Night Blooming (32 page)

Sorra Celinde hurried off, bound for the little oratory near the stairs, where she knew she would find other nuns who would share her devotions. When the ritual was concluded, she went along to the Guards’ station and asked to be loaned a capa.

“It is summer. Why would you want such a garment?” The Guard was a sturdy fellow with a patch over one eye and a jagged scar along his neck.

“The Bishop has asked for one.” This was not quite a lie, and she felt no shame in the assertion.

The Guard shrugged. “Strange creatures, Bishops,” he observed as he went to the dressing room and retrieved a capa from its depths. “Return it when the Bishop has done with it.”

“I shall,” said Sorra Celinde, and took the heavy woolen garment in her arms. She paid no attention to the chuckle that followed her out of the Guards’ station.

Gynethe Mehaut had donned a simple honey-colored gonella over her stolla; both were linen and washed in saffron-water. Her girdle was embroidered leather worked in a design of interlocking crosses. Bands of colored fabric plaited into her pale hair were her only adornment. “I am ready,” she told Sorra Celinde.

“Very good. Then follow me,” said Sorra Celinde, handing Gynethe Mehaut the capa and stepping back into the corridor. “We must go to the reception hall.” She led the way at a good pace, doing her best to ignore the stares of the nuns they encountered along the way. As they crossed the open courtyard, she walked beside Gynethe Mehaut, helping her to keep the hood of the capa in place to protect her face from the hot sunlight.

A monk met them at the door to the reception hall. “The Archbishops are waiting,” he said. “They have taken their places.”

“And Bishop Iso?” Sorra Celinde asked.

“He is with Bishop Freculf. You will see them directly.” The monk turned away, indicating the women should come with him. “The Bishop’s slave, Conwoin, will escort you into the presence of the Archbishops,” he said.

“Very well,” said Sorra Celinde, who disliked Conwoin intensely.

“When you go before these august men, prostrate yourselves and do not look at them unless they order you to do so. If you must direct your gaze at them, do not look in their eyes—choose a place over their shoulders. They are not for the scrutiny of such as you and me.” The monk made a gesture of humility and pointed to the door. “That is the antechamber. Conwoin will meet you there.”

“We will pray,” said Sorra Celinde as she took the capa from around Gynethe Mehaut’s shoulders. “May God reward you for your true service.”

“Amen,” said the monk, and hurried away, pointedly avoiding looking at Gynethe Mehaut.

“Well,” said Sorra Celinde, “are you ready?”

“I must be,” said Gynethe Mehaut, none of her apprehension showing in her calm demeanor. She was glad she could keep her hands in her sleeves, not only to conceal her bandages, but so that no one could see how badly they were shaking. She entered the antechamber and at once sank onto the bench near the inner door.

Sorra Celinde came up to her. “They will summon you at their pleasure.”

“No doubt,” said Gynethe Mehaut, and fell silent, her nerves jumping.

“You mustn’t worry. They will decide what is best.” Sorra Celinde kept her voice low, not wanting to be overheard.

“I pray they will,” said Gynethe Mehaut automatically; her attention was on the closed door.

Sorra Celinde could think of nothing to say. She began to pace the antechamber, wishing it were large enough to allow her some room to move. When the inner door opened, she started. “Conwoin?”

“Yes, Sorra Celinde,” said the slave, a faint note of condescension in his voice. “Bishop Iso has summoned you and the Pale Woman into the presence of the Archbishops.” He reverenced her, but so profoundly that she was insulted by his action.

“You are too proud, Conwoin,” she said as she went over to Gynethe Mehaut. “Come. They are waiting.”

Gynethe Mehaut got to her feet as if she were girded in ice. She went to the open door, moving as if sleepwalking. Beyond she could see the hanging lamps and high bench of the reception room, and saw the three Archbishops, one of whom seemed half-asleep, seated there. In front of the bench stood Bishop Freculf and Bishop Iso, the former flushed, the latter pale.

“Gynethe Mehaut, Sublimi, and Sorra Celinde,” said Conwoin, reverencing each Churchman in turn. “Where shall the Pale Woman stand?”

“There,” said Archbishop Ebroin, pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose and squinting; he had a throbbing headache that the morning’s debate had not alleviated. “Go there. Opposite the Bishops.” He watched in silence as she went where he had indicated.

“It is done,” said Conwoin, and guided Gynethe Mehaut to a petitioners’ box. “Do not enter it; he prone before it.”

Gynethe Mehaut knelt and bowed her head before prostrating herself. She turned her head away from the Bishops as she lay on the polished stone floor.

“Sorra Celinde may sit at the rear of the hall,” said Conwoin, not quite smirking.

The nun wanted to protest this casual insult, but knew it would be held against her; she did as he told her, promising herself there would be a time when Conwoin would answer for his insolence.

From the high bench, Archbishop Reginhalt leaned forward, his vision blurred more than usual. “You may speak, Pale Woman,” he said, “when we ask you questions directly. Do not answer any questions from either Bishop. Do you understand?”

“I do, Sublime,” she murmured.

“Very good,” said Archbishop Ebroin. “How long have you been pale?”

“I am told I was born this way,” Gynethe Mehaut answered, her voice clear and distinct. “I cannot recall a time when I was not pale.”

“And your eyes? Have they always been red?” Archbishop Ebroin went on.

“As far as I know, Sublime,” said Gynethe Mehaut.

“You had no illness? There was no malediction laid upon your mother? She was no handmaiden of the Devil? Or sworn to ancient gods whom Christ has cast down into Hell?” Archbishop Reginhalt’s questions came too quickly to be answered. “Well?” he demanded.

“If I had an illness, I was never told of it. The priest in our village said my mother was a good woman, and helped her.” Gynethe Mehaut took a deep breath. “If anyone worshiped ancient gods, they did it away from our village. I was entrusted to the Church when I was quite young, and I cannot speak for what others in our village may have done.” She could feel tears well in her eyes, and she hated herself for such a display of weakness.

“Do you suppose there is anyone who would Confess to making sacrifice to the old gods?” Archbishop Ebroin asked; beside him Archbishop Sigiberht let out a rolling snore. Archbishop Ebroin sighed and did his best to carry on. “Why would anyone be so foolish?”

“I know of no one who would,” said Gynethe Mehaut carefully.

“Then you
do
have contact with those who keep to the old ways,” said Bishop Iso, turning toward Gynethe Mehaut. “You can’t claim to be unaware of—”

“I know of these things because monks and priests speak of them, and preach of the evils of such practices. I wouldn’t—” Gynethe Mehaut was interrupted by Bishop Freculf.

“That is why I am certain this woman is a messenger of God. It would be a poor messenger who didn’t know the wiles of the enemies of God,” he declared, looking at Bishop Iso. “You can’t claim that she wouldn’t know about the followers of the old gods.”

“But who is to say that this is an example of God’s Mercy?” asked Archbishop Ebroin. “Perhaps Bishop Iso is right, and she is a snare.” He looked at her. “Woman. Hold up your hands.”

Gynethe Mehaut half-raised from her position on the floor and strove to comply. “I need help to unwrap them,” she said at last.

“Sorra Celinde,” said Archbishop Reginhalt, “go to the Pale Woman’s aid.”

Little as she wanted to obey, Sorra Celinde did as the Archbishop ordered, doing her best to appear pleased to comply. “May she rise?”

“Yes; she may kneel instead of lying,” said Archbishop Ebroin.

Gynethe Mehaut got to her knees and held up her bandaged hands. “I want you to be careful so that you can swear there is nothing in the bandages that could cut into my skin.”

“Of course,” said Sorra Celinde, her pretty mouth turning down at the corners as she set to work; she disliked this chore intensely, but took pains to conceal her repugnance. Carefully she unfastened the knots that held the linen bands in place and began to unwrap the Pale Woman’s left hand. “There isn’t anything in this bandage,” she told the Bishops and the Archbishops as she held up the blood-stained cloth.

“Very strange,” said Archbishop Ebroin, his hand to his head.

Sorra Celinde unwrapped Gynethe Mehaut’s right hand and repeated what she had done with the left, with the same results. “There is nothing sharp concealed in this one, either. She has done nothing to damage her palms. But, as you see, her hand bleeds.”

“Is it truly blood?” asked Archbishop Reginhalt. He blinked, trying to make out the red discoloration he thought he saw on her hands.

“Has anyone tasted it?” Archbishop Ebroin asked of the Bishops. “How else can we know it is blood if no one will taste it?”

At this suggestion, Sorra Celinde blanched. “I couldn’t do such a thing, Sublimes. I will obey you in almost everything, but I won’t do that.”

“I’m not afraid to taste of blood so blessed,” said Bishop Freculf with a hint of a swagger as he approached the high bench. “If you require it, I’ll lick her wounds and tell you what I taste. I am not afraid harm will come to me through her blood.”

“No,” said Bishop Iso. “You mustn’t. You would be damned by so perverse an act.”

Archbishop Sigiberht leaned precariously on his chair, snoring boldly.

Archbishop Reginhalt shook his head, but whether at Archbishop Sigiberht or Bishop Freculf’s offer was impossible to tell. He contemplated Gynethe Mehaut. “How long have your hands bled, Pale Woman?”

“As I recall, Sublime, I was in my ninth or tenth year when it first occurred. I tried to keep it secret and it soon stopped. But it happened again, and again, and I couldn’t continue to conceal it,” she said, and pressed her white lips together.

“Why did you conceal it?” Archbishop Ebroin asked sharply. “Were you ashamed?”

“No,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “Not then. I was confused and troubled. I couldn’t think what this was, or what it might portend. When the Abba first saw it, she beat me for profaning Christ.”

“Did she?” said Archbishop Ebroin. “Did you not protest such usage?”

“No,” said Gynethe Mehaut simply. “She was doing what she thought best, and for a while the bleeding stopped, so I was content, and she was satisfied.”

“Did she continue to beat you?” Archbishop Reginhalt asked.

“Until she returned me to my parents, saying she could do no more with me. One of the Sorrae said I had summoned a demon who got her with child. My father kept me for a time, but soon grew afraid and sent me to the nuns at Santa Albegunda, where I remained until Bishop Freculf decided I should go to Sant’ Audoenus.” Gynethe Mehaut reported all this with little show of emotion, though she was filled with turmoil.

“Did you summon the demon?” Bishop Iso asked, a look of certainty indicating he was already convinced of her guilt.

“No; I have no knowledge of how it is done,” she replied.

“Oh, come,” said Bishop Iso. “A drop of the blood would bring a demon.”

Gynethe Mehaut laughed unhappily. “If I could do that, I should have done it long since, and asked him to take this from me, and make my skin like that of other people’s.”

“There is wisdom in her answer,” said Archbishop Ebroin, nodding and feeling his headache worsen.

“Or guile,” said Bishop Iso, visibly sneering.

“Why do you believe she would not want this for herself?” Bishop Freculf asked. “She is humble, she prays all through the night and tends the night-blooming garden for the benefit of those who guard the places dedicated to Christ and the Glory of God. This isn’t the work of a demon, or of someone who seeks to bring down the True Faith.”

“She corrupts it by her existence. If she is permitted to remain among Christians, she will distort all that is good and worthy and put debauchery in their place.” Bishop Iso’s cheeks reddened with indignation.

“How can you look upon her and yet accuse her?” Bishop Freculf countered. “I am not so proud as to claim that I can discern all of God’s Will in this, but since I first saw her, I have learned nothing of her but good, and I am reminded that we are obliged to look beyond the body to the soul. In this case what more should I do than what the Scriptures tell me, and see the soul in the deeds and demeanor of Gynethe Mehaut?”

“How better to bring down our faith, than from within the Church, with the Church’s consent?” Bishop Iso’s voice was rising.

Archbishop Ebroin held up his hand. “Sublimi, what is the purpose of this rancor?” He felt his stomach lurch, and he put his hand to his mouth; the Bishops interpreted this as an admonition to silence and stopped speaking.

In the stillness Archbishop Reginhalt sat back, his arms folded. “Gynethe Mehaut,” he said, addressing the white-skinned young woman. “I don’t know what to make of you. I haven’t the time to make a study of your case, or to converse with everyone who has ever dealt with you, which is what I should do before arriving at a final judgment in your regard. You may be what Bishop Iso believes you to be, in which case, you are too dangerous and everything you say is a snare, and you put our souls at risk by being in your presence. Or you may be what Bishop Freculf believes, in which case you are to be revered and you are among the Saints. Or you may be neither, in which case you are to be pitied. But I cannot determine yet which it may be, and so I wish to lay your case before the Pope. If Archbishop Ebroin will agree, we will arrange for you to be sent to Karl-lo-Magne’s Court where more learned men may confer about your condition, and add their opinions to your case to assist Leo to gain the knowledge of God.”

Archbishop Ebroin was glad to do anything that would bring this wretched morning to an end; he made a blessing and clamped his jaw shut to keep nausea from rising; he did not trust himself to speak.