Freya thought of what the farmer had said earlier, about her hands being too soft, and self-consciously tucked them away into the folds of her cloak.
“Ye… I-I didn’t see ye there, Sister,” Freya stammered, feeling like a fool.
I must look a sight. Just my luck to come face to face with the most beautiful nun in the world. Although… Is she a nun?
As if reading her thoughts, the woman lifted a self-conscious hand to her head.
“I’m not a nun, but I can fetch one of the Sisters for ye if ye like? Are ye here to see the healers?”
Freya blinked. “Ye have healers here?”
“Aye, we do, and a few good midwives.” The woman’s gaze flicked briefly up and down Freya’s form, as if trying to assess whether she needed a midwife.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t need a healer. Or a midwife. I… I have nowhere to go, and somebody told me I could find shelter here.”
The woman nodded. “If we want to stay here for any length of time, ye must talk to the Abbess. Ye are out of luck—she’s away at the moment. But she ought to be back tomorrow, and we can certainly let ye stay one night, at the very least.”
Freya let out a long, slow breath. “Thank ye. I-I expect ye want to know who I am, and where I come from, but?—”
The woman held up a hand, smiling wryly. “Ye can share what information ye want, lassie, but we’ll not press for answers from ye. We offer shelter to all kinds of folk. This is a safe place.”
Can ye stand up against the might of Clan Grahame?Freya thought, a twinge of panic sizzling in her gut.
She was sure she hadn’t been followed, but then again, how would she know? If Laird Grahame marched up to the convent gates and demanded she be handed over, would this mysterious Abbess hand her over? Probably.
“Thank ye,” she heard herself say.
“My name is Senga. What’s yers?”
“Freya,” she answered at once, and then cursed herself.
Why could I not have picked a false name? Something simple and forgettable, like Mary or Martha? Everybody will remember Freya!
Still, what was done was done, and there was no sense in worrying about it now. Besides, lying to anunfelt deeply wrong.
Not that Sengawasa nun, of course.
“Glad to meet ye,” Senga said, smiling. “If ye don’t mind me saying, ye look like a woman living in fear. It’s clear that ye are running from something.”
Freya’s shoulders sagged. “My betrothed,” she admitted, not quite able to believe the words coming out of her mouth. “I was forced into a betrothal, and I could see no way out of it. So, I ran.”
She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from Senga. Shock, perhaps? Disapproval? Instead, Senga nodded, and began to lead the way down the white-lined path towards the Priory itself.
“That’s a common enough story, sadly,” Senga said, over her shoulder. “Women escaping violent husbands, or domineering fathers, or men they’re being forced to marry. So much of women’s suffering can be traced back to the men in their lives. It’s sad, but at least ye are free now.”
“For the time being,” Freya said, before she could stop herself.
Senga shot a curious glance over her shoulder.
“Ye do not feel safe?”
Freya only shrugged.
“Well, ye will be safe here,” Senga assured her. “This is a sanctuary for women. Come, I’ll introduce ye to the others.”
“Ye mean, the other nuns?” Freya asked, nerves prickling again. “All of them?”
“Nay, not yet,” Senga laughed. “There are a few of us of a similar age—I’m twenty-seven, and the eldest of our wee group—and we have not taken orders. Not yet, at least. Ah, there is Kyla.”
