“Viper’s venom.” She has no patience for games. Is he serious?
“Yes.” He pauses, like it’s obvious.
“I don’t understand.”
“The poison is the cure. You see, don’t you?”
“No.”
“To honor our vows, we must break them.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You have spoken of it yourself,” he says. “You have the answer.”
He waits as though he expects the answer to come to her. She has no idea what he means. But the skin at the base of her neck has started to crawl.
The curtain stirs with his breath. “Union,” he whispers.
Deep inside her, a warning bell starts a wild clanging, her heart bashing against her ribs.
“Father, I don’t understand you.” Though she does. She wants him away, out of her parlor. Suddenly, she wants that more than anything in the world. She wants to be alone.
“I must pray,” she says. She shuts the window and slides the bolt, hard.
55
The Bishop
The papal delegation arrives beneath bright banners under a blazing sun. Jan Smet bows low, ushers them into the deep shadow of his manor. “Rest well,” he tells them. “Tomorrow you will witness wonders.”
In the late afternoon, he’s surprised when a servant announces a visitor at the door. “She refuses to leave, sir.” Jan looks out the window. It’s the Janssens widow, the begijnhof magistra. He hurries down himself. He doesn’t want her anywhere near the legate, doesn’t want the delegation to think he tolerates such women.Out, out,he gestures. “Go away. Whatever it is can wait.”
“I need to tell you,” she says. “It’s not me. The new Dutch scripture in the Markt. They’re not mine.” She is pale, clenching her hands before her. “I swear to you I stopped. I kept my end of the bargain. I beg you, Your Grace.” She drops her gaze. “Whatever you do, don’t blame Sophia. Don’t excommunicate my sister for my sins.”
He’s never seen her humbled. It’s a bit disturbing. And what is this about new translations? He glances up. The legate could look out the window at any moment. “Away with you.”
“But ...”
“Such matters are decided by men of God, not women of the begijnhof. You are trying my patience. Don’t try my mercy.” He shoos her away with his hands. “Begone. Don’t return.” Jan watches her back recede across the plaza. “Willems!” he shouts.
56
Aleys
Midsummer Eve. Torches illuminate the amber window as revelers make their way through the town, casting strange flickering shadows on her walls. A crew of men sing-shout in slurred voices, “Some be brown and some be white, and some of them be cherry ripe.” The words fade as they turn the corner, but Aleys’s mind finishes the verse: “Yet all they be not so.” The carousing fades away. A part of Aleys follows them to the landing, where they’ll light a bonfire to ward off demons that roam free on this night when the sun turns south.
She thinks of the beguines singing the Canticle tonight, if they still dance to tambourine and flute. Was that just a year ago? She remembers Sophia bending toward the harpist, whispering in her ear. It will be Katrijn now. Who will sing Cecilia’s part? Even Marte will be dancing with them tonight. It seems her allegiance to Ida and the other beguines outweighs her skepticism of Katrijn. Just this afternoon she told Aleys she was thinking of taking the gray dress.
Longing constricts Aleys’s throat. Though Sophia is gone, though Ida may sing solo, Aleys wishes she was in the company of women tonight. Midsummer is no night to be alone.
She thinks of Finn. The monks will be fasting to atone for the town’s festive excesses and to fend off evil spirits, but at least they have each other. She wonders if Finn thinks of her; he hasn’t returned to her parlor since his surprise visit in spring.
The bells of Matins fade. She clasps her hands before her, presses her forehead into them.Venite, exultamus Domino, she begins. These small hours were once her favorite, a solitary communion while the town slumbered and she sang glory unto the darkness. It was at Matins that she most felt the comfort of his presence.In his hand are all the corners of the earth, and the strength of hills is his also.She sang romance to the night skies.As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.Now he no longer answers her, and though she reaches, tonight she feels no joy. She can’t even rid the revelers’ smutty song from her mind. She sighs and thinks of Job’s words:I am a brother to dragons and a companion to owls.She keeps company with foul creatures, doubt and despair.
The outer door groans.
Not again. Someone’s entered her parlor. Aleys sighs heramen. It will be a carouser booted out by his wife. She should have known this night would know no peace. Aleys shoots her thoughts into the other room.Go home.She hears a clatter as the man stumbles into the table.Get out. Aleys rises to check the bolt on the parlor window. Her heart stops. The shutter is outlined by light, the way sun rims the clouds. The fool has carried a torch into her parlor. A tendril of burning tar reaches her nostrils. Her eyes begin to water. She imagines the cushion on the chair smoldering, the tablecloth igniting, the curtain catching, smoke curving around her shutters, filling her cell. She looks at Kat, who sits alert, ears pressed back. He could escape through the squint, but she ... If she shouts, would anyone hear?Get the idiot out of here—please, God, get him out. Aleys presses her hands against the shutter, willing him away. Her movement seems only to draw the man closer, his breathing fast and urgent just the other side of the shutter. “Go away!” she says. “Leave a holy woman in peace.” The man fumbles with the parlor curtain, tearing it aside, and pounds his fist into the wood. The shutter slams against its bolt. Kat jumps from the cot, back arched. The visitor bangs again, and bright light bursts around the edges of the shutter.
