The Blessing Stone (37 page)

As in all convents in England, membership was open only to noblewomen. Middle-class women had little hope of being allowed to join, and peasant women had no chance at all. Winifred would have liked to open the sisterhood to middle-class women of means and vocation, and perhaps even to the occasional worthy peasant girl. But those were the rules and she could not change them. St. Amelia’s was also equipped to take resident schoolgirls—daughters of wealthy barons—there to learn embroidery, etiquette, and, those with liberal-minded fathers, to read and write Latin and work basic sums so that they could someday capably run a household. St. Amelia’s also used to house widows with money and no place to go and women seeking sanctuary from abusive husbands or fathers who could afford to stay there—a feminine haven, free of men and male dominance.

They had once been a thriving community of nearly sixty souls. Now there were only eleven, including Mother Winifred herself. The rest were seven veiled sisters, two elderly noblewomen who had been there for too many years to move to the new convent, and Andrew the elderly caretaker, raised at the convent from infancy when he had been left at the gate in a basket.

It was because of the new convent ten miles away, built five years ago and housing a relic far more important than the bones of a saint, that St. Amelia’s was dying. The other convent was attracting the novices, lady guests, schoolgirls in search of instruction, pilgrims, and travelers, all filling the rooms and money coffers of the Convent of the True Cross. Winifred tried not to think of the empty writing desks in her scriptorium, the inkwells long since gone dry, and the remaining sisters who toiled over the illuminations and who, like herself, were growing old. The priory of St. Amelia had lost pupils and novices to the Convent of the True Cross because there had been reports of miraculous healings over there: wives getting pregnant, barons coming into fortunes. The abbot had told Winifred that it had been a long time since St. Amelia had performed a miracle. But Winifred thought Amelia performed miracles every day—just look at the illuminations!

Nonetheless, the pilgrims had stopped coming. How could one compete with the True Cross? Pilgrims rarely visited
both
shrines—when one treks many miles for a blessing or a cure, one will choose a splinter from the tree of Christ’s suffering over the bones of a woman—and so St. Amelia’s was bypassed more and more each year.

And finally, who could compete with youth and wealth? Winifred was in her fifties with no family left. When her rich and politically connected brother had still been alive, her place was secure. But he was dead now, her sisters and brothers-in-law all dead, her family penniless and just about gone. The new convent, however, was supported by the new prioress’s father, Oswald of Mercia, who was very rich and very generous. And of course, it had the full support of the abbey.

Portminster Abbey, set high on a hill overlooking the small town of Portminster and the River Fenn, had its origins in a Roman garrison established in 84
C.E.
on the east coast of England that had grown into a port town aptly named Portus, famous for its protected harbor and trade in eels, an industry that continued into Winifred’s day. In the fourth century, the remains of St. Amelia had been brought from Rome to Portminster by Christians seeking refuge from persecution by Emperor Diocletian. A group of hermit monks, living in a
monasterium
outside of Portus, embraced the fugitive saint and gave her refuge. Over the centuries Anglo-Saxon influence corrupted the word
“monasterium”
to
“mynster,”
and when a newly built church went up, it was given the name Portus Mynster. In the year 822, Danes pillaged and burned Portminster, but the remains of St. Amelia were once again rescued and hidden away in a small community of holy sisters who lived in a priory that hugged the end of a forgotten Roman road.

A century later, when Benedictine monks arrived and built an abbey at Portminster, there was debate over what to do with the bones of St. Amelia. Finally, it was decided they should be allowed to remain at the modest priory because by then a reputation had already been established about the miracles the blessed saint performed, drawing pilgrims and visitors from far and wide. Patron saint of chest ailments, Amelia was said to cure everything from pneumonia to heart failure—some even went so far as to declare that the blessed saint cured other afflictions of the heart, namely lovesickness. As a result, the priory had grown in fame and wealth. At the same time Portminster Abbey, which was eight miles away and governed the priory, had gained a stunning reputation of its own for producing exquisite illuminated manuscripts.

As the nuns sang the religious chant for terce Winifred’s eyes strayed to the altar where the small reliquary containing St. Amelia’s bones stood. She pictured her imagined altarpiece behind it: a triptych of three wooden panels with gilt edging, each four arms’ lengths tall, three arms’ lengths wide. In the first she would depict Amelia’s conversion to Christianity; in the second her missions to the sick and poor; and lastly, Amelia clasping her bosom as she commanded her heart to stop in her breast before the Roman soldiers could force her to denounce her faith.

Winifred’s eyes moved up to the dusty scaffolding that embraced the ceiling above the altar. The struts and braces had been erected five years earlier, when the abbot had promised roof repairs. However, with the opening of the new convent, and all of Oswald’s money pouring in that direction, the abbot had seen this repair project as a waste and it was called off. But the workmen had left the wooden scaffolding, and to Winifred its presence was almost a mockery.

As the sisters lifted their voices in the
“Salve Regina,”
Winifred glimpsed a shadow on the other side of the screen meant to separate civilians from the nuns. It was Andrew. “The abbot’s at the end of the path,” he said quietly, his eyes round with worry.

“Thank you, Andrew,” she murmured. “Go and admit him through the gate.”

Leaving the sisters at their song, Winifred hurried across the cloister to the kitchen where a gray-haired woman in a plain gown was stirring porridge over a fire. She was Dame Mildred, who had come to the convent twenty-five years earlier upon the death of her husband. As none of her children had survived to adulthood, and her own relations were dead and buried, she had adopted the community of nuns as her family. When her fortune ran out and she could no longer pay for her keep, she happily took up duties as cook, and had long since forgotten that she had once been a knight’s lady. “We shall need ale for the abbot,” Winifred said. “And something to eat.”

“Dear me, why has he come? It is too soon!”

Although Dame Mildred had been given an order to fetch ale, she left her station and followed Winifred to the visitor’s gate where they both anxiously watched the abbot’s approach.

“Reverend Mother!” Mildred said in sudden joy. “Look! Father Abbot brings a brace of pheasants!” Her face fell. “No, ’tis but one pheasant. There are eleven of us, hardly enough to go around, and if the bishop should decide to sup with us…”

“Do not worry. We shall manage.”

Mother Winifred watched the abbot’s progress as he rode his fine horse down the garden path. She could tell by his posture that her fears had been justified. The abbot carried more than holy books in his rucksack. He also carried bad news.

“God’s blessings upon you, Mother Prioress,” he called out as he dismounted his fine horse.

“And upon you, Father Abbot.” Mother Winifred eyed the paltry pheasant, thinking that there would be no generous supper tonight, while at the same time the abbot discreetly sniffed the air but detected no enticing cooking aromas. He remembered a day when he could look forward to Winifred’s famous
blankmanger,
which she personally made from chicken paste blended with boiled rice, almond milk, sugar, and anise. She used to cook delicious fish dumplings and fritters that made one’s eyes water. And her plum tarts…He sighed at the memories. Sadly, those days were gone. Now, if he stayed to dine, he could expect stale bread, thin soup, wilted cabbage, and beans that would make him fart into next week.

Together they entered the chapter house with stomachs growling.

As they walked they spoke of the weather and other inconsequential things, “roundabout topics,” as the prioress thought of them, for she knew the abbot well enough to know when he was putting off distasteful news, and while they talked Winifred’s keen eye did not miss the fact that the abbot was wearing new robes. His cloak, though black, fairly dazzled in the sun, as did the shiny spot on his scalp where his hair had been shaved for a tonsure. She also noticed that his girth had expanded since she last saw him, a mere two weeks ago.

But foremost on her mind was the purpose of this unexpected visit, the subject he was avoiding. He needn’t bother, she already knew what the bad news was: there would be no repairs to the roof again this year. She and her sisters were to suffer another winter of buckets and pans and soaked beds.

Perhaps she could turn this dismal visit to her advantage. Delivering such disappointing news, the abbot could hardly follow it up with a refusal of her request to paint the altarpiece. She would appeal to whatever grain of charity dwelled in his heart.

Winifred believed in the Bible to the letter, but with room for interpretation. While she believed that God had created men
first,
she didn’t believe he had created them
smarter.
Nonetheless, she had taken vows of obedience and so obey the abbot she would—within reason. If he could not give her a new roof, then he must acquiesce on the subject of the altarpiece. She deserved that much consideration. At nearly sixty Winifred was one of the oldest women she knew. She was in fact older than most men she knew—older certainly than Father Abbot—and she thought that this alone entitled her to special privilege.

As they entered the chapter house, a drafty hall furnished with straight backed chairs and dominated by an enormous sooty fireplace, Winifred asked the abbot if he had brought willow bark tea. “It is not the first time I have made this request, Father Abbot.”

As he lowered his bulk into the one comfortable chair, the abbot wondered if Winifred wore her wimple too tight or if her face was naturally pinched like that. Then he caught a glimpse of her hands and could tell by the blue-black stains that she had spent the morning gathering woad leaves. The shrubby broad-leafed herb, which contained the raw material of a blue dyestuff, was an excellent substitute for the imported Indian indigo that went into the nuns’ pigments but which was rare and expensive.

“You must not think of your comfort, Mother Winifred,” he chastised gently.

Her lips firmed into a hard line. “I was thinking of Sister Agatha’s arthritis. The pain is so bad she can hardly hold a paintbrush. If my sisters cannot paint…” she said, leaving the threat to hang in the air.

“Very well. I shall send willow bark tea as soon as I return to the abbey.”

“And meat. My sisters need to eat. They need their strength to work,” she said significantly.

He scowled. He knew what she was up to. Winifred had a way of holding her illuminations hostage in exchange for creature comforts. But he was in no bargaining position. Demand for the illuminations was growing, although he took great care not to let Winifred know this.

It would be incorrect to say that Abbot Edman hated women. He simply saw no purpose to them and wondered why God, in His infinite wisdom, had chosen to create such an adversarial means for reproducing His children. For Edman was convinced that men and women would never, into eternity, learn to get along. If it were not for women, Adam would have stayed in Eden and all men would be living in Paradise right now. Unfortunately, England was no paradise and this convent fell under his purview as abbot of Portminster and so it was his duty to pay regular visits. But he never lingered, getting the business over with and departing as quickly as politeness allowed.

As he tried to relax in this thoroughly feminine atmosphere—why did women have such a frivolous passion for flowers?—he thought of the brothers in his order who had difficulty holding to their vow of celibacy. Edman was celibate, although as a priest it was not required of him. Most priests were married, which was beyond his comprehension, and more amazing was the incident back in 964 when Bishop Ethelwold gave the married priests at Winchester Cathedral the choice of keeping their wives or their jobs, and to a man they chose their wives. Celibacy had never been a problem for Edman because he had never had any desire to enter into a carnal state with a female, and it was completely beyond his comprehension why any man of reason would want to. Born into poverty with only the vaguest memories of his mother and orphaned early upon the death of his fisherman father, Edman had survived in the port town by wit and cunning, and allowing himself to be used as a work animal by farm women and fishwives. He had received more undeserved clouts to his head than he could count, which taught him that there was no compassion or tenderness in any woman alive. It was only the kindness of a local priest, who taught him to read and write, that had rescued Edman from a life of humiliation and grinding desperation. He entered the holy orders and with ambition, a quick mind, and the ability to make the right friends, had climbed the clerical ladder until he now headed an illustrious abbey and a prosperous order of Benedictine scribes.

Thus he chafed at these obligatory visits to St. Amelia’s priory. Certainly it could be carried out by an underling, and he had in fact once sent one of his subordinates to the convent to pick up an illuminated manuscript. Mother Winifred had been so affronted that she had said the manuscript wasn’t finished and as much as insinuated that it would not be until the abbot himself came to collect it. The creature had a strange way of being obedient and defiant at the same time. But on some issues Edman stood firm—her request to paint an altarpiece, for instance—and on this she acquiesced to his orders. Thank God, for the abbot could not spare the time she would spend on St. Amelia when her arts were needed to fill the growing demand for illuminations.