Ten years ago, Michaelmas. Summer hours fading into dusk, day...

Ten years ago, Michaelmas. Summer hours fading into dusk, day dying slow. I had fallen out of the straight path into a place of harsh rocks and broken brambles, like the legend tells Satan fell from heaven on St. Michael’s Day. But I had fallen from no heaven, and those who pursued me were no angels.

….

On that long summer day, I had stolen a monk’s cassock and cloak from the Cluniac Monastery, rosary beads and all, using the shapeless brown cloak to conceal my womanly figure.

…..

Then the flap of a bird in a bush. The crack of twigs under stealthy footsteps. Someone watching from the wood. A faint shape and shadow in the wind, a stirring in the leaves. I gazed into the dappled dark, wondering at the watcher.

I was turned away from the road when they came. The sound of horses, a vast thrumming, a swarm of distant angry bees. Then I turned and saw them.

— from the novel Sinful Folk