Amen
Fratre Lothar
by the hand of Fratre Nicetius
Chapter Fourteen
AS VESPERS SOUNDED, Bishop Berahtram made his way toward the anchorites’ chapel at Sant’ Ianuarius, determination in his stride and stern purpose in his face; his task was clear and he would not fail, not for himself, but for the honor of Sant’ Ianuarius and the Church. In this remote place God would give him victory over the Anti-Christ, and the Pope would be saved from the evil he had been commanded to guard; it would be shown that this manifestation of the wounds of Christ was the work of Satan, and would be known for the temptation to Pride it was. That revelation could only occur away from the Courts and cities of the Emperor and the Pope, and no place was more suitable than Sant’ Ianuarius: the convent, perched on the edge of a cliff high above an unapproachable valley, constantly moaned with wind, a continuing reminder of the ignominy of humankind and all the works of the world. Bishop Berahtram thought the convent a particularly suitable one for the sixty-seven women who lived in it, for their withdrawal from the world was reinforced by the isolation of Sant’ Ianuarius itself. Not even the eighty-nine slaves who served the nuns had much contact with the rest of his bishopric, or the villages farther down the mountain.
The nuns in the main chapel had begun chanting their prayers when Bishop Berahtram opened the fourth anchorite’s cell and addressed the white-skinned woman who stood swaying slightly near the single, high window that provided the only light in the cubiculum. She stared at the Bishop, and finally said, “Sublime,” in a harsh, soft voice.
“You may come to your chapel for Vespers,” Bishop Berahtram said to Gynethe Mehaut. “I will hear you Confess.”
Gynethe Mehaut blinked, steadying herself against the wall. For the last four days she had survived on a half-loaf of bread and a skin of water; during that time she had prayed without ceasing, chanting the Psalms over and over until her voice was now almost gone, hardly more than a hushed whisper; the chanting had long since become a rasp. After five nights without sleep, she found it difficult to concentrate. She blinked again, keeping her eyes closed a bit longer than before.
“You will not rest!” Bishop Berahtram ordered her. “Not until you have made a complete Confession of all your sins.”
“No,” she muttered. “I will not.” She put her bandaged hands to her face.
“You must remain awake,” said Bishop Berahtram, his voice taking on a harsh edge. “If you cannot do what God requires of you here, you must be sent to another nunnery where the Rule is more strictly enforced. The Pope commands it.”
Gynethe Mehaut nodded several times and tried to focus her attention on the Bishop, but she found it difficult to do, for this man seemed to be a vision or a dream, one moment as real a presence as the stones around her, the next as elusive as a specter.
“You have a duty to perform, Sorra,” said the Bishop, his manner as demanding as any Potente’s.
Gynethe Mehaut concentrated on what the Bishop said, and forced her tongue to respond. “I am devoted to the Church and the God we serve.” It came out sing-song and with little meaning to her, but it was enough to satisfy him for the moment.
“The chapel is waiting. You must recite Vespers. Then I will hear your Confession, and then begin your night devotions.” He stood a little straighter. “You are sworn to make this a holier place than it is now. If you fail, you will show that you are the handmaiden of Satan, as Bishop Iso believes, and many others fear. For the sake of your salvation, keep your vows.”
“It is my duty,” said Gynethe Mehaut, as she had said twice a day since she arrived at the convent three weeks ago. She took a faltering step toward the door, feeling dizzy from the effort. As the light from the torch in the corridor struck her, she turned her face away, flinching at the sudden brightness; her head throbbed, and there was a steady ache of hunger gripping her.
“How can you be so lax?” Bishop Berahtram demanded as he followed after her. “You wobble with every step. Are you so afraid of the altar that you cannot reach the chapel without losing your way? Does the presence of God so distress you?”
“I am … weak,” she said, trying to moisten her cracked lips, and finding her tongue dry.
“You are unable to do what you have been ordered to do?” he challenged. “You say you’re not capable of doing the penance expected of you?”
“I … pray for strength,” she murmured, stumbling a little on the uneven floor.
“As well you might,” said Bishop Berahtram. He pointed to the chapel door. “You know what you must do.”
“I know, Sublime, and I am grateful,” she said, and winced at the high trill of laughter that came from the nearest anchorite’s cell.
“Pay no heed to Sorra Riccardis Vigia,” Bishop Berahtram warned her. “She is possessed by demons when night falls.”
“Hers is a terrible laugh,” said Gynethe Mehaut. She thought it sounded like the howls of wolves that often filled the winter’s nights at Santa Albegunda; her memory grew stronger as she knelt at the door of the chapel and began to make her way on her knees toward the altar.
“It is always so with demons,” said Bishop Berahtram, coming to stand over her. “Begin your Office, and remember to include the penitential prayers at the end.”
“Yes.” Gynethe Mehaut stretched out facedown before the altar as she had done so many times before, in this convent and in others, although tonight they all seemed fused into one, an unbroken stream of devotion that had brought her to a pervasive torpor of spirit. She wondered vaguely if Priora Iditha, or Sorra Celinde, would come to take her back to her cubiculum when she was finished. But no, she remembered. Not here. Here she was in the care of Abba Dympna and Bishop Berahtram. Her thready voice sounded through the chapel, as monotonous as anything she had ever heard, except the droning of bees. The words made little sense to her, although she felt shame that she paid so little attention to them.
“You repeated the same verse three times,” Bishop Berahtram said, cutting into her drifting thoughts. “The same words: ‘He has given redemption to His people: He has made His covenant with them for eternity: holy and glorious is His Name.’”
“It has meaning for me,” she said, because it was the one statement he would not dispute. “How could saying it more than once be an error?”
“God knows what it is. You needn’t repeat it for His benefit,” he told her.
“I repeat it for my benefit, for the consolation of my soul,” she said, wishing she could close her eyes and rest. Her body ached for sleep, but she knew that to succumb would prove the worst suspicions of her. Forcing herself to stay awake, she resumed her Psalm, starting it from the beginning. “Let all praise the Lord; I will praise Him wholeheartedly in the assembly of the devout, and to humble worshipers…” She continued to the ninth verse, which she again repeated, much to Bishop Berahtram’s consternation.
“You must not do that,” he ordered. “You are to say them as they are written.”
“But…” She rubbed her face with one hand, hoping the rough texture of the cloth around her wounds would bring about more clarity of thought. “He has given redemption to His people: He has made His covenant with them for eternity: holy and glorious is His Name. How is there error in saying that many times? Isn’t it true? Doesn’t it praise God, as we must do, as good Christians?” She felt so desperate, so alone.
“Do not argue! Go on to the next verse.” He could not stop himself from kicking her shoulder. “You test the patience of the Pope.”
“No, Sublime. I…” She could not bring herself to admit that she was so exhausted that she could not think of what came next, for that would surely confirm his worst apprehension.
“Go on!” He kicked her again, this time harder. “And offer up this punishment for your errors.”
“Amen,” she whispered, and made herself go on. At the next Psalm, she stumbled over the phrase For the devout, their faith is as a light in the darkness, and she
cringed in anticipation of another sharp kick, which did not come—not yet.
“Go on,” said Bishop Berahtram, his breath coming quickly.
Gynethe Mehaut continued with the Psalms, completing them at last, and then began the prayers that had been added to her Office. These were harder to remember, and so she said them more slowly, occasionally tripping over a word or two; when Bishop Berahtram kicked her, she did her best to pay no attention to what he had done, and instead concentrated on the words she was expected to recite. Finally she was through; the other nuns were observing Compline, which Psalms Gynethe Mehaut would have to wait until she was in her cubiculum to recount, if she could bring all the prayers to mind; she was so worn that keeping anything whole in her memory was becoming harder than speaking with her ruined voice. For a moment she even forgot where she was and had to fight a surge of panic that coursed through her. Regaining her inward composure, she got to her knees and said, “Good Bishop, in the Name of Christ, hear my Confession.”
Bishop Berahtram knelt beside her. “I will, Sorra Gynethe Mehaut.” He made a gesture of protection. “I will hear you.”
It was so difficult to know what to say first; Gynethe Mehaut felt turmoil rising within her, more troubling than her fatigue and her hunger. “I Confess that I have longed for Santa Albegunda instead of this place, preferring it to Sant’ Ianuarius, although I know this is wrong, for it is God’s Will that I am here, and I must accept and welcome His Will.”
“The life at Santa Albegunda was lax,” said Bishop Berahtram. “You were permitted liberties that are not suitable to you.”
“I know; I know, and I want to repent them. I ask God to relieve me of that longing, but so far He hasn’t given that peace to me. It is my fault, for if I were worthy, He must show me mercy.” Her voice was little more than breath now, and her throat felt chapped.
“Who are you, to bargain with God?” Bishop Berahtram regarded her with icy contempt. “It is for God to decide what you must endure.”
“I know,” said Gynethe Mehaut again. “I am mindful of all God has brought upon me. I think on it every hour.”
“Blasphemy!” He got to his feet and struck her with the full force of the back of his hand. “You are insolent of God!”
Gynethe Mehaut doubled over, her hands against her jaw. She could not cry out; she had not voice enough for that. Her misery was engulfing as she lay on the stones. At least she had not said the two worst things she might Confess: what she had learned from Bonna Dama Clemens about the Church and the Pope, and her yearning for Rakoczy, whose love was utter profanation of every sacred thing.
“Get back on your knees!” ordered Bishop Berahtram.
It was an effort for Gynethe Mehaut to move; her vision was wavering, and she shook with the effort he demanded of her. She feared she might fall over, so she held her hands out in front of her to break her collapse. “I don’t…” she apologized.
“Remain where you are.” Bishop Berahtram came around in front of her, his face set in a rictus that alarmed Gynethe Mehaut; he reached out and grabbed her shoulders. “You must tell me your sins. Your penance means nothing if you will not Confess.”
“I will Confess,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “I will tell you my sins.”
“And in time you will be absolved of all your wrongdoing.” Bishop Berahtram tightened his grip on her. “You have much to atone for.”
“Yes; I must atone,” Gynethe Mehaut croaked. She hated the sound she made, and fell silent.
“Well?” Bishop Berahtram demanded. “Well?”
She could not summon up enough sound to speak; she lowered her head, weeping. Finally she was able to mutter, “I miss … Roma.” She stopped herself from saying more, although she wanted to explain what she meant, to get the Sublime Berahtram to understand her wish to return there, to the house of Atta Olivia Clemens where no one stared at her, and the only rules imposed upon her kept her safe and content.
“A holy city, the model of Heaven on earth,” said Bishop Berahtram, who had never seen it for himself. “Any good Roman Christian must long for that place.” He forced her to raise her face. “Are your tears for your soul?”
“I … don’t know,” Gynethe Mehaut admitted, horrified at her candor.
“Then how dare you cry?” Bishop Berahtram demanded. “How can you do such a reprehensible thing? Do you want to be immured?”
“No … No, I don’t,” Gynethe Mehaut said, appalled at the notion of being walled up, with only a single slot for bread and water, and a grate through which to Confess, until she died.
“It is what I must do if you cannot Confess everything and repent of all you have done to bring dishonor on your family and your Church,” said Bishop Berahtram.
Gynethe Mehaut shook her head repeatedly. “I intend nothing against the Church,” she whispered, and broke off, coughing.
“You must do your utmost to acknowledge your sins.” He rapped out the words crisply. “Tonight you may contemplate your errors. You will not sleep. Use your meditation bell to keep yourself awake. And when you have finally numbered your sins, you will Confess them to me at None tomorrow. Then you may rest, if your Confession is complete. Otherwise, you must not have the succor of rest, for you will be prey to demons and you will end up like Sorra Riccardis Vigia, in the throes of Hell.”
Gynethe Mehaut sighed deeply. She dreaded what lay ahead, but she could not turn from it. It was hard to get out a few more words. “I will thank God for His Goodness.”
“You will humble yourself, White Woman,” said Bishop Berahtram. “The attention you have received has corrupted you.”
It was difficult for her to move, as if her limbs were weighted, or the cloth was suddenly sodden. She struggled to her feet, trying to stand without feeling dizzy. There was something she ought to say to the Bishop, but she could not bring it to mind. As she started toward the corridor, Sorra Riccardis Vigia began laughing again, a high, nervous bray that alarmed her more than she could admit. “Sublime,” she said, her voice cracking.
“What?” he asked sharply, standing to block her at the entrance to the corridor.
“It is … my hope that…” She could not speak any more.
“That what? What?” Bishop Berahtram insisted, leaning toward her. “What do you mean?”
She tried to speak, but only a gagging sound came from her, for her throat was dry and as fiery as the hot wind of summer. Ducking her head, she made a gesture of abject apology and began to cough again, all the while clasping her hands together in supplication to the Bishop. The coughing continued and finally stopped, leaving her struggling to breathe.
“I will order a cup of wine for you tonight, but you must not let it lure you into sleep. Do you want a scourge to keep you awake?” Bishop Berahtram offered. “You have more prayers to recite.”
“I … can’t,” she forced herself to say.
“You must,” he reminded her, the hint of concession gone.
“If you do not pray loud, how will anyone know you aren’t sleeping? Must I order one of the Sorrae to whip you?”
As much as she wanted to scream, Gynethe Mehaut could not, and that made it seem much worse to her. She crossed her arms on her breast and tried to maintain a repentant demeanor, but it was becoming more difficult than she had first anticipated. Swallowing hard against the pain and rage that seemed to choke her, she mouthed, “Put a Sorra to watch me. For the sake of my soul.”
Bishop Berahtram struck her across the face. “You insolent whore! You faithless harlot!”
With a ragged cry, Gynethe Mehaut reeled back, slamming into the wall and sliding down the rough stones to the floor. She covered her head with her hands and began to weep silently, wretchedly. Had she been less enervated, she would have tried to resist this assault, but all she could do was cower under the continuing blows and insults, and implore God to tell her what sins she had committed that deserved this extremity of chastisement and to feel the silence that was the most condemnation she would e
ver receive. She began to crawl along the corridor back toward her cubiculum, driven by the Bishop’s kicks and blows and her distress. Twice she tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless caw, and that increased her misery. She was vaguely aware of Sorra Riccardis Vigia laughing, and that set the seal on her utter dejection.
“I will send Abba Dympna to watch you, and to be sure you do not sleep. If you cannot remain awake, she will flog you.” Bishop Berahtram felt the full strength of his zeal, and knew he was serving God and the Pope to the very limits of his devotion. “You will Confess at None, and then you shall rest.”
Gynethe Mehaut nodded and made a gesture of submission, hoping this would stem the tide of abuse being heaped upon her. As another kick landed on her ribs, she curled into a ball and lay, whimpering, a few steps from the door to her cubiculum. She had never been more harrowed than she was now; her despair was so profound that it stopped her tears and bestowed upon her a black, fatalistic calm. Carefully and slowly she got to her feet and made her way into her penitent’s cell, finding enough voice to say, “I await the Abba,” before she pulled the door closed on herself. Aware that the Bishop was watching her, she stood very still, making herself remain upright through determination alone. Her lips moved as she began her prayers, although no sound came.
When Abba Dympna came to Gynethe Mehaut’s cubiculum, she carried a tray with half a loaf of bread, a skin of water, and a small cup of wine. She let herself into the cell and put the tray down on the round stool that was usually employed for Confession. “Gynethe Mehaut,” she said, noticing the blank expression on her white face.
“Good Abba,” Gynethe Mehaut managed to grate out; she went back to her silent recitation of prayers.
“I have brought a flagellum with me,” the Abba said, pulling it from under her stolla. The short-handled whip had six lashes, each one with a small iron star tied to the end. “The Bishop has told me I must use it to keep you awake.”
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