Mary Devlin Romance Author PREVIEW: Madam Jane

The story of an unlikely romance between an orphaned would-be nun and an ambitious knight back in the days of the Wars of the Roses in fifteenth-century England.

The roof of the infirmary was on fire; the walls were built of stone and therefore safe, but the roof was made of timbers and thatch, and burned easily.

Jane Dare looked up with a start. Nuns rarely used such language, even in predicaments like this. However, Jane recalled, Sister Hilary had come from a large family and had had four older brothers - who had undoubtedly used fouler words in far less traumatic situations.

“Get some blankets!” Sister Hilary barked. “Soak them in the drinking water! Cover our patients! Wrap one around your own shoulders! We're not going to give the devils the satisfaction of seeing us dead!” She snatched several of the heavy wool blankets off the cots and ran for the kitchen, where she plunged them into the vat they used for their drinking water.

Jane followed suit, her heart pounding. The smoke was starting to fill the room; the acrid smell of the burning thatch seemed to permeate her very being. Would they suffocate?

Neither Jane nor Sister Hilary knew who the raiders were or from whence they had come, nor why they had chosen to sack the Convent of St. Agnes. St. Agnes's was not one of the more famous nunneries in England, nor was it near any major city; it was near the eastern coast, near the border of Norfolk and Suffolk, far from any major city.

Jane had been preparing some herbal medicines for their two patients when they had first heard the thundering sound of hoofbeats, the rough voices of strange men, and the screams from the main convent building. Some of the cries, many of which were cut off sharply, had come from voices that Jane recognized; fear had spread through her body as she abandoned her work and rushed into the front room, casting a terrified glance at Sister Hilary. A sense of disbelief, of unreality masked her senses, momentarily causing her vision to blur and her body to sway. This sort of horror only happened in old war stories, to soldiers - not here and now, to innocent women.

Regaining her equilibrium, Jane had run with Sister Hilary for the door, only to see armored knights, some carrying sacks, swords in hand, running through the convent grounds, slashing at trees and bushes, killing or scattering the livestock, chasing the nuns. The stables were burning. Jane had screamed in terror when she saw one of the knights cut down the young novice who was in charge of caring for the animals.

Sister Hilary, as infirmarian, always thought first of her patients, and so she had immediately slammed, barred and bolted the door. Unfortunately, the knight who had killed the novice had seen them standing at the door of the infirmary and had come running towards them, his intent all too clear. He had reached the door and began pounding on it.

“Open this door! Open it or I'll break it down!” came the shouts from outside.

“Then break it down and be done with it!” Sister Hilary challenged. “St. Agnes's is a house of God, and this is the den of the sick. I'll have no part of allowing outlaws to disturb those in my care!”

Jane's large brown eyes grew wide with admiration. Good work, Sister Hilary, she said silently. Other voices joined that of the man who had seen them.

'There is nothing here to interest you!” Sister Hilary continued. “This is only the infirmary, and we have only herbs and pots here! Get on with you!”

Jane edged closer to Sister Hilary, her hands clasped tightly to control their shaking. The men seemed to be paying the infirmarian no heed; loud thumps came from the door, as if several men were lunging against it. The hinges creaked ominously.

“I have two patients in here with plague!” Sister Hilary cried. “Do you want to catch it yourself? You'll die hideously - as all criminals should!” Her mouth set into a thin, determined line as she glanced reassuringly at Jane. Sister Hilary was young - only in her mid-twenties - and rather plump, but her youth and appearance belied her wisdom.

At the mention of the word plague, the door suddenly fell silent and still. “You're lying!” a rough voice finally broke the silence.

Jane found her voice. “Do you want to take that chance?” she demanded. “When you catch plague, you burn with fever. You break out in boils and your tongue turns black. Your bowels turn to water and before a day is out you die in agony! I ask, do you want to risk it?”

Sister Hilary smiled and nodded approval. The voices outside all hushed. For a moment Jane actually believed they had gone away.

“Burn it down!” came a shrill voice from the back of the crowd. Jane and Sister Hilary exchanged a concerned glance.

A few moments later the roof of the infirmary was in flames. Smoke filled the room; soot blew into Jane's eyes, causing them to tear. She tried to ignore the pounding of her heart as she spread wet blankets over the two frightened men lying on the beds in front of her, trying not to let her fear show.

“Never mind,” she said soothingly. “Have faith. We'll get rid of them. Everything will be all right.”

She covered the men completely, even to their faces. The smoke was becoming so thick it was difficult to see through it, and Jane began to choke from its fumes. She pulled her own blanket over her head, taking comfort from its cool dampness. The covers would shield them, but for how long?

She gasped. Burning thatch was falling through the beams of the roof to land in the room. One bunch fell onto the floor; Jane threw her blanket onto the flames. Immediately they died. She glanced around the room. Sister Hilary had run towards one of the cots that appeared to be on fire. She wrapped the woolen coverlet around the flames, then gasped as she dodged another falling brand.

A large section of the roof had fallen near the bed where one of the patients lay; Jane fought her way through the soot and ashes, stamping out small tongues of flame, whipping the wet blanket off her unconscious patient and beating the fire into oblivion, then dashing against it herself in order to quench a burning patch on her skirt.

The wind had picked up; it caused the thatch to fall inside that much faster, but it also blew some of it away from the building, which was a blessing. For the next several moments Jane and Sister Hilary rushed from one end of the infirmary to the other until every burning brand had been extinguished.

Jane poured a potful of wine over a small fire that had started in their rag bucket, then quickly looked around. The room was still; there were no more flames. Exhausted, Jane allowed herself to lean against the jamb of the door between the front room and the infirmary kitchen. Her relief was short-lived; she could still hear screams from the main convent building.

She ran into the front room and threw her arms around Sister Hilary, who patted her reassuringly. “Their fate is in the hands of God, Jane. Our duty is to our patients.”

Sister Hilary threw up her hands in frustration. “I know no more about it than you do, dear Jane,” she replied. “I only know that our country is still torn by civil war.”

“But we have nothing to do with that!” Jane cried angrily. “This is a convent I We have naught to do with either Lancaster or York! Why would soldiers from either side do this to us?”

Sister Hilary walked over to the two sleeping men, removed the wet blankets and replaced them with dry ones. “I expect those men were looters, wanting the gold plate and silver trappings from the chapel,” she replied. “I remember when I was a girl, when my father was trying to teach my brothers about the ethics of war - if there is such a thing. Two of the principles he taught them were to avoid harming the innocent and refrain from looting. But he also told them that there were evil men who refused to obey those principles.”

“Fine, honorable soldiers!” said Jane bitterly, her eyes still tearing from the smoke. She fingered the hole that had been burnt into her skirt and sighed. This was her only dress.

Suddenly she looked up in shock. “Sister Hilary, some of our sisters out there could still be alive! They need us! We must go to them!”

“Jane, I share your fear and your concern, but the Lord does not require us to commit suicide! In fact, it is said to be an unforgivable sin. We are alive, but if we walk through that door we will be dead like everyone else. As long as those men are out there we stay here! We have been spared - obviously God wants us alive - and besides, we must care for our patients. Now we must remain silent. Let the raiders think they have killed us.”

Realizing the truth behind Sister Hilary's words, Jane gritted her teeth in frustration. A shudder passed through her body as she glanced up through the beams of the roof. Daylight had faded; an ominous gray muted the colors in the room. The smell of smoke had faded, but still lingered in their clothes and in the air around them.

The screams had ceased, but the sound of men running through the grounds shouting at each other continued. A blazing bright light abruptly filled the room; a moment later Jane once more heard the roar of flames. Startled, Jane looked up again, shielding her eyes with her arm. But there was no more thatch on the roof, and the timbers, though charred, were still solid.

“Shhh!” Sister Hilary hissed. “They've got to think us dead, or they'll never leave!”

About half an hour later the roar of flames died, and the sound of the raiders' footsteps disappeared. The next loud noise heard from outside was the pounding of hoofbeats, deafening as the horses passed the infirmary, then fading off into the distance.

The two women exchanged a startled look. “They have gone,” Jane finally said.

Sister Hilary ran to the front of the building, gingerly opened a shutter a crack and tried to peer out. “I can't see anyone,” she said. “Still, some of those evil creatures might have stayed behind. We must be sure.”

Jane rushed forward and began unbarring and unbolting the door. “We must go out!” she whispered. “We must see if any of the sisters are alive and need us!”

Sister Hilary put her hand on Jane's to stop her. “It's still too dangerous,” she said. She hesitated, as though trying to make a decision, then determinedly threw open the shutter.

What had only a few hours ago been a bustling, busy place now stood bare and empty. Buildings had been burned, battered, vandalized. The bodies of animals lay throughout the yard - chickens, pigs, pigeons. Jane stifled a sob as she recognized the body of a dog that had been a particular pet of hers.

“I am infirmarian,” said Sister Hilary firmly. “You are but an apprentice. I run the infirmary. And I say you stay here and I will go. You must take care of Wilfred and Godwin. I think Wilfred is worse; the wet blanket kept him from being burned but increased his fever. You must get some herbs down him and make a poultice for his chest. And the dampness may have soaked away the scab on Godwin's arm. His bandage will need to be replaced.”

If I become a nun, Jane told herself, I will take a vow of obedience. I must learn to live up to that ideal now. “Very well,” she said meekly.

With determination, Sister Hilary disappeared through the door. A wave of fear passed through Jane as the only friend she had left went out to what could be certain death. Summoning her presence of mind, Jane rebolted the door, then hurried to check on the moaning Wilfred.

He was worse, Jane observed. The smoke, remnants of which still hung in the air, had obviously hurt his already-damaged lungs, and his fever was alarmingly high. Wearily Jane trudged into the kitchen.

She took jars of feverfew and echinacea off the shelf, placed some wine in a pot and began to boil the herbs in the wine. The pleasant, familiar aromas of the herbs were comforting, overwhelming somewhat the lingering odor of smoke. The wine came to a boil; Jane removed the pot from the fire and allowed the herbs to steep as the wine cooled. When the cordial was drinkable Jane poured it into a tankard and returned to Wilfred's cot, gently waking him.

He protested at being disturbed, but when Jane insisted he quaffed the wine thirstily. She tucked the covers up to his chin as he dropped off to sleep again.

Godwin, who had cut himself badly on the arm with an axe, needed a new bandage. Skillfully Jane wound one around his arm, placing a wad of comfrey on the roughly stitched-up gash.

Frightened, Jane let out a sudden cry of alarm, then turned her face toward the door.

Relieved, Jane hurried to the door, unbolted and opened it. Sister Hilary, her face white with shock and grief, hurried in.

“The soldiers are all gone,” the nun stated, “but I looked everywhere - at least I thought I did. I found no one still alive.” She stifled a sob. “But I didn't find everybody, either. So maybe someone still lives.” She wiped away a tear. “However, I think we need help. We need to bury the dead, if nothing else. I think it best if I ride to Croyland Abbey. But you must stay. Did you dose Wilfred, or make the poultice for his chest?”

The poultice! “I dosed him; I was just about to make the poultice.” She hurried into the back room; the nun followed. “But Sister Hilary, it is late. Can you reach Croyland Abbey before dark?” Jane began to pull jars of herbs off the shelves. One slipped from her hand and crashed to the stones of the floor; inwardly Jane cursed.

“I don't know,” said Sister Hilary, picking up the pieces of the broken jar. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It doesn't matter. I know the way.”

“But it still may not be safe. Those men may still be out there.” Jane suddenly caught sight of her friend's sagging shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes. “Sister, you're exhausted! You should stay - I should go!” She started for the door, but a grim look from Sister Hilary stopped her.

“Jane, you're staying right here!” she said. “You know no one at Croylands. I know both the abbot and the prior well, for they were once my patients. They are also very stern, and probably wouldn't believe you. I will be all right - God has protected me this long, He won't betray me now!”

God has not protected our sisters very well, Jane thought rebelliously, but she remembered her need to be obedient, and so she held her tongue as Sister Hilary strode purposefully through the door and hurried toward the stables. A moment later Jane watched as the nun managed to capture a frightened, skittish horse, mounted him and galloped away.

But she had no patience left for idle speculation. Two men needed her, and she still needed to fulfill Sister Hilary's instructions for Wilfred. Resolutely Jane returned to her task and began preparing a poultice of hyssop.

Her hands moved automatically; she had done this so often the very activity restored the illusion of rationality. She mixed the crushed herb with sweet almond oil, then smeared it onto a clean cloth and heated it gently over a small flame. She returned to the infirmary and placed the poultice, herb side down, on Wilfred's chest. The healing essence of hyssop would penetrate the chest wall and reach the lungs, thus aiding in clearing them of congestion. It made Jane feel better; never in her experience had a hyssop poultice failed to do its work, unless the patient was already on the edge of death. And Wilfred, thanks to herself and Sister Hilary, had never reached that point.

Jane sat in a chair by his side, tucking a blanket around his chin, then leaning back, exhausted. Through the scorched beams of the roof she could see the stars, but there was no moon. Her mind was racing, making it impossible to sleep.

Yet slept she must have, for some time later, after the moon had risen high in the sky and was clearly visible through the beams, she was awakened by men's voices coming from outside the front door. Alarmed, she stood up; terror swept through her. “They're back!” she whispered.

A moment later someone was pounding on the door. “Hello!” called the voice. “Is anyone there?”

“Let us in! Please! There is no need to fear us! We are friends! I have an injured nun with me! Isn't this the infirmary?”

“But there has to be! I thought I heard someone moaning! Let's try the back!”

Their voices fell silent; rapid footsteps left the door and walked around towards the rear of the infirmary.

With sudden horror Jane realized that Sister Hilary had left through the back door, and it remained unbarred. Panicked, she ran into the kitchen and hurried toward the door, her eyes frantically searching for the bar.

But it was too late. The door flew open; two men, one dark, one fair, stood in front of her, staring at her, puzzled. In his arms the dark one carried the unconscious body of a young nun.

“This is your sister!” the man said angrily. “Why didn't you let us in?”

Jane forgot her fears. “Sister Rosamund!” She hurried over to the dark man. With relief she saw that though Sister Rosamund's eyes were closed, her chest rose and fell with a comforting regularity. Her eyes looked questioningly to the man with black hair. “Where did you find her?”

“In one of the outbuildings - it looked like the guest quarters,” the man replied.

“We found her under a bed. She apparently struggled, then ran and hid. They were probably so busy looting they forget she existed.”

“Bring her in here,” Jane directed. The two men followed her into the front room, where she indicated a bed across the aisle from Wilfred and Godwin. The dark man laid Sister Rosamund on the coverlet. Jane shoved him aside, then examined her patient.

“Her shoulder is broken,” said Jane expertly. “There is a bruise on the side of her head; someone must have struck her. She must have been in terrible pain.”

“She was,” said the man with some irritation. “That's why I wanted to bring her here for help. Only no one would answer the door when I knocked.”

Jane cast him a scathing look. “We were attacked by a band of murderers!” she said sharply. “Would you have me open to any brigand who demands entrance?”

“How did I know that? Was I to take your word for it?” Her eyes narrowed. “In fact, I still don't know! Who are you? Why are you here?” She stared at the man's eyes, which were blazing with anger. Immediately a wave of fear passed through her. “Who are you?” she cried. His gaze grew fierce, and he took a step forward. She gasped, closed her eyes tightly and crossed herself, as though waiting for the final blow.

“Good God!” the man said impatiently. “My dear sister, I am not one of them! “My name is Alan Sanford, of Castle Rowlands in Lincolnshire. This is my friend and vassal, Sir John du Fay. My men and I are on our way to King's Lynn, to meet King Edward. We just stopped here, hoping for food and lodging for the night, and found all the sisters inside - except Sister Rosamund - murdered. We only want to help!”

“Well, I thank you for your help,” said Jane coldly. “But I will care for Sister Rosamund now. There is no need to linger, and you may return to your journey.”

“God's bones, girl, do you think for a moment we'd leave two women and two sick men - “ His dark eyes flashed over towards Wilfred and Godwin, then settled on Jane again. “- alone in a ruin like this? Good God, what if they do come back? I am a knight - sworn to defend the sick and helpless!”

“Helpless?” Jane cried. “So I'm helpless, am I?” She reached down beside her and picked up a slop bucket and made as if to throw it at him.

Alan Sanford reached down and stayed her arm, deftly wresting the bucket from her grasp. He was laughing, but his laughter seemed only to infuriate her.

“The infirmarian, Sister Hilary, has ridden to Croyland Abbey for help,” Jane sputtered. “She should be returning soon - with help from the village.”

“Then John and I will stay until Sister Hilary and the others come,” said Alan Sanford easily. “But if I were you, sister, I'd pay more attention to my patient than to me. Doesn't she need you?”

Further angered by his calm observation of her negligence, she turned and once more ran a gentle hand over Sister Rosamund's shoulder. “The bone must be set before it heals anymore,” said Jane. She began to shake. “It will grow together all wrong, and Sister Rosamund may lose the use of her arm, or develop a hump. I've never set a shoulder before, and I don't - “ Quickly she gained control of herself. “I have to manage it somehow.”

Alan Sanford stepped to her side and gripped her arm. “You're about to collapse from weariness. Can this not wait until Sister Hilary returns?”

“You don't understand. The bone is healing now, even as we talk. The more it heals, the harder it will be to set, because we'll have to break it again, and – ”

Jane looked intently into his eyes. “Yes, you could. But I'm not sure how. I've only watched Sister Hilary, I've never done it. Would you be willing to try?”

“Of course.” John du Fay stepped forward and stood beside his friend. He looked at Jane. “What do you want us to do?”

Gazing gratefully at the fair-haired man, Jane indicated the other side of the bed. “Sir Alan, you are the largest. You stand there and hold her down. Make sure she stays motionless. Her body will want to jerk, but be sure and hold her still.”

“Very well,” said Alan Sanford, moving over to the other side of the bed and putting one hand on Sister Rosamund' s uninjured shoulder and the other on her rib cage. “Is this correct?”

“That will do,” said Jane, nodding. “Sir John, you hold the broken end of her shoulderbone nearest her neck. Hold it still, but move it if I say so.”

Closing her eyes for a second in silent prayer, Jane manipulated the broken bone until it was aligned with the other end, edging it gingerly towards the break. “Pull back a bit,” she directed John du Fay, who obeyed. “Now let go!” she cried.

The bone snapped back into place. Jane breathed a sigh of relief. Alan Sanford released Sister Rosamund’s inert body and stood straight.

Jane swayed a little from exhaustion, but quickly regained her senses. “In the back room there is a pile of splints,” she directed. “I need two of them. And some bandages, from the shelf.”

Alan disappeared into the back room, then reappeared a moment later with the splints and bandages. He handed them to Jane, a look of concern on his face. “Can I help?” he asked again.

Jane nodded. “Hold one splint on either side of her shoulder so that I can bind them into place,” she directed.

He obeyed, watching her closely as she draped the bandages tightly around Sister Rosamund's form. “Will that help them heal?” he asked.

“It will hold the splints in place,” Jane replied as she tied the bandages in a knot across the nun's chest. “I don't know how good a job we did of setting the bone; Sister Hilary will have to judge that - but at least, even if her shoulder is a little crooked, she won't be humpbacked.” Nearly fainting from weariness, Jane stumbled into the kitchen. The two men followed.

“Sister, don't you need to sleep?” Alan Sanford asked gently. “You shall soon pass out if you don't.”

“I have to make her a cordial,” said Jane. “She needs medicine, to dull the pain, to speed healing. I – ”

“What do you need?” Alan Sanford demanded, stepping forward. “I'll do it. Just tell me what to do!”

Gratefully Jane collapsed onto a stool by the cold fireplace. “On the shelf, there’s a jar, it's marked. Comfrey. To help the bone knit quickly.”

“Valerian. To calm her nerves. And willow bark, for pain. They're all there.”

“There's some wine there. Boil it, then steep the herbs in it. Then when it cools, I must give it to her – ”

“I will give it to her,” said Alan Sanford firmly. “John, take this brave young woman into the other room and tuck her into bed. She needs to sleep!”

Gently John du Fay picked Jane up and carried her into the next room. She did not protest as he set her down on the bed and draped the blanket over her. The rough texture of the blanket was oddly comforting; the straw mattress, though hard, was like a featherbed to Jane. Feeling finally safe once more, she allowed sleep to spread through her.

Alan Sanford entered the room, carrying the cordial in his hand. “Is she asleep?” he asked.

John du Fay nodded. A brisk wind suddenly whipped down through the infirmary; Alan Sanford looked up and shook his head at the bare beams of the roof. “Gad, it's as cold as a witch's teat in here! Are there enough blankets to keep us all warm?”

John bent down and picked up one of the still-sodden blankets that had been used to fight the fire. “There were,” he said dryly, “but I wouldn't advise draping this over a sick man or injured woman.”

Alan strode to the door and jerked it open. “What have you found?” he demanded.

The man in the doorway, a beefy soldier in the armor of a sergeant-at-arms, shook his head. “We didn't find anyone alive, my lord. Nor did we find anything of value left in the chapel or anywhere else. I don't know exactly how wealthy this convent was, but it certainly is as poor as they come now.”

“Damn!” Alan swore again. “The king will certainly have something to say about this. Any clues as to who might have done it?”

“We haven't found any, Sir Alan, but, then, it's dark now. We'll have to look again in the morning.”

“I've arranged a watch. There were no dead bodies in the guest quarters, and so I've told those not on duty to bed down there. Tomorrow we'll have to see to the burials, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” said Alan. “Sir John and I are going to stay the night here, in the infirmary. The injured nun is here, and three others, none of whom are well. So we're staying in case they need us.”

Bunter left. Alan closed the door. “As if the door mattered!” he said irritably, once more shivering in the wind. “A house with no roof is worse than no house at all! John, which way do you think they could have gone?” He collapsed onto one of the cots.

John sat on a stool beside Jane's bed. “Who? The murderers? You're not thinking of going after them, are you?”

“I want to find the whoresons responsible for this ignominy and torture them slowly, then cut their throats and string them up like pigs. If I can think of ways to make their deaths more painful, I'll do it. Now tell me, John: which way would they have gone?”

John sighed. “Alan, they're probably halfway to Scotland by now. We'd never catch them - even if we knew who they were. We have to tell the king. That's all we can do.”

“Damn!” Alan rammed his fist into the wall. “John, I feel so helpless! If we'd only arrived here a few hours ago! We might have saved these women! Even those bloody chickens outside deserved to live out their lifespans without being needlessly slaughtered! When King Edward hears about this – ”

Sister Rosamund was conscious. Alan and John looked at each other, then hurried to her side.

“Sister Rosamund?” said Alan softly. “Sister Rosamund, my name is Alan Sanford. This is my friend John du Fay. You're in the infirmary. You have a broken shoulder, but it will heal. Our men are here, guarding the place. You are safe.”

Alan and John instinctively looked toward the bed where Jane lay, sleeping the blissful sleep of exhaustion. “Jane is asleep, in the cot next to you,” said Alan. “Sister Rosamund, what happened here?”

“It was a band of soldiers. They came this morning, with big huge bags. They probably stole everything we had. They killed - they killed - ” Here Sister Rosamund choked back a sob. “They killed my assistant, Sister Katherine, right before my eyes. One of them struck me with a club. I fell to the floor, and he thought I was dead. When he left the room I crawled back into one of the guest cells. But I could hear the others, outside, screaming. Are there any alive?

“Yourself, and Sister Hilary, and Jane. And the two men who are patients here. There may be more, we don't know. We'll check again in the morning. In the meantime, you must sleep.”

Half the cordial Alan had made earlier was still in the tankard, on the table next to Sister Rosamund's bed. Gently he put his arm behind the injured nun's head, lifted it up slightly, and raised the tankard to her lips. “Drink some of this,” he said. “Jane said it would make you sleep, kill any pain and speed healing.”

Obediently Sister Rosamund took a few sips, then collapsed back onto the pillow, her eyes closed. A moment later a gentle snore told Alan and John that she was asleep again.

John turned questioningly to Alan. “Well, what do you think? A band of common outlaws? Renegade knights or soldiers? Cr men sent by some greedy lord, taking advantage of the king's preoccupation with keeping his throne?”

“God's teeth, I wouldn't even try to guess! Perhaps tomorrow, in daylight, we can find some indication - something they left behind, perhaps - of who they were. But I have a sneaking suspicion they left nothing, and we'll never know who did this.”

They sat in glum silence for a few moments, then John yawned. “Well, I'm going to take a nap,” he finally said. He patted the blanket covering the cot he was sitting on. “It's a little damp and smells of smoke, but I am so weary I could probably sleep on solid rock. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. I couldn't sleep now - perhaps not all night. One of us needs to be alert in the morning.”

Yawning again, John removed the moist blanket from the cot, lay down and covered himself with his cloak. Alan stared up through the empty roof beams, pondering this unexpected event.

Robbing churches, convents and monasteries, particularly in troubled times such as these, was sadly all too common, for the Church was a wealthy organization, and liked to praise the glory of God by decking its halls and chapels with gold, silver, jewels, and precious manuscripts. But who would slaughter helpless nuns?

King Edward would be angry that he and John were late. The king was dependent on his lords for men and horses, and desperately needed them. But Edward was also a devout Christian, and a lover of all women - young, old, rich, poor - and that certainly included nuns. He would not be happy at all to hear of this, not happy at all.

Alan’s thoughts were muddled, his muscles like heavy weights dragging him down, his eyelids closing – and impossible to force open again. In spite of his declaration that he probably wouldn't sleep all night, unconsciousness inevitably took hold of him. He sank slowly into a heavy, dreamless, and much-needed sleep.

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