Guinevere Evermore
“He had starved his body, frozen it, beaten it, allowed it to become crusted with filth and grime. But his mind was cheating. Whenever he let it free from perpetual prayer, it thought of Guinevere. And his tired, battered, emaciated flesh would respond with longing. He pounded his fists against the wall. Would nothing but death release him?St. Illtud paused in his evening rounds. Poor Sir Lancelot! He set his jaw. This wouldn’t do any longer. He was demoralizing the boys. It irked him considerab...ly to admit defeat, but it was obvious that the traditional methods of rendering the body subservient to the spirit were not going to work here. He squared his stooped shoulders and went to the hut.Lancelot stood respectfully as Illtud entered. The saint stepped back a pace. This was definitely not the odor of sanctity.“My son,” he said sadly. “I have meditated long on your problem and I have come to the sorry conclusion that you cannot remain at Llanylltud Fawr. You have done everything I have told you.MoreLess
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