Path of the She Wolf Read Online Free PDF Page B

noon a plump, elderly nun came pushingthrough the crowd towards the lock-up, followed by six of her sisters.
    ‘Make way, make way! St Bridget’s nuns from Goldwell,’ Mother Veronica cried. ‘These children live close to Goldwell Priory. We have travelled all morning, coming as soon as we heard. We must pray with them.’
    The captain hesitated, uncertain as to whether he should allow this seemingly holy intrusion.
    ‘Let us see the young sinners,’ the Prioress begged. ‘We must be sure that they repent. Should you deny this, why man, you’d risk your own immortal soul.’
    The captain argued for a while, but his men shuffled anxiously and crossed themselves. At last he gave way and unlocked the door.
    ‘Only for a moment,’ he barked. ‘The Sheriff will be here at noon!’
    Mother Veronica marched into the darkness of the cramped room, her equally plump sisters crowding close behind her. There was a moment of confusion and hubbub, then the deep clear voice of Sister Rosamund could be heard chanting prayers for the dying.
    Mother Veronica appeared again. ‘Bless you for your mercy,’ she cried making the sign of the cross.
    The guards bowed their heads as nine nuns followed their prioress out, one of them very small and stumbling a little on the trailing skirt of the habit. In the pressing crowd it was difficult for the men to see that more nuns came out than had ever gone in. As the Captain turned to lock the heavy door, onlookers pressed close behind him trying to get a glimpse of the ill-fated lads.
    Once they were out and through the crowd, the nuns walked fast towards a group of horses sheltering beneath a great oak nearby. Isabel of Langden, already mounted on her own grey mare, held the reins.
    A sudden shout of anger was heard above the muttering crowd. ‘Empty! Get after them. Unholy bitches! They’ve got the prisoners! They’ve taken them!’
    The nuns picked up their skirts and ran towards Isabel. People milled about, arguing and pushing, unsure of what was happening, and uncertain as to whose side they should take. This unexpected turn of events was providing nearly as good a show for them as a hanging. The guards roared with fury, shoving folk aside, trying to follow their prisoners, swords drawn. The nuns leapt up onto their waiting horses with wonderful agility. Only aged Mother Veronica had to be hauled onto her mount. They set off galloping north, but two of the tallest nuns held their horses back, snatching up bows from their saddles. They pulled arrows from full quivers hidden beneath their long skirted habits and sent a hail of them flying towards the guards.
    The men leapt back, too surprised to answer the attack with speed. Then Marian shouted as she wheeled her horse about. ‘Tell your Sheriff this – he shall not hang children! So says the Hooded One.’
    The whispered name of the Hooded One flew through the crowd and at once the soldiers found themselves impeded. Buckets of overturned ale made the ground slip beneath their feet, while old men on sticks and small children stumbled against the guards. They roared withanger, as they seemed to trip and tread in piles of soiled linen and clothing whichever way they turned.
    The rescuers and rescued got back to Barnsdale exhausted but elated with their success. The nuns returned quickly to their convent and their prayers, cleaning the mud stained habits thoroughly, so that no sign or evidence remained. Gerta’s grandsons clung to her as she hugged and berated them in turn.
    ‘This calls for another celebration,’ Magda suggested.
    ‘No,’ Marian told her dryly. ‘Twas too much celebration that brought them close to death. We’ll have no more for the moment.’
    The boys swore tearfully, they’d never drink again.
    Later that night, when everyone had gone to their homes, Marian and Magda sat by the fire, quiet and weary. Brigit pounded roots in a wooden bowl, talking excitedly for once. ‘I boiled up purslane for a sick baby