The narrow deep set windows emitted a pale and fluid light. The granite of the church was as familiar to Lydia as her own home, it was home, the home of her spirit. It had been at the core of her mother. Here, in this pew, she felt the presence of her mother. Beside Lydia, Old Kate dozed.

Behind the lectern, Father Peter was reading from the pamphlet of Genesis. The church did not have an entire Bible because they were too expensive. Father Peter had pamphlets of John's Gospel, Psalms and Genesis. Everything Lydia knew about God came from those three pamphlets. Father Peter was one of the few who knew how to read. His Latin words from Genesis rolled over her, "dixitque Deus fiat lux et facta est lux."* Lux, Light. God created light. The word light echoed deep inside of Lydia. Behind Father Peter, the altar candles flickered. Her mother had made those candles. Thomas Wade was stingy and did not tithe, but he had allowed his wife to make candles for the church. Who would make the candles now?

Up front in Lord Bolton's pew, sat the recently widowed Lady Bolton. Her back was straight and she was dressed in black. Her blonde hair crept out from beneath her black cap. Her hair was a beautiful shade of gold, like honey. Beside her sat her son, the heir to the Bolton fortune. He was a robust child of three or four with hair the same shade as his mother's. There was another little boy at home. Lady Bolton had done well, she had delivered an heir and a spare. All women should be so lucky.

When Father Peter blessed the Eucharist, Old Kate woke up, rubbed her eyes and sighed. As usual she had not heard a word. People began to rise to receive the Host. Lydia followed Old Kate into the center aisle. Slowly they progressed forward. Lady Bolton knelt, was blessed and took the Host. As she rose, she turned her head to the side. Lydia was struck by her beautiful profile. Her skin seemed to glow. Her eyes were large and dark, so dark, dark as the River Test on a moonless night. Their eyes met. The power of Lady Bolton's gaze struck Lydia like a blow. She had expected to see sadness, but she saw a power she had only encountered in her father's eyes. Quickly she looked down. Lady Bolton was only five years older than she was, and yet...how had she achieved such confidence? Though Lydia did not look up, she was aware of Lady Bolton's movements as she returned to her pew.

Finally, Old Kate was blessed and it was Lydia's turn. She knelt down and opened her mouth. Father Peter placed the Host on her tongue. It was dry this morning.

After church, Father Peter lead them to his tiny cottage behind the church. It was a crooked heap of poorly stacked stones with a thatch roof. Aunt Rachel was waiting for them at the door. She did not attend church—ever. Aunt Rachel asked, "Run on a bit did we now?"

Father Peter smiled but did not answer.

Irritated Aunt Rachel asked, “Where is Crofter Gimble?"

"He is coming Rachel." Father Peter opened the front door. The tiny house was a single room with a fireplace, hooks on the wall for pots and clothes, a wash basin, a table and a narrow cot. The priest closed the door behind them and said,“Lydia, I pray you find some comfort at the Abbey. You are a bright girl and a swift learner, I think you will do well there.” He paused, looked directly at Aunt Rachel and added, "It is my hope that you will discover God is a loving presence not just another masculine force to be tolerated.”

Aunt Rachel shook her head. "Dunna you tell Crofter Gimble be here after Mass?"

Gently, Father Peter said, “He will come, just be patient Rachel.”

Patience was a virtue the Wade’s lacked. Aunt Rachel said, “I dunna have time to be sitting here waitin’. Eleanor Ghent is expecting twins. She was feeling the first pangs last night. I need to get back to her.”

Lydia shivered, birthing twins invited death to one or all.

The old priest went to his cot and stooped down. From beneath his bed, he pulled a bag and a narrow box. Lydia immediately recognized the box. It contained the tithe candles her mother had made. The priest handed her the box. “Give these to Mother Therese'. They will smooth the way for you.”

Lydia managed to say, “Thank you, I will,” but she had no intention of giving these candles to any one.

Father Peter smiled. “You are welcome.” He gave her the bag. Lydia placed the box of candles on the table and opened the bag. It contained clothes, boys clothes. Puzzled, Lydia asked, "What are these for?"

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Aunt Rachel responded, “For you. A girl canna travel alone, but a boy can. Where is the hat Father? She must hide her hair.”

Father Peter pulled a tattered hat from beneath his bed and handed it to Lydia.

For a long moment Lydia stared at the hat. A priest consorting in a falsehood, surely this was wrong. The old priest seemed to read her mind, he said, “Protecting the innocent is never wrong. Now hurry child and get dressed. Your mount will be here soon.” Father Peter and Aunt Rachel went outside to wait for the horse. Old Kate stayed inside to help her untie her dress. Though Lydia had her back to Old Kate, she knew she knew she was crying. Lydia slipped off her dress and pulled on the britches and tunic. They fit well.

Old Kate placed the hat on Lydia's head and sobbed, "Aye, you look just like her. James would see the likeness.”

“Like who?"

Old Kate clamped her hand over her mouth. "Nothin' it be nothin'. Now, get your bag. You got to be leavin'. Your fader will be wondering what has become of us soon."

For the first time in her life Lydia walked in britches. Her legs were unencumbered by long skirts. Was this how a man felt when he walked the earth? No wonder he ruled. He had nothing to hamper his physical progress.

Old Kate folded Lydia's dress and put it in the bag with the candles. She said, "There be some victuals in here too for when you get hungry. Eggs, coarse bread, some dried apples and wine." From the bag she plucked a sprig of yew and tucked it in Lydia's pocket. She said, "Twill give you protection and comfort when you be needin' it."

"Thank you." Old Kate hugged her hard. She would miss Old Kate so very much. A horse snorted outside. Old Kate let go and said, "That will be Agnes."

“Agnes! Not Agnes. I can walk faster than she can trot.”

“A lone girl dunna need to be walkin’ the road, even if she be dressed like a boy.”

Lydia had heard stories of what happened to women alone on the road. She did not protest further. She slung the bag over her shoulder and they went outside. It was time, time to go. It was happening too fast. In the yard she asked, "Will I ever see any of you again?"

Gently Father Peter said, “In God’s time.”

Lydia bit her lip to choke down a sharp retort. God had no sense of time.

Aunt Rachel engulfed her in a warm hug, she said, “Peace my child. Remember there are worse places than the Abbey.” She turned to Father Peter. “Did you write her letter of recommendation?”

“Yes, it is in the candle box.”

With a boost from Aunt Rachel, Lydia climbed onto the ancient sway back piebald. Agnes swung her head toward Lydia and rolled her cloudy brown eyes. Without instruction the horse took off for the West Gate. As they passed beneath the thick archway the horse whinnied and tossed her old mane. Unlike Lydia, she seemed delighted to be headed out of town.

Agnes kept a steady pace until a rabbit darted across the road. The old girl shied and bucked. Lydia jerked the reigns but the rope broke. Aware that her head was no longer restrained, Agnes burst into a run and headed for an open field. Lydia’s hands flew to the horse's mane. She grasped it tightly and yanked. Old Agnes did not care. As the horse crossed the field her hooves became clotted with mud. She stumbled pitching Lydia forward. Lydia lost her grip. She felt herself falling forward fast. Her body hit the ground with a hard thwack and her head struck a fieldstone.

*

When Lydia awoke, it was almost dark. Her bag was still hooked around her, but her ride was long gone. Anxiously she opened the bag and checked the candles. The note, in Father Peter’s handwriting got caught in the breeze. It swirled away from her. Carefully Lydia examined the candles, not one had been broken. She slid the box closed and offered God a very rare prayer of thanksgiving. Across the field Father Peter’s recommendation continued to take sporadic flight. It finally caught in a clump of gorse.

As Lydia made her way to the note, the wind tossed the sound of male voices into her ears. She looked around her. In the last light of evening a huge oak stood. Beneath it, were three men. One was on horseback and the other two were on the ground. A voice Lydia had heard somewhere, but could not recall said, “No worry, lad. You know what a sot he is. It is all taken care of.” The man slapped the horse on the rump. It leapt forward, but its rider did not. A noose tethered the rider to the tree. The body snapped. The neck twisted. It writhed for several moments then went completely limp.

Lydia dropped to the ground. She scrunched herself into the brush. She must not be seen. Inside her chest her heart thundered. She had just witnessed a man die. Who was the man and why had they killed him?

The two men did not speak. Lydia heard them walk across the pasture and head for the road. They did not see her, but she saw them. One was a peasant and the other was a noble. They reached the spot where Lydia had fallen. Too late Lydia saw her hat. The nobleman saw it too. He turned and looked back behind him. For one horrible moment their eyes met. Like a hare, Lydia leapt from the brush. Encumbered by skirts her entire life she had no idea how swift she was. She darted up the incline toward the tree then veered to the left. Behind her she heard the footfalls of the two men. One shouted, “Stop! Stop!” Lydia did not. She ran and ran. Behind her their footsteps grew fainter. She was outdistancing them. The sky darkened. Ahead were hay stacks. Lydia dove into one of them and pulled hay all around herself. She could hear the men coming. They were close.

The Noble asked, “Where did he go?”

“Aye Sir, I canna tell. It is like he vanished.”

“This is no good.” The noble shouted, "I will find you boy! I swear I will, and when I do, another breath you shall not breathe."

Lydia heard them walk away, but she did not move. She did not dare move.