Women in the Wall

by O'Faolain, Julia

  “Some sin has been committed in this convent.” Chrodechilde was whispering. “Some secret sin. Else why should God allow my uncle Chilperic’s soldiers”—she dropped the royal name with relish—“to burn our lands? There are no accidents for God.”

  Feelings in the dormitory were tense and she struck chords on them. She knew how to weave connections between the novices and the ‘world’ which, by cloister-Rule, stopped at the convent door. Even arson and murder could be committed on the convent’s own estates, yet concern the novices only as further reasons for prayer. But Chrodechilde could make them feel intimately involved.

  “Maybe we could expiate that sin—whatever it was—and stop the war. Unless”, she jumped down from her look-out point, “the only reason for the burning is that the king is annoyed at not getting back his baby here. He wanted her out, you know, but she refused to go.” Chrodechilde walked to the bed on which Basina was lying and ran a long lean forefinger around the curve of her cousin’s buttock. Basina’s shift was thick but to novices alert for the faintest fleshiness, the gesture was disturbing.

  “Now who’s being sinful?” one wanted to know.

  “Think so?” Chrodechilde wagged the offending finger, then, abruptly, bit it. Her teeth left two tracks like beaded crescents. “See!” She held up the wounded digit as the tooth marks filled with blood, then disappeared, overrun by a flux which dripped on Basina’s shift. “I would expiate any sin I committed. Would each of you?” She sat on Basina’s bed. “As I see it,” she took a handful of her cousin’s hair and began to plait it, “all of us are here because we weren’t wanted by our families: rejects. Which is not to say”, she added, “that a reject can’t become a saint. The last shall be first. I intend to be first—although I am not the last.” She had plaited Basina’s mane into two tresses which she now held like reins, tightening them so that her cousin was forced to raise her head. Chrodechilde jerked the head several times, then let the hair go. She looked around the dormitory. “What’s the matter with her?” she asked, tilting her jaw at Ingunda who was lying on her own bed. “Why’s she crying?”

  A novice whispered. “She’s afraid the soldiers may have killed her foster-family. Tenants on the estate. The flames are just about where their house must be.”

  “Serfs?” whispered Chrodechilde. “Oh, I suppose she’s somebody’s bastard then? Poor thing! And she’s crying for the foster-family?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s a dim creature, isn’t she? Crying for a foster-family. God, I shouldn’t have minded if all my fosterers were put on one pile and roasted like oxen. It would be quite a pile too, I can tell you. I wore them out.”

  *

  “There’s no doubt”, Fortunatus told Radegunda, “the army was looking for the prince. Only the leader knew. Duke Desiderius. Luckily he was willing to be bought off.”

  “For how long?”

  “For good. He’ll tell the queen he searched the convent and found nothing. Afterwards he won’t dare go back on his lie. He’s an easy man to deal with: greedy, I had to give him more than I’d expected. Almost all the jewels you let me have. He confirmed what we guessed. The talk about Basina was cover for their interest in her brother’s whereabouts. They rather believed he was dead but wanted to make sure. Desiderius promised that we needn’t worry any more.” Fortunatus paused. “There was something odd about his manner. He kept hinting, then stopping himself. I had a feeling something else was up and that he was wondering whether to take me into his confidence. Something—I’m guessing now—dangerous. Desiderius has no particular loyalty to Chilperic or Fredegunda. I had the impression he was about to change sides—but not in favour of either of the other kingdoms. He managed to give me to understand that some totally new endeavour was under way. He as good as told me our prince—whether dead or alive—was no longer important.”

  “Odd.”

  “Very. With two of the kingdoms of Gaul being without an heir and the third ruled by a minor, how could a legitimate heir lose importance? Unless…?”

  “A Byzantine move? The Emperor Maurice?”

  “Or the Frankish nobles? They resent royal power and this is a good moment to challenge it—or both together.”

  “But have they another pretender?”

  “Well,” said Fortunatus. “There is Clotair’s bastard, Gundovald—if he is Clotair’s. All princes of the royal blood, legitimate or not, have a claim to succeed.”

  “Clotair”, said Radegunda, “always denied Gundovald was his son. He said he was the son of a serf.”

  “But the Emperor Maurice gave him hospitality all these years—that gives him some credibility.”

  “Well,” said Radegunda. “He may be God’s instrument. We shall see. I doubt it though. There is something about our prince—I don’t think I’m deluding myself. I can feel a calibre in him, some chosen quality. But, obviously, the moment is inopportune. We must keep him hidden. I want him trained morally and mentally in case he should be called on to rule part or even all of Gaul. I want him moved to a cottage on the estate. You must be our go-between. Another invasion is unlikely.”

  “You know the extent of the damage left by this one?”

  “Agnes told me. She seemed disproportionately upset. What happened was terrible, of course, but might have been worse: a few rapes, one or two houses burned, some looting, no death. It is horrible but worse happens every day somewhere in Gaul. There is something shortsighted about Agnes’s grief. As though she could only pity wounds she could feel with her hand. Like Thomas Didymus. We must,” said Radegunda, “take the longer view.”

  “Two of the girls raped were foster-sisters of one of the novices here,” Fortunatus told her. “I forget her name. It seems she had some sort of collapse.”

  “The flesh”—Radegunda sounded impatient—“is weak.”

  “Yes.”

  “To go back to the prince: I want you to take his education in hand. I have drawn up a reading list…”

  Ingunda was in bed with fever.

  On the day after the army left the area, she had begged Agnes’s permission to take food and medicines to her foster-family whose house had been destroyed. The steward had brought news that worse might have happened and Agnes had been unsure whether to let the girl go, but Ingunda pleaded energetically and Agnes was struck to see her daughter’s face suddenly change. The sullen flesh had come alive. Its heaviness gone, it flickered, mobile as fluid.

  “Can I go?”

  “All right.”

  “Ah!” The girl sighed. “Thank you.” She smiled.

  Agnes lent her a mule, then awaited her return with some anxiety. But the girl was away for hours and Agnes had things to do. Returning from checking a long inventory with the cellarer, she found the dispensary sister waiting for her. Ingunda, she was told, was back, had fainted, had been given an infusion of herbs and had vomited it. Now she seemed delirious. What should be done?

  “I’ll look after her,” said Agnes. “Just help me get her to the sick cell.”

  Alone with Ingunda, Agnes studied the delirious face as she had not dared to do before, looking for resemblances Fridovigia had claimed to find.

  “Your mother’s nose,” Fridovigia had said. Was it? Perhaps. “His eyes! Blackberry eyes and she has a dimple when she laughs like your father’s father whom you wouldn’t remember, but…” Memory permeated Fridovigia’s emotions and, now that there was no Fridovigia left, carried those emotions along with it when summoned. Scrappy images from Agnes’s own half-forgotten childhood and Ingunda’s unknown one mingled like coloured beads in a shaken container: the marbled villa, the peasant’s hut, a ball-game played with some faceless companions, a stretch of vaguely perceived mosaic where dolphins swam among geometric patterns, water, geese—why geese? Ah, Fridovigia had said “They’ve put her to minding geese.” Yes. Had they been rough with her? They would have been. They were rough. But it would have been their norm and hers too. She would not have been aware of suffering particul
arly. Now, perhaps because of that roughness, Ingunda was hard to get to know. A peasant. Were peasant responses different? How? More limited? Extreme? Or only slow? Fridovigia had said they had those throaty voices from shouting at each other across fields and into the wind. Must one shout at them to be heard? Or was their deafness protective? A blocking out? The girl was asleep now, drugged by the second infusion the dispensary sister had managed to make her swallow. Agnes touched her face.

  Ingunda recoiled. “No!” she cried, “No!” She tossed and clawed at the sheet. “Don’t. It’s not my fault. Not mine … They’ve raped her! She’s all torn … But how could we … Don’t touch me.”

  Thinking of her foster-sister. Agnes sat down. Time passed. Her own mind lapsed into emptiness then was jerked back. Ingunda was moving again. The drug was wearing off. She spoke a few phrases. Clearly and precisely. Her diction was perfect, her vocabulary good, but Agnes could make no sense of her ravings.

  “Soup,” whispered Ingunda.

  Agnes leaned close. “Do you want some?”

  “Please, Merofled, don’t look at me like that! Take some. It’s not my fault. It’s made with meat. Her mind’s gone,” said Ingunda distinctly. “She’ll never be the same again. None of them will—not even me. We’re like that pot. Cracked. No, don’t throw it away. It’ll serve. It can hold dry beans.” Then she broke into a nonsense-rhyme, a skipping song. And in a little girl’s voice: “They don’t want to play with me. They don’t like me. But it’s not my fault …”

  Agnes tried putting a hand on Ingunda’s forehead and this time was not pushed away. For a while Ingunda was quiet, then said very calmly and as though she had pondered this: “They’ve thrown me out.” Then seemed to sob.

  “Ingunda!” Agnes stroked the girl’s cheek. “Please, stop it. Please!”

  Ingunda looked at her. Her eyes focused, gathering clarity. “Mother Agnes,” she recognized. “Why are you crying?”

  “For you,” said Agnes incautiously.

  The eyes clouded with almost suspect speed. A tremor shifted across them. “Oh God,” Ingunda groaned. “I can’t, bear any more.” She turned, tossed herself onto her stomach and hid her face.

  *

  [A.D. 584]

  At this time a son was born to King Chilperic who sent him to be brought up on a country estate where he might be safe from sorcerers … That same year Chilperic was murdered by an unknown man, and King Guntram of Burgundy, establishing the infant, Clotair, over his father’s kingdom, made himself its regent. Guntram was now the most powerful man in Gaul but his power was not to go unchallenged.

  A group of nobles, made restive by the overweening conduct of the kings, now brought the Pretender, Gundovald, to Gaul where bishops and leading men from all three kingdoms rallied to his cause. At news that Guntram had sent an army to crush the Pretender, many of these, taking fright, deserted him and he was obliged to seek refuge within the town of Convenae. This was stocked with a rich store of provisions and might have resisted for many years if Gundovald’s supporters had stood by him. This, however, they did not do and, although he bitterly reproached them for luring him to Gaul with false oaths of fealty, swearing that but for their coaxing he would never have left the East, they now resolved to betray him in the hope of saving themselves. Speaking with honeyed tongues, they persuaded him to go out of the city to parley with Guntram’s generals, claiming that these had sworn to use him with honour. As soon as Gundovald had walked through the gates, the nobles who were with him drew back inside and closed them fast. Guntram’s men fell on Gundovald and, pushing him over a cliff, hurled a stone on his head and pierced his murdered body with their spears. His beard and hair were plucked out and his body left unburied where it had fallen. The treachery of the men of Convenae brought them little profit for, although the rich managed to hide their treasure, the poor, even those who were priests, were put to the sword so that, in the end, not one of such as piss against a wall was left alive. The buildings were burnt and many laymen among the leaders killed. As for the bishops who had supported the Pretender, they were put on trial by their peers at a council held in Mâcon.

  Chronicle

  *

  [A.D. 587]

  It’s wet here. A wet womb, tomb. My mind is slipping. Those men I heard—no, not them. Black. Shut in. Pray. Say the words of a prayer. Words hold the mind as skin holds bones. Credo in unum deum patrem omnipotentem factorem coeli et terrae visibilium et invisibilium … All invisible here. There is an anxiety abroad, demons in the air. On certain nights God lets them loose to tempt men. As a furnace tries gold, temptation tries the righteous. If no temptation, then no merit. Were the holy anchoresses led by their nature to choose the solitary life? I had to lead mine, had to beat and wrestle with it as one might with a mule. It is a buoyant nature, stubborn. Good at simple things. I might have been a good wool sister or cellarer or looked after the convent kitchen garden. I did work there for a bit and another time I worked with the convent bees. I liked that. Twice, since I have been here, a bee has strayed in through my slit. One paused at its outer aperture so that the sunlight lit up his furry body and the transparent petal of his wing. He stayed for as long as a minute although there can have been nothing here to tempt him—and how could I not see his visit as a sign? Yes, in all humility, I feel sure he was sent to give me courage. He was the only creature I saw since I came here and, when I choose to, I see him again as distinctly as though he had just flown away. Perhaps I had never looked as carefully at anything as I did at that brown bee. He brought with him the trumpet shapes of flowers he must have visited and the stillness of those days when the earth breaks into winding cracks and lizards sun themselves on stones. I cried when he left: not from regret, from happiness at the image he left with me. All my other memories are blurred or chopped. Sometimes I try to recall exactly how the convent gardens are laid out. But it is as though my eye had shrunk. I can see only a small part at a time with any clarity. Sometimes I try to see a face, but this too comes only in fragments. I am trying to see the sweet face of Agnes, but it is twisting up into a grimace. It is becoming the face of … no, oh no, now it is the face of one of the damned souls painted on the wall of our chapel, one of those tormented creatures all twisted like knotted rope who try to escape the devil’s pitchfork. Why should I see such a sight? God, you are letting me be tempted by despair. You allow the demon leeway. You loosen his bonds and let him tempt me with sick visions. How can you be sure I will not succumb? Do you think me so strong that you can try me in the hottest furnace? I will be. With your grace I shall resist, shall not go mad, shall not despair and neither shall I spare myself. I shall return and plunge myself into my most horrible memories. I offer them to you once more with their pain and shame. In atonement. I shall force your mercy. I shall defy you to withstand my prayer.

  It was when I was fourteen. The territory of the city of Poitiers had been invaded by the Burgundians and also by Chilperic’s men. They had been back and forth several times in the last few years—so often that the horror had become almost normal. We had heard so many stories that none surprised us. Death raged and epidemics reached even into the convent. Outside, people were making bread with pounded fern-roots and grape-seeds. Some, in order to eat, had sold themselves into slavery. Others had eaten green roots, swollen up and died. We distributed food and rationed ourselves so as to help the starving. Some of our nuns had had relatives killed in the civil war, but none of us had seen it close up—and then it burst into our own estates. We saw the flames one night and by next day the invaders had gone. They had been just a handful of men and nobody could tell why they had come. Some said it was a mistake but one fact was sure—our steward brought the news—Merofled and Theudechild—my foster-sisters—had been raped. It was decided that I should load a mule with medicines and provisions and go to them at once. I did. I remember that the effort—I had trouble getting the mule to move—and the rush as well as the shock of the news dazed me and at first I did not feel
much. I was in suspense: waiting to feel. I kept poking the mule and shouting at him. Perhaps I was trying to keep the feeling off me? When I reached the vineyard near my foster-family’s farm, I began to smell smoke and cinders: the same woody smell as an autumn bonfire. But it was not a bonfire. The vines were gone—nothing left but a mash of black stumps. The house was gone. It had been made of wood and mud and wattle and must have burned like straw. Now the cinders were being blown away on the wind. In a few months there would be no trace of it at all. Then—no; I can’t—must, must go on. I had turned to leave when I saw a figure on hands and knees, scrabbling in the cinders: black-faced, filthy, all mutters and tatters, wheezing, muddy buttocks, a wild goatish eye. It stood on two legs and I recognized Hiltga, my foster-mother. She was holding a clay pot which she had dug out of the ashes. I tried to put my arms around her but it was like putting them around—a tree. She had the same empty look of the refugees who came for sanctuary: sightless, wide, struck blind like the pearly eyes of a dog—but of course she was not blind. I asked her questions and she mumbled, not answering but talking about her clay pot. “Tough enough!” She held it up. “Won’t ever be the same though. That’s all I found. Imagine!” I asked again about her daughters. “I’ve brought some food and stuff”, I said, “from Mother Agnes!”

  “Mother Agnes!” She peered at me. She could see after all. “It’s you, is it.” she said.

  “Yes, Hiltga. I’ve brought things for Theudechild and Merofled. Won’t you tell me where they are? I have food for them from the convent.”

  “The convent!” Her eyes narrowed. There was a spark in the singed middle of them as if someone had blown on a pair of nearly burnt-out coals. “The convent!” she began to lilt, singing at me in her rage of mockery. “The soldiers didn’t go there, did they, oh no, no! That’s holy sanctuary. The crow doesn’t pluck out the crow’s eye but poor folk bear the brunt. You were safe while my girls suffered!” She staggered. There was a stream of spittle flowing down her chin. Her eyes were flecked with red. I tried to steady her but she pushed my hand from her. Violently. She was muttering again, but now I could make out the drift: it was the sort of old lament that tenants take up in bad times, a familiar, repetitious, ready-made railing. She was angry because the convent had collected all the crops into the convent barn and the soldiers, finding nothing, had been maddened into raping her daughters. “Gentle folk and convent folk are always safe!” she raged. “Sanctuary forsooth!” Then she began to sing an old rhyme which I’d often heard before about a tenant who didn’t pay the eggs he owed and was punished by the lord. “He was caught,” she sang, “he was hung. He was buried in the dung. That’s the place for poor folk, isn’t it?” she shrieked. “The dung! The dung! The dung!”