Knight of Rouen: Prologue

-Rouen, 1403-

The young woman looked wildly towards the sky as she ran through the wet forest. Dawn would come. Then they would find her. She had to find a safe place. Choking back a sob, she clutched the bundle she carried to her chest and ran.

They had taken everything from her, and then more. She mourningly reflected on her tiny house, burned to the ground. All her possessions were in it. And then her husband.....she couldn't even think of it. His dead body, laying in the soot, head severed from its shoulders. She couldn't think about it. Wouldn't think about it. The most important thing was finding shelter.

Up ahead, she saw a road. She squinted, then realized where it lead. Surely she could find shelter there. She ran faster than before, her heart pounding. Her mouth tasted of blood and bile, and she fell to her knees in a spasm of coughs several times, but still she ran, on and on, until she could make out a stone building in the distance. Her wild eyes glanced up at the cross and rose window. She was beginning to feel faint, the world spinning around her in a mocking dance now that she had finally reached safety. If she could just make it inside...maybe she could sleep in the pew...The world continued to spin, and she crawled up the step slowly. The sky was just beginning to turn pink, bathing the world in a hollow light. She slipped, and her head hit the stone step with a cold "thud". Where was that crying coming from? If she could just get inside...to sleep...weakly she collapsed, halfway up the steps, the tiny bundle still clutched in her arms.

The door opened with a bang and a groan. Two monks peered out into the darkness. One of them called out to see who was there. The other, older, stepped forward. Picking up the baby, he looked at the women. He glanced at the pool of blood and checked for any breathing.

"She's gone, Aloyius," he called to the other monk. "If she had survived, she wouldn't have lived for long."

Aloyius shoved his hands inside his habit. "I'll get the undertaker. He'll bury her and have it done with." He turned back to the door.

"Wait, brother. What about the baby?" He looked down at the baby girl, who was whimpering gently.

"The same thing that happens to every other orphan, Brother William. Now let's go and be done with this nonsense." There was a tinge of annoyance in the younger monk's voice.

William shook his head. "No....she must stay with us. Poor thing, she's half starved." He held out his finger and the baby grasped it tightly.

Aloyius rolled his eyes. "Saints preserve us.....you can take it up with the Abbot. Now at least take that child in out of the cold." The two monks entered the stone hall of the friary again.

William thought hard. "What day is it today, Brother?"

"Tuesday, I am sure."

William smiled. "Then I shall call her Tuesday." And the two brothers disappeared into the dark hallway, the soft sound of their feet slowly disappearing.

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-Monastery of St. Steven, Rouen, 1420-

The steady sound of chanting filled the air as Friar William paced down the long cloister walk, his arms resting pensively in the sleeves of his habit. 16 years had seen the old friar grow still older. He had no need to tonsure his head, which was now almost completely bald. Wrinkles had grown around his eyes and mouth from his easy and frequent smile. Yet today, his thoughts were of a serious nature.

At the other end of the cloister walk, William spotted the lean form of his superior, the Abbot, walking with a tray of plants in his hands. Just the man he wanted to see. Setting his mouth firmly, he quickened his pace.

“Good morning, my Father,” William greeted the Abbot. “Just come from the garden, I see.”

“Indeed, Brother.” The abbot smiled down at the shorter, stouter friar. He motioned stroll his head to the tray of plants. “New herbs that have just begun to sprout. So fresh and young, but they exhaust the soil so soon. Once they come of age, they must be replanted and allowed to mature.”

William nodded. “Aye, Father, you have touched on the matter I wish to speak to you about.”

“Ahhh,” the old abbot replied, with knowing in his eye. “Yes, I believe we have both been thinking on this matter. The child.”

William nodded, looking down at his hands, tucked away in his sleeves.

“It has been sixteen years since you first begged me to take her in,” the abbot said, strolling down the walk with the friar. “You spoke to me of Christian charity, as I recall. I saw her as no different than the other orphans and vagrants who came to our door, but I let you take her in because I saw how much you cared for this child. And indeed, she has been as good as any brother here. She cooks, she cleans and asks very little in return–rather, her heart is filled with Godly gratitude and love, though she has a certain wildness to her. You have been as good as kin to her.” The abbot paused and turned to face Brother William. “You know I would never ask you to turn her away. But I feel it is inappropriate for her to stay here. Women her age marry. I believe it in her best interest to find a husband. Not a wealthy one, necessarily, only one who can provide for her. She has lived in cloister for too long. Like these plants, she must be uprooted and allowed to grow.”

Brother William had listened, his eyes downcast, nodding as the abbot talked. Now it was his turn to speak. “Indeed, Father, you have spoken the words of my heart.”

The abbot nodded and smiled kindly. “I know you will make wise decisions about this matter, Brother. Remember, God will show the way.” He looked down to the pots in his hands. “I must replant these. And if you are looking for your own herb, I believe she too can be found in the garden.” The abbot turned away, his eyes twinkling.

After murmuring a farewell, Brother William turned and walked down the cloister towards the garden. His heart had been full of these thoughts for weeks now. It was very plain that Tuesday was no longer a little girl. The young child who had once played in the courtyard and learned at his elbow was now the young woman who knelt behind them at vespers and helped cook their meals. He had long known this time was coming. When she was twelve, he had awkwardly asked the town midwife to talk with the child about her monthly cycles. He had taken on a parental role, and now it was time to find her security for the next stage of her life, as a parent should.

Stepping out into the bright garden, he saw the subject of his ponderings. Tuesday knelt in the dirt, weeding a patch of rosemary. Her long dark hair fell in two plaits past her shoulders, over the back of her long brown gown, which was fitted enough to reveal how mature she had become. Her mouth, wide lips which curved up invariably, was set as she worked at the stubborn weeds, her eyes on her work. She didn’t notice the friar until he walked up next to her.

“Good day, my daughter,” Brother William said softly, clasping his arms behind his back.

Tuesday looked up and smiled broadly. “Good day, Brother.” She raised herself to her feet, brushing the dirt off her hands.

“You seemed so hard at work, I hardly wished to disturb you,” Brother William said, easing himself onto a stone bench. He sighed with ease, stretching his stiff joints as Tuesday joined him.

“The abbot says work is like a prayer. Working hard is like praying twice, so long as you don’t begrudge the chores.” She rested her hands in her lap with the graceful air of a lady. Her face was round, her cheeks and forehead broad with a small snub nose that reconciled the fullness of the rest of her face. Though her shoulders and back were broad, she carried a grace about her that was feminine.

“Indeed my child, indeed.” The old monk smiled at her. “I hope you remember that your seventeenth birthday is coming up.” His eyes twinkled with an air of mischievousness. “The abbot doesn’t approve of presents, but I’ve asked the weaver for a new length of wool, and you can sew a new gown with it.”

Tuesday took his hand in both of hers, smiling broadly. “You’ve been too good to me, Brother.”

The look in the friar’s eye turned wistful, though his smile remained. “I have raised you since you were just a baby, Tuesday. I have long dreaded the day when I would have to see you go, but I’m afraid that day is soon upon us.” Tuesday’s smile turned to a look of confusion, and she began to speak, but William motioned for silence. “My heart has been filled with contemplation and prayer for weeks, even months, my daughter. You are a grown woman now, and the monastery cannot house you forever. The abbot and I have agreed that it would be best to find you a husband, who can provide for you and take care of you.”

“No!” Tuesday stood up, hugging her arms to herself. She took a breath and spoke more calmly. “The monastery is my home. It is the only home I know. I wouldn’t leave it for any man, even if I knew one who suited me.”

Brother William stood, placing a hand on the girl’s elbow. “I know this is quite sudden. But it’s for the best, my child. Many women your age are married already. When I took you in, I knew it wouldn’t be forever. You must know that too.”

Tuesday avoided his gaze. “And who will I marry? The blacksmith, and become his servant? Or the cobbler, to raise his seven children?”

“Hush, my dear. The Lord will provide an answer to these questions, you must trust in that hope. I would never turn you away empty-handed, you know that. I will do my best to find a husband who will honor you.”

Tuesday did not reply, but the firm set of her jawline told the friar all he needed to know. He patted her hand with a sigh. “Do not be upset, my child. It is all for the best. I must go and tend to my duties.” With that he left the garden, and left Tuesday to her own thoughts.