A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  “You are right,” Philippa said, touching Madeleine’s hand. “I have made this discussion about me, a common fault of privileged Lords and Ladies. The issue is, of course, more complicated. Some women enter the abbey seeking refuge; others are sent against our wills. In either case, we are all displaced from a world that cannot contain us.”

  Madeleine did not fully understand Phillipa’s insistence that the women at Fontervand were all one in their strangeness. She felt little affinity with the novitiates and none at all with the twins. Except for Bertrad and Philippa, she felt isolated from the other women, but she remained silent. “Thank you for offering to secure calfskin,” she said.

  The bell for sext rang. Madeleine slipped the miniature between the pages of her prayer book and tucked the book into the pocket of her robe. “Time to go,” she said to Little.

  “You too, Anne,” Philippa called. Before they walked their separate ways, Philippa rested her hand on Madeleine’s shoulder. “I will write to arrange for the calf skin,” she said. “You have a special gift which should not be wasted.”

  The clove oil proved ineffective. Each morning Girard woke to the same realization: He would spend the rest of his life swallowing the fetid odor of lepers. For Sister Petronilla had been right, the stench of the disease was far worse than the sight of disfiguring nodules and skin lesions. Assigned the undignified job of washer of wraps, he spent his endless days behind Saint Lazare laundering soiled strips of linen, stirring the stinking mess with a hazel stick then hanging the simmering lot to dry on a wooden scaffolding that he thought of as the leper tree because even boiled clean the wraps blossomed pink. The soap, an astringent concoction of animal fat and lye, chapped his hands and burned the insides of his nose without ever completely eliminating bloodstains.

  The smell caused Girard to lose his appetite. Even to think of food made him gag. For the first time since his father’s death he ate out of necessity, forcing sops of bread past a tight gullet into a roiling belly that grew smaller and less demanding every day. Without the haunting presence of gluttony, he hardly knew what to do with his mind.

  Over the years he had spent hours plotting ways to sneak an extra serving of broth or bowl of pudding. Once, during the early days of Fontevraud, he had pilfered half a dozen pippins from a barrel in the kitchen. Under the cover of darkness, he sneaked through the cloisters to the chapel where he hid the forbidden fruits in the statue of Saint Benedict, tucking them one by one behind the stone book of rules held open in the icon’s hands. The next night, after the others had fallen asleep, Girard returned to feast on the apples, luxuriating in each tart mouthful. And while his secrecy had shamed him, it had also been oddly gratifying. That he could so easily deceive his fellow man convinced him of his own superior intelligence. During his time at the abbey, Girard had, he understood, grown even more contemptuous of human nature and come to question the motives and sincerity of others.

  But after six months of sharing meals with the lepers, his cynicism had been replaced by empathy, a less dependable, more dangerous emotion. When one of the afflicted, an old crone with a splayed and twisted nose, pushed aside her bowl of broth and announced, “For me, taste is but a memory,” Girard felt her pain in the sinews of his being.

  Shortly after the feast of James the Apostle, Girard stood at the leper tree, stirring a caldron of soap and lye as it emitted putrid clouds of yellow steam. He was imagining the miasma of damp hopes that floated the souls of the sinners assigned to purgatory when Petronilla appeared out of nowhere. Omnipresent in the valley, she lived among the unclean, holding their collapsed fingers, bathing their bodies grown hairless and polished as river stones.

  “Good afternoon, Brother!” Petronilla said, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to issue greetings over a cauldron of stewing leper rags!

  “Your work is greatly appreciated,” she said, briefly resting a hand on his shoulder. Her warm, uncomplicated touch soothed a need he had not known he had had. Sunlight funneled through the clouds. Petronilla closed her eyes and turned her body towards the warmth. All of his life Girard had longed to live in a world of pure sensations, and watching someone so comfortable with her own physical being filled him with awe. Opening her eyes with one blink, Petronilla turned and met his startled gaze. The plain wimple that framed her face lent gravity to her words. “Why is it that you’ve not once asked about Madeleine or Master Robert?”

  Girard stepped away from the cauldron, setting his hickory stick against the trunk of a tree. “I was afraid, not indifferent,” he said in barely audible tones. In the distance a child’s voice trilled an edgy excitement that could any minute escalate into whooping exhilaration or tears. “How are they?” he asked.

  “Madeleine takes joy in her child. And Master Robert, as you well know, is a disciplined and holy man whose faith is far stronger than some passing anger.” Practical and pragmatic, there was something spiritually settled about Petronilla. In this place of death and dying, she had found a way for her own soul to flourish. She saw the worst, prayed for the best, and accepted whatever came her way. Never self-righteous, always well meaning, she confronted sinners without appearing to judge them. With a kind word and a gentle nudge, she urged them forward on the cobbled road towards redemption. A whirlwind of good intentions, Petronilla both inspired and intimidated the people she cared about.

  A dragonfly flashed the air between them. Petronilla smiled, and her happiness reminded Girard of the joy that lit his mother’s face when she cooked her specialty—roasted game marinated in wine and marjoram. Both women delighted in small pleasures and modest triumphs.

  “I’m glad to hear that Madeleine and the Master are doing well,” Girard said.

  “Well enough,” she said. “It’s you I worry about, Girard. It’s your soul that occupies my thoughts. How is your soul doing?” she asked him as casually as one might ask about the weather.

  Girard imagined an object the size and shape of a dove’s breast covered with sores. Touching the sparse ring of hair surrounding his tonsure, he tried to translate this image into something less offensive. “I have come to think of my soul as… unwell,” he said.

  Petronilla’s nod seemed less a response to Girard’s words than an acknowledgement of human weakness. “Let me ask you something, Brother Girard,” she said. “Do you ever surprise yourself? Do you ever thrill to an unfamiliar act or consider a thought that seems borrowed from some other being?”

  Guilt crushed him, and he avoided her eyes. “What happened between Madeleine and me was a mistake, a terrible mistake. I never meant…”

  “You misunderstand,” she said, resting a firm hand on his shoulder. “I’m not talking about the occasions of sin. I’m talking about impulses that reveal our best intentions. Those spontaneous moments that feel like pure indulgence, but which sometimes turn out to be so much more.”

  “No,” Girard said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever done anything that surprised me, at least not in a good way.” Evasiveness and secrecy were so habitual that the truth sounded oddly insincere to his ears. Or maybe it was not the words themselves, but the tone, completely unlike the commanding tone he had assiduously adapted at seminary.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said, her voice thick with emotion he could not immediately identify. Not pity, for Petronilla did not have it in her to pity anyone. No, Girard felt certain that her words contained something so much more. When Petronilla next spoke, she assumed a more cheerful tone. “I’ve arranged for a friend of yours to visit. Selfishly, I’m hoping he’ll agree to stay and work among us.”

  A friend? Who could she mean? For Girard was not so deluded as to think he had any real friends. “Brother Peter?” he asked, recalling the oddly compelling scratch of the monk’s pen moving across vellum.

  “Oh no, no!” Petronilla laughed. “A studious and devout man, by any standards, but hardly fit to work among the lepers! It
takes a special sort to do that,” she said. And for the briefest of moments Girard basked in Petronilla’s compliment.

  “No, dear, not Peter, but Moriuht! I have always liked the man, and I hear he’s become a great favorite among the children. Quite the jester, I understand. If nothing else, your friend will upset our routine, shake things up a bit!”

  Of all people, Girard thought, why Moriuht? Where on earth did she get the idea that Moriuht was a friend? Smiling politely, he silently recited the Agnus Dei—Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.

  “Ah, here he is now,” she said pointing to the twisting trail that descended from the main monastery. Motes of pollen floated the bands of sunlight pressing through the canopy of hawthorn trees.

  Ah, yes, Girard thought, I would recognize the creature’s lopping, erratic gait anywhere.

  “Welcome, Brother,” Petronilla called out. “He does take joy in life, does he not?” she asked Girard. “Look how he dances!”

  Before he could respond, Moriuht was upon them, breathless and disheveled. “I’ve brought you the jaw bone of a hare,” he said. Reaching into the deep pocket of his robe, he retrieved his gift, running his fingers along the mandible’s curve before handing it to Petronilla with a toothless grin.

  “Ah, such stark beauty!” she said, turning the bone in her hands, examining it from every angle. When she looked up it was clear to Girard that her praise was heartfelt. “Well, I’ve work to do. You two enjoy your time together.” Clutching the bone in one hand, she waved with the other.

  Moriuht watched her disappear into Saint Lazare before turning his attention to Girard. “Look at us!” he bellowed. “You’ve lost your blubber, and I’ve lost my teeth!” He strode towards Girard with opened arms. Buried in Moriuht’s embrace, Girard could not help wondering if chiggers and lice still infested his gold-streaked beard and the ragged snarls of his hair. Certainly he still reeked of garlic and leeks.

  “You know what I’d like?” Moriuht said, slapping Girard’s back before releasing him. “I’d like to splash about a bit before vespers. Come. The rags will wait,” he said, dismissing the steaming caldron with a wave of his hand. Tired and ready for a break, Girard nodded, following Moriuht into the copse of boxwood that sheltered the fount of Evraud.

  When they reached the pond, the silly fool pulled his robe over his head and leapt in with a whoop that set a whole limb of sparrows to flight. Standing chest high in water, Moriuht raised his arms above his head and swayed, an awkward but exhilarating gyration that left Girard appalled and vaguely envious. What kind of courage must a man possess to engage in such absurdity?

  “Come in, Brother Girard,” he yelled before diving shallow and resurfacing a few yards away. Water beaded his beard and streamed down his neck and shoulders.

  When Moriuht smiled, all gums and exuberance, Girard felt an envy that was as potent as lust. I would like to stand as he stands, fearless and steady.

  “Take off your robes and join me,” Moriuht shouted. “The water is sweet and restorative.”

  Standing on the shore beneath an overhang of tree limbs, Girard considered the possibility. It was true he had lost a great deal of weight. The apron of flesh that had for years obscured his sex was all but gone, and when he touched his chest he could feel an unfamiliar ripple of rib cage. Still, Girard had not disrobed in front of anyone since his mother bathed him as a child and he was not at all sure he was prepared to do so now. What if one of the women should come upon them? Or Robert? The whole venture seemed wildly inappropriate. After all, there were wraps to be laundered and anyway, he could not swim.

  “I think I shall remain safely on the shore,” he said, thinking, I am afraid of so many things.

  Moriuht nodded. Between tumbling submersions, he discussed Robert’s goodness, Madeleine’s child, the industry of bees, and the grace implicit in a sunset. What he lacked in eloquence, he made up for in passion, urged on by the sheer momentum of his joyful appreciation of life. Girard began to feel it too. He felt it in the buzz of insects and in the chatter of magpies. By the time Moriuht had shared a plotless dream involving rabbits and marigolds, the still clothed Girard was ankle deep in water.

  “Come on, Brother. You’re half way there,” Moriuht urged.

  Perhaps for a minute, Girard thought, mesmerized by the graceful weave of Moriuht’s hands parting water. Just to give my aching muscles a rest. Modestly turning his back to Moriuht, he peeled off his robe and tossed it onto shore before covering his genitals and wading cautiously into the pond. He watched a water bug skitter the surface and thought that he had never known anything as uncomplicated as the squish of mud between his toes.

  “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Moriuht bellowed.

  Submerged shoulder-high in pond water, Girard smiled. Not his usual obsequious smile, the one bracketing a hollow need, a bottomless desire, but a smile full of joy and greedy for more. “Yes,” Girard said. “Oh, yes!” When the laughter came it was as powerful as it was unexpected, an ecstatic sound—loud, raucous and rippling with delight.

  Philippa took her final vows on the first Sunday in Advent. At her clothing ceremony where she received her habit, she felt as though she were coming home. If she could only see her son and venture out into the world now and then, her life would be perfect. Despite these restrictions, Philippa found peace at Fontevraud. The ordinary and extraordinary individuals who made up the community of women supported Philippa in her decision to pursue a life of study, contemplation and prayer by offering both their guidance and their friendship. But every now and then, she felt a sorrow that extinguished joy. Her heart pounded against her ribcage with such force she felt the beat in her fingertips.

  On one such day in early summer, Philippa sat by the window of her cell, watching the cloisters gradually emerge in the morning light. Their lush lawns squared by hedges, crossed by gravel paths and framed by arched galleries reflected the order and serenity of a life of solitude. Usually the sight comforted and consoled Philippa, but this morning it only contributed to her anxiety. The previous night she had dreamed of demons, longbows, and lightning strikes, and now she worried that she was growing morbid in her seclusion.

  A flurry of activity in the gallery below interrupted her thoughts. She had grown so accustomed to the whisper of bare feet and sandals that at first she could not make sense of the clump of leather-soled shoes taking the stairs. Aunt Sibyl was first through the door. “My dear Philippa! My child!” she said. Thumbs brushing fingertips, she bustled across the room and wrapped her arms around her niece.

  Not a fortnight had passed since her arrival at Fontevraud without a letter from Sophie and Sibyl appraising Philippa of young Will’s doings and assuring her that as soon as they were given leave, they would journey to see her in her new home, but after three long years, Philippa had almost given up hope of ever seeing her family again.

  Philippa kissed her aunt’s wrinkled cheeks, breathed in her powdery scent and thought how long it had been since she had touched anyone but Anne.

  “Have you come alone, Auntie?” she asked.

  “Alone? My dear child, Sophie and I have brought your son!”

  As a young girl Philippa saw the Garonne River overflow its banks and surge across the land, swallowing scrub brush and furrowed fields alike. The idea that she might be swept away in the swelling tide had filled her with joy. When Sophie entered the room with young Will in tow, Philippa looked at the sturdy seven-year-old before her and felt awash in a love as fierce as raging floodwaters. She wanted to wade in, immerse herself wholly in its power.

  Sophie embraced Philippa, rising up on tiptoes to whisper in her lovely gruff voice, “Give the boy time to take you in, dear.”

  The air shimmered with silence Philippa did not break, not even to whisper a prayer, for life at Fontevraud had taught her that patience is a kind of generosity. She was not al
together surprised when Will avoided her eyes and studied her cell instead. When Philippa managed Aquitaine and traveled from dependency to dependency, she too had paid careful attention to the houses she visited, for she had learned early on that a brass candle holder, a crystal vase arranged just so to catch the morning light, even something as seemingly inconsequential as a scattering of cake crumbs revealed much about the occupant.

  Her cot, covered with a bleached linen spread folded and tucked precisely at the corners, suggested a fastidious nature but also, she feared, a certain rigidity of temperament, a need for constancy and routine. On the pine table beside the cot was one of Madeleine’s miniatures, Our Lady in all her glory. When Will glanced at it, a scrim of apprehension veiled his eyes, and Philippa worried that he might think her overly devout. In fact, she admired the beauty of the composition—Mary’s warm luminous flesh and crisp blue robe—as much as she revered the subject. But neither the cot nor the miniature held Will’s attention for long. His eyes remained fixed on the silver crucifix, a gift from Philippa’s father on her first communion, which hung on the wall opposite her cot. The cross had once graced the wall of Philippa’s chambers in Poitiers.

  While her son studied the crucifix, Philippa studied him. Will was both taller and stronger than the child she had imagined. To have lost out on these growing years filled her with sorrow. Consciously, deliberately she turned her attention outward, focused on the way sunlight warmed the tiny space of her cell and bathed the room in pearly shades.

  When at last Will looked at her, he examined her thoroughly. His eyes were the same blue as his father’s. But whereas William’s glance was full of fire and heat, Will’s was cool, cautious, and even more difficult to decipher. “That expression will bedevil the women who love you,” she said, “and there will be many woman, for you have grown as handsome as your father, tall and fine limbed.” When she touched his cheek he surprised her by closing his eyes. Dropping to her knees, Philippa scooped him into her arms. And while he did not return her embrace, neither did he pull away. Philippa pressed her mouth against Will’s crown and breathed in his grassy scent. His light hair had turned a darker shade of russet, but it still tickled baby soft against her lips. When Will stepped out of Philippa’s embrace and touched her wimple, she held her breath and dared not blink for fear of frightening him away.