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resisted Aunt Christina’s efforts to put her into a nun’s habit. Once Aunt Christina had brought the rough serge garment to her and forced her to put it on. It had scratched her skin and was uncomfortable and ever after Aunt Christina had always terrified her. There was something satanic about her for all her piety or perhaps because of it. She was so sure of her virtue that she did not care how much she hurt others in her efforts to make them as good as herself.
    How angry her father had been when he had seen her in the nun’s habit!
    â€˜Take that thing off,’ he had roared. And how happily she had done so. ‘My daughter is not destined for the cloistered life,’ he had shouted. ‘A match will be made for her. She is to be a wife and a mother.’
    Aunt Christina had been angry, but she could not stand out against the King of Scotland. Alas, her father’s eye had been cruelly pierced by a traitor’s lance and there was no one to protect her now, and she was at the mercy of stern Aunt Christina.
    The chamber to which she was taken was small and cold. There was a crucifix on the wall and a bag of straw on thefloor. On the straw lay a black robe – of the same starchy material which she remembered. She shuddered with horror as the nun bade her remove her clothes. ‘Everything,’ said the nun, her eyes glinting. Off came the soft shift and it was replaced by the rough one and over that went the black robe.
    Never in her life had Edith felt so desolate. Her parents dead, herself a prisoner in this gloomy place presided over by harsh jailors.
    The nun left her and when she was alone she ran her hands over the hateful cloth; then in a sudden rage she took off the robe and throwing it to the floor, stamped on it.
    â€˜I will never, never take the veil,’ she cried.
‘Never!’
    Then the realization of the futility of what she was doing swept over her.
    What was the use of stamping on the cloth? What was the use of raging?
    She knelt down by the straw and clasping her hands together prayed, ‘Oh God, help me. Save me from my aunt Christina.’
    She rose in despair, supposing God to be on the side of a pious abbess rather than on that of a young girl with thoughts of worldliness.
    â€˜What can I do?’ she whispered in despair.
    Then she heard footsteps, so hastily she picked up the robe and put it on.
    For a while she must accept defeat.
    A great enthusiasm had arisen throughout the Christian world to make what was called Holy War on the Infidel.
    For many years pilgrims of all Christian nations had taken the journey to Jerusalem, believing that by doing so they would expiate their sins. Jerusalem was in the hands of the Infidel and this influx of visitors, often very wealthy, had become a profitable trade to them.
    Robbery had flourished; worse than that, pilgrims had been seized and taken into captivity: many of them had been tortured and killed. For years men had been preaching against these practices; and one of these was Peter the Hermit, a man of great eloquence who had aroused indignation throughout Christendom.
    Pope Urban II had called a council at Placentia and during this the suggestion had been put forward, and unanimously agreed upon, that there should be a crusade against the Infidel.
    Those who craved for adventure seized on the idea. To make war, to fight and kill and earn a place in Heaven for so doing seemed an excellent plan; and very soon after the meeting at Placentia, the first Crusade was being made ready.
    This was an idea which appealed whole-heartedly to Robert of Normandy. This adventurer, dreamer and idealist who had recently been defeated by his own brother, saw in the venture an escape from the tiresome business of making terms with Rufus, who was more wily than he was.
    He had lived a life of great extravagance; he had squandered many fortunes; he had been guilty of self-indulgence. Now he would go and fight the Infidel for