E. M. Powell Read Online Free

encouraging words, she couldn’t claim a purer heart or stronger resolve. Her repose had been a deep, dreamless sleep, so exhausted she had been from her penitential rosary on top of Vigils. But now another night faced her, a night where Satan could slide in and tempt her with sunshine and flowers and music and men. How could she fight against him?
    As if God heard her fears, the monks’ voices echoed in reverence in the sung psalm: “Domine, clamavi ad te: exaudi me; intende voci meae, cum clamavero ad te.” “I have cried to thee, O Lord: hear me; hearken to my voice, when I cry to thee.”
    She rested her hands on her open Book of Hours, not needing to read the familiar text. The words could be sung for her ears only. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the powerful message, her lips in silent echo. “Incline not my heart to evil words; to make excuses in sins.”
    A faint thud interrupted her contemplation. She opened her eyes.
    The monks sang on to the next psalm, but she was behind now. Refusing to indulge her irritation, she traced a finger along the sacred phrasing to try and catch up.
    Another thud. She rose and pressed her ear against her curtain, lit from beyond by the candles in the cathedral. Nothing.
    A louder bang came this time. Again, the choir prayed undisturbed. It must be from outside. She heard a male shout through the tiny outside circular window that gave her cell some air and daylight. Was a soul in distress, desperate to seek help from Mother Church? A further call sounded.
    She got to her feet, but what help could she be? If she looked out, she might be seen, a grave offence, the graver if seen by a man.
    A third loud thump decided her. Her beloved cathedral, her sacred shelter, might be being desecrated. She could not stand by and allow such sacrilege. Most of the daylight would be gone; no one would see her at the rounded opening in the dark stone. She pulled her little table below it and climbed up to have a look out. All seemed quiet. Whatever was afoot, it ceased and so would be of no further distraction to her.
    As she prepared to climb back down, a sudden movement at the doorway to the Episcopal Palace caught her eye. With the loudest bang yet, the door caved in and light spilled out, illuminating a group of knights who stood there with weapons drawn.
    One of the young monks stood in the doorway, gesturing to the strangers that they could not enter. Then the biggest stranger pulled back his massive broadsword and ran the young brother through. The monk doubled over the blade that pierced him, then fell to the ground as the knight yanked it back out.
    Theodosia stifled her scream of horror with her sleeve.
    The first four knights surged in through the door, stepping on the lifeless brother. Only one of the group hesitated, the last broad-shouldered one. He paused and looked down at the murdered man, but then stepped through after the others.
    A raid. Every man and woman of God knew of such terror, where men intent on murder, rape, plundering, descended on houses of God and destroyed everyone and everything within. Her vow of silence could be broken in a dire emergency — she had to warn the monks. She stepped over to her internal cell window and wrenched the curtain back. Yellow light pierced the gloom.
    “Brothers!” Her voice, quiet for so long, made a feeble plea. “Brothers!” Louder, but still unheard. She knocked against the metal bars, but the dull clinks were no match for the choir in full worship. “Listen! I beseech you. The cathedral is under attack.”
    The monks’ voices soared into the next psalm of the service, and it echoed back from the vaulted ceiling. They sang that God would hear them, that He would help those in distress.
    “Can anybody hear me?” She hit her balled fists harder on the rusty bars, hammering as loudly as she could, though her knuckles split and tore. “Brothers!”
    The monks sang on, as if mocking her pleas.
    Theodosia shrank back from