Ophelia (31 page)

"Then give me some of this divine medicine, and pray do not tell anyone. I am hated already. Marguerite says that my visions are evil and shuns me as if I am a demon," she says.

I wonder if Marguerite's pride makes her despise the lowly Therese, or if she is jealous of her visions.

"Perhaps you should be more secret and guard your Lord from shame," I say, for I am learning to speak her pious language. "Do not expose him to the mockery of those who do not believe."

"Yes, you are right," she says, her voice growing desperate with fear and longing. "Count Durufle has a honor of witchcraft. If he hears that my visions do not abate, he may appeal to Bishop Garamond, who will force me to leave, if he does not put me to trial. I have nowhere to go. These visions I share with you—I beg you to be silent about them!"

I consider that Therese may be deluded, for who would accuse her of such an evil as witchcraft? Perhaps her fears as well as her faith are a sign of madness. But I, too, am afraid of the power others hold over me. If we are mad, then we are safe, but if our fears prove true, we are both lost.

"I promise to tell no one about your visions," I say to calm her.

In the warm bakery, steam rises from the laundry, and sleeves and skirt folds that were stiff with frost now hang limp. I decide to infuse the headache potion with a poppy seed extract to calm Therese and bring her rest. My aim is to reduce her visions, not to make them more intense. I do not tell Therese, but reveal my treatment and its purpose to Mother Ermentrude.

May God forgive me for these deceits.

Chapter 43

There are no idle hours at St. Emilion. No one, from the youngest novice to the prioress, is excused from kitchen work. According to the rule, all are called to serve each other. Yesterday Mother Ermentrude herself cleaned and dried all the trenchers and spoons. I have even seen her on her knees, scrubbing the floor with rags.

A tower of strength, she is firm and does not yield, except in loving. When the sisters say the prayer of the Virgin,
I am the mother of beautiful love, and of fear, and of greatness, and of holy hope,
I picture Mother Ermentrude. Her convent is a place of chaste simplicity, with none of the luxuries whispered of in some nunneries: eating from gold plates, drinking wine, entertaining men, and neglecting the hours for prayer. Mother is not only virtuous and thrifty, but wise. I marvel how she led me to understand that it was not marriage to Christ that I desired, but sisterhood. My work now ties me to the nuns more firmly than a pledge to share their poverty. I am glad to do Mother's will without a formal vow of obedience. She asks nothing beyond what is just and reasonable, and she waits with patience for me to reveal my secrets.

My thoughts this wintry day are hopeful ones, as Angelina, Isabel, Marguerite, and I prepare a broth together. The kitchen is a warm refuge from the cold, and here the air is sharp with the yeasty smell of bread. Holding a knife, I contemplate a rabbit carcass slung over a hook on the wall, waiting to be cut open and skinned for the stew. I wait to ask for advice, while Angelina relates some new transgression of Durufle's lazy steward and Isabel chatters about the icy weather. It still surprises me how much the sisters love to talk. If their prayer is like plainsong, chanted in unison, their work is like harmony, a bright medley of voices.

Marguerite, more comfortable behind Mother Ermentrude's desk than in a messy kitchen, waits to be given a task. I see her take a ripe pear from a bowl and hide it within her habit. No doubt she will savor it later, when she is alone. Watching her, I wonder if she, too, is guarding some greater secret. She looks at me sharply, daring me to reveal her small theft. Her brows arch over pale green eyes. Surely her hair beneath her wimple is as yellow as the marguerite's petals. But her beauty often seems at odds with her piety. It is her habit, like a self-anointed preacher, to choose a moral tale from her memory and tell it to those nearby, whether or not they wish to hear it. I have heard Isabel say she is more strict than Count Durufle himself.

"Today is the feast of Agnes," Marguerite begins when Angelina finishes her complaints against the steward. "Which reminds me of poor Agnes of Lille, who once lived among us."

"Do not remind us," says Angelina, wiping her brow. "We know the story well. See to the parsnips now." I see Isabel lift her eyebrows and look upward as if praying for patience, and I almost laugh, for I did the same when my father lectured me.

"But Ophelia does not know of Agnes," says Marguerite, turning to me with a pretended graciousness, as if she would introduce me to a friend.

"Oh, please spare us!" begs Isabel, unable to find the patience to keep silent. But Marguerite will not be deterred. Does she think herself a princess who can disregard the will of others?

"Agnes took her vows at Pentecost, and seemed a veritable angel as she sang in the choir. But she deceived us. By the Feast of All Saints, she was heavy with child."

"The parsnips!" Angelina interrupts, impatient. Marguerite pauses long enough to fetch them. I concentrate on the rabbit, having decided to cut it open myself. Blood from its inner parts oozes between my fingers.

"Mother Ermentrude did not even consult the bishop, but wasted no time in expelling her from our midst," she goes on. "The girl married a blacksmith from the village, but it was said the child's father was her confessor, a monk."

Though I feel Marguerite's eyes on me, I do not look up. Is she trying to draw out my secrets? Does she somehow know of my condition and judge me a sinner? Perhaps I was wrong not to confide in Mother Ermentrude. I must go to her at once and confess the truth. I will pray that she believes me and does not cast me out like Agnes.

"It was the only time such shame fell upon St. Emilion," Marguerite says to conclude the tale. Then she crosses herself and delivers the moral that all such tales carry: "We ought to thank God for our vocation. What a blessing it is not to be a creature of passion like poor Agnes."

My bloody hands shake with the effort, but I cannot stop my angry words from spilling out.

"And what of the monk? Did he offer to share her guilt?"

Marguerite looks confused by my question.

"Are not men also creatures of passion?" I demand. "Do they not beg, force, and sometimes deceive women into yielding their virtue? Women do not sin this way alone, you know."

Marguerite falls back as if I have struck her. She is speechless and her pale skin is as white as the flesh of the raw-cut parsnip. Is my anger so terrible? Or have I touched some deep fear within her, some wound or scar?

It is Isabel who speaks, seeking peace.

"All of us are sinners. It is not the purity of the body, but the integrity of the mind, that best pleases our Lord," she says.

"And if the dear Lord can forgive me for all the times I wished my husband dead," said Angelina, crossing herself, "surely he has forgiven poor Agnes her sin."

Seeing by my trembling hands that I am in danger of cutting myself, Isabel takes the rabbit and the knife from me. With five swift strokes, she cuts it into pieces and adds them to the steaming broth.

"But our Savior is much more pleased with a bride whose virgin seal is unbroken by man," Marguerite persists. "Is he not?" Her voice rises, sounding uncertain.

"You forget, Marguerite, that most women do bring children into the world. You and I were born of women," Isabel says gently. "Indeed, what would befall mankind if all young girls were to join our ranks?"

"There would be no more virgins born!" Angelina offers, with a hearty burst of laughter.

Smiling, Isabel spreads her hands to emphasize the point. Marguerite, defeated, presses her lips together and says no more.

I realize then that I love Isabel, my champion. She has been my steady friend, like Horatio to his Hamlet. How can I continue to deceive her when she loyally defends me? I will confide in her at once and ask her advice about approaching Mother Ermentrude with my secret, lest Marguerite expose it first.

That very night I seek her out and find her kneeling in her cell, praying before a simple icon. I change my mind and begin to withdraw.

"Ophelia, come back. I will leave off my prayers at once. See, I lay down my book. Now tell me, what troubles you?"

Without any preamble, my words come in a torrent.

"Isabel, my friend, I know that I can trust you as I have never trusted anyone." I sink to my knees beside her, while she leans back on her heels in surprise. "Hear me now, for I can no longer keep my story a secret." I grasp Isabel's hand, and her eyes grow wade with expectation. "I loved a man who was forbidden to me. I enjoyed his caresses, then married him in secret. He renounced me and now he is dead. All of my family is dead." My voice caught on these words, but I went on. "I am without a home, forever alienated. Though I am not a nun like you, I also died to the world in coming here."

Speaking these long-held secrets brings intense relief, like the shedding of a heavy cloak in summer.

"There is no shame in being a widow," Isabel says. "Why have you concealed the fact that you had a husband?"

"Because I cannot name him, therefore all would think me a liar, a sinner trying to hide her shame," I explain. "But my story is still more complex. I have taken part in such a drama as would only be believed on a stage, a tragedy ending in the death of kings and princes."

"I know some of this," says Isabel slowly.

A cry of surprise escapes me. "How?"

"I read the letter that came to you from the man named Horatro, after you fell senseless and it dropped from your hand," she confesses. "I knew you wanted to disguise yourself, so to help you stay unknown, I hid it."

I am both amazed and relieved at this news. I watch Isabel go to her cot and reach deep within the mattress to produce Horatio's letter. She hands it to me, and meeting her eyes, I know the knowledge is locked within her, that she has not told anyone.

"So you know how I have suffered in love, and that all is lost to me." Still I dare not name Hamlet, though Isabel must know of him.

"Yes. Considering your terrible grief, I also took away your dagger, fearing you might harm yourself with it." She shrugs and smiles faintly. "Not knowing where to put it, I buried it in the cemetery. Will you forgive me?"

"There is no need for me to forgive you, for you are an angel," I say. "But now I must tell you how I have been punished for my rash loving."

Isabel hushes me and puts her arms around me. Tears burst from me, for I have not touched anyone so nearly since I bade farewell to Gertrude. I do not want to let Isabel go. But soon she draws away, and her hand caresses briefly the small, firm mound of my belly. As her eyes meet mine, I see complete understanding there.

"This is no punishment, Ophelia, but a blessing," she says, touching my belly again. Her eyes shine with joy.

"Yes, I am to bear a child!" I cry. "I confess it was conceived in delight, and I grieve to think that it will be born into misery!" I think of Agnes's misfortune, Marguerite's seeming malice, and the certainty of Mother Ermentrude's justice. What will befall me, now that my long-held secret has been brought from the darkness into the plain, full light of day?

Chapter 44

Buried beneath winter's white blanket, tiny snowdrops unfold their hardy green leaves. In patches where the snow has melted, they thrust their bell-shaped blooms to the sun. Soon the pointed shoots of the playful daffadowndillies will break the frozen ground. At Easter time, their frilled yellow trumpets will proclaim spring's annual triumph over winter.

Wrapped in my father's cloak and warmed from within by the babe's heat, I do not feel the cold. Despite my heavy belly, my steps are light, lifted with new hopes. All the nuns now know my secret. Voting in chapter, they have decided that I may remain among them. Now there is no reason to hide my awkward shape.

Mother Ermentrude summons me and in brief terms informs me of the decision.

"Your confinement draws near, and your need is great, thus we will aid you. Isabel did testify to your virtue, though whether you are married or not is no matter now."