The Passion of Dolssa

by Julie Berry

  Plazensa carried Dolssa’s clothes into the front tavern room at arm’s length, pinched between her thumb and forefinger, as though she held a dead rat by its tail.

  “To be a prostitute, like one of you,” she fumed. “Of all the outrageous insults . . .”

  Sazia coughed and glanced at me. I wouldn’t meet her gaze for all the gold in Roma. If I laughed now, Plazensa would make me sleep on the muddy beach for a week.

  “Ungrateful little wretch!”

  She dropped the dirty clothes into a wash water bucket, and commenced pounding the clothes with a paddle.

  “Oh, let be, Plazi,” I said. “You know it’s what everyone thinks about women who work in public houses.” I took over her laundry pounding for fear she’d smash right through the pail. “Remember, she’s not like us. She’s from a wealthy family in Tolosa. One that can afford to keep their daughters pious and holy.”

  “Unlike the rest of us,” said Sazia with a toss of her frizzy hair, “whose daughters must grovel in the gutter to earn their daily bread.”

  “Is that what you think?” Plazensa’s eyes flashed. “That we grovel for our bread? Is that what others think?” Her voice rose a notch with each question.

  “Well, we used to steal it . . .” Sazia wrenched open the door to the cavity in the stone fireplace that served as our baking oven. The hot smell of Plazensa’s black bread tantalized us.

  “I’ll grovel for a chunk of your bread right now, Plazi, if it’ll make you feel better,” I told her.

  Sazia slid a board under the loaf to pull it out. Plazi shooed her away. “Get you gone,” she said. “That bread’s for customers. Who does she think she is? A nun without her habit? A virgin bride of Christ?”

  We were distracted then by a tapping at the window shutters. I poked through the honeysuckle vines to see Astruga peering in at me.

  “Oh, bon, Botille,” she said. “It’s you.”

  “So you see,” I said. “I live here, after all. What is it, Astruga?”

  “Have you found me a husband yet?”

  I sighed. “Obviously not.”

  She thrust out her lower lip. “Well, get on about it.”

  “Give me time, Astruga,” I whispered, for out of the corner of my eye I saw Plazensa growing inquisitive.

  “I haven’t got time, as you well know.” Her hand went protectively to her belly.

  “Astruga,” I said, “be reasonable. I haven’t forgotten you. But these things don’t happen overnight.”

  Again, the pout. “Yes, they do.”

  She was beginning to annoy me. “And that’s why,” I said through smiling teeth, “people usually seek for my services beforehand.”

  She shrugged. No contrition from this quarter, not that I had expected any.

  “How soon can you find me a man?” she asked again. “I need one fast.”

  I shook my head. “Astruga, you are going about this all wrong. Tell me. Help me do my work. Why should someone want to marry you?”

  She took an affronted step back and held out both her arms, displaying her figure. When I said nothing, she favored me with a flourish of both hands, outlining the contours of her more than adequate womanly curves.

  “So what?” I said. “You have bosoms. You haven’t answered me. Why should someone want to marry you?”

  Her nose poked the clouds, she was so indignant. “For this!” Again, her physique.

  “What’s going on over there?” Plazensa called. “In or out, but leave off with the window talk!”

  “Never mind my sister,” I said. “Astruga. When it comes to marriage, the men of Bajas are more sensible than you suppose.”

  She was having no part of this outlandish notion.

  “Yes, you’re pretty enough,” I said, “but what else can you offer? In a wife, a man wants a sound choice. Have you a dowry?”

  “A bit,” she said. “More than some girls from Bajas.”

  That would help. “Can you do anything?”

  Her mouth hung open at the question.

  “Cook?” I supplied.

  Again with the nose. “Course I can.”

  “Hmm,” I said. “I hear otherwise. Sew?”

  She shook her head. “A little.”

  “Make wine?”

  She looked away. “Papà does that.”

  “Tan leather?” I said. “Make soap? Keep bees? Spin wool?”

  She thrust out her lip so far, I wanted to snatch it with my finger and thumb and give it a good twist. “I can make babies,” she hissed. “And that’s what matters most.”

  “Oh, oc,” I said, “men like that in a wife. But a fair number like to think they discovered their wife’s skill in that area themselves.”

  Astruga’s face screwed up in fury. “You’d best find me someone quick, Botille, or so help me, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what, Astruga?”

  Her nostrils flared while she searched for just the right revenge. “I’ll scream!” She turned and marched up the hill to her papà’s house.

  ESCLARMONDA DE MONSOS

  Witness Testimony recorded by Lucien

  CITY OF NARBONA

  Esclarmonda: fifty-two; married wife; living

  with her invalid husband outside the city

  rom Tolosa? You’ve come a long way.

  There was a time when I liked to roam about too. I used to visit my sister, south of here, along the lagoon. Her husband fished it, before he died. I haven’t seen her in years. These aged feet of mine won’t let me travel. She’s still there, last I knew, eating what her son drags up from the sea.

  You are looking for a girl?

  I have seen no one of that description, Friar. Dolssa is a curious name.

  Oc, yes, there are tozas aplenty, but local ones, all of them running about chasing the tozẹts, priding themselves on their hair and their round, red cheeks. Their turn will come. A man will woo them, babies will delight them and break their hearts in turn. Like my son, Niot. What good is he to me now, dead in the wars? Such a curly-headed babe he was!

  I have seen no one like the donzȩlla you describe.

  You want to ask my husband? Ask him if you like, but his wits are no longer his own. He keeps to his chair. He will have seen nothing, nor could he tell you if he had seen your donzȩlla.

  Oc, I might have missed her, but I watch the road and the river. Ever since the aching took hold of my feet. I sit here and watch the world pass by, since I can’t go greet it myself anymore. I can’t swear she hasn’t been here, but I can say I’m fairly certain she has not. Are you sure she came this way? Might the angels already have taken her?

  What will you do now? Keep looking?

  There is a convent just up the road, in Narbona, Friar . . . Lucien? Friar Lucien. Listen! Those are their bells ringing, even now, for prayers. If you follow the river, you will come to it eventually. The Brotherhood of Sant Esteve. Perhaps they could help you there with your search. If nothing more, they would welcome and feed you.

  Try the village, then, if you want to ask others.

  Oc, oc. If I see any sign of a girl such as the one you seek, I will send you word at the convent.

  God speed you on your errand, and may you find the girl you seek. God protects and keeps his own, does he not?

  HUGO

  enhor Hugo’s horse picked its tired way up the winding, wooded lanes of the mountain where the Abadia de Fontfreda lay hidden from view. On either side of the path, peasant harvesters and lay brothers shouldered wooden crates of grapes through leafy vineyards. Hugo already knew he could count on a bed for the night, and information. Perhaps there would also be good wine.

  If he looked behind him, acres of fertile countryside stretched down the mountain, bathed in blue sky and golden sun. Bees worked alongside the lay brothers, and all was peace. To end one’s days in such a place . . . thought Hugo.

  Finally a turn in the path brought buildings into view, and the walls of a grand abbey church. He passed fragrant herb gardens an
d flowers tended by silent, sweating laborers in the September sun. He reached the stables, and a lay brother hurried out to take his horse.

  “Bonjọrn,” Hugo said to the brother, who bowed in reply and then led the horse away. Other brothers, Hugo saw, had taken note of his coat of arms. The abbot would be here before long to greet him. He’d better hurry.

  For such a place of holy contemplation, the abadia swarmed with activity. Other travelers and pilgrims toiled up the path, as did brothers guiding donkey carts full of grapes. Stonemasons perched on scaffolding and chipped away at column heads. Dozens of lay brothers came and went, while from beyond the walls to their refectory, the voices of the monks in song filled the drowsy air with sweetness.

  “Good friar.” Hugo accosted a youthful lay brother, then bowed to him. The brother’s soft face blanched at being so addressed by a noble knight, and he hastily bowed in return.

  “Is there a place here where visitors may come to pray?” Hugo asked the young brother.

  The quivering youth gestured toward a small chapel tucked against the hillside.

  “And do you see many travelers stopping here for sanctuary in their travels?”

  The lad nodded.

  “Has there been, by chance, in the last few weeks, a noble donzȩlla, dark of hair, and slight of build, traveling alone?”

  He frowned and shook his head at such an unlikely picture. His cowl appeared to itch his neck.

  “Tell me,” said Hugo, leaning closer to his ear. “I am also looking for information about a party of peasants passing through. They had one older ome, two hearty young omes, one youth, and two tozas. Two donkey carts, and some other animals. Have you seen them?”

  The young brother’s eyes lit up. He nodded solemnly.

  Hugo dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, my friend,” he said. “It would be a blessing if you happened to know where they were going.”

  The brother shook his head sadly, as if regretting he could not be of more use.

  “No matter,” Hugo said. “Now, here is a curious thing. It was said of this party, by some, that they carried a foul-smelling cargo. Some horrid, offensive odor. Did you notice that?”

  His companion took a step back and shook his head.

  “No odor that you detected?” None. Hugo shrugged. “Not all tales can be believed.”

  The young brother began to show signs of wishing to be anywhere but here. The glow, it seemed, of conversing with a noble knight had lost its luster.

  “One final question.” Hugo spoke before his captive could escape. “Did this party, by some chance, have any wish to bury a body?”

  The lay friar shook his head so fast, his chin wobbled. He bowed, pressed his hands together, and fled.

  Hugo watched him go, and nodded. Bon. He intended to find her alive. This news held no guarantee he would, but he was satisfied. Then doubt set in. Was this party he’d seen pass, and later heard tales of, a waste of his time?

  The abbot, flanked by monks, emerged from an arched doorway and made his stately way toward his noble guest. Best not to seem too inquisitive to him. Unsuspecting lay brothers to interview would be plenty. Moments would appear, and Hugo would know how to seize them.

  BOTILLE

  ealing bells woke me before the sun had begun to peep over the lagoon. It was Sunday, but these weren’t Sabbath bells. Someone had died.

  I threw a blanket over my shoulders and stumbled through the dark corridor to the front room of the tavern. My sisters followed like haggard ghosts, wrapped in anything they could snatch. We threw the latch and ventured out into the street.

  Autumn had come in the night. The air bit my throat, and my breath fogged before me. Leaves’ edges had begun to turn, and the lagoon brooded quietly upon the prospect of approaching cold.

  When no one opened the door next to us, I began to fear it was Lisette’s baby, but of course they would not ring bells for an eṇfan. Soon Lisette ducked through her low doorway with the child, quiet for once, in her arms, and tall Martin, who had to bend double to clear the door, hunching along beside them, carrying their sober little daughter, Ava.

  Up and down the road the doorways opened as the bells still rang. We counted ourselves and counted one another. Oc, we were still there. We saw our neighbors and were glad they were not gone, but each revelation brought new fear. Who had left us?

  Then the name slid along the strands of peasants roping through the streets of Bajas: Felipa de Prato. Young mother and farmwife. The one whose blessed and fertile fortune my little srre had only just foretold.

  Sazia turned away. Lisette reached with one arm to embrace her young daughter, and kissed the crown of her sleepy head.

  Plazensa enveloped Sazia with her blanket-draped arm and held her close. Sazia hid her face in her hands. I wrapped my arms around them both. Plazensa met my gaze.

  “Was it the pregnancy?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “No one said so to me.” Did anyone even know about the pregnancy? Did her husband, Joan de Prato?

  “Maybe she wasn’t pregnant.” Sazia spoke from the hollow of Plazensa’s collarbone.

  Plazi stroked her hair. “Hush. Of course she was.”

  “I must have been wrong.” Sazia’s breath caught in her throat, but my proud sister would not cry. “If I was wrong about her prospects, I must have been wrong about her child.”

  Felipa already had two young children, who were close to starving. I supposed that was why the news of this third arrival had not filled her with joy.

  I steered my sisters indoors. Up and down the street, somber Bajas slowly returned to their homes. Inside the tavern, we sat down together at the bar, and I poured Sazia some ale.

  “I am through with telling fortunes.” Sazia’s voice was flat. “What cruelty is it to give a dying woman false hope?”

  “Oh, Sazia, you mustn’t do this to yourself,” I said. “Giving hope to the dying sounds like mercy to me, not cruelty. You believed what you said was true.”

  “And you were right about it. She died from her pregnancy,” said Plazensa firmly, as if she could settle the matter. “She probably didn’t follow your instructions.”

  “No, don’t,” moaned Sazia. “Are you saying it’s her fault she died, for not following my advice?”

  Plazensa chewed on this. “Not her fault, I’ll grant you,” she said. “Perhaps she was too poor to eat the foods you told her she needed. What was it? Leeks? Melons?”

  “You don’t die,” Sazia told her ale, “for want of melons.”

  “But you do die,” I said, “for want of food, if you’re ill. Felipa was very thin.”

  “They had a farm,” Plazensa protested. “It’s harvest time! Remember the legums she brought us when she wanted Sazia to tell her fortune?”

  Sazia took a mournful swig of ale. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Maybe,” I said, “they were most of the legums she could find. Remember what Sazia said? That Joan de Prato needed to get off his aze and water his crops?”

  Plazensa rubbed Sazia’s back vigorously. “It’s a crime! For a mother to starve right under our noses!” She flexed her fingers, as if she were ready to tear justice out of someone’s skin. “Maybe,” she said on further thought, “Felipa wasn’t so much worried about his cheating as about starving. And about her eṇfans.”

  Sazia was miserable. “She probably always fed them first.”

  “The eṇfans,” I repeated. “Plazi, what’s cooking today?”

  She nodded, rose to her feet, and began poking around shelves. “There’s fogasa left over,” she said, “and some nuts, and plenty of cheese.”

  “Plums,” Sazia suggested, “from Lisette’s tree.”

  “Ale.” Plazensa produced a pitcher. “At dinner we can take them something hot.”

  “Thank you.” I kissed both of their cheeks. “I’ll get dressed and take the food over, and see how the eṇfans are doing.”

  “If you need to, bring them here,�
� said Plazensa.

  Sazia and I looked at each other. “That’s dangerous, don’t you think?” I pointed toward the room where Dolssa still slept. “Hard to hide her from little children.”

  My older sister frowned. “Then arrange for someone else to look after them,” she said. “No telling whether that man can look after his own self now, much less his little ones.”

  “I’ll go look after them,” Sazia said. “I owe poor Felipa at least that much.”

  And so, Bajas, all of us, we drifted to the de Prato home. The late September winds blew through our clothes, but we didn’t feel them. We wandered in, and we wandered out. We listened to the low songs and prayers Dominus Bernard murmured for Joan de Prato’s benefit. We listened, because the hollow-faced widower could not. His thoughts were somewhere else.

  We left bits of food like offerings at a shrine. Felipa’s two children, a boy and a girl who seemed nothing more than round faces on flamenc legs, watched us come and go, then dove into the food. The poor mites were too young and confused to know they’d lost their mamà. The one thing they knew well was hunger. Today, inexplicably, a feast had arrived, pot by pot, in their small home. I wondered if, in days to come, when the little ones realized what had happened, the rare memory of full bellies would confuse their hearts about what had truly happened in their lives this day.

  We drifted home. We gnawed on fogasa we couldn’t taste, and washed it down with wine. We drifted back up the hill to mass. Far more of us than usual went to hear Dominus Bernard that day. After the liturgy, he spoke of resurrection, and we cried for the poor sad babes too hungry to understand their mamà had flown.

  BOTILLE

  hat has happened?”

  I brought Dolssa some food and found her seated, leaning against the wall, stroking Mimi and looking longingly at the weak light filtering through the doorway.

  “Una femna has died.” I set down her bowl of porridge, and Mimi slipped closer to investigate. “Una maire, with young eṇfans. Un filh and una filha. And another was on the way.”