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CHAPTER SEVEN

The Princess

DURING THE LONG AFTERNOONS, EVERY WOMAN IN THE convent was at work. Some swept and cleaned, some cooked in the massive kitchen. Some bundled themselves in furs and tended the garden or the sheep. The sisters from better backgrounds worked in the scriptorium, or sang in the choir, or spun or wove wool into blankets to distribute, along with furs, to the villagers below.

Margrethe sat at her loom, lost in thought. She performed her work rhythmically, steadily throwing the shuttle and moving her feet on the treadle, watching the shafts go up and down. The clacking of the looms, the hum of the spinning wheels, the dank odors—hours could pass this way, quite easily. Overflowing baskets of raw wool were gathered by the door, giving off an earthy, animal scent that penetrated the room. Margrethe was not used to the odor of wool, but she found it not unpleasant. Edele and a young novice were working at looms alongside her—Edele only barely masking her impatience with the work, occasionally muttering under her breath as the fabric knotted beneath her fingers—while another group of nuns spun raw wool into yarn on the far side of the room.

One of the sisters sat by the door, reading a passage from scripture, and the sound of her voice was lulling, soothing, but Margrethe did not hear any of what she was saying. It had been more than two weeks since Christopher had left. A week since she’d met Lenia. Ever since she’d sat with the mermaid, she’d felt unwell, like something was off-kilter, and she’d stopped waiting by the stone wall, looking for her. She couldn’t close her eyes without hearing the crash of waves. Over and over again she saw the mermaid swimming to shore, with the man in her arms, delivering him to her …

I called to you, she’d said.

Suddenly, there was a terrible commotion from outside. Voices shouting down the corridor.

The nun who’d been reading to them trailed off in midsentence, and the room went silent as the rest of them stopped their work to listen.

There was one moment, two moments of silence, and then they heard a voice calling: “The barbarians are here!”

At that, they all jumped, and one of the nuns cried out as a spinning needle pierced her finger. All but Margrethe and Edele rushed out of the room, crossing themselves, their work forgotten as they headed down to the main cloisters. Wool unspooling on the floor.

Margrethe sat petrified, her heart pounding. Automatically, she reached up, made sure the wimple was covering her dark hair.

Edele ran to Margrethe’s side, her eyes wide with horror. “What should we do? What if he has returned?”

Margrethe took a breath, remembered herself. Surely, if there was any threat, her guards would be close by. No one could approach the convent without them knowing. “Let us follow the others,” she said calmly, reverting to her royal demeanor.

Edele nodded, and they walked slowly down the corridor, their slippered feet padding on the cold stone. Listening.

Could he have come back? Realized who she was?

“If anything should happen to you here …,” Edele whispered. Margrethe squeezed her hand. Though Edele could annoy her like a sister, Margrethe knew that her old friend loved her ferociously, would die for her in an instant.

“Let us stay calm and find out what is happening,” Margrethe said.

They slipped down a set of stone stairs into the main cloisters. The whole convent was in disarray. Nun and novice alike were racing about, gathering outside the abbess’s office. The abbess, wrapped in furs, her face flushed and worried, was striding in from the courtyard, followed by the novice mistress. It was in such sharp contrast to the usual silence and calm inside the convent’s walls.

“The king!” someone cried. “The king is here!”

Margrethe and Edele exchanged looks. “Which king?” Edele whispered.

Almost as soon as the words were spoken, a host of soldiers swept through the front doors. Margrethe recognized them immediately. Pieter, her father’s main military adviser, and a handful of the royal guard, including Henri and Lens dressed