Sylvia

by Bryce Courtenay

  Like his late predecessor, who despite being under his patronage I had scarcely known beyond a curtsy given and a grunt returned, the new archbishop was a very large man. His enormous head carried a face of almost perfect circumference, its roundness spoiled only by dewlapped cheeks that hung a good thumb-notch beyond his jawbone on either side of a small petulant mouth. His small dark eyes were set into bruised sockets under coarse, untidy, salt-and-peppery eyebrows. His nose, a twin-burrowed bump, seemed hardly noticed in so large a face. Whether bald atop or not I couldn’t say, for his mitre sat resplendent and seemed raised from his brow almost to touch the soot-darkened beams that spanned the underside of the roof. The overall effect was a face of gravitas that, in repose, seemed to disapprove of all it saw.

  He began with a short prayer, mumbled and unintelligible. Then he looked up sternly, his bruised eyes sweeping across our faces. ‘You well know why you are here,’ he said in a stentorian voice, then turning first to each side of his chair declared, ‘We, the bishops and servants of Christ are gathered today to do Christ’s bidding in the matter of the excommunication of these four women who stand before us. We must decide if they may regain a state of grace within the Holy Church of Rome.’ With this frightening prologue concluded he leaned back, his hands clasped about his enormous belly. In an avuncular tone, different and surprisingly unaffected, he asked, ‘Now, what have you to say for yourselves, eh?’

  I was completely taken aback, expecting some long and ecclesiastical diatribe and not this almost fatherly voice. There is always a pecking order in these things and I waited for Lady Angelica to speak or even Lady Freda, though I expected it would be the opinionated former Sister Angelica. But none spoke.

  ‘Hmm? The devil take your tongue? What say you now – speak up, someone!’ the archbishop said, though still in a pleasant and inquiring tone.

  Whereupon Lady Angelica suddenly burst into tears, all the while crying out that she was deeply sorry. ‘My Lord, I am sorry, deeply sorry,’ she wept copiously, ‘deeply, deeply sorry!’ Then she began to howl her misery in a most undignified and childish manner, her head thrown back and her lungs pumping out her wailing. Lady Freda, affected by this spectacular lachrymal display, immediately joined in, the two noble ladies wringing their penitent hands and wailing at the top of their voices. Rosa simply bent her head and sniffed, and I remained mute, though thankfully free of tears.

  ‘Tut, tut . . . we cannot have a hearing if there is only weeping and wailing,’ he called out. He looked at me. ‘You, what say you? What’s your name?’ he shouted.

  ‘Sylvia Honeyeater, my Lord Archbishop,’ I said, my voice drowned in the howling.

  ‘Eh?’ He brought his hand to his ear.

  ‘Sylvia Honeyeater!’ I shouted out.

  ‘Well then, Sylvia Honeyeater, speak up at once!’ Then before I could answer he threw up his hands. ‘Will someone throw those wailing women out!’ Then turning back to me, commanded, ‘You wait there!’

  The two women had now commenced to weep at a slightly lower tone. A porter approached and Rosa looked up at me. ‘Go,’ I whispered, raising my eyebrow in his direction. With Angelica and Freda still sobbing and gulping and crying out that they were ‘terribly, terribly sorry’, the porter led them back to the anteroom followed by Rosa, who kept looking behind as if undecided. With a backward flick of my hand, I encouraged her to continue. Perhaps it was arrogant of me, but I felt that Rosa could add nothing to the proceedings and in her peasant garb seemed totally ill at ease and overcome by the awesome gathering of priests and scribes. I was, of course, delighted at the archbishop’s dismissal of the other two.

  I cannot claim I wasn’t terrified, because that wouldn’t be true, but I knew that now I alone would be responsible for what was said. If condemned a second time, it would be after a defence constructed by myself and I hoped that some of Brother Dominic’s lessons on reasoning might be used in our defence. With the other two, especially with Lady Angelica’s arrogance a component, the result, had they been permitted to stay, could easily have been disaster. Or so I reasoned. But then I recalled the spiteful ‘You’ll soon see!’ she had spat at me in the anteroom. Did this suggest that she’d spoken with her brother the bishop? In any noble family would it not be a natural thing to do? It suddenly occurred to me that her tears might well be at the bishop’s direction to show extreme contrition in front of the new archbishop. She was by nature a hard-faced bitch and, now that I thought of it, her dramatic tearfulness seemed odd in one with such an acerbic and spiteful tongue. Thinking further upon it, Lady Freda’s eyes had splashed sudden tears as if only waiting for the right moment to begin.

  Brother Dominic’s words when we had been discussing the nature of the Church in Rome now returned to me. ‘Sylvia, things are seldom what they seem to be. It is a foolish body who holds an inquiry when it doesn’t already know the outcome. Even if it hasn’t decided in advance, it is careful to place people on the inquiry who have a dependable point of view. If you want a judgement against a cat then you would do well to place a majority of mice on the committee.’ I told myself I must be careful, this was nobility versus the peasants and the peasants had never been known to win. While I knew I could depend on Fathers Hermann and Paulus, I must assume the remainder of my judges on the other side of the table were mice. This might also explain the archbishop’s initially friendly method of inquiry.

  With the hall once again silent the archbishop cleared his throat. ‘Hurrumph! Well now, where were we?’

  ‘My Lord, you asked me why, in my opinion, we were being brought in front of this august assembly.’

  The archbishop’s bushy eyebrows shot up and he turned to the bishop. ‘Didn’t you say she was a peasant?’ he asked.

  ‘An educated peasant, Archbishop.’ Both men spoke as if I was not present.

  ‘Educated peasant? What mean you by that?’ This was said in a tone that suggested no such person existed.

  ‘She speaks four languages, five if you count our own. She has studied under Father Paulus, the scribe of St Martin’s who is here today, and under Brother Dominic of the monastery of Disibodenberg,’ the bishop answered.

  The archbishop, ignoring the presence of Father Paulus, cackled, ‘Doubting Dominic, eh? I thought him long dead. Troublemaker, always asking awkward questions.’ He looked up at me suspiciously. ‘You’re not going to give us any trouble, are you?’

  ‘No, Lord Archbishop,’ I replied softly, looking down at my feet.

  ‘Good! Then let’s begin again. Why are you here?’

  It seemed a strange question. He had already told us all why we were there. I answered as obviously as I could. ‘We are condemned for the sin of nudity in a holy place and have been excommunicated, my Lord Archbishop.’

  ‘Yes, yes, we know all that! But what have you to say about it? That’s what we want to hear.’ Then before I could begin he suddenly brightened and turned once more to the bishop. ‘Aha! She’s the one they call the Petticoat Angel, eh?’

  The bishop nodded. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  He turned back to me. ‘Crosses and fishes, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can explain, my Lord,’ I said softly.

  ‘Explain? This whole business is about crosses and fishes and nude women chanting and the archbishop dropping dead!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Now, abracadabra, you would explain it all to us. Just like that?’

  ‘Not all, not the nude chanting or the archbishop’s death, my Lord, just the cross and the fish.’

  ‘But you witnessed the death?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘And the nude chanting?’

  ‘Yes, some, my Lord.’

  ‘And the cross and fish?’

  ‘No, my Lord.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘The cross and fish was on my back, my Lord.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, but you can, you say . . . explain them.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Are they still there?’

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nbsp; ‘Nay, I’m not sure, perhaps only the fish, my Lord.’

  ‘How do you explain the disappearance of the cross then?’ he demanded. ‘Did it go, disappear . . . when you were excommunicated?’

  ‘Nay, my Lord,’

  ‘Then when?’

  ‘Perchance some slight mark still remains, my Lord.’ I had asked Rosa to look at my back two days previously and she’d said that the scabs from the twin marks made by the dead archbishop’s blows had almost healed but could still be observed as a cross bisecting the fish.

  The archbishop straightened in his chair and then looked to his left and then right. ‘This fish and cross, has anyone here seen it?’

  There was a silence as all at the table shook their heads.

  ‘But we na-na-na-know the f-f-f-fish is t-t-t-true, my Lord,’ Father Hermann stammered, indicating his overpowering nervousness.

  ‘Oh? You have seen it, Father?’

  ‘Nay . . . others,’ Father Hermann said softly, forgetting to add the ‘my Lord’.

  ‘Others? What others? Who are these others?’

  ‘Three prostitutes . . . the b-b-b-bathhouse attendant,’ Father Hermann managed. This produced a great roar of laughter. Mortified, the big priest turned scarlet, his eyes tightly closed and his chin tucked into his hunched shoulder. It was as if he had just received a violent slap to his face.

  ‘If my Lord Archbishop agrees I will show it . . . the fish,’ I ventured, when the laughter had almost ceased.

  A sudden silence ensued. Then the archbishop exclaimed, ‘What? You would undress in public . . . once again?’

  ‘Nay, my Lord!’ I protested. ‘Let shears be brought and a window cut to the back of my gown.’ I looked up at the archbishop, my expression most demure. ‘If this is not thought to be too immodest?’

  Father Hermann looked up slowly and gave me a grateful look.

  ‘Where exactly is this fish and cross?’ the archbishop enquired.

  ‘Between my shoulderblades, my Lord.’

  The archbishop turned to his chief clerk. ‘Shoulders. Are shoulders and their blades allowed in public?’

  The clerk thought for a moment, then said, ‘I believe it is among the many fashions, my Lord.’

  ‘Then they may be exposed?’

  ‘I think my Lord may permit it,’ the clerk answered.

  ‘With shears or rolled down?’

  ‘Rolled down, if judiciously done, my Lord,’ the clerk suggested.

  ‘Who will do this rolling down?’ the archbishop asked.

  ‘My Lord, my friend Rosa waits in the anteroom, she will do it,’ I said quickly.

  ‘And she won’t cry?’

  ‘Nay, she was the one who didn’t cry, my Lord.’ I was delighted that they were not going to cut my beautiful dress and momentarily imagined the horror on Frau Sarah’s face if she should see it damaged.

  ‘Very well, then.’ The archbishop turned to the porter and called out, ‘Fetch this Rosa woman!’

  During all his questioning I had been waiting for an opportunity to explain that the fish was simply a birthmark, that the two lashes administered to my back by the archbishop by sheer coincidence bisected the fish to form the shape of a cross. But now I realised that so much had been made of the fish and the cross that I must make the most of the disrobing opportunity.

  I had learned in Ali Baba’s that men like nothing better than that they be present when one courtesan undresses another. I knew that I could as easily and with due modesty draw my gown over my shoulders to reveal the fish, but that this would spoil the anticipation. I could almost hear Fatima saying, ‘Sylvia, the movement of a woman, it is this that stirs the male’s imagination and awakens the one-eyed snake. Her hips, how she uses her hands, her mouth, her eyes, the shrug of a shoulder, a sideways glance. When one woman removes the clothes of another, it is as if he possesses them both and also, at the same time, watches them making love to each other. Two women making love to each other is every man’s fantasy.’

  While Rosa was neither comely nor artful, with a peasant woman in an unshapely brown linen shift undressing a comely and shapely lady there nevertheless existed a certain drama for the male imagination. At the same time, it would be seen to be done with due decorum. The porter returned with Rosa and, in a low voice, I briefly explained that I would turn my back and undo my bodice whereupon she must pull down the back of my dress to reveal the fish.

  ‘I crave your indulgence, I must turn my back to you, my Lord,’ I explained.

  ‘She has nice manners for a peasant,’ he announced to nobody in particular and then nodded his acquiescence. ‘Only shoulders and their blades,’ he added as an afterthought.

  Complete silence fell over the assembly as I turned my back and, unseen by them, undid the ties to my bodice, my movements slow with my elbows raised and pushed outwards so they might see the movement of my arms. When my arms finally fell to my side in repose, Rosa stepped behind me and lifted my dress slightly by taking hold of the top of both sleeves. Then she proceeded to pull downwards slowly. I moved my shoulders as if to ease the passing of the cloth knowing that it would look pretty and provocative. Rosa being somewhat shorter than me meant they could now see the top part of my shoulders while her body and head covered the area between my shoulderblades. She waited until the fish was fully revealed before she stepped aside.

  A collective gasp rose from the assembled church dignitaries. Then followed a frantic scraping of feet and the sound of benches pushed backwards. Moments later the archbishop’s voice rose in prayer.

  With the help of the astonished Rosa I hastily pulled my gown back over my shoulders and retied the laces to my bodice before cautiously turning to face the table. The churchmen knelt and the archbishop stood with his hands clasped. Praying in Latin he glorified God for showing them the path of righteous judgement in the matter before them. Anticipating the end of the prayer I whispered to Rosa to quickly turn her back to them again. Then bowing our heads, and with hands clasped in the humble and pious position, we waited for the collective ‘Amen’.

  When it came, there was at first silence, then followed the archbishop’s injunction for them to be seated. A second scraping of benches and legs occurred while Rosa and I stood silently, not moving a muscle. Later Rosa would tell me that the scabs had all rubbed off the mark of the cross but that a bright pink scar remained where the skin had not yet returned to its normal colour and that the fish was still neatly bisected by it.

  ‘You may turn around, Sylvia Honeyeater,’ the archbishop said in a modified and respectful voice.

  ‘Thank you, my Lord Archbishop,’ I said softly, trying to hide my anxiety and surprise that the sighting of the fish had affected the priests and scribes and others present in the same way as it had Brother Dominic. I confess I had no idea what might happen next.

  Then the archbishop rose and left his chair and proceeded along the table to its end, and then turned and came over to where Rosa and I stood. Towering beside us, he turned to the gathering at the table. ‘The Church has erred in this matter and we will immediately start proceedings to bring this precious child of God back to a state of grace.’ He turned to the senior clerk. ‘You will attend to this matter, Monsignor Strauss.’ The clerk who had allowed that shoulders might be seen in public nodded and, dipping his quill in blacking, wrote on parchment in front of him. ‘Now, Sylvia, we would like your opinion of what occurred in St Martin’s square and in the Church,’ the archbishop said, looking down at me from his lofty height.

  I told the gathered assembly as best I could what had occurred in the Church, up to and including the death of the archbishop and the fact that I had felt impelled to walk out to the square while singing a Gloria.

  ‘It is witnessed that the archbishop struck you, that his first blows were directed at you?’ the bishop now said. It was the first time he had spoken.

  ‘I cannot say, my Lord. If it was so then I did not feel it.’

  The bishop rose to his feet, cl
early pleased with my answer. ‘Then he may not have struck you?’ he asked.

  I was placed in a quandary. They had accepted the cross on my back as a holy sign placed by the hand of God and had been brought to prayer on witnessing it. How could I now diminish its importance? I decided to tell a cautious truth. ‘It is said that the two marks on my back are the result of his blows,’ I said.

  The archbishop interrupted. ‘Blows you did not feel? How very strange. Yet if they were blows the marks remain still,’ he exclaimed. Then turning to the bishop who was once again seated, he said, ‘We must accept that there were blows. But holy blows. God caused the archbishop to use his crook to place the sign of the cross upon the back of His child. A cross upon which He placed the holy fish, the sign of His precious Son and our Saviour and Redeemer, Jesus Christ. If they had been blows with harmful . . . with devilish intent, then they would have been felt. But miraculously there was no pain.’ He turned to me. ‘Is that not the truth, Sylvia? You felt no pain?’

  ‘Aye, my Lord Archbishop, it is the truth.’ I did not say that later I had well and truly felt the severity of the blows to my back. It was clear he was building a theory for what occurred in the Church. It was certainly not my place to contradict him.

  ‘Good! That’s good.’ He turned to the bishop. ‘Do you accept this is what happened?’ he asked.

  The bishop nodded. ‘Yes, my Lord.’

  ‘Good! Now let us get on with it.’ He turned back to me. ‘Tell us about the death of the archbishop. Do you believe he was struck dead by the hand of God?’

  ‘Nay, my Lord,’ I exclaimed in a shocked voice. ‘It was a heart attack.’