Jean and I had been here for months, but still I felt like an outsider. My negligible handle on the French language didn’t help, either. Delicious smells that wafted out of windows tickled my nose as I wound my way along the narrow rock streets. Friendly-faced strangers bid me good morning as I walked along. Despite the raging religious fanaticism that claimed Catholicism was the true religion one day before damning it as a tool of the devil the next, I again found myself at the door of a small Catholic chapel.

I’d made it a daily mission to visit this chapel since coming to live in Calais. Once, a band of angry Protestants had preceded me into the tucked-away walls of the tiny church. I walked in as they dumped Holy Water and attempted to desecrate what they could. The pungent aroma of wine hung around them like a storm cloud, and I ducked into the confessional, lest I be seen. As quick as they descended upon the quaint chapel, they were gone.

After waiting for what seemed to be an eternity, I stepped out and surveyed the damage. Aside from a river of Holy Water pooling between the stones, they’d broken off the outstretched hand of The Virgin Mary and made a general nuisance of themselves before going along their way. I discovered the hand beneath a kneeler and placed it at her feet.

“If only I could fix it, I would,” I prayed. “Fix you, fix mine and Jean’s predicament, and fix England and France.”

I pushed the fresh memory of the Protestant routers out of my mind and stepped into the small chapel. Thankfully, everything seemed to be in order, and Our Lady’s hand was back where it belonged. At least someone had the ability to fix it.

“Are you here for Confession, my child?”

My heart jumped into my throat. “Oh Father, forgive me. I thought I was alone.”

The old, weathered priest smiled a crooked smile. Remarkably, he appeared to still have all of his teeth. He reminded me of an ancient, gnarled oak tree, and his tufts of gray hair stuck up from his head like the fur of a mangy, angered cat.

“My child, those of us who walk with God are never alone.”

I found myself nodding along with him.

“Come, my child. Step into the confessional, and unburden your soul while receiving the grace of God.”

I did as I was told and allowed the ancient man to close the small wooden door behind me. I knelt at the screen. A moment later, it slid open. I did the sign of the cross.

“In nominae Patris, et Fili, et Spiritus Sancti,” I began. “My last confession was in my home country of England, when confessing one’s sin to a priest was not punishable by burning.”

“Ah, I see. As it is written, For thy sake we are killed all the day long; we are accounted as sheep for the slaughter. I assure you, my child, your eternal soul is safe in this House of God, no matter the country you find yourself. It is your earthly body which will die someday, and neither you nor I know when that will be.”

An invisible weight lifted, and my breath came a bit easier. “Yes, Father. Some things are worthy of dying for—and Our Savior is certainly the most important of those. But that brings me to my first sin. I simply don’t want to die yet. In fact, I’ve been running from death since King Henry VIII chose me for his next Queen. I ran. And am running still, only now I have married and put the life of my husband in danger, too.”

The old priest’s voice had a laughing quality when he spoke again. “Your biggest sin is that you don’t wish to die? My child, that is not a sin. That simply means you are a human.”

I kept my head dipped low over my clasped hands. “Perhaps my humanness brings me to my next sin. I find myself distrustful of my husband, who risked his life to bring me to the safety of France. Now, I trust him not as he goes on about his affairs at the castle. I fear he does just that. Goes on about affairs.”

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.”

I pondered these words in silence.

The priest’s voice came softer through the screen. “Sometimes, women find themselves in situations in which only women can find themselves. Perhaps there is an underlying reason for your distrust. Search your heart, my child.”

My words were a whisper. “I am sorry for these, and all the sins of my past.”

“Now to assign penance. It is appropriate that you pray the rosary once in the morning and once at night. In pondering the Mysteries, I believe your mind will clear and allow you to see what you need to see in order to live a—long—fulfilling life for Our Savior.”

The prayer of Contrition came from my lips as I fought the urge to tell Father that I didn’t own a rosary anymore. Lady Denny had put my mother’s away many years ago, or perhaps she’d thrown it out like garbage. I had never been quite sure. Perhaps I can remember the rosary and do it from memory.

“My child, through the grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, you are forgiven of your sins. Go forth and sin no more, and be quick to forgive others as He has forgiven you.”

I did the sign of the cross and stepped out of the confessional. The priest was already there. He held out his hand. A delicate rosary dangled between his gnarled fingers. “A gift for you,” he said quietly.

I accepted the precious wooden beads and crucifix with emotion clogging my throat. The beads were old, probably as old as the mysterious priest himself. Some were worn so that they were no longer spherical in nature.

Before I could formulate the appropriate response of thanks, the old priest was gone.

†††

Jean’s hand caught mine as we strode along the rocky beach. The sun would be setting soon, and the pastel show that played out above the water was a miracle in itself.

“I have been bothered all day, Bridget,” Jean began. “You must trust me. I am yours and you are mine.”

“I agree. I hope you’ll forgive my upset—”

“My darling, there is nothing to forgive. I realized that I have not been as forthcoming with information as I should be. You shouldn’t have to hear of news that affects us through townsfolk gossip.”

Blue-green waves, foamy and white capped, crashed onto the bank and churned as Jean stopped and pulled me close. “So I feel I must tell you the newest of the many developments now.”

I stood in silence. I’d been excited to share with my husband my mysterious encounter with the nameless priest at the small Catholic chapel, and the ancient rosary he’d given me before disappearing. The old beads hung heavy in my apron as we stood together on the pebbly sand. Now, my news seemed odd and inappropriate.

“Pray tell me,” I whispered.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead before continuing. “There are further upsets between King Francis, The Holy Roman Emperor Charles V, and of course, Henry VIII.” The words crashed together in my mind like the waves on the shore.

“The Holy Roman Emperor has joined forces with King Henry and together plan to invade France. English warships have already been sighted by Frenchmen crossing the Strait of Dover.”

“Does that mean—”

“Yes. The rumors are true. The time has come, my love. The first fleet of soldiers, myself included, leave at dawn. Our destination is England.”

Jean clutched my hands in his as another miraculous sunset played out behind him. “Bridget, there is more you should know. You must beware of Englishmen in France. Henry has most certainly sent spies over to do his reconnaissance work of the country he means to invade.”

“Reconnaissance?”

Jean nodded. “When a few men are sent out to scout before a war to see what the enemy is capable of. And what their weaknesses are.” He paused a moment and then continued. “And Henry is known for his ability to hold onto a grudge. I’ve no doubt there is still a bounty on your beautiful head, perhaps even more rich than the one previously.”

I dropped his hand and did the sign of the cross.

“Forgive me, but be mindful of that, too. Religious upsets between Catholics and Protestants are all over Europe right now, and it seems that the common theme is to burn supposed Catholics as heretics first and ask questions later.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but realizing I had no words, I closed it again.

Jean offered a wan smile and, with my hand in his, began walking back toward home. “Don’t betray your beliefs, but don’t make yourself a target.”

I trailed along with him, feeling just as dark and empty as the bucket I’d flung only this morning.

The Coast

Calais, France

I