The Fifth Knight(3)

She clasped her hands tighter. “I let him.” She dropped her head to the sound of another long breath from Brother Edward, this time of satisfaction.

“Yes, Sister. Let him in with a weak mind, a weak body. A weak soul. Your confirmation as a bride of Christ is still a long way off.”

Theodosia dipped her head to fight down mortified tears, her veil brushing against her cheeks. Its gray cloth might never be replaced by black. “I am so sorry, Brother,” she whispered.

“It’s not I you have to repent to.” His tone softened. “Sister Theodosia, you still have much to do in your quest to achieve holiness. Yes, you have put aside many luxuries. But sleep is also a luxury. To stay awake, to watch and pray, is a weapon against evil that you must master. Is there anything else you need to confess?”

“No, I have cleared my conscience.”

“Good. As you have freed your mind from guilt, so you have armed yourself afresh against the onslaught of sin. For your penance, a full rosary after Vigils.”

She flinched and lowered her forehead to her hands. A further hour of prayer after the midnight office, when her cell would be as cold and still as the grave and her whole body would cry out for rest.

As if reading her thoughts, Brother Edward said, “Hardship, Sister: that is what will bring you to God.” He sniffed again. “And it will be fewer hours for you to be at Lucifer’s pleasure. Now make your act of contrition.”

She began the oft-repeated Latin prayers, and Brother Edward murmured her absolution in a quiet harmony.

“Et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” The monk finished his blessing and his silhouette rose before the screen. “Good night, Sister. God be with you.” The swish of his robes and his fading footsteps confirmed his departure.

Readying herself for the next recitation of the Divine Office, Theodosia opened her Book of Hours and Psalter on the sloped reading shelf. The words crystallized into instant meaning, but she could draw no comfort from her reading. She still did not have the nobility, the purity, the containment she needed to make her final vows. She stood up from her faldstool, heartsick at her continued weakness.

She tucked her chilled hands into the covering outer sleeves of her black woolen habit and paced the floor of her tiny stone cell. The cell that kept her from the world, that should keep her soul safe. Three short paces brought her to the far wall and her wooden pallet bed. She stared at it with a wave of loathing. For all its hardness under her bones, for all its prickly straw-filled pillow, for all its rough sackcloth cover, when she lay in it and closed her eyes, she might as well be a whore on a silken couch, calling to Lucifer in her wanton dreams. He would stand right here, on this spot, looking down at her as she slept. He was tall — she knew that from her illuminated manuscripts. Tall, with the muscle and hair of an animal across his near-naked body. A face of sharp, pointed features and a ravenous mouth, and feet and hands that twisted into yellow-nailed claws, and the stench of decay as he breathed on her cheek…

“Oh, Saint Christina, help me.” She called aloud for the intercession of her beloved virginal saint. The vision of Satan faded in the chilly air, with only the racing of her pulse to remind her of his presence.

Theodosia turned from the bed to resume her pacing, knees weak. Two long steps to the left wall, where her supper awaited on a simple table: the usual coarse maslin loaf and jug of cold spring water. She kept a frugal diet to suppress her physical desires, but even so, her innards growled at the sight. She turned from it with disgusted resolve. She would not eat tonight, not risk inflaming her lust.

With her remorse a dead weight in her heart, she finally focused her gaze on the large wooden crucifix nailed on the wall opposite. Hanging from it, painted in colors so lifelike He looked alive, was her Savior. Despite her failings, His outstretched arms looked ready to embrace her, His bowed head lowered for her kiss. He had forgiven her, though she did not deserve it. Tears pooled in her eyes, blurred her sight. The words of Aelred of Rievaulx, whose great teachings she studied, echoed through her soul: Touch Him with as much love as you would feel for a man. She loosed her hands from her sleeves and stepped over to the carving as her tears spilled over. She reached her hands out and caressed the stretched sinews of her tortured God with trembling fingers. How could she, as His waiting bride, have added to His suffering through her pathetic sinfulness?

Her hands showed pale against her Lord’s bleeding wounds, lilies of purity against His royal roses. But that was a wrongful pride — she should not admire them so. She palmed her eyes dry and turned from her Lord.

Squatting to the ground, she started her daily task of scraping the earth from her cell floor. She rubbed harder and harder at the cold stone until her skin rent. With furious satisfaction, she examined her filthy, damaged palms. Not lilies now. But the ritual was her proof, her reminder, of her true vocation as an anchoress: she would die, be buried, and rot in here. That was her sacred calling.