“Bad thoughts will not help your health,” I cautioned him, and he smiled his funny smile and said,
“Bravo, spoken almost like the old days.”
After that my thoughts began to wander, and they told me later that I did not recognize Hilde when she came. My husband became alarmed and sent for the doctor and a priest to come at once. The priest he sent for was Father Edmund.
I knew that people were standing there. They looked like shadows shifting about the bed, and I couldn’t make out who they were. They looked accusing, the shadows, so I apologized to them.
“I am very sorry they are dead. There was nothing anyone could do. I had a weapon once, but it is gone. The head is too large, too large—”
“I told you this is how it was. She thinks she’s working. Sometimes she says she’s flying without wings, and other fanciful things. She—she doesn’t light up anymore. I had planned to call you for a dinner party, Father, not for extreme unction.”
“Margaret, daughter, do you know who I am?” a man’s voice asked. Somebody put something cold and wet on my face. It stung, and smelled awful. Just like our old house.
“Hilde? Where is Hilde? I asked for her. Did you send for her?”
“I’m here, Margaret. That’s Doctor Matteo’s remedy.”
“It smells awful, Hilde, just like the distillery. You know, Hilde, I’ve got sick again.”
“I know, and I’ve come to help out.”
Things came gradually into focus. Father Edmund stood there, looking somber. I saw he had vested himself and put on his stole. The boy with the candle held the oil. They had set a little table by the bedside with two candles burning, a branch of yew, a towel, and the other things he needed.
Father Edmund took my hand.
“Margaret, Margaret. I am sorry for what I did to you. I had to do it. I had to break your will. I had to do it quickly, before you said any more. If you could have been led into saying what you think, they’d have twisted your words to condemn you irrevocably. That’s how it’s done in these inquiries; men like that don’t need torture to bring a person to the scaffold. I wanted to save you, but I smashed you. I thought it was for the good.”
“The good? Just like I did, then.”
“Just as you did.”
“I never wanted to be ignorant.”
“I always knew that. I just had to aim the blow at your weak spot.”
“You did.”
“I was greedy to save you. Too greedy. They couldn’t put together much of a case. There was no evidence, except for the death record. When I found David, then I knew I had them. I couldn’t let you go. You’re an original, you know. Better than the Miraculous Pancake.”
“The Miraculous Pancake?” my husband rumbled. “I’ve heard of that—they’ve just hit me up for a contribution to a shrine. I gave, of course. I always contribute to shrines.”
“Father Edmund,” I asked, “have there been any more Manifestations since the Pancake?”
“Oh, yes, several interesting ones. The Glowing Bone, the Floating Sword—that one was false, set up by a charlatan for money—there is also the Angelic Footprint and the Hanged Man’s Thumbnail. This last, I have proven to be a case of the black arts. London’s been very busy this season, even though it’s not spring.”
They put another pillow under my head and shifted me so that I could see better. The bedclothes slid down, revealing the glitter of gold.
“I see you still wear the Burning Cross. I’d never dare touch it now,” said Father Edmund sadly.
“For fear it would burn? That’s silly.”
“No, for fear it would not burn. Then I’d know that you were right about it, and I wasn’t the good man I thought I was the first time I touched it.”
“Oh, Father Edmund.”
“You’re not really ignorant, you know. You just never studied. That’s different. And you think too much. You’ll always be in trouble for that—that, and not holding your tongue.”
“I know that’s true.” I sighed. “But it doesn’t matter much now. I’ve lost my strength.”
“You don’t see the Vision anymore?”
“I remember that I saw it once, but I can’t feel it. It’s gone now.”
“I ask your forgiveness, Margaret. I beg it humbly, for it was I who did this.”
Doctor Matteo snorted. He had been prowling about the room as we spoke. First he had felt my pulse, then poked about, looking in pots and chests, and then under the bed. Now he stood, observing the whole scene with his dark, cat’s eyes.
“You priests always treat everything as a crisis of the spirit.” His beard bristled ferociously. “I thought perhaps you were brighter than the rest, but you, too, lack powers of observation. Hmph!” He looked indignant.
“Look at this hair, how it breaks.” He picked up a long strand of my hair from the pillow and demonstrated by rolling it between his fingers. Then he picked up my hand. “See these nails? The color? They break too. This face, see this? The color?” He grabbed my face under the chin and turned it roughly from side to side.
“You should have called me sooner. Even this old woman here, who is not so dumb, I think, would not have seen it before. I have. It’s common enough in Italy.” Here he paused for effect. He was a man who loved drama.
“It is poison.”
Father Edmund and Master Kendall looked at each other.
“Ordinarily,” Doctor Matteo went on happily, “when seen in a woman, these symptoms mean her husband is tired of her for having affairs.” He stuck his bristly beard in my face and stared into my eyes, saying suddenly, “Do YOU have affairs?”
Then he straightened up. “Humph. I think not. Besides, you are newly wed. Your husband shouldn’t have tired of you yet. That leaves things open. Who benefits from your death, bambina?”
Kendall narrowed his eyes. He knew.
“So she will live?” he asked.
“Live? Who said live? Ordinarily I treat by bleeding and purges. It cleans the blood and bowels. But it’s too late for that. She’s too weak for bleeding. Try drinking a lot of water and staying away from poisoned food. It might help; it won’t hurt. Usually, at this stage, it’s all over—days, hours, who knows?” He shrugged his shoulders. “She’d better make her peace with God. It may be time now.” He stepped closer to the bed and leaned over me.
“And you, bambina, should not trouble yourself about spiritual crises. I have had several ecstatic ones myself. Next time, don’t crawl and confess. Defy them! Stand by truth! It’s beautiful! Why, when they burned my first master, Bernardo of Padua, they piled his books all around him at the stake. As the flames rose, he cried, ‘I defy you! You cannot burn Truth!’ Oh, I tell you, it’s the only proper death for a scientist. Perfetto! A glorious martyr’s death for Truth! As the towering column of smoke rose, the flames caught in his hair like a halo! ‘Truth!’ he shouted! Now that’s a death!” Doctor Matteo was very excited. He gestured with his hands to give the impression of roaring flames, and then raised them up to show how the smoke rose to God’s Judgment Seat itself. Then he calmed down and fixed my eye with a beady brown one.
“Say your prayers and don’t eat anything bitter. I’ll come by tomorrow to see if you’re still alive.”
“I—I thought the bitterness was my sadness,” I said weakly.
“You would. Ha! Women!” and he turned to walk out, but then thought better of it. Instead he walked around to where Hilde was standing on the other side of the bed, and said, perfectly calmly, “You, the old lady, you are the teacher?”
“The teacher?” she said.
“Yes, the teacher of this little one. She says you taught her everything. We have had several beneficial conversations, she and I. I am compiling a list of the effects of plants native to England. I want to come and talk to you about your herbal cures sometime.” Hilde nodded silent assent. I could tell her brain was working in other directions.
Then they cleared the room while Father Edmund heard my co
nfession and put a towel under my chin for Communion. When they returned, he began the prayers, and I heard the faint mumble of the responses gradually grow more and more remote.
It is a very interesting thing about death, or at least, death in bed. First one resists it terribly. It is like sliding down a slippery tunnel with no handhold. You’ll grab anything, claw frantically, take big desperate breaths trying to get enough air to fuel the dying fire within. Then it’s no good. Things break inside, and the blood comes out of your mouth, trickling away on the pillow. You don’t even taste the salty, metallic taste or worry about the laundry. The pain goes far away, like a ball that floats in the air and isn’t attached to you anymore. It’s all gone, your life, and it really doesn’t matter, because it’s all different now—it’s, well, I think of it as soft. I leaned back into death, as if it were a soft, sweet thing. A thousand miles away they seemed to be saying the liturgy for the dying. How foolish. They all seemed to be so affected by it. I was once too—those things used to bother me. That was when I cared about a little speck of flesh called “Margaret.”
Then, suddenly, I was floating above the speck, looking down. Silly, silly little people! A poor shell of a woman lay there. She looked terribly, painfully young. But the face had the shadowy lines of a skull shading the cheeks and the deep, sunken eyes—shadows with that strange, greenish-blue color that you see in old bruises. Little doll figures in dark gowns stood about her, and one of them had just finished marking the sign of the cross on her forehead with his thumb. Good-bye, foolish specks—I must soar!
A voice, a voice like a roaring waterfall sounded all around me in the void of Light.
“Margaret, you may not come yet. You must go back.”
“Never, never, let me come now!”
“Go back, you have a task that you must do.”
“Please, no!” I shrieked into the void.
“You have a task of many years in length. You will not regret them. It is not your time yet, and you may not come.”
“I don’t want to; I’m done, and I’m coming,” I shouted back into the Light.
“Why must you always be so stubborn, and talk so much? Haven’t you learned anything yet? Go back, I say!”
“Never!” I cried with my whole self, and something set me spinning, spinning terrifyingly downward.
It was a bitter disappointment to awake to unspeakable pain. I was in my poor body again, all tied and bound to pain that tore through me. I couldn’t tell where the pain was. It was all over. It was the pain of being alive. No more flying! I felt cheated. I kept my eyes closed. I heard the roaring of my blood in my ears and the faint, gasping sounds of my body trying to breathe for me. Sometimes someone held my hand. Sometimes no one did; it didn’t matter. I just listened to the gruesome clatter of my body living, living.
One time I heard a voice say, “So, she still holds on, does she?”
Another time a voice tried to speak in my roaring ear, which nearly drowned the sound: “The kitchen maid has confessed. Hilde caught her doing it, and she hanged herself in jail before they could make her talk.”
Who cares?
“It’s over, get well,” said someone.
Nothing is over; I can’t fly. Ugly, heavy body. It holds me down, making a horrible rushing, roaring sound.
Eyes don’t open. No matter. Who wants to see out there?
Then, one day, life won. I opened my eyes and saw Hilde asleep in the darkened room. Then I closed them again, but this time it was to sleep, really sleep.
In the afternoon I saw light from one eye. It was the eye that was being peeled open by somebody with a black, bristly beard.
“Ha! Living, I think. Will probably recover, with care.”
My lips tried to form words, but no sound came out.
“So? Speak up, you’re not making any noise,” said the Beard.
“I’ll never be afraid of death again,” I whispered. “It’s soft.”
“Didn’t I already tell you that? Ha! Death, in its own way, is as glorious as life! It must be—appreciated!”
A madman, I thought. I know only one such madman.
“Doc-tor Matteo,” I said slowly and distinctly.
“Why, she’s speaking! She recognizes you! It’s a miracle! I believe she will recover. I’ll pay for a Mass of thanksgiving. Splendid, splendid!” Then Roger Kendall leaned over me and said, “Why, we’ll celebrate your full recovery with a feast, something lavish and wonderful!”
“Oh, husband, do not take so much trouble. You’ll stir up your gout again.”
“Why, that’s my old Margaret—stout Margaret!” he exclaimed. When the doctor left, old Roger Kendall sat with me until my eyes closed again.
I slept some little time. When I opened my eyes again, something stirred in me. I had to speak.
“I think you must really—like me—you could have—left me,” I said to him, with my little strength.
“Leave you? Leave you? After all the plotting and planning it took to get you? Margaret, I am selfish with my treasures. I never give them up.”
“You truly think I am a treasure?”
“Why, of course. A real treasure. When I saw you, I wanted you. If I were young, I would have courted you in the most ravishing ways that you wouldn’t have been able to resist. But all I have now is money, and I was afraid of being laughed at. I wouldn’t want you to laugh at me! Then Dame Fortune, in the disguise of a treacherous leech, threw you into my arms, as it were. Do you think that I think less of you for that? Margaret, you are beloved. Beloved by me, if only you’ll value it.” I looked at his face. It was so serious. It touched me very deeply.
“Give me your hand, that I may kiss it, my true, good friend. I do value your love. I never dreamed that I could be loved by someone so gentle and good. I did not think it possible.” My heart overflowed with tenderness. I couldn’t sit up, but I took the hand that he extended. It was wide and muscular. A terrible scar ran up the back of it. I kissed the palm, and then the scar, so very gently. Then I held it against my cheek as I fell asleep.
Each day of my recovery he brought some little gift. A posy, a ribbon, some little trifle chosen with exquisite taste and care. And as he came and held my hand each day, I saw a wonderful thing take place. His face glowed with joy and seemed to grow, on each visit, a little younger, as if love renewed him. He dressed with great care now, not in the gravy-stained bits and pieces I was always used to seeing him in. He favored deep, rich materials, often lined in dark fur and embroidered exquisitely. His heavy gowns now bespoke dignity, and his gold chains and rings were no longer laden on for showy effect, but selected with care, to reflect his natural elegance and taste. His face—it would never be young again, but it was something better. It had become thinner, and the muscular jaw had emerged again from once sagging fat. His eyes seemed brighter, and the lines of experience on his brow became him well.
“Everyone says that I grow young again, Margaret. It is your influence. I eat those ridiculous vegetables, that ghastly tea—why, I’ve even cut down on wine. Look at my foot!” He held it up and wiggled it. “Much better! I want to be young again for you, to make you happy.” How could my hardened heart not warm to him?
Now I was better and could be carried down by two footmen to sit in his parlor room. He opened the window onto the garden, so that I could see the roses and breathe outdoor air. Each day he took a bit of time from his business and sat with me, showing me the strange treasures in his great ironbound chest. He had swords of strange design, an astrolabe, and foreign things that I had never seen before. He had books in Latin, French, German, and even Arabic—a treatise on mathematics—as well as in English. The English ones he read to me. They were mostly poems, beautiful poems.
One night he sat beside me in our great bed, the curtains pulled. He held my hand.
“Dearest Margaret,” he said, “have you never thought that we might have children?” I shivered. He put his arm around my shoulders tenderly, and said, “Love
is not evil, Margaret, or painful, or cruel, or shameful.” I hung my head. “Truly,” he said, “good children are begotten of good love, and I would have no other.” When he saw how I looked at him, he said, “I remember my promise, Margaret, and honor it. I want you never to despise me.” I saw his face, ardent and generous, and knew he was my truest friend.
“Just one kiss, and I will not ask again.” His voice was yearning, soft, and sad. Only one? I thought. It was so small a thing to ask, after so much.
“Surely, one is not much—not enough for your goodness. I do wish it,” I answered him.
He embraced me gently and kissed me full on the lips, which he had never done before. It was delicate, and yet passionate, in a way I cannot describe. I felt something powerful stir within me.
“Another?” I said in a small voice.
“Another? My precious, dearest love.” And he kissed me again. His sensitive hands touched me gently—here, then there, softer than the dust that floats in a sunbeam. I felt a shiver—a delicious shiver, this time—shake my body. He kissed my neck, then my breast, in an exquisite way that sent a searing flame of passion straight up from the gates of love.
“I do, I do desire you, my beloved bridegroom,” I whispered to him. I felt my inner self begin to bloom like a flower. How else could I ever have said such a thing to any man?
“Then do not be afraid of me now, my beloved,” he said softly.
Somewhere—I can only imagine it must have been very far from this hard land—my husband had become a master of the hidden secrets of love. What wise and passionate woman had instructed him? Some women hate their husband’s former lovers, but I, if I knew her, would thank her, even now. But of all that he said and did, what moved me and changed me was the great caring that his deep and perfect love revealed. I still can’t even find the words to explain it to myself. With a kind of subtle delicacy he nursed our mutual passion to the heights of unspeakable rapture. My whole being was shaken and made new. And when we had dallied—so beautifully, so pleasantly, that I cannot bear to even use the same name for it as is commonly applied to grosser couplings—he rested with me fondly and said, softly, “Again?”
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