Sandjer’min’s memory of Gynethe Mehaut’s bleeding palms was shocking in its intensity; her unexplainable wounds in the hands and forehead ended in her being confined in a cell in her convent’s foundation for the temerity of having Christ’s wounds on her unworthy body. In the centuries since the reign of Karl-lo-Magne, the Church had changed its position on the stigmata and no longer saw it as diabolism and heresy, but as a sign of holiness. He steadied himself mentally. “Why didn’t you tell me? Have you cleaned the wounds, or dressed them?” He looked from Margrethe to Lalagia.
“You were busy talking with Sieur Horembaud and Vidame Bonnefiles,” Margrethe said. “I wrapped her hands in linen strips.”
“A good beginning, but I should see them for myself, to determine how serious her cuts are,” he said. “Is she on the other side of the sheet?”
“On her bed.” Lalagia stood up. “She didn’t want us to remove the bandages, because the blood, coming from her palms, was sacred.”
“I will try to persuade her to let me wash her hands, at the least,” said Sandjer’min, preparing to go through to the other side of the tent. “I have a medicament that can reduce the pain from the cuts.”
“She won’t want that,” Margrethe warned him, taking care not to brush him with her arm as she moved nearer to Sorer Imogen. “She thinks it will keep her from more sins, if she embraces her pain. Having cuts in her hands will help her to remember how Christ died for us. She says the cuts aren’t very painful.”
“All cuts to the hands are painful,” Sandjer’min said, casting his thoughts back over nearly two thousand years of treating injuries, and all the damage done to human flesh that he had repaired. “If she claims otherwise, she is dissembling.”
Lalagia laughed. “See if she’ll let you.”
“She will do as you request,” said Margrethe, casting a sharp glance at Lalagia. “She is being very stubborn. She sees the Devil working in us to turn her from her prayers, so you may not be welcome.”
“She is not willing to allow any man to touch her; she won’t let Vitalis assist her onto her ass. She is afraid that any contact with a man will contaminate her so that she will be empregnated by demons in punishment. We must have a small chest left out for her so she can mount on her own,” Lalagia reminded Margrethe. “She says she would dishonor her pilgrim’s vows if a man were to touch her.”
Margrethe shook her head. “I have been unable to change her mind.”
“When did that start?” Sandjer’min asked.
“Just after she scored her hands,” Margrethe said in a disheartened voice. “That’s one of the reasons I didn’t send for you. She was already distracted and I didn’t want to make it worse. I thought it was more important to calm her. Zealous she may have been before we started our pilgrimage, but never anything so absolute as she is now. Something must be done, and neither Lalagia nor I know what she needs.”
“Did anything happen to her yesterday or the day before? anything unusual, something that might cause her to be worried about her safety?” He saw Margrethe and Lalagia exchange a quick glance. “What was it?”
Lalagia sighed in exasperation. “All right; it wasn’t her safety, exactly, but it upset her. If you must know, she saw me kiss Temi, day before yesterday, when we finished making camp. It was about this time of day. We were outside the tent, and our shadows fell on the side of her sleeping area. She became outraged, calling me by names that I found cruel and insulting. It was such a little sin, you would think no one would mind.”
“She recognized you?” Sandjer’min asked, then nodded. “Of course she did.”
Margrethe said, “Lalagia doesn’t cover her hair.”
“I’m not supposed to; I’m not married,” Lalagia said. “And neither you, Bondame, nor the Sorer has breasts like mine.”
Sandjer’min held up his hand. “What did Sorer Imogen say to you?”
“She said I was unchaste and would bring God’s Wrath on all of us for kissing Temi. She called me harlot, trollop, whore, and worse,” Lalagia told him, her voice low in order to keep Sorer Imogen from denouncing her again.
“That was before she cut her palms?” he asked to be sure.
“Yes.” Margrethe and Lalagia answered at the same time.
“So she is paying attention to what’s going on around her at least some of the time,” Sandjer’min mused aloud.
“Her attention … shifts,” said Margrethe. “There are times she dwells on what she says are the angels who pray with her. When she’s like that, she pays no heed to anything else.”
“And other times, she watches us, very narrowly. She spends much time concentrating on little things, minor things. Once in a while she allows a shock to distract her.” Lalagia dropped small pillows onto each of the two beds she had laid out. “Seeing me kiss Temi shocked her, I guess.”
“Yes, you’ve said so,” Sandjer’min said, feeling Margrethe’s eyes on him as he spoke to Lalagia; the passion that lit them was as bright as a fire. “That may be a difficulty if you’re watching her during the day.”
“I’m watching her in the afternoon; the Bondame has the morning.” Lalagia yawned. “I should be asleep shortly.”
“You should,” he agreed. “Well, I will do what I can for Sorer Imogen. Bondame, if you’ll come with me, you may ease her with your presence.”
“Yes. Yes, I will,” Margrethe nodded, but her eyes held a stricken glaze; Lalagia reached out and lifted the hanging sheet aside. “The Bondame had best go first,” she said.
Margrethe swallowed once, then went toward the crouching figure on the bed. “Sorer Imogen,” she began in a soft, reassuring tone, “here is Sidi Sandjer’min come to see you and to take care of your injuries.”
“No-o-o-o-o,” Sorer Imogen wailed, pressing her palms together and shoving her hands between her legs.
“Please, Sorer Imogen, for the sake of your body and soul,” Margrethe appealed to her, taking two steps nearer her bed.
“No,” Sorer Imogen said, rocking back and forth.
“But you must,” Margrethe beseeched her. “Don’t you see that you need to sleep? You are exhausted. Don’t you know that you need to have the wounds on your hands treated? You remember how important it was for Torquil des Lichiens to sleep, and to keep his sores clean: put your faith in God’s Goodness, and let Him comfort you.”
“I do not deserve such from Him; Heneri has forsaken the True Church and for his depravity, we must pay the toll,” said Sorer Imogen. “I must bear my wounds for the sake of my House and God’s Son, or I am damned.”
Sandjer’min moved a little nearer to the unrolled bed. “Then sleep to gather your thoughts, that you may address the Mercy Seat with understanding.”
Sorer Imogen let out a shriek and pulled herself into a ball, praying loudly.
“She’s been like this through the night,” Lalagia said bluntly. “She held on to the high pommel of her saddle and let the ass rock her while she prayed.”
“We need her to rest,” Margrethe said as firmly as she could. “Another night like last night and I will be too exhausted to care for her.” She crossed herself. “If I could stay awake, it would be different, but…”
“But,” he repeated for her, showing he understood her predicament. “I will try to give her something to help her to sleep, and I have a combination of herbs that will help you to rest, but not so deeply that you cannot attend to Sorer Imogen if she should require help.”
Margrethe did her best to smile, and nearly succeeded but for a trembling lower lip. “You are very good to us, Sidi.”
He very nearly said he would do more if he could, but he was aware that Sorer Imogen, for all her distress, was listening, and might want to upbraid him for speaking suggestively to her sister-in-law, so he bowed slightly, and turned his attention to Sorer Imogen. “You will be the better for sleep, and your hands will be the better for being treated.” He glanced at Margrethe. “Bondame, will you bring a basin of water, so Sorer Imogen ma
y wash her hands?”
“At once,” Margrethe said. “I have a ewer…” and she withdrew to the other side of the sheet.
“Sorer Imogen,” Sandjer’min said, his tone musical and soothing, “you do not want to have your hands putrefy, which they may do if they are not washed and salved.” He had learned the virtue of cleaning injuries from the Romans and the Persians, and continued to wash open injuries, often in the face of concerted opposition.
“Go away,” she said with abrupt vehemence. “You must go away!”
“I cannot leave you in such a state as you now are, for I would fail my oaths as a physician if I did,” he said as if she had addressed him politely.
“You are with the Devil. You are not a Christian. My soul is in danger with you here. Go now! Get away from me!” With that, she began to convulse, her whole body shaking and thrashing, her head strained back and her teeth showing.
Sandjer’min went down on one knee next to her, and reached to remove a broad oval of leather from his supply bag; this he worked to thrust atop her tongue, using more strength than he usually revealed to those around him. “At least we can save your tongue,” he said in Imperial Latin.
Her seizure grew stronger, her paroxysms more violent. She kicked at him, drubbing at his torso with her heels, and as he slipped away from her, she struck out at him with her fists, and scraped his face with her nails; he drew back, but only to get beyond the reach of her arms. Her flailing became worse, her movements so dissilient that it was nearly impossible for him to contain all her limbs at the same time. Through all her distraint, he did all he could to contain her fury, and keep her from injuring herself. As her spasms diminished, he was able to move behind her and work his arms around her waist, from where he was able to get hold of her hands and confine them in his. Gradually her body relaxed, succumbing to a lassitude that was as torpid as her seizure had been maniacal. Her head dropped, her breathing softened, and the fixity of her muscles slackened.
Sandjer’min slid away from her far enough to reach around her shoulder and remove the leather disk from her mouth. “Lie back, Sorer Imogen. Let me attend to your hands.” He got up from her side. “It’s safe now, Bondame,” he said, a bit more loudly than he had planned.
Sorer Imogen looked up at him, then away. “Damned thing.”
“It was another fit, wasn’t it?” Margrethe asked as she came around the sheet and stopped to take stock of what she saw.
“That suggests that she has had them before,” Sandjer’min remarked, and waited for what would come next.
“She has, but … it was some time ago. When she entered Holy Sepulchre as a novice, she had two or three, and there was some talk of confining her, but her father would not permit it, and in the end, the matter passed. Her Superior hoped that this pilgrimage would ease her rigor, which was causing agitation among the Sorers at her convent.” She bent to put the basin of water on the floor of the tent. “I have sometimes thought that she has prayed so constantly to keep from having another such fit.”
Sandjer’min sat cross-legged next to Sorer Imogen, and carefully reached for her hand, touching it lightly before drawing it toward him. “Don’t fret, Sorer. I am going to wash your hands and spread a medicament upon them.”
“No. No.” Sorer Imogen struggled weakly to pull her hand away. “The blood is sacred when it comes from the palms.”
“But not if you cut the wounds yourself, according to your Church,” Sandjer’min said patiently, distantly aware that hungry as he was, her encaramined palms were no temptation to him. “If your God should send them, it is another matter, but creating the injuries is for Him, not for you to do.” He waited until she gave up her fight, then unwound the linen from her left hand and lowered it into the basin. Slowly the dry, crusted blood sloughed off and started to dissolve, turning the water a rusty pink.
Sorer Imogen began to weep, making a sound like a frightened puppy.
“What will you do with her?” Margrethe asked, anxiety in every aspect of her demeanor.
“As I’ve told you: I’ll medicate and bandage her hands, and give her an anodyne and soporific drink, and then will make up a medicament for you.” He could feel her awakening passion, and he took a step back. “The longer she sleeps, the better. If she doesn’t rise until sundown, she will have an easier time during our night travels.”
“I know I shall,” Margrethe said with shaky laughter, looking at him with longing in her eyes.
He resisted the impulse to take her in his arms, as much as he perceived she ached for him to do so. “You need rest. You’re worn to the bone.”
“Sorer Imogen would say that is a good thing,” Margrethe said, and saw Sorer Imogen languidly nod her head.
“It isn’t,” Sandjer’min told her flatly. “Travel like this demands every particle of strength possessed by each one of us. We must husband what we have. In this place, to deliberately weaken oneself is beyond foolish.” He took his medicament bag off his shoulder and set it down at his feet. “I’m going to finish tending to her hands, and then I’ll attend to you. If you would be willing to stay here while I work on the Sorer?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, with more enthusiasm than she felt; she wanted to be away from Sorer Imogen until she was restored to good sense; the thought of seeing another such seizure troubled her deeply, and yet she could not ask Sandjer’min to attend to her alone without risking the kinds of gossip that could bring misfortune on them both.
He went down on one knee and removed a few more items from the leather sack, and set them on the edge of Sorer Imogen’s bed; the nun tried to pick up the vial filled with opalescent liquid, which Sandjer’min reclaimed from her without effort. He set to washing her right hand, taking care to inspect the wounds closely. He sensed more than saw Margrethe kneel next to and slightly behind him. “I’m going to give Lalagia something to help her rest, too. All three of you are in need of revivification, and sleep will be the most reliable source.”
“But Sorer Imogen doesn’t sleep long,” Margrethe said, her anxiety returning. “One of us must be awake to tend to her, or she might … might do anything.”
“What do you mean?”
Margrethe did her best not to sigh. “When we were preparing for this journey, when we were still at Creisse-en-Aquitaine, she had a fit, and afterwards, she had the same sort of lassitude she has now. The priest was sent for, and blessed her, and in time she fell into a profound sleep. When she had slept for a day and half a night, she entered a kind of ecstasy, and in that state, she attempted to strangle the serving girl—a child of eight—who had been set to watch her. She was unable to speak, and there was such vehemence in her attack— Afterward she said the Devil had possessed her, and used a scourge on her back when she prayed.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “It took two servants and a priest to hold her off. When she went to Confess, she said it had been a demon who took hold of her; she would not and could not do anything so profane. The Bishop said the pilgrimage might aid her as much as it could my husband.” Even as she said this last word, it seemed hollow and without meaning.
While she spoke, Sandjer’min dried and dressed Sorer Imogen’s injuries. He made sure the linen bandages were snug and the knots that kept them so were tucked in and could not easily be untied. He put the ointment jar back in his case, and opened the vial, saying to Sorer Imogen, “I want you to drink this. It will reduce any putrescence in the blood. Then I will give you a little olive oil mixed with blossoms from the edge of the Nile. It is not easily swallowed, but it will enable you to sleep soundly.” He held the vial to her lips and tilted the vial so that a little of the liquid ran into her mouth.
“It’s disgusting,” Sorer Imogen said in a distant way.
“The next is as bad,” Sandjer’min warned her.
Lalagia appeared at the edge of the sheet. “Make sure there’s enough to keep her down for the day.”
“I will give her sufficient to ensure her sleeping until evening,” S
andjer’min said over his shoulder, and saw Margrethe pull away from him. “But what she will have now must suffice for the day: soporifics, like anodynes, must be administered carefully. Too much, and they become a poison, not a medicine.”
“Poison,” Sorer Imogen repeated, and attempted to spit out the liquid in her mouth.
“You must swallow,” Sandjer’min said to her quietly, confidently, and was rewarded when she took more. “There is not enough in what I have given you to do more than let you sleep.”
“That might be no bad thing,” Lalagia said, and immediately held up her hands. “I speak in jest only. But you will allow, Sidi, that there are times when living is punishment and death a kind deliverance.”
“Anyone who has treated the injured and the sick knows that, whether or not they will admit it,” he said, and heard Margrethe’s quick intake of breath. “No one can claim that there are not those for whom living is a brutal burden, more like a prison or a battlefield than the world your God gave to men.”
Lalagia made a sound between an oath and a laugh. “And everything dies.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Eventually everything dies.”
“Can we not speak of life?” Margrethe pleaded.
Sandjer’min put the empty vial down and reached for the alabaster bottle that smelled of olives and something else. He picked up a ceramic Chinese spoon from the few unused remaining items, and poured it half-full of the greenish oil. “The color isn’t pleasant. It doesn’t taste very good, either, but it will do you much good.”
Sorer Imogen drank dutifully, lay back, and offered a dreadful smile. “I will tell God not to blame you. You are only doing the will of others, and they must bear the burden for what becomes of me.”
“Very good,” said Sandjer’min, realizing that Sorer Imogen had assumed he had poisoned her. “This evening, be sure you drink much water.” He put the last of his things but one bottle back in his sack.
“Will she be herself tonight?” Margrethe asked in an undervoice, getting to her feet as Sandjer’min rose.
Night Pilgrims Page 32
