Satan's Lullaby

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The north wind bit with the sharpness of an angry dog’s teeth. The afternoon sun, weary of its summer reign, had grown pale. Although winter would soon besiege this East Anglian coast with glittering ice and deceptively soft snow, all knew that the Prince of Darkness could chill hearts in ways deadlier than a bitter hoarfrost.

***

Gracia, Prioress Eleanor’s young maid, hurried down the path toward the courtyard near the open gate to Tyndal Priory.

The entire religious community, both men and women in this daughter house of the Order of Fontevraud, had assembled there in separate groups. A sea of tan in their clean robes of unbleached cloth, their silence was unsettling.

On the south side near the hospital, Prior Andrew stood in front of his small assembly of monks, their tonsures freshly shaven. Behind them gathered the many lay brothers who did the physical work, freeing the monks to pray.

Opposite the prior, in the northern part of the courtyard, Prioress Eleanor, leader of this double house, held her crosier. The sunbeams struck the silver of the crook and made the color dance with demure grace. Her veiled nuns, no longer accustomed to the world beyond their cloister, lowered their eyes as if confused by the sharp brightness outside a chapel. Clustered at the back, the lay sisters modestly bowed their heads and thought of the tasks they had left unfinished.

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