During the day and two nights I spent in that place, I acquired two things. I walked in the garden, early in the morning, and there behind the neat rows of vegetables, the stakes and strings ready for their creeping blanket of peas or beans, the freshly turned dungheap, I saw a familiar plant growing. It was not so out of place here in this domestic scene, for its leaves give a pleasant yellow dye, if you are prepared to handle the unforgiving stems. There were two sisters working quietly in the garden, and I managed to convey to them in dumb show what it was I wanted. There was serious consultation between them and one of them went off, perhaps to ask the prioress’s advice, maybe to ask Red. At any rate, when she returned she held a sack and a knife, and she gave these to me without further question. My delight must have shown on my face, for the sisters smiled back, and went methodically on with their labors as I set to with all my strength. By the end of the morning I had a good sackful of starwort, enough to last me until midwinter, I thought. I tried not to think what would happen, if they would not let me spin and weave and sew, where we were going.

The second thing I acquired was a name. The priory might be a place of quiet contemplation, but the holy sisters were not lacking in good humor, and the evening meal was a chance for relaxed, even spirited, conversation. Some of them, I thought, took great enjoyment from the unexpected presence of three men at their table, and I supposed their elders thought a little mirth not so bad for the soul, after the long days of quiet meditation. As we sat at table on the second evening, one of the sisters brought up the subject.

“Your young lady needs a name,” she said. “You can’t keep calling her ‘girl’ as if she were a dog following your steps. Has she a name?”

“If she has, she can’t tell us what it is,” said John. “But you’re right, Sister. Every living thing needs its name.”

“She should be given one before you return home,” said the prioress. “A good Christian name, Elizabeth perhaps, or Agnes. Agnes would suit well enough.”

One of the young novices spoke up. “She reminds me of a small bird, perhaps a jenny wren,” she said, smiling, “with her fine bones and bright eyes. Jenny would be a good name.” She caught her superior’s eye and fell silent, blushing.

“More like some small, fierce bird of prey, something with a sharp bite,” muttered Red, who was seated next to me. “An owl perhaps, that speaks only when the rest of the world sleeps.” He spoke so that the rest of them could hear this time. “Jenny will do well enough.”

So Jenny I became, a strange little name quite unlike my own, but better than being summoned with a snap of the fingers. And on the second morning, there were horses ready for us and we rode off just after dawn, leaving the sisters standing quiet by their gate, and one of them, at least, wearing a frown of deep concern. But it seemed, yet again, that what Red wanted was what happened. And so we rode onto Harrowfield.