A Vision of Light

by Judith Merkle Riley

  Then, somehow, I could not hold myself—it was like losing my balance on a high place, and my mind could not hold longer. I fell, pulled by the pull of Death, across the bed with a weak cry. I was lost. I don’t know how long it was after that. The next thing I felt was John grabbing my hands away from his daughter’s face with his big paws, pulling me up and slapping at my face to bring back my attention. My eyes were wide open, staring and glassy, but I was completely blind. I could feel him shaking me, and another set of hands—whose were they?—grabbing my hands. Gradually I could make out John’s big beard above me, and then his face, with a fierce distorted look that could have been rage or joy.

  “Look, look!” he said as he held my head up to see. “Can’t you see? She lives! She is rosy, her color is back, and she breathes deeply, as if asleep! Look, look at what you did!”

  I couldn’t speak. I was completely weak and as white as a sheet. Somehow she had drained out enough of my own life-force to be restored. How on earth was it done? I do not know. But many are God’s wonders.

  My eyes wandered crazily about, and I saw who was holding my limp hands. It was the priest, Father Edmund.

  “How did you do that, daughter?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know. With prayer, I think.”

  “With prayer? How do you pray? To what saints?”

  “I don’t know. I pray to God, through Jesus or His Blessed Mother. At least, I think that’s what I do.”

  “How do you know of God? Have you studied? Do you go regularly to church?”

  “I don’t know, Father. I am a poor woman, I have no letters and have never studied. I go always to Mass, at least, when I can, for I get my living at strange hours by bringing babies.”

  “Don’t let this little midwife fool you, Father. She has the mind of a man and the courage of a legion! Why, I myself have told her she’d make a good armorer, if she hadn’t been born the wrong sex.” Master John’s vigorous voice restored the last of my strength. I thought suddenly of my great ordeal at Sturbridge, and a moment of terror seized me, as I looked at the priest’s black gown. But his face seemed kindly enough, and deeply puzzled.

  “Little midwife, I’ll make you a rich woman for your work this night,” said John, restoring me to a kneeling position by the bed on which I had been collapsed, and getting up himself.

  “No, John of Leicestershire, I did this work only for the love of Christ, as you once forged me a weapon against death.” The weapon! Where was it? I scrambled up to hunt for it. There it lay on the bed, glittering in the folds of the bloody linen. I hastily wrapped it up and put it in my basket, for fear that it might be lost. Tomorrow I’d clean it. The priest watched me with quizzical eyes. The physician, having said many Latin words about the baby and produced some dangerous-looking medicine to strengthen it, had rejoined us.

  “Ah! A remarkable turnabout!” He felt the head of the woman on the bed and spoke in Latin to the priest. The latter responded with more Latin. The physician waited silently at John’s shoulder, until he understood that it was time to pay the fee. John counted coins into his hand, and when the man had departed, he grumbled, “A lot of money for leeches, Latin, and foul liquids. I’d have done better with Brother Malachi. At least his quackery doesn’t do damage.” Then he remembered, looking at me, what he had set out to do.

  “Since you will take no fee, little midwife, you’ll at least take something from me that is of no value to me, but may be of great value to you.” He led the way out of the birthing room with a candle, and I followed, the priest at my heels. He led the way to an ironbound chest in his own bedroom, which he opened with a key. He knelt and lifted a beautifully carved little ivory box out of the chest.

  “This was given me once for a bad debt. It’s powerful—too powerful to wear. It is very old and comes from across the sea. It’s no pig’s knuckle, that I can assure you!” He opened the little box and took out a cross, of strange design, simple but exquisite. It shone brightly in the candlelight, for it was rich, ruddy gold. He picked it out carefully, touching neither the cross nor its chain, but holding them in the piece of silk that had wrapped them in the box.

  “See how I hold it? More carefully than white-hot metal from the forge, I’ll tell you. I touched it once, and it gave me such a welt! It raises a mark, like a burn, on the skin of those who wear it, unless they walk closely with God. At least, that’s what I’m told. So, you see, it’s useless to me, useless to the man who had it before, useless to nearly everyone, I suppose. I tried it once, but—well, I’ve not always been a good man. Touch it! If you can touch it, you can wear it, and if you can wear it, it will bring you great power, I am sure.”

  I put out a finger of my left hand—one I’d mind least to burn—and touched the cross carefully, as if it were hot. I felt no burn, so I touched it again slowly. Still there was no burn. I grasped it in my hand.

  “It’s as I thought,” said John, in a self-satisfied way. “When I saw you there, kneeling beside Isabel, with your face glowing like a dozen candles, I said to myself, ‘There’s someone who can wear that cross I’ve had so long.’ Would you care to touch it, Father?” The priest demurred, with a shake of his head. John took the cross carefully by the chain, still handling it with the cloth, and dropped it around my neck. Both pulled back, as if they expected to hear it sizzle as it touched the flesh. There was no sizzle. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. There it hung around my neck, worthy of the ransom of a prince.

  “Go with my prayers and thanks,” said John. “But wait—you still look weak. Do you need something to drink? To eat? I’ll send a boy back with you on horseback—you don’t look like you can walk around much.”

  “I’ll have something—bread, maybe, and ale, if there’s some.”

  “Do you know with whom you are dealing, woman?” Master John roared, very much like his old self. “It’s wine you’ll have—and so shall we all!”

  He led us back to the birthing room, where it seemed that everyone else had already had the same idea. The guttering candles had been replaced with new ones, and a sort of rere-supper had been brought. Cold birds, and pies, and ale were there, and a dish of sops-in-wine for the new mother, who was propped up in bed, being coaxed to eat by her own mother. The baby was neatly swaddled and the cradle bands pulled tight. It slept contentedly; only a slight pointing of the head and a great livid welt down the cheekbone showed from its brush with death. The linen was changed and neat, and the straw bed, deeply stained with the evidence of labor, taken off to be burned. Everything in the chamber bespoke joy. For a moment I had a pang of envy for this happy family. How I wished such warmth were mine!

  But it was, for John made much of me and, alternately praising his daughter and new granddaughter, called for wine—real wine, not slop. As dawn peeked between the shutters, we broke our fast royally. But when my mouth was full of bread, and I was greedily wondering how I might pour yet more wine down it, the priest, who had been watching quietly, spoke to me.

  “Tell me, Margaret—you take no fowl, and yet it is not Lent. Have you taken some vow?”

  “Oh, no, Father Edmund, I just can’t eat anything that came with eyes. It gives me a stomachache.” I tried to swallow, so that I wouldn’t look rude with my mouth so full.

  “Then if you’ve made no bargain with a vow, are you not trying to be overly pious? A false hypocrite?”

  “Oh, no, Father. I’m no saint. I love the saints.” I hastened to add, “I do love them, but I’ll never be able to be that good. I’m cowardly. And greedy.” And I took another big gulp. How often does one get real wine from Germany?

  He passed his hand very slowly between the candle and my face, observing carefully. “And yet,” he said quietly, “my hand casts no shadow, for your head and shoulders still cast a dim light of their own. It was brighter than that, just before—before you fainted.”

  “That’s just a trick of the light here,” I said, still munching. “Do you see? Daylight’s coming in a
lready.”

  “Mmmm—perhaps that’s so, but I would like to know whether you serve God or the Devil.”

  I looked confused. The meal was ending. Father Edmund said to our host, “You do not have to send a boy; I’ll escort the midwife home.” So John called for Father Edmund’s gray ambler to be brought from the stable, and another horse to be saddled for me, and the company sent us out into the pink light of morning with many a grateful farewell.

  As I mounted from the block in front of the stable door, Father Edmund tied my little dun mare’s halter to his saddle bow and remarked casually, “That’s a rich cloak; I didn’t know midwives did well enough to put fur linings in their clothes.”

  In those days I wasn’t very suspicious of comments like that, so I answered simply, “It was in partial payment for a delivery I did once. For a great lady, Blanche de Monchensie.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” he said, mounting up. The harness on his horse creaked as he shifted weight. “Did you use your tricks?” He spurred the ambler, leading my mare from the mounting block and out of the stable alley onto Giltspur Street. The armorers’ shops were open, and we could hear the ringing of hammers on anvils as we passed by.

  “It was the first birth I attended. I assisted my teacher. We never use tricks, only good sense and prayer,” I answered him. We had now turned onto Aldersgate Street and were approaching the City gate.

  “I think you use tricks,” he said. “Are you a saint?”

  “No, I’m not a saint. I try to be good, but sometimes things don’t work out that way. It’s that way with most people, I guess. I am glad of God’s forgiveness.” The City gate had been open since dawn. We entered behind two large carts and a party of countrywomen, bringing in fresh eggs to sell, all neatly packed in cut bracken, in baskets loaded onto a donkey. The Cheap was already stirring, the shop windows let down and the goods out, and shoppers inspecting them. The earliest of the market women were already singing out their wares, as housewives with baskets on their arms threaded their way through the goods laid out on cloths on the ground. Father Edmund, I noticed, was looking at me closely as we rode.

  “And yet—and yet you are able to wear the Burning Cross,” he said almost to himself, in a speculative voice.

  “Is it famous?” I said. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s famous. I wouldn’t dare touch it myself,” he answered.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t have, either, if I’d known about it.”

  “You think ignorance saved you?”

  “No, observation. My teacher makes much of observation. She says, ‘Watch and remember.’ Have you not thought, for example, that the Burning Cross might have been coated with poison, long ago? Then in time, it could have worn off, or lost its power.”

  He rode for a long time in silence. We passed Cornhill and at last turned into our alley. Father Edmund shook his head, as he turned to look at the Burning Cross. “Hmm. Of all the possibilities, I’d never thought of that one,” he said to himself. He dismounted gracefully before our door, and I slid off the dun mare.

  “So, then, to test the idea, why don’t you touch it?” I took up the cross in my hand and held it out to him, the chain still around my neck. He looked shocked, then gingerly extended a finger, poked it, and then took it in his hand.

  “You see?” I said, as we stood before my door.

  “It’s from Byzantium. You can tell by the pattern. It’s very old,” he said, still holding it in his hand, as he turned it this way and that to inspect it more closely.

  “Byzantium? Is it far? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “There seems to be a great deal you’ve never heard of. They were very fond of poison in Byzantium. You may be a very shrewd woman.”

  “Either that, or you’re a very holy man.”

  He smiled appreciatively.

  “Perhaps I’d prefer to be a very holy man. Farewell, Margaret. And when I hear of a hard birth, I’ll tell them to send for the little midwife on Thieves’ Alley.”

  BROTHER GREGORY SET DOWN his quill and looked up at Margaret, who was standing beside him, watching him as he wrote.

  “I didn’t know you knew John of Leicestershire,” he said.

  “I know a lot of people. Midwives get around.”

  “So it seems. I don’t think a proper woman would be seen at an armorer’s, though.”

  “Doesn’t that depend on what’s proper? Maybe our idea of propriety should be modified, then, Brother Gregory.” She spoke to the back of his neck, since he was busy sealing up the inkhorn and letting the last page dry.

  “I thought you’d say that, Margaret,” he remarked placidly. “I was trying you out. I’d think by now, with all that you’ve seen, you’d have learned the value of the womanly virtue of modesty. You’ll do nothing but get into trouble if you can’t check your boldness.”

  Unexpectedly Margaret’s face grew long, and she looked very sad. Brother Gregory saw the look.

  “I don’t mean it for your harm, Margaret, truly I don’t,” he apologized. “I know I’m sharp, sometimes. But you—and Kendall, too—walk a fine line. You want to be free, and he thinks the heathen Bragmans can be virtuous. You could offend people, you know. Powerful people.”

  “My dear Brother Gregory,” said Margaret, laying her white hand on top of his big inkstained one. “No one is better aware of that than I am.” Something in the tone of her voice affected Brother Gregory so much that he even forgot to pull away his hand. He looked at her gravely. She knew too much; she was hiding something painful, and he did not want to pry. So he tactfully changed the subject, saying, “So this cross you’re wearing is the famous Burning Cross? I’ve heard of it before, but never knew what it looked like. But they say it was supposed to have been seized by a mystic hand that appeared from the air, when there proved to be no one virtuous enough to wear it.”

  “A hand? Oh, that’s so silly. It was seized by John the Armorer for a bad debt, and I wear it always. I’m very fond of it.” Margaret had gone to the door to let in her dog, who was whining and scratching at the door. She made him quit jumping and sit down, and turned back to Brother Gregory, who was preparing the reading lesson. He glanced at the cross, and there was something—could it have been the shadow of a blush?—that crossed his face.

  “Well—there’s something—I’d like to ask,” he said, as he suddenly looked at his toes.

  “You want to touch it too?” Margaret laughed. She looked like another person when she laughed. Like a little girl who would never grow up.

  “Go right ahead. Go on! It doesn’t bite.” She held it out to him, the chain still encircling her neck, as she had to Father Edmund on that Epiphany morning, long ago.

  Gregory opened his left hand and folded his fingers around the cross, engulfing it in his big, rawboned fist.

  “I don’t feel anything at all.” His face wore an expression of righteous pleasure.

  “Well, then, you’re a virtuous man too,” said Margaret with a smile.

  “Are you too tired for your reading lesson now?” asked Brother Gregory, his satisfaction overflowing into concern.

  “I’m never too tired for that. I love learning. Have you heard me speak French? Madame says I am almost ready. Je parle correctement presque tout le temps, maintenant.”

  “Why, that’s very clever,” Brother Gregory answered, also in French. “What are you getting ready for?”

  “We’re having a very grand dinner party, with a lot of important guests. I’ll make my debut then. Do you think I sound like a lady?” Margaret’s French had the fashionable nasal intonation of a wealthy convent school. Its slowness and precision gave it a certain quaintness and charm.

  Gregory spoke in English. “Your husband chose a good teacher. You have a nice accent. You’re a very good mimic, I think.” Margaret blushed with pleasure.

  “We’ll begin with the writing,” Gregory said brusquely, pretending not to notice. “Take your tablet and write, first, ‘God giveth dominion o
ver the earth to man.’”

  Margaret screwed up her face, printing carefully with the stylus. Brother Gregory was walking back and forth in the room, absentmindedly scratching his hand, thinking of the next sentence. Margaret looked up at him from where she sat by the window.

  “Oh, Brother Gregory, what’s wrong with your hand?”

  “I’m just scratching it; it itches.”

  “Really, is it red?”

  “No, it’s just a bite. You gave me a flea.”

  “I don’t have fleas, Brother Gregory,” insisted Margaret.

  “Everyone has fleas, Margaret. It’s part of God’s plan.”

  “I don’t. I wash them off.”

  “Margaret, you haven’t any sense at all. They just hop back. You can’t wash enough to keep them off.”

  “I do.”

  “Aren’t you afraid your skin will come off? It could, you know. That’s much worse than fleas.” Brother Gregory spoke with an air of absolute certainty.

  “Everyone tells me that. It hasn’t come off yet.”

  “Margaret, you’re too hardheaded for your own good. Now take for your next sentence, ‘Fleas do not wash off.’”

  “Is this right?” She held up the tablet, and Brother Gregory shook his head in mock indignation.

  “I despair of you, Margaret. Flea is not spelled with one e—it’s spelled with two.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  BROTHER GREGORY LOOKED OUT OF HIS little window under the eaves, thinking about how he might plan the rest of his day. It was one of those perfect mornings that are so welcome in winter. The sun had broken through the clouds and was engaged in melting the ice on the barren branches of the tree before his window, and each twig glistened with dripping water. Great patches of blue, decorated with scudding clouds, showed high above the steep tiled roofs of the City. A gust of clean, cold air whipped through his room, ruffling the drying pages on the table. He’d been up since before dawn and already had a lot done; in consequence he was very pleased with himself. He’d been to Mass, meditated on the sin of Wrath and the virtue of Meekness, and stuffed himself on the rolls that had been pressed on him yesterday at the Kendalls’, which had been baking day. Then he’d done quite a bit of writing on the Psalter, which was almost ready to be bound. His ink was almost gone—it was time to renew it. That made the decision easy. He’d go to Nicholas’s today and arrange for the binding, and get more ink as well.