Forsaken Soul

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“I do not wish to cast aspersions on Sister Juliana’s virtue, my lady.”

A hope you most ardently pray I shall reject, Prioress Eleanor concluded, noting that Sister Ruth’s complexion had deepened from its usual ruddy hue into that nobler color oft favored by God’s anointed rulers. She willed herself to maintain an expression devoid of all but civil concern.

“Yet I am sure you agree that those virtuous people of the village, who have expressed apprehension in this matter, may not be ignored.”

The effort to retain a suitably grave bearing grew more difficult. The youthful leader of Tyndal, a Fontevraudine priory on the East Anglian coast, nodded with visible impatience.

Sister Ruth stiffened her back. “Without question, an anchoress may accept visitors at her window and dispense humble advice. To do so only at night, when Satan lewdly disports himself with his imps, is distressing. Many say that advice given at such unholy hours must be hissed in Sister Juliana’s ears by the Prince of Darkness, not by God.” Sister Ruth tucked in her chin, hoping to emphasize her stern demeanor, but her effort managed only to double her jowls.

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