Ophelia (29 page)

"Your only fault, Isabel, is too much kindness to the undeserving," I murmur, thinking of her goodness to me.

"No; I am more unkind than you know. I am jealous of Marguerite's beauty and her favor with Mother. I boil with impatience at Angelina's slowness and I blame her when we must fast and eat nothing but stale bread. Sometimes I steal sugar from the larder!"

I smile at her offenses, for they fall far short of deceit and murder and revenge, the crimes that went unconfessed at Elsinore.

But Isabel takes my hand and says in earnest, "Ophelia, you shall be my priest, for you are as secret as an effigy on a tomb."

"Confess, then, and I will absolve you," I say, trying to sound like Father Alphonse, and we both laugh. Yet how her trust tempts me! I long to share my stones with her, but discretion holds my tongue and silence feeds my loneliness.

I often lament that I have no place at St. Emilion. At Elsinore I knew my role as one of the queen's ladies. Here I am neither a servant nor a nun. I may not sit with the nuns in the sanctuary of the chapel, but I pray their prayers. I may not share their table, yet I eat the same food. Like a departed spirit not yet at rest, I travel between worlds. I am free to leave the convent grounds if I wish. Instead, I spend hours in the library, often losing myself in
The Consolation of Philosophy
by Boethius the Roman. I also translate prayers into French for the nuns who do not read Latin.

One day Mother Ermentrude, seeing me studying intently, asks me to help tutor the girls of the convent school. I agree, for I wish to be useful here. But pity overwhelms me at the sight of these small, sad-eyed children taken from the arms of their parents and given to a God whose embrace they cannot feel. One girl, the picture of despair, leans her cheek in her hands, her too-short skirt revealing bare legs above her shoes. I remember wearing such ill-fitting dresses and wish I had some stockings to give her. I long to put my arms around the child, but I am afraid of her large, frightened eyes. Instead I give her something paltry and useless: a verb to conjugate. While the girls bend over their books, I draw from my pocket the miniature painting of my mother that I carry always. In her face is my exact likeness; I see my own hair, cheeks, and nose, all mirrored in miniature. I dig in the deepest recesses of my mind for a memory of her touch.

"Oh, teach me how to be a mother, and give me courage!" I whisper, willing the image itself to speak to me. "What will we do, my babe and I? Where shall we make our home? Tell me!" I feel like a child, abandoned in the dark woods; not even my mother's image comforts me.

Then I see that Marguerite has come into the library. How long has she been standing there? The girls have finished their exercise and are whispering and giggling among themselves. Marguerite regards me with her cool, unsmiling gaze. I feel like a book laid wide open, where my story is written in plain words for her to read.

"It seems that teaching does not suit you. I will inform Mother Ermentrude," she says. Her voice is without pity or judgment.

I am unable to reply, so full am I with longing for the mother I never knew.

Chapter 40

December holds us all in its thrall; not even the fires in the stoves and grates can loosen its icy grip. I rub my hands together for the feeble warmth as I pass by the door of the refectory, where the nuns eat in silence, their heads bent in a row over their food. Spoons scrape dully on the wooden trenchers. Steam rises from a pot of soup. The voice of Mother Ermentrude rises and falls as she reads aloud.

"Let us partake with temperance and sober piety and due thanksgiving, only food that is proper and nourishing. Remember that Christ's body was broken and that bread and water are here broken to be taken into our bodies. So in the Eucharist does Christ's body nourish us."

I wonder what Hamlet, the philosopher and man of reason, would have made of the nuns' simple faith that they consume Christ's true body. The bread served at meals and the bread served at Mass look and taste the same to me. I find it strange that the sisters' eating is governed by silence and strict rules. I think of the feasts at Elsinore, loud with laughter and the crack mg of bones and sucking of marrow, with dogs growling and fighting over food thrown to the floor. Wine flowed from hogsheads like water from a fountain, and at each meal fish, fowl, and a joint of beef were served.

With the thought of such plenty, my appetite grows. The babe within me makes me long for cider and sweetmeats, roast meat, rich milk, and apricots. But the nuns are fasting now, eating only bread with salt and water. So I eat in the kitchen with the scullery maid and steward so that I may have meat and fruit. They are quiet in my presence, for I am still considered a mystery at St. Emilion. A poor farmer who tills the nuns' field, his three hollow-eyed children, and a guest, a traveling scholar, round out the company.

Therese, being a servant, should also eat in the kitchen. But she does not appear for meals. When I ask about her, the steward, his mouth full of bread, merely shrugs.

"Indeed, milady, she doesn't eat that I know of," offers the maid.

"Who would not eat when hunger bids them?" I ask. "I will take her this portion of meat and some cakes."

"She won't eat it, I say. I've never seen her touch meat."

Against this warning, I take the food to Therese's room, a damp cell even narrower than my own. The door opens at my touch, and a wall covered with crucifixes greets my sight. I count at least a dozen. All are crudely made and painted with an image of the Lord in agony. Beneath the crosses, Therese kneels on the hard floor, rocking back and forth. She does not acknowledge my presence; indeed she seems not to hear or see me. Her eyes are lifted up and fixed upon the air. Ashamed of my intrusion in the closet of her soul, I leave the food upon her bed and silently depart. But the image of the laundress, dazed with prayer, will not leave me. Later I return to see if she has eaten. The plate of bread sits on the floor outside her door, untouched except by the mouse that nibbles the bread and scurries away at my approach.

I wonder why Therese abstains from food, though she is not bound by the nun's vows. I decide to observe her more closely. Like a spy, I pretend to read a book while walking in the corridor near the kitchen. Therese wears a veil that she wraps around her head when she works, making her look like a Turk. Her sleeves are rolled up to her shoulders, and I see that her flesh barely covers her bones. She moves slowly, pausing often as she carries a bucket of hot water.

I cannot bear to see her struggle with simple tasks, so I set my book down and offer to help her. To my surprise, she accepts with a look of gratitude. I had imagined her to be proud in her isolation from the sisters, but she seems glad of my company. Now Therese drops the soiled garments in soapy water with fingers that are long and tapered, like a lady's, but red and rough, like a servant's. I beat and stir the clothes with wooden paddles. It surprises me how much strength the task requires, and soon my face is damp with sweat, despite the cold.

"God grants you health again, I see. We are joyful to see you well," says Therese. Her words surprise me, for I did not think she noticed me or knew of my illness.

"I cannot rejoice in my strength while yours weakens," I reply.

"The Lord upholds the weak," she says in quick reply, as if she is used to defending herself.

"Your spirit indeed is strong, but your body wastes away. Why do you not eat?"

"I need nothing but the Lord who nourishes my soul in the bread of the Eucharist," she says. Her eyes are bright, though her cheeks are sunken, making her look no longer young.

"He also gives us daily bread to nourish our bodies, that we may have strength for our work in the world," I say, feeling a contentious spirit rise in me.

"I care nothing for the world, which has shown little favor to me," she replies. Her voice is calm, without bitterness. "I was always shunned for my twisted leg, and my parents were ashamed of me. My only desire has been to become a nun. But the bishop has told Mother Ermentrude that my visions are improper and he forbids my admission as a postulant. So I find my own pathway to God."

"Does God ask you to suffer for him?"

Therese draws back from me with an air of injured dignity.

"He bids me praise him daily, and so I do."

Desperate for her to understand my good intentions, I lay my hand on her arm, stilling it in the water. Her forearm, like a child's, fits within the circle of my thumb and finger.

"Therese, you must eat daily, or you will die!"

She does not even flinch at my words. I realize that perhaps she wants to die.

"When I do not eat, the Christ child himself comes to me and nurses at my breast, which swells with rich milk," she says with perfect calm. "I taste honey and sweetness in my mouth. No mortal mother feels such joy."

Is this the conviction of faith or evidence of madness? I think of the ghostly visions that stirred Hamlet to revenge, while Therese's fill her with joy. Both are beyond all reason. Who can judge whether they are true?

I take her hands in mine. The palms and wrists are scarred.

"My hands bleed sometimes, as Christ's wounds bled," she says, a look of bliss on her face.

"It is no wonder; your skin is so dry. Let me make a liniment that will soften it and ease the pain." I know I can help her overcome this undeserved suffering.

Therese shakes her head vigorously and withdraws her hands as if I am offering to take away a precious gift. She turns from me and will not speak again.

I fear that Therese's mind is made feeble by her suffering. I do not want her to die, for I have seen enough of madness and death.

Chapter 41

It is the new year, and like the two-faced god Janus, I look forward and backward at once. Looking behind me, I remember Hamlet giving me the token, the pressure of his fingers on my palm, our brief joy and the long despair that followed it. Looking ahead, I see only a blank page on which I know not what to write.

I sit beside Isabel in the chapter house, listening to the daily reading of the monastic rule.

"Obey the Lord and his laws, and the prioress and her rule, and your every need will be fulfilled, your every fear assuaged," Mother Ermentrude's voice intones. "With obedience comes perfect freedom."

Isabel nods, a blissful look on her face. But for some reason the lesson vexes me. So I slip away and, despite the cold, make my way to the cemetery, where I know I will be alone with my thoughts. As the damp night descends, I consider how I disobeyed and deceived my father. "Is this my punishment?" I whisper, touching my belly. The babe has been more than five months in my womb, and the burden grows each day. My secrets, too, oppress me. Grief for my losses fills my heart, and I fear being alone. "Is this the bitter fruit of my disobedience?" I cry out, and a flock of startled blackbirds lifts from the snowy ground to merge with the black sky.

Feeling the cold grip my bones, I continue walking, disputing with myself this question of disobedience and punishment. I discover that my wandering thoughts and steps have brought me to Mother Ermentrude's lodgings. Isabel tells me her ear is always open to our needs. So I knock and Mother Ermentrude herself opens the door, showing no surprise to see me, though the hour is late. I hold my cloak fast around me, hiding my belly.

"I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Mother Ermentrude, but I am troubled and in need of your wisdom."

She opens the door, and I start to kneel before her, but she motions for me to be seated instead. Then she sits beside me, as if we are equals.

"I have been meditating upon today's lesson of obedience," I say. "Help me to understand: What is the virtue in denying one's own desires to satisfy another's will?"

Mother Ermentrude breathes deeply while she fashions her reply.

"You have seen a vine, how the gardener tames it and makes it cling to a branch or post. It obeys his hand that it may grow upward toward the sun. In the same way, obedience to God's will frees the soul to reach heaven."