“You’ll see,” said Lukas. “Her faith will convert you.”
Across the courtyard, a door opens to reveal a tall woman. Katrijn Janssens walks quickly to intercept her, blocking the path. They argue briefly, urgent whispered words he can’t make out. The woman places a hand on the draper’s shoulder with an unmistakable authority. This must be their grand mistress, Sophia Vermeulen. The magistra steps around Katrijn.
“Your Excellency.” Sophia bows. “To what do we owe this visit?”
That’s more like it, he thinks. He notes a tremor in one hand, sees her silence it with the other. Does everyone have a twitch today?
“Magistra. We have been made aware of certain activities at the begijnhof”—he circles his hand lazily and watches Katrijn and Sophia exchange alert glances—“and Sint-Janshospitaal.”
He pauses. Clearly, they think he has come about the translations. He doesn’t mind letting them stew. Behind doors, he imagines women hastily stuffing parchment under mattresses and spilling inkpots out back windows into the canals.
Lukas breaks the tension. “Magistra, it is marvelous. The bishop is here to announce a public demonstration of Sister Aleys’s gift.” Jan has the distinct impression that Lukas is signaling to them.That is all—you are safe.
Sophia nods. “Your Excellency, we will arrange for you to visit the hospital. There are many there who have been cured.”
“That won’t be necessary. We will hold a demonstration in the Markt before local authorities. I’ve invited the clergy, the monasteries, the abbeys, and the heads of the guilds.” He might even let the nuns out for the day. “All the burghers and merchants of the town. Everyone should witness the wonder.”
Sophia frowns and puts a hand to her temple. “We must ask Sister Aleys, I think.” She turns to Lukas. “Father, as her spiritual advisor, should you not counsel her?”
“I have already discussed this with Friar Lukas,” says Jan. “All is set for this evening. They assemble the platform as we speak.”
Another door opens to reveal a young woman in brown. This must be her. Jan glances over and is startled at the eagerness on his brother’s face at the sight of his girl. Lukas is such an innocent. He needs to be more careful.
As the girl approaches, Jan is struck by her strange eyes, the bright blue rims swallowed from within by black pupils. He once saw a boxer stagger to his knees after a hard blow—his eyes had the same dazed quality. And then he collapsed. This woman stands upright.
The second thing he notices is the translucent quality of her skin, as if the early morning light bends to pass through her.
The girl has a certain beauty, he supposes, if your taste runs to elves. Jan is unimpressed by beautiful women. Beautiful women serve him wine, warm his bed. And he’s seen virgins with visions before. Marriage cures them of imagination. But there is something different about this one, unearthly, a vapor wraith from the woods.
“Sister Aleys,” he says, “we have heard much about you.”
She says nothing. He has a feeling she’s judging him.
“You claim to work miracles.”
“I make no such claim.” There is a hint of defiance in her voice.
“Yet you lay hands upon the ill.”
“As do your priests.”
“My men are ordained to perform sacraments.” She’s quite slippery. “But you have healed patients in the hospital.”
“I work there.”
He didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect denial. It’s good. A show of humility, a certain attractive reluctance could be part of the act. He glances at Willems.What do you think? Good enough for the stage? For the pope?
Willems jerks his head toward their guards. Jan looks around.
The guard behind him is making a surreptitious cross over his throat. The other is gazing at the girl with his mouth agape. God help him. He wonders if the pope could be this gullible. Infallible, but gullible.
“You are too modest. The esteemed Friar Lukas”—he nods at his brother—“has witnessed your healings. It seems you have been given a gift of the spirit. You can bring people back from death?”
He’s giving her an opening. She doesn’t take it. Instead, her eyes graze his finery, the costly fabric, his belt paved with precious stones. Her gaze, focused to a pinpoint, rests on his pectoral cross like she could melt it.
Well, he has plans for her and her insolence. “The Church, as you can imagine, is interested in all powerful manifestations of the Holy Spirit. Witnessing such gifts can”—his eyes flick to Lukas—“cause faith to flower in desert rock and streams of belief to turn into oceans.” He is laying it on a bit thick. He wants to see what she’s got.
“I am a simple servant.”
