Ophelia (28 page)
Authors: Lisa Klein
I look forward to Isabel's visits as I once looked forward to reading with Gertrude in her chamber. She brings me books from the convent library: a history of the wars in France, and a volume of the English poet Chaucer, containing
The Legend of Good Women
and
The Tale of Troilus and Criseyde,
translated into French. I put these aside for when I am alone.
Isabel loves to talk, perhaps more than she loves to pray. Her bright voice fills my room like the music of a lute, and she is like a troubadour with her tales, though none are bawdy or bad. Sometimes her stones are interrupted by calls to prayer or work, but the next day she easily picks up the thread again.
"Do you not think that Mother Ermentrude is beautiful?" she asks, eager to begin a story.
"Yes," I say, for I have seen, even from a distance, that her nose is fine and her skin like whitest alabaster. "Why did she never marry?"
"Ah," Isabel begins, as if sounding a note on her instrument. "She was the youngest of five daughters of a wealthy baron and his wife. All his wealth was spent on dowries for her sisters. He could not make a good marriage for her, so he gave her up to the convent when she was a young girl."
"But did her mother agree to the baron's decision? Did she not fight to keep her daughter?" I ask.
"Perhaps, but what can a mother do? A daughter is her father's property," Isabel says without bitterness.
I do not say what I feel—that no mother, while she lived, would willingly part from her daughter.
"Now she has lived here some thirty years, and she has been prioress for ten years," Isabel continues. "The baron's influence helped her to the position. But her father is now dead and her brother is an enemy of Count Durufle, our convent's patron. She is mother to us all, by the grace of God." Here Isabel crosses herself, then adds, "And the goodwill of the count, and the dispensation of the bishop. We pray for her always."
I sigh to think of the insecure state of women, who must always abide the earthly authority of men.
"An even better story is that of Sister Marie. Her father betrothed her to an elderly merchant, but her mother defied her husband and used her own dowry to bring Marie to this convent."
"So the mother did defend her daughter," I remark.
"Yes, her husband abused her cruelly, for she would not say where she had taken Mane. He was also a drunkard. One day, he stumbled into a puddle and drowned! She sold his chandlery and with the money she returned here and begged to be taken as an oblate."
"Why should she beg?"
"She was not a noblewoman. Her husband made candles and her father was only a poor blacksmith. But her purse was fat, and that settled it!"
"Is Marie still among you?"
"No, for she fell ill one winter and died before she was twenty." Isabel dabs her eye with her fingertip, moved by the sad thought.
Alas, I think, even a mother's courage cannot keep her child from all danger.
"What became of her mother?" I ask.
"Why, she is Sister Angelina, our dear cook! She rails against men, but we pay her no mind, for she is an angel in the kitchen. She feeds our bodies, while Mother Ermentrude feeds our souls."
I think about Angelina's sacrifice for her daughter, its ending in loss, her grief. Before sunset, I walk in the small graveyard that nestles against the chapel's north face. On the gate I read words from a psalm:
My flesh also shall rest in hope.
I find the stone marking Mane's grave. A rosebush grows there, its leaves withered by frost. The sight does not sadden me, for I know the bush will bloom again next year. At this hour, in this gray month, Nature utters no sound, and in this resting place my own heart is also silent.
The next day when Isabel comes, I am curious for another story.
"Tell me about Sister Marguerite, whose beauty is like the golden flower she is named for."
Isabel frowns and lifts her shoulders in a shrug.
"I know little of Marguerite. She is the secretary of Mother Ermentrude and privy to all her business. She is most secret, and excells in piety among us," she says. "Though you see how proud is her manner." Then she leans forward and speaks in confidence, "I confess I do not love her as I ought in charity!"
"I understand," I say, thinking of Cristiana.
"But enough; it is wrong for me to speak ill of her." She shakes her head and continues in a sprightly tone, "We cannot sit here chattering, for Mother Ermentrude has requested that you be brought to her today."
The announcement fills me with dread.
"I am not ready to meet her. Tell her that I am fevered again," I plead. "Or tell her that melancholy afflicts me still."
"You are much better; anyone can see that," she says, rebuking me lightly. She takes my arm. "Do not fear, for she is kind."
Isabel leads me through the hallways and down the stairs. I take small, slow steps, for I am unwilling to obey this summons. Mother Ermentrude is no queen whom I have pledged to serve. Sensing my hesitation, Isabel urges me gently through the alleys of the cloisters. Their rounded arches frame a square courtyard and a garden that is brown and shriveled by frost. The November air bites my skin.
We enter the chapter house. With its oiled wood panels on the walls, it reminds me of the chamber at Elsinore where the king received his visitors. A hallway leads to Mother Ermentrude's quarters. Marguerite waits there, a silent sentinel. Isabel presses my hand and departs.
Without speaking, Marguerite ushers me into the room and withdraws when Mother Ermentrude nods her head. I make myself small within my linen robe. I kneel before the prioress of St. Emilion so that I see only the broad swath of her simple habit, edged in green velvet. Crossing my arms over my chest, I avoid her gaze.
"Ophelia, my child, you have come to us for aid. What is the trouble?" she asks.
So Isabel has told Mother Ermentrude my name. It is good that I have been sparing in my speech with her. No one must learn my secrets yet.
"I have been afraid for my life, Your Grace. More I cannot say now."
"You grieve beyond what is natural, and your body does weaken and waste away," she says gently. "Our duty, and Isabel's particular care, is to restore you to soundness of body and soul."
"I have suffered a great loss. I am most grateful for your aid," I say, fixing my eyes on the simple cross on her breast. It has a single bright jewel at the center, yellow, the color of hope.
"What is it you desire?" she asks.
"I desire solitude and prayer." This is not all the truth, but it must suffice, for words cannot draw the vast map of my longing.
"Your generous purse and the circumstances of your arrival suggest to me that you are a gentlewoman of means. Do you flee a cruel father or a forced marriage?"
"No." I stove to keep my voice even and my tears in check.
"Do you wish to pursue the cloistered life and take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience?"
I am already poor, having lost everything I treasure, and no longer pure. I was never obedient. But I do not say this.
"I do not know," I say truthfully.
"Have you committed some wrong for which you repent?"
"Yes . . . No! Please, in due time I will reveal all. Do not cast me out!" I plead, bowing almost to the floor. I see only the hem of her garment now and her leather-shod feet. I would kiss them if doing so would persuade her to let me stay.
"You may remain here," she says. "But you must work and pray with us and study God's purpose for you. Sister Isabel will be your guide."
Like an angel of the annunciation, Mother Ermentrude spreads her arms and folds her hands over my head. "Now rise, and go in the peace of Christ."
Deep within, I feel something like the touch of a finger's tip against my soul, rekindling hope there.
The whiteness of winter surrounds me. The nuns await the day of Christ's birth, only weeks away. Bells call them to vespers, to matins, to noonday prayer. In their white habits, the sisters tread in each other's snowy tracks on their way to chapel. Their breath, expelled in small clouds, vanishes like smoke from a chimney. Do their prayers also vanish on the wind, or do they pierce the dome of heaven and reach God's ear?
Under the frozen earth, curled in darkness, all life waits. I also wait through the long Advent nights that are lit by a feeble white moon. Though I dress in white like a nun, I feel the stain of sin, of mortality, around me like a bright girdle.
My body grows round again with recovered health, and my belly swells more than the rest of me. I am still able to hide it beneath my loose-fitting dress. Only I see the growing mound when I bathe myself. Only I feel it when the child moves while I am reciting prayers with the sisters,
"Pray for us, O holy mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ."
I hope these promises of Christ are more certain than those of men.
Often my mind wanders during prayers. I find myself remembering Gertrude's kindness as I gaze upon Mother Ermentrude, whose humility contrasts with my queen's grandeur. Sister Angelina, with her rough but loving manner, reminds me of dear Elnora. Isabel, who shows her gap-toothed smile even when she prays, makes me wish that I had known such a cheerful friend at Elsinore. Sister Marguerite is proud, like Cristiana, and seems to harbor some secret ambition, which rouses my curiosity.
"You pray with growing devotion, I see," says Isabel, mistaking my dreaminess for piety.
"No, in truth, I am thinking how much this convent is like a prince's court," I say, then hasten to add, "A place I have read about in books."
"What do you mean?" she asks.
"Your prioress is like a queen, the fountain of all goodness. All the sisters are her ladies-in-waiting, happy to live under her benevolent rule. There is a hierarchy, with servants in the lowest place." I pause, considering the comparison. "But I see one vital difference. Here there are no men to vie for your love. You worship only Christ, and he bestows his love equally. At a prince's court, no woman would share her lover, nor would a man share his mistress."
Isabel understands quickly.
"Yes, for if a lady is desired by more than one man, it brings about jealousy and much strife. I also read those books, long ago," she says, lowering her voice, though there is no one to overhear us. The nuns have all left the chapel. "But do not deceive yourself that St. Emilion is a perfect place. We have our faults, such as envy, if one of us has a finer voice or is more favored by Mother. We are vain, too. I have seen Marguerite hold up her graceful hands and gaze on them in admiration. Once I was punished by Mother for keeping a small bit of lace beneath my pillow."
"Such poverty would sit hard with a queen and her ladies," I admit. "Still this place seems to me a peaceful realm where no tyrannical king can oppress you."
Isabel's usually cheery face grows clouded.
"There is no king at St. Emilion, as you say, but man's power still holds sway here. Mother Ermentrude is bound to obey Bishop Garamond, as he is God's deputy on earth," she explains. "But this bishop serves Count Durufle, who is our convent's chief patron and a morally scrupulous man." She shows me a stone monument, like a proud claim staked upon the humble chapel. "Durufle erected this to honor himself though it was his ancestors who gave this land to found our convent some two hundred years ago. For this past generosity, he thinks himself God's favorite and the bishop's equal!" she says, indignant. "He sorely tests my charity!"
"How like a royal court," I muse, "where powerful lords and councillors direct the king's course."
"At least Durufle and the bishop are seldom seen among us. But the count has appointed his nephew, a surly and discourteous youth, to be our steward. He oversees the servants and the convent's business, though he has no ability for the work. Last week Marguerite called him a fool to his face!" Isabel laughs at the thought, then rolls her eyes. "You begin to see why I am grateful to be a nun. I could be married to such a one. Or, God forbid, to a man as old as Father Alphonse, who trembles as he says the Mass and is almost completely deaf. I have to shout to make him hear me, and then my sisters overhear my sins!" Isabel says with some distress. "So I confess only that I have neglected my prayers, which is a fault most common with us."