A Cloud of Outrageous Blue

by Vesper Stamper

  The wall is down.

  Alice stands in the corner, clutching her blanket. Her skin is pale as skimmed milk, dark caverns under her eyes, lips almost disappeared. And surrounding her on every side, reaching up to the window, are books—the entire inventory of the priory library is in the cell with Alice Palmer.

  “It’s all here,” she says. “Muriel and Anne—they brought them to me before they got caught.”

  “What about—” I start to ask.

  She holds up the one book I was most concerned about. The Gospel book.

  “I brought it to her,” says Mason. “I knew she’d keep it safe.”

  I reach into my fitchet pocket and hand Alice the seal. “Prioress Margaret wanted you to have this.”

  Alice turns over the seal and reads the name.

  Prioress Alice Palmer.

  Suddenly Agnes bellows, pointing to the wall. “Look what you’ve done! What makes you think you can come to our priory, a nobody, and create all this chaos?”

  “Me?” I’m astounded. “Open your eyes, Agnes! Your fear cost people their lives!”

  “Fear? What could I possibly have to fear?”

  Agnes staggers toward the prioress’s throne, but I run and cut her off.

  “Your name was in that book, too, Agnes!” I shout. “You saw that comet before the Great Famine. You knew something was coming, that you were being called, but you ignored the vision. And people died because of you!”

  Agnes stumbles again and falls, crawling away toward the dragon’s nest—and begins to weep.

  “Yes, people died, Edyth! People I loved.”

  She’s so weak, so sick, so small there on the floor. I walk slowly toward her with one question burning in my mind. “Who died, Sub-Prioress?”

  “My little…my little boy,” she murmurs.

  I crouch beside her. “And what happened to your little boy?”

  She looks me full in the face, like a confessor, as though there’s no history between us, and for the first time I see something like life behind her eyes. And that life is in agony.

  “I was young, so young,” she manages. “A widow, with no recourse. I sent my baby away, to another family, and I came here and took my vows. But the famine came, and the family couldn’t feed him, so they dumped him back here and left. He used to play in the chapel…he used to hide…under the altar….”

  “Agnes,” I ask carefully, “did your little boy…die in the chapel fire?”

  She pauses, then dissolves completely. Sobs rack her wasted body. Even after everything she’s done to me, I don’t want to see her suffer. I wish, for a moment, that I had been alive then to be a friend to her, to let the young Agnes cry in my arms.

  “That’s why you took Felisia under your wing,” I say softly. “Because she was burned. You felt like you failed, didn’t you? Your son, the vision, all those people who starved.”

  She sits suddenly upright. “Failed?” she fumes. “Tell that to God! He failed me. He left me to suffer with the trances, the visions, this curse.” She beats herself on the head with both fists. “No, I didn’t find ‘the answer’ in time. I had to fight the battle myself. And I prevailed.”

  “You prevailed?” I stand over her pitiful, diminished form. “But you cursed your own gift. You lost a son—and raised a Dragon.”

  Felisia rises indignant from the straw. “Is this how you speak to the prioress?” she demands.

  “She’s not the prioress,” I challenge the Dragon, “and you are no prophet! You’re frauds! Murderers!” The hair on my arms stands on end, the hot words steaming, echoing off the sanctuary walls. And then, except for the occasional crashing of loose stone, the sanctuary goes silent, and I follow the collective gaze of the penitents to Agnes’s body.

  She is lying across the confession stool, a freshly lit votive candle in her hand setting fire to the sleeve of her habit. The disease has taken her life at last.

  The Dragon, covered with dust, blood oozing from the lash stripes under her gray dress, turns to me and begins to holler, joined by the shouts of men and the exhausted cries of women. She staggers toward me, eyes ablaze.

  “She killed her! That girl killed the holy prioress!”

  “Edyth,” Alice says, “you and Mason have to run. Now.”

  And we do, through the back door of the church and straight into the chapel. But before we can bar the door, the whippers thrust it open, and the chapel is overrun. Mason swings at the men in vain.

  They have me.

  They get me out of the chapel and throw me onto the ground. A dog starts barking fiercely in the distance, filling the air with yellow spikes.

  I spot a gap between two weak sisters, scramble to my feet and crash through, running down the path as fast as I can. Mason catches up with me and we break through the forest gate. If we can make it to the yew tree ahead of them, we can hide in its heart.

  The mob chases me into the forest, but I don’t look back. I know this wood better than anyone, its twists and turns and pockets of shadow.

  We duck into the darkness of the deep woods, praying our footsteps won’t show in the patches of snow and slush. The yew is almost within reach. All we have to do is make it inside. Mason and I hide behind an oak and hold each other. The horde runs right past us. I feel the weight of the stone house in my pocket and think, This is what we’re fighting for.

  After what seems like a lifetime, it looks safe to come out. We silently creep away from the oak—

  —and lock eyes with one of the whippers, just lifting his flail.

  He raises a shout, and the mob comes rushing like a pack of dogs.

  We tear across the forest again, but Mason slips in the slush, slamming his knee on a rock. He crashes through the crowd of half-cheering, half-wailing men and women—in time to see them grab me.

  We’re standing on the pavement, right at the edge of the healing water. Patches of snow retreat from the roots around the warm pool, steam releasing upward in a great cloud.

  “Look, it’s right here!” I insist. “Just take it! If you drink it, you’ll be healed—it’s all yours!” But they set upon me, tearing off my veil, my cloak, pulling up stones from the pavement.

  I feel something scurrying around my feet and look down.

  It’s Dragon.

  She’s taken the rope from around her waist and tied it around my ankle. Before I can make sense of it, she ties the other end around a hefty stone—as I see Mason’s fist give her a blow that ends her life.

  But as she falls, she knocks me into the pool. I know what is happening, as the sweet, warm water fills my lungs. But I’m not scared.

  My body flails, tries in vain to free itself, but that’s only the shell. My heart remembers every good thing, every moment of being loved.

  I feel the soft baby sister in my arms.

  Mam’s woad-blue fingertips braiding my hair; Da’s firelight ballads.

  Brother Timothy handing me a picture to trace.

  Joan’s amber healing balm; Henry giving me the little honey pot.

  Alice’s smile when she’s drilling me in Latin.

  I feel the fullness of Mason’s lips on mine, and I’m sure this is what a pomegranate tastes like.

  The colors darken into a cloud of outrageous blue.

  And I hear Da calling:

  You know, don’t you? People don’t really die. They’re just changed, like seeds break into wheat.

  And the phantom forms disappear into the dark water above me.

  Epilogue

  The crowd dispersed, chanting loud psalms of darkened praise, leaving the Stonemason alone in the steaming well, plunging down again and again to try to find his love. He would not believe she was gone, fought it until the frenzy in his mind and the tension in his stomach made him vomit on the roots of the tree. He and the He
aler would have left the day before, if not for her promise to the Anchorite.

  And then, by some instinct, he ran back toward the priory. The mob was in complete disarray. The once-unified penitents fought each other, some justifying the murder, some condemning it. They shoved, stepped on necks, landed blows. Several of the men fled to the chapel, clinging to the bare altar for amnesty.

  “Spare us, please!” they cried. “We tried to stop them. We told them that wasn’t the way!”

  But the Stonemason had no use for their tears.

  The men who were still loyal to their misguided penance grabbed their flails and fled to the next town. To them, Saint Christopher’s was beyond saving. But those who stayed were broken, battered, and desperately in need of care. The Physician set up more beds in the chapel as she told the Anchorite about her discoveries in battling the pestilence.

  The Stonemason carted out the stone from the Anchorite’s enclosure. He and a handful of repentant men and sisters walked into the forest, all the way to the yew tree, and began pulling up the pavement. They slid large stones over it all and covered it thickly with leaves.

  “I’ll never say goodbye,” said the Stonemason.

  This was no longer a healing well, but a grave.

  “Tell no one about this place,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “This is holy ground.” He took his tools and his leather satchel and walked through the priory gatehouse alone.

  * * *

  —

  The Anchorite stood outside the walls and surveyed the emptiness. Barren was the word that first came to mind, but that wasn’t it. Not barren—just waiting. Things had grown; the fields were littered with dried-up crops. Animals roamed free and fat on the people’s forage. There had simply been no one to bring in the harvest.

  The pestilence continued to devour everyone it could. Men and women drifted through the silent countryside and empty towns, pulled up by the roots, tumbling toward a future with half as many souls.

  At Saint Christopher’s Priory, a handful of nuns survived, and together they cleansed the sanctuary from its desecration and completed the chapel of Saint Eustace at last. Bread and wine were served on the altar once more.

  An aging Physician wrote a book of cures.

  A Cook learned to be more liberal with her spices.

  Pilgrims still came through the gates, seeking to touch the newly displayed relics of Saint Eustace and a book illuminated in richest blue and gold and silver by a miracle-working girl whose lost healing spring had become legend.

  And when they arrived, they found a young Prioress at the church door, waiting to tell them a story.

  Amen, amen I tell you,

  unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies,

  it remains alone.

  But if it dies, it produces much fruit.

  —JOHN 12:24

  Glossary

  ale: an alcoholic beverage varying in strength, drunk by almost everyone at the time, as water could be unsafe to drink unless drawn from a pure spring

  alexanders: an edible flowering plant grown in the medieval kitchen garden, the taste of which is described as a cross between celery and asparagus

  ambulatory: a passageway in a church behind the altar, sometimes divided into small chapels

  Angelus: an evening bell, signifying a time of prayer for reflection and giving thanks

  apse: the area in a church behind the altar

  armaria: a librarian in a monastery

  bastarda, Anglicana, Textualis, uncial: various terms related to handwritten fonts

  braies: an article of underclothing similar to shorts or breeches, made from linen or wool

  calefactory: a warming room, sometimes heated by a system of under-floor ducts

  chancel: the raised platform at the east end of a church on which the altar stands

  coif: a close-fitting cloth cap, worn alone or under a veil or hat by both sexes

  conversa (f, plural: conversae): a resident of a convent who works as a laborer and is not ordained as a nun

  coppice: a sustainable method of wood gathering that takes shoots from ground level instead of felling the tree, resulting in a tree without a main trunk

  croft: farm

  daily office: prayers said at certain intervals every day (see “The Daily Offices” at the beginning of this book)

  fitchet: a slit opening in the seam of a dress that allows access to a pocket. A medieval “pocket” was not sewn in, but a pouch attached to a belt, worn inside or outside the outer garment

  fuller: a person who processes woven woolen fabric to make it thicker

  gesso: a material that lies under paint or gold leaf, made with a binder (usually animal glue) mixed with chalk, clay or pigment

  gruit: an ale made with herbs, spices or other additives

  habit: a simple gown worn by a nun or monk

  hurdy-gurdy: a stringed instrument played by turning a crank, which rubs a wheel against the strings

  illuminated manuscript: any book containing handwritten text and paintings, typically with parchment pages, created for either secular or religious purposes

  kneeler: a prayer desk with a surface for kneeling and a ledge on which to place a prayer book

  lady: the title of a noblewoman, typically the wife of a lord (see below)

  lime: a mineral compound that can be used as an ingredient in paint, especially white paint

  lord: a loose term denoting members of a high social class who had authority over others, whether as landowners or military leaders

  madder: a plant-based dye ranging from peach to red, also used medicinally

  mastic: an aromatic gum that is added to paint as a binder or varnish

  miniature: any painting in an illuminated manuscript, regardless of size. “Miniature” refers to “minium,” a red lead-based pigment

  muller: a glass instrument with a flat bottom for grinding pigments

  nave: the main and largest section of a church, where the congregation gathers

  paternoster: the Christian prayer, often called the Lord’s Prayer, which begins, Our Father Who art in Heaven

  pattens: wooden overshoes meant to raise one’s feet above wet or muddy ground

  peasant: any member of society not of the nobility. Peasants could be poor or wealthy, free or bound to a lord

  psalter: a prayer book containing the Book of Psalms

  psaltery: a stringed musical instrument similiar to a small harp

  quarter days: days beginning each quarter of the year, when rents were collected and town authorities appointed (see “The Quarter Days” at the beginning of this book)

  reeve: an elected official who oversaw work on a lord’s manor

  rood: a cross

  rood screen: in a church, a tall, openwork separation wall between the chancel and the nave

  scapular: a long cloth with an opening in the center for the head that is worn as part of a religious habit

  shawm: a medieval double-reed woodwind instrument similar to an oboe

  terre verte, aka prason: a green pigment—literally, “green earth”

  theriac: an ancient medicinal concoction that could serve as an antidote or a sedative

  weld: a plant-based dye yielding a range of soft greens

  wimple: a cloth worn under a veil, from beneath the chin upward to the top of the head

  woad: a dark blue plant-based dye similiar to indigo

  Medieval books referred to:

  Bald’s Leechbook (9th century AD)

  De Materia Medica, by Dioscorides (50–70 AD)

  De Poetica, by Aristotle (ca. 335 BC)

  Martyrology, by Bede (8th century AD)

  Physica, by Hildega
rd von Bingen (1150–58 AD)

  The Rule of Saint Benedict, by Benedict of Nursia (516 AD)

  Author’s Note

  Go ahead and picture me in full nerd form: wearing a linen gown and veil, with a pouch and cup hanging from my belt, watching twenty guys in homemade armor reenacting a battle. I’ve always been a medievophile, and it was a no-brainer that I’d eventually write a book about the Middle Ages. I devour books and movies about it, and yes, even belonged to a medieval reenactment society. My illustration work is directly influenced by medieval art, and I’m inspired by many of the great thinkers of the time like Hildegard of Bingen.

  Yet here I was, writing a book on my favorite time period, and finding I knew almost nothing. I spent hours just trying to find out, for example, whether or not carts were used to transport groups of people across long distances. (The result: inconclusive. I plead artistic license for Edyth’s journey in Chapter 1.) I couldn’t take anything for granted, except human nature.

  Then, about halfway through the writing of this book, something miraculous happened.

  A team of researchers discovered, in the ruins of a German convent graveyard, the skull of a medieval nun.* They were looking at her teeth for evidence of her diet when they found something unusual embedded in the enamel: microscopic flecks of a bright blue mineral: lapis lazuli, a pigment as valuable as pure gold.

  But she was a woman, some opined. Surely—in their caricatured view of women’s options in the Middle Ages—a woman wouldn’t have been illuminating manuscripts. Only men had that privilege. Surely she wouldn’t have been entrusted with such precious materials. She must have been the cleaning lady.

  But though women of the time had fewer rights, they weren’t like the repressed slaves of The Handmaid’s Tale. Just read a bit of Chaucer or Margery Kempe and you’ll quickly discover that, though society had a different structure than ours, medieval women were every bit as saucy and strong-willed as they are now (present company definitely, ahem, included). Women richly contributed to the artistic and intellectual spirit of the times, whether or not we know their names. And this forgotten nun, who likely got that otherworldly blue in her teeth by licking her paintbrushes to a fine point day after day, laughs at our stereotypes from beyond her grave.