A Vision of Light (9 page)

“But I don’t want a man from St. Matthew’s.”

“Little Miss, you must take what you can get, and get out of this village. Otherwise your father will hunt you down and spoil you. Haven’t you realized that yet?”

It was true. The only men strong enough to defy father were my own big brothers. And even they, wild as they were, would never raise a hand against father. It would be the ultimate sin, the defiance of a father’s law. And we all knew that the will of a father is absolute, like that of the king, for it is sanctioned by God Himself. They would never run the risk of being shunned by the entire village and outcast by all decent folk for such a small thing as a sister’s honor. And father? I know now, he wouldn’t even have burned in hell for it. I’ve learned since that indulgences for incestuous men come at low prices these days.

“But—but can’t Sir Ambrose stop him?”

Mother threw back her head and laughed bitterly.

“Don’t you know that he’ll blame you for tempting him, and not him for being tempted? Take it to the priest, and you’ll be destroyed for good.”

“What must I do, mother?”

“Keep quiet, keep this little knife about you, and avoid him when he’s drunk. Other than that be guided by your mother, which is your duty as a Christian daughter.”

My head was turning. It was too much truth, and too much ale, all for one night.

“Yes, mother,” I said. “I’ll remember my duty and be guided by you.”

When father was sober, he did not seem to remember what he had done. But mother was right. His eyes did follow me, and now I saw it and was afraid. If only my brothers were not going, I could have borne the fear. But to be there alone with him terrified me. Sometimes he would brush against me in passing, in a way that was not innocent, or stand a certain way, blocking my path and humming a little song as a way of daring me to come nearer. But when the time came to leave for France, my brothers did go, as did half the village, and we stood by the road and wept. I don’t know about the others, but I think now I was weeping for myself. Mostly that’s what we do when we weep. We just say it’s for others.

I still remember Rob and Will’s jaunty wave backward as they left, with God’s blessing, to do in France exactly what He had forbidden them to do at home. Even now I find it a mystery why God’s commandments don’t count for foreigners. If you add to the question the consideration that foreigners think we are foreigners, then it gets even more complicated. After all, God has blessed both sides equally, if you go by what the priests on each side say. It seems to me that then God’s law doesn’t apply to anyone at all. The more I think about it, the less I understand war. Maybe God will explain it all to me sometime. I’ll have to remember to ask again after Mass this week. Or perhaps Easter would be better. God often answers things at Easter.

Not long after, David returned for his last summer at home. He had walked alone, carrying his few possessions in a bundle on his back. He was taller than I was now, all bony and awkward-looking. His voice had started to crack. But he still had the same mop of black curls and serious blue eyes, even if they were perched on top of an unfamiliar scarecrow of a body.

I had waited all day to be the first to greet him, and ran to meet him by the high road. But he didn’t seem the same anymore, he was so quiet.

“What a solemn voice! No hug?” I asked him.

“I’m sorry, Margaret, it’s just that I’ve been living so differently.” He embraced me stiffly, and I put my head on his shoulder. David disengaged himself gently. He was changed, but I couldn’t quite understand how.

“And will live better yet, better yet, David! Just think, father said to mother that if you study at the university, you become a prince! Does it really work like that?”

“Father’s not got it quite right, Margaret. But then, he doesn’t know about a lot of things.”

“But you do learn lots and lots, and then become something splendid, don’t you?” We had turned to walk back down the road.

“I don’t know. I’ll be a priest, and maybe a teacher, too, if I’m good enough. Some boys get good appointments afterward, but then, they’re rich and have grand families. I can’t expect so much, I think.” I took his hand. This time he forgot to take it away.

“But you could be like Sir Ambrose and do good.”

“Yes, that’s so, if I can get a place. I might have to substitute for someone who holds a good post. Then I wouldn’t be so well off.”

“You mean priests hire substitutes, the way rich men do for their army service?”

“That’s it, Margaret.”

“But what do they do when they’ve hired the substitute to sing the Mass?”

“Take the living from the post and move somewhere they like better, I suppose.”

“Why, that’s very odd. I would think it would be a great thing to be a priest and save souls from the Devil. But it seems very complicated to me.”

“It is, Margaret, it is, as I’m beginning to learn.” We were very close to the house now.

“But tell me, David, what are the things you’ll be learning at the university?”

“Why, more Latin, and other languages—that’s called grammar—and speaking well and arguing—that’s dialectics—and mathematics, theology—things like that.”

“And what is mathematics?”

“Why, it’s—it’s—well, it’s very complicated, too, and too hard to explain.” It must be complicated, I thought, if even David, who is so good at school, can’t understand it.

“Oh, David, you are so very clever, you’ll surely have a place. You belong at a great cathedral, the greatest in the world.”

“Well, sister, I’ll study hard and take what I can get. But I am fortunate in one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I have the abbot for a patron. He called me in and explained it to me. If I have talent and work hard, he’ll help me find a place. He does that with the boys he sponsors.”

“Well, then, who’s to say you might not come back a prince?” I said to him as I unlatched our front door.

That summer David set to work with a will, but to me he called the farm work his “penance.” This is how I knew that although he acted the same as before, he was waiting for fall with all his heart.

It was just before St. John’s Eve, when we light bonfires and roll fiery wheels downhill, that mother told me she had found a husband for me. We were weeding the garden together as we spoke.

“Your father is willing; the match is good,” she said, picking a caterpillar off the beans and squashing it.

“Good? What kind of good?” I was very anxious, for I feared marriage greatly.

“A wealthy older man, a merchant of furs and a widower, has been making inquiries about you. He saw you on court day at St. Matthew’s and was driven wild with desire by your beauty, or so says my cousin.” Now she was pulling errant sprouts among the turnips.

“Does he live at St. Matthew’s? Then, at least, I can visit you.” I had finished the carrots and had begun the onions. Sweat was running down my nose, and I wiped it off with the back of my hand, leaving a smudge on my nose.

“That’s the hard part. He lives much farther, in Northampton. He’ll make a generous settlement on you. You’ll never lack for anything: fine food, fine clothes, fine friends. It is rare that a girl like you, even a beauty, gets a chance like this.”

“I’d rather live here, in the country, with the people I know.” My heart was sinking for fear of living in solitude among strangers.

“You should think of the comforts your children will have, and thank God that He has sent you such good fortune at such a needful time in your life.” Mother Anne’s face was set like iron.

“But, but—”

“Don’t ‘but.’ If a rich man had seen me when I was in my full beauty, I’d not have said, ‘But.’ I’d have been living in town, enjoying every luxury, with nothing but praises on my lips. Praises to God, and to my dear parents, who had arranged such comfort for me. Gratitude! That’s what children lack today! It’s gratitude! The new generation is graceless and ungrateful, I say!”

“Oh, mother, I’m grateful. Truly, I’m grateful. I’ll always thank you. Yes, I will, I promise.”

And so word was sent to the merchant, who seemed so wealthy to us, and negotiations begun to arrange for the marriage he evidently desired so passionately.

It was hard to talk to David about it. That evening I spoke to him when he had returned from his “penance” and was staring into the fire.

“You’ve heard father and mother? I’m to be married.”

“I’ve heard,” he said morosely.

“He’s very grand, they say.”

“Not grand enough,” said David.

“Will you miss me, David, when I’m a married woman, and you’re a teacher?”

“That’s a stupid question, Margaret.” David stared glumly at the glowing coals.

“I’ll be sad, David, but maybe we can visit.”

“That’s stupid, too, Margaret. We’re parting forever, this time. And if we see each other ever again, we won’t be the same. Not the same at all.”

“Will I be too rich for you, David? Is that it?”

“Oh, Margaret, there’s nothing too good for you! I’m not jealous. That’s not it. It’s just that
I’ll
be different. I’m different now. I’m more different all the time. I can’t talk to mother or father. I can’t talk to my old friends. Maybe someday I won’t be able to talk to you either.” He set his chin on his fist and brooded silently.

“But, David, even if you’re
higher
, can’t we love each other anyway?” I asked softly.

“It’s—it’s just hard to explain.” He looked confused and troubled. “You see, it’s hard to feel the same when you can’t
talk
to someone.”

I thought of something.

“Tell me, David, do you see angels anymore, up there at the abbey?”

“I don’t see so many—no, that’s not true. I don’t see any at all, these days.”

When David left, it was as if he’d died. I felt I’d never see him again.

But losing David was only the first sorrow. Sorrows always come together, I think. First there’s one, then another little one or two, and then a whole crowd. If you could think of a way to keep the first one from jamming the door open, then the rest wouldn’t be able to force their way into the house. At least, that’s how I see it. But I didn’t know that then. I was young, and thought things always turned out for the best.

Not long after, my suitor came, mounted on a white mule and accompanied by servants bearing gifts. He made quite a stir as he rode through the village. Although he was old—already thirty—he had retained a curiously youthful look. His fashionable, tight scarlet hose made his well-muscled legs show to advantage while riding, and his elegant red-and-silver liripipe was wrapped about his head to show off his carefully curled hair and his even, classical profile. Little flawed his looks: a hint of a line on the forehead, perhaps, and a muscular, squarish jaw that made his pale blue eyes seem a bit too small in contrast. But what everyone was dazzled by was his clothes: he dressed as a walking advertisement of his trade. There was fur on his hat, fur in his sleeves, and fur at his neck. Over all an embroidered, fur-lined gown was drawn up by a belt, tooled with silver, that held his long knife at his waist. His fingers glistened with gold, and on his feet were beautiful morocco leather slippers, with fur at the top and long, pointed toes that dangled with elegant disdain from the stirrups as he rode. But as I stood before the house staring, the distaff fell from my hand, and my breath suddenly stuck in my throat. It was the ice-hearted merchant I had seen at the abbot’s court!

B
ROTHER
G
REGORY HELD UP
his fingers and wiggled them until the joints cracked. Then he squirmed until his back felt unkinked, and sighed. It was obviously too late to get out. He couldn’t decide whether to blame his stomach, which had started the whole thing, or his Curiosity, which had led him on when he should have said, “Enough!” Or perhaps it was his Honor that kept him from rejecting a bad bargain in time to save himself from recording this compendium of trivia. Yes, definitely, it was his Honor, he decided. Honor wasted on the kind of people who didn’t even understand what honor was. Women, for example. They don’t have any themselves, so they don’t appreciate it in others. The kind of sly, self-serving women who aren’t even ashamed that they are the cause of the Fall of Man. Eve tempted Adam and started it all with an apple, and this awful woman used a bakeshop meat pie, but it was all the same. And now he was wallowing in the nasty lives of the sort of women he wouldn’t even speak to on the road, unless he needed a drink of water or directions to the next village. Saint John Chrysostom was right when he called women open cesspools, and that was even one of the nicer things he said. I should have heeded him, growled Brother Gregory to himself, I did it all to myself.

The worst part was that these preposterous creatures explained everything backward. It was exactly—well, almost exactly—as if he had made a contract to take down the memoirs of someone’s favorite horse.

“And now, Bayard,” you’d say, “how will you begin?”

“With my feed bin,” he’d say. And then the catalogue of miserable little events would begin. And would any well-meaning correction have the slightest effect? Certainly not! You have to be a thinking creature to be capable of perceiving higher things. Feed bins, tittle-tattle, and birthings. How low he’d sunk. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been warned by all the Authorities, he thought. On the other hand, perhaps God was trying to teach him a lesson. What lesson? Humility? He’d certainly had a bellyful of that lately: God ought to be tired of that one. Maybe the story had a moral. In that case he would be disregarding God’s will in not hearing how it came out. But was that his Curiosity tempting him again? I’ll do a penance, and then send her a message and tell her it’s over, he decided.