopping centers. This was it. She only had seconds left.

“Whatever happens to me,” she said to Bojing and Drake, “take me back to Chesterfield Park and not to the hospital. I need to be at Chesterfield Park.”

Then, before either of the men could reply and before she could talk herself out of her mission, she lifted the flask to her lips, tipped it up, and emptied the scant drops of liquid onto her tongue. I need to go to the year 1381, she silently chanted. 1381.

Her last thought was that the holy water was tasteless. Then the world went black.

* * *

Complete and encompassing silence greeted Marian. Had she somehow become suspended in the time-space continuum between the past and the present?

A moment later, the soft scuff of footsteps nearby confirmed she’d arrived someplace—although she had no idea where.

She struggled to open her eyes, but her lids were heavy, her head groggy, and her body lethargic. Beneath her, the ground was hard and cold.

The footsteps drew nearer and stopped beside her. Someone knelt, the movement bringing the waft of dust. Gentle hands slipped behind her neck, lifted her head slightly, and then pressed a grainy rim against her mouth.

Marian’s tongue was dry and stuck to the roof of her mouth, but she found that she could part her lips, eager to quench her thirst.

A warm liquid slipped into her mouth tasting of honey and sage. She took several sips of the sweet mixture before the mug lifted and she was lowered back to the ground upon a pallet of some kind. Her fingers at her sides made contact with coarse linen that was filled with a thin layer of something stiff. Was it straw?

Her eyes flew open to the sight of a dull gray ceiling. She shifted her head to take in walls of the same plain color, nothing on them except a simple wooden cross. The room was small enough to be a closet with a narrow rectangular window that allowed in some light, but not enough to ward off the shadows.

Her gaze came to rest on a woman kneeling next to her, a clay cup in her hands. The woman was draped from head to foot in layers of black and white. A nun.

Marian’s heart sped with anticipation. Did the presence of this nun mean she’d ended up in St. Sepulchre Priory on St. George’s Street? The nunnery no longer existed in present-day Canterbury, so she’d had no way of knowing exactly where it had once stood, only a guess from the excavation records. But if she was here, then it would appear that her calculation regarding the location had been correct.

She studied the cell-like room again, noting the cracks in the wall, the spiderweb in one corner, and the barrenness. Even if it wasn’t pristine, overall it was clean.

She’d done it. She was in the past. And not just fleetingly. This time, her body felt firmly connected in some unexplainable way.

What about the present time? What had happened after she’d ingested the holy water in the back seat of the Bentley? Had Bojing returned her to Chesterfield Park as she’d asked? Was she even now lying in a coma similar to the one her dad had experienced?

Gentle fingers brushed at Marian’s forehead, drawing her attention back to the face of the nun hovering above her—a thin but pretty face framed by a tight white wimple, which extended below her chin and covered all of her neck. A long black veil was attached to the coif and draped over the woman’s head, flowing down her back. She also wore a white habit that was adorned with a black scapular and woven belt.

“Where am I?” Marian’s voice was strangely hoarse.

The nun glanced over her shoulder at the open door before leaning in to Marian and whispering, “The infirmary of St. Sepulchre’s.” Marian nodded, but before she could ask another question, the nun continued. “I found you near the back gate of the priory this morn.”

“So I’ve only been here a few hours?”

“All day, my lady. The bells shall soon ring for Vespers.”

If Marian remembered the terminology correctly, Vespers was the evening prayer hour, usually spoken around 6:00 p.m.

The nun offered her another sip of water, and the warm liquid soothed Marian’s dry throat. “Thank you for helping me.”

The nun nodded and smiled. Her eyes were lovely and gentle, framed with long lashes. “My lady . . .” She stalled, clearly waiting for Marian to fill in the details of her name.

Marian hesitated. She didn’t have to be a historian to know that women’s roles had been vastly different in ages past, that most had very little independence and rarely traveled anywhere alone.

Though Marian was fluent in French, she didn’t want to risk pretending to be French since England was at war with France in the 1300s in what had become known as the Hundred Years’ War.

Instead, during her planning, she’d decided if anyone questioned what she was doing alone in Canterbury, she’d inform them she was from a noble English family who’d been living in Denmark and that she’d run away from them. Hopefully, that would account for her accent as well as her ignorance of social customs. From the little she’d gleaned during her quick research, Denmark had been largely influenced by the Church in much the same way as England with similar standards of living.

“I’m Marian Creighton.” It couldn’t hurt to give her real name, could it?

The nun’s brows furrowed. “Creighton . . . I have not heard this family name. From where do you hail? Your accent and your garments—they are foreign.” She nodded to the neatly folded pile of clothes at the head of the pallet.

Marian’s fingers flew to her body beneath the blanket. Someone had attired her in a flowing robe—perhaps a habit similar to the one this nun wore. She patted her thigh. Her pouch of coins was gone, and she prayed it was safe in her stack of clothes.

“I don’t remember much of what happened.” Marian’s mind spun as she searched for the right words, anything that would make her entry into Canterbury in 1381 sound believable. It was 1381, wasn’t it? “What day and year is it?”

“The year of our Lord thirteen hundred eighty-one, on St. Augustine’s day.”

“St. Augustine’s day?”

The nun’s forehead remained wrinkled, and a new worry filled her eyes. “Can you not recall the circumstances that brought you to us or the date?”

Marian shook her head. She didn’t want to lie, but what other choice did she have at this point?

“Then you have lost your memories. I have heard of such a malady happening before. I knew of a lad who was kicked in the head by his goat—”

More footsteps in the hall outside the door brought the nun’s conversation to a halt. She clamped her lips closed and ducked her head.

The footsteps paused by the door. “Sister Christina?”

The nun rose and kept her head bowed, as though in deference to the newcomer who filled the door with her short, squat frame. “I thought I heard voices.” The newcomer didn’t speak above a whisper, but the censure in her tone fairly shouted. The wrinkles in her portly face identified her as an older nun.

Sister Christina shook her head and answered by making motions with her fingers—apparently some kind of sign language.

The older nun gave a curt sign in return, which caused Sister Christina to scurry off without so much as a good-bye. Only then did the older nun enter the room with slow, measured steps. Her rounded face contained none of the kindness or compassion Sister Christina had shown. Instead, her lips were pursed sternly, and her expression was severe.

“I see that you have awoken.” The whisper was faint.

Marian nodded, again not sure how to reply. She supposed the less she said about herself, the better.

“I am Prioress Margery.” She watched Marian as though expecting some sort of response.

Worry wormed through Marian. Should she rise to her knees and bow? Kiss the woman’s hand? What exactly was appropriate?

The prioress’s frown deepened at whatever breech of etiquette Marian had committed. “Have you come of your own volition, or did your family bring you to us?”

The question confused Marian.

The prioress’s eyes narrowed. “Then Sister Christina is correct. You have indeed lost your memories?”

“It would appear so,” Marian whispered back. She would survive better if she pretended to have forgotten her past. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about giving wrong information.

The older nun stared with unrelenting curiosity as though attempting to identify Marian, the same way Christina had. Then her gaze went to the pile of Marian’s belongings. “Since your family appears to be one of some means, we shall do our best to discover who they are and their intentions regarding your stay here.”

Distant bells began to ring, and at their sounding, Prioress Margery pivoted and exited the room using the same slow steps as before.

When the scuffling faded down the hallway, Marian sat up, letting the wool blanket fall away. Her head spun, and she blinked back several waves of dizziness.

Her vision cleared, and she tugged at her gown. She was indeed wearing what appeared to be a nun’s outfit, a loose-fitting white garment, but without any of the black trimmings. Her body felt strangely unencumbered. She wiggled, and mortification washed over her. Someone had taken off her bra and underwear and had placed a thin nightgown-like garment on underneath the robe.

She groped for her stack of clothing and searched through it. Her fingers came into contact with her lacy undergarments folded and at the bottom of the pile next to her sandals. But she couldn’t find the pouch of money or her pearl necklace.

Dizziness hit her, and she pressed her hand against her forehead to ward off a wave of panic. She’d been awake for less than five minutes, and already she was in big trouble. She was penniless in 1381.