No Good Deed

by Kara Connolly

  “No, ma’am,” I said meekly.

  “That’s what I thought.” She put the dressing in a basin, then wet another bandage with a potion from a glass bottle and daubed my forehead with it.

  “What’s that?” At my question, Sister Clothilde glared, and I quieted as she continued her work.

  “The suppuration has greatly diminished,” she told me, grudgingly. “I will put another poultice on it to ensure all the corruption has been drawn out. I trust this is acceptable to you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I was in favor of anything that prevented corruption or suppuration. I didn’t even know what those were, exactly, but I knew I didn’t want them.

  I knew what I did want, though, and so did my stomach, which growled loudly. “So, I was wondering about my stuff. My clothes and my bow?”

  She gave a snort. “Clothing? Is that what you call it? Breeches so tight we had to peel them off like skin from a rabbit?”

  If that shocked her, I didn’t want to know what she thought of my underwear. Even I considered an underwire bra to be an instrument of the devil.

  “It was in no condition to wear,” she concluded, and lifted her tray of potions to balance again on her hip. “Isabel will be in shortly with some barley tea for you. You may ask her about your belongings.”

  My stomach was as unsatisfied by this answer as I was, and I sighed. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a nice English breakfast. Bacon and eggs? Grilled tomato? Beans on toast?”

  She rolled her eyes. “This isn’t a royal palace, your worship. And even if it were, it would still be gruel for breakfast until you’ve got your strength back.”

  I wanted to argue that I did have my strength back, but I realized how ungrateful I’d sounded. Especially I thought about the line of people at the priory gate.

  “I really do appreciate all your help, Sister. You’ve taken excellent care of me when you’d no obligation to.”

  “We’ve the obligation of Christian charity and the example of our Lord,” she said briskly. “And if we helped only those who could pay, we’d have nothing but an empty infirmary and a lot to answer for in the hereafter.”

  I found myself grinning without meaning to. Sister Clothilde glared. “What’s so funny, girl?”

  You. The way her wimple framed her face made her look like a grumpy Persian cat. But I couldn’t say that.

  “Nothing,” I answered, with what I hoped was a straighter face.

  “Hmph.” Tray still hitched on her hip, she headed to the door. “We’ll see about that.”

  As she went out, she met someone coming in. The room was so small, I had no trouble hearing what they said just outside the door.

  “How is the patient?” I recognized the voice of the nice nun from the previous night.

  “Stubborn,” said Sister Clothilde. “And full of questions. I’ll leave that for you to sort out.”

  “Sort out” was sort of ambiguous. Maybe even a little menacing, except that they were nuns. Or especially because they were nuns. It had been following a friar that had led me into this mess. Good grief, a lot had happened since then.

  The pink-cheeked nun—Isabel, I assumed—came in right after that. In the daylight she looked barely older than me. “You seem to be feeling better,” she observed with a friendly smile as she put a small tray of her own on the table next to the cot.

  “I am.” I sat up, cross-legged and facing sideways so I didn’t feel like an invalid. “Especially since I woke up with no leeches.”

  “We’re only a poor convent. We can’t afford to call a surgeon for bleeding every fever. But Sister Clothilde has the gift of herbs and tinctures, and she’s teaching me.”

  I did remember we’d been headed for a priory, aka convent, but that didn’t exactly narrow things down. Mom said that in the Middle Ages you couldn’t spit without hitting a monastery. “So, where am I, exactly?”

  “The priory of Saint Mary,” she said. “Though usually people call us Northgate Priory because we’re the first one on the road north from Nottingham.” She placed the palm of her hand over her heart and made a tiny, graceful bow, just a dip of her head and one shoulder, the formality offset by a friendly smile. “I am Isabel.” Then she handed me a pottery mug. “And this is for you, Eleanor. Drink up.”

  I took the cup from her, but eyed the cloudy liquid with suspicion. “What is it?”

  “A tincture of willow bark in barley water.”

  That didn’t sound like anything that would kill me, but the cautiousness of my first sip made the nun laugh.

  “You leapt into the river, evaded the chief forester and his rangers, dared the sheriff to give you a trial by combat, yet take barley water as if it might be poisoned?”

  The drink was slightly lemony and sweet, but the memory was sour. “You heard about that?”

  “Everyone in Nottinghamshire has heard about the hooded knave who escaped the sheriff’s best men.” There was subversive amusement in her eyes. “Much the miller’s son relayed the tale to us all. He’s half besotted with you, which makes the telling all the more amusing.”

  I winced. “Everyone in Nottingham?”

  She let her grin out. “ ‘The Tale of the Turnip’ is halfway to Huntingdon by now.”

  The Tale of the Turnip. Very droll. Less funny was how pissed the sheriff was going to be with most of the shire laughing at him. And notoriety wasn’t going to make it easier to stay inconspicuous while I found my way home.

  Isabel watched my expressions with what seemed like benign curiosity. “James told us very little about you, Eleanor, other than that we should maintain the ruse that you are a young man, if you wish.”

  “Thank you.” My conscience pinched me again. “I’m grateful for your care. Especially since helping me isn’t going to make you friends with the sheriff or the chief deputy park ranger.”

  She waved a hand. “The priory has its own problems with the sheriff. And as for his deputy, the chief forester…” She corrected his title, but then gave a dismissive little shrug. “Henry, I don’t worry about.”

  Time-out. She’d just called Captain Sir Henry Guilbert by his first name. And, I realized, she had also called James by his Christian name. I knew the guys had known each other growing up. It didn’t take a genius to guess that Isabel probably had, too, especially since she seemed about the same age.

  I gave her a closer look as she alit on the stool by the cot. Though her habit was made of simple brown wool, her posture was graceful and her hands lay lightly clasped in her lap; she looked like a figure in a tapestry.

  “So, what’s your deal, Sister Isabel?”

  “My what?” she asked with a surprised laugh.

  I had not meant to say that aloud, but since it was out there, I decided to satisfy my curiosity. “How did you come to be a nun?”

  Her sigh fluttered the edges of her veil. “It’s not an unusual story. All my close male relatives are dead or gone to fight the Crusade, so I am a ward of Prince John. He said I had the choice to marry one of his fawning courtiers or go to a nunnery. I picked the nunnery.”

  Isabel was smart and pretty, and not just by medieval standards. She also had great skin and straight teeth, and her figure was softly rounded and, um, womanly. It sounded like her family had money or land, too.

  “That’s absurd,” I said. “You should be able to marry whoever you want.”

  I meant it in the sense that she should have her pick of suitors, not in a feminist way. Though, also I meant that.

  She just laughed. “You think a woman could rule England.”

  “Well, one could.” She would have certainly heard of my namesake. “What about Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

  Isabel looked surprised, then chagrined, and then intrigued. “What do you know of the duchess of Aquitaine?”

  Now what? I couldn’t say that she was one of the wealthiest and most powerful women in Western Europe at the end of the twelfth century, because that sounded like a history book. And I d
idn’t know what would be general knowledge in whatever year I was in. No CNN in the eleven hundreds.

  Something broad and obvious, then. “She rules a duchy in France.” Isabel raised her brows in a silent “go on.” “She’s the mother of King Richard. And Prince John, who is running things here while Richard is off fighting in the Crusade and what all.”

  Those two offspring were safe to mention, because they were English kings. Richard had a legend of his own built up about him, like the Lionheart thing that didn’t fly with Clothilde last night. And Prince John became King John who signed the Magna Carta, which was the first document that laid out rules for what the government can and cannot make you do. Apparently, John was the kind of ruler who made people want to get limits in writing.

  But that was enough of that. I didn’t want to know too much, and I certainly didn’t want to tell Isabel too much. So, I changed the subject. “Do you like living in a convent?”

  She blinked at the sudden turn, but she rolled with it. “I like being apprenticed to Sister Clothilde, which gives me freedom, and I enjoy being useful.” Then she sighed. “If it weren’t for getting up in the middle of the night to pray at matins, I would probably like it very well. Alas, God did not make me suited to a life of piety and poverty.”

  We shared a smile over that. I liked her, and nothing in her curiosity seemed malicious. If she knew James well enough to call him James, then he must know her well enough to trust her. Or he had before he left for the Holy Land.

  “Where is James?” I asked, as the question occurred to me.

  She didn’t question my train of thought. “The prioress sent him on to conduct his business at Rufford Abbey.” She pressed her lips together over a smile. “He was distracting the novices.”

  I pictured a trail of nuns-in-training following a clueless Sir James around like baby ducks. Isabel went on, “We sent word as soon as your fever broke. He’ll come around soon.”

  Wait…allowing for travel times, and time at each end…“How long have I been here?”

  “Two nights and a day,” Isabel answered, collecting the tray. “Sister Clothilde is pleased you’re recovering so well.”

  I’d been out of it for thirty-six hours? Plus the day of the trial? I’d been here—this century—two full days and then some. This was bad.

  “I need my clothes,” I said, flinging back the scratchy wool blanket and jumping out of the cot. The floor had not gotten any warmer since I’d last stood on it. “Oh my God, that is like ice!”

  Isabel’s brows climbed almost to her wimple, and then came back down. “It will feel a lot colder if you faint on it. You should be in bed,” she scolded.

  I should be a lot of things. I should be dominating the medal round of the international archery championships. I should be driving Mom and Dad crazy making Snottingham and “it’s not rocket science” jokes. I should be hanging in the Trip to Old Jerusalem with Rob, telling him about the weirdest dream there ever was.

  I meant to ask “Where are my clothes?” but what came out was “Where’s my bow?” My subconscious knew what I needed to feel better, at least. Isabel blinked in surprise or confusion. “The longbow I had with me when I got here. Did James take it with him? I need it.”

  “Why?” she asked, alarmed.

  So I didn’t feel so powerless. What a stupid question. What I was going to do with it…that was not a stupid question, and probably what she actually meant.

  Iron Ellie must still have been down for the count, because I couldn’t find any grace under pressure as I cast about for an answer. My stomach growled and gave me one.

  “I know about that whole ‘don’t hunt the king’s deer’ law. But I could hunt some, um, partridges or something to help out.” I gestured to the window, indicating the line of families at the gate for alms. “Help with feeding the poor and all.”

  Isabel didn’t balk at the suggestion except to say, “Partridges are also against the law.” She tapped her chin with a finger. “But some pigeons, maybe some rabbit, would not go to waste.”

  I wasn’t sure I could shoot a bunny, but I glossed over that. “It would make me feel like I was paying you back for taking care of me for—” Suddenly, incredibly, I yawned. “Two nights and a day.”

  Isabel put her hands on my shoulders and steered me back to the cot. “You owe us nothing. And in any case, that can wait until you’ve rested some more.”

  “I’ve rested too much already,” I protested. Then I yawned again, and because I wasn’t totally stupid, I shot her a look of betrayal. “You drugged me.”

  “I did nothing,” she said, too innocently.

  “Clothilde,” I accused. “I knew not to trust that tea. And you taunted me into drinking it.”

  “It wasn’t difficult.” Isabel gently pushed me horizontal and threw the blanket over my bare legs. She didn’t say anything about my red-white-and-blue pedicure. “Now, sleep.”

  I had no intention of sleeping, but I pretended to while she went to the door. I had plans. Okay, well, I had plans to make plans, as soon as she left….Then I would get up….

  —

  A loud noise startled me awake.

  I coughed on my dry throat and realized I’d woken myself with my own snoring—and hours later, at that, judging by the movement of the square of light from the window. That…Clothilde.

  Someone had brought more wood for the brazier, and another cup of barley tea. Like I would fall for that again. What I didn’t see were shoes, clothes, or a longbow.

  If Clothilde or Isabel thought that keeping my clothes would keep me in bed, they had grossly overestimated my modesty. I’d walk through Nottingham naked if it would get me home.

  The chapel bell began to toll. From outside my room came the sound of a door opening and closing, and then another. I got out of the cot and went to investigate. I could easily spy through the large gap between my door and the frame. At first I saw nothing but the opposite wall. Then a nun went by. And then another. When I didn’t hear any more footsteps, I pulled open my door and peered into the hall.

  Apparently this was the dormitory, or whatever they called it in a convent. I was at the end of a hallway with eight doors evenly spaced on each side—my room included. I remembered what Isabel had said about having to go to prayers around the clock and figured the chapel bell had summoned the sisters to do just that.

  I trotted the couple of steps to the window and lay on the casement, wriggling on my belly until my head was past the wall and I could see below and to the side. I was right—the nuns, in their brown habits and linen veils, were headed at a brisk but decorous pace to the chapel.

  Any nuns who weren’t coming from the dormitory came from the gardens or the outbuildings. I took notice of two women in particular—they were dressed the same as everyone else, but I recognized Isabel’s ladylike movements and Clothilde’s purposeful way of walking. They’d come from the direction of the fenced garden and were headed to afternoon prayers with their sisters.

  Ask and ye shall receive. Everyone would be in the chapel for the next…I had no idea how long. But long enough for a quick search for my belongings. I was betting Clothilde or Isabel had my clothes—unless they’d been thrown out or burned, in which case, well, I would deal with that if it came to it. But the longbow I had to find.

  I went back to the door of my room, peeked out again, and then headed down the hallway looking for Isabel’s quarters.

  I checked out tiny room after tiny room. All of them were exactly the same as mine—one narrow bed, one table for a candle and a Bible or prayer book. There were pegs for hanging up a change of habit, and in each room a lone crucifix adorned one whitewashed wall. Maybe one of these rooms was Isabel’s, but I didn’t think so. She’d said she wasn’t suited for a life of piety and poverty.

  The last door paid off. Most of the room appeared to be the same as the others—bare walls, pegs for clothing, one plain, sturdy cot. There were two nonstandard items, though—a large wooden chest p
ushed up against the wall, and a table by the window. No sign of a longbow—it would be hard to miss in the unremarkable room. I lifted the mattress but only discovered that it was stuffed with feathers, not straw. Very sneaky, Isabel. I was pretty sure that was cheating. Underneath the mattress was nothing but crisscrossed rope that supported the bedding. No longbow, no skinny jeans, no sneakers.

  The chest was locked, so I went to the table. On it was a box of rolled parchments and a wax tablet for writing notes. A pretty hardwood box with a hinged lid held a stylus and some pens and ink…and a small iron key.

  I picked the key up and turned to the chest. It was too small to hold my bow, but it might have my clothes. There wasn’t any time to debate with my conscience, so I unlocked the trunk and raised the lid on a lady’s wardrobe. It was a tidy tumble of color—warm rose and pale blue and leaf green—embroidered in gold thread and bright silk on the softest wool and finest linen and velvet. There was a headpiece made of gold wire and pearls, and a silver circlet for holding a veil.

  It all gave me insight into what Isabel’s life might have been like before her guardian’s ultimatum. Did she take these things out and wish she’d made a different choice, or were they just too nice to get rid of?

  Focus, Ellie. Jeez.

  I respectfully neatened everything up and closed the chest. Now what?

  I could convalesce until Clothilde thought I was recovered enough to be trusted with clothes, let alone a bow. Or I could see where she and Isabel had been coming from when the midafternoon bell rang. Isabel had said she was apprenticed to the older nun in the apothecary. Apothecary meant herbal stuff, so maybe the hut in the center of the garden was more than just a toolshed.

  I left Isabel’s quarters, closing the door behind me, and headed down the stairs at the end of the corridor. They were fairly narrow, with one turn, and they opened into a largish hall with tables and benches for dining and working. A cross-breeze came through two open doors, and I might have appreciated it if I’d been wearing more than a nightgown. One door led to the courtyard, the front gate, and the chapel, so I took the other one.