Out in the yard the evening sun cast strange shadows across the cock cages. Most of the cages were empty. Jacob had loaded the birds into the fighting bins and gone off with Fader. Thomas Wade’s cocks, like his candles, had the mark of excellence. He made more money in cock wagers than he ever did in candle sales, at least that was what Old Kate said.

Beside Lydia, a battered cock let out a strangling crow. Through the bars of his tiny cage, Lydia studied his torn comb, the long gash across his breast and his crumpled yellow foot. Though he had won his match, he was now maimed for life. The only reason the cock had not become stew was because he had the lineage of a top fighter.  Her father hoped to get another fighter out of the bird. Lydia's eyes strayed to the hen coop where tiny yellow chicks nestled around their mothers. Among those balls of fluff were future fighters, future killers. She shuddered. Why men gambled and watched the beautiful, stupid birds shred themselves to death was beyond her. The only positive in the nasty business was that it had taken Jacob elsewhere.

Since he had kissed her, every moment Lydia spent making candles with him, she felt his eyes upon her. Old Kate was careful to ALWAYS be near, but she had her own work to do and could not watch him every minute. In secret, Jacob leered at Lydia. He got too close, if he could he touched her. Every time he touched her, she wanted to punch him. She knew his mind was on one thing, bedding her. She did not exactly know what bedding entailed, but even the thought of it filled her with panic. In the chicken yard, she had seen the violence of the cocks with the hens. Surely that was not how humans behaved, how Jacob would behave. In a few days, she would know. If only she did not ever have to know.

The gate rattled. Aunt Rachel swung it open and entered the yard. With a look that throughly assessed Lydia's person, she asked, “Have you been sleepin'?”

“Nay, not not much.”

“I have some Valerian root, Chamomile and Lavender, with a little lemon balm mixed in.” She handed Lydia a small brown jug. “Heat it a bit, not to a boil, just enough to release the essence.”

“Thank you.” Lydia popped the cork off. The mixture was potent, but not unpleasant. She asked, “Will this chase away nightmares too?”

“Aye it will.” She leaned forward and kissed Lydia’s forehead.

Old Kate opened the back door and announced, “The victuals is ready if you be hungry.”

Lydia was not. Aunt Rachel took her free hand and they went into the kitchen. The meal on the table was simple, brown bread, rooster stew and goat’s milk. None of it appealed to Lydia. Aunt Rachel took her seat. Dutifully, Lydia sat down across from her. When Old Kate started to ladle stew into a bowl for Lydia, she shook her head. “Just bread and milk please.”

In protest, Old Kate clucked her tongue, but did not force the stew on her. To Aunt Rachel she said, “Best bring her some appetite remedies, she dunna be eatin’ much.”

“I will,” said Aunt Rachel.

Old Kate took her seat beside Lydia. She said, “I was talkin’ to James in the market today.” A look passed between Aunt Rachel and Old Kate. “I says to him, I dunna want Miss Wade married off to Jacob. The lad is a brute and a menace. And, James agreed."

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Aunt Rachel said, "He did, did he."

It hurt Lydia to hear out loud that James, Dame Paston’s man, was more concerned about the safety of her union than her own father. Still, it did not surprise her. James was a good man. Her father was not.

Aunt Rachel asked her, "If there was a way out of the marriage or at least a way of postponin' it would you take it."

“Of course I would!”

The next question Aunt Rachel asked, sent Lydia reeling. "What if it required givin' up candlemaking."

"I can not live without making candles."

"Can you live with Jacob, marry him?"

There was no way in heaven or hell she would marry Jacob. She said, “No!"

Aunt Rachel asked, "Why?"

Anger rushed through Lydia. There were so many reasons! Bitterly, she said, "I dunna want to wait on him, and make him feel proud and smart when he is stupid and mean. I dunna want to worry that when he is out, he is with some concubine or worse. I dunna want to be grabbed and poked by him in bed.” Her voice faltered before she said, “I dunna want any dead babies or to die birthing them.”

Softly Old Kate said, “So, you dunna want your moder’s life?”

The tears came. Lydia shook her head and felt their warmth splatter on her cheeks. Old Kate's hand closed over hers.

Aunt Rachel’s voice grew serious, “I went to see Father Peter today—“

Old Kate exclaimed, What!”

Ignoring her, Aunt Rachel continued, “He suggested you go to Romsey Abbey. He knows the Abbess there. She will take good care of you.”

Old Kate sputtered, “Lydia become a nun? Aye that is what her moder wanted to be. Believed God had called her. But her fader and Thomas Wade, they had other ideas.”

This was news to Lydia. Her mother had not wanted to be a mother or a wife and yet she had to become both, and was dead now as a result. Lydia had never considered being a nun. Not even once. She said, “But I have no calling from God. I barely say my prayers.”

A weary smile tugged at Aunt Rachel's lips. She asked, “Do you think all nuns have callings? A few perhaps. It is a haven for most. You need a haven child. You would have been married already but your moder begged your fader to wait until after the baby came. Now your time is up. Romsey or Jacob. Which will it be? Mind you, Your fader will go looking for you and you may have to marry Jacob after all, but until he finds you, you will not be married or pregnant. You may like the monastic life. At Romsey’s you will be taught to read and write.”

This was no comfort to Lydia. She could add and subtract. She could count money and measure. Reading was of little use to a candlemaker. “I do not want to read or be a nun. I will be a candlemaker, just a candlemaker.”

Impatience crept into Aunt Rachel's voice, “You know that is impossible. As a woman you will never be allowed to take your Master Piece. Without it and Guild approval, no one will buy your candles. You know a woman does not begin most trades singularly. Usually a husband or fader must die to leave her the business. You my child have a living fader and a husband in waiting'."

Lydia protested, “I could murder them both.”

Old Kate laughed.

This was not funny! Lydia jutted out her chin and said, “I want to make candles.”

Softly, Aunt Rachel said, “Marry Jacob and you can.”

“NO! I want to be a virgin candlemaker!”

Old Kate squeezed her hand and said, “Perhaps at Romsey God will make it so.”

Lydia did not have any faith in God’s intervention. Still, she said, “Perhaps.” Turning to her aunt, she asked, "When would I leave?"

In a voice just above a whisper Aunt Rachel said, "Tomorrow morning after Mass."

"Tomorrow morning!" 

"Unforunately, yes. You can not take anything but the clothes on your back."

Anger and fear surged through Lydia. She spat out, "So, I am being exiled?"

"Those who are exiled dunna have a choice. You do."

"Do I?"

Aunt Rachel nodded. "You can stay here or go. What will it be?"

If she left she would lose her home and her trade. If she stayed she would be forced into a life she did not want. Moder had wanted to be a nun. Moder had wanted to serve God, but she had been denied. Deep down she knew Moder would want her in Romsey. Softly, she said,  "All right I will go."

Relief and sadness filled Aunt Rachel's eyes. Old Kate burst into tears.