Ophelia (34 page)

Now Hamlet begins to cry in my arms and straggles against his swaddling clothes. I put him to my breast and cover him with my cloak. There he sucks contentedly, like a bee deep in a flower.

Singing and bearing candles, the nuns leave the choir and follow the priest to the sepulchre. Somber chanting rises through the floor. Then I hear a rising cadence of joy that makes the benches, walls, and windows seem to tremble.

"Christus resurgens,
Christ is risen," the nuns sing, emerging again into the nave with candles. "Christ has conquered darkness and death." The priest holds up a flat round bread on a silver plate, a symbol of Christ's body. At that moment the rising sun's rays reach the rose window above the altar, bathing the sanctuary in blue, red, and gold light. The sun glints on the silver, sending shards of light flashing across our faces. The congregation gasps, as if an unseen bellows were blowing the very breath of life into them. Overcome by the brightness, I bow and clutch Hamlet to me as if he were Christ himself and all my lost loves restored to me.

The drama concluded, the crowd empties from the chapel, and the nuns file out in a silent procession. Not wanting to disturb the sleeping Hamlet, I stay. The changing patterns of light transfix my sight. Then a bone-deep weariness overcomes me, and I fall into a dreamless sleep on the rush-strewn floor of the chapel. When I open my eyes again, Hamlet's solemn little face is before me, and his fingers are tangled in my hair. I am filled with hope and a sureness that Therese will revive. In my mind I see her sitting up and drinking broth, and her eyes are bright again.

Carrying Hamlet in his basket, I hasten to Therese's room, where the three Marys are gathered. Isabel sponges Therese's forehead while Marguerite holds a useless spoon. Angelina prays, sitting on a stool. Beneath the blanket, Therese lies flat, just as when I left her.

"Is she no better?" I ask in dismay.

"I prayed for an Easter miracle," says Isabel. "But God wills otherwise."

"She opens her eyes only to cry out to God, like a lost child. She does not see us here," says Marguerite. Tears well in her green eyes like ice melted by the sun.

I feel betrayed by my new hope. The bitter truth is that Therese will die, perhaps on this Easter day.

"Why will God not save her? He brought his son, who was dead, to life again. Why can he not raise this sick woman from her bed?" I look into the faces of the sisters, not caring to hide my distress from them. They, too, are grieved and have no answers for me. I sink down on the foot of Therese's bed and this time address my complaint to the heavens above. "I have tried to help her, God, but you are not helping
me!"

Isabel comes to me and rests her hand on my shoulder.

"It is not your fault, Ophelia," she says.

"I wanted to see her grow healthy again. To cure her would have atoned for a broken promise in my past. I let down my dear Elnora, who was like a mother to me." My failures weigh upon me like a yoke across my shoulders. But I must shake the burden off and do what good I can. "Marguerite, find a bolster and blankets to put behind her back. Fetch my medicine box, and bring Mother Ermentrude."

Marguerite lays down the spoon and complies without question. Lately her manner toward me has changed from one of pious disdain to an awed humility. Evidently she is persuaded that I am not a weak and sinful girl, but an honest widow and mother to a prince.

I bend over Therese and examine her eyes and skin, feel her faint pulse.

"Have you thought of a new remedy, some untried cordial?" Angelina asks, her voice inflected with hope.

"No, the time for such treatment is past. I cannot cure her, but I believe we can ease her pain in dying."

Marguerite returns with Mother Ermentrude. She and Isabel lift Therese's frail form into a sitting position and support her with blankets. Therese turns her head weakly from side to side, like a hungry baby or a bird in want of food. Mother Ermentrude begins to pray, fingering her beads.

I do not know what I am doing; I only act as if I have a purpose. I pour some oil of rosemary steeped in cloves onto a cloth. I have read that its pungence can sometimes restore memory and speech. With the cloth I wipe Therese's face.

Her eyelids flutter open. She sees me and shakes her head slowly.

"Jesus, come to me," she says, her voice weak and plaintive. "Why does my Lord come no more?" Therese spreads her hands on her sunken chest.

"Alas, she no longer has the vision of suckling the Christ child," whispers Angelina. "And now she is in despair."

"I have nothing to give. See how I am withered. Oh, Jesus, have mercy on me."

Without thinking, moved by a will that is not my own, I turn and with one swift motion lift baby Hamlet from his basket and unwrap him. His arms and legs, freed from their swaddling, beat the air. I hold the infant upright before Therese. His eyes open wide in his rosy face and he waves his tiny fists.

When Therese sees the infant, she smiles and her eyes shine like bright lamps revealing her very soul. With sudden strength, she leans forward and takes the baby in her bony arms, cradling him close to her. Tears spring from her dry eyes like water from the rock in the desert.

"It is my salvation!" exclaims Therese. She strokes the baby's smooth, warm flesh. She breathes deeply.

"He smells of honey and roses and milk," she murmurs, a look of ecstasy on her face.

Inspired, Angelina begins to pray the words of the aged Simeon when he saw the child Jesus.

"Lord now let thy servant depart in peace, according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, which you have prepared before the face of all people, to be a light to lighten the nations—"

Before Angelina is finished, Therese has died. Her head nods forward in the pose of a painter's Madonna regarding her child. As I lift my baby from her limp arms, they fall open in her lap, palms facing upward.

Isabel and Marguerite gasp. Mother Ermentrude crosses herself. I stand unmoving and speechless, while Angelina grabs my arm for support. Our eyes are fixed on the amazing sight. There, at the center of Therese's hands, spring bright beads of blood.

Chapter 48

In the twilight of the Easter evening, the day's strange events fill my thoughts. Already the nuns are saying that a miracle was manifested in Therese's death. To call it so is beyond my weak belief. Yet I do not understand the appearance of the blood on Therese's palms. Perhaps, I think, her own fingernails pierced the skin. I clench my hands as hard as I can and conclude that this would be impossible, especially considering Therese's weakness. Yet such a flow of blood must be a natural wonder that physicians have surely witnessed and philosophers written of. I will read further, searching until I find an explanation that enlightens me.

I am surprised that grief for Therese does not shake me, though the image of her lifeless body is fresh in my mind. How can I be sad, when she died in great joy? Instead I feel strangely calm. I have come to believe that God takes to himself those who are afflicted with madness. Perhaps he will not condemn them for holding his gift of life so lightly. That may mean my husband, Hamlet, rests in peace, and so I am comforted. No fears disturb my mind, but a peace envelopes me.

The pressure of a firm hand on my shoulder startles me from this tranquil state. It is Marguerite, who has come in her usual stealthy way into my room. She carries a small writing case.

"I knocked, but you did not hear me. I pray you, forgive me this intrusion. My business cannot wait," she says, her voice both quiet and insistent. In her position, she is used to having her way.

My first thought is that the bishop has already learned of Hamlet's birth and has rendered a decision about my future. I have made no provisions for this day, but I will not be afraid.

"Am I to be turned away from St. Emilion? Must I prepare to leave now?" I ask, sitting up and gathering Hamlet into my arms.

"No, that is not the matter."

I am relieved somewhat, but still curious. Marguerite waits to be invited to stay. I nod my head toward the stool, inviting her to use it. When she is settled, she opens her writing box on her lap so that the sun's failing rays fall upon it and takes up her pen.

"It is my duty to record the events of this day and the testimony of eyewitnesses, for a report must be made to the bishop. I must start today, while the scene is still fresh in our memories. But my true aim is to publish Therese's story to the world. This day's wonders shall make our convent famous throughout France and Christendom," she says with a grand sweep of her arm. Her eyes are bright with zeal.

"Ah, a new story for your catalog of saints and sinners. What will be the moral of this tale?"

"Pray do not mock me, Ophelia," says Marguerite, with a semblance of her former haughty manner toward me. "Today we witnessed a miracle. For though the dead was not brought to life, a stony heart—my own—was softened and made a welcome bed for God's grace. Perhaps others may be brought to a truer faith by hearing of Therese's godly death."

Her evident sincerity makes me regret my light words.

"There are, indeed, many strange things about this Easter day. But I doubt that I can help you, for I do not understand the meaning of it all."

"What is there to understand? A miracle must always be a mystery," she says simply.

"I do not believe in miracles. But I grant that there are things-events and beings, perhaps—beyond the reach of reason," I say, turning my thoughts into words with difficulty. "Yet though our faculty of reason be weak, it seldom descends into madness." I shake my head, wondering what brought that affliction upon Hamlet and Therese. "Perhaps only some forms of madness spring from a diseased mind, while other types of madness may be divine in origin."

"Must I write that Therese was mad?" Marguerite asks, clearly dismayed.

"No, that is hardly the sum of it." Nor does it sum up Hamlet's case, I think. I rest my chin in my hands, still musing. The silence grows until Marguerite breaks it with impatient words.

"Come now, Ophelia, I cannot tell the story without your help. To begin, I must describe the means you used to treat Therese's illness. Then an account of your friendship will follow. For you alone have treated her with true charity. I regret that I did not," Marguerite says, glancing down and to the side. It is a coy motion I have seen in court ladies, but in her it passes for humility.

"In a moment. But first you must know that I did not act purely out of charity. I wanted to prove my skill by curing Therese. I wanted to cheat Death of her." It is easy now to admit my wrongs, even to this proud sister, for I no longer fear the consequences of speaking truth. "Marguerite, I have drank poison and almost drowned and was brined alive before I escaped from Denmark. This is no he, but truth," I say, seeing her eyes grow wide. "I tell you for this reason: Because I was so desperate to preserve my life, I could not bear to see Therese choosing to die. It was my own will that I tried to force upon her, defying her washes and perhaps God's as well. I confess that I have a long habit of disobedience," I say with a wry smile. "Surely this is no fit matter for your holy tale."

Marguerite holds her pen still. I am relieved that she has written nothing of what I have said.

"You did no wrong by trying to save her life," she says softly.

"But I failed!" I say, feeling anew the disappointment of being unable to cure Therese. "Indeed, I have not been able to preserve the life of anyone I have loved!" I realize that I have given voice to the essence of my loneliness. Tears spring from my eyes like a sudden shower and fall upon my sleeping child, whom I hold tight to my breast. "Now I would give my very life, to preserve his," I say between sobs.

"But that is it, Ophelia—the miracle of salvation!" Marguerite's eyes shine with excitement.

"What did I say? What do you mean?"

"Christ gave his life to redeem us. Today, on Therese's hands, we saw Christ's blood. It is the sign that you are forgiven; I am forgiven. Now you are willing to give your life for another's. That is the miracle of salvation! This is what I will write." Breathless, she dips her pen in ink and begins to write rapidly.

I am dazed by her words. The idea, that by Therese's death I am forgiven, comes over me like the tide, lifting me with its gentle force and bearing me toward a solid shore. I see my griefs begin to sink below the waves, and I ride the crest in hope.

The scratching of Marguerite's pen has stopped. I see her gaze fixed on the wall as if on a minor that will reflect her inner self. I long to know her thoughts, the meaning of her manner toward me. How is it that she, whom I once hated, now listens without judgment to my sins and even persuades me that I have taken part in a miracle?

"You say Therese's death has changed your heart," I begin. "But you were already changed. Before, you disdained me for a sinner. Since Hamlet's birth, you have not been cruel to me, but mild in your manner, even kind. Why?"

Marguerite grips her pen and her eyes meet mine for a moment, revealing anguish, before she looks away. Her ivory brow furrows in delicate lines.