Excerpt of Entrusted by Allegra Gray

England, Glastonbury Abbey, 1536

"It has begun. More than two hundred religious houses
disbanded.” Abbot Whiting paces near the small window of
his study. He is not a man given to pacing. The movement,
even more than the grimness of his tone, makes me
nervous.

The meager light of fading day filters through the
window, emphasizing the lines etched on his face.

“Buildings destroyed. Faithful observers of the religious
life turned from their homes, forced to act as beggars
until another house can take them in."

"There are reasons..." his companion offers. A prior. An
important one, by the look of him. The stream of
religious men coming to seek advice at Glastonbury has
increased to a near flood of late.

I shrink backward, trying to blend in with the wall. I
should not be here—but it is too late now, for the men
have forgotten my presence. To leave now would only draw
attention. But this is not a conversation meant for a
serving girl’s ears. Not even a serving girl favored by
the abbot himself.

"Reasons? Insufficient annual income? Improprieties in
the order? Pfft. Excuses. You know this as well as I.”

The prior inclines his head in silent acknowledgment.

“Do not be fooled. You think they will stop with
destroying the lesser monasteries? No. This is merely the
beginning. The small houses serve only to whet the
insatiable appetite of the crown."

"'Tis treasonous to speak so."

I feel dizzy. Things are bad in the world outside the
abbey’s walls. I’d known that already. But treason?

"Indeed. I do not deny the gravity of the matter.” The
abbot enunciates his words carefully, which only makes
the situation sound worse.
“Neither do I believe a held tongue will save us. I fear
Henry will not stop now until each and every monastic
house in England is dissolved."
The prior puts a hand to his heart, and in the movement I
see the flash of a cross—a square cross—embroidered at
the hem of his undersleeve. Hardly noticeable, but
working for such a meticulous man as Abbot Whiting has
trained me to be observant. Still, it makes no sense. My
eyes must be playing tricks. No one has used the square
cross in decades—not since the most notorious group to
use it was disbanded, hunted down and persecuted.

“We must be prepared," the prior agrees. "You know of
what I speak. Do you have a plan?”

“I do,” the abbot answers.

There is a pause. I shift positions, and the rustle of my
skirt against the wall catches Abbot Whiting’s attention.
Is it my imagination, or do his eyes rest on me just the
tiniest bit longer than necessary? I wonder what he is
thinking—though in truth, it is best I do not know.

I wish I was anywhere but here. Normally my duties are
limited to the outer rooms. But Sam was ill today, so
Mother stayed home with him, sending me in her stead.

The prior nods, slowly. “And until then? What will you
do?”

Abbot Whiting bows his head. "What I have always done.
Pray."