Five years of infancy. Two years of petty school. Seven years of grammar school. Merely two and a half at Cambridge. Despite the length of my years lived, it was only when I opened my eyes in the jailcell that I truly lived.
At first, they had cast me out for my ideas. England's religious turmoil surrounding King Henry's death and Mary's Catholic regiment brewed discussion within the university. Many favoured moving away from religious teachings in order to focus on the secular studies. The flame of the Protestant Reformation, lead by Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, was quickly doused with the piss of Bloody Mary. The Archbishop was imprisoned, and as his most vocal pupil, I had been made to stand trial alongside him. Before they could get that far however, the guard encharged with me discovered something that even the Archbishop did not know. Quite simply, I was a woman.
I was the youngest of five daughters, and the cause of my mother's death. My father, seeing no other choice, raised me as his son. It was a secret so fiercely guarded that even my eldest two sisters did not know the truth. I was to learn, and never marry, to carry the family name without passing it forward. Growing up with sisters, I was not unaccustomed to the feminine lifestyle, I simply never adopted it. My father taught me strictly in order to ensure I would behave soundly in school, thus avoiding a beating that required access to skin.
But a woman I was, under the tight bandages and masculine attire. I was almost thankful for my capture—with a sixteen-year secret revealed, I was free to live a new life.
Well, first I had to get out of jail.
Despite England's everlasting belief that women could not surpass men and were unfit for academics, I was at the top of my classes. I was certain that I would be capable of uncovering a method of escape. I studied my surroundings carefully, opening my eyes wider in an attempt to capture more light. The trial was useless. With no light to guide me, I held my hands before me and scrabbled about in the darkness. My cell was small, constructed from stone and with a wooden bench chained to the wall. The cell door was a simple gate, with vertical bars and—and no horizontal bars.
The prison had been built to hold men, not small women whose chest had been bound her entire life. Tactile examination of the bars allowed me to identify a bar which had been slightly bent during its welding. A slight bend was enough to allow my passage.
Slipping through the bars, I kept close to the walls, my breath shallow and uncertain. When I reached the door, I discovered it locked, yet peering through the keyhole revealed nothing. Chancing that someone might hear my noise, I slipped one hand beneath the door and rammed the doorknob with my other. The key clattered to the ground. Snatching it without further ado, I unlocked the door and braved peering around it. Light flooded the cell, prisoners muttering as it interrupted their fitful slumber. I shut the door behind me with a pang in my heart. Although the Archbishop would be martyred, I did not wish for the same fate.
I did not last long before coming across a guard. He frowned at me, likely bewildered by a woman in the men's prison. "Sirrah, keep better care of the location of your keys." I flicked the key at him, adopting the demeanour, accent, and attitude of the boys I had attended school with.
He stepped closer to me. "What's a boy like you doing running about? How did you escape your cell?"
Realizing that my behaviour and current appearance still marked me as a man, I bolted like a chased rabbit. My swiftness caught the man by surprise, and he quickly raised alarm as he pursued me. The entrance was near, however, and my hobbies of playing boyish sports kept me strong and swift.
My legs carried me far from danger, but no closer to any solution. Gathering my bearings, I inquired as to my location from a passerby. I had been brought to Oxford, the home of my eldest sister. I had visited her once before, and knew where she would be at this hour.
Taking sanctuary in the cold confines of the church, I sank onto a pew, my legs weak from my efforts. An hour passed, and I succumbed to the slumber I so desperately desired. When I woke, my face was tickled by a nun's habit brushing over my skin, a hand held to my face. "Brother? What are you doing here? Are you well?"
I sat up, taking her hand. "Is the confessional occupied?"
She shook her head. "The priest has other matters to attend to currently."
I led her to it and we sat inside. It was not long before I had explained my story. I had always been a curt speaker.
She was silent during my tale, but sighed now. "If you had converted then this matter could have been avoided. And I suppose I can hardly blame you for our father's transgressions. However, I will help you now. Your hair is short and you lack clothing, housing, and food. This can all be solved if you become a nun."
I quickly responded in the affirmative. The plan was simple. During the day, I would live my life as a nun and devote myself to God. I would be the Catholic that Mary wished for. During the night, however, I would continue the revolution started by my teacher. I could revert to my appearance of a man, return to the jailcell in which I had been held, and free my brethren. Even if I was not brave enough to allow myself to be martyred, I could save those who were.
And thus, my life of duplicity began.
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