A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  At that moment she spotted her aunts making their way across the crowded hall. Sophie, walking three or four paces behind her sister, appeared serenely composed, her hands pressing the folds of her skirt. Sybil, breathless with frantic energy, moved awkwardly among the guests, her fingers fidgeting with a loose button on her gown. They had come to rescue her. “If your guests can spare a moment of your time,” Sybil said, loud enough for those near the dais to hear, “you’ll want to come quick and hear baby Anne’s first giggles.” Philippa wanted to kiss her aunt’s freckled hands for having thought up a way for her to leave the hall with dignity.

  “So soon?” Philippa said. It seemed like only yesterday that young Will learned to giggle and soon after that to talk. She recalled the sound of Will’s voice—his words imperfect and clumsy, but passionately spoken and wholly his, and she felt buoyed by a deep maternal love.

  Before Philippa rose from the table William introduced Dangerosa, the Viscountess of Châtellerault, to his comrades. The lust between William and his mistress was palpable. Philippa reeled with the insult. A great pain settled behind her eyes.

  “Little Anne’s delighted with the new sounds she can make,” Sophie said, and glared, or seemed to glare, at William and Dangerosa. Philippa leaned forward to tuck a coil of her aunt’s flyaway hair under the fold of her wimple. “Walk away with your head held high,” Sophie whispered into her ear.

  Girded by her aunts’ love, Philippa descended from the dais and traversed the great hall with dignity.

  Robert noted how pregnancy had softened Madeleine’s features and streaked her blond hair russet. “Madeleine?” he said, his hand resting against the jam of the open door. She sat on the edge of her cot balancing a quarto on her lap. A candle placed on a table tossed a round of light upon her face. She appeared lost in concentration, one fingertip meticulously tracing the swirl and plunge of the manuscript’s gilded letters. Robert’s eyes settled on the butterfly fluttering the pulse of her neck and he knew the heady experience of a falcon plunging into a canyon. Blessed is the man who stands up under trial, he silently prayed.

  “Madeleine,” he repeated in a louder voice. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. He knew that his hair and beard grew wiry and unkempt, and he suspected that in appearance he more closely resembled a madman than a priest. “What are you reading?”

  “It’s a passage from the Bible,” she explained. “Brother Girard allowed me to take a small quarto back to my cell.”

  Madeleine placed the quarto on the cot and covered her shoulders with a shawl that lay tossed beside her. Since establishing Fontevraud, Robert had found women in general less distracting. But even pregnant with another man’s child Madeleine drew him in. Guilty desire pained his heart and set his stomach roiling. He willed himself to remain dispassionate and focused on duty.

  “Are you cold?” he asked. “I’ll close the door.”

  “Marie will not be back for a while,” she said, one hand modestly clasping the shawl at her throat. “Bertrad’s son has come down with the croup, and she is helping to care for him.”

  “It’s you I’ve come to see,” he said. And then his mouth went dry and he could not think how to begin. He recalled the great crowds he had addressed in the cathedral of Saint Sernin on the day he realized that his voice could move people and he marveled anew at how often Madeleine rendered him speechless. Clearing his throat, he asked the first question that came to mind. “Have you found it in your heart to forgive Evraud?” he said, hoping his abruptness did not offend her.

  “Forgive? My belly no longer heaves at the mention of his name,” she said in a flat voice devoid of emotion. “Perhaps that is a step in the right direction.” She shrugged.

  Robert believed that with a few well-chosen words he could bring her to full and holy forgiveness. “Evraud is reformed. He is not the sinful man who attacked you in the grove.”

  “Don’t,” she said, raising her hand to stop his words. “There is nothing you can say that will change my mind regarding Evraud’s nature. You forget, Robert, I have known many men. I can recognize evil, and that one is evil through and through. Still, I feel great potential in this child’s kicks and lunges.” Her hand stroked her belly. “And while I can not find it in me to forgive the father, I no longer hate him.”

  She had come so far since their talk in the garden. He had only to guide her that final step or two. But how? Looking around for clues, he noted a small shrine to the Virgin and Marie’s unicorn tapestry hanging on the wall. Madeleine shifted slightly, rustling the vellum pages on the cot beside her. “What is that you’re reading?” he asked.

  “I cannot read,” she said. “But I can recognize most of the letters in this passage.” Handing him the quarto, her fingers brushed his palm. “I want so much to understand,” she said and blushed though whether in response to touching him or because she was unaccustomed to voicing her desires, he could not tell.

  “Shall I read the passage aloud, then?” he asked.

  She nodded, sliding across the pallet so that he might have a seat nearer the candle. Usually he had no trouble gauging moods and interpreting feelings. Without even trying he could see the shape of a sinner’s soul, feel her pain and know her misery. Sometimes entering the chapel, he felt the presence of a dozen spirits beseeching him for guidance or assistance. But Madeleine was different. He could not guess her feelings or her thoughts. He moved a finger across the vellum. “Osculatur me osculo oris sui,” he read. “Oh that he would kiss me with the kisses of his lips.”

  Madeleine wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Robert pressed his finger hard against the vellum, striving to feel the holy pulse of God’s words.

  “How odd that the brethren would read such a thing,” she said, a frown furrowing the skin between her eyes. Leaning forward, Madeleine traced the letter O with the concentration of a scholar, unmindful of the shawl slipping from her shoulders. Robert took a deep breath, his first since entering the room. Placing one fingertip in the letter’s void, she opened her mouth and blew the sound between puckered lips. He watched her fingers crawl the curve and bulb of each letter in Osculatur. And it was as though they were fluttering his insteps, caressing his ankles and climbing his legs. He closed his eyes and they were back in Rouen where the men and whores grunted on dirty mats and sweet Madeleine bathed his tired feet in a bowl of water that rained rivulets the length of her arms.

  “Why are these words—kiss me with the kisses of his lips—in the Bible?” She asked.

  Robert opened his eyes to the page before him. “It’s from The Song of Songs,” he said at last, “the Wisdom of Solomon. The language is spiritual. It has a deeper allegorical meaning.”

  “Allegorical,” she repeated, caressing the syllables with her tongue. “What a beautiful word. But what does it mean?”

  “An allegory is a story or a painting that has more than one purpose. For instance,” he said, raising his hand and pointing, “the tapestry on the wall can be seen as allegorical. Because the unicorn is snowy white, it symbolizes virginity and purity, and for that reason it also signifies our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  Madeleine lips parted slightly. She studied the mythical beast as though she had only just laid eyes on it. Robert’s body stirred and the beat of his heart throbbed against his skull. If he could harness his desire he could bring her all the way to Christ.

  “But what of the lovers?” she asked, pointing to the miniature tucked in the hollow of the letter O. The woman’s legs, pressed ankle to ankle, were splayed at the knees. Rich folds of scarlet fabric draped her lap and bunched a shadowed V between her thighs. Robert shivered. Oh Lord, help me focus on Madeleine’s soul, he prayed. “The two lovers also have symbolic significance. The man is the bridegroom who represents Jesus,” Robert said, indicating the bearded, white-robed figure. “And the woman, the bride, symbolizes the Holy Church or the human soul striving
for the divine.”

  “I should like to do that.”

  Her words startled Robert. “Strive for the divine, do you mean?” She tilted her head and examined his face. He felt a rush of pleasure so intense that he had to remind himself to breathe.

  “Paint figures, beautiful figures such as these,” she said, her fingers fluttering above the page.

  “It takes much work, much training before one can illustrate,” he said.

  But she was no longer listening to him. Her eyes were locked on a space above his head.

  “What is it that holds your attention?”

  “I see your halo,” she said simply.

  “Halo?”

  “Your… clouds of light. Your… nimbus.”

  Having heard that pregnant women were often fanciful, he wondered if an imbalance of humors and an overactive imagination had caused hallucinations. He truly worried about her health and the health of her unborn child. And yet, running parallel to his concern was a more selfish consideration. Recalling the rumors that had followed him since Rouen, Robert briefly pondered the possibility that he had been singled out for sainthood before refocusing on the convert before him. “How long have you seen halos?” he asked.

  “As a child I saw my mother’s halo,” she said. “Green, every shade of green.”

  He was considering the possibility that the Lord God had gifted Madeleine with special sight when she lowered her voice, “The sisters say you’re humble, but humility is not what I see in your nimbus.”

  Her words unsettled him, made him forgetful of his purpose and also, to his dismay, defensive. “I strive for humility. I do not always succeed,” he said and understood that pride, as much as lust, was leading him astray. “What else do you see in my nimbus?” he asked.

  “Put down the quarto,” she said, rising gracefully despite the bulge of her belly.

  Robert laid the manuscript on the cot and stood. He felt weak and wondered if he were falling ill with the fever.

  Madeleine raised her hands to either side of Robert’s head and lowered them slowly, pivoting her wrists so that they glided past his shoulders and then down the length of his arms. Though her fingers remained a fluttering distance from his body, he felt the slide of flesh against flesh and experienced a great calm, like grace or fortitude.

  “I think that you are tired, worn out in body and soul.” She dropped her hands to her side and a chill entered the room. Robert looked around to see if Marie or Bertrad had opened the door. But the door remained closed. “Have you told others of your ability?”

  “Never,” she said. “I have never told anyone but you.”

  Deeply gratified—because didn’t this mean she trusted him above all others?—he prayed silently that he might be worthy of her confidence. Madeleine sighed and sat back down on the cot. Her belly, round as a gourd, reminded Robert of his purpose.

  “Let us pray,” he said, “for the health of your child and for the strength to forgive.” But the only verse that came to him he could not speak aloud—Your lips drop honey, my bride, honey and milk are under your tongue; and the fragrance of your garment is like the fragrance of Mount Lebanon.

  On All Soul’s day, Madeleine abandoned her studies to play with Bertrad’s son, a rambunctious toddler.

  “Don’t overdo it, Madeleine!” Bertrad cautioned. But Madeleine paid her no heed, chasing the squealing boy around a clump of fennel stalks. “All that jostling can’t be good for you!”

  A sharp belly pain brought Madeleine to her knees. The boy, thinking her fall part of their game, squealed in delight and flopped in a giggling heap beside her.

  Bertrad leaped to her feet, scattering the beans she had been sorting. Wiping her hands on her apron, she ran to Madeleine’s side. “Oh, what have you gone and done? It’s not your time for another moon! Lean on me. Let’s get you inside. And you, little puppet,” she said to her son, “follow your mama.” Though Madeleine stood a head taller, Bertrad was stronger. Wrapping her arm around Madeleine’s ribs, she half dragged her to her cell, all the while singing a nursery ditty to engage the attention of her son.

  Lullay, mine liking, my dear son, mine sweeting,

  Lullay, my dear heart, mine own dear darlin…

  Obediently falling into step beside them, the son lifted his chubby legs to the beat of each syllable, joining his sweet baby voice to his mother’s lilting soprano—“Lul laay, Lul laay, Lu laay….”

  Once Madeleine was inside, Marie helped her out of her dress and into one of her own roomy chemises while Bertrad retrieved the matrone, a young countrywoman with broad shoulders and crooked teeth.

  “It’s a good day to give birth,” the matrone said, arranging a hodgepodge of bowls, vials, and jars on a small table. Madeleine, who had felt no pains since the one in the garden, wondered if the hasty preparations were not a bit premature.

  “This,” the matrone explained, holding up a milky jar of ointment, “will bring things to a quicker conclusion!”

  “How many babes have you birthed?” Marie asked the midwife as she sat down on a stool placed at the head of Madeleine’s pallet.

  “Oh, I have assisted at dozens of births!” the matrone said, flashing her crocked teeth.

  “And on your own?” Marie asked, her voice stern, her forehead furrow with lines. “How many babes have you birthed on your own?”

  The matrone’s eyes flitted about the room in a feral way Madeleine found unnerving, but the woman’s hands were gentle and her voice had a reassuring authority that reminded Madeleine of Hersend. “This will be my first,” the matrone mumbled.

  Madeleine had never been present at any of the births in Rouen, nor had she wondered overly much about what transpired behind the tapestry that screened the laboring girls from the rest of the brothel. Suddenly she felt woefully ignorant.

  “Maddy!” Marie’s voice and a sudden contraction startled Madeleine who groaned aloud. “Are you listening to me? You need to keep your mind on the business at hand. You need to concentrate on getting this baby out!” Marie rested her palm on Madeleine’s belly and commanded her: “go with the pain. Don’t try to fight it.”

  Madeleine took the wave of pain, slid down the face and barely caught her breath before another followed and then another. At the end of a particularly harrowing contraction, Bertrad pulled from her pocket a lump of iron ore and shook it. To Madeleine’s surprise it rattled, as though it harbored a tiny stone within. “Like the babe in your belly,” Bertrad said with a tense smile. “Hold this charm and your labor will be quick and easy.”

  Madeleine wrapped her fist around the rock and held tight, but her labor was neither quick nor easy. After what seemed like hours, the matrone made an announcement. “Her womb is wandering ’round her belly. It refuses to let the baby go.”

  She rummaged through the implements spread across the tabletop until she found what she was looking for—a foul-smelling potion rank as sulfur—which she placed near Madeleine’s mouth and nose. Madeleine turned her head and gagged, but the matrone persisted. “This will force the wandering organ back to its proper place,” she explained.

  When that failed, she rubbed Madeleine’s inner thighs with rose oil. A suffocating sweetness filled the air. “This oil is made from the finest hips,” she said, her voice an insubstantial whisper. “The fragrance will draw the babe to where it belongs.” Madeleine sensed the matrone’s wavering conviction, and her own fear increased two-fold. “Hold tight to that eagle stone,” the matrone said, motioning to the iron ore Madeleine clutched in her right hand.

  Madeleine knew that Marie had always scoffed at amulets and charms—“ignorant poppycock, superstitious nonsense,” she called them—but now, she pursed her lips and said, “I don’t see how it can hurt.”

  Madeleine closed her eyes and tried to summon the strength to force the child out. She felt
Marie’s hand tighten around her own, and opened her eyes to the twins standing at the foot of the cot.

  Arsen, looking steadily at Madeleine, twined a loose curl around her finger. “We have heard that a piece of clothing…”

  “…worn by the father of the baby at the time of conception…” Agnes said.

  “…will hasten the birth if placed between the legs of the mother to be…”Arsen said.

  There was a moment of pause punctuated by the sound of Madeleine’s strenuous breathing.

  “We would happily retrieve such a garment…“ Agnes offered,

  “…if only you tell us who the father is,” they said in unison.

  “Enough of this nonsense!” Marie thundered. “Both of you out!” She waved her arms as though she were herding a flock of honking geese. “This room is crowded and there are far too many distractions!” Marie’s look turned malevolent.

  The twins linked hands and backed to the doorway of the cell in silence.

  “Let me take the pins from your hair,” Bertrad said, loosening Madeleine’s braid. “Then I’ll untie all the knotted garments in the room and your babe will release his hold on you. Don’t worry. The two of you will be fine.” Her furrowed brow belied her encouraging works.

  “Forget about untying knots,” Marie said. “We need to get Maddy into a sitting position. Lying down is stalling things.”

  The matrone, whose darting eyes scrupulously avoided Marie’s, nodded her head. “Yes, yes, just my thoughts exactly!”

  “Bertrad, you take Maddy’s right arm and I’ll take her left. Once she’s upright, I’ll squeeze in behind her. I mean to hold her in my lap. Ready? Now lift!”

  Madeleine tried to assist them, but a powerful contraction clenched her belly and left her breathless. But even without her help, Bertrad and Marie managed to prop her into a sitting position. Marie had eased herself onto the pallet and scooped Madeleine into her ample lap, wrapping her arms around her rib cage and whispering into her ear. “We’re going to do this together, Maddy girl.”