A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  “Father says your hair is gold, but I say it is more yellow than gold.” His voice, though deeper than the one she remembered, was still demanding, though more playful in tone, she thought.

  Philippa tugged off her wimple. Her hair was cropped short as a man’s, but even the weight of her starched head cloth could not flatten the curl. A breeze wafted through a casement window, cooling her nape and tickling her scalp, but Philippa remained entirely composed, allowing Will a good long look before she rubbed her itchy scalp with such vigor that the curls bounced crazily in every direction.

  Will’s laughter, an unguarded, breathy trill, made Philippa’s throat ache. “I think your hair is neither gold or yellow. I think it’s more the straw color of my pony’s mane!” he said.

  Sophie snorted, a sound more appreciative than disapproving, but Philippa could tell by the way Sibyl’s nervous fingers plucked at her bodice that she was not amused. “Oh, Will,” she said. “A lady does not want to be compared to a pony!”

  Momentarily abashed, Will blushed and dropped his head.

  Still kneeling, Philippa rested her hands on Will’s shoulders and waited for him to look up. When he did, his eyes had hardened. For though his expression was a grave copy of his father’s, Philippa knew that Will did not yet possess the fortitude and resilience of a man. “What’s your pony’s name?” she asked.

  “Sebastian,” he said, his eyes flashed excitement and the muscles around his mouth relaxed.

  “Is he a handsome pony?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, very handsome! Sebastian has brown eyes and a black muzzle that’s soft as pussy willows. And he’s ever so smart. He comes when I call, and when I ask him his name he whinnies and prances about the stable!”

  Neighing softly, Will circled Philippa’s cell with lively springing steps, ignoring Sibyl’s titter and grinning at Sophie and Philippa. When Will’s high-pitched neighs tumbled into boyish laughter, Philippa clapped her hands like a young girl. If William broke her heart, then the sound of his son’s laughter would meld it back together.

  Will, his face flushed and his breathing rapid, cantered to a stop beside Philippa. Lifting his hand to his mother’s cropped hair, he pinched one curl, lazily rubbing thumb against forefinger. Philippa’s chest ached, for her body recognized the gesture before her mind could piece together the memory it evoked. Closing her eyes, she gave herself over to the sweet pull of Will’s fingers. And then it came to her—Will’s fisted baby hand buried in her hair, his fingers opening and closing, grabbing hold a curl as she suckled him at her breast. Thank you Holy Mother, she prayed silently. Thank you for this moment.

  When Philippa’s boy released her curl, she opened her eyes and smiled. “Sebastian sounds wonderful,” she said. “And while I agree with Aunt Sophie that most ladies would not enjoy being likened to an animal, I am honored to be compared to such a fine pony.”

  This time when Philippa wrapped her arms around Will he hugged her back. “And does my sister also have pony hair?” he asked, his words warm against her neck.

  “Come,” she said, rising and holding out her hand, “you will see for yourself.”

  Will and Anne’s reunion contained no shyness or hesitancy. Physically reserved, Anne was by temperament and situation a solitary child, and Philippa knew from her aunts’ letters that Will would rather curry his pony in the silence of the stables than climb fences with his friends. But both had adventuresome minds, and within the hour they were concocting elaborate tales to entertain each other, stories involving ladies, knights and golden-haired stallions, instructive stories, Philippa noted, that sounded remarkably like the tales favored by Sibyl and Sophie.

  Philippa’s family stayed for a fortnight, and during that time she told many tales of her own. Anne and Will’s favorite by far was the story of the three weeks their great aunts and their mother bumped along the slick winter roads of northern France, navigating swampy puddles and muddy quagmires on the journey to meet their father. In the telling, Philippa recalled her own fluttery excitement and also how certain she had been that William was her destiny. Sitting between their two children, their bodies leaning into hers, she realized that she had been right. Nothing she would ever do in life would exceed the miracle of Will and Anne.

  Shortly after Philippa’s family visited, Hersend approached her in her cell. “The Master would like to speak with you before he leaves for business in Anjou,” she said. “He is waiting in the chapel.” She took her leave before Philippa had a chance to ask questions.

  Since Will’s visit, Philippa had been filled with girlish energy. Hastening to the chapel, she entered through the south door of the transept where she found Robert deep in prayer, his rosary beads draped over his fingers, his eyes affixed on a marble statue of the Virgin. One of the novices placed a vase of lilies at Our Lady’s feet, and while the long-stemmed flowers were lovely, Philippa could not help thinking, quite uncharitably she knew, that Madeleine’s arrangements had always been more interesting. Her fragrant bouquets of roses and wildflowers were often spiked with sprigs of juniper or foxglove, unexpected additions that delighted Philippa. Not everyone agreed with her. Sister Beatrice complained to the abbess that Madeleine’s “odd arrangements” were a “spiritual distraction.” Mother Hersend replied simply, “Well then sister, don’t look at them.”

  When Robert sensed Philippa’s presence, he rose from the kneeler. “Please,” he said, indicating with a gracious sweep of his hand that she should enter the pew. He waited until she was seated before taking a place beside her. “So,” he said, smiling, “you enjoyed your visit with your family?”

  “Oh, yes! More than I can possibly say. Will is a fine young man, bright and well mannered. I would be lying if I didn’t say I resent the years of separation. But I thank the Lord that he is thriving.”

  Robert squeezed Philippa’s hand. “Good,” he said.

  His voice was as powerful as ever, but Philippa detected fatigue in the shadows beneath his eyes. “You look tired, Master,” she said. “The balance between the active life and the contemplative one is never easy, is it?”

  “Ah,” he sat, patting her hand with his own. “Of course you would understand. You and I have similar temperaments, Philippa.”

  Philippa could not imagine what she had in common with a holy man who worked miracles. Surely Robert’s humours were in perfect balance while hers, as William had so often reminded her, were dominated by an overabundance of bile. One of the lay brothers furiously swept the nave. Philippa waited for the swish of reed bristles to subside before responding. “While I am deeply flattered that you think us similar, I’m not sure I understand.”

  “We are ambitious people whose interests are varied. You’ve married, supervised a household, managed an estate, and now you’ve found the love of God and entered into a new marriage to the church. And, of course, without your generous contributions, there would be no abbey.”

  When the Master looked into Philippa’s eyes she remembered the first time she had heard him preach, at the Cathedral of St. Sernin. The young barefoot priest had been a bundle of contradictions, his broad shoulders and muscular limbs at odds with his humble bearing; his somber expression a contrast to the zeal that lit his eyes. But it was his voice that held Philippa’s attention—then and now—and prompted her to look honestly at her life.

  “William’s money helped fund the building of Fontevraud,” she said, “not mine.”

  “Without your urging I doubt William would have made such generous donations, and had you not acted as his regent, there might not be monies to bequeath.”

  “Thank you, Master Robert, but I think you give me more credit than I’m due. When I ruled Poitiers in my husband’s stead I made grievous errors that resulted in the loss of land and lives.”

  “I suspect your story is more involved than the one you tell yourself,” Robert said.

  Quite sud
denly the chapel seemed dreary and contained. Philippa rearranged the folds of her robe, but only because her fidgety fingers needed something to do. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “People or events may bring difficulties and complications, but they also herald new possibilities. Sometimes in working though the unforeseen, we discover strengths of character previously held in reserve.”

  As was his way, Robert paused. Philippa did not feel pressured to articulate some epiphany she had had in response to his learned words. Indeed, Robert seemed entirely absorbed in the vase of lilies at Our Lady’s feet.

  “Augustine says that when we enjoy the beauty of nature, we are really taking pleasure in God. For it was through God’s Light that all colors and luminosity, in heaven and on earth, came into being.”

  The lazy droop of fluted petals filled Philippa with appreciation for His divine grace.

  “Sometimes, Philippa,” Robert continued in the low, vibrant tone she associated with the confessional, “the din of our daily activity prevents us from knowing what is truly important. We hear our thoughts, but we do not listen to their meaning. If we have the courage to accept life in all its complexity, if we can view the disappointments and the triumphs as a single strand that binds us irrevocably to Our Maker, we are that much closer to deciphering the cryptic language of our souls.”

  “The truth is,” she said, “I loved the challenge of decision making. Perhaps I thought if I succeeded in managing William’s affairs, he would see me as an equal. But life is more complicated than one imagines, is it not? For even as I gloated over my success, I was not happy, for I resented the time I spent away from my child. And then, when William returned from his crusade and took back control of his estate, I resented that as well.”

  “You are not alone, Philippa. It’s not unusual for one desire to be yoked to its opposite.” She understood from his furrowed brow that his words, while meant for her, were relevant to his own life as well. “It’s important to keep in mind that all things in human experience can be used in service of the soul’s return to God,” Robert said.

  A line of monks carrying chant books entered the central aisle of the church and began practicing the gradual, an elaborate Gregorian chant of enormous difficulty. Robert and Philippa returned to a prayerful contemplation of their own thoughts until the choir paused to discuss the execution of a particularly difficult musical phrase.

  “What I want to discuss with you is not the past but the future,” Robert said. “I propose that you begin leading a more active life, one that takes you beyond the walls of the abbey into the larger world where you would act as my ambassador, soliciting funds from the nobles. You have lived and worked among the lords and ladies. You know the circumstance of their estates and the character of their minds. You could be of tremendous help.”

  “The larger world?” Philippa said and felt a tumbling excitement in the pit of her stomach. “And what of Anne?”

  “Your daughter may accompany you and your entourage. Your travel would be seasonal—when the weather is fair and the roads accessible. In the inclement months, you would be free to pursue a life of study and prayer.”

  Philippa thrilled at Robert’s proposal. In serving him she could also serve herself! And yet, she felt a hesitancy of spirit, for she had lived apart from the bustle of secular life for a very long time and feared she would not remember how to navigate the social rules and expectations. Here among the holy men and woman she had found peace of mind. What if she were to run across her husband and his mistress, what then?

  Robert placed his hand on her arm. “I know you are afraid,” he said. “But our Lord will not allow your feet to slip. Whatever you decide, He will keep you from all harm; He will preserve your soul. Trust in His goodness and His grace, and He will show you the way. And Philippa,” Robert added. “Your travels would take you quite often to Poitiers. You could see your son.”

  “Yes!” she said, smiling broadly. “I will act as your ambassador, Robert.” Throwing her arms around him, Philippa gave Robert a quick hug. “I will not disappoint you,” she said.

  “Benite exultemus domino,” Robert said. “Come let us praise the Lord.”

  Girard almost lost his balance on the gravel path descending to Saint Lazare when Petronilla suggested that he minister to Evraud. “Evraud, the robber, do you mean?”

  “Reformed robber,” Petronilla said. “He is not the same man who led the thugs who attacked your party.”

  Girard wondered if it was God’s will or a nun’s fancy that his penance should be so excruciating.

  “Evraud is dying a painful death, and you have the capacity to ease his suffering, bring peace to his final days.”

  While the others at Saint Lazare had joined the pilgrimage already afflicted with leprosy, Evraud alone had contracted the disease at Fontevraud. Girard was not the first to wonder if the robber’s illness were an act of divine retribution, but none pondered the possibility with greater self-interest, for while Girard had not accosted innocent travelers, he would have raped Madeleine if Robert had not intervened. Evraud and he were similarly depraved, so perhaps it followed that they would suffer the same horrendous death.

  Looking at the steeple of Saint Lazare’s chapel rising from the valley floor, Girard’s gut clinched at the thought of becoming one of the scaly unclean fated to die by degrees. Until now, the possibility had seemed remote, for while he resided at Saint Lazare, except for devotions and meals, he seldom interacted with the lepers. His position as washer of wraps provided distance between himself and the disease, even if only the length of a hickory stick. But daily physical contact with the dying seemed fraught with danger.

  Not only did he fear contracting the disease, he feared disgracing himself before Petronilla and, more importantly, the Master. A good caretaker must intuit the needs of his patient, and Girard was not sure he possessed the capacity to know anything without careful thought and deliberation. Somewhere in his long journey from his father’s house to Fontevraud, Girard had come to see himself as a cripple with a blustering tone and a mind for memorizing psalms, an educated man fluent in Latin but unschooled in the nuances of the heart.

  “I have no experience caring for the sick,” Girard said, coming to a stop, “and my deformity,” he continued, uncovering his flaccid arm, “will make the task impossible.”

  “Difficult perhaps, but not impossible,” Petronilla said. “No need to worry, Brother Girard. We are all fallible and flawed.”

  Girard blushed, and covered his deformity.

  “And yet, we must persevere, offering ourselves up, making use of our God-given gifts. You, my friend, have the gifts of compassion and fortitude, admirable qualities best put to use helping others.”

  Petronilla’s praise startled Girard. Since arriving at Saint Lazare he occasionally felt the pinch of an individual’s despair or recognized the kindness implicit in another’s generosity. And sometimes while watching the children play, he knew the same joy he had known submerged in the pond with Moriuht. But he viewed these experiences as lucky anomalies rather than reasoned proof that he had learned to identify with and understand other people’s feelings. More often he was disgusted by his fellow man. Instead of empathizing with their suffering, he focused on their careless hygiene and bad manners. He tried to replace judgment with acceptance, but the substitution did not come easily. As to fortitude, Girard simply did not associate strength and endurance with his character. True, he worked diligently and without complaint, but what choice did he have? It was that or, scorned by the Master, take leave of Fontevraud.

  “Come, there’s much to learn and I will help you.” Petronilla tapped Girard’s shoulder and the two resumed their descent toward Saint Lazare.

  His eyes trained on the steep path, Girard walked in silence broken only by the intermittent coo of a dove and the crunch of gravel beneath their sandals. When Petronilla resum
ed speaking, her voice was low and measured.

  “Many of the dying fear a loss of dignity and harbor a deep desire to be alone with their pain. They will not tell you what their needs are, so you must learn to recognize them on your own. Discovering what’s best for each individual is not easy. What comforts one may annoy another. It’s a matter of trial and error.”

  Girard stopped beside a spindly bush and turned to face her. “Trial and error?”

  “For instance, Evraud’s humors are out of balance,” she said, wobbling her hand back and forth. “He is nearly blind and has very little feeling in his arms and legs.” Petronilla glanced up, squinting at the bright fog that was beginning to lift. “Never the less,” she continued, “he likes me to look into his eyes when I speak and to massage his arms and legs daily. You, Brother Girard must do the same,” she said, quickening her pace.

  “But if the man cannot see or feel,” Girard said, stumbling to catch up, “I don’t understand the benefit of either act.”

  “Evraud will sense when he has your full attention,” she said before stopping in a hazy pool of sunlight and taking Girard’s hand in her own. “And even though he cannot feel the slide of your flesh against his, the mere gesture will evoke a recollection of some other touch and that memory will console and comfort him. Just be gentle,” she cautioned, the pad of her thumb stroking the back of his hand. “For a leper’s skin is fragile and tears as readily as parchment.”

  Girard recalled an afternoon spent working in the scriptorium. Distracted by hunger, he had pressed too vigorously while copying a minime, forcing the tip of his stylus through the vellum. He imaged his clumsy fingers ripping through leper skin and he shuddered. “I cannot do what you are asking.” When he raised his eyes to meet Petronilla’s, she released his hand and lifted her face to the heavens. Together they watched a wisp of fog drift across the skies. While the sweeping motion seemed to settle Petronilla, it left Girard dizzy and disoriented.