“As evil as they might be, Lady,” answered the page sadly. “Two days before the feast of Saint Hilary, our Lady the Countess Alianora was commanded to God.”
A tumult of conflicting feelings went surging through Philippa’s heart and brain.
“Was thy Lord at home?”
She inwardly hoped that he was not. It was only fitting, said the vindictive hatred which had usurped the place of her conscience, that Alianora of Lancaster should feel something of that to which she had helped to doom Isabel La Despenser.
“Lady, no. Our Lord abideth in Gascony, with the Duke of Lancaster.”
Philippa was not sorry to hear it; for her heart was full of “envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness.”
When the shadow began to lengthen on the following day, Philippa wrapped her mantle around her, and called to her damsel to follow. Her varlet followed also, at a little distance behind. She found Elaine and a younger child waiting for her outside the gate. Elaine introduced her companion as her sister Annora. Annora proved much less shy than Elaine, and far more ready with her communications. But she was not asked many questions; for as they turned away from the convent gate, they were met by a monk in the Dominican habit, and Philippa knew directly the face of Guy of Ashridge.
“Christ save you, Father,” said she.
“And you, daughter,” he answered. “Are you yet seeking comfort, or have you found it?”