Free The Sanctity of Hate by Priscilla Royal Page A

feared she could not concentrate on them. Instead, she went back to her private quarters, knelt at her prie-dieu and sought the relief found in more prayer.
    The worldly businesses of the priory might not have kept her mind tethered to the earth, but other matters most certainly did. With a courteous apology to God, she leapt up and hurried back down the stone steps to the cloister garth. Her favored cat, named after the King Arthur of legend and dreams, trotted after
    with a noticeable joy in his gait.
    As she entered the garden, Eleanor let herself be lost in the profuse growth that hid walls and only allowed an open view of the sky above. This was a peaceful place, one where all the nuns went from time to time to find the silence needed to rediscover God, for noise and human pain were still found in cloistered worlds. In gardens, even the wind was hushed.
     
    Arthur, the orange tabby, sprinted ahead of her and began to investigate what might lie hidden under the moist leaves. Eleanor smiled at him with love, then briefly closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
    This garth was tended by Sister Edith, a nun whose touch was so skilled that many believed God had shared some of His secrets from the creation of Eden with her. When winter brought bitter cold, life here never quite ended. There remained a sense that all was simply asleep until the spring. Some said the garth reminded them of the promise of resurrection. All found balm for wounded souls.
    Only here did Eleanor find that absolute stillness which allowed God to whisper in her ear. The chapel might be a setting for contemplation but bustling creatures, praying mortals, and the stones themselves produced intrusive sounds. In this place, nature took a submissive role, demanding no notice and offering only a gentle comfort. She glanced down. Even in heat of the day, flowers were soft and fragrant; the purple star-shaped ones with yellow centers were among her favorites.
    As she turned to look at the murmuring fountain, however, she recalled that even this sanctuary had once been blighted with murder. Only days after her arrival years ago, Sister Anne had found a corpse here. Eleanor’s memory of Brother Rupert’s cruelly mutilated body was as vivid as if he still lay just in front of her. She sat on a stone bench and began to feel a slight throbbing over her left eye. Pressing her fingers against the spot, she prayed that God would be merciful and not let one of her severe head- aches strike now of all times. Although the feverfew she took at Sister Anne’s suggestion eased much of the pain, she had begun to suffer more from flashing lights, shimmering colors, and other
    strange sights as a forewarning of the headaches.
    She stared back at the purple flower. There was no glitter- ing halo of light surrounding it. The mild throbbing began to recede. God had been kind.
    She must think clearly about Kenelm’s slaying. Stiffening both back and will, she drove the panic she felt over this new
     
    murder on priory grounds into exile. Just because violence had invaded Tyndal again did not mean one of her religious was guilty of the crime.
    It would not be the first time she had had to consider the possibility. Each time she prayed it would be the last. Now her stomach roiled with fury that the question must even be addressed. She looked up and silently asked God why He chose to vex her so over and over. Surely the death of Brother Rupert several years ago had not been meant as a sign.
    Eleanor stared upward as she fought to quiet her soul’s com- plaint. It was not for her to demand. It was her duty to serve God without question. “If my function on this earth is to war against those who commit the ultimate crime, so be it,” she conceded, but she still did so with teeth clenched.
    The clouds, like tangles of sheep wool, scuttled across the blue sky. Overhead, a dark-headed hawk flew by. Its flight was leisurely, seemingly without purpose, but such languor belied its