The Anarchy

Winchester, 1141.

Sister Lyle was standing in the middle of the convent. At least, in the middle of what the convent had been once upon a time. Desolation surrounded her, debris all over the floor, crashing the bodies of her fellow sisters, still wearing the habit. Lyle had always had the feeling that the Anarchy was going to end all of them before it ended itself, and something told her that she had been right: it had ended their lives. In the distance, she could see the smoke rising from Winchester, the lovely city they had been inhabiting for centuries. It was being destroyed too.

Lyle rose her eyes to the sky: gray clouds carried a simple warning, it was going to rain. The wind blew away the rest of the flames that threatened the remaining of the convent. She did not deserve to live, she thought. The only reason why Lyle had survived was because the abbess had sent her to get fresh fruits from the forest: in June the berries were red and plum, ready to eat. The summery feeling of the breeze on her face, the happiness that pierced the thick clothes she was wearing, made her take longer than she had planned to. That locus amoenus, the perfect scenery and the life worth living, had been altered by the sight of the convent burst into flames. Lyle had seen the troops of Bishop Henry sack everything they could, and minutes afterward, the place had crumbled into ashes and dust. For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

She realized that now. Sister Alfrida was laying on the ground, an arm missing and a bloody face. She had been golding her rosary, now stuck to the remaining hand. The Abbess, Agnes, had been writing letters in her study. She had been locked in, probably against her will. She must have died honorably screaming and pounding the door, Lyle thought.

Dozens of bodies surrounded her, smoke getting into her lungs, and a deadly silence that reigned after the unjust battle. A solitary tear ran down Lyle's face, all her world being destroyed. Even the birds flew quietly, paying their respects to the nuns. She heard steps behind her and a rubbing of a cloak that approached her rapidly. It was Bishop Henry.

He was tall and round, his white hair giving away the sign of all age, that spares no one. They remained there, in silence, for a while, shoulder against shoulder, regretting what had happened to the House of God. Through his eyes, Henry watched the ruins and wondered if he had been right to help Stephen. A Christian king, that bowed to the Church only if it suited him, was better than a pagan king that could potentially destroy them.

“Was it worth it?” Lyle asked after a while. She had to know his reasons. “Destroying our home.”

“The things you have to do to get the support you need, child,” he answered.

“Is he a good king? Stephen.” she looked up at him to see he was suffering too. “Is he the one that God meant to send us?”

“He is a king. I do not know if good or bad. It does not really matter in the games of the royalty.” Henry patted her on the shoulder, knowing that all of her world had vanished forever. Then he left the same way he had come.

The games of the royalty: consume every bit of benevolence left in the world, deface the purpose of God, and aim for the greater power a human can have. That was the game, Lyle thought. Only a desolate scenery left to reign, after all. Maybe kings were not appointed by God.

Nowhere to go, and no one left alive to care for her - she had been an orphan, hence her entry in the convent - she sat down and prayed for her sisters. The only family she had had throughout all those years. She prayed and prayed until her hands were tired of holding the rosary until the cold had reached her bones so deep that it was impossible to move. June was, despite the common belief, still a cold month if you lived at night.

The clouds gave way to the gelidity of the stars, and under the dark sky, she laid on the ground, ready to depart the Earth and meet with the Savior. For life was not worth living, she made the last sacrifice for her sisters. Lyle saved their souls praying, and lastly, she had saved hers one last time. After all, she thought looking at the beautiful sky, what is the sense of living, if not dying to meet our true King?