She gambled that a similar gesture might move young Edward III, who approved of bold, romantic acts, to release his uncle the earl. If she blamed herself entirely for their affair, if she publicly exonerated Richard, public pressure might increase to release him. Her sex had ever been blamed for the world's ills anyway, so what would be more natural than for good Englishmen and women to transfer their animosity to Maria? And to pity the poor besotted earl for having been so beguiled by such a creature's wiles.
Maria had no idea whether her plan would work—or what else she might do. She only knew she could not continue in this limbo with only rumors and her own fears for company.
The smooth paving stones chilled her bare feet. Between the tolling of the minster bells she could hear the stiff rustle of the Benedictines' robes. With each step her hair brushed against her buttocks. Minutes from now the luxurious tresses that Phillip had wound around his fingers, Richard around her breasts, would be gone. Adulteresses sometimes had their hair cut off, or were forced to perform their penance naked to the waist. Abbot Fyndunne had given her a choice.
Her hair would grow back.
Maria inhaled; the roughness of her hair shirt scored her flesh. Perhaps God no longer turned his head from her for, from the very moment she'd decided on this particular course of action, she had experienced, if not peace, calm.
I would endure hell itself, if 'twould free Richard.
Abbot Fyndunne had urged her to look into her heart and determine the purity of her motives.
"I understand that my immortal soul is in danger," she'd said. "I understand that I have much to be forgiven for."
But never for loving Richard, she silently added.
Keeping her chin raised, her eyes on the soaring vaulted ceiling, she shut out the crowd and surrounding Benedictines. When they reached the end of the nave, the cathedral's carved wooden doors creaked open, as if by an unseen hand.
Maria blinked.
A huge crowd packed the cathedral precincts. Her penance had been public indeed, announced from here to London and beyond.
Maria's legs began to tremble. Her eyes darted over the vivid blur of faces. At least her family did not number among them. Eleanora had been denied permission to leave the nunnery, which was as it should be. Tom was at Deerhurst with Phillip, and she had requested that Hugh remain at Fordwich with Blanche.
"You did not commit my sins," she'd told them. "And I'll not have you witness my pain."
As if bestowing benediction, Henry of Eastry slowly moved the iron cross he carried in a half circle from one end of the crowd to the other, quieting them.
She was dismayed by her heart's frantic pounding. Her calm was deserting her.
God—someone—you must help me. I must be strong.
Abbot Fyndunne's powerful hands settled atop her shoulders. He whispered in her ear. "I just received word from London, Lady Rendell. Richard of Sussex has been released from London's Tower."
"What?" As Maria whirled to face him, the joyous smile died on her lips.
"Aye, m'lady. Fyndunne's expression was suffused with hatred. "So your play-acting proved unnecessary after all.
"What do you mean?"
"I heard your private confession. I know you no more repent of your sin with the Bastard than you do of stealing the Leopard's Head from St. Augustine's."
Maria's eyes widened. Fyndunne had tricked her. She had taken the Leopard's Head from him and this was his revenge. Now that Richard was free, her entire penance would be for naught.
She turned as if to flee. Fyndunne's fingers dug into her shoulders. Henry of Eastry faced her.
"Time, daughter."
"Father, I cannot."
Fyndunne pressed against her back, pushing her forward to make her public statement.
Maria had memorized her speech, but the words fled. If she'd waited twenty four hours she would have been spared the entire pain and humiliation. She knew she had no choice but to finish what she'd begun, but from where would she retrieve the courage? She was terrified by the massive throng of people, all staring. Waiting.
Henry of Eastry faced Maria. "Time, my daughter," he repeated, not unkindly.
The prelates, all in white and lined on either side of her, watched expectantly. "Too late" hammered in concert with the frantic beating of her heart.
Finally, she spoke.
"I, Maria Rendell, have committed great wrongs." She looked beyond the precincts toward the anemic sun. "While a married woman, I tricked and deceived Richard Plantagenet, earl of Sussex, using the wiles of my body, and causing him to lay with me." Her voice shook, gathered strength. "'Twas my sin, for Lord Sussex entered into the relationship unknowing and remained in it because of my treachery." For fear of the stake she was careful to avoid mention of witchcraft. "I deliberately severed the vows of marriage, repaying love with betrayal, and was driven only by my own pride and selfish desires. I confess before God and my church that I am heartily sorry for my many sins. I ask not only their forgiveness but the forgiveness of my husband and children."
Stillness, then a low murmuring. Maria turned to the priests, who helped her kneel. Her head bent forward, the heavy hair cascading past her stomach in coppery waves. Her neck was exposed, and she thought suddenly of Thomas Lancaster and the Hugh Despensers, who had been beheaded for their sins. She sensed some of their terror, vulnerability.
But I will rise and walk away.
Lifting a handful of Maria's tresses, Abbot Fyndunne hacked away with a pair of Toledo scissors. Strands of hair began falling around her.
Like cherry blossoms at the end of their season.
Maria closed her eyes.
'Twill grow back.
But with each thrust of the scissors, a part of her femininity, her womanhood came to rest upon the paving stones.
It does not matter. Phillip is gone and Richard is forever lost to me, so this means nothing.
When Abbot Fyndunne finished, her hair was a ragged chin length. She felt naked without its covering. Thank God she would not be bare-chested for the scourging. At least she had been allowed to retain a measure of her pride.
Reaching inside the folds of his robes Fyndunne withdrew a knife and inserted it inside the neck of her shirt. He jerked downward, exposing Maria's back. Stunned by his betrayal, she half-rose and twisted to face him.
"Nay! You assured me you'd leave me dressed..."
"Orders from Lord Roger Mortimer. We are to show you no mercy." He shoved her back down on the stones. "Since you once willingly exposed yourself before the Bastard, you should relish a wider audience."
"Nay!" Maria clutched the pieces of hair shirt protectively about herself.
Fyndunne's mouth twisted contemptuously. He flicked his wrist and by pre-arranged design two prelates stepped forward. Each wore carefully impersonal expressions; their eyes looked no lower than her neck.
"Do not struggle," said the younger priest, his voice soft with compassion. "Aim your thoughts and prayers heavenward, and the reality of this moment will fade to insignificance."
Maria shrank from his grasp. When he touched the material above her shoulder she slapped his hand. "Fyndunne promised me he'd leave me decently clothed. Just my hair, he said. All of you promised me."
Seeing Fyndunne's gloating expression, Maria felt new strength spring from her deepest core. The abbot might have schemed to humiliate her, but at least she could control her reaction to her plight. Her hands fell away from her breasts. She raised her chin and stiffened her spine. Whether or not she begged and pleaded the end result would be the same. They had exposed her to the world but she'd not allow that same world the satisfaction of seeing her cower.
Maria let the separate pieces of hair shirt fall to the ground. Even as the crowd pointed and gaped, she forced herself to erectness, forced her arms to remain at their sides. Never had she felt so vulnerable. Her hair could not hide her; nothing could.
When the prelate bearing the flogging scourge stepped behind her, Mar
ia squeezed shut her eyes.
I'll not cry out.
She heard the whistle of the lash, stiffened, and gasped at the sting of leather on flesh, but the pain was much less than she'd imagined.
Fifteen lashes. I can well endure it.
The lash repeatedly rose and fell, retracing the same trails upon her flesh. The pain increased a hundredfold. Maria gritted her teeth, balled her fists, willed herself not to twist away from the relentless bite of leather.
Her surroundings, the crowd, the prelates receded until only she and the scourge existed. She felt the sticky wetness of her blood. Sweat broke upon her forehead, trailed downward to her eyes, along her cheeks. Maria lost count of the strokes. Surely she'd been here hours. Had Mortimer and Abbot Fyndunne schemed to flog her to death? She bit at the inner flesh of her mouth to keep from crying out. Screaming would not help, but she could not quite swallow back a sob with the next hiss of the lash.
Richard's fingers tracing the smooth curve of her backbone, Phillip exploring it with his lips. Flawless her back had been and would never be so again...
The crowd began counting off, "thirteen—fourteen—fifteen." Maria scarcely noticed that the pain no longer descended. She could think of nothing save the all-encompassing agony, and though she willed her back to remain rigid, her body betrayed her. Slowly, she keeled over. The paving stones felt like ice against her side. Far away she heard voices. Fyndunne's? Richard's? Phillip's? Was the pain more unbearable because she wasn't sorry for Richard?
Hands grasped her arms helping her up; fingers dug into lacerated flesh. Maria cried out and swayed against the sleeve of a rough robe.
"You must complete your penance, m'lady," someone said.
"Walk!" Fyndunne commanded. "Do not help her. She must do this alone."
When the support was removed Maria's knees gave way and she crumpled to the ground. On her hands and knees she swayed like a dazed animal. Trying to clear her vision, she shook her head. She had agreed to make the walk to Becket's shrine in Trinity Chapel and while there chant the required psalms and orisons.
After regaining a shaky balance, Maria stared down at her feet, willing them to move—unable to execute the command. She opened her mouth intending to say "I cannot," but an unintelligible croak emerged.
She locked her eyes to Canterbury's interior, lit by hanging torch wheels which seemed to shimmer with an unearthly light. Inching one foot in front of the other, she shuffled forward.
'Tis your back that was flogged, not your legs. Make them work.
She reached the doorway. The nave swayed, as did the crowd gathered on either side of the opening. She reached out, grabbing the doorway for support. The scene steadied. She remembered her nakedness without any accompanying shame. The important thing, the only thing was to reach Becket's shrine. The nave, with its chaotic plethora of altars, chapels, and chantries, appeared to stretch forever. Narrowed by distance and architectural design, Trinity Chapel appeared as impossible to reach as the Holy Grail.
One foot in front of the other. Maria willed herself to take just one more step. And another. She reached the first set of stairs. Twelve steps. Might as well ask her to climb the Chiltern Hills.
At the top of the stone stairs, their center worn by the feet of millions, she rested, gulping great amounts of air into her lungs. The painted wooden canopy above Becket's shrine wavered—still forty feet away. She shook her head, trying to disturb the sweat dripping from her forehead into her eyes. Tendrils of wet hair stung her cheeks.
I cannot continue.
Yet somehow Maria forced herself on. Despite her badly shaking legs. Despite the pain. One more step. One more...
As the late afternoon sun streamed through Christchurch's miracle windows, she triumphed over a second set of stairs, but her legs no longer possessed the strength to propel her upward. She collapsed on the floor. Vaguely, she registered a collective gasp.
Locking her arms Maria pushed herself up, then to her knees. Across ten feet of mosaic tile was the final flight leading to the shrine. A groan escaped her raw throat. More stairs! But her destination lay just beyond. Even now she glimpsed the stone arches holding up Becket's marble tomb—veined marble reputed to possess curative powers.
Dizziness assaulted her; she toppled onto the tiles.
So close, she thought, her eyes on the soaring roof overhead. I cannot fail now.
She forced herself onto her stomach. Spreading her fingers across the tiny tile squares, across the refracted patterns of colored light from stained-glass windows, she inched toward the first rise. The floor scraped her breasts and stomach. Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears, her thoughts were so single-mindedly concentrated that she did not at first hear angry voices behind her.
Abbot Fyndunne: "Leave her be. Do not help her!"
Another: "You'll kill her."
The voice sounded familiar, but it could not be—her husband was days away at Deerhurst. Besides, no one could help her. She must do it all herself.
Maria reached Trinity Chapel and dragged herself up the steps. She forced her body onward, crossing the last barrier to collapse before Thomas Becket's shrine.
I did it! And I did not plead or cry or shame myself!
Rolling on her side, Maria faced Becket's tomb. Heaven could not glow more brightly. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, countless jewels set in gold filigree sparkled around the shrine proper. The stone figure of an angel pointed to the greatest of these—a diamond large as a hen's egg. On the ledge where the chapel's precious relics were kept she glimpsed the famous statue of the Blessed Virgin, covered with pearls and other precious stones. The statue was known to have spoken often with St. Thomas, providing counsel and advice, though its current expression was blank, lifeless. No surprise the Virgin refused to acknowledge her.
She closed her eyes.
Rustling robes, the soft slap of sandaled feet. A heavy weight fell across her shoulder. She opened her eyes to the white hem of a priest's garment.
"Cover your nakedness," commanded Abbot Fyndunne.
She tried to raise her arm. The weight of the hair shirt was too heavy.
From behind hands eased her up, worked her arms and torso into the shirt, but its rough material clawed at her back. Maria tried to twist away.
"Jesu!" she sobbed. "Do not!"
The fabric settled against her brutalized flesh.
Henry of Eastry approached and almost apologetically held out a portion of Becket's skull, encased in silver, for her to kiss. When she could not reach the relic he stepped forward and pressed it against her cracked lips. Eastry repeated the procedure with a dozen more relics, including the arm of St. George, England's patron saint. Then he bent over her.
"We will leave you to your prayers now, daughter. You have conducted yourself courageously. Our Blessed Savior, I know, is well pleased."
Two prelates leaned Maria against the stone arches of Becket's shrine, and clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer. Then they departed.
Distantly she heard the movement and murmur of the dispersing crowd.
Soon I will be alone—just me and Thomas Becket and God.
Readying to chant the required chants and orisons, Maria forced a thickened tongue over her lips. Instead she collapsed against the arches, and as the nave wheeled, slumped to the floor. Lights danced before her eyes, lights more brilliant than all the cathedral's stained glass.
Then the lights exploded.
* * *
Maria heard Richard call her name, felt his hand caress her brow. But Richard had been freed and was far away in London. Pointless, all of it...
She lay quiet, wondering why her body hurt so, where God was, why she could not see anyone. Her eyelids fluttered open.
A face swam across her vision. Phillip's face.
Ignoring the pain, Maria struggled up.
"Nay, I will help you."
Calloused hands slid beneath her armpits, infinitely careful hands that edged her upward. "I have s
age ale to drink and an ointment to ease your wounds."
He rested the smooth rim of a wooden cup against her lips, but her throat rebelled and she jerked forward in a paroxysm of painful coughing.
When she recovered, Phillip carefully cut away her hair shirt and applied a milky-white ointment to her back. Maria turned toward him, trying to decipher his thoughts.
Do you think I deserved the pain? Are you here out of compassion for the mother of your children? For what happy past we shared? Out of duty?
Her fingers explored the ragged cap of hair straggling past her jaw. Certainly Phillip wasn't here because he loved her as a woman, for that she was no longer.
As if reading her mind, Phillip said, "'Twill grow back."
Maria swallowed a sob. If she began crying now she'd never stop.
"You should not have come," she croaked. "I do not deserve your help."
Phillip did not respond. Rather he dressed her in one of his loose under shirts, then he and his squire helped her up and out a side door to a waiting litter.
She said, or thought she said, "Did you hear, our lord Sussex is free?"
Phillip and two lady servants eased Maria into the litter, which was large enough to allow her to lay down. She licked her lips. "I am so sorry. For everything." Why did her voice refuse to work?
"Can you travel? Are you all right?"
She nodded. But, as they headed out of Christchurch's deserted precincts, Maria knew that she would never be all right again.
Chapter 38
Fordwich Castle
Maria slumped upon a stone bench, elbows upon her knees. Most unladylike. Beside her, a bird cage. Inside a raven she'd been half-heartedly training to talk.
A sudden gust of wind scattered fallen leaves across her slippers and along the pebbled garden path.
Since Canterbury a fortnight past, Maria had found strong emotion of any sort impossible. Her insides felt as hollow as a drained keg of ale. She no longer even felt "female", but rather as if she possessed no sex at all. Sometimes the fact that her breasts had not shriveled or her hips narrowed caused her mild surprise. When she felt so totally asexual, how could her body reflect otherwise?
The Lion and the Leopard Page 28