Chambers of Death

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The tree limbs arched with the weight of ice-kissed rain, then dropped their burden with a loud crack like a bursting dam.

Prioress Eleanor flinched when the torrent hit and clutched the feverish young woman in her arms even closer. “We shall find warm lodging soon,” she whispered into Mariota’s ear and prayed her words sounded more confident than she felt.

Shivering, the girl groaned and muttered incoherently.

If a fire and dry shelter were not found quickly, the chill autumn’s fierce storm would surely kill this young woman who had known only fifteen summers. As the numbing damp soaked through her own cloak, Eleanor began to shake. Is there any comfort for us, she wondered, and began to fall victim to gray despair.

Even her donkey now issued a low complaint. Hope must be a very feeble thing indeed, she thought bleakly, if this patient of all creatures has grown anxious.

“My lady, take this.” Brother Thomas eased his horse closer to the trembling women. With a swift, efficient gesture, he lifted off his own cloak and draped it gently around them. “I erred when I suggested you seek the dry spot under the tree. I thought you would be better protected from the storm. I beg pardon for my poor judgment.”

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