The Raven and the Rose Read Free

needed from elsewhere, it was brought here by women. Priests were necessary, but the ones who traveled here from Glastonbury Abbey were always elderly.
    So how, Gledys wondered, did she construct dreams about men? About warriors? How? She realized she’d halted in crossing the compound and was looking at the tor as if it might give her an answer.
    No! She turned and hurried toward the brewery.
    Rosewell was like a village of wooden buildings surrounded by a palisade. The wall was not for defense, being only a little taller than the tallest sister, but to keep animals out of the gardens. Some sisters were leaving now through the open gates to work in the fields, fish ponds and orchards outside.
    The true boundary of Rosewell was the circle of woodland that surrounded its lands. That was the limit beyond which no sister of Rosewell ever ventured. Those trees also blocked any sight of that outside world—except for the tip of Glastonbury Tor.
    Gledys shook these thoughts away and hurried toward the open brewery door. She was blessed to have this particular work. The Lord Jesus had turned water into wine in a truly miraculous way, but the ordinary process was no less so to her. A sour mash of barley became a clear drink that nourished the body and lightened the mind. A mush of fruits became a rich, heartening wine.
    She went in, greeting her superior, Sister Elizabeth, a vigorous, thin woman with a big nose. She was old enough to be Gledys’s mother, and both cheerful and kind.
    â€œAre there any particular tasks today?” Gledys asked as she put on a large apron.
    â€œNothing special, dear. Get started on the new ale while I finish the yeast.” She dipped another twig in the tub of yeast and drew it out slowly so it became coated with the grayish matter and then hung it to dry. The yeast would sleep and keep its powers until it was needed. When a batch of barley mash was ready, a twig would be stirred in it, and it would come to life again.
    Another miracle.
    Sister Elizabeth had started the fire beneath the boiler. Gledys fed it more wood and then adjusted the trap by the hole in the roof so the smoke would escape cleanly.
    â€œThere’s a tricky breeze today,” she said.
    â€œTricky times,” said Sister Elizabeth. “New fighting to the east. King Stephen lays siege to Ipswich, and in retaliation, Duke Henry attacks Stamford.”
    It was fortunate that Rosewell didn’t have a rule of silence, for Sister Elizabeth liked to hear news from the women who brought them supplies, and pass it on. She had reason to be particularly interested, however. She had come to the nunnery at age twelve and had clear memories of her worldly family, who were directly troubled by the present strife.
    Gledys had come here as an infant and had no memories of any other home. These days, however, she was as interested as Sister Elizabeth in news of the war. Because of her knight. She hated to hear of fighting. She wanted him to be safe.
    â€œNews travels slowly,” she said. “Perhaps the fighting is over by now.”
    â€œIf it’s over there, it’ll be starting somewhere else.”
    Gledys rolled out the big vat. “Duke Henry could have decided to go home. He has so many lands—Anjou, Normandy, and now with his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine he has her lands as well.”
    Sister Elizabeth snorted. “Men like him never have enough.” She smiled sadly at Gledys. “Such a longing for peace you have, dear, and always have had, but I doubt England will see it soon. Eighteen years of strife have sown enough enmity that for many the original problems don’t matter anymore.”
    Gledys grabbed a stiff brush and a bucket of water and wished the world were as easily scrubbed clean of its muck as this vessel.
    Eighteen years ago, when Gledys had been in her cradle, King Henry had died, leaving his crown to his only legitimate child, his daughter, Matilda. She was the