“I must,” said Gynethe Mehaut simply. “My father gave me to the Church and I am bound to obey its strictures. I accept my place as my father’s bond, though it is more his desire than mine. I pray for a true vocation, but I haven’t received it.” She sighed again. “Sometimes I wish I could leave here, and live like everyone else.”
“You?” Priora Iditha looked shocked, and spoke sharply. “You cannot live as others do, not as you are, and well you know it.”
Gynethe Mehaut took a long, slow breath. “Perhaps not. Yet I would be glad of it, if I could. It would be pleasant, not to have to be regarded with dread wherever I go, and to be confined with the infirm and mad. It would be sweet to walk in the sun without fearing burns and worse.”
“Your domicile may change,” said Priora Iditha, doing her best to shore up her charge’s flagging confidence. She made her voice more heartening. “Have faith in the Bishop. He will decide where it is best for you to live.”
“In another prison, perhaps more comfortable, perhaps less, but still a confinement, hemmed in by monks and nuns as good as armed guards. I fear I will not be in the world again now I am gone from it.” Gynethe Mehaut looked up at the moon. “You entered Orders willingly; I have been given no opportunity to go about in the world before entering the care of the Church, though I wish I could. I cannot even become a nun, not while the Bishops are uncertain about me. So I am between the world and the Church, and neither will have me.”
“The world is not such a place as you should wish to enter,” said Priora Iditha. “Here, at least, the Saints and God protect us.”
“Must protection be all? Isn’t there more to the world than danger?” Silent tears slid from Gynethe Mehaut’s ruby-dark eyes down her white cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away; she pressed her lips together to keep from sobbing.
Priora Iditha shook her head. “For you, danger is your lot in life. You are not alone in your travail. In the world, aren’t women prey to every dangerous or foolish man? Aren’t women valued because they give birth to sons, and make alliances possible? Is that what you want for yourself? You cannot hope to marry—no one would have you as anything but a mistress, or a whore.”
“With these hands?” Gynethe Mehaut laughed miserably. “They would fear damnation or they would be afraid to offend the honor of God.”
At this, Priora Iditha relented. “Yes. Your hands are as much a problem as your skin. And your eyes,” she added, glad the moonlight turned the red to an unearthly shade of violet.
“If God would only inspire the Bishop with an understanding of what I am, I should be thankful beyond all reckoning.” Gynethe Mehaut pulled her hands from her sleeves and looked at the bandages that were already showing patches of blood on the palms. “I have prayed and prayed and prayed. God does not hear me, nor Virgine Maria, nor any Saint. I have no answer.”
“God and the Hosts of Heaven don’t often speak to women,” Priora Iditha reminded her. “You must hope that the Bishop will be given an answer.” She regarded Gynethe Mehaut with sympathy. “It is a burden to be patient, but it is also the lot of women. We are here to wait upon the wants of others, whether father or husband or God.”
“So I am told, very often.” She walked away from the night-blooming plants into the beds of herbs. “I wish I could do something useful. I would feel less at the mercy of…” She could find no word to describe her vulnerability. “I would like to prepare medicaments and medicinal pomanders. I have studied the art, and I know I could do it. But because of this”—she held up her hands—“I am ordered to touch nothing that might take malign influences from the blood.”
“Then you must abide by what you have been told, or be thrown on the world to beg. This would be your fate, to have to stand at the side of the road and implore charity from those who pass,” said Priora Iditha, who had plucked a spray of fragrant blossoms to tuck into her long braid, then thought better of it and dropped the flowers.
“Where I should die quickly,” said Gynethe Mehaut with utter conviction. “Who would give food to me, or shelter, but the Church?” There was no trace of pity for herself in her tone, only a stark expression of what she knew.
Priora Iditha said nothing; she continued along with her pale-skinned charge for a short way, then stopped. “You should be at prayers soon. Vigil is almost over.”
“Yes,” said Gynethe Mehaut.
“And you must give thanks for your deliverance.”
“From what?” Gynethe Mehaut asked, a hint of bitterness in her voice. “From what have I been delivered that I should thank God for it?”
“From beggary and worse,” said Priora Iditha at once. “The Church has given you a haven, for which you must be grateful. You might well be stoned or scourged if you were among the people.”
“I suppose I might,” Gynethe Mehaut said after a long moment of consideration. “Still, it is not always an easy thing to be thankful for such blessings as I have.” She began to walk faster.
“That is the test of our vassalage to God, and a demonstration of our devotion,” said Priora Iditha, wondering if she would be as certain if she were in Gynethe Mehaut’s position. She kept up with her charge, going toward the chapel. “Once you have begun your prayers, I will leave you. There will be new bread and cheese in your cell when you are done.”
“As there is every morning,” said Gynethe Mehaut fatalistically.
“As there is every morning,” Priora Iditha agreed. They had almost reached the chapel now, and the last chanting was coming to an end. The drone of the Vigil blessing confirmed that the Hour was over, and a short while later, a dozen monks came wearily out of the chapel, most of them bleary-eyed with want of sleep.
When the chapel was empty, Gynethe Mehaut entered it, her head lowered and her manner entirely acquiescent to the demands made on her. She knelt, held up her hands, and began her first prayers, then stretched out on the stones to continue her devotions.
From the chapel door, Priora Iditha saw that Gynethe Mehaut was compliant with her regimen of penitential prayers, then went off toward the kitchen to secure the bread and cheese she would put in her charge’s cell before going off to her own bed in the nuns’ dormitory, for Gynethe Mehaut was forbidden to eat with the monks and nuns, for fear of contamination. She walked quickly, her attention on the narrow path, and so did not at first notice what seemed to be stable-slaves lying together under an apple tree; gradually she became aware of their whispered voices, and in spite of all her proper intentions, she stopped to listen.
“… the Sublime arrived so late?” said one, his voice sounding tired.
“He came from Sant’ Martin at Tours,” said the other, grunting at the end with a kind of rough pleasure.
“From the Great Alcuin,” said the first, beginning to pant.
“So he told the Superiora,” said the second.
“Will he go on tomorrow? Does he—” He broke off with a sensual moan. The two continued their rutting, wholly unaware that they were overheard. Finally both young men moaned, shuddered, and sighed. “About Bishop Iso?”
“Tomorrow he will rest here; he will hold Court,” said the second, sounding half-asleep. “Then he and his retinue will travel on to Paderborn.”
The first sighed. “Then we will have tomorrow night as well.”
The second murmured bits of words, but was clearly drifting off. “Meet again? Tomorrow night?” His voice was muzzy, and he yawned at the end.
“If it is possible.” The second rose to his feet unsteadily, tugging down his camisa and using its hem to wipe himself before starting toward the stable and his bed in the hayloft.
Priora Iditha made herself continue walking as if she had just come along; she paid no attention to the slave as he slunk through the shadows. She kept on at the same steady pace until she reached the kitchen door, which she struck with the flat of her hand to summon the pantry scullion.
The door opened and the scullion held out a wedge of cheese and a half-loaf of b
read. He was about to turn and go back to the pantry when Priora Iditha stopped him.
“I am told Bishop Iso is here,” she said.
“That he is,” said the scullion. “He came shortly before sunset with a retinue of fourteen. They have been given the whole of the travelers’ dormitory, and the bison haunch that hung in the smoke-house was served to them.” He smiled. “There was meat left over.” This was obviously a happy treat for the scullion.
“Why have I been told nothing of his coming?” asked Priora Iditha, who expected no answer from this kitchen slave.
“Why should anyone tell you? You are not from here. You are only a protector for the White One,” he said, and slammed the door.
Making her way toward the three dormitories, Priora Iditha tried to tell herself that this could have nothing to do with her, or with Gynethe Mehaut, and could not convince herself of it. The more she thought on it, the more ominous the Bishop’s presence became. She continued to walk faster until she was almost running. She had to do something—but what? and why? How was she to fulfill her duty if the Bishop would not agree to see her? Fighting off panic, she entered the nuns’ dormitory and went up to the second level, where the individual cells were. Gynethe Mehaut’s was the fourth door along, and Priora Iditha slipped into it, putting the bread and cheese down on the single chest at the foot of the narrow bed. Then she left and descended to the first floor, where the sleeping accommodations were more communal—four to a room, although Priora Iditha shared her allotted chamber with only one other woman, an elderly nun from the lowlands to the north, Sorra Wandrilla, who was all but crippled by painful knots in her joints.
As was often the case, discomfort had kept Sorra Wandrilla awake, and she regarded Priora Iditha’s arrival with grateful interest. “So your charge is once again at prayers.”
“The Sublime ordered her to do, and she obeys him,” said Priora Iditha, saying much the same thing as she did most nights.
Sorra Wandrilla shifted a bit on her bed. “The Bishop is here.” She announced this as if hoping to give startling news, and so was disappointed by Priora Iditha’s answer.
“So I have heard. He and his retinue will be here until day after tomorrow.” She lay down and stared at the ceiling, vaguely visible in the gloom. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was worried for Gynethe Mehaut.
“Tell me, has he reached a decision about the White One?” Sorra Wandrilla asked.
“I hope so,” said Priora Iditha, and tried to will herself asleep. She quietly recited her prayers, taking comfort in the familiar Latin cadences. She tried to make herself believe that she would have no difficulty in presenting her petition to Bishop Iso, but the more she dwelt upon the possibilities, the more unlikely it seemed that he would seek her opinion.
“This is a great burden for the Bishop,” said Sorra Wandrilla, her tone quarrelsome.
“It is a great burden for Gynethe Mehaut,” Priora Iditha countered, and resumed her orisons.
“God made her as she is. It is her burden to bear,” said Sorra Wandrilla, as if this settled the matter.
“The Bishop should realize that better than you or I do,” said Priora Iditha. She had lost her place in her prayers and so started again from the beginning.
“The Pope may have to settle this,” said Sorra Wandrilla. “Only he has the puissance to know what God’s Will may be.”
“Then the Bishop will handle the matter, and present it to the Pope when he is next in Roma,” said Priora Iditha, becoming exasperated.
“The other Sorrae want her gone from here,” said Sorra Wandrilla. “They prefer the mad to her. The mad are addled in their wits; your charge is dangerous.”
“Then tell the Bishop so when he holds Court after Prime,” said Priora Iditha, raising her voice a bit. “I shall ask him to hear me then, too.”
“I will, and I will pray for eloquence, to make it known how perilous the White One is to our souls.” The old nun shifted onto her side, groaning a little from the nagging pain of her joints.
“Be sure that God will hear us, and Sant’ Audoenus, as well. See you devote yourself to truth, not only to your fear.” Priora Iditha’s tone was sharp, and she tried to soften it. “I will pray for wisdom.”
“See that you do,” snapped Sorra Wandrilla, pulling her rough blanket more securely around her.
It was tempting to try to have the end of their wrangle for herself, but Priora Iditha held her tongue. She returned to her prayers and was soon fast asleep, only to be wakened far too early to the summons to Matins and Lauds. Rising and adjusting her gonella, she clapped a veil over her hair before starting down to the chapel. Although she was painfully aware of Sorra Wandrilla’s condemning gaze, she ignored it as she made her way down the steep, narrow stairs.
Thirty-seven nuns—three more than was their usual number—formed an ill-defined line bound for the chapel, most of them barely awake, a few of them caught up in their Office already. The call of night-birds accompanied their whispered prayers as they crossed the open courtyard in their march to the chapel. Half-way there they were joined by the monks, their company swelling to 116 before they went into the narthex and formed lines to begin Matins. There was a bit of a stir as Bishop Iso appeared, very imposing in his silken gonelle and brocaded femoralia; his pectoral cross was gold-and-silver set with polished gems, a reminder that the Bishop came from a wealthy family, the son of a true Illustre. He uttered the prayers in a penetrating voice that commanded the others to equally fervent expression.
Off to the side of the altar, Gynethe Mehaut remained prostrate, imploring every Saint she could think of to intercede for her. Most of the monks and nuns ignored her, although she noticed that the Bishop occasionally glanced toward her uneasily. She kept on with her devotions, wanting to give him no cause to think her lax in her duty to God, and soon Lauds was ended.
At Sant’ Audoenus, the monks and nuns broke their fasts after Lauds and before Prime, so as the sky streamed pink with the coming dawn, the refectory bristled with activity as the novices and slaves brought out bread, cheese, and watered wine for the more senior members of the community, extra portions being served today in celebration of Bishop Iso’s visit. This morning conversation was subdued, for the presence of the Bishop impressed most of the nuns and monks, and none of them wanted to do anything that might give the Bishop cause to be displeased with them, for such displeasure could bring terrible consequences upon them, which none of them wanted.
“I will hold Court in the reception room immediately after Prime,” Bishop Iso announced. “Those having questions to lay before me, present yourself to my slave Conwoin.” He indicated the man at his side, a well-built fellow in his twenties with a mass of chestnut hair and a supercilious expression. “Tell him your cause, and he will arrange matters.” He folded his hands before pulling his full loaf of bread apart into three sections in honor of the Trinity. “May God send all bread to our needs, and may we thank Him for his generosity.”
The others repeated this blessing and fell to eating, making the most of the luxury of butter that was served in the Bishop’s honor. A final extravagance was ordered by the Abbott: trays of dried plums, pears, and apples were set out on the long plank tables, which brought a general cry of approval from those seated on the benches, and exclamations of thanks to the Bishop.
Abbott Bosoharht stood to deliver the morning reading, choosing from the Prophecies of Jeremiah the Lamentations for Jerusalem. “‘The King of Babylon the Golden, the great city of the East, came to Jerusalem, and by force of siege took the city as his own. So that when the King of the city fled with his nobles and his warriors, he was pursued and captured, and all those near to him were slaughtered and the King taken away in chains, and others who had not been killed also went with him into slavery and exile. Among them, I, Jeremiah, went, and when God spoke from my mouth, he vowed that evil would befall Golden Babylon, and that Jerusalem should be delivered from all enemies, for I have kept my trust in God, and I
have prayed for salvation even in the depths of despair.’”
Bishop Iso studied Abbott Bosoharht for a long moment when the old man sat down again. “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out. “Just so.”
There was an exchange of whispers along the benches as the monks and nuns considered what the Abbott had said to them.
Fratre Nordhold, who was somewhat foolish, suddenly exclaimed aloud. “It isn’t Babylon at all. It is Byzantium. It is Roma. We Frankish monks are the warriors of the Pope. The Greeks want to bring down Roma and all those faithful to her.”
The monk beside him, chagrined by this outburst, patted Fratre Nordhold on the arm and urged him to eat.
“We must keep the faith,” said Fratre Nordhold, purpose making his voice louder than before. “I see what it is: we must be the salvation of Roma and the Church.”
Bishop Iso stared at Fratre Nordhold. “If you must speak, Fratre, lower your voice, at least, and remember that there are many who are not so devoted as you are.” There was no misunderstanding his tone of command; Fratre Nordhold ducked his head and stuffed a wad of bread into his mouth. The Bishop looked toward the Abbott. “Have you anything more to add?”
Flustered, Abbott Bosoharht shook his head and picked up a dried plum from his shallow plate. He ate, but he seemed to have difficulty swallowing.
Watching all this, Priora Iditha felt a tide of dismay run through her. The Abbott would do nothing now that did not suit the Bishop, not after such an embarrassing incident. She thought about Gynethe Mehaut and was glad that the pale-skinned woman had not been asked to join in this meal; it had been awkward enough to show honor to the Bishop without including so remarkable a woman as Gynethe Mehaut in the occasion. There was too much uneasiness in the refectory as it was—with Gynethe Mehaut present the air would be charged even more. When the butter was passed to her, she used her knife to pare off a long curl of it, and then to smear it on her half-loaf of bread as the nun next to her claimed the tub for herself. While she nibbled on the delicious combination of bread and butter, the Priora did her best to organize her thoughts, preparing for her appeal to the Bishop. For her, breakfast was over all too soon. As the monks and nuns rose to their feet, the bell rang for Prime, and all the company grew silent, making their way out of the refectory to their places of private prayer. For Priora Iditha, this meant the corridor outside Gynethe Mehaut’s cell, where a century-old crucifix hung on the wall, the corpus stained with the blood of faithful Christians. After making sure that Gynethe Mehaut was asleep, Priora Iditha knelt, raised her hands, and began to recite the prayers she had learned so long ago.
Night Blooming Page 14
