The Raven and the Rose Read Online Free PDF

matters. It’s unholy.” Was Sister Wenna an apparition of Satan, come to tempt her even more?
    As if reading her mind, the old woman crossed herself. “Sixty years I’ve been a nun at Glastonbury, so don’t think me a tool of the devil. Many places in England were worshiped before Christ by our ancestors.”
    â€œNot by mine,” Gledys said firmly. “My family is Norman.”
    â€œHalf Norman. Your Gascon grandfather was given the lands and widow of a man who died at Hastings. Don’t you know that?”
    Gledys was startled into stammering, “N-no. I have never been told any details of my ancestry, and a sister of Rosewell is not curious about such things.”
    Sister Wenna’s straggly gray brows rose, as if she knew of Gledys’s sinful curiosity. “Know now: His wife, your grandmother, came from a special family.”
    â€œSpecial?” Gledys asked. “In what way?” This conversation was disturbing. She wished Sister Elizabeth would return. She wished evening weren’t creeping in, turning sunlight into fire.
    Instead of answering, the old nun demanded, “What do you think of Glastonbury?”
    â€œNothing!” Gledys exclaimed in instant denial, but then she tried to cover guilt with babble. “I came here as an infant, so if I was taken there then, I don’t remember it. It’s my family’s tradition: All seventh children are given to the Church. . . .”
    â€œYes, yes, I know. The blessed seventh of the garalarl line.” When Gledys gaped, she shook her head. “You don’t even know that? Well, there’s no time to explain. You are summoned—”
    â€œBy Mother Abbess?” Gledys asked in alarm, moving toward the door. “Why did you not say so?”
    â€œNo!” The old woman grabbed Gledys’s sleeve.
    â€œThen by whom?” Gledys pulled back, but was afraid of hurting the ancient, knobby fingers. “What do you want, Sister Wenna?”
    â€œPeace,” the old woman said fiercely. “And you can bring it.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Sister Wenna let Gledys go and leaned heavily on her staff again. “Listen to me. You are of a sacred line, with roots thousands of years old. Thousands! Long before the time of Christ. All through history, new growth has grafted to the mighty trunk as earthly powers and beliefs come and go, but the ancient sap rules. Every land has these mysteries, but not all have kept the knowledge alive, and they pay the dreadful price.”
    The old nun sagged, her back a painful arch.
    â€œSister Wenna, would you not like to sit? There’s a bench outside in the sun.”
    The woman ignored her. “The sap, the sacred power, flows through the females, so when Joseph of Arimathea married a woman of our ancient line he blended one mystery with another. Deliberately, I’m sure. Thus we often now call it the Arimathean line. To acknowledge your descent from a saint is no sin.”
    Gledys considered the implication with alarm. “But to claim descent from . . . what did you call it? The grarl line?” Perhaps it was in the harsh English tongue, now used only by peasants.
    â€œGaralarl.” It came out like a guttural snarl.
    â€œGaralarl?”
    â€œThe garalarl is a sacred vessel that blesses with abundance. The name is also given to the bloodline that serves it. The powers flow through all of the line to some extent, but only a seventh child of a garalarl woman can respond when the cup summons. If male, he will know how to protect the chalice and its maiden. If female, she will know how to bring the chalice into this world. She will be a garalarl maiden, like you.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œYou are a garalarl maiden, and you are summoned—”
    â€œ
Where?
” Gledys broke free of the old woman’s claw.
    â€œWherever the raven leads.”
    Gledys rolled her eyes, wondering why she’d