Coventry
The smell
of dirt took her back. Touring her father’s field. Glances from the field hands.
The Count’s
cold hand. Her breast grasped like a heifer’s udder. Her father’s face turning
away. The Count continuing business directives.
The bells
were ringing to call her to vespers. She grasped her tools, headed back to the
monastery.
Through the kitchen, pausing as was her custom at Sister Ignatius’ semi-hidden,
heathenish “Warrior Mary” statuette. Prayers not for chapel.
Sister
Ignatius grunts, “the Count was unhorsed. Prioress says he dies tonight.”
Genuflecting.
Eyes down. “I will pray for him.”
Shrewd
Sister Ignatius. “Me too.”
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