A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  The sound of his own labored breathing brought Girard back to the present. Nauseous and disoriented, he crept back into his hiding place. When his stomach cramped, he lamented having eaten the odd-tasting bread. Hidden in the shadows, he prayed for strength—Blessed is the man who stands up under trial; when he has stood the test, he will receive the crown of life that God has promised to those who love Him—repeating the words until they were wrung dry of meaning. Weak-kneed, feverish and dry-mouthed, he dropped to his knees just as the hour of Lauds sounded and Robert slipped through the door of Madeleine’s cell.

  Girard’s stomach roiled and heaved. After the pain subsided enough for him to stand, he crept from his hiding place. Pausing outside of Madeleine’s door, Girard heard the whisper of bare feet followed by the creak of a trunk lid. He imagined the gauzy flutter of a linen nightgown caressing her shoulders.

  If only she had not sighed, he might have left the cloister then. But the thought of Madeleine’s fruity breath stirred his loins and dismantled his soul. A common whore had taken his rightful place in the Master’s heart!

  He must confront Madeleine and convince her to release Robert from her evil clutches. Having found an action large enough to contain his rage, Girard took a deep breath and pushed open the door to Madeleine’s cell. Even in the dim light he could see the swell of her body beneath the thin blanket that covered her.

  “Robert?”

  “No.”

  “Brother Girard?” she asked, rising up on one elbow. “Is that you?”

  Her quivering voice evoked in him a greasy pleasure that soured his already aching belly. Let not my heart incline toward her way, he prayed, closing the door and stepping nearer her cot. “You do not belong at Fontevraud!” he whispered, throwing back the blanket. The stench of burnt sugar replaced the scent of ripe berries, and Madeleine’s form took on the comely shape of the twins. God do not tempt me beyond my ability. Provide me a way out, so I may withstand sin! Girard prayed to no avail, for evil had hold of his soul. He did not need two arms to pin the demon to the bed because she did not struggle or call out. “Whore,” he whispered, “shameless Jezabel.” Anger and lust pooled in Girard’s groin. He lifted his body atop hers.

  “Please,” she whispered, “Please stop.”

  But her words served only to inflame him. He fumbled for the hem of her nightgown, his mouth inches from hers.

  “Help! Someone help!” Something seemed to shift within Madeleine and she fought him, pummeling his back with one hand and clawing at his face with the other.

  Robert burst though the room with a roar. “Wait, Master, I can explain,” Girard said, lifting his crippled hand.

  Without a word, Robert crossed the room, grabbed Girard by the shoulders and flung him to the floor.

  PART THREE

  Then he said to them, “Know this, my dearest brethren, that whatever I constructed in this world, I made for the benefit of our nuns; I offered all the power of my faculties to them; and what is more, I have submitted myself and my disciples, for the salvation of our souls, to their service.”

  Anonymous, Life of Robert of Arbrissel

  “Sister,” Hersend whispered, touching Philippa’s shoulder, “I thought I would find you here. I need your help in the infirmary, dear.”

  Philippa crossed herself and rose from the kneeler. This night, as on other nights sleep eluded her, she had retreated to the empty church. The bare beauty of its stone interior afforded the same pleasure she had known as a child surrounded by the rose-colored buildings of Toulouse. Raising her eyes to the upward stretch of the chancel’s three austere stories, she was newly amazed by the simplicity of Fontevraud, the subtle way in which the architecture reflected a life of independence from material objects.

  “Follow me,” Hersend said, leading her through a door in the south transept into that hushed tranquility that precedes the day. Tucking an errant curl beneath her veil, Philippa followed close behind the Abbess, mindful of the slippery gravel beneath her feet. “Look,” Hersend said, pausing to point out a rim of gold shimmering against the horizon. “Here comes the dawn, the day’s first and most compelling reminder that Christ is the true Light.” Her voice registered joy, but her expression remained strained and preoccupied.

  “Is it Beatrice?” Philippa asked. “Are her joints bothering her again?” After Philippa entered the order, Hersend assigned her work with the elderly and the ailing sisters. Daily she brought them food, read them psalms and listened to their prayers. And while Philippa’s heart continued to ache for her son and, more days than not, long for a more active life, she took comfort in Anne and in her own contributions to the community of women.

  “No, dear,” Hersend said, “not Beatrice. There has been an… incident.” Crossing herself, she took a deep breath. “Madeleine was attacked in her cell.”

  “Attacked?” Philippa asked, covering her heart with her hand. “Is she all right?”

  “She is… traumatized,” Hersend explained. “You were lucky,” she said, reaching out and cupping Philippa’s jaw in her hand. “Let’s hope Madeleine fairs as well.”

  The day Philippa arrived at Fontevraud, she had told Hersend that her bruised jaw was the result of a careless stumble down a stairwell. Until this moment she had assumed the Abbess believed her lie.

  “Come,” Hersend said. “Madeleine is waiting.”

  The women’s infirmary held a dozen cots, which lined the east wall. Opposite the cots, a fireplace jutted out between two narrow windows, a statue of Mary atop the mantle. Tucked into one corner of the room, a triangular table held a basket of rags and a tray of ointments and lotions. On a ledge beneath the table, a sooty kettle rested on a metal trivet beside a jar of loose tea and a jug of water.

  “My child, are you feeling any better?” the Abbess asked.

  Madeleine studied the dying fire with vacant eyes.

  “I will ask one of the brothers to haul a few more logs,” Hersend said.

  “No,” Madeleine said, gripping Hersend’s arm with a force that made the Abbess wince.

  “But my dear, aren’t you cold? Your fingers are like ice.”

  “No… men,” Madeleine whispered.

  “Of course, dear,” Hersend said. “Forgive me. I will wake a few of the postulants. Soon enough you will be toasty.” She kissed Madeleine lightly on the forehead. “Philippa will keep you company while I’m gone.” Nodding at Philippa, she left the infirmary.

  Philippa pulled a stool to the edge of Madeleine’s cot. She recalled the guilt that had followed her own beating, remembered the emotional pain that deepened along with her bruises, and she understood Madeleine’s suffering in the pit of her belly. “Madeleine, Hersend has told me that you were attacked in your cell.”

  Madeleine remained fixed on the smoldering fire. Philippa recognized the odd detachment, the stony denial.

  “My husband once attacked me,” Philippa said, touching her jaw. “The next day he sent me to Fontevraud… without my son. My bruises faded quickly, but my heart continues to ache for my little Will. You are not alone, my friend,” Philippa said. “You are not the only one who’s suffered at the hands of a man.”

  Three young postulants entered with their arms full of logs. Silently they replenished the fire. After they left, Philippa poured water from the jug into the kettle and hung it on a metal arm that swung over the crackling fire. Hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her gown, she returned to the stool beside Madeleine’s cot. If she was to be of any help to Madeleine, she must compose herself and be patient. She focused her thoughts on her favorite time of day at the abbey, the afternoon meal, an occasion that blended ritual and female intimacy. Lay brothers carried ewers of water to the refectory so the nuns could dip their fingers into them before the meal began while other servants set the tables with cups, flasks of water and wine, and baskets of bread. Soon bowls of soup were
brought first to the commoners, then to the nuns’ tables, and finally to the tables reserved for the laywomen. Since talking was banned during most meals, the only sounds were the footsteps of the men carrying food to the tables, the thud of cups and bowls on wood, an occasional scrape of a stool on the floor. Yet even in silence the nuns managed to communicate. Philippa watched the movement of the sisters’ fingers with rapt attention until she learned to cut one finger over the other if she needed a knife and to shimmy her hand in the manner of a fish moving through water should she require a serving of trout. These signs unified their community even as silence taught them discipline. Gradually, over time, Philippa learned to appreciate how silence and ritual calmed her fluttery pulse and opened her soul to prayer.

  “Philippa?” Madeleine whispered.

  “I’m right here,” Philippa said, pulling her stool nearer the cot.

  “Girard tried to rape me.”

  A ripple of shock climbed Philippa’s backbone. She strived to reconcile the kindly monk she knew with the monster Madeleine described. But then had not William’s battering hand once stroked her cheek with tenderness?

  “I stopped him,” Madeleine said, curling her fingers into fists. “I fought back.” Her voice held an unexpected note of pride.

  “Good. Good for you! You did all that any woman can do,” Philippa said, covering one of Madeleine’s fists with her hand. Madeleine flinched and started to pull away, but Philippa held fast.

  “Is it possible that something in my manner or dress provoked his behavior?”

  “You are not your brother’s keeper, Madeleine. You cannot hold yourself responsible for another man’s sins. That said, I understand what you are feeling. I have spent far too much time wondering if I prompted William’s beating. Believe me, such thoughts will get you nowhere. Brother Girard is at fault here, not you. Nothing, absolutely nothing warrants what happened to you.”

  Madeleine’s face relaxed. Her fists opened. Her hands were small and insubstantial. Blood darkened the underside of her fingernails.

  “Let me bathe your hands,” Philippa said, pouring water from the kettle into a bowl on the floor beside Madeleine’s cot. Philippa soaped one of the linen rags then slowly, carefully she ran the rag under each of Madeleine’s nails before patting her hands dry and massaging them with lotion.

  “You sleep now, my friend. I will be here when you wake.”

  “Lady Philippa!” Girard called, his blustery walk slowing to a breathless waddle. The blush that suffused his entire body ignited the rash beneath the apron of his belly and in the dank hollows of his armpits. Since the night of the incident in the convent he had been plagued by prickly heat that would not go away despite his attentive application of herbal packs and astringent oils. The simples dried his skin but did nothing to assuage the burning discomfort.

  “What is it?” Philippa asked in an impatient voice. The young postulant accompanying her shifted a large woven basket from one arm to the other.

  “I need to speak with you.”

  “Wait for me here,” Philippa said to the other woman. Walking a few paces she stopped and indicated with a wave of her hand that Girard should join her. He saw by her stony expression that she had heard the rumors. Panic rendered him speechless.

  The morning following his vigil outside Madeleine’s door, Girard had awakened with a bruised shoulder and a face crosshatched with scratches. For five whole days he had lain on a pallet in the men’s infirmary, his wounds throbbing, his mind as knotted as his stomach. A series of claustrophobic dreams had weakened his mind. He remembered little of his evening in the cloisters, but given the Master’s reaction, Girard knew he must have committed a horrible sin.

  “The Master wants me to leave the abbey and seek a life elsewhere,” he told Philippa. “You have shown kindness to me in the past. If you could talk with him, explain that…”

  “I cannot explain what I don’t understand,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Girard’s stomach gurgled alarmingly. That morning in the scriptorium Peter had wrinkled his nose and proffered a rhizome of ginger on the palm of his hand, saying it would fortify a cold stomach and cure an evil humor. And while the root had calmed Girard’s queasy stomach, it had not eliminated his flatulence. Now standing in the presence of this great and beautiful lady, he feared his body might humiliate him.

  “You must believe me when I say I remember very little of what happened that night. I’ve heard the rumors that I attacked Madeleine, but I cannot believe that I would…” He bit his lip and blinked back tears.

  She glanced to the basket the novitiate held. “We are taking supplies to the lepers. I have only a moment.”

  “The truth is,” Girard said, fumbling for each word, “I’m not sure what happened. Taking a deep breath, he rested his crippled hand on Philippa’s sleeve. “Please,” he said. “Help me make sense of the terrifying confusion that clouds my mind.”

  Phillipa’s gaze seemed to penetrate Girard’s very being and settle somewhere near his heart. Girard took a deep breath and told her about the gossip the twins had spread, how he had not wanted to believe the Master was guilty of such indiscretions. “For a long time I waited for Robert to appear outside Madeleine’s cell door, praying that he would not, meditating as best I could until hunger pangs distracted me.” Girard blushed at this awful admission. His body felt branded by the burn of prickly heat, yet he continued, for something about this woman demanded honestly. “I ate from a loaf of bread,” he said, and because it seemed to him that he must tell her everything, he continued. “A loaf I had stolen from the pantry.”

  “Go on,” she said, her face a smooth mask.

  “The bread tasted grainy and acrid and left my stomach bloated.” He slipped his crippled hand into the sleeve of his robe and paused. He felt winded, as though he had run a great distance. “I saw Robert’s shadow tossed against a wall. After that I remember only sensations. The convent seemed awash with smells. I felt bathed, no, drowned by the scent of tallow, butter, pomegranates and musk.”

  Nearby a trio of dogs barked a series of high, playful yelps that seemed to mock the seriousness of Girard’s words. Philippa furrowed her brow. He wondered if she was questioning the veracity of his tale. “I know this must sound like madness,” Girard said. He could hear the womanish need in his voice, a tight hysterical rise he abhorred but could not control. “I remember feeling nauseous and then this pounding, brilliant scent engulfed me.” His words galloped forward and he could not rein them in. “I say scent, but it was more like a barrage of sensation, a suffocating delight…” The air filled with the buzz of silence. Girard felt an oily sensation in his gut, the slip and slide of a memory, and he waited for it to come to him… Can’t be too careful these days, the Blois Innkeeper had said. A fortnight past Vital from Bourges served bread made from grain milled the previous spring, and his guest fell grievously ill with fevers and powerful visions.

  “The bread!” Girard said, “The bread was tainted!” And just like that he remembered his hand pushing open Madeleine’s door. “Dear Lord! I’m no better than Evraud!” he said, dropping to the ground before Philippa. “Thank God the Master interceded. But for him I would have committed a most grievous sin.” His jowls pressed the soil and he tasted clay. The sobs that rocked his body were nothing compared to the great convulsion of his soul. He felt turned inside out and emptied. A great shame settled on him, weighting him to the earth.

  “Get up, Brother Girard,” Philippa said. Her voice, though not unkind, offered no forgiveness.

  Keeping his eyes trained on a pebble tilted precariously in a tuft of grass, he rose with an awkwardness that embarrassed him almost as much as his tears.

  “Even if the bread was tainted, what you did was horrible,” Philippa said, shaking her head from side to side. “Madeleine is a good woman…” Her eyes darkened with anger.

 
Girard felt the slow crawl of prickly heat between his thighs. He deserved both her judgment and his own humiliation. Philippa paused and looked toward the base of the valley where the skeleton of Saint Lazare monastery broke through the trees. Turning her head slightly, she studied the ribbons of smoke rising from the nearby lepers’ encampment. “That said, and it must be said because tainted bread only freed an impulse that was there all along…”

  “I was weak,” Girard interrupted, dropping his head. “The serpent tricked me and I ate. For this I repent most heartily.”

  Philippa raised her hand to silence him. “Redemption is not as simple as confessing a wrong,” she said.

  Although her voice had softened, her expression remained inscrutable. He feared words might shatter any compassion she felt for him, so he said nothing.

  “And yet,” she continued, “all living creatures are sparks from the radiation of God’s brilliance, emerging from God like the rays of sun. It is my duty to seek out God’s brilliance in you.”

  “Bless you, Lady!” Girard cried. “Bless you!”

  “But even if you are one of God’s rays, you still must pay for your transgressions, suffer the consequences of your sin.”

  Philippa’s voice assumed a gravity that unnerved him. He feared that she had drifted into a consideration of some personal matter. Whatever it was that occupied her thoughts, he prayed that it would not eclipse her kindness.

  “I will speak to Robert,” Philippa said, “but I make no promises. I will tell him about the tainted bread, your regret and willingness to atone for your sins. Beyond that…” She lifted her hands and shrugged.