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expression did not entirely leave her face.
    'I won't cause trouble,' Miriel added.
    'With Sister Margaret off her feet, you'll have so much work that you won't have time for trouble,' Godefe sniffed.
    'I am not afraid of hard work,' Miriel said stoutly.
    Godefe pursed her lips. 'We shall see.'
    They rode on in silence, each attending to her own thoughts. The mist clung to their garments like air-spun cobwebs and the landscape was a dull, autumnal brown. In summer the fenland had glittered under the sky, each feature reflecting the other to a never-ending horizon. Now it seemed as if they were on the edge of the world. With each sway of the mule, Miriel half expected to be presented with a sudden precipice.
    'Not far now,' Godefe announced with relief in her voice.
    Miriel nodded. She could hear the clonk of the collar bell on a leading ewe and the disembodied bleating of sheep. She was also aware of a muted roaring sound, like the wind through the trees, but that was impossible on a day of heavy mist like this one.
    'The sea.' Godefe cocked her own head to listen. 'Tide's new in.' She gave a little shiver and tightened her cloak around her body in a protective gesture.
    Miriel lifted her head, seeking the elusive salt tang of the ocean. She had caught glimpses of its grey vastness from the convent bell tower on a clear summer day, but she had never been down to the shore. It was not permitted unless for a very good reason, wistful attraction not being one. 'Have you ever been on a ship?' she asked her companion.
    Godefe looked at Miriel as if she thought her mad. 'No, and I wouldn't want to either. All that water with naught but a plank of wood between me and drowning.' She made the sign of the Cross.
    Miriel smiled, her eyes full of distant remembering. 'I was thirteen years old when I went with my grandfather to the fair at Antwerp. We sailed on a Boston nef with her timbers painted red and her hold full of our cloth. Some folk were sick when the sea grew choppy, but I loved every moment.' She licked her lips, imagining the taste of spray on her tongue and saw again the green-blue glitter of fast, sunlit waves. The wildness, the sheer exhilaration.
    It must have shown on her face, for Sister Godefe clicked her tongue with disapproval. 'You should not be talking of worldly matters,' she admonished. 'You're a nun now. It is not seemly.'
    'I have taken no vows,' Miriel retorted. 'And is the sea not God's creation?'
    Godefe opened her mouth. At the same time, Miriel's mount tossed its head and with an alarmed snort, shied onto the other mule which brayed and lashed out with sharp hooves.
    Uttering an oath that would have earned her a beating had Sister Euphemia been within earshot, Miriel wrenched her mule to one side, controlling him with the strength of her hands and the tight grip of her thighs. Then she stared at what had frightened him, and her heart lurched.
    A man was sprawled in the dying brown grass. He wore naught but a torn shirt and linen braies, the garments clinging to his body in saturated outline. Sister Godefe let out an involuntary shriek, one hand rising to cup the sound against her mouth.
    Dismounting, Miriel thrust her reins at Godefe and hastened to kneel at the man's side.
    'Is he dead?' Godefe's voice was watery with fear.
    Miriel touched his throat with tentative fingers. His flesh was cold and clammy, but she could feel a thready pulse. Against the dark spikes of his hair, his skin was corpse-white.
    'No, he's still alive,' she reported, 'but he soon won't be if he continues to lie here; he's chilled to the bone.'
    Godefe chewed her lip. 'What are we going to do?' Her voice was tearful with panic.
    Miriel nearly snapped at her not to be such a milksop, but reminded herself just in time that the nun had dwelt in the convent for more than twenty years. Although Godefe was accustomed to tending the ailments of the other sisters and administering occasional potions and ointments to the abbey's lay