Dear Carter,
I am writing to inform you of my removal from Sherwood to St. Martha's Abbey, near Bilsthorpe. What I hinted at in my last letter has come to pass—I am living here under the abbess' protection, but am not, officially, a member of the house or of the order.
The abbess is a courageous and generous hostess, but the fact that I have recently been declared outlaw has complicated my situation—for a woman to be declared outlaw is unusual; for a gentlewoman, it is perhaps unprecedented, and it took some time for the abbess to discern the proper path to take under such conditions. As she said, she must consider not only my safety, but the safety of the sisters entrusted to her care by God Almighty.
In the past, men have sought sanctuary from the abbess, and received it gladly. The abbess found a happy compromise in those situations by offering the men shelter in the chapel of the hospice just outside the convent, where lay sisters would tend to their needs as they tended to the needs of the travelers in the wider hospice compound. By staying in the chapel, the men came under the authority of Church law while the abbess negotiated a solution to their temporal problems; the charges against them were almost always of such small consequence that Mother Edith did not think even the Sheriff's guard would risk bringing down the wrath of the Church by storming the chapel doors to bodily drag the wanted men away. At the same time. remaining within the hospice prevented those same wanted men from disrupting the feminine world within the convent itself.
However, as I said, my case is unique. As such, Mother Edith believes I would draw unwanted and probably dangerous attention to myself, and to the sisters and their works, if I were to reside in as public a situation as the hospice, especially considering there is no end in sight to my ignoble status. I would be just another postulant if I were to retreat to the cloister, though, and none would dare challenge the sanctity of its walls or the authority of the abbess over what goes on within.
You may start at the word "postulant," given my betrothal to Robin and all that has passed between us. Robin did more than "start" (as you may well imagine!) and even I quailed a bit at the abbess' suggestion, though I knew that the vows of postulants are of lighter consequence than the vows taken by full sisters. Rest assured that that status attached to the name Marian of Knighton is simply a ruse--one made at the abbess' suggestion! I have taken no vows and am, officially, free to come and go as I like. That being said, Mother Edith was quite grave when she stated that she could only guarantee my safety while I am within the convent itself, and that the protection offered by her name is more likely to falter the further I roam, even if I am out on convent business. This means I am not able to deliver aid to the poor the way I had anticipated; however, as the reverend mother said, food and medicine must be produced before they can be administered, and they always need another pair of hands in the garden and cowshed, kitchen and creamery.
The result is that I find myself in a more straitened condition than I had anticipated when I first began considering a life here. I remind myself that I am here by choice and have the freedom to leave at will, and indeed have many freedoms the "sisters proper" (as I have come to call them in my thoughts) have relinquished. I have taken no vow—as Robin refuses to understand!—and have chosen to live my life in such a way that shows respect for the monastic rule the nuns obey, without necessarily obeying it myself. I dress as a postulant because it is easier; I remain within the walls because it is safer. So far the life here has been wonderfully peaceful yet intriguing, though I fear—and, indeed, I believe Mother Edith fears—my restless nature may make such feelings short-lived. Perhaps that is why she has hinted that she may expand my duties so as to find use for my "unusual skills and proclivities" (as she termed them) in the near future—but I must say no more on that matter, lest I jinx her plans by overwanting.
My one care is for Robin. My "Cock Robin" now seems so unsure, so tentative! Without his beloved Locksley to fight for, I fear he has lost much of the motivation that carried him forward, through the worst of travails, from the very day he returned from the Crusades. The need for justice and for succor is still great in this country, but Robin can no longer deliver them to those he loves in particular, and must instead deliver them to those he loves in the abstract, strangers who—for now--suspect him and his gang, and who may easily find the bounty on his head more appealing than anything he himself can deliver. To add to Robin's problems is the fact that when he lost Will Scarlet and Djaq, he lost a third of his band of fighters. With so few men, in such a strange and hostile land, he must change tactics and strategy! I have tried to offer counsel, but in truth, though I have been trained to "fight," I have not been trained in warfare, and as such feel he trusts little in my advice, perhaps rightly so. When I left Sherwood, tensions were rising between Robin and his men and even among the men themselves—it felt as if they trusted less in his leadership than before, and were less sustained by the righteousness of their cause. I was loathe to leave under those circumstances, but had begun to feel that my presence was only adding to the strain all were feeling. A short but sharp illness brought on, I believe, by exposure to the elements forced my hand and convinced even Robin that a change in my circumstances must be made.
But I ramble! At least the poor pigeon will not suffer for my loquacity this time. I send this through the ecclesiastical channels available to St. Martha's, which I am assured is the most dependable means of communication with the Kingdom of Jerusalem. I assume that any response from you should travel the same way.
Yours in Christ,
Marian of Knighton
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My Dearest Djaq (or should I call you Safiya now!),
I have not forgotten your request as my physician for an accounting of my medical condition—I clearly remember how worried you appeared upon our departure. I trust that you received the assessment of the physician at the court of Aquitaine. However, circumstances beyond my control have prevented me from sending any more recent information.
My wound troubled me for the entire journey from Acre to Nottingham, though the pain decreased as time went on; besides, I had anticipated discomfort given your warnings and the initial severity of the wound. By the time we reached the country around Knighton and Locksley, it caused no real interference with the duties and functions of daily life, though, as you warned, I remained in a weakened state when compared to the strength I maintained before I left England.
I rejoined Robin and his men in Sherwood Forest shortly after our return to Nottingham, living, I believe, much as you lived with them previously—I had been declared outlaw and had difficulty finding other hospitality. This was my only choice, but it still may not have been a wise one. Shelter was hard to come by without Will's carpentry skills, and the weather has been unusually rainy even for this climate. Oh, Djaq, how did you bear it! My own sojourn to your country was quite brief, but it was enough to make me long for the sun and warmth we experienced there! I can hardly imagine what it must have been like for one who had known those blessings for an entire lifetime to experience our familiar gloom!
Whether it was because of the damp…whether it was because of the lingering effects of my wound…whether it was because of the meager forest diet…I became ill. A cold settled in my lungs and briefly turned, I believe, into pneumonia. I had earlier spoken with the abbess of St. Martha's convent, near our location in Sherwood, about the possibility of finding shelter with her nuns. My illness gave the matter a greater urgency and I now sleep, as the sisters do, in a cell within the convent walls.
Much to my own surprise, I find I rather enjoy life here--a relief after the oppressive atmosphere of the castle and later the rough life of the forest. I know you lived with Robin and his men exactly as they did. Perhaps that makes you the only one who truly understands how I now find the company of my sex—and none but my sex—to be a comfort. I must stress that I never feared for my safety, nor for my virtue with Robin's men, but being the only woman in their company was still a constant trial. Such simple acts as dressing, washing, and performing other necessary rituals of grooming and hygiene, took forward planning. Even then it was impossible to completely avoid blushes, as much on the men's part as on mine. (Poor Much!) The mood among the men was tense during this time, for many reasons, and I came to believe that my presence only exacerbated those tensions. I know I was relieved when I left; I would not be surprised—now would I be offended—if the men felt a similar emotion.
Now I feel my strength grow apace. I luxuriate in the comfort of regular, wholesome, varied meals—in a mattress that, though of simple straw, is at least not on the wet, cold, stony ground—in walls that keep out the wind and a roof that keeps out the rain. I would feel quite guilty except for the fact that I honestly do contribute to feeding the poor. I even have the care and milking of a particular cow (named Rosamund) as part of my work assignment, and I made my first cheese from her offerings last week! I have emphasized to Robin—repeatedly!—that I have taken no vows but I still must respect the "rule" the sisters live under. I think when Mother Edith first told me that was a condition of receiving sanctuary in her house, she feared I would vociferously condemn the more contemplative aspects of convent life, and indeed I came here believing any time spent in duties that did not directly relate to the care of the weakest amongst us as time ill-spent. Now that I am here, I show "respect" in such ways as joining the sisters in prayer once or twice a day (feeling it discourteous to shun the chapel altogether) but not for every one of the eight services they conduct each day. They keep many hours in silence, the better for private meditation. During those periods I try to avoid undue noise but spend my time in the convent library, or brushing my cow, or in some similar quiet activity. I obey the abbess' urging that I not leave the extended convent premises, but have given a myself a time limit for such unquestioning obedience. Etc. So far, the compromise seems to meet all our purposes. (Except, as you may expect, Robin's!)
However, it is a long way from the daring deeds of the Night Watchman, and both the mother superior and I fear my restless nature will soon revive. When I first asked Mother Edith for shelter, I tried to hide my past life while stopping short of telling outright lies. You can imagine my surprise to learn she not only knew of my outlaw status, but of my life as the Night Watchman and even my relationship with the notorious Robin Hood! An even greater surprise was to find that she approved of Robin's work—in principle if not in all its particulars--and even held him in a certain esteem! Now she has taken to speaking privately with me about St. Martha's working in cooperation with Robin! As she said, when there are eleven villages that need aid, there is no point in both the sisters and Robin's men--simply from a want of communication--bringing assistance to the same village while ten others go wanting. So far, her words appear to be mere musings, but the fact that she tells them to me, privately, makes me feel she has some purpose in mind—hopefully outside of the convent precincts, and perhaps even with my infuriating, impetuous, yet beloved Robin!
Please write me back when you have a chance. I believe you now live within quarters restricted to the women of the house in which you reside? If so, then you perhaps sympathize with how wonderful it is to be again amongst those for whom belching contests are not considered the highest form of after-dinner entertainment! I would like to hear your version of such a life. You can write to me at St. Martha's, near Bilsthorpe, Nottinghamshire. As you see, I am sending this missive care of our mutual friend Carter. It would probably be best for you to trust any letter to me to him as well—I assume messages to Robin can still travel via "carrier" pigeon, and I assure you, any missives from you and Will will (ha!) be most welcome.
Your friend,
Marian of Knighton
P.S. I don't know if you have been told that Little John, at his advanced age, has learned to (roughly) read and write! I am sure he would appreciate receiving his own, private, correspondence from you and especially from Will, about whom we have learned nothing. Though, upon further reflection, I am not sure in which language he has gained literacy—French, perhaps, since he was taught at Queen E------r's court?
P.P.S. A short addendum—a serendipitous morsel I found I found on the library shelves this morning.
It seems my cloistered home was once a center of learning and book-making, which explains the presence of what appeared to be a translation of a book of stories from your land. It included this description of, perhaps, our Safiya in yet another guise?
Now this Vizier had two daughters, the elder called Shehrzad and the younger Dunyazad, and the former had read many books and histories and chronicles of ancient kings and stories of people of old time; it is said indeed that she had collected a thousand books of chronicles of past peoples and bygone kings and poets. Moreover, she had read books of science and medicine; her memory was stored with verses and stories and folk-lore and the sayings of kings and sages, and she was wise, witty, prudent and well-bred.
I almost clapped my hands with delight when I read that passage, I was so reminded of you, but I restrained lest the noise disturb the silent sisters.
The messenger awaits. Adieu!
