The mayor chuckles. “They tried. Katrijn told them she was a widow, not a half-wit.”
“But she’s a woman.”
“A guildmember is still a guildmember.” The mayor removes his hat and rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist. “You know what they say: Blood ties, but wool binds. Besides, her fabric is among the best, what keeps the Genovese in port. You know our generosity to the Church depends on the city revenues. No wool, no tariff, no tithes. You’ll lose a quarter of your income from the city and all your income from the guild if you harm Katrijn Janssens.”
The bishop is so tired of walking the tightrope between city and church, between mayor and pope. He struggles to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Boniface insists.” He swallows and corrects himself. “If the translations continue unchecked, I will be forced to act.”
“Jan, the pope is fighting a losing battle on the translations. You know that.”
“Maybe. I hear your advice. I’ll leave the widow Janssens to her wool.” They stop at the back of the garden. “Perhaps someone else in the begijnhof is doing the translating.”
“Do you care for cherries?” asks the mayor. “These sour ones are the best. Now, let’s discuss Mechtelt’s dowry.”
21
Friar Lukas
Heat lightning illuminates the evening sky. Friar Lukas senses a tension in the begijnhof, a tremor among the steady congregation. He’s administered the sacraments to this community for nearly a decade, since Sophia took over and invited him to be their pastor. He knows them so well. He knows how Ida mouths her prayers and Katrijn barks heramen. That Sophia, who once knelt so fluidly, now lowers first one knee, then the other. He’s never seen them so on edge. Instead of laughter as they take their usual places, there are whispers. Even Cecilia, boisterous Cecilia, is muted. The air feels charged, like the lightning is inside the church walls. Lukas raises the wafer: “Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you.” He forces himself to concentrate on the miracle of communion. He sees Sophia clutch Katrijn’s hand. A chill runs across Lukas’s shoulders as he raises the cup. “Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chalice of my Blood.”
Afterward, Sophia, Katrijn, and Ida approach him as he is wrapping the cup in the altar cloth. Katrijn scowls. Ida has her chin tilted high.
Sophia speaks. “Father, we think you should know. We’re being watched.”
“Watched? By whom?”
“Several times now, when we go out—the fleece stalls, the Markt, the Lakenhalle—the bishop’s man has followed us.”
“I very much doubt that.”
They stare at him. These aren’t fanciful women, he reminds himself. “But why?”
“Lukas, you take our confessions. I think you know. He follows Katrijn often. Sometimes he trails Ida to the hospital.”
He does know. He’s warned Katrijn to stop translating. Many times. She always returns with the same confession. He’s given IdaAvesin penance for smuggling contraband text. But he’s been half-hearted in his admonishments. Part of him rejoices at the thought of the gospel flooding the Low Countries. He’s parsed it finely for himself. Strictly speaking, Rome has forbidden only certain unauthorized translations. The pope hasn’t yet forbidden a Dutch translation. Notper se. If it’s an accurate translation—and he has told himself he trusts Katrijn not to distort the Dutch—then there’s virtue in allowing the people to read it for themselves. How can he deny them the word? Lukas knows what these women do, and he thinks them brave.
Sophia interrupts his thoughts. “Lukas, are we in danger? How far does the bishop intend to go?”
When he leaves the church, therain is just starting. The beguines hurry into their homes. Except one. He has a glimpse of Aleys in the middle of the courtyard, her head tipped back, tasting raindrops. He pauses to watch. He senses there is something there for him, some message, an insight. He doesn’t know what it is. She looks like she would swallow summer lightning.
Lukas storms into his brother’s dining chamber. “Why are you following the beguines?”
Jan dismisses the servants with the back of his hand. The table is laden with the remains of dinner, threads of mutton hanging from a half-eaten bone. A loaf of fine white bread lies untouched. His brother’s leftovers would be enough to feed a small household. Jan pulls over a goblet, pours wine for Lukas, motions him to the seat at his right.
“To what do I owe this pleasant visit?”
“You’ve set your man to harassing them. I protest.” Lukas pushes the wine away.
Jan rolls his eyes. “I thought you might be glad to see me.” He stretches his fingers before him. “Perhaps not. I will say your timing is excellent, if your manners are lacking. You see, I find myself in a ...” He searches for the right word as if choosing among fragrances. “A position. A position that inclines me to meet your needs.”
“You’ve always been in a position to meet our needs.”
“If,” continues Jan, “it advances the work of the Church.”
“How could housing faithful women do anything but advance the Church?” It tires him, always having to justify his decisions, his order, his faith. It’s been three months since Aleys joined them. This has gone on long enough.
“I think it would, Brother, as long as your women truly answer to you. The Church has many needs. Other needs.”
When they were boys, Jan didn’t have this silky tone in his voice. When they wrestled in the yard, their elbows and words were sharp and unoiled. The bishop’s crown has changed him into a politician.
