“For the beguines? Or the saint?”
“Their stomachs growl the same.”
“Then tenpence for mackerel and I’ll throw in a cod and ask the saint to bless the catch.”
Marte nods. He tosses up a rope and she lowers down her basket for the fish.
Miss Ida will be coming out of the hospital any moment now and they’ll walk back to the begijnhof together. Ida says the hospital is less frenzied since Aleys left for the hold. Marte sees Ida’s brow crease; she misses Aleys. There’s some sort of fellowship among healers, Marte supposes. “You could come visit her,” says Marte. Ida shakes her head. Katrijn has forbidden it.
Katrijn has forbidden many things. Second servings of ale, singing in the courtyard. They’re in mourning. When they gather in the evenings, Marte feels a sadness descend upon the reading room; Sophia’s absence is most present in this hour. Katrijn still translates, but it’s only the begats, not the parables, as if to interpret any lesson without Sophia would be to betray her.
At least I can read the old stories on my own now, Marte thinks, those that have been translated. There’s a stack of them hidden in the back of the reading room cupboard.
Ida emerges from the hospital, tucking a strand of raven hair into her wimple. “Marte,” she says, brightening. “You waited. Can we stop by the Lakenhalle? Katrijn’s set aside linen for the women’s ward.”
“Oh, miss, you don’t want to go in there. It’s full of men.”
Ida smiles like Mistress Sophia did when she was amused. “They’re no worse than the scoundrels in the hospital. You’ll come with me.”
Marte has never been inside the cloth hall. The enormous building reminds her of the night she limped into the city, her eye swollen tight and her heart bruised. Torchlight flickered over the wet cobblestones, which were strange underfoot and made her unsteady. When the great Lakenhalle bell tolled, Marte clapped her hands over her ears and felt her innards tremble. She kept to the edges of the square that evening, unsure where to go, fingering the two coins in her pocket. Finally, as the torches burned down and the plaza emptied, Marte crept under the arched entryway of the butchers’ guild house and made herself small beneath the crossed stone cleavers. She stuffed her cold fingers under her arms and gripped her sides and felt waves of loss move through her. When the Lakenhalle rang in the morning, Marte stood and vowed to carry her grief silently.
No one in the city knows about her child. No one here saw the small shrouded body of Mathild strewn with straw and clover. As the first shovel of wet soil hit her daughter, Marte felt the last tether to Dagmar snap. She quit the village the next day. She left behind everyone who had known her as a mother. When the beguines took Marte in, she said nothing of the child who would spin round and round until she staggered against the hayrick, dizzy with laughter. Nothing about the endless night Marte ran a wet cloth over Mathild’s fevered body, how she couldn’t stop, even after her daughter’s limbs cooled and stiffened. For how could Marte describe her daughter—how can a mother describe her child who is gone? Any attempt would be a falling away. Every word would make Mathild less real.
Now Marte reaches into her pocket to touch her parchment, to remind herself. I can read. I can write.I have the beguines. Everything is different now. Marte draws a deep breath.
I am not afraid of this city.
Ida takes Marte’s arm as they cross the Markt, skirting beggars and money changers. The ring of hammer on wood is sharp in the cold air. Carpenters are knocking together a stage in front of the guild houses. “For the Nativity,” says Ida. “The goldsmiths are sponsoring this year. Just wait and see. Everyone loves the Christmas plays.” That’s because they can’t read, thinks Marte. If only they could see how their measly plays pale in comparison. When you read, you can turn the words over and over like a puzzle that is both new and familiar every time.
Half a dozen men in patterned hose and bicolor tunics burst from the entrance of the Lakenhalle, and Ida and Marte turn sideways to thread their way among them. Inside, the great hall is loud with the voices of drapers shouting in Dutch to their boys and in foreign tongues—German, maybe, or Italian—to well-heeled buyers with fat purses hanging from their leather belts. A dusty light filters from high windows. The hall is lined with the stalls of guildmembers, alcoves stacked to the ceilings with wool and worsted in indigo and green, but also in colors that simple folk aren’t allowed, scarlets and yellows, even royal purple. Like a jumbled rainbow. In one stall, Marte glimpses rare silk.
“From Byzantium,” whispers Ida over the hubbub, following her gaze. The stalls have doors that can be pulled shut and locked, and buckets of water stand in the corners. For good reason, thinks Marte. A loose spark in here would destroy the wealth of a small kingdom.
“The magistra has a shop here?” There are a few women drifting from stall to stall, followed by servants. It’s hard to imagine Katrijn, even Katrijn, running her own business among these men in velvet tunics and feathered caps. Then, in the far corner, Marte spots a large woman with a leather purse strapped across her simple gray, in an alcove stacked with shades of brown wool that the beguines have beaten and carded and spun. The guild has slapped regulations on the begijnhof—no dyes—but even from a distance you can see that their cloth has a finer weave than most. On a stool beside Katrijn is the pile of linen for the hospital. Marte starts over.
“Wait.” Ida grabs her arm, eyes wide. “I know that man. The bishop’s spy.”
Marte squints through the crowd. A slender man with a trimmed beard has slid alongside the magistra’s stall. Katrijn looks at him, eyes narrowed. She reddens. She shakes her head. Marte makes out the words on her lips.No, it’s... The view is blocked by people crossing the hall; when it clears, the man is gesturing. His back is to them. Then he’s removing his cap and pressing it to his chest. He bows.No, stop, Katrijn seems to say, digging into her purse and thrusting a handful of coins at him. The man is backing off, smiling, before he turns and melts into the crowd.
Ida is already crossing the hall. “Katrijn!”
Their new magistra looks up, startled. Her hands are tight on her purse. She looks shaken, like she’s just received very bad news. Or a threat.
“What did he want?” demands Ida.
“Oh.” Katrijn looks away, up at the wool folded on the shelves. “Altar,” she says. “Altar cloth.”
Ida’s eyes flick to Marte. “We don’t make altar cloth.”
“That’s what I told him,” says Katrijn, her face pinching. “Women are forbidden the sacred colors.”
Marte shakes her head at Ida.Don’t ask more. Not now.
That evening, Katrijn announces she can’t translate anymore, not even the begats. The demands of draper and magistra leave her no time. They’ll have to make do with rereading what scripture they have.
42
Aleys
