A Cloud of Outrageous Blue

by Vesper Stamper

  “Oh, it’s heavier than I thought! It’s so fine, Mason. It looks like a proper home.” I smile and brush his arm. “Thank you.” The stone is cool. I turn it over in my hands. How I would love to shrink to the size of an ant and crawl into a place like this with him.

  And with these thoughts of home, I wonder how Henry made it through winter. My heart feels somehow softer toward my big brother, now that I’m settled in here. I hope he’s found a way forward.

  “Speaking of,” I say, “do you have any news from Hartley Cross? About…Henry?”

  Mason looks uncomfortable. “Well, let me see,” he says. “On my way up here, I passed this village—so strange—they’d set up a guard and wouldn’t let us in. Said there was a pestilence in that place.” He points to another laborer. “Gilbert Carpenter over there said he heard the whole place is dead.”

  “I wonder if it was the same town we passed,” I say. “Nothing but ghosts.”

  “Might be. Strange, isn’t it? Oh, and guess what? Right before I left, Methilde Potter was betrothed!”

  I’m scandalized. “No! To who?”

  “That scabby-faced boy, the wainwright’s—”

  “John, break’s over!” gruffs his foreman, looking at me. Mason gives an alarmed glance past my shoulder. I turn to see Agnes de Guile standing behind me. I hand Mason his handkerchief. He looks frozen.

  “Edyth,” she says. “Go back to work.”

  I slip the little stone house into my pocket and drag myself back to the scriptorium tower, without having gotten my drink of water.

  — 15 —

  Thousands of hay sheaves stand in the ochre field late that afternoon. I’m tying up my last bundle before I have to clean up when I hear the sharp crunch of someone approaching over the stubble.

  “I’d like to speak with you, Edyth,” says Sub-Prioress Agnes. “Come with me.”

  I try to finish tying the bundle.

  “Leave it,” Agnes barks.

  “But—”

  Agnes grabs me by the wrist so hard, my fingers curl. I drop the bundle and the hay explodes everywhere. We trudge through the field and back in through the rear gate, past the infirmary and the stonemasons’ shelter, where Mason will be chiseling to the very last light of day. He gives me a careful glance.

  The sub-prioress pulls me through the cloister toward the door of the prioress’s study. Agnes’s assistant, Felisia, is reading on a bench by the door. I haven’t seen her this close before. Her veil shifts, and I don’t mean to flinch, but I can see that the whole left side of her face is horribly disfigured from old burns. She smooths the veil into place and closes her book.

  “Prioress Margaret is visiting the bishop,” says Agnes. “We’ll meet in here.” She dismisses the Dragon Nun, who retreats to light the lily-shaped candelabra in the cloister walk. The golden hour illuminates the study walls in that indescribable hue.

  “Edyth of Hartley Cross,” Agnes says, sitting in the prioress’s chair. She brushes her palm across the blossoms of a potted lavender. “Speak, child.”

  What should I say? Have I done something wrong? I rub my still-smarting wrist.

  “I don’t think you’re a fish, are you?” Agnes chuckles, imitating the noiseless movements of my lips. I smile a little; I don’t know if she’s mocking me—but then, I never do know where I stand with her. She sees me rubbing my wrist. “I’ve been told I don’t know my own strength,” she says. “But tell me: Why do you think I wanted to talk to you?”

  “Because…of the stonemason?”

  “Should I have a reason to speak to you about that?”

  I downplay our connection. “He’s just a friend from my village.”

  “That may be,” says Agnes, “but the priory is a different world from your village.”

  That’s the truth.

  “Do you like it here, Edyth? You’ve been here, what, six, seven months now?”

  “Yes, Sub-Prioress. I like it here—it’s very pretty.”

  “Pretty. Hmm. What did you do at home? I understand your father was reeve.”

  I wish he had never been given that job. Everything would have been different if he had stayed a sheepman.

  “I did all sorts of things. Da ran the wool business for Saint Gabriel’s and for Lord Geoffrey. I helped him with shearing and dyeing. And my mam—she was a weaver.”

  “Of course.” Agnes ponders. “People of the land. Tell me, was your mother a forgiving woman?”

  I look down at my hands. “She always gave me another chance when I made mistakes. If she hadn’t, nothing would have gotten done.”

  “Well said, my dear. Tell me, it’s painful for you to be here, isn’t it? I know some of your story. How alone you must feel.” I wonder how much of my story the sub-prioress really knows. I wonder why she’s bringing it up now, because something in me guesses that the look on her face isn’t exactly pity.

  I turn my face away toward the dying light.

  “Whatever your emotions, though, there can be no allowances for speaking to men, except the priest at confession, and Brother Timothy at work. This is a women’s sanctuary, Edyth. Should you be found with the stonemason again, the discipline will be swift. Do you understand?”

  I nod, but inside I’m all sharp green needles of panic at the thought of not seeing Mason. Already I’m contriving a way to get around this.

  “There are, however, two points of concern for which I brought you here, Edyth. The boy is only one of those concerns. My assistant, Felisia, has a…nervous disposition. You have seen her outbursts—her mutterings about dragons and things, yes?”

  “Yes, Sub-Prioress.”

  “Felisia has been our ward since she was a child. Her parents indulged her visions and did not discipline her. Once, in a frenzy, she chased one of these demons straight into the great fire in her family’s hall, right in the middle of a feast. She was badly burned. Her mother and father knew she had no future prospects, so they brought her here. She was only seven years old.”

  Tears well in my eyes. That poor girl, her face disfigured and her mind broken. I feel bad for her. But I don’t know what her story has to do with me.

  “Some people have that same…openness to the things they perceive. Felisia’s scars are a visible sign to all of us: that is what happens to anyone who does not tightly seal the door to anything beyond what we all see and agree on.”

  She stares at me.

  “I know about your trance in the scriptorium.”

  A shock goes through me. “How?” Could Alice have told her? Joan?

  “This priory is a small place.”

  I prepare for the worst. “What are you going to do?”

  “I want you to come work for me. Felisia needs some time of solitude and penance, and I can teach you to discipline your unruly mind. I will instruct you in the rules of our priory more closely, since our ways still seem so…new to you.”

  A billow of peach-colored fear blurs my vision for an instant. “Do I have to leave the scriptorium?”

  “No,” Agnes says. “That will still be your general assignment. You will assist me in the mornings at chapter. And, Edyth, you’ll wear the novice’s habit now. It’s only proper if you will be serving me, and who knows, you may grow accustomed to it.”

  I feel Mam’s linen dress clinging to the day’s sweat and see how threadbare it’s become. Still, nothing in me wants to wear that habit. But I know I have no choice.

  “You may go, Edyth. I will expect you five minutes early to chapter tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  As I walk into the chapter house right behind the sub-prioress the next morning, I glimpse the jealousy in Felisia’s expression, and see clearly that a “time of solitude and penance” was not her idea. And as I see the din of voices in their usual colors, I feel like I’m
in the wrong body, with the wrong eyes, more disjointed than ever before. Maybe Agnes is right: maybe she’ll help me close the door to my difference, and things won’t be so confusing.

  I sit, as I’ve been instructed, on a stool to the right of the large oaken seat where Agnes takes her place. I hate being so conspicuous. As soon as I wipe my sweaty hands on my gray dress, they’re damp again. I have one job to do at the morning meeting: to hold the sub-prioress’s books and hand each to her at the proper time. I can feel Felisia’s eyes on me. I’m sure this was the last thing she expected. But that’s not for me to worry about. I’m working for Agnes de Guile now, and I make sure to steer clear of the Dragon.

  — 16 —

  Dusk, that moment between light and dark, when the whole world takes a breath at once, is always my favorite time of day. There’s a place there, in that gray-blue light, where all the memories are kept, as though you could go to the cupboard and take out the jar of them. I volunteer for lamp lighting, singing softly with the other women as the candelabra light fills the halls—

  Fulgor diei lucidus solisque lumen occidit,

  et nos ad horam vesperam te confitemur cantico.

  We have come to the setting of the sun

  And we have gathered to sing our evening praise.

  It’s Saint John’s Eve, midsummer. After compline, when we would be going to bed, the whole community of women goes out to the medicine garden. Tonight’s the optimal night to pick the Saint John flowers, when they’ll be at their most potent. Warmth radiates from the grass, and we have our shoes off, running our toes over it, letting the earth come up into our bodies. It’s a beautiful night: the perfume in the air, the crackle of the fires being lit.

  The sisters sit around the big bonfire by the gatehouse and weave flower crowns for each other, and posies to hang above their cell doors to keep the demons away. I sit apart from everyone. I prefer it that way.

  “Saint John’s wort is for melancholy,” Joan instructs a group of students, never missing an opportunity to teach—even at a party. “Fennel for the stomach, vervain for the throat, and yarrow for womanly pains. The plants will yield more by autumn, so leave enough at the heart to let them recover, but tonight, take all you can.”

  Alice follows Joan closely, writing everything on a wax tablet. As she passes by me, she points and whispers, “Look who’s home.”

  Prioress Margaret is back from one of her many diplomatic visits to this or that bishop, and she’s seated on the throne-like chair from her study, leaning back and talking to Agnes, who sits next to her on a plain stool. Even seated, the prioress is like a poplar tree, more upright than even Lady Caxton. She doesn’t need fine silks or elaborately braided hair. She’s another kind of beauty—as though she’s distilled womanhood, slowly boiling out all the dross until she’s a column of grace.

  A glowworm crawls across my knee as I make a posy for the prioress, of rosemary and elderflower. I like the combination of their different shapes, both of their leaves and of their scents, the piney midnight blue of rosemary and the brick-red circles of the elder.

  I approach the two women and bow. “Mother,” says Agnes, “this is my new assistant, Edyth le Sherman. She’s from Saint Gabriel’s Abbey, which donated for the chapel restoration.”

  “Thank you, daughter,” says Prioress Margaret, taking the posy and smelling it. “This is lovely.”

  “Venerable Mother,” I say, “this is to say thank you for taking me in after my parents died.”

  “Well, Edyth,” she says, smiling. “I hope you feel at home here at Saint Christopher’s.”

  “Thank you very much.” I bow to them both and stroll along the gravel paths of the priory grounds. Over the wall in Thornchester, the hollers of the locals go up as they light their own bonfires. I wonder about Henry; he’s probably doing the same thing in Hartley Cross right now. In the square, the boys’ll be taking off their shirts and showing off their acrobatic leaps over the flames as the girls cheer them on. I remember the deep laughter of those nights. Now it seems like another life.

  Mason’s probably down in Thornchester, too. The priory has ale and bread at the gatehouse, for pilgrims or drunkards. Better to have the sinners within these gates than out wandering the streets. But Mason wouldn’t stay here to fete with a bunch of nuns. I picture him, under the May sky in Hartley Cross, on a night just like this, only last year.

  * * *

  —

  After a bitter and lengthy winter, Hartley Cross needed warmth and color, and as the new reeve, Da proposed that the town throw a riotous May Day celebration, damn the expense. Lord Geoffrey happily handed over the money. Every household did an extra brewing, and on May Eve, Lord Caxton’s servants brought two cartloads of wood and built them up into an enormous pyre near the market cross.

  “If the weather won’t heat up, Hartley Cross will heat up the weather!” Da proclaimed.

  Before dawn, the whole town gathered at Saint Andrew’s. There were pork pies and candied fruits, spiced ale and cider, and even a great pig being put on a spit to roast all day.

  Fathers held their little children on their shoulders, and families huddled together against the chill as the prime bell rang. The stars began to fade as the sky turned dark blue, the clouds becoming the color of salmon against a backdrop like a robin’s egg. The town was washed in rosy light.

  The girls gathered at the steps of the market cross, all of us dressed in our undergowns, with woolens underneath to keep out the chill. Mam waddled over, hugely pregnant. My hair was everywhere. She smoothed it and straightened my flower crown, taking in how I’d changed since the last year.

  “Bite your lips a bit and get some color in them,” she said. “My beautiful girl. Where have the years gone!”

  “Mam, stop,” I said, nudging my mother’s hands away. Only she would call this mess beautiful. “Enough fussing!”

  She patted my shoulders and retreated into the crowd to watch with Da.

  The Other Girls bickered and teased and laughed to see each other in their chemises. The younger boys sneaked pinches and taps and tugs on unveiled braids. I stood alone on the edge, exposed and dizzy, overwhelmed at the multitude of people and sounds. I inhaled and exhaled slowly to calm myself. Then the older boys emerged.

  And there was Mason, with new green oak leaves in his hair like Oberon, like the wild Merlin. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. I hoped he’d look my way, but all the boys in town had eyes only for Methilde, who was obviously going to be chosen as May queen.

  I resigned myself to the truth: Edyth Round and Red could never be May queen.

  Brother Robert wound the hurdy-gurdy, the rough, oaky shawm and pipes started up, making me see all shimmers and little silver spikes, and the people began to hum along as we processed to the market cross—

  Tempus adest floridum, surgunt namque flores

  Vernales in omnibus, imitantur mores

  Hoc quod frigus laeserat, reparant calores

  Cernimus hoc fieri, per multos labores.

  Spring has now unwrapped the flowers, day is fast reviving

  Life in all her growing powers toward the light is striving

  Gone the iron touch of cold, winter time and frost time

  Seedlings, working through the mould, now make up for lost time.

  We took our places around the tall birch maypole, picked up our long ribbons of dyed cloth and turned to face our partners. The crowd sang along softly, the ode to spring, to heavenly love.

  In toward the pole we girls stepped, the boys weaving around us. The dance was slow at first, with courteous bows, partners constantly changing, long looks and blushing smiles. The ribbons wove and unwove; the circles splitting into inner and outer rings. Then the musicians picked up the tempo, and the dancers twirled, trying to keep the steps in order, breaking into smiles, then laughter. Around a
nd around the maypole we ran, until all of a sudden the musicians stopped the song—

  —and Mason and I were face to face. Out of breath, red-cheeked, smiling first at the mayhem, and then a different kind of smile, something like knowing.

  * * *

  —

  The day progressed, with its games and drinks, the first true feast of the year. Mothers and fathers pretended not to notice their sons and daughters going off in pairs. There might, after all, be favorable matches made on May Day. Today, every answer was Yes.

  I took a pork pie from the table and filled my cup with Mam’s gruit ale. Behind me, I could feel someone standing a bit too close inside the boundary of my own space. I turned my head slowly, hoping it was him, sure it couldn’t be.

  It was.

  “Mary atte Brook’s pork pies are good,” said Mason, “but try the egg-and-onion kind instead. Here, I’ll take one, and we can share.” He was next to me. His shaggy, ash-blond hair was tucked behind his ear.

  I started to sweat and get dizzy. He was talking. To me.

  The thought of eating in front of him was mortifying—so visible. In my mind I nodded, but really I just stared. Mason smiled at me, and I could see how vivid his eyes were. The only time people looked at me was when they were making fun of me.

  But he wasn’t.

  Suddenly he turned and started walking away toward the churchyard. He looked back at me and jerked his head. “Aren’t you coming?”

  So I followed behind him like a clumsy little newborn lamb.

  Mason wove through the graves under the gigantic yew tree and hopped up onto the stone wall without even putting down his cup and pie. I put my things on the ledge and hoisted myself up, praying that my round head wouldn’t topple me over onto the other side.

  “Did you like the dance?” asked Mason.

  “It was fun.” Suddenly I hated the way my mouth formed words. I stuffed in a piece of pork pie. It was intolerably dry. I swigged some gruit and almost choked.