Thankfully I’m to be guided off the premises and not to the scaffold or the dungeon.
“Sir, I accept your terms.” I hoped my words weren’t too jolly.
He guided me almost gently to the castle gate. “Goodbye, Bridget. And good luck.” With that, the castle gate closed in my face. I knew my days of being welcome in France were numbered, but I as to what that number was? I had no way to tell.
†††
The path from the castle seemed rockier than usual and more unforgiving against my bare feet. Still, I picked my way along until Calais rose up before me. I wanted to cry, but everything inside me was numb and dry. The fresh memory of the lecherous king’s hands on my body and the gleam in his eye made my skin crawl. I sank down onto a patch of grass and hugged my arms across my chest.
What to do now, Bridget? Where can I go?
Not back home, the emptiness of our quaint cottage would be too much to bear today.
Jean. My sweet Jean.
I swiped the back of my hand across my nose and got to my feet. There was only one place in the entire of France I wanted to be.
†††
The cobblestone street was eerily quiet as I stepped into the Catholic chapel. With all the upheaval between the Catholics and Protestants, there was usually some noise buzzing around the chapel, and I had come to expect it. However, the wind through the streets was the only sound.
The sanctuary was as empty as a waiting tomb. After I dipped my fingers into the Holy Water and made the sign of the cross, I waited at the back, but no old priest appeared.
Perhaps he is in the confessional.
My footsteps, as I took the few steps across the stone floor, seemed to echo in the deafening silence.
I knotted my hands over my swollen stomach. How will I explain the reason I am without the rosary?
The door to the confessional was cracked a bit. I peered into the darkness inside, but nobody was there. I stepped in and pulled the door closed behind me.
Hmm. That’s odd.
“Good morning, Father, I’m here for a confession,” I began.
No answer.
I slid open the little screen. “Father? Are you there?”
Silence met my ears.
Perhaps he is asleep. I’ll go find him.
Chills coursed over my skin without cause as I opened the confessional door and stepped back out into the sanctuary. Still, I was alone in the church. With slow and deliberate steps, I crept to the priest’s side of the confessional booth and gripped the handle. It sprang open at my touch, and something fell out with a sickening thud.
The priest’s gnarled hand hung lifelessly from his side of the confessional booth.
My fists were at my mouth in an instant. Backing up through the empty room, I started to scream. A thin trail of blood slid down the old hand and puddled around his knotted knuckles.
“Lady Bridget.”
I froze. The chills that ran rampant across my skin threatened to turn the blood in my very veins to ice.
Before I could see who greeted me by name, a bag was yanked down over my head. The rough material dug into my face and my attacker held it tight.
My arms flailed out, but met nothing. I lost my balance and tumbled to the ground. Still, someone held the bag that stayed tight on my head.
“I don’t want to have to kill you like I killed that priest—but I will. So you keep quiet, and keep still.”
My breath came faster in the damp darkness, and hysteria threatened to send my heart charging out of my chest like a stallion. “I—I cannot breathe.”
“Keep still, and I will loosen the bag. Perhaps. Or I may suffocate you and do England a favor.” A hint of familiarity in the hissing voice gave me pause.
“Who—who are you?” I asked in shaky tones.
The faceless attacker finagled with my hands until they were lashed together behind my back. “Lady Bridget, I’m returning you to England. It is high time you face your punishment for running out on your sovereign lord, King Henry VIII.”
All the blood in my body seemed to curdle at once. I opened my mouth to assure him he had the wrong person, to protest, to say anything—but a swift strike to the back of my head sent my thoughts and words flittering into nothingness like shards of broken glass into the night.
†††
The serene sound of water lapping near my head urged me awake. My head throbbed a righteous throb, and the world was still cloaked in darkness. I wiggled my fingers, which were numb and still lashed tight behind my back.
Grunt. Splash.
I listened and tried not to move.
Grunt. Splash.
