Sister Rachel hurried to the reliquary. “I will cleanse it myself,” she said, her voice breaking. “I will try to remove the defilement.”
A group of senior nuns picked up the other objects on the table. Gregory and his men moved toward Lord Chester, to carry him out.
I left the chapter house with Sister Christina. I had seen enough tonight to understand what had brought her to Dartford with such fierce commitment, why she’d sworn never to leave.
At the requiem Mass that night a grave Brother Phillip said a few special words on All Souls’ Day, though they were not as inspiring as Brother Richard’s, it must be said. The Mass was so late that not much time elapsed before the bells rang again, compelling us to Matins at midnight.
Afterward, climbing the stairs to our dormitory, I tried to express my sympathy for Sister Christina. I didn’t want her to misinterpret my silence for any sort of censure. Her parents’ offenses were not hers.
“Sister Christina,” I began, “in your life before Dartford, it must have—”
She turned on me, anguished.
“Do not ask me anything. I beg you, Sister Joanna. Do not speak of my family—of my father. I can’t say a word about him. You of all people must understand that he must never be spoken of.”
“Of course, Sister.”
When we had changed into our shifts and were lying in bed, Sister Agatha stuck her head in. “Sister Winifred will sleep in the infirmary tonight. She is not well at all. Brother Edmund will remain with her and look after her.”
She looked at me and shuddered, her plump jowls shaking. “Nothing like this has ever happened at Dartford Priory before. Nothing. I can’t imagine what was—”
“Good night, Sister Agatha,” said Sister Christina brusquely, and turned her face to the wall.
I blew out the candle.
It took a long time to fall asleep. I’d feel myself sinking into a dream, but then, right at the brink, I’d jerk awake, and stir, restless, in my bed. I couldn’t quiet my mind. I kept hearing the music we played, seeing the reliquary hand on the table, flinching at the profane shouts of Lord Chester.
When the bells rang just before dawn for Lauds, my limbs felt heavy and my head throbbed. I glanced over at Sister Christina, sitting on the edge of her pallet as she pulled her habit on over her head, her movements just as sluggish.
Filing down the stairs to our church, I noticed the other sisters looked worn, too, even haggard. No one had slept well at Dartford. Sister Rachel looked as if she’d aged ten years in a single night.
I was waiting my turn, with Sister Christina, at the back of the line, to bow and take our place in the church, when a long scream rippled through the passageway. This was no animal facing slaughter. I heard a woman, a terrified woman.
Sister Christina froze. “That is my mother,” she said.
I grabbed her and we ran together, past the cloister garden, to the door leading to the front of the priory.
“Gregory!” I shouted, pounding at the door. “Let us in. Unlock the door.”
In no time, Prioress Joan was there, with Sister Eleanor and Sister Agatha, and, five steps behind, Brother Richard.
“Get back to the church,” the prioress ordered Sister Christina and me.
“But she says it’s her mother,” I protested.
The door swung open. Gregory stood there, ashen-faced. Sister Christina and I pushed past him and ran to the guest lodgings. They were to the west, at the end of the passageway, at the opposite end from the prioress’s chamber.
We’d almost reached it when Lady Chester staggered out of the doorway. Wearing the same black dress as she had the night before, she came toward us, feeling the wall as if she’d turned blind and must cling to the bricks to keep from falling. She fell into her daughter’s arms.
“Don’t go in that room, Sister Joanna—stop!” shouted Prioress Joan behind me.
I didn’t stop. I disobeyed, yet again. I don’t know what drove me down that passageway, past Lady Chester, into the lodgings rooms. It was as if there were an answer I needed inside the rooms, and I would perish if I didn’t get it.
The second door, leading to the bedchamber, was ajar, and I ran inside.
I saw him at once. Lord Chester sat up partway in the bed. He, too, still wore his black clothes, his mourning wear for Queen Jane, but they were drenched in blood. The headboard