Light of Her Own

by Callaghan, Carrie

  “Salomon de Bray doesn’t need his answer now. I’ll be in touch.”

  The man shrugged and pocketed the coin. “I doubt he’ll be happy about it. But that’s your business. Until next time then.”

  Maria escorted him out then hurried back to talk to her father.

  “Tell me. It’s about the relic, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. You’re interested in it?”

  “Of course. A relic! Of St. Luke, even. Who wouldn’t be interested?”

  He nodded, though his expression was distracted. “The letter said that Father Cloribus isn’t in Bruges; it says that they’ve traced him to Leiden. Leiden! Only, what, four hours away, and they are still insisting that I go. Bastards.”

  “But if you wouldn’t be gone for long, what do they gain by sending you? Maybe they mean it. You would have a better chance of getting the relic back. You’re of the true Church.”

  He snorted. “They’re trying to save themselves from embarrassment. And there’s no way I’m going on that hunt. It’s absurd.”

  Maria glanced out the large casement window toward the silver sky that hugged the rooftops. “I could go. It’s close; there’s no harm. And then you don’t have to leave. They couldn’t object to your daughter going, right? You could say you were offended if they did.” She smiled, and her father caught her eye and grinned back. Her heart raced at the suggestion, but she kept her smile in place. She had been hoping for an opportunity like this—a quest—and she had been prepared to send herself to Bruges. Leiden was a much less intimidating destination.

  “There’s something to that,” he said. He stood and took his brush to a worktable, where he dipped it in a cleaning solution. “But I don’t know. I’m not sure I want you traveling by yourself.”

  “I would be fine. The carriage is safe—people travel in them all the time. And Father Cloribus couldn’t say no, not after I’d gone to that effort.”

  “I would enjoy setting Salomon back on his heels.” He lifted his chin, giving his neck a stretch as he thought.

  “Exactly.” She was surprised at the stillness of her hands. If she left Haarlem, she would not have to dodge Judith’s questions about her painting, and she would not have to glance around every street corner for fear of seeing a shadowy, blond head and an unshaven face.

  “I’ll think about it.” He tapped the brush on the rim of the vessel and shook the cleaning solution off. “It might work.”

  She wanted to press her case further, plead with him even, but she knew that wouldn’t help. She smiled, as if his decision was of little consequence to her, and left the workshop.

  After their salted herring dinner that night, Judith, who still spent her nights in their house, pulled out her latest songbook and insisted the household join her in some singing. Frans de Grebber, as usual, declined, but he conceded to follow the group into the large entry hall, where the oldest apprentice brought his lute and Maria her cittern. They pulled chairs together and, after a few bad laughing starts, set into playing the first song in Judith’s book, a sample of Jacob Cats’s verse set to melody. Judith bobbed her hand in the air to set the time while she sang, and the boy strummed the melody from the curved belly of the lute. Maria liked playing the cittern, with the sharp tones produced by the wire strings and the resistance those strings gave her fingertips. Her notes pierced the others’ music, and yet somehow made it all whole. They played long into the night, until the candles burned down, and no one could read the notes any more.

  Maria and Judith hauled themselves up the steep staircase to their second-story bedroom and, by the dim light of the moon, dressed for bed. Maria pulled her dressing robe over her gown to keep out the chill. She was still as slender as a teenager and prone to shivering, and she was about to draw the curtains of her sleeping compartment closed when Judith whispered her name.

  “Mmm.” Maria rubbed her eyes and stifled a yawn.

  “I want to ask you something, since you’re a Catholic. I’ve been thinking about sin,” Judith said, her voice level. “Because that’s what people want to buy. Not sin, I mean. But reminders not to sin. The strange thing is, those reminders, our paintings, they make sin look rather nice. Delicious, even. Do you know what I mean? The idea has been gnawing at me. I know you think about sin, being a Catholic.”

  Maria sat up in her bed and leaned against the wall by her pillow. She stared at the ceiling of the small sleeping chamber, which was so dark that it grew deep in its blackness.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Is that why you did that? The burning. I figured it out, you know. I can’t imagine doing that to my own painting. So much work . . . gone.”

  Maria blushed. “I needed to atone.”

  Judith gave a coarse laugh and stirred in her compartment, as though turning over. “Atone for what? You’ve always been harder on yourself than you deserve, Maria.”

  “No, I’m not. My sins . . . and after Samuel died, all I’ve felt is guilt. I was so wrong to speak as I did to him. To avoid telling him the truth, letting him believe something untrue.”

  Judith sighed. “Maria, you did nothing wrong. You must know that. Look, I’m sure my list of sins is longer, and I’ve lived a pretty dull life. Chastity intact here.” She laughed, drily, again.

  “You don’t have to live an exciting life to sin. Come on, Judith, they tell you every Sunday, right? I know that much about the Reformed Church. The Devil is everywhere.”

  “Maybe. I still can’t imagine that you need much atonement. Whatever sins you might think you have, it’s not what art buyers are worried about. Your sins can’t be what the merchants want me to paint about and warn them against.”

  Maria took a deep breath. It had been so long since she and Judith had talked like this, alone in the dark. She wrapped her fingers around her forearm and felt the scratchy wool of the robe. “I’ll tell you. Something I’ve never told anyone.” She paused.

  “Yes?”

  “It was some years ago, fifteen maybe. I must have been nine or ten. My mother was still alive. Our neighbor Floortje van Goyen, you know her, she had her brother visiting. He was younger than her, so about twenty-five, though his size made him seem older. He terrified me, and when he caught me alone he’d leer and say crude things. I tried to stay away from him. But then he fell sick. His body grew burning hot, and he got to where he couldn’t lift himself from his bed. Poor Floortje was beside herself. Her first husband had died, and she kept coming to cry to my mother that she didn’t want to be alone. Mother sent me to watch over him one afternoon when Floortje had to leave to sell her small work in the market. She’d gone two weeks without laying out her pieces for sale. Mother thought she needed the fresh air as much as the money. I didn’t want to watch him, I’d have rather gone to the market, but Mother insisted.” Maria paused and coughed.

  “Maria, so far this is a story about you listening to your mother. Hardly sinful,” Judith said.

  “The moment I walked into the room, I gagged. There was an overflowing waste bucket by the pallet, which lay directly on the floor, and I don’t know what else in his bedclothes. He tossed and turned, mumbling some insanity about worms and rats. He kept scratching at his clothes and trying to tear them off. I forced myself to put a hand to his forehead, and it was scorching. I thought I should help, but I hated being near him. A few times he seemed to come to his senses, and he looked at me. Once, he smiled. But it made me tremble, and I pulled my stool back against the wall.

  “Then he started to moan. He begged me to help him. I filled a cup with water, but he batted it away. ‘Let out the heat,’ he said. ‘It’ll burn me up.’ He moaned and pleaded, and I realized he meant for me to let his blood, as surgeons might. I didn’t know what to do, so I went down to Floortje’s kitchen. Partly to escape the room. Partly hoping she would return. And still I could hear him crying above me. I checked to see if she had a myrrh tincture or any of the usual ointments, but she didn’t have a single small pot in th
e kitchen. So I took a paring knife and a bowl. I returned to the room and held the knife to his skin. But he shuddered, knocked my hand, and the knife dropped to the floor. And then something inside me changed.

  “It was like I saw his suffering and, God help me, I enjoyed it. I pulled away from him, as far as I could. He was a bad man, I told myself, and I wouldn’t help him. He deserved that pain. He thrashed and groaned. He asked for the knife himself, but I wouldn’t give it to him. I didn’t come any closer. And then, all of a sudden, he fell quiet. He had fallen asleep. I leaned my head against the wall and watched him. And I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I heard Floortje running up the stairs. I stood up and watched as she ran to her brother. And then she screamed. Because he had died. Right there, as I slept. And I didn’t do anything to help him. I chose to let him die.”

  The room was quiet, and Maria blinked back a few hot tears. She thought of the man in the street, with the blond hair and the unshaven face, and how much pain she wished upon him.

  “That’s awful,” Judith said softly. “But you were a child. I don’t see how that’s a sin, Maria.”

  Maria shook her head. “No, it’s the feeling inside that’s the problem. Like I have a dark seashell, sealed shut inside my chest. It’s evil, and I know I should bury it, heap sand over it like we would at the beach. But sometimes I don’t. I yank it out and pry it open. To see what emerges. And so I watched him suffer. Because I wanted to listen to that darkness in me.”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself. Is that what those priests teach you?”

  “No! Judith, you’re not listening. I wanted to tell you that story to show you. It’s the temptation to sin that’s inside me, like a stain. Others must have it too, but the worst part is that I succumb to it. No, the worst part is, I enjoy it. I enjoyed watching him suffer, Judith. All because he said some thoughtless things to me. Things any bored man might say.” She pulled the quilt over her head, but then pushed it away. “I’ve never told anyone this. Not even the priest. I know I have to, to ask God’s forgiveness. But I’m too scared to ask. He won’t forgive me. That sealed-up shell is still inside me.”

  “Maria, it still sounds to me like the worst thing you did then was to do nothing. That’s just like you, isn’t it, to sin by doing nothing?” Judith gave a small laugh, and Maria’s chest constricted.

  “What does that mean?”

  Judith was silent, and Maria waited. “Nothing.”

  “You think I don’t ever do anything for myself.”

  “No, Maria. That’s not what I meant.” She paused again.

  “It’s late, I’m tired. What I meant was that I find it hard to imagine you enjoying suffering.”

  Maria kept silent. She couldn’t bear to convince her friend that it was true, and yet she knew it was. She was torn between the desire to expose herself, to be known, and the conviction that dwelling on this would only disgust Judith. They seemed to understand one another so little now, and she didn’t know if it was better to repair the breach by saying more, or if she would risk even more damage by showing her sinful self.

  “You could tell your priest, Maria.”

  Maria heard the distance in her friend’s voice, and her stomach clenched in regret. “You’re right. I should tell him. Contrition, reconciliation . . . they are important.”

  “You’re lucky to have that, you Catholics.”

  Maria could not tell if Judith was trying to be jovial, and she was too tired to do anything but agree. “Yes.”

  They were silent. She shouldn’t have told Judith. Though in a way, she was relieved that she had. She waited.

  Judith yawned loudly. “Good night then, Maria.”

  “Yes. Good night.”

  But Maria lay in bed for hours, long after Judith’s measured breathing fell into a light snore.

  The next morning, Judith was gone when Maria awoke late, long after dawn. She pulled on her clothes, added a few extra sleeves and underskirts for the lingering cold, and rushed downstairs. Her father was finishing the last of his breakfast bread and washed it down with a draught of small beer. His gray curls were still flattened from sleep.

  “Have you decided?” Maria asked. She pulled a chair up to the table and perched at the edge of the seat’s pillows.

  He blinked slowly, as if trying to assemble his thoughts. “Oh! The relic. Yes, I did think on it.”

  “And?”

  He dabbed his finger at some crumbs on the table and lifted them to his tongue. “I don’t see the harm in you going. I don’t want to go; no, I can’t be away from the workshop. There’s a big auction soon.”

  “I’m ready to go. Today.”

  “Already? Hmm. That would catch Salomon off guard and have the relic back before they know it.”

  Maria forced a smile. “That’s right.”

  “Assuming that priest still has the thing. But he must. Such a holy item.”

  “Yes, he must.” Her hands were cold, and she clutched them together.

  “I’ll give you some money for the trip. The Guild will reimburse me. When you’re ready, come get the coins, and I’ll tell you where to find Cloribus. There’s no reason to wait for their permission, is there? Yes, I like this. Present them with everything already completed.” He tipped the last bit of small beer down his throat. “You’ll need this letter, with the details of his whereabouts.”

  That afternoon, wearing two additional bodices and carrying a bag with a change of clothes, Maria settled into her hard seat inside the passenger carriage that serviced the route to Leiden. The interior smelled of horse and close bodies. Across from her, an old woman wearing the thick, wide neck ruff of last decade’s style did needlework in a hoop on her lap. Next to Maria sat an old man with rounded shoulders but sparkling, lively eyes and a doublet of fine black velvet. He called out the window to the driver, who yelled back in a sharp voice. The old man turned to the other two passengers and shook his head, though he smiled. “Impudent wretch. As usual.”

  The coach rocked into motion, and they made their slow way out of town. When the town wall had receded behind them, Maria stared out the window and tried not to think. She watched workers digging a long trench, which would someday be a canal connecting Haarlem and Leiden. Then travelers would be able to take a horse-drawn ferry, a smoother passage than the bumpy, bouncing carriage. She closed her eyes and tried to still her stomach. When she opened them again, she saw the low fields edged by rolling dunes across the wide panorama. Maria had been to the beach a number of times, and to a few country villages nearby, but not to another city, certainly not one as grand as Leiden. She imagined the very streets would be swollen with the learning that flowed from the renowned university.

  The carriage jerked to a halt, and she could hear the driver clamber down from his perch. She glanced at the old man, who nodded.

  “A toll,” he said. “It’ll take a few minutes to move the barrier.”

  “Ah.”

  “Hardly seems worth the trouble, this travel, doesn’t it? We could walk. Though not, perhaps, a young woman like yourself.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Unless it were for a good reason. I’ve heard some women have followed the Way of St. James, all the way down into Spain. But really, these roads can be dangerous.” He paused, gauging her interest in conversation, and she gave a small, encouraging smile.

  “When I was a young man—and it’s true, I was once—I was riding to Frieslaand for business. Me and a partner. There’s not much up that way—wasn’t then at least—but we had some commerce. On our way, two highwaymen came galloping down the road. My friend wanted to run away, but I thought it would be easier to deal with them gently. Oh, now I don’t know why I started telling this story. It’s not fit for a lady.” He looked away and drummed his fingers against the worn seat cushion.

  “Go on, seigneur,” she said, hoping the French-styled title might flatter him. “You can’t stop
there.”

  He drummed his fingers a moment more, then waved his hand, as though brushing away a fly. “The short of it is that my partner concealed a good number of florins. They found the coins and killed him. Hung his body from a tree. A lesson, they said, for those who resist. I’ve never traveled a road without hoping to see their rotten bodies strung up high, instead of remembering his. Goodness, I’m sorry. That’s dreadful business.”

  “No, it’s fine.” She had not seen many decomposing bodies, but she had witnessed enough executions and enough dead dogs floating in the canals to guess about rotting humans. “And did you continue?”

  “Continue?”

  “On to Frieslaand.”

  “Yes, of course. Ah, there we go,” he said as the carriage lurched forward. “On with our journey.”

  Maria gave a weak smile and turned to watch the countryside roll past the dirty window. Now she had to figure out how she was going to find her way in a new city. And what she would do if she didn’t find the priest.

  Chapter 16

  THE DAY MARIA LEFT, JUDITH had risen early, though it was not because she wanted to avoid her. True, Judith was not eager to have another private conversation with her friend. It had been easy to be friends when they could whisper about distant dreams, but now grinding those dreams into a messy daily reality had created wounds she neither wanted to share nor see. Judith spent nearly every waking minute now thinking of her work and how she might transform her love of painting into a livelihood. Painting was the only thing she knew how to do well, and she couldn’t imagine giving herself over to anything less satisfying. Maria, on the other hand, seemed happy to go where life took her. Or, if not happy, resigned. Maybe that wasn’t true, but there was never time anymore to find out. Judith always had too much work. And today, she had urgent business in her workshop. She loved the sound of it: her workshop. Now that she was a master, she could host apprentices. They were an important source of potential revenue and crucial to increasing her production. That morning, she had an interview with the first candidate and his mother. Judith had to ensure the workshop was spotless.