A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  Every evening before bed, Girard walked the perimeter of Fontevraud. Once the land was cleared and leveled, Lady Philippa had sent scores of men, including an architect and a sculptor, to assist the pilgrims with the construction of Robert’s abbey. The building, however, progressed slowly. Weeks passed before the architect chalked the church’s cross-shaped plan onto the bare soil, and longer still before the men dug foundations and drove pilings. Once the scaffolding was in place, the masons began the backbreaking work of cutting and hauling stone. At Philippa’s prompting, a wealthy innkeeper from Limoges donated a surplus of blue-grey tile that would adorn the roof of the Abbey. The men’s monastery, Girard knew, would not begin construction for quite some time, but at least the kitchen, an octagonal building studded with cupola-crowned smokestacks, was almost complete.

  The workers set up camp in a forested area on the southeast corner of Fontevraud some distance from the leper camp, their fires clearly visible every night but Saturday when they rode their horses to Candes where they drank ale and bedded whores. The first Saturday, Girard assumed the men had defected having grown tired of the hard labor and their isolation. But they returned before dawn on Monday and did so without fail week after week, month after month. Such skillful and dedicated workers were not cheap.

  One particularly damp night, Girard cut his stroll short and returned to the hastily built hut that housed the monks. Wrapping himself in a wool blanket, he lowered himself onto a pallet. His flaccid arm tucked fin-like against his growling belly, Girard courted sleep by cataloguing the rumors, nasty gossip that spread like nettles in a rye patch. Some of the monks said Robert subjected the young virgins to the rigors of ascetic life, placing them naked in tiny cells. Others said he favored the widows and reformed prostitutes, counseling and comforting them far into the night. All but a few agreed that Madeleine had seduced the Master.

  Using his good arm to heave his bulk onto his right side, Girard wondered how much longer he would have to reside in this hut sleeping with a dozen other brothers on a thin pallet and a dirt floor. Ignoring the burn in his chest and the relentless rumblings of his gut, he adjusted his coarse wool blanket, closed his eyes and attempted to rid his mind of the image of Madeleine and Robert. But while he succeeded in banishing the thought of the Master sharing a bed with a prostitute (for the godly man would not, could not do that!) the other image—the sight of Madeleine impaled on a chestnut tree—held his soul hostage.

  Girard’s change in position eased his heartburn, but did nothing to assuage the discomforts of his sour stomach. Gassy and bloated, he regretted the evening’s cabbage even as he craved a bowl of soothing frumenty sweetened with almond milk and sprinkled with ginger. Who, he wondered, would settle for pease porridge if frumenty pudding was available? Following a cluster of loud, unseemly belches, Girard drifted off to sleep pondering the small self-contained delights of pasties and fritters.

  In sleep, lust joined gluttony in a frightening duel of appetites that built on and amplified Girard’s memories of that day of miracles and rape. Against a stormy backdrop of suffocating mist and lightning bolts, Girard dreamed that Evraud was force-feeding the naked Madeleine a meal of bread and fish. Holding a wastel-wrapped herring in his stiff fingers, Evraud thrust the morsel deep into Madeleine’s mouth. Girard cried out “Stop!” Not because he wished to protect Madeleine, but because he recognized the meal as his own, the one packed for him by Philippa’s cook.

  Girard woke to a stiff prick and a growling belly. His lust and his craving for food had become one enormous appetite—painful, insatiable and never ending. All are tested in faith, Girard thought. Your will, God, please let me know your will, he repeated, over and over, until the repetition dulled his mind, softened his erection, and he drifted back into a shallow sleep.

  The following afternoon Girard entered the sprawling garden. Ducking behind a cone trellis wrapped in the vines of a towering bean plant, he watched Madeleine glide between rows of herbs and stoop to pick a sprig of lemon balm. Her presence surprised and annoyed him. It was long past the morning hours, the usual time Madeleine, accompanied by that filthy animal Moriuht and a bevy of so-called reformed prostitutes, weeded, pruned and watered.

  Girard had taken heart last spring when Moriuht began helping Madeleine plant the garden. Bounding between empty trellises and rows of seedlings, Moriuht had offered up his pitiable treasures—a fist full of leathery leaves or a pungent bouquet of lavender—with the same unbridled enthusiasm he lavished on Robert. With Moriuht’s attention split between Madeleine and Robert, Girard hoped to replace him in the Master’s affections.

  Madeleine settled on a bench, and Girard recalled his purpose. He had come to pilfer a few green beans to hold him over until evening meal in the makeshift refectory, a mud-walled, thatched roofed room without windows. He abhorred his gluttony, his sinful failure to transcend his body’s appetite, but hard as he tried he could not conquer his obsessive need for food. Every morning he pledged to fast as Robert fasted. By tierce he had modified his plan, determined that he would eat, but only a few scraps of bread and a mouthful of wine. Gradually he could ease himself into a more temperate lifestyle. But inevitably at the mid-day meal one bite led to another until Girard had gobbled every morsel on his plate. By dusk, he was newly ravenous and desperate enough to eat raw vegetables straight from the vine.

  Hidden behind the dense foliage of the climbing bean plant, Girard studied Madeleine’s expression. Expectant? Impatient? Certainly it looked nothing like the glance of pity she had given him in Blois. Just remembering that look caused Girard to bristle. For a brief moment anger swept aside hunger and made him bold. He would leave his hiding place and confront her, remind her that a man, not a woman, sat at the right hand of God! But before he could take a step in her direction, Madeleine, still holding the lemon balm, reached into a nearby bush with her free hand and fingered an amber flower. The shape and toasty color reminded Girard of fried fritters. In the time it took to draw one ragged breath his howling need for food returned twofold. Slowly, surreptitiously, he plucked a string bean from the vine and placed it into his mouth. Keeping his eyes on Madeleine, he tongued the length of the pod, luxuriating in the furred texture until anticipation gave way to necessity and he snapped the pod in half with his molars.

  Reaching for another bean, Girard heard the familiar click of rosary beads. He held his breath and turned his head to see Robert entering the garden and walking purposefully to Madeleine’s side.

  She rose to her feet but did not greet him, frowning as she studied the lemon sprig in her hand.

  By God, Girard thought, their meeting is no accident!

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me.” Robert said.

  Madeleine nodded.

  “Shall we sit down?” Robert’s words were innocuous enough, but the tone was not the somber, nuanced sound of a holy man performing mass or granting absolution. His words to Madeleine resonated with a raspy timbre, a twilight sound that reminded Girard of his own shameful appetite. For the first time it occurred to Girard that the rumors he had heard about Robert and Madeleine might be true. Perhaps the child she carried was not Evraud’s but the Master’s. The thought aroused his body even as it crushed his spirit. He wondered if he had squandered his life following a common sinner. The muscles in his calves burned with the effort of supporting his great weight, a small price to pay for learning the truth.

  Girard shifted his body and studied Robert, whose shoulders had broadened in the months spent splitting boards and hoisting beams. Indeed, he appeared a much larger, healthier man than the feverish ascetic Girard first laid eyes on in Vendôme. Watching Robert run his hand through his plentiful curls, Girard touched the sparse fringe ringing his tonsure and considered the possibility that he, like his father before him, would be completely bald before his thirtieth birthday.

  “Your garden is beautiful,” Robert said.

  Sur
ely the Master has not forgotten that beauty is devilish distraction! Girard thought.

  “As a young man I was taught catechism by an old priest who thought nature’s beauty a lure for the lesser beings,” Robert said, as though he had heard Girard’s thought. “I remember he used rabbits as an example, explaining that they are dim, soulless creatures that need the appeal of color—the orange carrot, the red berry—to guide them to their proper food.”

  Madeleine stroked the sprig of lemon balm in silence. “In a similar manner, the old priest argued, bright fluted flowers attract insects and birds to the nectar that sustains them. For a long time I accepted his words as truth.”

  Tottering slightly on tired thighs, Girard feared that Robert and Madeleine might sense hear his strained breathing, but he need not have worried, for Madeleine appeared transfixed by the green-flash of a hummingbird hovering beside a periwinkle vine, and Robert could not take his eyes off of her.

  “But on my journeys…” Robert paused then and started anew. “On the long road to Fontevraud I saw natural sights that inspired all that is good in me, and I’ve come to the realization that the old priest’s definition of beauty is far too limiting. Your beautiful garden, for instance, nourishes both my soul and my body, for it is resplendent with flowers for the altar and bountiful with vegetables for the table.”

  His words strike a chord in her, Girard thought, studying Madeleine’s face.

  “Why, yes!” she said, “See the gold and yellow marigolds separating the rows of herbs? The flowers attract snails, drawing them away from the coriander and fennel.”

  “Mary’s gold,” Robert said. “Named in honor of the Virgin Mary. I’ve heard they lessen the pain of a bee’s sting as well.”

  “And those violets,” Madeleine said, growing more animated, “provide a colorful garnish for food while their oil soothes the skin.”

  “They too are associated with the Virgin,” Robert added, “for they represent purity and innocence.”

  “But my favorite are the fragrant primroses,” Madeleine said, waving a hand toward a bush hanging from a trellis, “for they are useful in so many ways, as preserves, garnishes, even sugar.”

  “And they are symbols of the Holy Spirit, and for this reason we spread them in churches during the movable feasts of Witsun and Corpus Christi,” Robert said.

  Girard shifted his weight slightly so that now he knelt in the dirt with his ass resting on his heels. The Master, it seemed to him, reveled in this celebration of worldliness.

  “Beauty has a multiplicity of purposes,” Robert said. Then, lowering his voice slightly he asked, “But has the beauty of your garden lifted you out of your despair?”

  Madeleine twisted the lemon sprig in her hand and tossed it away.

  “Madeleine…” Robert said and faltered. “So much pain we humans inflict on one another—sometimes with deliberate intent, sometimes not. Please do not let anger replace despair.”

  “Why shouldn’t I be angry? What happened to me is not some passing violation. It lives on in this child.” She looked down at her protruding belly then back at Robert. “Evraud should be punished,” she continued, “He should pay for what he did!”

  “We would scatter apart against the fierceness of our sins if we did not forgive each other our transgressions. I ask that you forgive Evraud his.”

  “You ask too much!” Madeleine said. “You cannot fail in your promise to protect me and then expect that I will happily carry the burden of your failure!”

  Girard had two thoughts, the one slithering over the other—So the child is Evraud’s! and simultaneously—Her attitude is unusual in a woman! Girard felt certain that no man would tolerate such insubordination, and was amazed when Robert assumed a posture of humility.

  “Madeleine, we must not repay evil with evil, we must not take vengeance into our own hands, for vengeance belongs to the Lord. The Bible says we must feed our enemy, give him drink.”

  “How is that?” Madeleine asked. “How is feeding him and giving him drink going to make him pay for his crimes? His life grows better for his sin. Mine will never be the same!”

  “He lives among the lepers,” Robert said. “The Lord will give him what he deserves, either in this life or the hereafter.”

  Madeleine rose from the bench with her arms crossed and turned toward a patch of lavender. Robert also stood and watched her brush the purple flowers with a palm. He raised a hand but stopped short of placing it on her shoulder.

  “We must forgive our enemies if we expect God to forgive us,” he said.

  Girard thought that perhaps Robert’s glance lingered too long on the achingly sweet curve of Madeleine’s neck.

  “Is that what brought you here? You want me to forgive Evraud?”

  The mood shifted, grew cloudy with old disappointment and something else Girard did not fully understand.

  “Madeleine…” Robert said and faltered. The way he drew her name out, fondling the vowels and imbuing them with a swollen carnal sound, disgusted Girard.

  Clearing his throat, Robert began again, this time he spoke with a windy sound that rustled leaves. “Madeleine,” he said. “I have also come to ask you to forgive me for my failure to protect you.”

  Madeleine brushed back a lock of hair with her fingers, a feminine gesture Girard found almost as attractive as her sudden silence. “Please.”

  Quite suddenly Girard remembered a distant afternoon in his boyhood. Bored and curious, he had followed his brother deep into the woods where, instead of killing game, Bernard bedded the butcher’s daughter. Hiding behind the trunk of a pine tree, Girard watched him cuddle the round-breasted beauty, seducing her with a playful barrage of kisses and deep-throated appeals—please, my sweet, please—until gradually, seamlessly he had lowered her to the mossy forest floor. When Bernard lifted the girl’s skirt past her saffron-colored patch of pubic hair, Girard tugged down his own breeches and pulled at himself until he had reached a climax so intense he had had to bite his tongue in order to muffle his moan.

  “No!” Madeleine’s voice, quivering with rage, brought Girard back into the present moment.

  Head bent, stance deflated, Robert continued. “Perhaps you’re right, Madeleine. I am a prideful man for thinking that I might cover you with my cloak when it is only in God’s arms you will find protection.” Robert lifted his head and turned slightly away from Madeleine, blinking against the sunlight. “But you must believe my intentions were sincere. The idea that you should be harmed in any way was and is abhorrent to me. More importantly, the anger you hold in your heart is not good for you or your child.”

  “What is good is not always possible,” Madeleine said.

  “Think of Christ,” he whispered. “He endured crucifixion to save us. Each of us carries a cross, Madeleine. We all suffer a form of martyrdom that makes us worthy to enter heaven.”

  “I don’t know if I have it in me to forgive,” Madeleine said and rested her hand on her belly.

  “Oh, but you do. Just as you’ve cultivated these flowers,” he said, his hands stirring up the scent of hollyhocks and lavender, “so can you cultivate forgiveness. Plant the seed of compassion in your heart, Madeleine. Nurture it with prayer, and it will blossom into a thing of beauty.”

  Madeleine scanned the air around the master’s body before lifting her hands to comb the empty space. Girard wondered if the experience in the grove had addled her mind. Whatever she discovered seemed to satisfy her, for she dropped her hands and acquiesced.

  “All right,” she said, “I’ll try.”

  At that moment, a distracted Moriuht appeared at the edge of the garden and began warbling to a songbird sheltered in the branches of a chestnut tree. Girard feared that it was only a matter of time before the fool spotted him and called out his name. In his haste to depart, Girard tripped. He did not fall, but the scuffling s
ound his feet made attracted Madeleine’s attention. Regaining his balance, Girard took a deep breath and, without a backward glance, fled the garden.

  Late in Madeleine’s pregnancy, Mother Hersend sought her out in the garden to discuss the “miracle of birth.” The widow of Lord Guillaume de Montsoreau, Hersend de Champagne had been among the noble women who had donated to the Abbey in the difficult early months. Not long after, she had taken orders following her husband’s death. A non-judgmental, kind-hearted woman, she was tiny, barely five feet tall, with deep dimples and a rollicking laugh better suited to a milkmaid than a learned woman of authority. Even before she began speaking, Madeleine could see why Robert had appointed her Abbess. Something in her delicate but assertive manner simultaneously soothed and challenged. Hersend called out Madeleine’s name just as she finished weeding a row of lima beans.

  “Madeleine, you’ve worked wonders! And in such short time!”

  “It’s nothing,” Madeleine said, blushing. “Gardening is my passion.”

  “When the Lord marries passion to need,” Hersend said, “wonders may transpire. We’ll have altar flowers and vegetables well into winter!”

  “Brother Moriuht has been most helpful.”

  “I must remember to thank him,” Hersend said. After a pause, she assumed a more purposeful tone. “You know, there are similarities between what you are doing here,” she said, lifting her hand to take in the whole of the garden, “and here,” she said, taking a step closer to Madeleine and touching her fingertips to the thrust of her belly. “Both germinate from seed and depend on warmth, fertile soil, and the goodness and grace of Our Lord to come into fruition.” She examined Madeleine’s face with a maternal scrutiny, and Madeleine wondered if Robert had prompted the abbess to speak with her. “Of course,” Hersend said, “there are differences as well. The growth of a child is much more complicated. After the seed of the child is planted, it develops in stages.”