Before Marte can speak, Ida interjects, “I bought it. In the Markt.”
“In the Markt? When?”
Marte stares. Ida knows the words are Marte’s. Ida gives a quick shake of her head. Say nothing. “Yesterday,” says Ida.
“But I’m not translating. Who is?”
“No one knows.” Ida’s been suspicious of Katrijn, ever since the Lakenhalle, when she was evasive about the bishop’s man. Marte can’t tell if Ida’s trying to ferret something from Katrijn or just provoke her.
Katrijn brandishes the page. “This is corrupted.”
“Is it? I’m sorry. How are we to know if we can’t read Latin?” Ida stands. She puts a hand on her hip. “At least it’s new.”
The women stiffen.
“You’re criticizing me for not translating?”
“We need the word. Katrijn, you know we need the word.”
Ida, don’t, thinks Marte.You need to back down.Ida doesn’t see that Katrijn’s a fox with a foot in a trap, snarling, half mad with pain. Grief can make a person vicious. Marte knows, anyone who’s lived on a farm knows, never to confront a wounded animal. You have to sneak up on it to set it free.
“You think I can keep you safe,” snaps Katrijn. “You’re wrong. I can’t protect you if you bring this into our home.”
One of the women looks up. “Maybe we don’t want to be safe.”
Katrijn is shaking her head. “We can’t outsmart the Church.”
“Sophia did.” Ida’s eyes flash. “We were free to think when she was magistra.”
The sound of the rain seems to intensify. No one breathes.
“I’m not Sophia.” Katrijn takes a quick step toward the hearth. “I will never be Sophia.” She flicks her wrist and the parchment flies into the fire. “But I know that Sophia would never have let us read this.”
Not so, thinks Marte. Not so. She lunges for the page, too late. The parchment hovers over the flame, suspended in air, before it drifts toward the coals, where it lands gently. Tendrils of smoke rise from the center, through her letters, her very words. The edges of the parchment scroll inward and the sheet bursts into flame. My story is burning, she thinks. My true story. Marte lunges for the poker and drags the remnants to the hearth. An odor of charred parchment, of burning flesh, infuses the room.
Katrijn turns to Ida. “When you are magistra, Sister, you will make the decisions for all of us.” She plunges her handiwork back into her basket. “Until then”—she looks around—“there will be no more reading in the begijnhof.”
In the night, Ida comes to her, bearing sheets of parchment.
“Write it again, Marte,” she whispers as she sets the candle between them. “I’ll make the copies.”
49
The Bishop
The bishop sits beneath the soaring gray ribs of the cathedral of Sint-Salvator, where he’s come to think alone. Well, almost alone. His eyes stray to the cross-shaped window near the altar. The strange girl is just on the other side, praying, he supposes. He remembers her funeral, seven or maybe eight months back.If she wants to enter, then let her enter.She’d been defiant, refusing to let him administer the rites. He wonders how she likes it now, isolated in there.
Jan rubs his temples. Sometimes he envies the true believers. It would be so relaxing to believe in an all-powerful God. He wouldn’t have to stage-manage everything. He’d just trust in divine providence, like falling back on a pillow at the end of the day. All the positioning, all the politics wear him down. This morning, heralds cantered into the city to announce the progress of the papal delegation, sooner than he expected; the legate and his men will arrive in just a few months, at Midsummer. They’ll be expecting miracles, and Lukas tells him that the girl’s run dry. Jan presses his fingers into his eyebrows. There’s something wrong with his brother. Ever since he found the girl, or she found him, Lukas’s mood has taken on an excited brittle glitter, like someone fevered. Jan’s worried about him.
The bishop looks up at the cross. Maybe he should pray.Dear God, he begins, folding his hands before him.If you’re there. Is he there?If you’re listening.Look, I’ve done what I can. I put a stop to the translations.
He had Willems threaten Katrijn Janssens in the Lakenhalle, had him insinuate that the bishop would be forced to blame all translations on Sophia, would drag her name through the mud, would excommunicate her if they didn’t stop immediately. “But she’s dead,” Katrijn protested. “Doesn’t matter,” Willems said, “we’ll do it retroactively, she’ll burn in hell for all eternity.” At that, Willems recounted later, Katrijn paled. She tried to buy him off. “Blame me,” she said. Willems shrugged and gestured around the guild hall. “If only we could.”
Lord, perhaps my methods lack charity. I did what was necessary. And don’t forget that I’ve shown people miracles!Granted, they were staged, but perhaps he’d spared God the effort.There are more believers now than ever.
Please, just make the legate’s visit go smoothly. If you send me to Rome, then I won’t have to stoop to—well, the levels I’ve stooped to.
He looks up at the cross.
