A Place of Light

by Kim Silveira Wolterbeek

  Robert returned to the abbey, weak with hunger and tired from his journey. On the long walk from Anjou to Fontevraud, he had grown so accustomed to the silence of his own thoughts that it took him a moment to process Mother Hersend’s words. “It arrived in your absence,” she explained, handing him an epistle. “I thought it might be important.”

  “From Abbot Geoffrey!” Robert said, recognizing the letter’s seal, and the imprint of Trinity Church. He ran his finger over the dried ridge of wax. His heart filled with joy, for he had not received any correspondence from his old friend in some time.

  “You must be tired,” Hersend said, directing him to a bench in the garden.

  For a full fortnight Robert had fasted and discussed his plans for establishing daughter houses with interested clergy and nobles in Anjou. Though the meetings proved inconclusive, he hoped the fasting had cleansed his soul and prepared him for the next phase of his life. For now that Philippa had agreed to act as his ambassador, Robert could focus more fully on his ministry.

  “Why not sit for a while and read your letter? We can meet later in the day to discuss abbey business,” Hersend said.

  “Thank you, Reverend Mother. As always, you are sensitive to my needs.”

  Hersend nodded and took her leave. Robert eased himself onto the bench. He pressed the small of his back against the slats and heaved a sigh of relief. The sun shone high in the sky. A lone wood pigeon bobbed among the herbs. Nearby a trio of novitiates pulled weeds and watered flowers, their low chatter disturbing his concentration. Slipping Geoffrey’s letter into his robe, Robert rose slowly, flexing the muscles of his legs, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head from side to side before retreating to the relative quiet of the Great Church.

  Pausing in the vestibule, he dipped his fingers into the marble stoup of holy water and crossed himself. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he studied the cathedral. Perhaps because of his time away from Fontevraud, he felt newly struck by the building’s austere beauty. No ornamentation whatsoever—no statues, paintings, tapestries, or foliated capitals—distracted the eye from the stark magnificence of sleek white columns rising to expansive vaulted ceilings. In the unfinished chapel no stained glass smudged the purity of the altar. Instead, a beam of sunlight shot through a clear window above a balustrade, a brilliant reminder of God’s goodness and His glory. Taking a seat in an unstained pew, Robert withdrew Geoffrey’s missive from his robe, slid his thumb beneath the vellum flap and broke the seal. Following an unusually formal greeting, the abbot launched into an angry attack on Robert’s character:

  We have heard malicious reports about you. You allow certain women to abide with you in too familiar a manner, often exchanging private conversations with them, and at night you do not refrain from sleeping with them.

  Stunned by his friend’s accusation, Robert recalled rumors of Saint Scothine, a so-called holy man, who engaged in white martyrdom by holding two naked girls to his breast while purportedly thinking only of our Lord Jesus Christ. His heart pounding in his ears, Robert wondered if Geoffrey thought him capable of such scurrilous indulgence. Relaxing his clinched fingers so as not to tear the vellum, he scanned the rest of the letter, a document riddled with malicious reports and false allegations, and then, too agitated to remain seated, he rose from the pew, placed Geoffrey’s correspondence in his robe and left the church by a small door in the transept. Entering one of the galleries that framed the cloisters, he glimpsed the courtyard though an arched window. The lawn reminded him of the enclosed garden at Vendôme. Much time had passed since he had last entered the hallowed halls of Trinity, but he easily recalled Geoffrey’s kindness to the pilgrims and could not imagine his compassionate friend penning such a vicious epistle. Following the galleries around the cloisters, he passed the chapter house, the common room, and the passageway leading to the men’s monastery. He paused by the stone stairs leading to the nun’s dorters, took a deep breath and prayed for the strength to turn the other cheek before exiting through the south door of the novices’ house and descending to the fount. Sitting among the reeds that circled the pond, he listened to the rush of wind and watched sunlight skitter the surface of the pond until his pulse slowed and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed enough for him to decipher his heart’s desire. Only then did he rise and go where he had longed to be since returning from Anjou.

  As he drew near the commoners’ priory, Robert spotted Little Marie and a bevy of children playing under the watchful eye of Bertrad. Little squealed and jumped into his arms with an exuberance that never failed to charm him. In promising Marie to care for Little and her mother, he had opened up a piece of his heart previously held in reserve. The child buried her hands in the snarls of his beard and pulled his face closer to hers until their noses touched. In Little’s spirit, if not her looks, Robert saw a resemblance to Madeleine. Both were independent thinkers; both saw past his priestly façade to the man beneath.

  “Bodkins has run away,” Little said, her breath warm against his face. “My mother says that sometimes old cats go away to die. She says that Bodkins was Mother Marie’s cat and that he has lived a very long life. Do you think Bodkins has gone away to die?”

  Robert had never spoken with the tip of his nose pressed firmly against another’s, but he found the sensation surprisingly pleasant. “Most likely,” he said, for he did not patronize Little. When she turned her head and blinked, her lashes fluttered against his cheek.

  “But you were gone for a very long time. And here you are!” Leaning back in his arms, Little patted his chest with her hands. “So maybe Bodkins will return as well?”

  “Maybe,” Robert said, “but probably not.”

  Her body tensed. He pulled her close, kissed her wild curls and breathed in the clean scent of her new life. When she looked up at him with her oddly colored eyes so full of trust, he longed to be the person she saw, a man capable of resurrecting dead cats and healing grief. “I have heard that Brother Justin’s tabby birthed a litter of kittens,” he said. “Shall I ask him if I might bring you one?”

  Little’s brow furrowed. She leaned back in Robert’s arms and studied his expression. The weight and warmth of her small body delighted him beyond reason.

  “Not to replace Bodkins of course, for no kitten could do that,” he reassured her, “but to sleep at the end of your cot and keep your feet warm.” He tickled the sole of her bare foot until a tentative smile gave way to giggles. When he stopped, Little held out the other foot and wriggled her toes.

  “Do it again,” she said.

  Robert obliged, the two of them laughing together. When finally Little had enough, she rested her cheek against his shoulder and asked, “But what if Bodkins should return? What then?”

  “Then he’ll have a friend,” Robert said.

  Satisfied, she kissed him head on, nose pressed to nose and eyes wide open, before wriggling to be put down so that she might rejoin her friends.

  As he neared the cloisters, Robert felt a new urgency. Giving no thought to convention or propriety he quickened his pace and mounted the stone steps two at a time.

  When he arrived at Madeleine’s open door, she stood haloed in sunlight. Separating her long hair into three bunches, she plaited and tossed the braid over her shoulder. The intimacy of these simple gestures sent a shiver down his spine. Robert contemplated Augustine’s rejection of the passions of the flesh and wondered if this simple act of denial was beyond his capacity. He did not exhale until Madeleine turned her head and spotted him.

  For a moment she said nothing, only stared with the befuddled look of someone deep in thought.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, Madeleine,” he said.

  She scanned the air around his head. Her ability to see and smell color had not waned after she had given birth. If anything, her extraordinary senses had heightened. Whatever she saw now disturbed her. Madeleine blushed and droppe
d her eyes. “Have you seen Little Marie?” she asked.

  “Just now,” he said, marveling at the love he felt for this woman. What was it that set her apart from all others? How was it that their two pulses seemed to beat as one?

  “The child missed you so,” she said. “It seemed to her that you were gone much longer than a fortnight.”

  Robert studied Madeleine’s face hoping to detect a greater meaning in her words. She was not a flirtatious woman, but perhaps she spoke obliquely of her own loneliness? “And how about you, Madeleine? Did it seem to you that I was gone for a very long time?”

  Madeleine stroked the plait of her braid. “I used the time well, Master. While you were in Anjou I studied the gospels.” Her eyes shifted to a Bible on her cot.

  The hesitancy in her voice filled him with hope. There was no logic in love. Love was not a puzzling passage of scripture to be studied and deciphered. Like the flash of sunlight through foliage or the shared exhalation of a chant, love required nothing beyond an accepting heart. “Brother Peter tells me you are an apt and able student.”

  Madeleine blushed and the freckles that scattered her cheeks grew darker. “I’m a hard worker,” she said simply, examining his face. “Sit down. You don’t look well. Have you eaten today?”

  Hunger was as familiar to Robert as the oblivion of sleep. Unless someone drew attention to his body’s need for nourishment or sleep, he scarcely gave either a thought. He shook his head. “Bertrad has just this morning brought me a basket of apples. I’ll cut one for you,” Madeleine said, and went to retrieve a woven basket stashed next to the nightstand.

  Robert settled into one of two chairs on either end of a small table. Above the table was a wooden crucifix, and on the wall opposite hung Marie’s unicorn tapestry, the sight of which sparked a sense of loss in Robert, for he missed Marie’s kind heart and common sense. Gradually, and over time, Robert had come to understand that Marie’s practicality as much as his own faith had brought him to this place. It was Marie who had reminded him that masons needed coins in their pockets and sharp tools in their hands if he expected them to carve steeples out of stone. And when he skipped meals, Marie reprimanded him, the kindness in her eyes softening the gritty truth wedged between her words—“You must eat if you hope to live long enough to turn widows into nuns and godless whores into true believers.” Without Marie, Robert might still be wandering the countryside, speaking endlessly, if eloquently, of his rain-drenched vision in the forest of Craon.

  “Do you think Mother Marie knew happiness at Fontevraud?” Robert asked.

  Madeleine set the basket on the table. Nudging a curl off her forehead with the back of her hand, she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Just before Marie died she told me that her life had never been so free of worry.” She picked up and discarded several apples before selecting a near perfect specimen. “How about you, Robert? Are you happy?” She paused, one hand holding the apple aloft.

  Her question startled him, for Madeleine’s questions were few and seldom personal. When I’m near you, he thought, I’m as happy as I will ever be in this life. He readjusted his weight in the chair. “Today I’m worried about a letter I received from Abbot Geoffrey,” he said, fingering a dried smear of red paint on the tabletop. “In his letter Geoffrey makes false accusations against my character!” Robert said, slamming his fist against the table with more force than he had intended. He understood his anger, though real enough, also served as a convenient diversion, for complaining about the injustice of Geoffrey’s letter was far easier than confronting his love for Madeleine.

  “You’re a good man, Robert. Who would know that better than I?” Madeleine said and quickly glanced away before he could read the expression on her face. She glossed the apple against her robe, and Robert felt a wave of desire that left him light-headed and ashamed.

  “I’m not so sure,” he said, studying his fist.

  “What do you mean?”

  What was it about this woman that gave him leave to reveal his deepest fears? Taking a deep breath, he continued. “The abbot says I show preference to certain women.”

  “Certain women?” Madeleine laid the apple on a wooden trencher.

  Robert nodded. “Geoffrey accuses me of favoring the reformed sinners over the widows and nuns.”

  Madeleine placed the trencher on the table between them. “You care deeply for the unfortunates, we who’ve known hunger and poverty. But you are also attentive to the needs of the widows and nuns,” she said.

  “I believe that the truth of any man is manifest in his deeds, and my deeds have taken me to far more brothels and huts than palaces or cathedrals.” Robert’s voice surprised him. Halting, fumbling, it barely rose above a whisper.

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. “Many clergy eagerly serve gentlemen and ladies. Fewer feel called to minister to the poor and the needy!” The sight of Madeleine’s anger excited him. “You’re too hard on yourself, Master Robert,” she said. Taking a paring knife from a drawer, she quartered and sliced the apple, releasing a sweet scent into the room. She took a piece for herself before fanning the remaining slices across the trencher.

  Robert imagined her fingers trailing his skin and his belly tightened. “The abbot says also that he fears a man cannot be chaste in mind living among women,” he said.

  Madeleine met his eyes and held them. Lowering her voice, she spoke softly, “I know the man is a great favorite of yours, but surely you must see that he is not always right. It’s possible to feel desire and not act upon it,” she said. And while her hands shook ever so slightly, her face remained as beautifully composed as a prayer.

  The bell for vespers rang. Robert heard the shuffled steps of the nuns on the way to chapel.

  “You really must eat now,” Madeleine said. She took a few steps until she stood directly in front of him. Sunlight spilling from a high window lit her face and shoulders, highlighting the amber streaks in her hair. “Apples hold the scent of autumn in their peels and the taste of summer in their pulp,” she said.

  A soft compliance engulfed Robert. Even the memory of the snake whispering evil into Eve’s ear did not dissuade him from accepting the apple from Madeleine’s hand. Closing his eyes, Robert luxuriated in the slide of his tongue against the fruit’s firm skin before biting down and releasing its tart juices.

  Madeleine reached for another slice. Her arm brushed Robert’s chest, and he felt himself unraveling. My Lord God help me see the road ahead of me, he prayed silently. Grant me the will to abstain from this temptation, which surely Madeleine does not intend and righteousness forbids.

  She motioned to the trencher. Robert took another slice. Madeleine’s attention remained fixed on him until the clink of a chisel cutting stone startled her and she lifted her eyes to the window.

  As he studied her profile it occurred to Robert that if he set about establishing daughter houses, the greater share of his life would be lived apart from her, and it was all he could do to stop himself from weeping.

  “Madeleine…” he said, his voice reedy with impending loss.

  “What is it Robert?” He felt a vibration of her words in his chest, they were that close. “Tell me,” she whispered and tentatively placed her hand against his bearded cheek.

  A great whooshing sound filled his head, battering his thoughts against his skull until he could no longer distinguish God’s will from the agony of his own desire. Oh my Madeleine, is it possible your touch will be my undoing? he wondered, just as the room began to spin out of control.

  “Robert!” The alarm in Madeleine’s voice rang fierce and protective. “You are white as a ghost! Fasting has made you weak. Come, lie down,” she said, taking hold of his arm and leading him to her cot.

  The cot smelled of soap, sunlight and Madeleine’s hair. Her hands have gathered these very linens and wrapped them tight around her shoulders, Robert thought, recalling
that long ago day in the grove when he had covered her naked body with his alb and lifted her onto the back of Philippa’s stallion. The soul exists in opposition to the wishes of the flesh. When we live according to our soul’s desire, we become strangers to lust, the words echoed in his mind, as if uttering scripture could make it so. But Madeleine’s nearness, the milky length of her arms, the bluish underside of her wrists, even the crescent moons of her nails conspired against him. This one time, O Lord, let me have this one time and I will rededicate my life to you.

  “Close your eyes, Robert,” Madeleine said in a raspy, uneven voice.

  “Perhaps I will rest for a moment,” he said.

  Pulling a stool nearer the cot, she began to hum softly. Outside, the world went on without them. Skylarks wheeled across the heavens and mallards waddled among willows and floated the pond. In the kitchen the cook prepared the next meal with silent efficiency amidst the noisy clang of pots and pans while the brothers set places in the refectory. Beyond that, in the heart of the Loire valley, fishermen stood among creeping brambles, completely absorbed in snagging bass. And none of it, Robert realized with a kind of wonder, was dependent on what happened in Madeleine’s cell.

  Her song ended and she began another, and though Robert wanted to compliment her voice, he had not the energy to speak. Weary of body and mind, he tumbled into the most vivid dream of his life.

  An orchard of apple trees, lush with rain-polished leaves and ripe fruit, surrounded him. Above his head wispy clouds netted an indigo sky. Beneath his bare feet, in place of dark loam was a planked wooden floor covered in flowers. A pair of white rabbits poked their pink noses into a river of periwinkle.

  “Where am I?” Robert asked.

  He felt her presence before he saw her—a younger, more vigorous Marie than the woman he had known, how she must have looked before age and disease stooped her shoulders and melted away her flesh. Instead of the simple chemise she had worn at Fontevraud, she was dressed in a tightly girdled gown of the finest silk. “Marie? Is that you?”