If not for Bartholomew, I would have been lost forever, swamped, captured, drowned under Gideon's power.
The priest guided me to his home, a small cottage in the shadow of the massive St. Mary's Abbey above us, and he began to put the kettle on to boil, crooning softly as he put my feet into hot water and wrapped a quilt around me.
The dandelion and hibiscus tea warmed me by degrees and as my shivering gradually subsided I realized Bartholomew was pacing up and down the stones of his kitchen.
"I pray the Bishop will not make me give you back to your husband," he said, running a hand through his disordered locks. "He is quite right that the church has nolegalauthority to keep you from your husband."
His normally handsome face was drawn and lined with worry, but there was something in the humble earthy taste of the tea that gave me strength.
"Well, what if I can’t be found here?" I asked boldly.
"Why, what do you mean?"
"I mean if Gideon goes and demands this Bishop make you give me back, then I can’t be found here. St. Mary’s never opened her doors to a fleeing wife. But if there was a new young monastic novitiate, he could never be turned over to the Bishop, could he?”
Bartholomew’s jaw dropped.
"But–well–you’re pregnant! And your hair! Deliverance, you would never pass for a boy with that glorious head of hair.”
With one hand, I reached behind me and defiantly pulled out my updo, so the long, thick hair spilled down my back.
“Cut it.”
“I couldn’t–and besides, that would be a sin–”
“You can. The Bishop won’t look that closely. Why should he?”
“But–”
My poor sweet Bartholomew still looked very much shocked, and I strode to his drawers in the kitchen, soon finding a sharp enough blade. I gathered up a fistful of hair and then made one sharp, vicious slice with the knife.
Swish
It was choppy and uneven, but my hair landed all in a big golden pile on the ground.
Perhaps I am as vicious as he, I thought, but I resolutely pushed it away. If Gideon was ruthless, so would I be.
“Well–” Bartholomew began reluctantly. “If you weren't his wife, you know, you could very well be, well,anyoneelse. Someone who we could shelter."
"I would love that!" I said eagerly. "I could get a job here at St. Mary's."
"A job would not be suitable for such a fine lady--" he protested, but I shook my head firmly.
"I would earn my keep like anyone else. What should my new name be? Brother Brendan? Telemachus? Frederich?”
"Well, never mind," he smiled. "You must sleep for now."
Gently, the monk led me to the bed.
"I’ll sleep by the fire."
I started to protest, but after all my exertions, and in my delicate state, I felt so exhausted that I allowed my eyes to close.
There was something comforting in knowing Bartholomew was there, and that he had come for me.
Even though I was only in a little wooden bed, with rough sheets smelling a bit like smoke and wood, it was the soundest sleep I had since Papa died.
But we were awoken early by a pounding at the door so loud I jerked to my feet and fear instantly pulsed hot and cold under my skin.
