Night Blooming (74 page)

“It has meaning for me,” she said, because it was the one statement he would not dispute. “How could saying it more than once be an error?”

“God knows what it is. You needn’t repeat it for His benefit,” he told her.

“I repeat it for my benefit, for the consolation of my soul,” she said, wishing she could close her eyes and rest. Her body ached for sleep, but she knew that to succumb would prove the worst suspicions of her. Forcing herself to stay awake, she resumed her Psalm, starting it from the beginning. “
Let all praise the Lord; I will praise Him wholeheartedly in the assembly of the devout, and to humble worshipers
…” She continued to the ninth verse, which she again repeated, much to Bishop Berahtram’s consternation.

“You must not do that,” he ordered. “You are to say them as they are written.”

“But…” She rubbed her face with one hand, hoping the rough texture of the cloth around her wounds would bring about more clarity of thought.
“He has given redemption to His people: He has made His covenant with them for eternity: holy and glorious is His Name.
How is there error in saying that many times? Isn’t it true? Doesn’t it praise God, as we must do, as good Christians?” She felt so desperate, so alone.

“Do not argue! Go on to the next verse.” He could not stop himself from kicking her shoulder. “You test the patience of the Pope.”

“No, Sublime. I…” She could not bring herself to admit that she was so exhausted that she could not think of what came next, for that would surely confirm his worst apprehension.

“Go on!” He kicked her again, this time harder. “And offer up this punishment for your errors.”

“Amen,” she whispered, and made herself go on. At the next Psalm, she stumbled over the phrase
For the devout, their faith is as a light in the darkness,
and she cringed in anticipation of another sharp kick, which did not come—not yet.

“Go on,” said Bishop Berahtram, his breath coming quickly.

Gynethe Mehaut continued with the Psalms, completing them at last, and then began the prayers that had been added to her Office. These were harder to remember, and so she said them more slowly, occasionally tripping over a word or two; when Bishop Berahtram kicked her, she did her best to pay no attention to what he had done, and instead concentrated on the words she was expected to recite. Finally she was through; the other nuns were observing Compline, which Psalms Gynethe Mehaut would have to wait until she was in her cubiculum to recount, if she could bring all the prayers to mind; she was so worn that keeping anything whole in her memory was becoming harder than speaking with her ruined voice. For a moment she even forgot where she was and had to fight a surge of panic that coursed through her. Regaining her inward composure, she got to her knees and said, “Good Bishop, in the Name of Christ, hear my Confession.”

Bishop Berahtram knelt beside her. “I will, Sorra Gynethe Mehaut.” He made a gesture of protection. “I will hear you.”

It was so difficult to know what to say first; Gynethe Mehaut felt turmoil rising within her, more troubling than her fatigue and her hunger. “I Confess that I have longed for Santa Albegunda instead of this place, preferring it to Sant’ Ianuarius, although I know this is wrong, for it is God’s Will that I am here, and I must accept and welcome His Will.”

“The life at Santa Albegunda was lax,” said Bishop Berahtram. “You were permitted liberties that are not suitable to you.”

“I know; I know, and I want to repent them. I ask God to relieve me of that longing, but so far He hasn’t given that peace to me. It is my fault, for if I were worthy, He must show me mercy.” Her voice was little more than breath now, and her throat felt chapped.

“Who are you, to bargain with God?” Bishop Berahtram regarded her with icy contempt. “It is for God to decide what you must endure.”

“I know,” said Gynethe Mehaut again. “I am mindful of all God has brought upon me. I think on it every hour.”

“Blasphemy!” He got to his feet and struck her with the full force of the back of his hand. “You are insolent of God!”

Gynethe Mehaut doubled over, her hands against her jaw. She could not cry out; she had not voice enough for that. Her misery was engulfing as she lay on the stones. At least she had not said the two worst things she might Confess: what she had learned from Bonna Dama Clemens about the Church and the Pope, and her yearning for Rakoczy, whose love was utter profanation of every sacred thing.

“Get back on your knees!” ordered Bishop Berahtram.

It was an effort for Gynethe Mehaut to move; her vision was wavering, and she shook with the effort he demanded of her. She feared she might fall over, so she held her hands out in front of her to break her collapse. “I don’t…” she apologized.

“Remain where you are.” Bishop Berahtram came around in front of her, his face set in a rictus that alarmed Gynethe Mehaut; he reached out and grabbed her shoulders. “You must tell me your sins. Your penance means nothing if you will not Confess.”

“I will Confess,” said Gynethe Mehaut. “I will tell you my sins.”

“And in time you will be absolved of all your wrongdoing.” Bishop Berahtram tightened his grip on her. “You have much to atone for.”

“Yes; I must atone,” Gynethe Mehaut croaked. She hated the sound she made, and fell silent.

“Well?” Bishop Berahtram demanded. “Well?”

She could not summon up enough sound to speak; she lowered her head, weeping. Finally she was able to mutter, “I miss … Roma.” She stopped herself from saying more, although she wanted to explain what she meant, to get the Sublime Berahtram to understand her wish to return there, to the house of Atta Olivia Clemens where no one stared at her, and the only rules imposed upon her kept her safe and content.

“A holy city, the model of Heaven on earth,” said Bishop Berahtram, who had never seen it for himself. “Any good Roman Christian must long for that place.” He forced her to raise her face. “Are your tears for your soul?”

“I … don’t know,” Gynethe Mehaut admitted, horrified at her candor.

“Then how dare you cry?” Bishop Berahtram demanded. “How can you do such a reprehensible thing? Do you want to be immured?”

“No … No, I don’t,” Gynethe Mehaut said, appalled at the notion of being walled up, with only a single slot for bread and water, and a grate through which to Confess, until she died.

“It is what I must do if you cannot Confess everything and repent of all you have done to bring dishonor on your family and your Church,” said Bishop Berahtram.

Gynethe Mehaut shook her head repeatedly. “I intend nothing against the Church,” she whispered, and broke off, coughing.

“You must do your utmost to acknowledge your sins.” He rapped out the words crisply. “Tonight you may contemplate your errors. You will not sleep. Use your meditation bell to keep yourself awake. And when you have finally numbered your sins, you will Confess them to me at None tomorrow. Then you may rest, if your Confession is complete. Otherwise, you must not have the succor of rest, for you will be prey to demons and you will end up like Sorra Riccardis Vigia, in the throes of Hell.”

Gynethe Mehaut sighed deeply. She dreaded what lay ahead, but she could not turn from it. It was hard to get out a few more words. “I will thank God for His Goodness.”

“You will humble yourself, White Woman,” said Bishop Berahtram. “The attention you have received has corrupted you.”

It was difficult for her to move, as if her limbs were weighted, or the cloth was suddenly sodden. She struggled to her feet, trying to stand without feeling dizzy. There was something she ought to say to the Bishop, but she could not bring it to mind. As she started toward the corridor, Sorra Riccardis Vigia began laughing again, a high, nervous bray that alarmed her more than she could admit. “Sublime,” she said, her voice cracking.

“What?” he asked sharply, standing to block her at the entrance to the corridor.

“It is … my hope that…” She could not speak any more.

“That what? What?” Bishop Berahtram insisted, leaning toward her. “What do you mean?”

She tried to speak, but only a gagging sound came from her, for her throat was dry and as fiery as the hot wind of summer. Ducking her head, she made a gesture of abject apology and began to cough again, all the while clasping her hands together in supplication to the Bishop. The coughing continued and finally stopped, leaving her struggling to breathe.

“I will order a cup of wine for you tonight, but you must not let it lure you into sleep. Do you want a scourge to keep you awake?” Bishop Berahtram offered. “You have more prayers to recite.”

“I … can’t,” she forced herself to say.

“You must,” he reminded her, the hint of concession gone.

“If you do not pray loud, how will anyone know you aren’t sleeping? Must I order one of the Sorrae to whip you?”

As much as she wanted to scream, Gynethe Mehaut could not, and that made it seem much worse to her. She crossed her arms on her breast and tried to maintain a repentant demeanor, but it was becoming more difficult than she had first anticipated. Swallowing hard against the pain and rage that seemed to choke her, she mouthed, “Put a Sorra to watch me. For the sake of my soul.”

Bishop Berahtram struck her across the face. “You insolent whore! You faithless harlot!”

With a ragged cry, Gynethe Mehaut reeled back, slamming into the wall and sliding down the rough stones to the floor. She covered her head with her hands and began to weep silently, wretchedly. Had she been less enervated, she would have tried to resist this assault, but all she could do was cower under the continuing blows and insults, and implore God to tell her what sins she had committed that deserved this extremity of chastisement and to feel the silence that was the most condemnation she would ever receive. She began to crawl along the corridor back toward her cubiculum, driven by the Bishop’s kicks and blows and her distress. Twice she tried to speak, but all that came out was a breathless caw, and that increased her misery. She was vaguely aware of Sorra Riccardis Vigia laughing, and that set the seal on her utter dejection.

“I will send Abba Dympna to watch you, and to be sure you do not sleep. If you cannot remain awake, she will flog you.” Bishop Berahtram felt the full strength of his zeal, and knew he was serving God and the Pope to the very limits of his devotion. “You will Confess at None, and then you shall rest.”

Gynethe Mehaut nodded and made a gesture of submission, hoping this would stem the tide of abuse being heaped upon her. As another kick landed on her ribs, she curled into a ball and lay, whimpering, a few steps from the door to her cubiculum. She had never been more harrowed than she was now; her despair was so profound that it stopped her tears and bestowed upon her a black, fatalistic calm. Carefully and slowly she got to her feet and made her way into her penitent’s cell, finding enough voice to say, “I await the Abba,” before she pulled the door closed on herself. Aware that the Bishop was watching her, she stood very still, making herself remain upright through determination alone. Her lips moved as she began her prayers, although no sound came.

When Abba Dympna came to Gynethe Mehaut’s cubiculum, she carried a tray with half a loaf of bread, a skin of water, and a small cup of wine. She let herself into the cell and put the tray down on the round stool that was usually employed for Confession. “Gynethe Mehaut,” she said, noticing the blank expression on her white face.

“Good Abba,” Gynethe Mehaut managed to grate out; she went back to her silent recitation of prayers.

“I have brought a flagellum with me,” the Abba said, pulling it from under her stolla. The short-handled whip had six lashes, each one with a small iron star tied to the end. “The Bishop has told me I must use it to keep you awake.”

“So he has told me, as well,” Gynethe Mehaut breathed. Her throat was so sore it was hard for her to think of anything but surmounting the pain.

“You may have your meal,” she said, indicating the bread, water, and wine. “Water first,” she added.

Gynethe Mehaut was famished, but the thought of swallowing anything was appalling—she doubted even the water could go down her throat without intense agony. She ducked her head obediently and went to the stool. She lifted the skin of water and took the plug from its neck, then tried to drink. The water was sweet, and her thirst began to slake as she drank, but her throat shot new anguish through her with every gulp. When the skin was almost empty, she set it aside and reached for the bread, breaking off a bit of it and soaking it in the wine, hoping this would ease it down. She chewed carefully, trying to soften the coarse-milled grains. The pain was fierce but endurable, and she broke off more bread to soak in wine.

“Are you well, child?” Abba Dympna asked, noticing the difficulties Gynethe Mehaut was having. Her manner was careful, as wary as it was gentle.

“Sore,” she said hoarsely, pointing to her neck.

“Your penance is severe,” said the Abba. “If the Bishop were not here, I would modify it. There is little merit in demanding such stringent disciplines.”

Gynethe Mehaut shook her head emphatically. “No,” she whispered. “The Bishop has done what he has vowed to do.” She wanted to scream but kept silent.

“It can’t be necessary to impose so much on you.” She sounded genuine but her eyes flicked from Gynethe Mehaut’s face to the crucifix above the cot. “You cannot be as dangerous as they say.” The doubt in her words leached the sympathy from them.

“The Bishop…” She stifled a cough; her whole body felt warm, and her clothing seemed scratchy.

“You don’t seem well, Sorra,” said Abba Dympna, taking a step back from her, as if afraid of taking contagion from her.

“I’m … hot,” Gynethe Mehaut murmured.

“If your penance is making you ill, you are being overly austere. God does not ask us to compromise our repentance with illness. When you are well, you may resume your penance, but now you need a nurse.” She sighed uneasily, keeping her distance from her charge. “Bishop Berahtram is a devout man, and full of good works. He doesn’t always see that others do not have his capacity for rigor.”