The Raven and the Rose (3 page)

“Because we live a holy life here. Come along.”

Gledys followed, but said, “What if it's true that Christ himself was once at Glastonbury? That makes it as good as the Holy Land itself.”

“Just stories. It's not in the Bible.”

“The Glastonbury priests sometimes talk about it.”

“Good for business,” said Sister Elizabeth cynically.

Gledys knew that was true. In these troubled times, religious foundations competed for pilgrims and the gifts they brought.

“Work, Gledys. There's all that fruit to be crushed.”

Gledys obeyed, applying a big pestle to a tub of blackberries, but she didn't think Saint Joseph was so easily dismissed. She couldn't remember whether his being a tin merchant was in the Bible, but if so, he could have sailed to this part of England. If he knew Jesus of Nazareth well enough to give over his tomb, it was possible he'd taken him on journeys, wasn't it?

The old church definitely existed—the one said to have been built by Christ himself. Some of the sisters who'd come here at an age to remember had seen it: a small, very old building where miracles occurred.

The famous thorn tree existed, too.

It bloomed every Christmastide, which was a wonder in itself, and a flowering sprig was brought to Rosewell every Christmas Eve. It was said no other such tree grew in England, so it had to be a miracle, and what other explanation was there than the one legend provided—that it had grown from Joseph of Arimathea's staff when he thrust it into the ground while resting?

But none of this explained her own fascination with the tor. When she looked at it, her heart ached with longing and she felt as if she might fly there if she only allowed herself. Her feelings were so similar to her longings for her knight that she wondered whether there was some connection. But he was fighting near a castle.

Then she realized something odd: She saw him in dreams when she was asleep in the dark, but he was always in daylight. Moreover, in her dreams, she wasn't wearing her habit or her sleeping shift. She wasn't sure what she was wearing, but knew it wasn't that. When she tried to pry open her memories to discover more, of course she failed.

So frustrating! But did these oddities prove her experiences were merely dreams?

Or did they prove that she had holy visions?

“Work, Gledys!” Sister Elizabeth said sharply.

“Your pardon,” Gledys said, and returned to her task.

***

Michael tried to resist the insanity, but he spent the evening searching for his bride, even though it meant running a gauntlet of envious congratulations, snide comments and eager whores. Eventually he gave up and accepted an invitation to drink with Robert de Waringod. He needed refreshment, and Robert was a friendly knight who was part of the castle garrison. That was one place Michael hadn't searched as yet.

Michael turned the talk to what ladies were in residence there.

“Lady Ella and her attendants,” Robert said. “And a couple of young daughters.”

“Her ladies?”

“She sent her younger attendants off with her older daughters, wise lady that she is. No need to court trouble.” He eyed Michael. “We all know you're particular, de Loury, but stick to whores. Safer in the end for landless men like us.”

He left and Michael considered his words.

Landless men. That was what he was, and such men could not marry, but land could be won through a great man's favor.

He drained his pot. Tomorrow he'd leave every opponent in the dust, and then he'd fight with heart and soul to put Henry of Anjou on the throne.

He would win his bride.

Chapter 3

In late afternoon, Sister Elizabeth was summoned to a meeting with the abbess and cellarer to go over inventory. Gledys was set to record supplies on tally sticks. As she notched the sticks, she gave thanks for a job that took concentration and stopped her mind's busy whirling. She was tallying the supply of bungs of various sizes when she felt someone behind her. She turned quickly, wondering at the same time why she should feel alarmed. There was no one in Rosewell to fear.

But this was a stranger. She was a nun, but dressed in black rather than the unbleached wool of the Rosewell habit. The hunchbacked old woman obviously needed the staff in her right hand, and her neck curved painfully as she looked up at Gledys. What had brought her on a journey to Rosewell?

“Sister, may I serve you?”

“My name is Sister Wenna, and I come from Torholme.”

Gledys felt a tingle of excitement. That was the nunnery close by Glastonbury Abbey, situated at the base of the tor. “It must be a special honor to be so close to the abbey, Sister. It is such a sacred place.”

“It was sacred before the time of Christ.”

Shocked, Gledys protested, “Nothing was sacred before Christ.”

The woman clicked her tongue impatiently. “Why, then, do people revere it?”

“Because of Joseph of Arimathea. Because our Lord might have visited there.”

Another impatient click of the tongue. “
Why
did Saint Joseph and our blessed Lord visit there?”

Gledys stared at such an extraordinary question but she grasped one thing. “They did? It is known?”

“Yes, they did,” Sister Wenna said, but as if that were irrelevant. “The question is, why? Because it was a sacred place even then. It and the tor. As you know.”

“I?” Gledys took a guilty step backward. “I know nothing of such pagan matters. It's unholy.” Was Sister Wenna an apparition of Satan, come to tempt her even more?

As if reading her mind, the old woman crossed herself. “Sixty years I've been a nun at Glastonbury, so don't think me a tool of the devil. Many places in England were worshiped before Christ by our ancestors.”

“Not by mine,” Gledys said firmly. “My family is Norman.”

“Half Norman. Your Gascon grandfather was given the lands and widow of a man who died at Hastings. Don't you know that?”

Gledys was startled into stammering, “N-no. I have never been told any details of my ancestry, and a sister of Rosewell is not curious about such things.”

Sister Wenna's straggly gray brows rose, as if she knew of Gledys's sinful curiosity. “Know now: His wife, your grandmother, came from a special family.”

“Special?” Gledys asked. “In what way?” This conversation was disturbing. She wished Sister Elizabeth would return. She wished evening weren't creeping in, turning sunlight into fire.

Instead of answering, the old nun demanded, “What do you think of Glastonbury?”

“Nothing!” Gledys exclaimed in instant denial, but then she tried to cover guilt with babble. “I came here as an infant, so if I was taken there then, I don't remember it. It's my family's tradition: All seventh children are given to the Church. . . .”

“Yes, yes, I know. The blessed seventh of the garalarl line.” When Gledys gaped, she shook her head. “You don't even know that? Well, there's no time to explain. You are summoned—”

“By Mother Abbess?” Gledys asked in alarm, moving toward the door. “Why did you not say so?”

“No!” The old woman grabbed Gledys's sleeve.

“Then by whom?” Gledys pulled back, but was afraid of hurting the ancient, knobby fingers. “What do you want, Sister Wenna?”

“Peace,” the old woman said fiercely. “And you can bring it.”

“What?”

Sister Wenna let Gledys go and leaned heavily on her staff again. “Listen to me. You are of a sacred line, with roots thousands of years old. Thousands! Long before the time of Christ. All through history, new growth has grafted to the mighty trunk as earthly powers and beliefs come and go, but the ancient sap rules. Every land has these mysteries, but not all have kept the knowledge alive, and they pay the dreadful price.”

The old nun sagged, her back a painful arch.

“Sister Wenna, would you not like to sit? There's a bench outside in the sun.”

The woman ignored her. “The sap, the sacred power, flows through the females, so when Joseph of Arimathea married a woman of our ancient line he blended one mystery with another. Deliberately, I'm sure. Thus we often now call it the Arimathean line. To acknowledge your descent from a saint is no sin.”

Gledys considered the implication with alarm. “But to claim descent from . . . what did you call it? The grarl line?” Perhaps it was in the harsh English tongue, now used only by peasants.

“Garalarl.” It came out like a guttural snarl.

“Garalarl?”

“The garalarl is a sacred vessel that blesses with abundance. The name is also given to the bloodline that serves it. The powers flow through all of the line to some extent, but only a seventh child of a garalarl woman can respond when the cup summons. If male, he will know how to protect the chalice and its maiden. If female, she will know how to bring the chalice into this world. She will be a garalarl maiden, like you.”

“Me?”

“You are a garalarl maiden, and you are summoned—”

“
Where?
” Gledys broke free of the old woman's claw.

“Wherever the raven leads.”

Gledys rolled her eyes, wondering why she'd let this wit-addled old woman upset her. “Sister Wenna, let me take you to the infirmary. Sister Clarise has soothing drafts. . . .”

“It will soothe me only if you leave immediately.”

“Leave Rosewell?”

“As if the thought has never crossed your mind. It calls you. Don't deny it!”

“What calls me?”

“The holy chalice.”

“Nonsense.”

“Very well, the
tor
calls you. Deny that, if you dare.”

Gledys longed to, but instead she turned as if pulled by ropes to the window that gave sight of the hilltop, where the Monastery of Saint Michael was gilded by the setting sun.

“That's not peculiar,” she said from a dry throat. “It's all I can see of Glastonbury, where Christ once walked.”

“Where legend says Joseph of Arimathea buried the holy chalice.”

Gledys refused to respond.

“Legend, as usual, is wrong.”

“Wrong?” Gledys turned, bitterly disappointed.

“It wasn't buried; it was moved.”

“Moved?” Gledys's head was beginning to pound, but now she hoped Sister Elizabeth wouldn't return yet. She had to know more. “Moved where?”

“Somewhere beyond our earthly realm. All that questing and digging when no one will ever find it that way, and certainly no man. It can be summoned back to us only by a rare and blessed woman like you.”

Gledys saw that tossed like bait, but she still snatched it. She couldn't help herself. To be rare and blessed . . .

Sister Wenna smirked.

“A rare and blessed woman joined with her protector,” Sister Wenna said.

“And if it does come?” Gledys asked, almost in a whisper. “What then?”

“Evil is defeated, and peace reigns. For a while, at least, mankind being weak.”

“Peace,” Gledys echoed, but then reality dropped back over her. “This is truly to be desired, but I am no such miracle worker, Sister. I'm a good and steady worker, but even there my mind wanders.”

“Of course your mind wanders! You must have been feeling the summoning for years.”

For years? Yes, perhaps that was true, and it had all become more urgent and disturbing recently.

“If I can help bring peace, why have you not come to me before? War has scourged England all my life.”

“Garalarl lore has been lost or twisted since the Normans came, and those chosen to guide us have grown weak and indecisive. Families of the line no longer follow the ways, and pure sevenths are rare. It's mere chance that you have been protected. Your family is sunk in ignorance. Which is an unlikely blessing, as it turns out. If they'd remembered the truth, they might have strangled you at birth.”

Gledys gasped in disbelief, but Sister Wenna said, “The de Brescars are the type to see war as opportunity, not curse, but fortunately they saw advantage in the tradition of sending a seventh child into the Church. You were born just as war erupted, and they had no worldly need of another daughter, so why not? Perhaps your prayers would put them on the winning side.”

Gledys wanted to deny that description of her family, but couldn't. “They never ask me to pray for peace,” she admitted. “Only for victory against this enemy or that, along with requests for prayers for their own dead and maimed.”

“But you prayed for peace anyway.”

“Always.”

Sister Wenna nodded. “As I said, sevenths have not been preserved, so there are few who are suitable, and it was necessary to wait for you to achieve womanhood.”

“I became a woman three years ago,” Gledys pointed out. “Why wasn't I called upon then?”

Sister Wenna's sunken eyes shifted. “Reasons,” she mumbled.

Before Gledys could demand them, the nun said, “But now I have decided that the time for dithering is over.” She straightened more than Gledys would have thought possible and raised her free hand in a strangely clawlike gesture. “I have come here, Gledys de Brescar, to summon you. Succeed, and peace will reign. Fail, and you condemn this land, and perhaps the whole world, to bitter sorrow.”

Gledys shivered. “Fail in what?”

“In finding the holy chalice.”

“But I don't know where it is!”

“You have only to leave, to follow the raven and the golden path.”

Gledys put a hand to her pounding head. Perhaps this was all another dream. “I can't leave. You know that. It wouldn't be allowed.”

“You'll have no difficulty,” Sister Wenna said, hunched and prosaic again. “Rosewell has served its purpose well, but that time is over.”

“What purpose?”

“It's kept you virginal. That's not certain at all nunneries, alas, but you'd have to be a miracle worker to become spoiled at Rosewell. That's why it was set up this way,” she added. “For garalarl maidens. Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?”

“To leave, seek, act!”

“
I cannot leave!
” Gledys shouted.

“
You must!
” the crone croaked back. It would have been a yell if she were capable of it. “We have struggled to bring peace alone—”

“Who's ‘we'?”

“—but it has been broken in our hands again and again. And now true peril looms.”

The old nun fell silent, perhaps debating whether to say more.

Gledys couldn't bear it. “What peril?” What could be worse than what they had?

“There is another ancient line, as old and powerful, that gains its power from blood, pain, death and grief. That power has gorged on eighteen years of strife, and those of the line have become strong enough to steal the holy lance from the Templars.”

Gledys felt light-headed. “The lance that pierced our Lord's flesh at the crucifixion? It still exists?”

“It does, and it isn't sanctified as the chalice is. The lance exists entirely in this earthly realm and retains its warlike nature. In the wrong hands, it inflames anger and violence, and drives people to war. It is now in the hands of King Stephen's vile son, Eustace of Boulogne, and, unchecked, he will use it to keep the war raging.”

Gledys put a hand to her dazed head, trying to make sense of it all. “Who is ‘we'?” she asked. “Who has struggled to bring peace alone?”

“We of the garalarl line who have preserved the lore. But even among us too many hesitated.”

“Why? If peace is within our grasp, why?”

The old woman sighed. “The cup brings peace how it wills, not as mere mortals wish, and the garalarl adepts are mortal souls with mortal frailties. They seek to control the outcome. The arguments among us have been as divisive as those among the barons. For eighteen years the choice has been between Countess Matilda and Stephen of Blois. Matilda is a haughty woman who brings destruction in her train—and a woman! Even among us, many of us women, that appalled. Stephen is weak and easily led. His weakness has created anarchy, but at the beginning he seemed to many a safer choice.

“But now the countess has given her right of succession to her son. He's male, able and seems good. Still, some worry that he will be too strong, while others bleat that at twenty-one, he's too young. ‘Wait a while, wait a while,'” she muttered, clearly echoing endless debates. “But the time for waiting is over. Armed with the lance, Prince Eustace has inspired his father to break the truce. Unhindered, he will set fire to England, and the only power able to overcome the lance is you. You and the sacred cup.”

Gledys stepped back from that appalling idea. “Me? I'm nothing. A woman. A nun.”

“A garalarl maiden,” snarled Sister Wenna. “Not nothing. Everything!”

Gledys hugged herself and turned to pace the room. If ever she'd wished to be important, she took all such wishes back. She didn't want such a calling, but the truth of Sister Wenna's warnings ached in her bones, fed by her dreams and her longing for the tor. She even felt it now, like the heavy air before a storm, or a shaking of the earth beneath her feet.

But this summons felt like a call to martyrdom.

She turned back to the old nun. “If I do this, will I die?”

Sister Wenna shrugged, as if that, too, were irrelevant. And perhaps it was.

“It's not normally the way of it. Your predecessor lived to a good age.”

“My
predecessor
?”

“I told you. Thousands of years. There have been many. Enough of this. You must set out to find your protector, and then together you will summon the holy chalice.”