The Copper Sign (19 page)

The nun also fleetingly touched her breasts—apparently part of her job was to check and see that Ellen actually was a girl. “Perhaps we should go in, what do you think?” The sister shone the light first on Ellen and then on Claire, and then she turned to Jacques.

“You look like you are still a growing boy. You must be hungry.”

Jacques nodded vigorously.

“Well, then I’ll tell the sister in the kitchen to give you a good-size portion of food.”

Jacques grinned, overjoyed.

“Say thank you, lad,” his mother whispered.

Though he was just as tall as Sister Agnes, she tousled his hair as if he were a little child.

“Open the gate, Sister Clementine,” she called out loudly. “We have guests for the night.”

The gatekeeper shoved aside the heavy iron bolt and carefully opened the gate.

Ellen noticed that she was larger and stronger than Sister Agnes, and presumably that was the reason she had been chosen to serve as gatekeeper. But in spite of her size, she also seemed more anxious than her delicate fellow sister.

“A girl in men’s clothing,” the gatekeeper mumbled to herself, shaking her head. “Never heard of anything like that.”

Ellen and Claire exchanged brief glances and followed the two nuns along a narrow corridor as the flickering light from their lanterns cast fitful shadows along the walls.

“We will inform Mother Superior of your arrival. She’ll certainly want to meet you later, but I suggest for now that you come along with me,” said Sister Agnes, turning to Ellen as they came to a flight of stairs. Then she turned to Claire and Jacques, saying, “You go with Sister Clementine, who will give you something to eat and show you where you can sleep.

“Sister Clementine, would you please be so kind as to ask the sister in the kitchen to prepare an especially large portion for our young guest?” said Sister Agnes, winking at Jacques. “I promised him that.”

“As you wish, dear sister.” The gatekeeper lowered her eyes submissively. “Are you sure you’ll be able to manage by yourself?”

Sister Agnes reassured her with a nod and opened the door to the cloister’s sickroom.

Two torches were burning along the walls, giving the group enough light to find their way. The room was clean and smelled of herbs. Ellen’s gaze fell on a table with a bowl and a pitcher standing on it and two chairs at the sides. Along the wall there was a shelf containing earthen pots of different sizes, two baskets, and underneath it two large drawers full of wickerwork baskets. Ellen’s right eye was badly swollen and throbbing, but she kept looking around nonetheless. In front, along the wall, there were two low wooden beds with a curtain that could be drawn between them. Someone was lying in the bed farthest away, and Sister Agnes led Ellen over to it.

“Sister Berthe, don’t be alarmed,” she whispered. “We have guests tonight.”

After a moment, the woman turned around, groaning. Ellen had never seen such a withered face. The old woman seemed weak and could scarcely speak, but her eyes radiated kindness and wisdom. She nodded with difficulty and held a trembling hand out to Ellen.

Ellen reached out timidly to take her gnarled fingers, patting them gently, and then placed the old woman’s hand softly back on the sheet that was covering her.

Even now, she wore a veil, and not a single strand of her presumably white hair protruded.

“Sister Berthe is the oldest sister in our convent and hasn’t been able to stand for years. We moved her from her cell to this sickroom so she does not have to be alone so much. I spend most of my time here, and while I am working I tell her about the homilies and prayers of Mother Superior, about the novitiates, and about the few pupils we have. I also explain to her the effects of herbal medicines, what I learn from my studies, and whatever other news there may be. We rarely have visitors here.” Sister Agnes lovingly caressed the cheeks of Sister Berthe, but she had gone back to sleep again and was snoring softly. “But now tell me about yourself. What happened?”

“I was attacked,” Ellen said, her speech unclear because of her swollen lip. She grimaced a bit more than necessary to emphasize that she wanted to speak as little as possible.

Sister Agnes nodded and took a closer look at Ellen’s facial wounds. “Your nose may be broken,” she said in an undertone and asked Ellen to remove her shirt carefully so she could examine her ribs again.

Ellen was more relaxed lying down, but it still tickled when the nun’s cool fingers moved across her bones. Her belly around her navel was all black and blue.

Sister Agnes looked at the marks left by those violent blows. “The Lord has seen it and will demand penance at the Last Judgment,” she added, shaking her head and crossing herself.

The thought that the Lord might have seen it all was very embarrassing, and Ellen turned her head aside in shame.

“Did you vomit blood after you were kicked?” Sister Agnes asked.

Ellen shook her head.

“Being kicked can lead to serious consequences. Sometimes it doesn’t look so bad, but two days later the victim suddenly dies.” Sister Agnes sighed, but then she added quickly, “Excuse me, I didn’t want to scare you. Sometimes it would be best if I held my tongue.” She stood up and walked over to the iron shelf.

Ellen wondered how she knew about the danger of being kicked, but the droning in her head was so loud that she couldn’t follow that train of the thought to the end.

Everything was in perfect order in Sister Agnes’s sickroom. She quickly found a little basket and took out a handful of dried leaves.

“Coltsfoot,” she explained. “A brew made from this helps our dear Sister Berthe to breathe better. She drinks some every day. I’ll make the brew for you as well, but you won’t be drinking it. We’ll cleanse your wounds with it, and then I’ll make compresses soaked in St. John’s wort oil.” Sister Agnes pointed to a little clay flask with oily specks on it. “You have to store coltsfoot dry and use it quickly because it easily gets moldy. We always have some in our garden. Just recently I dried some more leaves because Sister Berthe was having so much trouble breathing.” She continued talking as she took a three-legged pot and put it on the little fireplace. Then she threw a few herbs and a little dry wood on the flames. They were soon burning, filling the room with a wonderful fragrance.

Ellen could no longer keep her eyes open and dozed off. When she awoke again, the brew had already percolated and had cooled off a bit.

Sister Agnes had a cloth in her hand and swabbed Ellen’s wounds with the brew. Carefully but calmly she removed the dried blood.

It stung, but Ellen clenched her teeth.

“I’ll have a look at your nose. Watch out, this will probably hurt a bit,” she warned Ellen as she started to examine the bridge of her nose. Then she shook her head. “It looks fine—it doesn’t seem that anything is broken.” Then she applied the St. John’s wort extract to her face, ribs, and stomach. Though her touch was extremely gentle, it was still terribly painful. “For the next few days you need to protect your face from the sun, or the St. John’s wort extract may leave some ugly marks. But you’ll see, it’s the best thing for your injury and will be good for the black and blue marks.”

Ellen was just able to nod wearily before falling asleep again, and this time she didn’t awake until the following morning.

For breakfast, Sister Agnes gave Ellen a fresh piece of soft bread, ordinarily baked just for Sister Berthe, who had lost her teeth. Then she attended to Ellen’s wounds again.

“The swelling has gone down a bit, and it looks better, especially over your eye.” Just as she was carefully applying the St. John’s wort again, Claire entered.

“How are you, Ellenweore?” Claire took her hand and squeezed it tenderly.

“Betthher,” Ellen said, with a lopsided grin, as she still couldn’t speak clearly.

“Her jaw is badly bruised. She was very lucky,” Sister Agnes declared.

“Lucky?” Ellen’s heart raced. She couldn’t quite think of herself as lucky.

“After hearing the report from Sister Agnes,” Claire said, “Mother Superior offered to let us stay a few days until you are better, so we won’t have to leave right away.”

“Mutthent you get home?” Ellen asked, barely able to move her mouth.

“Sure we must,” Claire said, “but what are a few days in an entire life?” She shrugged and smiled cheerfully and seemed to take it for granted that they would wait until Ellen was able to go with them.

“When we leave, we’ll ask Sister Agnes to give us a few of her potions, what do you think?”

Ellen looked at Sister Agnes, questioningly.

“In a few days the worst of the wounds will heal,” Sister Agnes replied with a smile. “Then she’ll only need some ointment that I’ll prepare for her and she’ll soon be like her old self again.”

“Only the thame, not bether?” Ellen said, feigning disappointment.

“Well, I can’t promise you that,” Sister Agnes answered with a laugh, “but I see you haven’t lost your spirit, and that’s good.”

“We’ll stay a while longer then, is that all right?” Claire asked, just to make sure, and Sister Agnes nodded.

Ellen looked back and forth at both women and softly said, “Thank you.”

Ellen enjoyed the tranquility of the convent, the good care she received from Sister Agnes, and the hearty food. She slept most of the day, and in the evening Claire would stop by at her bed to tell her about the work she did for the nuns and how much Jacques liked being there. Even though he had to fetch water and gather wood from time to time, he always got a double portion of food.

Ellen got better from day to day and after less than a week felt strong enough to move on. Her face and stomach were still black and blue, but the open wounds on her lips and eyebrows had healed quite well.

Shortly before sunrise on the sixth day, the time had come. After a good, hearty breakfast, the three said farewell to Sister Agnes and the other nuns and continued on toward Béthune. The trees were white with a thick covering of hoarfrost—branches, leaves, and even blades of grass were enveloped in a crystalline layer of ice. As the sun rose over the horizon, it turned the frost into a soft shade of pink, and before noon the ice had started to melt.

“If we don’t dally, we can be home in a week,” Claire told her son, trying to cheer him up.

It was clear he didn’t like walking when it was so cold outside just because they had to take Ellen along, and he grumbled softly to himself.

Ellen couldn’t bring herself to have much sympathy for the boy. She herself had never ridden on a pony, and after all, people have legs so they can walk. She was annoyed at his spineless behavior. When she was his age, she wasn’t such a sissy. He kept whining about not being able to ride, and finally she stopped, slid down from the horse with clenched teeth, and held the reins out to him. “I see you’re annoyed because your mother gave me the pony,” she said, endeavoring to sound as calm and cool as possible, “so I’ll just walk.”

Jacques turned pale.

Either he’ll break out in tears any moment
, Ellen thought with surprise,
or he’ll throw a fit.

But the boy just shook his head vigorously and started walking faster, as if being chased by the devil in person.

It seemed he really wanted to walk ahead, so Ellen decided to get back on the pony again. It was fortunate the pony was stoic enough to remain standing patiently while she struggled to lift herself back up again.

Jacques kept his feelings to himself after that and tried to be polite to Ellen. He was even a bit friendlier to his mother than before.

“I think he likes you,” Claire said the next day without seeming to be surprised about it. “He’s not like other boys.”

Ellen agreed completely—she thought he was childish and impolite.
She probably spoils him rotten
, she thought irritably.

“He’s a bit…well, how shall I put it? Simple-minded.” Claire smiled a bit in embarrassment.

Ellen stared at her, astonished. She had never thought of Jacques as feeble-minded, but it seemed that actually was what Claire was trying to say.

“He just needs a little more discipline,” Ellen mumbled, somewhat embarrassed.

“Maybe I’m not strict enough. His father, God rest his soul, died two years ago.” Claire crossed herself. “It’s not always easy being alone with the boy.” She shrugged nervously. “Ever since my husband died, I’ve been running his shop even though everyone in town expected I would get another master craftsman for the business. It wouldn’t be unusual for me to manage a shop if I were a silk weaver or yarn maker, but as a scabbard maker that’s a different story,” she declared.

Ellen had to catch her breath with excitement at this good news.

“Please let me assist you and in this way repay in small part my gratitude to you. I can learn quickly and am good at working with my hands. You’ll certainly not regret it,” she pleaded.

“Agreed!” Claire smiled and spent the whole rest of the trip cheerfully telling stories. She knew about all the residents of the village where she lived, and when they finally arrived in Béthune, Ellen had the feeling she was no longer a complete stranger there.

The village consisted of around three dozen small houses of earth and wood with thatched roofs. They were crowded together around the village square and along the little country road, and each had a small vegetable garden and a field. Two linden trees stood near the fountain in the square, and behind them a church made of stone that had just recently been built.

Claire was greeted warmly by her neighbors, who scrutinized Ellen with curiosity. The next day, when Claire went back to work, she insisted that Ellen still take time to rest up.

On the first day, Ellen slept a lot, but on the second she was bored and complained so much that Claire finally allowed her to go to the shop.