His Virgin Bride

The chapel bell had not yet rung, but Sister Agnes’s voice cut through morning prayer like a blade.

“Nicole.”

Startled, Nicole blinked from her kneeling position, her whispering lips still formed around a half-spoken prayer. Her hands, still pressed together, trembled slightly in her lap. Sister Agnes never interrupted morning devotions. Not unless something was terribly wrong.

“Yes, Sister?” she asked softly, eyes downcast.

“Come. The Lord has chosen a new path for you.”

Nicole rose at once, her knees aching against the cold stone. She dusted her plain linen skirt with shaking fingers, unsure if she had sinned, if she had broken a rule in some way. Silently, she followed the older woman down the corridor, past shadowed arches and ancient crosses.

They stopped before the heavy wooden door of the Mother Abbess’s chambers. Sister Agnes knocked once, then pushed it open.

Inside stood three nuns, all with solemn faces. The scent of incense lingered in the air like a warning.

“You are to leave the convent,” Mother Abbess said without preamble. “Today.”

Nicole’s breath caught painfully. “Leave?”

“Your time of service is complete. God has prepared a different calling for you.”

Sister Agnes stepped forward, placing a folded cloak and bundle of linen garments into her arms. “You are to be wed.”

“Wed?” she echoed, voice hollow. “To whom?”

“To royalty,” said another sister, her voice reverent, as though the name were too sacred to speak.

Mother Abbess nodded once. “A nobleman from France has requested a bride of virtue. You have been chosen.”

“—I don’t even know his name,” Nicole whispered, numb.

“It is not your place to question,” Mother Abbess said, her tone sharp. “You are to board the ship before sundown. You will meet your husband upon arrival.”

Nicole stared down at the rosary between her fingers. Part of her wanted to fall to her knees again and beg for more time—for answers, for clarity, for anything that made this feel like a choice. But her mouth moved without her consent.

“Yes, Mother.”

“Your husband will guide you now,” Sister Agnes added, moving closer. “You must love him, obey him, and bring him honour.”

Nicole nodded slowly. “Yes, Sister.”

“You must never raise your voice to him. Never deny him your body. And above all…” Sister Agnes’s eyes sharpened. “Only your husband may lift your dress.”

A strange weight settled in Nicole’s chest. “Yes, Sister.”

“If any other man dares touch you in that way, your soul will be cast into the fire. Do you understand, child?”

Her mouth was dry. “Yes.”

“Repeat it.”

“Only my husband may raise my dress,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “If another man does… I will go to hell.”

“Good girl.”

Nicole didn’t know if this arrangement was a reward or a punishment. The nuns had raised her to serve, to obey, to be pure and silent and small. This was what she was meant for. Wasn’t it?

By midday, she stood outside the convent gates for the first time in over a decade. She carried a modest satchel with two linen dresses, her rosary beads, and nothing else—no portrait of her parents. No letters. No keepsakes. The life she’d known was now behind iron gates.

A guard and a porter waited for her at the road. Neither of them offered a smile.

The journey to the port was long and quiet. Dust kicked up beneath the cartwheels, and Nicole stared at the horizon, clutching her satchel in her lap. Her thoughts were a storm of what-ifs and prayers whispered into her palms.

When they arrived, the ship looked like a monstrous creature of wood and sails, rising high into the sky like a fortress above the waves.

Nicole hesitated at the bottom of the gangway, her heart pounding. The salty sea breeze tangled in her hair and tugged at her cloak.

“Up,” said the porter behind her, his tone gruff.

She looked back. His eyes were already on her ankles, then climbing higher. She swallowed and stepped aboard, holding onto her bag like armour.

By nightfall, the convent was just a shadow swallowed by the sea.

Nicole stood alone at the railing, gazing at the moonlight dancing on the dark waves. She wondered what her husband would be like. Would he be kind? Stern? Would he pray with her at night? Would he hold her gently or treat her like a possession?

She didn’t even know his name.

A shiver crawled up her spine.

Slowly, she turned.

The porter—the same one who had nudged her onto the ship—stood several paces away, watching.

His gaze dropped from her face to her feet, then slowly back up. There was something in his expression that made her clutch her cloak tighter.

He smiled, a slow, knowing curl of the lips.

Then he walked away.

But not far.

Below deck, in the flickering yellow light of a lantern, the ship’s captain was waiting. His face was stern, his coat heavy with brass buttons and salt.

When the porter approached, the captain glanced down the corridor and reached into his coat.

He withdrew a sealed envelope.

“Direct orders from Lord Montrevaux,” the captain muttered. “You know what to do.”

The porter took it, his filthy fingers smearing the seal as he broke the wax and unfolded the short letter inside.

A bundle of bills fell out, thick and bound with a string.

He read the note silently:

“Make sure the bride is no longer pure before she meets him. He must believe it’s too late to walk away.”

A low chuckle rumbled in the porter’s throat. He stuffed the money into his coat and held the letter over the flame of the lantern.

It curled and blackened, smoke curling upward until every damning word turned to ash.

He turned toward the lower deck.

Toward Nicole’s room.