The Blessing Stone (38 page)

Still, despite his distaste for visiting the convent, he had to concede that places like this served a useful purpose. Many an unwanted female was sent away to a convent to live out her life respectably, in safety and without being troublesome to their menfolk. And of course there were the creatures who preferred the company of their own kind, women who bridled at having to obey men, women who thought themselves the equal or superior to men, women who had the strange notion that they could think for themselves. Convents therefore served the purposes of both men and women alike. The abbot just wished the creatures weren’t so fanatical about cleanliness. The smell of honest sweat never hurt anyone, but Winifred and her coterie always reeked, like all highborn ladies, of sweet lavender and tansy, which they strew on their mattresses to keep fleas away.

“How was your visit to Canterbury, Father Abbot?” Mother Winifred asked, not at all interested and hoping his response would not be too long winded. She could tell by his bulging rucksack that he had brought more work for her sisters, which meant she must get to the business of preparing fresh pigments.

Edman thought so hard that he squinted. At Canterbury Cathedral he had witnessed a strange sight. Something called a play in which men dressed in costume and acted out a story. It had been held as part of the Easter services and was a new invention by the priests there. When a monk dressed as the Devil came onto the stage, the congregation had erupted in fear and fury and had nearly killed the poor man when they rushed at him. The argument went that such enactments would help people learn Bible stories more easily, but the abbot had reservations. If people could simply
watch
a story, then would they stop listening to sermons? Would educated men stop reading the Bible? Perhaps this “play” thing would not catch on. He certainly had no intention of putting on such enactments in his abbey.

He wondered if the plays were a sign of the changing times. Although, there was a day, just twenty-two years ago, when the Church had thought times were going to change so drastically as to literally herald the end of the world.

What a disappointment the millennium had turned out to be. All the buildup and hysteria, the feasts and orgies, people flocking to the abbot for confession, the suicides and doomsayers, everyone thinking Jesus was coming back and the world was about to end. And the endless debates! Do we count a thousand years from the birth of Christ, or from his death? Did the millennium mark the second coming of Christ, or the beginning of Satan’s reign? Was the Muslims’ destruction of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem a sign? But that event had occurred in 1009. Could nine years later still be the millennium? Abbot Edman, at the time a young clergyman, had joined the Peace of God movement in an effort to curb the rampaging of feudal lords. Of course, Judgment Day fever had had its benefits. A wealthy baron in the county had given all his lands and wealth to Portminster Abbey and headed off to spend millennium eve in the Vatican dressed in sackcloth and ashes. And then, the morning of January first of the year 1000—nothing. Just another cold morning with the usual aches and pains and flatulence.

“My journey went well, God be thanked,” he finally said, hoping these inanities weren’t leading up to her request to paint the blasted altarpiece again—such a tiresome subject. No matter how many times he told her that it was out of the question. Didn’t she know that to go against an abbot’s will was to go against God’s?

Of course she knew it, which was why she never disobeyed. The woman was a model of Christian compliance, although she did use the occasion of confession to sneak her little rebellions in. “I am guilty of the sin of hunger,” she would murmur through the screen in the confessional, “and wish Father Abbot would provide more food for my sisters and myself.” He would ignore the gibe and order three Our Fathers for the sin of gluttony.

But the abbot’s annoyance was tempered with pity. Poor Winifred. As soon as word had spread about the new convent and its generous amenities, there had been an embarrassing exodus of nuns, lady guests, and pupils from St. Amelia’s. But how could it be otherwise? Winifred was hardly known for her bountiful table. She was parsimonious with wood and coal, and didn’t allow pets. The lady guests often complained to him of lacking conditions. And now they were comfortably housed in the new place where fires kept out the cold and the supper table groaned with meat and wine. Poor Winifred was left here in these drafty rooms with a meager, loyal following. Were it not for their continued production of fabulous illuminations, he would have closed down this old place long ago.

Dame Mildred had baked honeyed oatcakes, a much needed healthful treat for the sisters. But because the pantry was low on both oats and honey, she had made precisely eleven walnut-size cakes, one for each of the sisters and one for Andrew, the caretaker. Since she could not allow Mother Prioress the embarrassment of not offering something to the abbot, she brought the plate out, thinking that she would sacrifice her own oat cake that the abbot might know their hospitality. To her shock, and to Mother Winifred’s, the Abbot scooped up three of the cakes at once and popped them into his mouth. They watched his jaw and cheeks work away at the precious oats and honey, and when he gave a great swallow, reached for three more. The cakes were gone in no time and Mother Winifred was filled with outrage.

As Father Edman washed down the rather tasteless cakes with a cup of weak ale, he did not miss the glance exchanged between the two women. He ignored it. The abbot made no apologies for his appetite, for he believed that God wanted his servants to be well fed. How could he expect to make converts to Christianity if he were a scarecrow himself? Would not the pagan say, “How good can your Christ be if he lets his children starve?” And Abbot Edman was serious in his evangelizing, for although England had all the outward markings of Christendom, the Abbot was only too aware that many folk still worshipped trees and stone circles. Ancient superstitions and heathen ways lay beneath a very thin surface of pretended piety and so the fight for men’s souls was a never-ending battle. He saw himself as Christ’s warrior, and everyone knew that soldiers must eat.

Wiping his fingers on his habit, he got down to the business at hand and reached into his carrying bag for the new pages that needed capital letters. He had also brought a book for Winifred to illuminate—it was yet another sign of the changing times that people other than the clergy were starting to show an interest in books. “The patron wishes to have his picture on the front page, dressed in armor and seated atop his horse with shield and jousting staff. He wishes his lady to be illustrated at the beginning of one of the psalms.”

Winifred nodded. This was a common request. She usually chose Psalm 101 for a gentleman’s lady. In Latin it began with the letter “D,” which lent just the right shape and room for a human figure. Plus the opening phrase, translated into English, was, “I will sing of your love,” which the ladies always liked.

Although a variety of books was currently being illuminated in England and Europe, from Gospels and liturgical books to works from the Old Testament and the collections of ancient authors copied from Carolingian copyists, Father Edman’s regional specialty was psalters—psalm books—decorated with biblical scenes and of a quality found nowhere else in England, thanks to Winifred. The decoration was executed in a lively style, with human figures in animated postures and wearing fluttering draperies. Since Winifred had been schooled as a girl by an artist trained in the Winchester style of illumination, her artwork was manifested in rich blue and green coloring, sumptuous borders of leaf ornamentation and animals, but she had also added her own trademark style in the spiral patterns, interlacing, knotwork, and intertwined animals reminiscent of Celtic metalwork.

Competition among the book-producing centers was fierce, each rival abbey or cathedral wanting its books to be the most popular among kings and nobles. But illumination manufacture was slow, with most cathedrals and monasteries producing only two books a year. It was one of Edman’s predecessors who had hit upon the idea of putting the nuns of St. Amelia’s to work, for with their smaller hands, keener eyesight, and gift for detail, they could labor over capital letters while the monks churned out the main text. Pride had kept that former abbot from revealing that the artwork was done by women and so everyone thought it was the monks of Portminster Abbey who produced such miraculous artwork and at such phenomenal speeds. “They work at the speed of God,” the abbot liked to say.

But now there was a problem: no new novices were coming to St. Amelia’s and the original artist-nuns were dying off. It was the bishop who had come up with a solution. And a reasonable and brilliant solution it was, Edman thought, but he knew Winifred would not see it that way.

He had to move carefully next, for he had no idea how she was going to react to what he had to say. There was that rebellious streak in her to be minded. If he did not handle her with care, all could be lost. And the abbot was an ambitious man. To govern an abbey was a measure of success, to be sure, but he felt destined for greater things. A new cathedral was being built at Portminster, which meant a bishop would be installed there. Father Edman intended to be that bishop. But much of his success depended upon Winifred’s continued production of illuminations.

While the abbot had been devouring cakes meant to feed eleven, Winifred sent for the completed manuscripts to be brought to the Chapter House. Edman now examined them. As always, the colors were breathtaking and alive. He could swear that if you touched the red you would feel a pulse, that if you sniffed the yellow you would smell buttercups. The abbot found it a strange irony that Winifred herself should be so dour and colorless while her creations were breathtakingly vibrant.

He did not praise the work—he never did, and Winifred never expected it. But she saw the admiration nonetheless in his eyes and felt a moment of pride. Therefore she thought this would be a good time to bring up her request once more to paint an altarpiece.

He patiently listened to her explanation—“I wish to give St. Amelia something in return for all she has given me”—but he already intended to turn her down. Edman couldn’t afford to have Winifred take on a project that would take months—precious time stolen from teaching young nuns how to do illuminations.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound as if he had given her request serious thought. “I am sure St. Amelia feels you have done enough in her service all these years, Mother Prioress.”

“Then why can I not stop thinking about the altarpiece? It is in my mind day and night.”

“Perhaps you need to pray on it,” he suggested.

“I have done, and the only response I seem to get is more thoughts about the altarpiece. I even dream of it now. I feel the hand of God directing me.”

He pursed his lips. This was dangerous thinking, that a woman take her orders directly from God. What if
all
women got this notion? Then wives would not obey husbands, daughters would not obey fathers and society would be thrown into chaos.

“As it turns out, Mother Prioress, St. Amelia’s will not have any use for an altarpiece.”

Her nearly nonexistent eyebrows arched. “How so?”

“I am afraid,” he cleared his throat again, nervously this time, “that St. Amelia’s is to be closed down.”

She stared at him. Silence descended over the chapter house. Through heavy doors came the sound of whispering footsteps. Finally she said, “What do you mean?”

He stiffened his spine. “I mean, Mother Winifred, that these old buildings are beyond redemption and a waste of good money to attempt repairs. I have conferred with the Bishop and he agrees that you and your sisters should be relocated to the Convent of the True Cross and this place closed up.”

“But our work—the illuminations.”

“That will carry on, of course. And you will teach your skills to a younger generation of nuns that they can continue the tradition.”

She went numb. Of all the possible bad news she had anticipated, this had not even brushed her mind. “And what of St. Amelia?”

“She will be given her own chapel in the new cathedral at Portminster.”

The hour was late, the chapel stood empty and silent, except for a lone figure illuminated by the flickering of a single candle. Winifred, on her knees.

She had never known such despair. The day that had started out with so much color and promise was now as bleak as an English winter. To be moved from the only home she knew! To have to start, at this late stage in her life, to teach a lifetime of skills and knowledge to young girls. To have to tell her own dear, elderly sisters that they were to be relocated to unfamiliar lodgings where they were going to have to adjust, after years of familiar routine, to new ways and customs. How could such a thing have come to pass? Did not decades of servitude count for anything?

But the worst, oh the worst, was to be separated from her blessed saint.

For most of her life Winifred had prayed daily to St. Amelia. She never started or ended a day without a dialogue with Amelia. Winifred had never traveled far from the priory because she didn’t like to go far from her saint. It was Amelia who gave her wisdom and strength. Amelia was more than a woman who had died a thousand years ago, she was the mother Winifred had barely known, the daughter she never had, the sisters she had buried in the church graveyard. And now, as she sat alone in the chapel amid flickering candlelight and silent stone walls, Winifred was being forced to say good-bye. She felt as if she sat at the brink of a great, terrifying abyss.

“Father Abbot,” she had managed to say when she recovered from hearing the shocking news, “I have lived here for over four decades. I know no other home. Here was where blessed St. Amelia gifted me with my talent for painting. How can I leave? If I am separated from St. Amelia I shall lose my gift.”

“Nonsense,” the abbot had said. “Your gift comes from God. And you can still visit St. Amelia at the cathedral now and then.”