Sister Agatha knew she had made a big mistake when icy sleet began to fall. She had left the Leper village a few hours before under leaden skies, hoping to catch-up with Father Dubois and her fellow Holy Sisters before nightfall, but there was no sign of the pilgrims on the muddy road as dusk was descending.
The middle-aged nun considered briefly whether to return to the village and shelter, or press-on in the hope of finding her brethren on the road before dark. She guessed that with the bad weather, they had parked-up the wagon to see-out the storm and await her arrival the next day. Surely, they would not be too far ahead.
The trees around her started to bend and swirl as the wind picked-up and sleet and hailstones whipped down upon the small, vulnerable figure as she hunched into the storm. Lightning flashes and thunder boomed, coming closer and closer. A huge gust blew her wimple from her head, which flew-off high into the trees and within moments her hair was soaked, as was the rest of her body, encased within a simple, grey, woollen habit.
Sister Agatha's teeth began to chatter and she shivered uncontrollably with cold, but pressed-on, staggering through the wind and cloying mud of the track. She knew she was in a desperate situation and would likely die right there alone in the wilderness if she could not find shelter and warmth very soon. Another furious blast of wind blew the little Sister into a cart rut full of freezing water; struggling to her knees, she dragged herself to collapse, bedraggled on the grassy verge.
As she faded in and out of consciousness, Agatha was sure she glimpsed within a flash of lightning, a dark horseman looming above her on the road. Perhaps Death himself, or a Horseman of the Apocalypse, come to claim her soul...
The flicker of a small fire was dancing when the nun slowly opened her eyes. The storm was still raging, but sounded somewhat muted, as she realised she was in a small space out of the wind. Looking-up, she could see cathedral-like wooden arches glowing in the firelight and realised that she must be huddled within the hollowed-out centre of an ancient oak tree.
Sister Agatha was frozen to the bone, her body shaking, but her heart still leapt in fright as the rugged and scarred face of a large, wild-looking man hoved into view. "You'll need to warm-up quickly or you will die" he said bluntly with a deep, gruff voice. He pulled her roughly onto her feet with strong arms, then reaching down with one swift movement, he whipped her heavy and sodden, woollen habit up over her slender body, leaving her naked and shivering in front of him.
Before she could react in horror, the man was rubbing her whole body roughly with a woollen cloak, before wrapping her in a rough, dry blanket and dumping her unceremoniously onto a bedroll besides the little fire.
After that moment of indignity, Agatha had a chance to weigh-up her rescuer, as he began to break-up branches that he must have collected for the fire. The strong and powerful frame of the man, the scars on his face, leather jerkin and short sword at his belt, marked-him-out as a Soldier at Arms. The chaste and virgin nun had never been in the presence of such a man, a real man and handsome too in a rugged sort of way. A frisson of fear and excitement ran through her at the perilous situation in which she found herself.
Sister Agatha had been sent to a convent twenty-five years before at the tender age of 16 when her parents had died in the War of the Roses. Her only remaining uncle had taken her in at first, but it soon became clear that he was desirous of her youth and beauty, so her jealous and unsympathetic aunt had packed-her-off as a novice nun, despite her total lack of vocation. Agatha had never felt like a nun and yearned for a life of love and adventure, but had always been true and faithful to her vows. An aged woman now of 41, she had long accepted that there would be no other life for her but early rising, hard work and prayer.
