Page 4 of Do Not Awaken Love (The Moroccan Empire #3)
“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.