The creak of the cloister gate broke the morning hush. With a harsh cry and a flutter of wings a raven shot from the holly hedge beside the wall and disappeared into the sky.
Mother Catherine stepped outside the enclosure. Sunlight blazed from the surface of the snow, but there was no warmth in it. Her lips, still moist from the sacred wine, were touched by frost. The convent's store of wine might taste less of grape than of vinegar, but the symbolic blood of Christ was always sweet, and it wasn't the flavor of the wine that thinned her mouth into an anxious line. "Father," she murmured into the stillness, "I'm not strong enough to deal with what is coming. I'm frightened. Help me."
Warily she eyed the huddled roofs of Somersbury, the bare branches of the trees, the snowclad hills so pale they blended seamlessly with the robins egg blue of the sky. Below that brittle arch the world was as black and white as her habit and veil, except for the scattered berries of the holly bush, like drops of blood on the snow.
Nothing moved except a cart and horse laboring silently down the muddy track toward the town. Smoke smeared the shapes of the thatched roofs and blunted the edges of the castle keep. No flag flew from the topmost turret. Lord Waynflete and his family had not returned from keeping the Feast of the Nativity at court. What nobleman wouldn't take the opportunity of cultivating the king's favor?
Catherine could hardly ask Waynflete for help. He knew better than to oppose the will of His Majesty the King, Henry, the eighth of that name. If so noble a figure as Thomas More could be brought to the block at Henry's whim, if he could shed two wives as easily as a snake sheds its skin, what hope was there for a minor peer such as Waynflete?
And what hope for the nuns of St. Edwitha's? The vicar general's commissioners might not come today. They might not come tomorrow. But they would come, and they would destroy her world.
The cold drained the blood from her cheeks. Her flesh seemed as stiff and hard as a stone effigy's. She tried to imagine spring, and failed.
But her flesh and blood meant little. It was the work, domestic tasks, tilling the soil, tending the sick, that was important. The Opus Dei, the work of God, the daily round of praise, meant everything. Although the work would soon be snatched away from her, today she still had it to do.
Catherine turned toward the frost-rimed arch of the gate, then stopped. Loud in the crisp cold silence she heard a rustling and a moaning intake of breath.
She spun back around. There, something moved in the hawthorn thicket beside the road. An animal, a wolf or wildcat, its fear of humanity overcome by its hunger.... No, it was a man, kneeling among the whip-like branches. His head hung forward, his shaggy dark hair concealing his features. The back of his neck was exposed as though to the headsman's axe.
Catherine hurried to his side, her habit and veil billowing behind her. "Let me help you." She leaned over, grasping his shoulders. Her crucifix swung away from her breast and brushed against his hair.
Beneath her hands his shoulders were thin but wiry. He pulled away from her, only to collapse into the snow.
She took his body in her arms and helped him rise to his feet. He tilted his face toward the radiance of the sun, cried out as though in pain, and quailed.
"You're ill," said Catherine. "Come with me."
He didn't reply. He didn't move. Catherine waited, counting the ragged wreaths of his breath.
His cloak, though threadbare, was of fine wool trimmed with fur, and his shabby doublet was well-cut. His features were lean, the bones of cheek, nose, and chin sharply defined. His skin was whiter than any noblewoman's, as pale as the snow, so that his large dark eyes seemed like windows into night. The only color in his face, the only softness, was the pink and supple curve of his lips.
He must be a lord's son who'd wasted his inheritance gambling and drinking. But he didn't smell of strong drink. About him hung a warmth, a tang of coppery sweetness, even though his hand in hers was cold as the grave.
"Come with me," she repeated.
His lashes fluttered over his eyes in silent acquiescence. Slowly they walked, linked, toward the gate of the convent.
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