by Alma Boykin
“Thank you.” She changed her stitches, making a tighter, firmer section for gripping or pinning. Odile tied off the end. “Sister, could you cut here, please?”
Snip. She rolled the finished strip and added it to the wash basket.
“We need to turn Amalthea.” Sr. Martina walked over to the bed and back. “I’ll get Novice Basilia. You hold the hide down and we’ll lift and move her, you wipe the hide, and we’ll take care of her needs.”
Odile nodded. As she waited for the others, she began reciting one of the prayers for healing under her breath. “Holy Healer, Godown of all mercy, hear our prayer. You who draw fire from burns, You who close the cut, hear our prayer. You who cool the fever, You who sooth the cough, hear our prayer.” She continued reciting as the others took their places.
“Good. Odile, pray and clean. Basilia, on three.” Odile took a firm grip on the straps now sewn onto the end of the hide not tucked into the bedframe. “One, two, three.”
“Holy Godown, blessed healer, hear our prayer,” she continued, tears coming to her eyes as she heard Sr. Amalthea whimpering. “You who sooths our pain, reach out Your healing hand to our sister, Your beloved daughter. Great Lord who sends to each mercy and ease, bless Your daughter, ease her pain and grant her healing rest, we beg of You.” Odile dipped a rag in bitter-smelling astringent and wiped the top of the leather, removing any disease-liquid. Then she rinsed and dried her hands and after loosening the straps on the hide, reached under it and fluffed the shahma-fleece cover on the mattress. The fleece, Sr. Geraldina’s idea, seemed to help Sr. Amalthea rest more easily. By the time the other sisters finished cleaning Amalthea, Odile had everything ready.
“One, two, three,” and they laid the injured woman down again, this time on her chest. She moaned and whimpered. Odile risked resting her hand on Amalthea’s close-cropped hair, one of the few parts of her that had not been scalded. St. Misha, give us your wisdom and discernment. Godown, please hear our prayers and grant Amalthea healing if it is Your will. The novice mistress dismissed Basilia to her other duties and picked up the basket. “I’ll take these to be washed. Sr. Sabina wants every bandage ready as soon as possible, just in case of a harvest accident.”
Odile returned to her seat and began hook-knitting a new bandage. She prayed, listened to St. Amalthea, and worked. She finished the litany of St. François and began one to St. Basil, asking for protection of the livestock used for harvest. She reached the end of her ball of thread and started another one, wrapped up the litany, and heard the patient make a strange sound.
“Martina?” No one answered. Where is she? I can’t do much without someone to tell me what needs to be done. I don’t want to hurt Amalthea by accident, and I don’t know what the different salves and tinctures are.
Amalthea moaned, then began coughing and moving her arms. The cough sounded wet. Odile set aside her work and knelt by the bed, lifting Amalthea’s head to keep her mouth clear. As she did, she felt hot wet on her hand. The scald on the shoulder had burst and torn, and Odile sniffed it. Uh oh, it smells like wound rot. Godown, please, show me what to do, please, please. She held Amalthea’s head up, and with a silent apology used two fingers to clear the thick phlegm out of her mouth so she couldn’t choke. When that stopped, Odile used the astringent to clean the leather and the floor, and swished her hands in the stinging liquid as well. Then she rinsed them again and prayed.
In her mind’s ear she heard Sr. Sabina lecturing one of the novices about where she kept the cleaning tinctures. “No, greyleaf belongs in the shelf to the left of St. Misha. That’s what you use to try to stop wound rot on the surface. Lungwort goes over here.” Odile moved with small steps to the wall where she thought St. Misha stood. She brushed her fingers along the top of the shelf until she found the statue, confirmed it was him, and felt to the left and down. A small bottle with a spout sat alone. Odile sniffed it and recoiled, her nose burning. Ugh! That’s worse than stink-snake. It must be medicinal.
With a prayer and a steady hand, Odile dripped the contents of the bottle onto the rotten-feeling, raw place on Amalthea’s shoulder. The woman moaned, then wailed, and fell silent again. Odile replaced the pottery stopper in the bottle and set it back on the shelf. “Martina, where are you,” she whispered, washing her hands once more before returning to her knitting.
She’d had to use the nightsoil box and finished the bandage before Sr. Martina returned. “I’m sorry, sister,” Odile heard as the out-of-breath woman trotted into the infirmary. “The harvest help have all gone to the river cut to stop the Frankonians, and Sr. Donn and Rev. Mother Alice called everyone to come help with the last of the wheat and maize. I—Sister, what did you do?”
“I poured greyleaf tincture on the rotting area, and held Sr. Amalthea’s head when she had a coughing spell.”
“Don’t go anywhere.” Martina ran out of the infirmary, leaving Odile alone again.
Oh no, what have I done? Oh, Godown, please may I not have hurt Amalthea, please, please. I’m sorry, I did what I thought You meant, forgive me, please if I hurt her. Godown, Lord, mighty one, please. Her thoughts ran in circles and she prayed as she had not since the mining accident. Running steps returned, two pair this time.
“Greyleaf?” Sr. Sabina panted.
“Yes, and look.”
“Godown be praised! And she’s sweating. The fever broke. Blessed Misha, thank you, holy Godown, thank you,” the churigon murmured. “And the phlegm’s clean, you see? No more irritation from the soap. Blessed be Godown!”
“Selah,” the other two replied in chorus. A pair of sweaty arms embraced Odile where she sat, startling her. “Well done,” Martina whispered in Odile’s ear.
“I just did what Godown showed me to do, and what I’d heard Sr. Sabina say,” she protested.
Another hand patted her head. “And you did it when it was needed, Sister, without panicking. Godown helps those who listen for His word, and who pay attention.”
The story of the healing spread through the convent, so that by evening it seemed to Odile that everyone knew. “I didn’t do anything,” she protested, to no avail.
“Your prayers healed Sr. Amalthea,” Sr. Martina corrected, her tone firm. “Godown worked through you, Sister, because you were willing.”
“Yes, Sister.” Odile bowed her head, accepting the correction.
Three days later news reached them from the end of the valley. Rev. Mother Alice called everyone not in the fields or on infirmary duty to meet in the dining hall. “Lady deSarm’s men have chased Lord Gregory away and are blocking the pass through the ridge along the river road. King Phillip remains outside the valley, and Lady deSarm has repudiated her marriage with Gregory Berlin on grounds of non-cooperation and failure to do his husbandly duties.” Odile felt her face reddening and several women giggled. Oh, that must be why she said that she had firm proof for Bishop Martín. And it explains why they have no children, if her claim is true.
“We will pray for peace, discernment, and wisdom of all involved, and that Godown brings this to a speedy ending with His justice done.”
Yes, please clarify, because if Phillip breaks into the valley after killing everyone trying to defend it, it will be speedy indeed. Odile doubted that King Phillip would be so foolish, but men did strange things in their anger, she knew well from what she’d overheard her father and brothers discussing.
After Odile finished helping prepare the dining commons for the next meal, she retreated to the chapel and began praying. She had no other duties for the moment and noticed that she was not alone in her devotions. One sister wept quietly. Perhaps her father or brother had gone to help fight. Odile turned her thoughts to Godown.
The sisters finished harvesting their allotment and had gotten most of the grain and root vegetables under cover by the next holy day. Odile, walking around the herb garden, smelled wet on the air. The light remained dim, the sun hidden behind thick clouds, and she’d put on her thick shawl and a hood. Time to ask for h
eavy yarn so I can start making more socks. We always need socks. She walked and meditated on the passing of the seasons, thanking Godown for the safe harvest. The sounds from outside the walls grew muted and a new scentless-scent reached her. She held out one hand and felt the lightest of cold brushes touch her palm, then another. She’d reached an opening in the knee-high wall separating the garden from the walk, and Odile ventured out onto the gravel path, eased back her hood, and stuck out her tongue, catching the first snowflakes. She dreaded winter’s cold, but loved the first snow.
“Godown be praised for His mercy,” Sister Timothé gushed two days later. “The snow brought peace, or so Fr. Thomas says.”
Odile continued knitting. The sheep-shahma-linen thread did not wish to cooperate with her efforts, and she’d decided to recommend to the sister in charge of fabrics and yarn that they not purchase any more of the blend. It might be sturdier, but Odile had serious doubts that durability balanced the frustration. It probably would not wash well, either, because of the wool’s shrinking against the flax. If snow brought peace, perhaps that’s because everyone stayed in their tents, or whatever, and couldn’t throw insults and arrows back and forth. The yarn tried to jump off her needle again. Ohhh, quit that.
Word reached the convent not long after that indeed, King Phillip intended to depart without visiting “his properties.” Bishop Martín’s messenger explained, “The cold and snow caught his majesty by surprise. He’d intended to stay at Sarm Hall and lacked the proper equipment and supplies to remain in the elements. He also needed to feed his men, and when the men of Lady deSarm-Berlin refused to allow either his majesty or Lord Gregory access to the valley’s supplies, she left his majesty in a bad situation. In his mercy he chose to withdraw for the moment, and to allow his excellency Bishop Martín to make his decision on the legitimacy of Lady deSarm’s claim.” Doubt colored the man’s voice and Odile wondered if that reflected his own thoughts or those of his master. Either way, the convent bustled with preparations for the bishop’s visit. He’d be bringing four sisters with him, to serve as neutral matron witnesses, along with several priests and servants and other staff. Odile wondered how much of a strain it would put on the convent’s resources.
Not much, as it turned out, because four steers, several wethers and a half-dozen shahma hams arrived from the Hall, along with flour and other supplies. Well, I’d rather be fretting over where to put the extra food than praying for a miracle to stretch our own supplies. And it was Lady deSarm who called for the bishop, after all.
As usual after the first snow, the weather warmed into false summer, Godown’s promised final chance to finish the season’s work. Odile helped pack the last apples in barrels for storage, and then carried what had to be every whiteroot and carrot grown west of the Triangle Range into the root cellar. It felt very good to kneel and sit for evening worship. Bishop Martín used the storm gap to come to the Sarm Valley, arriving in time to lead holy day services. Odile loved his clear tenor singing voice as he led the community in hymns of thanks and praise. She did not love her interview with him afterwards.
“Hmm. So you are the miracle worker,” he stated after she’d bowed to him.
What? What miracle? “No, your excellency. I am a sister, nothing more.”
“Oh? I’ve been told that you guided twenty men through a mine cave-in five years ago and that you healed another sister through prayers and touch, bringing her back from near death.” He shifted in his chair, his heavy clothes rustling and hissing over the wood.
Odile blushed so hard that it hurt. “Oh no, your excellency, I just helped confirm a side passage in an area where the other men could not use lanterns for fear of fire, and Godown healed Sr. Amalthea, guiding Sr. Sabina and her assistants.”
Reverend Mother Alice spoke up, “But you were in the infirmary during her crisis, and yours was the hand that found the greyleaf, even though you are blind and you have no medical training. Your excellency, I believe, with your permission, it is time for Sr. Odile to take on more responsibilities. Her gifts are becoming evident, and her good council and wisdom are well known.”
What additional responsibilities? What gifts and council? What do you mean? But Odile didn’t get a chance to ask before the bishop spoke.
“Indeed. Sister Odile, you will take up preaching duties, and will serve as novice mistress next year.” His voice warmed a touch and he continued, “I am aware that reading poses certain difficulties for you. However, having novices read sermons and commentaries aloud is to be encouraged, in order to permit meditation and discussion of holy texts and Godown’s wisdom.”
So much for that argument, she sighed a little. But how can I do inspections and correct the novices? Godown, help, please.
“Thank you, your excellency, Reverend Mother,” Odile said, somehow not sighing aloud or bursting into tears. “I covet your prayers.”
She heard a touch of laughter in Rev. Mother Alice’s voice. “And you shall most certainly have them, Sister. You are dismissed.”
As she left, she heard Rev. Mother Alice continue, “A sister who does not want to talk. Perhaps the age of Godown’s wonders has not fully passed.” Odile fled.
Lady deSarm arrived the next afternoon, accompanied only by her women. “Oh, my, she’s wearing her wedding dress and a maiden’s crown with her hair unbound,” Novice Basilia whispered.
“Her claim of nullification is that Lord Greg failed to be a husband in all things,” Odile reminded the novice. After examining the novices, Bishop Martín had decided to give Basilia and Felicia until the spring equinox to make their professions. Both women came from very poor backgrounds and needed extra time to learn to read. That meant that Odile would serve as their novice mistress, she’d realized with a start.
“Ah, that makes sense then. Thank you, Sister, for your correction.” Everyone knew that a marriage could be nullified only through gross abuse or neglect, or failure to provide conjugal comforts. A man or woman could claim separation for abandonment, breach of contract, infidelity, or mental incapacity, although Odile had never heard of the latter ever being claimed or granted. She tried to remember the last time she’d heard of a nullification being granted, and couldn’t think of one. The closest might have been when Goody Santell fled to the Hall because her husband had almost killed their children in his drunken fits. Lady deSarm’s men had come back with Goody Santell, and when her man tried to go after her in the soldiers’ presence, they’d beaten him so badly he’d been bedridden for a week and more. The next time he so much as raised his voice at her in public, several townsmen had dragged him into an alley and he’d been limping and sported a black eye when he came home that evening. Odile’s father had tsked, but had also said, “Slow learner. And to hurt her in full public view? He’s fortunate he wasn’t dragged up to the hall to face Lady deSarm.”
Yes, and it should never have gotten to the point where Goody Santell had to flee, Father, Odile thought once again. But Lady deSarm must have a good case, if she’s agreed to meet with the bishop.
Odile and the other sisters prayed for justice and wisdom, and only Reverend Mother Alice involved herself with the bishop’s hearing. He’d already met with Lord Greg, and the next morning, four men from the deSarm lands came to the convent to hear the decision. Odile knew that Lady deSarm had submitted herself to questioning and to inspection by the four sisters from outside the valley. That suggested that Lady deSarm had the strongest evidence possible that her husband had not done his duty to her. Once more Odile wondered why Godown had not made men with something similar, so their would-be wives would know if they’d broken their promises. Godown made us different and that’s that. It did seem unfair, though, that women had cycles and got pregnant, and men didn’t. Unless they have something Mother never told me about, since we knew I’d never be able to marry. Hmmm. Oh well, it wasn’t something for her to worry about any more.
After the noon meal, the bishop called everyone to meet in the dining commons, because
it was the only room large enough for the sisters, the bishop and his staff, the witnesses, and Lady deSarm. The room quickly grew stuffy and overwarm, and Odile eased her way until she stood at the back, by the door, in case she needed to leave quickly. She’d been caught in a crowd once, and the rushing men and women had nearly trampled her until Bethany had grabbed her and held her against a wall, out of the tide.
“Hear my decision,” the bishop announced after opening with a long prayer. “Witnesses find that Lady deSarm retains her maiden’s binding, proof of her claim that Gregory Martin Berlin failed to do his duty as husband. Gregory Berlin had already affirmed to me under oath that he had not known Marguerite Thomasina deSarm as wife yet, pleading her young age and their common upbringing.” Someone smothered a chuckle and Odile frowned. “I find Lady deSarm’s case valid, and nullify the marriage. Lady deSarm is to repay all gifts, pledges, and tokens from Gregory Berlin. She has offered to release him without prejudice or counter claim, and will send all his possessions to him. Both parties are free to remarry without fault.”
Whispers and rustling filled the room at those words, and a sister not far from Odile hissed, “Who’s eligible? She’ll have to marry someone, and quickly.”
“Not Phillip,” someone else replied. “Maybe she’ll take her armsman to bed.” Odile tapped the second speaker, shaking her finger. “Your pardon, Sister Odile.”
Thank you, Godown, that this is over. Maybe things will return to normal now. Or would once Bishop Martín heard the vows of the five new sisters. Odile turned her thoughts to the matter, fingering her beads and thinking about how best to force the blended yarn into submission. Some combinations just are not meant to be, and that’s that. The Writ is correct: we shouldn’t try to force animals and plants into a union against their natures, at least not yarn and thread.
Marta sagged into the lord’s chair in the great hall, too tired to go any farther. I’m free. Now what? She also felt a little odd. The matrons had inspected her with great thoroughness, poking around places Marta wasn’t used to being poked. But she’d won her case, Gregory Berlin would never set foot in her lands ever again unless he returned with an army, and now she could go back to managing the Sarm properties. Except for Phillip of Frankonia, whose messenger had called her some very impolite things when she’d told him and his master to leave forthwith.