Night Blooming (19 page)

When Prime was over, Priora Iditha hoped she was ready for what she had to do: she hurried down to the reception room and saw to her dismay that five others were there ahead of her. She found it difficult to conceal her distress, but strove to maintain a proper demeanor while she went to the Bishop’s slave, Conwoin, and said, “I am Priora Iditha of Santa Albegunda, and I wish to speak to the Sublime Iso regarding my charge, the woman called—”

“The Pale Woman,” said Conwoin, nodding. “Yes. Sublime is expecting to speak with you as soon as the Abbott is finished with his report.”

Somewhat startled, Priora Iditha gestured her gratitude. “I wait upon the Bishop’s pleasure.”

“Most certainly you do,” said Conwoin, lifting his head enough to make it plain that he was still in charge of the audiences.

To her astonishment, Priora Iditha recognized the voice of one of the slaves she had inadvertently eavesdropped upon the night before. She was nonplussed enough to find it difficult to muster her thoughts, but managed to say, “I pray he will hear me.”

“May God please,” said Conwoin. He left Priora Iditha standing in the doorway of the antechamber, her dignity failing to conceal her confusion.

Unable to think of anything to say, Priora Iditha went to the bench under the single, narrow window, her hands tucked into her sleeves, neat as a cat, keeping the appearance of someone who was as confident as she was self-possessed. Contemplating the painting on the far wall, she wanted to ask questions about the events in the life of Sant’ Audoenus, but held her peace, afraid that she would give offense for making such inquiry. She gave herself over to unscheduled prayer in the hope of quieting her apprehension. Half-way through the Penitential Psalms, she became aware of Conwoin standing before her. “Yes?”

“Bishop Iso will see you now,” said Conwoin, an unctuous smirk on his handsome face.

“Very good,” said Priora Iditha, rising and summoning all her good sense.

The reception room had been arranged to the Bishop’s liking, with an X-shaped chair on the raised platform that the Bishop occupied with the same hauteur as a Potente or an Illustre would for Court. He held his crook of office negligently in his left hand; he used it to gesture to Priora Iditha that she might approach him. There was a nun standing behind Bishop Iso, a soft-faced young woman who held a basin and cloth for the Bishop’s use.

After reverencing Bishop Iso, Priora Iditha came within ten steps of him and contemplated his face, looking for some sign of his state of mind. “Sublime, I must speak to you about Gynethe Mehaut.”

“The White One,” said the Bishop. “She was brought here some time ago. I have been told she remains in your care.”

“Yes,” said Priora Iditha, somewhat startled by all the information the Bishop had at his disposal. “She has been living a penitent’s life here, and that is what troubles me.”

“Are you saying her penitence isn’t genuine?” Bishop Iso looked disapproving at this suggestion.

Priora Iditha answered hastily, “No, no,” holding up her hands in protest at this idea as she rushed on. “She keeps to her prayers devoutly and she doesn’t ask to be spared. She is in the chapel from the end of Vigil until Prime, and she rests through the day until Vespers, because she cannot endure the sun. It is true that she has ills that demand she live an unusual life, but this monastery is dedicated to the treatment of the crippled and the mad, and she is neither, and cannot use the purpose of Sant’ Audoenus to bring Glory to God.”

“She bleeds from the hands, and she cannot walk abroad in the day,” said Bishop Iso, making the statement a denouncement “Do you deny these things?”

“No, I do not,” said Priora Iditha, and reeled under a sharp blow from the Bishop’s crook. “You have no reason to beat me, Sublime.” She could see the nun watching her, and that shamed her more than the impact of the crook had done.

“I am your Bishop,” he reminded her. “If I believe you should be beaten, that is sufficient.” To prove his right, he struck her again. “See that you do not contradict me.”

Under the sudden numbness in her shoulders, Priora Iditha could sense pain; she bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. “I have not contradicted you, Sublime,” she dared to say, and flinched as the crook descended again. “No, Sublime. I pray you, do not.”

Bishop Iso smiled. “Prostrate yourself, Priora. You may address me from the floor.”

Priora Iditha did as she was told, almost collapsing as she leaned onto her arms. “I obey you, Sublime.”

“Very good,” said Bishop Iso. “Now, tell me what you wish me to know of the White One.”

Priora Iditha took a deep breath. “Gynethe Mehaut is a pious woman. Her pale skin marks her with purity. Her hands bleed in reverence to the Christ.” She heard the nun whisper something but could not make out the words she spoke.

“You don’t know that,” said the Bishop.

“I pray, and I supervise Gynethe Mehaut’s prayers—” Priora Iditha began, only to be interrupted.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” said Bishop Iso, and went on in a lowered voice to the nun, “If she is diabolical, you could be in grave danger.”

“God will protect me, and Santa Maria,” said the nun.

Bishop Iso coughed and said something under his breath, then spoke up. “Sorra Celinde has offered to serve as guardian for Gynethe Mehaut. You will be able to return to your duties at Santa Albegunda, and Gynethe Mehaut will be able to leave this monastery. I have decided that she must be presented to Great Karl, who will judge what is to become of her.” He rapped the floor with his crook and held out his hands; Sorra Celinde brought him the basin so he could wash his hands, signifying he had completed his decree in the matter.

“But,” said Priora Iditha, starting to rise, “what is to become of her?”

“You are not to move,” said the Bishop as she dried his hands.

Startled, Priora Iditha dropped back onto the flagstones; feeling was returning to her shoulder, spurting hurt through her body as she obeyed Bishop Iso. “Is there more, Sublime?”

“There may be.” He considered. “You may repose confidence in Sorra Celinde. She has raised six of my bastards for me, and only one has died. She will care for the White One as well as anyone could.” He leaned onto his right arm. “You may think that only you are capable of dealing with her as she requires, but you would err. After I have concluded Court here, I want you to meet with Sorra Celinde and tell her all that you believe she must understand to protect the White One. That done, you will take your leave of your charge and prepare to return to Santa Albegunda. I will order a letter for Abba Sunifred, commending your service.” He motioned her to rise. “If you do not accept this, you will remain here, with the madwomen.”

It was an effort to rise, but Priora Iditha gritted her teeth and managed to stand without making a sound. “I will do as you command, Sublime,” she said, a touch of nausea making the words difficult to speak.

“Very good,” Bishop Iso said, dismissing her with a wave of his crook. “Wait in the antechamber for Sorra Celinde.”

“May I speak with Gynethe Mehaut? She should be allowed to prepare for this change.” Even as she implored Bishop Iso, Priora Iditha knew it was useless: Gynethe Mehaut would learn of this only when everything was in place.

“Stay in the antechamber,” said the Bishop. “If you leave, I will know you for a dishonored nun, and you will be confined for your apostasy.”

Priora Iditha lowered her head. “As you say, Sublime. I am here to serve you and God. I ask for nothing more in life but that I please God, and His servants.” It was a worthy speech, and she could see that Bishop Iso was satisfied for the moment. She backed out of the reception room, hoping she would not weep until the door closed. She almost succeeded in her attempt, the first traitorous tear sliding down her cheek as she made her reverence to Bishop Iso; she let it fall, knowing that wiping it away would acknowledge her distress. Once out of the reception room, she took her seat on the bench she had occupied before. Here she waited while Terce came and went and the Bishop continued to hear the petitions of the waiting monks.

It was well past mid-day when Sorra Celinde appeared, her face showing a fresh bruise. “The Bishop has gone for prandium, and I have until he returns to arrange matters. I must not speak with you too long, so I ask you not to bother with anything that is unimportant to her.”

This daunting request finally brought Priora Iditha’s temper to the fore. “I am not telling you the habits of a young mare,” she snapped.

Sorra Celinde managed an apologetic smile. “I mean no disrespect,” she said in a conciliatory tone. “But the Bishop is impatient, and, like you, I would prefer not to be struck again.”

Priora Iditha schooled herself to a mild answer. “I will do what I can to speed your instruction.” She looked up at the other nun. “What do you need to know?”

“I rely upon you to tell me,” said Sorra Celinde, sitting down next to Priora Iditha. “I haven’t seen the White One. You must begin with what I will see.”

Priora Iditha coughed. “She is pale as ivory,” she began. “Her hair is white, her eyes are red, and she cannot abide the sun. She is very thin, and does not put on flesh readily. She bleeds from the palms of her hands but without any apparent wound.”

“The Devil!” Sorra Celinde exclaimed.

“Or God, or some other cause unknown to any of us,” said Priora Iditha. “She is well-spoken, having been in the care of the Church most of her life, and she is able to read and write a little. She is fond of gardening, and at Santa Albegunda tended the night-blooming garden. Here, she often walks among the herbs and flowers before attending to her devotions. She prays from Vigil through Prime every night, and sleeps from dawn until late in the afternoon. Her bandages on her hands must be changed daily. She bathes every other day—”

“Why?” Sorra Celinde asked, shocked.

“Her white skin is given to rashes. If she fails to bathe, the rashes become terrible and she develops open sores on much of her body.” Priora Iditha saw the doubt in Sorra Celinde’s face. “She has to be cared for, or, like an infant, she will suffer. She must not be denied bathing. She must be kept out of the sunlight. She must have her bandages changed daily.”

“I’ll remember,” said Sorra Celinde with another of her smiles. “She must be grateful to you for all you’ve done.”

“She has no reason to be. I accepted the responsibility for her care most willingly,” said Priora Iditha, trying to keep from believing she was betraying Gynethe Mehaut with every word.

“Then she is doubly fortunate,” said Sorra Celinde. “I will present myself to her at the end of the day, when you will be ready to depart from this place.”

As much as Priora Iditha longed to protest this high-handed decision, she could not bring herself to face another beating from Bishop Iso. She made a little reverence, and said, “See you are diligent in your care of her.”

Sorra Celinde’s smile brightened, showing more of her teeth. “Oh, I will, Priora. Do not fear: I will.”

T
EXT OF A LETTER FROM
F
RATRE
G
RIMHOLD IN
R
OMA TO
B
ISHOP
F
RECULF AT
S
ANT’
P
OTHINUS OF
L
YONS IN
N
IVELLES; THE MESSENGER CARRYING THE LETTER WAS MURDERED IN
L
ONGOBARDIA AND THE LETTER WAS TURNED OVER TO
A
RDO
P
ICCOMINUS OF
R
AVENNA.

To the most illustrious Sublime Freculf, the heartfelt greetings of Fratre Grimhold, your devoted cousin and fellow-religious on this, the middle of May in the Pope’s Year 797.

I have been staying dose to Leo III, as you ordered me to, and I have had the opportunity to advance our House in his esteem. I have also become aware of all the efforts being made on behalf of the Byzantines to subvert the True Church and bring it to the Greek Church as a vassal. Your cautions are well-taken, and I have made it my goal to preserve the True Church. This is going to be a difficult task, for in all the city of Roma there must be a hundred spies for the Greeks. Servants and slaves are regularly suborned by the agents of Constantinople; no one may think himself safe from them, not even Pope Leo. Or perhaps I should say, most especially him, as he is often the target for spite and anger. You may tell me to remain near His Holiness, which I will do, but I cannot promise to preserve him from all the mischief of the Greeks. There is too much to guard against and too many near the Pope whose devotion is not certain for me to vow that I can provide protection against all danger.

This year the mal aria has been severe. I have seen bodies of the dead left in the street for the monks to bury for charity, and I am told that those who have studied such things believe that the summer will bring more deaths. Many of those living within the walls have been taken with fever from the bad air. Some of the Guards have been too ill to keep to their duties and it may be many weeks before a full force can be mounted on the walls. In the meantime, various Churchmen have provided soldiers from their own households to keep watch. There have been rivalries among those soldiers, and because of that, the walls are more often the site of small battles among the Guards than the place where the city has its first protection.

During these hard days there have been many rumors that the Byzantines are doing their utmost to prey upon the Pope. I have been told by those who are well-informed that many bribes are paid to subvert the Church and bring its purposes to serve the Patriarch in Byzantium. Some go so far as to say that there is a plot in place to waylay and kill the Pope so that one of their own Bishops may be advanced to Sant’ Pier’s Seat, and thereby surrender the Church to the Empire in the East While I cannot find any confirmation of this beyond persistent rumors, I do know that it is possible that such a plan could be put forth and that, having been put forth, it could succeed.

I have removed from Sant’ Ioannes to private quarters since two of the Fratres were murdered in their beds. They were Frankish monks and I, for one, fear that I might be among those intended to die. I have taken private rooms in a house not far from Sant’ Pier’s. I am able to bar my door at night and my slave tastes all my food so that I am safe from the most direct dangers to my safety. My slave has pledged that he will guard me for the honor of the Pope, and I am minded to believe him, for he was raised by monks and has spent all his life inside the walls of Roma.