Covenant With Hell

Chapter Three

Spring in East Anglia was a troubling time, in particular for the poor who had barely survived the dark season. Daylight hours held the promise of a warming earth, but long nights retained winter’s icy cold. For a girl on the threshold of womanhood, with neither parents nor kin, survival thus far would be thought a miracle. To believe she had any hope of living much longer went beyond all reason.

Gracia huddled into a small space between two houses to escape the wind. Like a wary animal, she peered down the dark road leading to the major shrines. Her eyes half shut against the biting wind, she took her time before concluding she was safe.

She longed to eat.

Earlier today, she had been fortunate. A red-haired monk walking to the chapel had discovered her. When he learned she was hungry, he had begged a portion of bread and even a mouthful of fish and cheese from the nearby inn. Were it not for pilgrims, she would starve. Since they were strangers, many living in Walsingham distrusted those who came to see the shrines, but she survived on the mercy of these penitents, their souls tender with the pain of sin and fearful of how greatly they had offended God.

She was also lucky that the monk had given her the food before Father Vincent caught her near the chapel. If the priest had seen her, he would have chased her off, hurling rocks and screaming that she was Satan’s creature who polluted God’s shrines.

Not long ago, he had caught her in his chapel as a merchant was swyving her. The man swore she had enchanted him, and, when he promised a donation to the priest’s shrine, the priest’s eyes grew blind to the fact that a bone-thin child had little protection against a man who was three times her weight. Father Vincent would deny that the gift affected his judgment, but Gracia knew better. When her parents died, she lost the privilege of innocence.

On reflection, she knew she would have been wiser had she swallowed her anger and claimed demonic possession when he accused her of being the instrument of the Devil. Making an enemy of a man who owned the means to offer charity was ill-advised, and she had few ways of keeping herself alive. Had she been a boy with no kin she might have joined others who formed packs like dogs, stealing what they could use or sell. Girls, whatever their age, were left to whore.

Gracia had been determined to do otherwise. After the death of her parents, she had learned to become as efficient as a feral cat. With keen senses and clever wits, unusual in one so young, she had survived.

She had also been lucky.

Glancing around again, the girl still saw no threat and concluded she might allow herself the distraction of eating. She lowered her head and began to gnaw carefully and slowly at the monk’s gift. Hunger demanded she gorge herself. Her wits advised her to save some for the morrow. One meal was never a promise of another.

The bread was fresher than she usually ate, containing no mold or bugs and still soft enough for her loose teeth and tender gums. The cheese was pale but pungent. The fish was filled with bones. She tore the latter into tiny bits and sucked on them, spitting out sharp fragments before swallowing.

This was a king’s feast.

Gracia again paused to peer about, her eyes searching for any hint of danger in the narrow street overhung with looming buildings. Nothing alarmed her, so she went back to her meal, reflecting on a tale she had overheard.

If it were true that King Edward was coming here to worship the relics at Walsingham Priory, might she not hope to enjoy a tiny bit of a king’s bounty?

Being short and thin, she was able to slip around adults or between their legs. They would be distracted as they cheered the king’s entry into Walsingham. If she crept close enough when his minions tossed coins, she might snatch one or even two.

That was a dream, and fancy was a luxury only full bellies could afford, but she decided she was not foolish to expect to reap some benefit.

As soon as word spread about King Edward’s visit, additional pilgrims would travel to this famous religious site. Shrines drew those who longed for God’s grace, but kings lured men who hoped for an earthly lord’s favor. Between the crowds who came for God and those who came for the king, there would be more people to toss her scraps, bits too small to interest a dog but enough, perhaps, to keep her alive a while longer. Extra coin might even get her through another winter…

She froze.

There had been movement in the shadows down the road.

Pulling the rag of a hood over her head to keep the pallor of her face from betraying her in the darker shadows, she pressed the food to her chest and listened.

Footsteps echoed in the silence of the streets.

They came closer, slowed, and stopped.

Too close, Gracia thought, and shivered in terror. She had been a fool to let hunger overrule caution and eat without first finding a better place to hide. A howl of dread filled her throat, but she swallowed it. Any sound from her might bring a beating, another rape, or even prove fatal.

She bit her lip. If God were kind, she would remain unnoticed in the gloom. If He were not, rape was surely more likely than death. She reminded herself that she had survived abuse once. She could endure it again. Those were brave words, but her trembling belied her belief in them.

The footsteps began again, slower but increasingly distant.

The girl peeked out through a hole in her hood.

That shadow belonged to a man, she decided, but he was not the one who had made her bleed. She would never forget his stoutness. This shape owned a leaner form.

Holding her breath, she waited until the man’s shadow slipped past the inn and merged into the deeper darkness beyond.

Then she rose from her corner, looked down the road in both directions, and escaped toward the Augustinian priory.

The wind muted all sound of her flight.