The Raven and the Rose by Jo Beverley Read Free Book Online Page B

until she could put it in a corner. Once in the chapel, she plunged into the familiar prayers as she might plunge into a bath after having fallen in a filthy pond.
    But the maddening ideas were not to be washed away. Sister Thomasine shot her a baleful look—so the incident with the chalice had not been a dream. For the first time she glanced around to see if Sister Wenna was here, praying she was not.
    There she was, however, in the chairs provided for the older nuns, standing out in her black robes. Gledys noticed another black-robed nun among the other sisters, a younger one who must be Sister Wenna’s traveling companion.
    So she was real, and something had driven an old, half-crippled woman on a journey. If she told the truth, she’d been compelled by the fact that an evil man had acquired dreadful power, and Gledys could do something about that.
    The prayers came to an end without Gledys finding any answers, and the community formed the procession to go to the refectory for bread and soup, but as the end of the line left the chapel, a great black bird circled, less than two hands above their heads, squawking raucously. Everyone covered and ducked, some exclaiming, some screaming and running back into the chapel.
    So the raven had not been a dream, either.
    Gledys accepted that she was summoned, and until she obeyed, she and everyone else would be pestered like this. Perhaps, like the trials visited upon Egypt in the Bible, each one would be worse, leading even to the death of innocents, until she surrendered.
    The bird had taken a perch on the cross on the chapel roof, but it still gave its ugly
craak!
sound. Those who’d stayed outside looked up at it, pointing and chattering.
    Gledys went to Sister Wenna, who stood nearby, unalarmed and unsurprised. “What must I do?”
    â€œFollow the raven.”
    â€œIt’s a bird of ill omen.”
    â€œOnly to some. Others think them messengers from a holy realm.”
    â€œLike the realm to which Joseph of Arimathea sent the holy chalice?” Gledys wanted to sound scathing, but it didn’t come out that way.
    Sister Wenna nodded.
    â€œHeaven? That means death.”
    â€œThat should fill any good Christian’s heart with joy, but Sybilla de Fontmarie lived to be sixty-two and bore five children. Not seven, alas, but she served in other ways. The garalarl is kind to those who do its will.” She held out something. “This is yours.”
    It was a silver ring with a coiling, complex design. “Mine?”
    â€œAs the garalarl maiden. Put it on.”
    After a moment, Gledys slid it onto the third finger of her right hand. It fit perfectly.
    As if at a signal, the bird suddenly swooped from cross to gate. It was a clear command. The gates were normally closed directly after vespers, but the sisters whose job it was to do so hesitated, looking up at the black bird.
    With a clap of her hands, the abbess called order. “Enough, sisters. It is only a bird, and supper will be getting cold.”
    The milling about ceased and the nuns hurried with their superior toward the refectory. The only ones left were Gledys, Sister Wenna and the two nuns hovering near the gates. When they went nervously forward to close them, the raven leaned down.
Craak! Craak!
    They scuttled back.
    â€œI can’t just walk out,” Gledys said.
    â€œNo one will stop you.”
    That seemed so unlikely that Gledys decided it was a test. When she was forced back and questioned, she would know this was all nonsense. She walked forward a few steps, but then turned back.
    â€œI need supplies.”
    â€œNo, you don’t.”
    â€œI need to know—”
    â€œYou need nothing. Go! Trust in God. And the raven.”
    Gledys looked from nun to raven, but she knew she had to do this, and from more than duty. She was compelled.
    Her feet moved on their own, carrying her forward, toward the open gates. Expecting at any moment to be