Where shafts of light struck the ground, the damp stones glistened, and the air was rife with the stench of must. A few pilgrims wandered in, but they spent little time on their knees before the small box containing the Virgin’s hair. Reverence was sincere but they quickly left, longing to see the sacred wells and the famous Holy House of the Annunciation, called England’s Nazareth and maintained by the religious of Walsingham Priory, farther down the road. Brother Thomas and Prioress Eleanor rose from where they had knelt. Seeking privacy, they walked to the inside columned walkway nearby, cupped their hands over their mouths, and bent their heads to muffle their voices lest someone overhear their words. “Prioress Ursell wishes to conceal something about Sister Roysia’s death, my lady.” “Perhaps she does, Brother, but there is no reason to believe this matter must be our concern.”
