Joan sighs. “This isn’t the place for her, Sub-Prioress. There’s too much contagion. Edyth, bring Prioress Margaret back to her study. I’ll come by soon to check on her.”
Agnes heads for the exit, satisfied to hand over the burden.
“But wait, Sister Agnes.” Joan beckons her back. “I’m glad you’re here, because I have to tell you, we cannot take any more pilgrims. Look at this place. Is there something we can do?”
“I agree with you, Joan,” says Agnes. “This is quite the chaotic scene you have here.”
“I was thinking that we could make space in another building. We did that before, during the famine.”
“What, so we can become overrun by hell-bound sinners? We have to protect our own first, Sister Joan.”
“Agnes, we exist to help the sick. It means certain death for them if we don’t.”
“I do have an idea, Joan. We’ll talk about it in the morning.” The sub-prioress turns on her heel and leaves.
“Take me to the sanctuary first, Edyth,” says Prioress Margaret. “I want to pray.” The prioress slings her arm across my shoulder, and I grip her around the waist.
“Here, Edyth,” says Joan, handing me Alice’s wax tablet and stylus. She looks like she wants to say more, but she’s got too much chaos to deal with. “Take these to Alice. And give her my love.”
* * *
—
The waning afternoon light hits the eastern wall of the stone church, giving its curved apse the look of a huge ship’s prow. Before anyone here was born, this church stood in this place, sailing through centuries. Who knows what abyss it’s speeding toward now?
The sundial on the outside of the infirmary tells me it’s almost time for vespers, but since there are no bells, I determine to feign ignorance. As I bring the prioress in through the transept door, I hear a solitary sound bouncing off the soaring walls in the nave, a thin, white line, glowing with light, the echo returning to it like white stars.
It is Alice, singing from within her enclosure—
O aeterne Deus, nunc tibi placeat,
Ut in amore illo ardeas—
O eternal God, please now
Burn us with that fiery love—
The prioress stops, then walks on her own to stand right before the rood screen. She is so weak and thin, but she straightens like a basalt obelisk, her head tilted up toward the mosaic above the altar, with the bearded man in the center of everything, emanating love: the man in perfect control. She stretches out her hands—an offering, or a plea.
She joins Alice in the song—
Et perduc nos in laetitiam salutis.
And lead us to the joy of salvation.
The prioress isn’t desperate, or frenzied, but she does weep, her tears running slowly down her neck like rain on a pillar. She sings like an innocent defendant in court, simply stating her case. The last note ricochets off the columns and showers down from the vaults.
Throughout the entire song, Dragon cowers in the corner, watching us from her straw pallet. It’s hard to feel sorry for her now. Yes, she’s one of the Pitiful, but so am I—and I don’t think suffering has to beget her brand of mad malevolence.
And that raises an obvious question.
“Forgive me, Mother, but…” I falter.
She purses her lips and nods in understanding. “You want to know why I didn’t stop Agnes and Felisia from imprisoning Alice.”
“Yes.”
She turns her head sharply. “I will ask you a question instead: In the Garden, why did God not close the mouth of the serpent, right from the beginning? He could have.”
I consider this. “That’s something that’s confused me since I was a little girl.”
“Everything God made is good, isn’t it?” She breathes in slowly and turns her head toward Dragon. “He made snakes, too—before there was sin. But what is it that makes serpents bite?”
“Getting too close to them?”
She laughs at my naivete. “Fear, Edyth. That’s what makes snakes bite, and gifted nuns, too. Fear can kill. But it does not have to win.”
I still don’t have my answer.
“Fear of what?”
“Keep asking that question. Of yourself most of all.”
She takes another breath, slow and shuddering, but bears her pain with more ease.
“Edyth, I am sorry that my…present condition…prevented me from stopping Alice’s enclosure. But it’s done. So we must ask: What now?”
“Right.” I nod. “What now?”
She smiles. “Shall we look in on your friend?”
I help her shuffle over to the wall, and the prioress lowers herself right down to the ground. We both look through the opening. Alice sits in the corner, her hair scraggly, feet bare, staring at the wall in front of her.
“Sister Alice,” calls the prioress, “how do you fare today?”
Alice looks up and begins to shake her head.
“Is there anything I can get you?”
“A door,” she responds in frustration, rubbing her eyes hard.
“Patience wins all it seeks, Alice. Do you trust me?”
Alice gets on all fours and creeps toward the opening, her eyes red-ringed, her pent-up anger palpable, exasperated at the prioress’s quixotic leadership. “Mother, you could have saved me from this!” she insists.
“Let me take your chamber pot, daughter,” Prioress Margaret responds. Alice stares at her, unsure, and slides the basin through the window. Suddenly she puts her face right up to ours.
“Mother, I figured out why you’re sick. Agnes—”
“Alice!” the prioress rebukes her. “Not another word! We have this evening to get you what you need. Tell us.”
“Parchment. Ink. And something to read, or I will lose my mind.”
“Well, this is from Joan, with love,” I tell her, sliding the wax tablet and stylus through.
The prioress winks at me. “Let us see if we can find Alice a good book to read in there.”
I help Prioress Margaret up and bring her to the study. She weakly puts some books from the bookcase in a hemp sack.
“Give these to Alice,” she says, lowering herself down to the pallet. “Bring her food. Empty her pot. Give her hope. You must promise to take care of your friend, no matter what it costs you. There is no greater love than this.”
I nod my head reverently. “I promise, Mother.”
* * *
—
Back at the enclosure, Alice thanks me for the books and pulls the bag through the hole.
Then she slides me her wax tablet. She’s scrawled one word on it, obviously something she doesn’t want to say out loud, with Dragon only yards away.
Monkshood
What? I write back.
That’s the page that’s missing
Monkshood.
Oh God. Jesus.
Such a beautiful flower, monkshood. It really does look like its name. A rich, dark blue, like so few flowers can be, and not the dark, utilitarian blue of woad-dyed cloth.
Blue, almost like lapis lazuli.
I scratch one word into the wax, and Alice nods.
POISON.
— 33 —
A chill dawn glows the slightest blue through the chapel window, and I open my eyes to the piercing ring of a brass handbell surrounding my head in circles. Mason’s not here with me.
That means the door’s not barred.
Two sisters knock on every building of the priory and announce the closure of the gates.
“Healthy to the church, sick to the infirmary! Healthy to the church, sick to the infirmary, on orders of Sub-Prioress Agnes de Guile! No one out of doors, no one in the dormitory, no exceptions! The gates are shut and locked!”
Utter panic bursts forth
. Nuns, guesthouse visitors and laborers all rush to the entrance, pounding to escape; desperate pilgrims in need of medicine beg to get in.
Pointless. Death is inevitable.
Who is sick? Who is healthy? What if I carry the curse in my body and don’t know it, disease rotting me from the inside? No one knows until it’s too late. And now we’re trapped inside.
I dress and leave the chapel to find Mason. As I pass the calefactory, someone grabs my arm and pulls me inside. It’s Muriel, and Anne’s with her, too.
“We were hoping we’d find you right away,” asks Muriel. “News? What’s going on out there?”
“Bridgit” is all I can say.
“Does she have the marks?”
I hesitate, feeling the gall rise in my throat as I think of her falling in the cloister. “Yes.”
Muriel drops her head in her hands. Anne leans heavily against the wall.
“And the prioress—” I begin.
“Mother has it, too?” Muriel starts to wail.
“No! Not the fever,” I say. “She’s ill, but it’s not that.”
“Then why isn’t she stopping the sub-prioress?” Anne asks, bewildered.
“She—” I remember the Pri admonishing Alice not to let on. “She has her reasons.”
“Is Prioress Margaret in any control whatsoever?” Anne demands.
“Yes,” I fib. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.” The two of them don’t seem to buy it.
“We can avoid this, you know,” says Muriel. “We have a plan, even if the prioress doesn’t.”
“Go on,” I say. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s hide in the scriptorium. We’re healthy. It will only be the three of us; no one needs to know we’re even there. They’ll assume we’re in the infirmary. The air in the tower is good, and it has a separate entrance and a lock. We can take turns going out to get food. Our work will keep our minds off the chaos.”
“What about prayers?” I ask. But I’ve got bigger questions: Where’s Mason? Can the prioress be healed from the poison and stop the Anti-Pri? And how can I get Alice out?
The handbells are still ringing, like shards of broken glass. “We can see the sundial from the window,” says Muriel. “We’ll hold our own offices.”
“How will we get Father Johannes up there?” I add. “What will we do for Mass?”
Muriel turns to Anne. “She hasn’t heard.”
“Father Johannes is dead,” says Anne. “Yesterday. They found him in his house.”
“No priest?” It’s like the ship has slipped one more of its moorings.
It doesn’t seem like a great plan. But if I’m in the scriptorium, it could be convenient, maybe even safer than the chapel. I can get to Alice through the church’s back door, get food to her, parchment, books from the library, and we can keep watch from the window. Mason will be right next door if I need him, and I can throw myself into drawing. It’s as good an option as any other.
“All right,” I relent. “I’ll come.”
“We’ll have to trust the Divine Will,” says Anne. “Let’s go to our cells and gather our things, and meet up in the scriptorium in twenty minutes—discreetly. Don’t talk to anyone. We’ll lock the door from the inside.”
Meanwhile, outside, panicked sisters and pilgrims zigzag with the crazy bells—
No! I was just leaving!
I never did want to be a nun! Let go of me!
I simply wanted to venerate Holy Eustace and go home!
—trying to figure where to breach the gates, how to get out, how to get in. The few remaining laborers, conscripted as guards, put their bodies between the crowds and the gates, but people try to scale the walls on both sides.
Most of the sisters, of course, go to the church. Everyone’s scrupulously checked for signs of the illness and let into the sanctuary only after washing in cold water from the fountain. No one would admit their need for the infirmary. To be sent there is a death sentence; the bodies piled up in the churchyard are warning enough.
In my cell, I take a last look at the mural on the wall, shaking my head at my failure to decipher the vision. I put everything I can fit in Da’s canvas satchel and shut the door with finality. I wait by the back door until all the nuns have vacated the dormitory, then hurry past the infirmary.
“Edyth!” comes a sharp whisper from behind the chapel.
“There you are!” I embrace Mason, relieved. “Where were you this morning?”
“I was packing,” he says. He pulls away and looks at me urgently. “This is our chance, Edyth. We have to go now!”
“How? The gates are locked! Just stay in the chapel until the evacuation’s over!”
He shakes his head. “I can only hide for so long. You’re already packed, and I have food and some money. I can get us both out of here. We can go over the field wall. Come on. Let’s go now, before they see us!”
“I can’t, Mason—I can’t leave Alice.”
“Edyth, now’s our chance. If we don’t go, I’ll be nothing but a gravedigger here until I fall into the pit myself.”
“Mason, I can’t. I’m sorry. I made a promise. I can’t let Alice rot in there. God be with you…I’ll pray for you.” I start briskly toward the scriptorium, and Mason follows close.
“God’s forgotten us,” he says. “Maybe you should make a promise to me instead.”
I stop walking and turn to meet his gaze. The bells have stopped, but a cacophony of lapis blue waves up my neck and over my head.
“Mason, please, don’t make me do this.” I thrust through the heavy door, and he follows me up the spiral staircase. I push the scriptorium door closed, turning the key just as Mason pounds on the other side.
“What is going on?” Anne springs toward me.
“Come out, Edie, please,” Mason shouts. “I’m sorry. I should have done this all differently.”
I sink to the floor against the door. “I know,” I say. “Me too.”
“I love you, Edyth.” His voice breaks.
“Mason, don’t,” I plead. “We can’t let anyone hear us. They can’t know we’re up here.”
He stops knocking and lowers his voice. “I don’t want to face this without you.”
“Maybe we’ll make it through,” I offer. “Maybe God will be merciful.”
I hear the ground-floor door creak open and heavy footsteps climbing the stairs.
“Who’s there?” It’s the voice of Agnes de Guile.
“I was just checking the locks,” Mason lies. “The building is empty.”
“Oh, good, stonemason. We’ll need you to stand guard at the gates, and there are dead to be buried. Tell the other men, you’ll each take two-hour shifts. Now get back to work!” She storms out and I hear the door slam.
“Mason,” I say softly, my cheek pressed against the door, “you can leave. You have to. If you have a way out, take it.”
“Edyth,” he says, “this is our last chance. Who knows if either of us will survive?”
“We have to take that chance. We have to say goodbye.”
“No.” He’s resolute. “I’ll never say goodbye, Edyth.”
A familiar softening returns to my body, the passive resign of childhood, when I’d let Mam and Da make hard decisions for me. With all my heart, I want to open this door, run into Mason’s arms, let him carry me away from all this. Because he’s strong. He hasn’t gotten sick. And despite my chastisement, I know he loves me.
But he’ll survive. His strength can save him, and mine can save me. I can’t say the same for Alice. Mason may want me, but Alice needs me.
So I screw up my will, and turn myself to iron.
“Goodbye, Mason. God protect you.”
— 34 —
Terce drags on forever this morning, breathing the en
dless psalm back and forth on a dull gray note. The three of us sit in the center of the scriptorium, our stools drawn together in a circle. It’s been days since our confinement, and the air’s getting so close, I feel like I’ll lose my mind.
“Amen,” we close.
“I’ll go out for food,” I volunteer. Alice will be needing more bread. Maybe I’ll see Mason. Maybe we can figure out a better plan.
If he’s still here, that is.
“Stay out of sight,” says Anne. “Take the back way. Don’t breathe too deeply. Oh, and remember to pick those medicinal herbs.”
I grab a cloth bag and sneak down the staircase into the sunlight. The September heat blasts against my skin like a bread oven. The infirmary doors are usually kept closed to muffle the cries and moans, to keep out the bad air, but today is so stifling hot that they’re flung open, and the full tableau of human misery is spread before me. I stand staring for a moment, forgetting myself.
A girl sits cross-legged against the shady infirmary wall, barefoot, in only a linen tunic. Her two brown braids hang limp and loose against her shoulders. The rest of her frizzled hair radiates from her head like sun’s rays, and her downcast, ashen face is covered in blotches, like purple clouds in a gray sky. Her lips are white, dry and cracked. She clenches her toes, muttering to herself. I feel sorry for her, but there’s nothing that can be done now. The disease is in her mind, and she’ll be dead soon.
I take the long way to the kitchen. The grass is variously overgrown and patchy from the sun. In the frenzy to get into the church, pilgrims dropped things without caring; the paths are strewn with litter and weeds, and loose chickens run amok.
In the refectory kitchen, Cook sits on a stool, mindlessly stirring beans. On the worktable, a pile of greens is wilting badly. The kitchen doesn’t have its usual smell of good things, but of an underlying scent of rotting cabbage. I clear my throat.
“Ave,” I greet Cook. “I didn’t think anyone would still be here. May I take bread for my sisters?”
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