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.”
    “From the tales I have heard told, I am sure you do not own enough sins for such a long penance! Please confer with Father Vincent. He can advise you.”
    “Brother Thomas, and he alone, directs my penance,” Eleanor replied, her smile turned frosty. With those words, she abruptly nodded to her fellow prioress and the priest, then glided with great dignity out of the audience chamber.
    The nun near the door almost tripped as she rushed to open it in time for the prioress to depart.
    Brother Thomas, hands tucked into his sleeves, swiftly followed.
    Except for the hissing flames from the dying fire, Prioress Ursell of Ryehill Priory and Father Vincent were left with silence and an uneasy sense of defeat.

Chapter Seven
    Father Vincent scurried down the road to the chapel where Prioress Eleanor and her monk had preceded him. Prayer would have been his chosen goal, but the reputation of both priory and shrine demanded he follow another.
    In no particular order, he asked God to curse Sister Roysia for the sins that caused her death, Brother Thomas for finding her body, and Prioress Eleanor for betraying a most unwomanly determination to do as she alone willed. At least Ryehill’s prioress remembered her place in creation often enough.
    As he drew within sight of the inn, responsible for disturbing his sleep and prayer with unholy merriment, he stopped to catch his breath. The accursed place was quiet at the moment, and for that he thanked God. Revelers from the night before must be sleeping off their indulgence in rich food and strong wines, neither of which ought to be in the diet of any pilgrim. Recently, he had overheard two men comment on the innkeeper’s Lenten fare, claiming it was delicious. If true, eating it must be a sin in these weeks dedicated to renunciation.
    Much to Father Vincent’s disgust, he suspected that some families actually came here less for true repentance than to escape the drudgery of their labor for a few days. Yet they did buy badges to prove their piety and thus fed the monks and nuns of Walsingham. And most did confess a few sins, perform a little penance, and contribute to his own sacred shrine.
    A troubling question smote him, causing him to take in a sharp breath. Did God disdain gifts from the insufficiently repentant? Did He care about the source of the offering and the motive for giving it?
    The priest bit at his knuckle.
    Then came the flash of revelation, and he realized with relief that any gift given to God must be instantly cleansed of all foulness. He raised his hands to the skies in gratitude for this gift of understanding. He need not spurn coin for the Shrine of the Virgin’s Lock just because it might have come from the fingers of those, foreign or local, who were wicked. His conscience grew easy about accepting all gifts for his holy site.
    Walking on, he still cast a contemptuous look at the offending inn. As he did, his gaze fell upon a man watching him from the entrance.
    Something about the figure caused the priest to stop. He looked familiar. Was this a pilgrim with whom he had previous dealings? He blinked, trying hard to remember.
    The man began walking toward him, raising his hand in friendly greeting.
    Father Vincent struggled to bring some name to mind. With a swift assessment of the man’s finely made attire, he concluded he was an affluent merchant despite the modest lack of ornamentation in his dress. Surely he had spoken to this man before, but the priest could not recall either time or occasion. Unfortunately, it was too late to pretend he had not seen the merchant and avoid embarrassment by quickly passing on.
    “What a fortunate meeting, Father Vincent!”
    The priest was still struggling to find an excuse to escape when he saw the bright flash of a coin in the man’s fingers. His impatience forgotten, Vincent smiled with benevolence on this supposed pilgrim and even prior acquaintance. With hope and discretion, he also opened his hand.
    “I