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Authors: Priscilla Royal
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back and looked at the white-faced woman at arm’s length, then she pushed back the cowl that had covered her friend’s head and ran her hand across the rough stubble of blond hair. “Then tell me why you have cut your hair thus, Juliana?”
“As I said, my lady, there is greater pain than the loss of a maidenhead. I speak of what the soul feels, stinking with mortal frailties and standing at the fiery pit of Hell, longing to know, aye, even to
understand
the perfect and all-forgiving love of God.”
“Are you telling me that you wish to enter a convent?”
“Not just any convent. I have a harsh calling.” She quickly put a finger against Eleanor’s lips as the prioress began to speak. “Nay, I care not for the degrees of strictness in enclosure between, say, a Benedictine house and one of the Cistercian Order. Such distinctions are but petty. My longing is for a life far harder than that. I desire a hermit’s cell apart from other mortals where I may spend my life as an anchoress and ponder the complexity of God’s love. Whatever wisdom He grants me, I will pass on to others who, like me, beg for such understanding.”
Eleanor watched as Juliana’s brown eyes turned almost black. She shivered, but knew the cause was something other than a gust of cutting wind. “How may I help, my child?”
Juliana threw herself on her knees and raised her hands in supplication. “I beg you to support my plea before the bishop. I want to be entombed as an anchoress. At Tyndal, Eleanor. Will you have me?”
Chapter Eight
Thomas had just finished gathering most of the items he needed to make the hobbyhorse. The tree limb for the body was straight and sturdy enough to survive almost anything an energetic boy would do to it. The rough cloth for the head would take a good dye for the requested dark color, and he could make the eyes and ears from small bits of cloth or leather. Surely someone would give him a few old but clean rags for stuffing the head.
One of the maids had gladly donated some ragged yarn for the mane, blushing quite prettily as she brushed her hand against his. His flesh had remained quiescent despite the feathery touch, and he had blessed her as thanks, knowing full well that she would have preferred his hand had done something else for her besides making the sign of the cross. He decided he’d ask Robert for those last bits he lacked. He had no wish to encourage the willing maid.
Now that the boy was on the mend and he had time to himself, Thomas felt a profound fatigue from his nights with little rest. Giving up sleep for the care of the little lad he had done with joy, but, when he did retreat to his bed, any deep slumber had been shattered by his all too frequent and terrifying dreams. In the months just after he had arrived at Tyndal, he had feared falling asleep because of them. When he did slip into unconsciousness, he’d soon find himself sitting bolt upright, sweating and whimpering like a child from the horrors they brought.
He did not remember feeling fear quite this strong when he was actually in prison and believed he might face death by burning because some zealous bishop had decided to make an example of him. Yet, in his dreams, the anticipation of the jailer’s rape and the fires flicking out to lick at his feet were more than he could bear. Those dreams came less often now, but Giles would still appear in them, on occasion, to mock the love Thomas had borne him. In ways, those were the worst dreams of all.
He set his materials down on a stair and leaned against the stone wall. The cold felt good against his throbbing forehead. He knew he should go back to the room he shared with Father Anselm and sleep. No one needed his services and it would be good to rest, if he could. He sighed and looked out the narrow window of the stairwell into the inner ward. The sunlight was becoming weaker as the day went on. Snow was coming. Thomas wondered how soon it would be before this fragile light
“As I said, my lady, there is greater pain than the loss of a maidenhead. I speak of what the soul feels, stinking with mortal frailties and standing at the fiery pit of Hell, longing to know, aye, even to
understand
the perfect and all-forgiving love of God.”
“Are you telling me that you wish to enter a convent?”
“Not just any convent. I have a harsh calling.” She quickly put a finger against Eleanor’s lips as the prioress began to speak. “Nay, I care not for the degrees of strictness in enclosure between, say, a Benedictine house and one of the Cistercian Order. Such distinctions are but petty. My longing is for a life far harder than that. I desire a hermit’s cell apart from other mortals where I may spend my life as an anchoress and ponder the complexity of God’s love. Whatever wisdom He grants me, I will pass on to others who, like me, beg for such understanding.”
Eleanor watched as Juliana’s brown eyes turned almost black. She shivered, but knew the cause was something other than a gust of cutting wind. “How may I help, my child?”
Juliana threw herself on her knees and raised her hands in supplication. “I beg you to support my plea before the bishop. I want to be entombed as an anchoress. At Tyndal, Eleanor. Will you have me?”
Chapter Eight
Thomas had just finished gathering most of the items he needed to make the hobbyhorse. The tree limb for the body was straight and sturdy enough to survive almost anything an energetic boy would do to it. The rough cloth for the head would take a good dye for the requested dark color, and he could make the eyes and ears from small bits of cloth or leather. Surely someone would give him a few old but clean rags for stuffing the head.
One of the maids had gladly donated some ragged yarn for the mane, blushing quite prettily as she brushed her hand against his. His flesh had remained quiescent despite the feathery touch, and he had blessed her as thanks, knowing full well that she would have preferred his hand had done something else for her besides making the sign of the cross. He decided he’d ask Robert for those last bits he lacked. He had no wish to encourage the willing maid.
Now that the boy was on the mend and he had time to himself, Thomas felt a profound fatigue from his nights with little rest. Giving up sleep for the care of the little lad he had done with joy, but, when he did retreat to his bed, any deep slumber had been shattered by his all too frequent and terrifying dreams. In the months just after he had arrived at Tyndal, he had feared falling asleep because of them. When he did slip into unconsciousness, he’d soon find himself sitting bolt upright, sweating and whimpering like a child from the horrors they brought.
He did not remember feeling fear quite this strong when he was actually in prison and believed he might face death by burning because some zealous bishop had decided to make an example of him. Yet, in his dreams, the anticipation of the jailer’s rape and the fires flicking out to lick at his feet were more than he could bear. Those dreams came less often now, but Giles would still appear in them, on occasion, to mock the love Thomas had borne him. In ways, those were the worst dreams of all.
He set his materials down on a stair and leaned against the stone wall. The cold felt good against his throbbing forehead. He knew he should go back to the room he shared with Father Anselm and sleep. No one needed his services and it would be good to rest, if he could. He sighed and looked out the narrow window of the stairwell into the inner ward. The sunlight was becoming weaker as the day went on. Snow was coming. Thomas wondered how soon it would be before this fragile light
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