She wants desperately to flee to Sophia. The magistra could be dying. But if she can heal these three people quickly and get to Sophia in time, the begijnhof would be saved. If she fails, they’re all condemned. If she leaves, they’re condemned. She knows what Sophia would say.Try. You have to try.
“Lukas,” she says. “Go to the magistra. Run. If she requires last rites...” It’s hard to say. “Cecilia, go with him. Tell them I’m coming.” Cecilia turns and starts throwing elbows to clear the way. “Hervé, get this carriage turned around.”
Aleys turns toward the platform.
The crowd is baying now as one animal. Aleys walks past the bishop, not even glancing at him. She reaches the stairs, fumbles with the fastening at her throat, tears off the bishop’s cloak, and throws it behind her. She runs the last steps. The scene on the platform is infernal. A dozen torches frame the stand, their caustic tar stinging her throat. She can hardly draw breath. She thinks she hears someone cry “Aleys!” in a familiar voice. Even in the midst of everything, she startles. Finn? But the sound is swallowed by the mass of people chanting “Sint!” The stage is lit so brightly that she can’t see beyond the first row of people who are reaching up to touch her hem. She steps back from the edge and turns to face the patients. They are shivering, though it is hot as hell, cowering in the center of the stage, their eyes huge, like the souls in the devil’s cauldron in her psalter.
On the litter is an ancient man struggling for breath, his chest shuddering with effort. His eyes are clear, though, and they follow her. There’s a boy on a crutch, his leg twisted beneath a cloth wrapped around his waist. A battered cup hangs from the crutch. They must have found him on the streets. Beside him, the woman with the infant has sunk to her knees, cradling the child with one arm, reaching toward Aleys with the other. She is lovely and dressed in blue and looks so like paintings of the Virgin that she could have a halo. Aleys peers at the child. The woman quickly pulls the swaddling to cover the infant, but not before Aleys glimpses a babe with pink cheeks and bright eyes. Odd. It looks like teething is the worst he’s ever suffered. She can’t tell which of the pair is the patient.
The bishop sweeps up behind Aleys and bangs his shepherd’s crook so hard the platform shakes. As he spreads his arms wide, the chanting dies down. Aleys can hear the horses snorting, a panicked rattling sound to their breath. She looks back at the carriage. They’ve turned it around. She faces the patients, wishing she felt something, anything, in her body. This is the moment. She concentrates herself around the kernel of flame in her core, willing it to spread through her spine, into her arms, to burst into sparks in her fingertips. She feels strangely fearless, now that the moment has come. Aleys steps toward the patients, but the bishop blocks her path with his crook.
“People of Tournai,” he booms. “I stand before you in humility and awe for the act of God we are gathered to witness, his divine power made manifest in the person of a simple maid.” He clears his throat. “The woman before you has been chosen as a channel of the Holy Spirit.” He sweeps his free arm toward Aleys, and the crowd cheers.
What’s he doing? It sounds like he’s going to canonize her.
“It is with profound joy that we bring these patients to be healed by her miraculous touch.”
Her signal. She pushes forward, but he blocks her again.
“It is with gratitude to the Almighty that we share this momentous event with the faithful of Flanders. What you are about to witness”—he steps toward them—“is no less marvelous than Peter healing the lame and Paul raising the dead. For Christ gave his twelve apostles authority over unclean spirits, to cast them out, and to heal every disease and every affliction.” He bows his head. “This beneficence marks a new era of grace in the bishopric of Tournai. We are blessed. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, let us pray.”
He is drawing this out. She wants to be let at the patients, to cure them or fail to cure them. But his eyes say to her,Down on your knees, or I’ll make this even longer. She drops. The patients fold their hands in supplication. Beyond the lights, she hears the murmur of a thousand people who have bowed their heads.
She prays,Lord, please watch over Sophia. Please let me get back to her.
She’s startled by sudden steps behind her. It’s Willems approaching with the azure cloak. He drapes it over her shoulders and knots the tie hard around her throat. The bishop intones “Amen,” and makes a grand sign of the cross over her, as if this is an investiture. The Church is claiming her as their own. She doesn’t know why. She hasn’t done anything yet. When she rises, there is a ripple through the crowd, a collective “Ah.” The weight of the cape pulls at her throat.
Finally, the bishop steps back. Aleys turns inward once more, hoping for the rush in her fingertips, searching for the feeling. Nothing. This won’t work. But she has no choice. She steps toward the patients. The man on the litter begins to thrash in death throes. There’s no time to waste. She kneels beside him and begins theAve. “Hail Mary, full of grace.” She trusts this prayer, has seen it uncurl in ribbons of grace through the hospital, but before she even finishes one round, the patient sits up, then stands, from his cot. The crowd gasps. The old man, suddenly young, bends to grab the litter and raise it over his head. The people cheer.
But she felt nothing. Nothing at all.
The woman with the baby is sobbing, curled over her child. The lame boy limps toward Aleys. “Heal me, Sister!” he cries, and he reaches out to touch her robe. Instantly, his leg straightens. He drops his crutch. He bounds to the edge of the platform. “Look! I am cured!” he shouts, tears flowing from his eyes.
She suddenly understands. They are actors. This whole thing is a charade, a farce. Aleys pivots to look at the bishop, horrified. She could be with Sophia, but he has her here on this stage, making a mockery of God’s will. The bishop is triumphant.Go ahead, he seems to say,heal the last one. He jerks his head toward the carriage.Then I’ll free you.
She wants to run. She wants to go far from him, from this faithless man, from this world that he and his kind have created. She thinks of the desert. The tree. The quiet. In the midst of madness, is there no refuge? For a fleeting moment, as the people chant, she can feel the stillness. Just here. Just beyond. And then it is gone, and the stench of tar fills her nose and the roar of the crowd fills her ears and the terrible, cynical task is before her.Oh Lord, she thinks,won’t you take me to the desert?
The woman has raised the infant to Aleys. The fraud is stunning, this act so craven, Aleys has no words. Is the child even hers? Aleys turns back to the bishop, shaking her head.
“Heal the babe!” he announces. “Drive the devils from this woman and heal the child!”
The woman begins convulsing and Aleys fears for the infant. The woman could dash the child to the boards in her wild contortions. Then Aleys feels a tingle in her hands. She looks at them with astonishment. What is this? She knows it can’t be her will. Whatever she does, she must do fast. Aleys steps forward and lays hands on the woman’s head and feels some strange flow of grace travel from her palms into the woman, who looks up, startled. Their eyes meet. The woman forgets her part. They are frozen, Aleys and the actor, in some strange meaning that neither understands. The child begins to bawl. Willems steps forward and grabs it, quickly unfurling the swaddling and raising the healthy infant high for the crowd. Aleys shakes her head at the woman, who is now crying in earnest. “Go in peace,” whispers Aleys.
“Today we have witnessed miracles!” shouts the bishop.
Aleys turns and runs for the carriage. Hervé slaps the roof and they start back to the begijnhof, while she struggles to get out of the bishop’s awful cloak. Hervé reaches forward to help her. She raises her chin so he can undo the knot. “You are very brave,” he says.
“Burn that thing,” she says.
31
Aleys
Inside the begijnhof, lamps are turned up in every window in vigil. Aleys senses the beguines at their prayer benches within. She can hear their murmurs flowing together, merging into a fast-pleading river. Cecilia’s grip on her arm is so fierce Aleys can feel her nails bite through the wool. They run through the courtyard. The door to the magistra’s home swings open on silent hinges. Inside, three women look up from preparing poultices, their cheeks flushed. The room smells of vinegar and rosemary. Marte stands before the fire, urging the flames with the bellows, though the heat is already stifling.
The sisters regard Aleys with relief, as if now all will be well. She feels their hope climb onto her back, and she could collapse under the weight of it. Their eyes all bear the same message:Save her for us.The oldest gestures her poultice toward the stairs.Go.
Aleys feels the heat rise with her as she mounts the narrow stairs, palms against the walls. It’s a long climb. The hopes of the beguines trail her up, plastering her ribs like bandages. It’s hard to breathe. God is not at her bidding. They have no idea how willful he is.
