She sighed again, her eyes growing soft and a dreamy smile curling her mouth. Though such a scene did not take place in the book she was reading, it played over and over in her head.
Perhaps one day …
A shout from below put a harsh end to her daydreams. The romantic yearnings that filled her chest were replaced by ice-cold fear.
Father.
Surely it was too early? Her gaze shot to the small window in the small tower chamber, seeing the soft yellow and pink of the setting sun through the open shutter.
She froze. Nettles! How could she have let the day get away from her? She knew the risk. Her palm pressed reverently on the precious wooden cover wrapped in dark brown leather and secured by metal corner pieces painted to look like colored glass. The volume was her most cherished possession. And if her father caught her, her most dangerous. The memory of her father’s anger was painfully fresh. Her fingers went to the tender spot high on her cheek where the skin torn by his ring had just begun to heal. But the feeling of helplessness still lingered.
Christina had been so excited to tell him about her learning, remembering how proud he’d been of her brothers. But instead of being impressed, the man who’d become such a stranger to her had been enraged to hear that for the past three years while King Edward had held him prisoner in England, she and her sister had learned to read from the priest at the village church.
Reading would only fill their heads with ideas and distract them from their duties. An education was reserved for men and nuns.
That becoming a nun and escaping to the peace of the abbey was exactly what the girls wanted is what had earned them their beating. The beating had almost killed her sister. Beatrix was already so frail, the illnesses that had plagued her as a child having left their mark. He’d nearly finished the job when he’d forbidden them to return to the abbey. Only Christina’s promise that she would find a way for her sister to take the veil had prevented Beatrix from succumbing to hopelessness and despair. All her sister dreamed of was a life dedicated to God. The peace of the abbey called to Christina, too, but in a different way. It promised safety.
She couldn’t repress the shiver of fear. If her father discovered her reading, who knew what he’d do?
He’d become completely unpredictable, his moods swinging from cold disdain to an almost frenzied rage over the most seemingly inconsequential matter. Andrew Fraser, the former Sheriff of Stirlingshire, from the noble patriot family, once a proud and respected knight, had turned cruel with hatred. His impassioned patriotism had turned rabid in the quest to destroy Edward. It was so hard to remember the man he’d been, she wondered if she only imagined the father who’d been quick with a smile, now forgotten behind the mercurial mask.
For the last six months since his return, Christina felt as if she’d been living on the edge, in a constant state of fear. Fear that she’d say the wrong thing or appear at the wrong time. She’d learned to slink through the corridors, to hide in the shadows, and to avoid drawing attention to herself.
She forced herself to stay calm. He never came to the small chamber room in the garret that she shared with her sister and their serving woman.
Still, an abundance of caution made her hurry.
She turned onto her knees and, despite the frantic pace of her heart, carefully wrapped the precious volume in a swathe of ivory linen. The book had been a parting gift from Father Stephen. He’d assured her that despite its value, no one would miss it. Chrétien’s romances with their lustful adultery between Lancelot and Arthur’s queen had lost favor, replaced by tales of Arthur more in keeping with church doctrine.
She missed Father Stephen horribly. He’d opened up an entire new world for her.
“One day someone will see how special you are, child.”His parting words came back to her. She desperately wanted to believe him, but it was getting harder and harder in the face of her father’s cruel disregard.
For the first time in her life she’d been good at something. She couldn’t sing or play the lute, and her needlework was atrocious—all accomplishments that came so easily to her sister—but she’d learned to read and write faster than anyone Father Stephen had ever seen. Not just Latin, but Gaelic and French as well. He’d told her she had a gift that should not be wasted. He’d given her something she’d never had before: a purpose.
The lid of the wooden chest squeaked as she raised it to replace the book in its hiding place beneath a thick stack of linen towels and extra bedclothes.
Before she could close it, she startled at the sound of a splintering crash as the door to her chamber was thrown open.
Her gaze shot to the doorway and her heart crashed to the floor.
Andrew Fraser, dirty and still reeking of sweat from his day on the practice yard, stood in the doorway. Though not a tall man, he was thickly built, and in the six months since he’d returned, a single-minded determination to fight had restored most of the muscle he’d lost while imprisoned. But the other changes wrought by imprisonment were not so easy to repair. His face had aged well beyond his five and forty years, and gray had leached the brown from his hair. The broken bones and scars of battle on his face that she’d once thought so distinguished now served only to emphasize the coldness in his eyes.
Eyes that were now pinned on her with suspicion. She wanted to crawl under the bed or disappear into the woodwork, but there was nowhere to hide.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
He can’t find the book. A cold trickle of fear dripped down her spine, but she forced herself to calm. Like any predator, he would smell it. Instead, she stood up slowly and shook out her skirts with apparent disconcern, but her knees were shaking. She forced herself to meet his gaze. “Putting away some clothing that has just been cleaned and folded. Was there something you wanted?” She winced inwardly; even her voice had turned weak and submissive.
“Where is your sister?”
Her heart jumped. “Beatrix?” she squeaked, the high pitch completely erasing the attempt at nonchalance.
His face turned a splotchy, angry red. He took a step toward her, and instinctively she cowered. “Of course, Beatrix, you stupid girl. What other sister do you have?”
Christina cursed her fair skin. She could feel the heat of panic rising up her cheeks. “I’m-m s-sure she’s in the kitchens,” she stumbled out.
Please don’t let her be where I think she is. Beatrix tried to hide it from her, but Christina suspected her sister still snuck away to the abbey when she could. The call to God was stronger than the reality of their father’s iron fist.
