The Raven and the Rose Read Online Free Page B

and perhaps his bride’s family wouldn’t be so reluctant to approve the wedding. It went against his mother’s warning, however, and he’d always suspected that she’d seen problems other than the attention of tempting wenches.
    Why was his life so complicated? Other men could embrace the chance for glory and progress without doubt. Lucky Henry of Anjou had been born to a great destiny and encouraged to it from a young age.
His
mother hadn’t tried to lock him away in a monastery. The Countess Matilda hadn’t demanded vows before letting him loose into the world. She hadn’t died before telling him the full meaning of it all.
    Michael wiped off a scowl before entering the crowded tent, which was thick with noise and steam—and temptation. Women in light, damp clothing moved amid the communal tubs bearing ewers of hot water, drying cloths and oils to massage knotted shoulders.
    He shed his cloak and climbed into a tub, congratulations on his victory over Willie Sea swirling around him like the steam. Should he cover himself with glory tomorrow or not?
    He might not get the chance. He saw Sir William of Seaham, furred like a bear, glaring at him from another tub across the room, silently threatening retribution.
    ***
    After the simple midday meal, Gledys returned to the brewery with Sister Elizabeth, easily following the rule of appreciation. Summer was in full richness and the gardens inside the wooden palisade billowed with blossoms worked over by insects, and ripe seedpods ready to burst and provide flowers for the future. The air was full of perfume and green growth. Summer was so lovely that she wondered why God had created winter. She’d heard there were lands to the south where winter didn’t exist.
    There she went again, questioning God’s wisdom. It was surprising that He didn’t strike her dead, especially when her other sins were added to her tally.
    â€œStop staring at the tor,” Sister Elizabeth said. “You’ll never get to go there, and that’s that.”
    Gledys looked forward again, bowing her head. “I know, but it’s so close, and we’re attached to the abbey there. And both abbey and tor are holy. People make pilgrimages there, so why are we barred from it?”
    â€œBecause we live a holy life here. Come along.”
    Gledys followed, but said, “What if it’s true that Christ himself was once at Glastonbury? That makes it as good as the Holy Land itself.”
    â€œJust stories. It’s not in the Bible.”
    â€œThe Glastonbury priests sometimes talk about it.”
    â€œGood for business,” said Sister Elizabeth cynically.
    Gledys knew that was true. In these troubled times, religious foundations competed for pilgrims and the gifts they brought.
    â€œWork, Gledys. There’s all that fruit to be crushed.”
    Gledys obeyed, applying a big pestle to a tub of blackberries, but she didn’t think Saint Joseph was so easily dismissed. She couldn’t remember whether his being a tin merchant was in the Bible, but if so, he could have sailed to this part of England. If he knew Jesus of Nazareth well enough to give over his tomb, it was possible he’d taken him on journeys, wasn’t it?
    The old church definitely existed—the one said to have been built by Christ himself. Some of the sisters who’d come here at an age to remember had seen it: a small, very old building where miracles occurred.
    The famous thorn tree existed, too.
    It bloomed every Christmastide, which was a wonder in itself, and a flowering sprig was brought to Rosewell every Christmas Eve. It was said no other such tree grew in England, so it had to be a miracle, and what other explanation was there than the one legend provided—that it had grown from Joseph of Arimathea’s staff when he thrust it into the ground while resting?
    But none of this explained her own fascination with the tor. When she looked