Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  My thoughts this wintry day are hopeful ones, as Angelina, Isabel, Marguerite, and I prepare a broth together. The kitchen is a warm refuge from the cold, and here the air is sharp with the yeasty smell of bread. Holding a knife, I contemplate a rabbit carcass slung over a hook on the wall, waiting to be cut open and skinned for the stew. I wait to ask for advice, while Angelina relates some new transgression of Durufle’s lazy steward and Isabel chatters about the icy weather. It still surprises me how much the sisters love to talk. If their prayer is like plainsong, chanted in unison, their work is like harmony, a bright medley of voices.

  Marguerite, more comfortable behind Mother Ermentrude’s desk than in a messy kitchen, waits to be given a task. I see her take a ripe pear from a bowl and hide it within her habit. No doubt she will savor it later, when she is alone. Watching her, I wonder if she, too, is guarding some greater secret. She looks at me sharply, daring me to reveal her small theft. Her brows arch over pale green eyes. Surely her hair beneath her wimple is as yellow as the marguerite’s petals. But her beauty often seems at odds with her piety. It is her habit, like a self-anointed preacher, to choose a moral tale from her memory and tell it to those nearby, whether or not they wish to hear it. I have heard Isabel say she is more strict than Count Durufle himself.

  “Today is the feast of Agnes,” Marguerite begins when Angelina finishes her complaints against the steward. “Which reminds me of poor Agnes of Lille, who once lived among us.”

  “Do not remind us,” says Angelina, wiping her brow. “We know the story well. See to the parsnips now.” I see Isabel lift her eyebrows and look upward as if praying for patience, and I almost laugh, for I did the same when my father lectured me.

  “But Ophelia does not know of Agnes,” says Marguerite, turning to me with a pretended graciousness, as if she would introduce me to a friend.

  “Oh, please spare us!” begs Isabel, unable to find the patience to keep silent. But Marguerite will not be deterred. Does she think herself a princess who can disregard the will of others?

  “Agnes took her vows at Pentecost, and seemed a veritable angel as she sang in the choir. But she deceived us. By the Feast of All Saints, she was heavy with child.”

  “The parsnips!” Angelina interrupts, impatient. Marguerite pauses long enough to fetch them. I concentrate on the rabbit, having decided to cut it open myself. Blood from its inner parts oozes between my fingers.

  “Mother Ermentrude did not even consult the bishop, but wasted no time in expelling her from our midst,” she goes on. “The girl married a blacksmith from the village, but it was said the child’s father was her confessor, a monk.”

  Though I feel Marguerite’s eyes on me, I do not look up. Is she trying to draw out my secrets? Does she somehow know of my condition and judge me a sinner? Perhaps I was wrong not to confide in Mother Ermentrude. I must go to her at once and confess the truth. I will pray that she believes me and does not cast me out like Agnes.

  “It was the only time such shame fell upon St. Emilion,” Marguerite says to conclude the tale. Then she crosses herself and delivers the moral that all such tales carry: “We ought to thank God for our vocation. What a blessing it is not to be a creature of passion like poor Agnes.”

  My bloody hands shake with the effort, but I cannot stop my angry words from spilling out.

  “And what of the monk? Did he offer to share her guilt?”

  Marguerite looks confused by my question.

  “Are not men also creatures of passion?” I demand. “Do they not beg, force, and sometimes deceive women into yielding their virtue? Women do not sin this way alone, you know.”

  Marguerite falls back as if I have struck her. She is speechless and her pale skin is as white as the flesh of the raw-cut parsnip. Is my anger so terrible? Or have I touched some deep fear within her, some wound or scar?

  It is Isabel who speaks, seeking peace.

  “All of us are sinners. It is not the purity of the body, but the integrity of the mind, that best pleases our Lord,” she says.

  “And if the dear Lord can forgive me for all the times I wished my husband dead,” said Angelina, crossing herself, “surely he has forgiven poor Agnes her sin.”

  Seeing by my trembling hands that I am in danger of cutting myself, Isabel takes the rabbit and the knife from me. With five swift strokes, she cuts it into pieces and adds them to the steaming broth.

  “But our Savior is much more pleased with a bride whose virgin seal is unbroken by man,” Marguerite persists. “Is he not?” Her voice rises, sounding uncertain.

  “You forget, Marguerite, that most women do bring children into the world. You and I were born of women,” Isabel says gently. “Indeed, what would befall mankind if all young girls were to join our ranks?”

  “There would be no more virgins born!” Angelina offers, with a hearty burst of laughter.

  Smiling, Isabel spreads her hands to emphasize the point. Marguerite, defeated, presses her lips together and says no more.

  I realize then that I love Isabel, my champion. She has been my steady friend, like Horatio to his Hamlet. How can I continue to deceive her when she loyally defends me? I will confide in her at once and ask her advice about approaching Mother Ermentrude with my secret, lest Marguerite expose it first.

  That very night I seek her out and find her kneeling in her cell, praying before a simple icon. I change my mind and begin to withdraw.

  “Ophelia, come back. I will leave off my prayers at once. See, I lay down my book. Now tell me, what troubles you?”

  Without any preamble, my words come in a torrent.

  “Isabel, my friend, I know that I can trust you as I have never trusted anyone.” I sink to my knees beside her, while she leans back on her heels in surprise. “Hear me now, for I can no longer keep my story a secret.” I grasp Isabel’s hand, and her eyes grow wade with expectation. “I loved a man who was forbidden to me. I enjoyed his caresses, then married him in secret. He renounced me and now he is dead. All of my family is dead.” My voice caught on these words, but I went on. “I am without a home, forever alienated. Though I am not a nun like you, I also died to the world in coming here.”

  Speaking these long-held secrets brings intense relief, like the shedding of a heavy cloak in summer.

  “There is no shame in being a widow,” Isabel says. “Why have you concealed the fact that you had a husband?”

  “Because I cannot name him, therefore all would think me a liar, a sinner trying to hide her shame,” I explain. “But my story is still more complex. I have taken part in such a drama as would only be believed on a stage, a tragedy ending in the death of kings and princes.”

  “I know some of this,” says Isabel slowly.

  A cry of surprise escapes me. “How?”

  “I read the letter that came to you from the man named Horatro, after you fell senseless and it dropped from your hand,” she confesses. “I knew you wanted to disguise yourself, so to help you stay unknown, I hid it.”

  I am both amazed and relieved at this news. I watch Isabel go to her cot and reach deep within the mattress to produce Horatio’s letter. She hands it to me, and meeting her eyes, I know the knowledge is locked within her, that she has not told anyone.

  “So you know how I have suffered in love, and that all is lost to me.” Still I dare not name Hamlet, though Isabel must know of him.

  “Yes. Considering your terrible grief, I also took away your dagger, fearing you might harm yourself with it.” She shrugs and smiles faintly. “Not knowing where to put it, I buried it in the cemetery. Will you forgive me?”

  “There is no need for me to forgive you, for you are an angel,” I say. “But now I must tell you how I have been punished for my rash loving.”

  Isabel hushes me and puts her arms around me. Tears burst from me, for I have not touched anyone so nearly since I bade farewell to Gertrude. I do not want to let Isabel go. But soon she draws away, and her hand caresses briefly the small, firm mound of
my belly. As her eyes meet mine, I see complete understanding there.

  “This is no punishment, Ophelia, but a blessing,” she says, touching my belly again. Her eyes shine with joy.

  “Yes, I am to bear a child!” I cry. “I confess it was conceived in delight, and I grieve to think that it will be born into misery!” I think of Agnes’s misfortune, Marguerite’s seeming malice, and the certainty of Mother Ermentrude’s justice. What will befall me, now that my long-held secret has been brought from the darkness into the plain, full light of day?

  Chapter 44

  Buried beneath winter’s white blanket, tiny snowdrops unfold their hardy green leaves. In patches where the snow has melted, they thrust their bell-shaped blooms to the sun. Soon the pointed shoots of the playful daffadowndillies will break the frozen ground. At Easter time, their frilled yellow trumpets will proclaim spring’s annual triumph over winter.

  Wrapped in my father’s cloak and warmed from within by the babe’s heat, I do not feel the cold. Despite my heavy belly, my steps are light, lifted with new hopes. All the nuns now know my secret. Voting in chapter, they have decided that I may remain among them. Now there is no reason to hide my awkward shape.

  Mother Ermentrude summons me and in brief terms informs me of the decision.

  “Your confinement draws near, and your need is great, thus we will aid you. Isabel did testify to your virtue, though whether you are married or not is no matter now.”

  Her tone lacks its usual warmth. She does not invite me to confide in her.

  “I can only humbly thank you, and beg your pardon that I have not been truthful. One day you will know why.”

  “What is truth, Ophelia?” I only lift my shoulders, not knowing what she washes me to say. “The truth is what will free you,” she replies in answer to her own question. Then she nods, ending our strained meeting.

  I feel keenly her disappointment in me. When I ask Isabel whether Mother Ermentrude believes me a sinner, she gives an indirect reply.

  “Perhaps you should have revealed your secret earlier and trusted to her mercy.”

  I know Isabel is right, and so her words pain me all the more. Then Angelina asks me why I look so downcast.

  “Mother Ermentrude is angry that I deceived her. I fear she does not want me here,” I say, fighting back tears.

  “Ah, pregnant women are often moody for no cause but that they are pregnant! I know, for I have been one,” she says, patting my hand. Then she adds, more briskly, “Be sensible, Ophelia. Mother Ermentrude would not send you away, for then who would tend to our aches and illnesses?”

  Her words comfort me, as do the sisters who smile kindly and bless me in passing. Only Marguerite avoids me. She will not meet my eyes but crosses herself when we pass, as if to protect herself from a contagion. Isabel attends to me like a sister who expects to become an aunt. When no one is about, she puts her hands on my belly and laughs with delight when she feels the child move.

  We never talk about what will happen after it is born.

  While I am still able, I go about the business of healing, crushing leaves of rue to rub on aching joints and applying poultices to clear the lungs. By my work, I will regain Mother Ermentrude’s trust.

  “Praise God and thank you, Ophelia!” Angelina exults one day. “My boils are healed. But now that it is Lent, I must find some new suffering to endure.” She tweaks my cheek and goes on her way.

  Lent is the season of penitence, the time of grief one must undergo before the joy of Easter comes. Though I follow the rules and routines of convent life, Angelina will not allow me to abstain from meat, as the sisters do. She insists I need the nourishment. So I eat gladly and do not hunger. Yet I feel guilt at being full, for Therese again refuses to take food. She has become too weak to work in the laundry. Now I am the one who heats and carries the heavy buckets of water, stirs the soapy brew, lifts the sodden clothes to be rinsed, and spreads them to dry. Therese folds linens, pausing often to rest her weak arms.

  “Why am I no longer favored with Jesus’s blood?” she says, regarding her open palms with despair. The hands that once bled from the harsh work have healed.

  I say nothing, for I have no words that will comfort her.

  In the next day’s laundry I see Therese’s night shift, stained with blood. I bring her a clean one and help her change. On her back I see abrasions and bloody welts. As I suspected, she has lashed herself with a rope, trying to purge herself of sin. Mother Ermentrude frowns on this ancient penance, though some of the older nuns still practice it. I wonder where Therese finds the strength to whip herself. Pity and anger stir in me.

  “Why do you harm yourself in this way?” I ask her, trying not to recoil from the torn and oozing flesh.

  “If I mortify my body, then I become one with Christ, who in his suffering and dying became one with mankind,” she says.

  “I do not think that God washes his creatures to suffer.” I try to argue with Therese, but her faith will not be persuaded by my reason.

  With her back flayed and blistered, she falls asleep on her knees, her face on her cot. Then I treat her torn flesh with oil. I summon Angelina and Mother Ermentrude to help lift her wasted body, and while they hold her head, I pour a trickle of broth down her throat.

  “She wants to die. What madness holds her in its thrall? What grief moves her to want to end her life?” I entreat Mother Ermentrude. I think of Hamlet’s despair, which was beyond my remedy. I must not let Therese destroy her life as well. “I try to cure her, and constantly she resists me!”

  “Be still, Ophelia. We must pray for her return to health,” says Mother Ermentrude, a look of sorrow on her face.

  At the weekly Mass, the priest raises a thin wedge of bread and says the words “This is the body of Christ.” I think of Therese, light as the unleavened bread, and I look at my own body, heavy with two lives. I am afraid of pain, of being tormented, even unto death, in giving birth. This is why I go to the chapel. This is why I take Communion. Even though she knows my doubts, Mother Ermentrude permits it. My belly is large and I mount the steps to the railing with care. When Father Alphonse sees me, he reddens to the very roots of his sparse tonsure. I extend my cupped hands, but he will not give me the bread. I wait and will not leave.

  “When Elizabeth was with child, she visited her kinswoman Mary, who earned Christ in her womb. And she was not turned away from the Lord,” I say in a low and modest voice. Isabel read me this gospel story just yesterday.

  “Verily, you are not Saint Elizabeth. And most certainly you are not the Blessed Virgin!” the priest whispers, and the hissing of his voice carries throughout the chapel.

  “God is merciful, if you are not,” I say, looking directly into his rheumy eyes. “Who are you to deny me his grace?” I surprise even myself, that I would dare to dispute with a priest during the Mass, five months of convent life have, in their way, furthered my education, if not my humility.

  The priest is too stunned to answer me. He looks away, places the bread in my hand, and draws back as if he has touched fire. I frighten him, as a madwoman frightens those who believe themselves sane.

  After the service, I put myself in the path of Father Alphonse as he hastens from the chapel.

  “Please, I pray you take the Communion to our servant Therese. She is fevered and too weak to come to chapel.”

  “I must be on my way,” he says, unwilling to be stopped.

  “Your way must be to bring Christ to her,” I say, my voice rising with indignation. Unable to dispute that point, he follows me to Therese’s room. I watch as he puts the thin wafer between her dry lips and administers the cup, murmuring in Latin. I marvel how the scrap of bread on her tongue fills Therese with a visible joy. The drops of blood red wine in her mouth invigorate her frail body, seeming to ease her pain. Her forehead is cool to my touch and her breathing easy. I have hope that she may yet recover.

  I begin sitting for many hours each day with Therese, for my own burden grows too
big to carry with ease. When she is awake I read to her; when she sleeps I rest as well. On this wintry morning, a rumor flies through the convent. As a frightened bird caught inside a house startles one person after another, the news stirs up the servants and nuns alike. It is earned in whispers by those who hurry to the chapel, and it passes with the bread and cheese shared at the midday meal.

  The meeting in the chapter house that night confirms it. Mother informs us that Count Durufle is en route to the convent. He has learned that one of the members is with child. Was it the steward or the priest who earned the news? Was it Marguerite? No, even she looks pale and fearful. Durufle is said to be outraged, for the convent’s reputation is at stake. He threatens to withdraw his patronage and force its doors to close.

  Worse news yet is that he is not alone. Traveling with him is Bishop Garamond, who has the authority to enforce whatever Durufle wills.

  Chapter 45

  No words of comfort or assurance can be spoken, for Mother Ermentrude has ordered silence and solitary prayer. Deliver me from evil, now and at the hour of my death. Constantly my mind utters this plea, as if it could prevent the count and his bishop from coming. When I fall asleep, my dreaming is a medley of all my fears. Edmund pursues me, a dagger in his hand. I feel his hot breath on my neck and his hands on my breasts, but my feet are chained to heavy stones and I cannot move. A glass vial shatters on the floor, spilling thick blood that forms the shape of a grinning death’s head. An arras hanging on a wall billows, as if stirred by a strong wind, and from behind it scurries a creature with the face of my father. The voice of Hamlet shouts, “What is this, a rat?” and his laughter echoes in a vast chamber. Then the chapel bells awaken me, but I feel no relief to find myself at St. Emilion. This place of refuge has suddenly become a prison where I await the trial that might condemn not only me, but Mother Ermentrude and all the sisters.

  When the pale but staving sun has lifted the gray morning mist, Count Durufle and the bishop arrive. I hear the clatter of horses’ hooves, but I have not the strength nor will to look out my window. There will not be the usual ceremonies of an episcopal visit, for this is no occasion of celebration. A heavy silence, more fearful than pious, engulfs the convent.