Ophelia (32 page)

Her tone lacks its usual warmth. She does not invite me to confide in her.

"I can only humbly thank you, and beg your pardon that I have not been truthful. One day you will know why."

"What is truth, Ophelia?" I only lift my shoulders, not knowing what she washes me to say. "The truth is what will free you," she replies in answer to her own question. Then she nods, ending our strained meeting.

I feel keenly her disappointment in me. When I ask Isabel whether Mother Ermentrude believes me a sinner, she gives an indirect reply.

"Perhaps you should have revealed your secret earlier and trusted to her mercy."

I know Isabel is right, and so her words pain me all the more. Then Angelina asks me why I look so downcast.

"Mother Ermentrude is angry that I deceived her. I fear she does not want me here," I say, fighting back tears.

"Ah, pregnant women are often moody for no cause but that they are pregnant! I know, for I have been one," she says, patting my hand. Then she adds, more briskly, "Be sensible, Ophelia. Mother Ermentrude would not send you away, for then who would tend to our aches and illnesses?"

Her words comfort me, as do the sisters who smile kindly and bless me in passing. Only Marguerite avoids me. She will not meet my eyes but crosses herself when we pass, as if to protect herself from a contagion. Isabel attends to me like a sister who expects to become an aunt. When no one is about, she puts her hands on my belly and laughs with delight when she feels the child move.

We never talk about what will happen after it is born.

While I am still able, I go about the business of healing, crushing leaves of rue to rub on aching joints and applying poultices to clear the lungs. By my work, I will regain Mother Ermentrude's trust.

"Praise God and thank you, Ophelia!" Angelina exults one day. "My boils are healed. But now that it is Lent, I must find some new suffering to endure." She tweaks my cheek and goes on her way.

Lent is the season of penitence, the time of grief one must undergo before the joy of Easter comes. Though I follow the rules and routines of convent life, Angelina will not allow me to abstain from meat, as the sisters do. She insists I need the nourishment. So I eat gladly and do not hunger. Yet I feel guilt at being full, for Therese again refuses to take food. She has become too weak to work in the laundry. Now I am the one who heats and carries the heavy buckets of water, stirs the soapy brew, lifts the sodden clothes to be rinsed, and spreads them to dry. Therese folds linens, pausing often to rest her weak arms.

"Why am I no longer favored with Jesus's blood?" she says, regarding her open palms with despair. The hands that once bled from the harsh work have healed.

I say nothing, for I have no words that will comfort her.

In the next day's laundry I see Therese's night shift, stained with blood. I bring her a clean one and help her change. On her back I see abrasions and bloody welts. As I suspected, she has lashed herself with a rope, trying to purge herself of sin. Mother Ermentrude frowns on this ancient penance, though some of the older nuns still practice it. I wonder where Therese finds the strength to whip herself. Pity and anger stir in me.

"Why do you harm yourself in this way?" I ask her, trying not to recoil from the torn and oozing flesh.

"If I mortify my body, then I become one with Christ, who in his suffering and dying became one with mankind," she says.

"I do not think that God washes his creatures to suffer." I try to argue with Therese, but her faith will not be persuaded by my reason.

With her back flayed and blistered, she falls asleep on her knees, her face on her cot. Then I treat her torn flesh with oil. I summon Angelina and Mother Ermentrude to help lift her wasted body, and while they hold her head, I pour a trickle of broth down her throat.

"She wants to die. What madness holds her in its thrall? What grief moves her to want to end her life?" I entreat Mother Ermentrude. I think of Hamlet's despair, which was beyond my remedy. I must not let Therese destroy her life as well. "I try to cure her, and constantly she resists me!"

"Be still, Ophelia. We must pray for her return to health," says Mother Ermentrude, a look of sorrow on her face.

At the weekly Mass, the priest raises a thin wedge of bread and says the words "This is the body of Christ." I think of Therese, light as the unleavened bread, and I look at my own body, heavy with two lives. I am afraid of pain, of being tormented, even unto death, in giving birth. This is why I go to the chapel. This is why I take Communion. Even though she knows my doubts, Mother Ermentrude permits it. My belly is large and I mount the steps to the railing with care. When Father Alphonse sees me, he reddens to the very roots of his sparse tonsure. I extend my cupped hands, but he will not give me the bread. I wait and will not leave.

"When Elizabeth was with child, she visited her kinswoman Mary, who earned Christ in her womb. And she was not turned away from the Lord," I say in a low and modest voice. Isabel read me this gospel story just yesterday.

"Verily, you are not Saint Elizabeth. And most certainly you are not the Blessed Virgin!" the priest whispers, and the hissing of his voice carries throughout the chapel.

"God is merciful, if you are not," I say, looking directly into his rheumy eyes. "Who are you to deny me his grace?" I surprise even myself, that I would dare to dispute with a priest during the Mass, five months of convent life have, in their way, furthered my education, if not my humility.

The priest is too stunned to answer me. He looks away, places the bread in my hand, and draws back as if he has touched fire. I frighten him, as a madwoman frightens those who believe themselves sane.

After the service, I put myself in the path of Father Alphonse as he hastens from the chapel.

"Please, I pray you take the Communion to our servant Therese. She is fevered and too weak to come to chapel."

"I must be on my way," he says, unwilling to be stopped.

"Your way must be to bring Christ to her," I say, my voice rising with indignation. Unable to dispute that point, he follows me to Therese's room. I watch as he puts the thin wafer between her dry lips and administers the cup, murmuring in Latin. I marvel how the scrap of bread on her tongue fills Therese with a visible joy. The drops of blood red wine in her mouth invigorate her frail body, seeming to ease her pain. Her forehead is cool to my touch and her breathing easy. I have hope that she may yet recover.

I begin sitting for many hours each day with Therese, for my own burden grows too big to carry with ease. When she is awake I read to her; when she sleeps I rest as well. On this wintry morning, a rumor flies through the convent. As a frightened bird caught inside a house startles one person after another, the news stirs up the servants and nuns alike. It is earned in whispers by those who hurry to the chapel, and it passes with the bread and cheese shared at the midday meal.

The meeting in the chapter house that night confirms it. Mother informs us that Count Durufle is en route to the convent. He has learned that one of the members is with child. Was it the steward or the priest who earned the news? Was it Marguerite? No, even she looks pale and fearful. Durufle is said to be outraged, for the convent's reputation is at stake. He threatens to withdraw his patronage and force its doors to close.

Worse news yet is that he is not alone. Traveling with him is Bishop Garamond, who has the authority to enforce whatever Durufle wills.

Chapter 45

No words of comfort or assurance can be spoken, for Mother Ermentrude has ordered silence and solitary prayer.
Deliver me from evil, now and at the hour of my death.
Constantly my mind utters this plea, as if it could prevent the count and his bishop from coming. When I fall asleep, my dreaming is a medley of all my fears. Edmund pursues me, a dagger in his hand. I feel his hot breath on my neck and his hands on my breasts, but my feet are chained to heavy stones and I cannot move. A glass vial shatters on the floor, spilling thick blood that forms the shape of a grinning death's head. An arras hanging on a wall billows, as if stirred by a strong wind, and from behind it scurries a creature with the face of my father. The voice of Hamlet shouts, "What is this, a rat?" and his laughter echoes in a vast chamber. Then the chapel bells awaken me, but I feel no relief to find myself at St. Emilion. This place of refuge has suddenly become a prison where I await the trial that might condemn not only me, but Mother Ermentrude and all the sisters.

When the pale but staving sun has lifted the gray morning mist, Count Durufle and the bishop arrive. I hear the clatter of horses' hooves, but I have not the strength nor will to look out my window. There will not be the usual ceremonies of an episcopal visit, for this is no occasion of celebration. A heavy silence, more fearful than pious, engulfs the convent.

It grieves me to think that I have brought shame to the place that has sheltered me, that by my unwitting deeds, St. Emilion might be ruined. I will throw myself at the bishop's mercy and insist that I am sinless in this matter. But will they force me to disclose my history? Where would I go if the bishop orders Mother Ermentrude to send me away? In my condition and in such cold, death would be my certain end. The violent knife, the drowning waters, poison, and fever—I defied them all in my escape from Elsinore. Will vengeful Death now seize my life and my child's, too?

Interrupting these black thoughts, Isabel comes to escort me to the chapter house, where the bishop will question me. I am filled with regret at the thought of losing this friend.

"Dearest Isabel, I am sorry for this whole affair. I will try—"

"Hush! Do not fear. The bishop is a good man; just be humble before him. But beware of Durufle, for he is the powerful one. And remember the words of the psalm:
Our Lord lifteth up the bruised . . . . Strangers, the fatherless, and the widow he will receive.
What more certain promise could there be?" she says, gripping my hand, desperate to comfort me.

Even Marguerite has the grace to show some pity with a tilt of her head as I pass into the chamber where Mother Ermentrude conducts the convent's business from a table piled with books and papers in neat bundles. The paneling that surrounds me is carved with figures of angels and the apostles. If only these wooden figures could spring to life and intercede for me!

Marguerite follows me into the room and takes a seat at a slanted lectern near the window. Of course, because she is the secretary, she must make a record of the proceedings. How I wish that she were not a witness to my shame.

In an oaken chair with arms like a throne sits the bishop. Mother Ermentrude stands at his left hand, Count Durufle at his right. The count has a sharp-featured face with a nose like a hawk's beak. His black eyes accost me as if I am the devil made flesh. He wears a severe black satin doublet and hose. The plume in his hat is the only thing about him that is not stiff. It quivers with his every movement. With short, bowed legs, he is not much taller than I am.

Mother Ermentrude's hands are folded and her face does not reveal her thoughts. Will she remain my mentor in this matter, or will duty and obedience put her on the bishop's side? I resolve to hold my tongue rather than to speak untruth.

I steal a glance at Bishop Garamond. He holds his miter on his lap, exposing a head of fine silvery hair. His crozier rests against the armchair. He wears a scarlet cope with sleeves lined in fur. Remembering myself, I kneel and kiss the heavy jeweled ring that squeezes his wide finger. I do not dare to look at his face.

"What is your name, child?"

"I am known as Ophelia."

"You see by her garb that she has not professed any vows," Mother notes. By touching my head, she indicates my simple coif. The nuns wear longer veils.

But Bishop Garamond is not looking at my face.

"I see by her shape that indeed her confinement is imminent," he says, frowning thoughtfully. "When did she arrive here?"

I know what he is thinking: that there are convents where men—even monks and priests—are admitted as guests, and the nuns are unchaste.

Without hesitating, Mother Ermentrude replies, "Late October. On the feast day of Saints Simon and Jude." Do I hear in her voice a hint of indignation?

We are in the final days of March. The bishop must know, then, that my child's conception could not have occurred at St. Emilion.

"She has been among the sisters for months, displaying the evidence of her vile harlotry!" Durufle says, his disgust evident.

My face burns with suppressed fury. I cannot be silent, despite my resolution.

"I am no harlot, Your Grace, but an honest woman. My husband is dead."

I glance at Mother Ermentrude, to see if she believes me. But she only frowns slightly as if in warning, for she knows my tendency to speak passionately. I will not disappoint her again.

"Hah! What else should she say?" barks Durufle in mocking disbelief. "Then who was your husband, girl?"

I would not tell the story of my love to this hard-hearted fiend should he press my thumbs and threaten to pull my limbs apart on a great wheel!