Read Vow of Sanctity for Free Online Page B

firmly, ‘in the Order of the Daughters of Compassion.’ They were approaching the reed-fringed shore with its wooden wharf upon which the other members of the congregation were stepping, tying their boats to the sea girdled posts along it. One or two glanced her way and nodded with shy, courteous dignity.
    ‘Watch your shoes, Sister.’ Brother Cuthbert extended a large hand. ‘The wood can get quite slippery when the water’s high. If you’ll excuse me I have to be running ahead of you. If you follow the path you’ll come to the church and after the mass I’ll row you back again. Or find someone who can handle the boat.’
    He strode off into a tangle of trees and bushes that grew down to the wharf. There was an unpaved track ahead with stone walls hiding the view at each side, and the bells sounded louder now.
    Sister Joan paused to clean her shoes on a tuft of grass and walked on, following the others who looked, she couldn’t help thinking, as if they would be more at ease in jeans and sweaters than print dresses and Sunday black.
    The church had a low, square tower at one end, and the rounded arches that had preceded the soaring Gothic. The wall dipped down at each side and she saw neat rows of vegetables and beyond a cluster of beehive-shaped huts built of the same grey stone as church and wall. A larger structure with smoke issuing from several chimneys stood a little way off with what looked like a covered passage joining it to the back of the church. As she entered the latter the smell of antiquity was in her nostrils.
    The interior was dim until her eyes became accustomed tothe candlelight that mellowed the outlines of harsh stone. The altar in the east had a narrow window behind it on which, in stained glass, was depicted a pale, yellow-tinged crucifixion. She wondered how it had escaped the ravages of the Reformation. In accordance with modern practice a simple wooden table stood before it so the priest could celebrate mass facing the congregation. The congregation sat on equally simple wooden benches and a final touch of oldworldliness was provided by the straw scattered on the floor. It linked her with the people who must once have worshipped here – people in rough tunics, knowing only the Gaelic and a little dog-Latin, their ears pricked for any sounds of dragon ships swinging into the loch from the open sea.
    Genuflecting, she took her place at the end of a bench and prayed briefly for her sisters in the convent and for the people with whom she would be, albeit briefly, connected during her month at the retreat. The tinkling of the bell brought her to her feet with everybody else as the Father Abbot, as she guessed, entered from the sacristy door, followed by two brothers who were obviously to serve as his acolytes. At the same moment she became aware that benches at the side partly hidden by a wooden grille had filled with cowled figures.
    For an instant the scene of which she was a part had the quality of a medieval dream and then, with a little shock, she heard the rich tones of the celebrant intone the Asperges in modern English that jarred upon her for a moment. There were times such as this when she regretted the Latin. Mother Dorothy had occasionally chided her for the opinion.
    ‘It is the meaning behind the words that matters, Sister, not the tongue in which they are uttered. Using the vernacular enables the congregation to participate and brings the mysteries closer to the people.’
    ‘Yes, Mother Prioress,’ Sister Joan had murmured, blue eyes downcast. Perhaps, she had thought and still thought, the words themselves had vibrations that created power to join heaven and earth. It wasn’t a view that would be popular so she kept quiet about it, but occasionally she said an Ave in Latin and wished she had been reared in the traditional rituals.
    The mass progressed at a brisk but not breakneck pace. The Father Abbot was tall and thin with a halo of silvery hair and a face that reminded