The bell for Prime not yet rung; the beguinage was hushed, still wrapped in sleep. I knelt on the rushes, gazing up at the wooden crucifix nailed above my cot. “Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus, Dominus Deus Sabaoth. Lord, send the fire of your spirit to rest upon all those who rise cold and hungry—” There was a rapid knocking on the door of my room. Before I could rise, the door was flung open. Gate Martha burst into the room, breathless and agitated. “Come quickly, Servant Martha, see what’s at the gate.” “Who is it at this hour? Unless they are urgently in need of Healing Martha’s skills, they’ll have to wait. It’s almost Prime. Put them in the guest hall.” She shook her head, and tugged my sleeve. “Please come, Servant Martha, quickly.” Her fingers were trembling and I started to feel anxious myself. What on earth could have troubled her so? Gate Martha was a local woman, a widow, unable to read or write, but ideally fitted for the task to which God had called her for she was a stolid, practical soul, not easily given to fright.
