The Open Channel

by Jill Morrow

  She’d already learned this truth: beauty and pleasure faded all too quickly, while trouble stayed forever.

  4

  ALYS LOOKED UP FROM HER ACCOUNT LEDGER AS LIGHT FOOTSTEPS scurried up the stairs. This would be Dame Margaret, whose tiny feet had made the journey to the prioress’s chamber several times a day for the past week.

  Sure enough, here came the telltale knock: three scratches that sounded as if Margaret possessed claws instead of fingers.

  Alys set down her quill with a sigh. She already knew why Margaret had come.

  “Benedicite,” she called.

  Dame Margaret opened the door with a surprisingly hard shove and fairly spilled into the chamber. “It’s her again, madame. I will not have it!”

  “Benedicite,” Alys repeated evenly.

  “Of course. Benedicite.” Margaret’s watery blue eyes blinked rapidly. She had seen fifty summers now, forty-two of them at Saint Etheldreda’s. She’d ushered many of her current sisters through the novitiate, so Alys had thought nothing of adding one more charge to her care.

  Dame Margaret lifted her chin. “I know she is your kinswoman, madame, but—”

  “What is Isobel’s failing now?” It was best to avoid matters of kin. Both women knew that bloodlines had contributed to Alys’s appointment as prioress, a position Margaret had long coveted and perhaps even deserved. Unfortunately, though her baker father had lived an honest, holy life, he’d acquired few tangible assets and no political connections. All the prayers in England could not have elevated Margaret to prioress.

  Margaret’s nose twitched. “Her failing, madame? You must see it with your own eyes. It defies description.”

  “Please. I am extremely busy. Father Gregory comes tomorrow to review our accounts.”

  Margaret lowered her brow. “You’d best hope he doesn’t review our embroidery.”

  “Embroidery?”

  “The novices have been stitching all morning. We could not tend the gardens in the rain, so we have spent our time practicing embroidery so that we may properly stitch altar cloths.”

  “And Isobel is dismal with the needle? Surely you can teach her how to sew.”

  “She embroiders exceptionally well.” Margaret’s tone darkened.

  The prioress paused. “Is she insolent, then?”

  “She does what she must.”

  Oh, but Alys was tired of riddles! Could no one plainly speak their mind? She was suddenly irritated by everyone she knew: her father, with his flimsy subterfuges, Gregory, with his gentle entreaties, each and every nun in her care who did the utmost best to hide behavior her prioress would not have minded anyway.

  “Then what is it?” she asked, unable to mask her rising annoyance. “Will this visit be like yesterday’s visit, and like the one before that? Will you tell me once again that Isobel is simple, that you cannot fathom where her mind might be? We already know this. Have you anything new to add?”

  Margaret shut the chamber door and stepped quickly toward the prioress. Alys nearly recoiled when the other woman grabbed her hand, so unaccustomed was she to the touch.

  “Madame, she is more than simple. There is something amiss within her that I cannot explain.”

  “What happened?”

  Margaret licked dry lips. “I was observing the embroidery, as I always do. All young women need guidance with the needle, for boredom makes their stitches ungainly. Dame Joan still stitches with great galloping loops and hoops. No one possesses my own skill with—”

  “And Isobel?”

  “Isobel’s work was the last I examined. She sits to herself, you know, quite alone. She seems to find the company of others burdensome.”

  Alys was not surprised. There were days when she herself could not abide the thought of one more chattering tidbit falling from the nuns’ lips.

  Margaret continued. “My heart fairly sang when I saw Isobel’s cloth. The stitches! Tiny and true, as if an angel had guided her fingers. And the colors! She has a knack, madame, for placing two strands of thread so closely together that the eye is utterly beguiled. The shade seems a rich purple, but upon closer study, it is indigo and crimson stitched tightly side by side.”

  A vague relief filled Alys’s mind. Good. Isobel had a talent, then, a gift that could occupy her days and ward off the dangers of idleness.

  But Dame Margaret looked far from pleased. She clasped her birdlike hands tightly against her breast and furrowed her brow.

  “I thought to praise her,” she said. “I knew such praise could lead to vanity, but the poor child has so little to commend. But when I lifted the cloth from her lap and viewed the piece as a whole, words lodged in my throat. That cloth had been empty but two hours before. Now it was covered with exquisite stitchery. Expert stitchery.” She swallowed. “Upon my soul, no one can stitch with such speed. It put me in mind of witchcraft, madame.”

  Alys turned away in disgust. “Oh, Margaret. Not you, too.”

  “And the image itself!” Margaret plowed forward, clearly determined to finish what she had begun. “It is not natural. No maiden would think of such…such a thing.”

  Unlike Margaret, Alys harbored clear memory of her own young womanhood. She knew without a doubt how vivid a girl’s imagination could be, how whispered tales from stable boys could muffle a mother’s soft warnings. It had taken Gregory’s tender patience to untangle the profane from the profound in her own heart, and not every woman was blessed with a lover such as he.

  “We will rip the stitches out as quickly as possible,” Margaret said.

  “Yes, of course. If the design is ribald, it will be reworked. But, Margaret, I will hear no more talk of witchcraft. Isobel’s swiftness with the needle is a blessing, not a curse.”

  Margaret stepped forward, mouth opened to speak. Then she set her lips into a thin line and unclasped her hands.

  “Naturally, I chastised her,” she said.

  “Naturally.”

  “She plucked the offending cloth from my hands and dashed away. She is mooning near the priory gate. You can see her if you gaze through your window.”

  Alys instinctively did just that. Sure enough, Isobel stood staring through the bars of the gate, the cloth crunched in both hands. She looked like a statue set in the wrong place.

  “If I were prioress, I would go to her at once,” Margaret said beneath her breath. “We are between cloudbursts, and she knows not enough to come in from the rain.”

  “That will be quite enough.” Alys did not turn around.

  “Benedicite.” Dame Margaret shut the door behind her and darted down the steps.

  The rain had already begun when Alys reached the priory gate. Isobel remained poised at the entrance, gazing out the gateway at the rutted mud road on the other side.

  If she would move even her smallest finger! Alys hated to admit that Margaret might be correct about the girl’s empty head.

  She reached out a hand and nudged her niece’s shoulder. “Isobel.”

  As usual, it was like talking to the priory well. Perhaps water tumbled and bubbled beneath, but the outer brick certainly gave no sign of it. Isobel remained unmoved, staring straight ahead.

  Alys crossly glanced down at her own silk-laced kirtle. She had paid a pretty pence for it, and now fat water droplets splattered its length, settling right through to her fine chainsil shift.

  Perhaps Isobel was too dull-witted to seek shelter, but Alys was not. She grasped the girl’s hand and firmly tugged her toward the cloister.

  “Now, then,” she said as they ducked beneath the roof. “What is this all about?”

  Why did she continue to question this half-wit? Isobel would never answer. Her listlessness went beyond the lack of a voice. She possessed only two or three facial expressions, each a slightly different shade of dull. The smile Alys had seen that first day was but a memory now, a silly befuddlement meant to trick her heart into thinking this girl showed promise.

  The rain continued to fall in a monotonous dr
izzle. Alys glared at it and marveled at the Creator’s ability to re-create her own mood for the entire world to share.

  “Very well,” she said, for it did no good for both of them to remain silent. “Let me see it.”

  She held out a hand. Isobel’s vacant gaze traveled from the open white palm to the crumpled cloth.

  “Yes.” Alys nodded. “That.”

  Well, the girl was at least obedient. Her hand moved in a smooth arc to deposit the cloth into the prioress’s waiting grasp. Then she returned her eyes to the road.

  Alys turned her back to her niece as she fingered the cloth. Damask. She’d have to speak with Dame Margaret. If the novices were going to practice their needlework, she preferred that they ruin cloth not quite so dear.

  Without further hesitation, she flipped back a corner of the cloth.

  The colors struck her with the heady richness of an autumn day. How had Isobel done this? Everywhere Alys looked, her eyes feasted on a riot of color. Each strand of thread begged to be noticed, both individually and as part of a pattern. Dame Margaret had rightfully noted the crimson and blue, but she had not prepared the prioress for the careful symmetry with which they had been stitched. The purple they made was worthy of royalty.

  Alys drank in the other colors. Red and yellow thread created a gold almost sinful in its richness, while blue and yellow looped together reminded her of a green meadow.

  What a gift this child had been given! What Isobel could not express in words, she’d been allowed to say with her fingers. Alys turned in openmouthed wonder to praise her niece. Isobel had once again drifted toward the gate and now stood in the drizzle, staring through the bars.

  Alys clamped her mouth shut. How could such glory flow through the fingers of one so addled?

  She narrowed her eyes and opened the cloth. This time she looked past the surprise of color and workmanship to see the pattern they’d created.

  “Dear God!” Her cheeks burned red.

  Dame Margaret had warned that the picture was vile. Alys had expected a vision of foolish lewdness. Human nature was prone to such trifling, and young people always thought themselves wise in matters they knew nothing about.

  But the picture reflected nothing sensual, distorted or otherwise.

  A man smiled out from the cloth. Golden hair fell past his shoulders. Eyes the color of lapis lazuli met Alys’s gaze. Isobel had stitched a wide, insolent smile. This was an imperious face, although Alys quickly decided that this thought was born of her own imagination. This was but embroidery, after all. How ridiculous to assume that Isobel’s flying fingers could give a face such smugness!

  An aureole of bright red and orange framed the man’s head. A circlet of purple banded his forehead. Isobel had not had time to stitch a body, but the suggestion of a hand had been completed. It was clenched into a tight fist.

  And caught within the strangling grip of that fist was the cross of Christ, shattered and dripping blood.

  Not debauchery. Sacrilege.

  Alys hastily crossed herself, then crumpled the cloth.

  “Isobel!” she called sharply.

  With a good deal of difficulty, the girl dragged her gaze away from the road.

  Heedless of the rain, Alys strode across the courtyard to stand before her niece.

  “What is this?” she asked in a fierce whisper, ball of cloth beneath Isobel’s nose.

  Isobel stared at the cloth, then at the prioress.

  “Where did this picture come from?” Alys shook the cloth. “Did someone teach you this, or does it live within your heart and head?”

  Forehead creased, Isobel reached out to take the cloth from her aunt’s grasp. Alys watched her slowly unfurl it, then study it as if trying to remember.

  The girl’s hand softly stroked the image’s hair. Then, with surprising gentleness, her finger traced the stitched lips. Her own lips curved into a nearly beatific smile.

  “What is this?” Alys repeated, voice trailing in the wind.

  Isobel grabbed her aunt’s finger and tugged it toward the cloth. Alys stared at the picture, then at her niece’s glowing face.

  “No!” She yanked her hand away. “I will not touch it!”

  The girl drew back, mouth a perfect O of surprise.

  Alys wrenched the cloth from her hands. “You will tear this out, do you hear me? You will rip out every stitch, every thread! Then come to me that we may ask God’s forgiveness.”

  Isobel’s mouth pursed. Alys could nearly see the explanation bubbling within her head. There was no contrition in her niece’s face, no recognition of wrong. Instead, Isobel’s mouth opened as if to defend her work.

  Alys quickly covered her niece’s mouth with a long, cool finger. “Silence,” she whispered. “If you cannot examine your heart, you must at least examine your soul!”

  But what folly was this? The girl was mute. She had no voice with which to explain.

  With a sudden jerk, Isobel turned back toward the priory gate.

  “Come.” Alys grabbed the girl’s hand, but Isobel pulled it back and, face pressed between the rods of the iron gate, planted herself firmly in her spot.

  Then Alys heard it: the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves galloping over the road. Even as the women listened, the gallop slowed first to a canter and then to a trot.

  Isobel squirmed with excitement. Alys arched an eyebrow as the rhythm of the hooves slowed again.

  Suddenly she knew. The horses were coming to the priory.

  There was music now, the strumming of lutes accompanied by the steady beat of a drum. A high, clear tenor carried a melody above the instruments. The tone was pure, but the song seemed discordant, unlike any tune Alys had ever heard before.

  “Mummers, Isobel,” Alys said, then wondered why she’d felt the need. Her niece was perhaps daft, but she’d grown up in a manor house. She knew what this was. Corpus Christi week had drawn to a close, and the musicians and magicians who’d entertained throughout the shire were simply traveling on.

  The singing stopped as the party came into view. Streamers flowed from the two carts in the procession. Strings of tiny bells draped around the horses’ necks chimed gaily with each fall of a hoof. The second cart was piled high with the rickety wooden flats and props used in performances. Six men sat still as stones in the lead cart, so still that Alys could not tell which one of them had sung before.

  “Here,” a deep voice said as the cart drew to a stop before the gate.

  Alys thought the men must be kin to each other. The youngest was perhaps fourteen, a wan youth with no front teeth and a bony red nose. The eldest could have been many times a grandfather, so weary of the world did he look. All shared the same somber expression and deep, dark eyes.

  A man emerged from the center of the cart and stepped lightly to the ground.

  “Here,” he said, and Alys recognized his voice as the one that had spoken before. “I will stay here.” He planted himself before the priory gate, arms folded across his chest.

  He was younger than Alys, with long yellow hair and strong, slender limbs. His gaze, so fathomless, rested upon her with the stickiness of honey.

  “Madame Prioress.” He neither bowed nor kneeled before her. “May a poor traveler find respite in your guesthouse?”

  How had he known her as prioress? Against her will, Alys averted her eyes. He was comely enough, but even though a sturdy iron gate separated them, the chill in his visage made rivers of ice trickle through her own veins.

  Such unease did not suit her. She calmed her troubled spirit and forced herself to meet his stare.

  “Do you speak for each man present?” she asked in a loud, clear voice.

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Nay, madame. I speak only for myself. My colleagues travel on.” As if to prove his words, the man turned toward the caravan. Two satchels flew from the crowded cart and landed at his feet.

  “All my possessions in this world, Madame Prioress. But do not fret. I am well prepared to pay for
the privilege of staying here.”

  Alys’s eyes followed his hands to the leather purse tied securely to the sash at his waist. She noted that this was neither beggar nor laborer. No dirt lodged beneath his fingertips. His skin, smooth and white, reflected neither the tan hue nor the leathery texture brought about by hours of toiling in the sun.

  She could not recall meeting him before. Why did she know his face?

  He pointed an elegant finger at the cart. Without a word from anyone, the horses began to trot away.

  “Wait!” Flushed, Alys pulled herself from her pondering. “We have reached no agreement. I have not consented to your stay.”

  The man reached for his purse. She saw a flash of gold as he emptied the contents into his hand.

  He reached through the bars of the gate, turned the prioress’s hands upward, and carefully delivered the gold pieces.

  “Is it enough?” he asked.

  Enough? Her eyes widened. It was enough to repair the priory’s aged cart and even to find a decent ox to pull it. It was enough to add doves to the dovecote, to replace the cow that now served more as a pet than as a source of butter, cream, and cheese.

  She looked up to find the stranger’s gaze trained upon Isobel. The girl stared back at him, her face awash with joy.

  The man’s face cracked into an unexpected smile before he turned his gaze from Isobel and strode toward the guesthouse.

  Suddenly, Alys recognized him.

  Her stomach lurched as she whipped toward her niece. Isobel stood with a foolish grin on her face, the damask cloth trailing from her hand and onto the ground.

  Only the eye color was different.

  “Rip him out!” Alys hissed in a harsh whisper. “Rip him out of the cloth at once!”

  5

  BALTIMORE

  THE WARM SUN BATHED JULIA CARMICHAEL ’S FACE, MAKING the day feel more like June than early October. She lay atop a grassy bank in front of the school library, half listening to her schoolmates’ chatter as it swirled about her. This was her study hall period. She should have been inside the library instead of outside, busily attacking tonight’s homework. She’d considered that for about a second before giving in to the irresistible call of the sweet air.