The Burning Time (6 page)

The Bishop noted to himself that she was dribbling slightly, which might be a sign of diabolic possession. Yet her contemptuous dismissal of the nobles intrigued him, since her opinion of them mirrored his. He had never met any person, much less any female, like Alyce Kyteler. She was obviously quite clever and well aware of her position, even if she did choose to carry herself like a base serf. He could not work out how to approach such a woman. Not as a parishioner, surely, as she was not one. Nor, despite her cordial manner, did she seem impressed or intimidated by his rank. Dare he position
himself as a friend? An intellectual mentor? Even a confidante? After all, like him, she must be suffocating for lack of intelligent conversation. He would signal to her that in him she might find an intellectual ally. That would win her trust. Furthermore, he realized with surprise, it was true.

“Of course,” he smiled, “I would not wish to tire you further. Although perhaps soon Your Ladyship will do me the honour of dining with me at the Cathedral Residence in Kilkenny Town? My chief cook is French, and keeps a tolerable kitchen. We might then discuss how I tend to agree with your judgment of the Kilkenny gentry.” He smiled again, expectantly.

“Not likely. As I said, I go rarely to town. But thank you. Now then again, the purpose of your visit?”

Astonishing. To deflect an invitation from the Papal Emissary! To worsen matters, he discovered he actually felt hurt that she had rejected him—then felt enraged at feeling hurt, then felt shamed that he had let himself be vulnerable. He would go on the offensive, then. But cautiously.

“Very well,” he coughed, invoking the comforting, concealing voice of his public self, “Your husband has sought my advice regarding certain … difficulties in your marriage.”

“Hah!” Alyce exclaimed, “I’ll wager he has.”

“Indeed? Sir John seems a distinguished gentleman and a pious one. He confided to me many concerns that have alarmed him for some time about your … habits. I must confess to you, my Lady, I was
shocked
.”

Alyce Kyteler chewed her pear.

“To, ah, continue.” He felt himself start warming to his task. That sometimes happened while preaching a sermon: one might begin awkwardly but gain impetus as one pressed on. Diligence was crucial. He would alternate between the roles of friendly confessor and austere judge. But he would protect himself this time.

“First, I want you to consider me your friend, someone offering—well, we might call it ‘fatherly advice.’ Forgive the pun,” he chuckled. “Well. Sir John has numerous complaints, some of which fall into areas of public as well as private interest. So we—that is, he and I—decided that I should visit you in my capacity as your diocesan authority, but also as your priest. Therefore, this … well, mission of mercy.” He paused, waiting for a response. None came. So he continued. “I fear, Your Grace, that I must point out to you your errors, that you may be brought to change your ways. It is greatly in your own interest, as an aristocrat
and
as a woman. You know,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “even if you are innocent, appearance is crucial. It is
so
unfair, is it not, how easily a feminine reputation can be
spattered
with filth!”

Alyce stifled a yawn.

“Forgive me if I bore you,” snapped the Bishop, hastily adding, “Your Grace.” This woman, he thought, would drive Saint Francis to kick puppies.

Alyce responded only with a meek inclination of her head. Was she mocking him now? Was she trying to
flirt
with him? He felt his grasp of the situation loosening. But he was not a trained diplomat for nothing. He would persist as if he possessed control until he regained it.

“Well then. The errors into which you have fallen. Surely you yourself must know them.”

“Why, no, my lord Bishop. Why not tell me? That is what you came here to do, is it not?”

Insolent slattern, he thought. So she was one of those jaded rich women who play at making mischief, having nothing better to do than act outrageously for pure rebellion’s sake. They always collapsed into obedience when firmly challenged. Very well, he would teach her the cost of rebellion.

“To begin, it is highly improper that you read and write, being female. A woman is a treasured vessel of life, carrier of man’s offspring, so intended for this marvelous task that it is immoral for her to distract herself from it by intellectual pursuits. For a woman to become educated is for her to deny her female
essence
, her life’s mission. Her natural knowledge is far more profound than mere education could ever teach. Book-learning taxes the spirit, and women’s spirit is inherently fragile, thus readily seduced into the path of evil. You risk your sanity, my dear Lady Alyce. You risk your
soul
.” That reliable public voice was heating up now, and he indulged in a tiny sin of pride at hearing himself put things at once passionately yet elegantly.

“For example,” he declared, “it is obvious that your knowledge of letters has led you into even more perilous studies. Medicines. Midwifery. But Church teaching is clear on this: as punishment for Eve’s sin in tempting Adam and causing the Fall, God The Father sentenced women to bring forth children forevermore in sorrow.
Sorrow
, Lady Alyce. Anyone who conspires to make childbirth easier is acting contrary to dogma. Midwives are barely this side of viperous heretics. But so it is with education. You see? One thing leads to another. It makes the mind
so
unpredictable.”

Like her two animal companions, the human member of his audience cocked her head and said nothing, but never took her eyes from his face. While he found this slightly unnerving, it at least reassured him that he had her attention. Now it was time for an illustratory tale or two.

“Just last year in Paris,” he went on conversationally, gaining confidence that he was winning her trust, “a woman of noble birth like yourself went about calling herself a healer, and was brought to trial—for practicing
sorcery
. Jacqueline Felicie de Almania was her name. It still is her name, I fear, since she was merely fined and prohibited from practicing—and by now is likely at it again. What do they expect, with such a preposterously light sentence? Then again, she
was
terrifyingly persistent—originally from Germany, which explains a great deal—and she had the temerity to bring witnesses who claimed she was wiser than the master surgeons of Paris.
Nor was she the only one. There was also a Jewess, some woman named Belota, who was prohibited from practicing medicine at the same time. I tell you, we have strayed far from the old days of innocence, when women were chaste in mind as well as in flesh. This is like a plague of Satan’s students: lettered females, who can read yet could not possibly understand what they read, who can write yet could not possibly have anything to say. But you? You are a
sensible
woman. I can see that already.” He flashed his teeth at Alyce in his most paternal smile. “So. Although we cannot change the fact that you are already infected with such knowledge, we can change the
practice
of it, can we not?” Inspired by her silence, he answered his own question with a chuckle of optimism. “Certainly we can. The medical meddling will cease completely, of course, and at once. But you shall see that I am
not
an unreasonable man, Your Grace. I can compromise. Since you already know how to read and write, you may continue to do so, within limits. Reading for Scriptures, writing for household accounts—these I permit you.” This time the smile lasted longer, having made its way through the folds around his mouth. Alyce Kyteler said nothing. She stared at him. He had her now.

“It will be hard at first, I know, Your Grace, I know,” he continued, not pausing for a reply, “But Holy Church and I shall help you muster courage for the battle. Because, my dear,” he frowned for a more severe effect, “I must tell you
there is more. Much more—as you surely know, for it is clear that you are not unintelligent. You have been fraternizing with the serfs. This is out of the question and must stop immediately. I understand your compassion for them, Your Ladyship. A desire to help the poor is commendably Christian, and if you have done so to excess—well, soft-heartedness is actually proof of your womanliness. You see? I do not solely criticize, I can praise, too.” Encouraged by his listener’s rapt gaze, he forged on. “But one must not burden serfs with affection. It is up to God, not us, to notice their sufferings. Naturally, we must pity them as Scripture instructs—but abstractly—and we must never sentimentalize them. They are hardly better than wild beasts, the least of God’s creatures—which is how we must regard them. You, Your Grace, nobly born and nobly wed,
must
carry yourself according to your position. To do otherwise upsets the social compact. So your regard for the poor must be limited to almsgiving. If you insist, I shall allow you to be more generous than others are—but your charity must be channeled through the Church, and
I
shall decide how it is apportioned. Nor must you do anything else to alter the position of these unfortunates. That would be to counter the ways of Heaven, which
intended
that the poor be always with us—as warning and as reminder to praise Him for smiling on our own good fortune and high rank.”

Something akin to a small green flame had begun to gleam in Alyce Kyteler’s eyes. It went unnoticed by the Bishop, now preoccupied with his own eloquence as he continued cataloging her wrongdoings.

“The subject of your refusing to attend Mass is altogether a different matter. This is not a feminine good intention gone awry, as with the serfs. This is very grave.” He deepened his voice. “You trifle with sin, Madam!
You provoke the boiling fires of Hell!
”

He waited. At this she should have dropped to her knees. Annoyed, he changed course. Not for nothing did he have a repertoire of styles.

“However, Your Ladyship, even if you chose to be careless of your own damnation,” he went on smoothly, “what example do you set for your precious rabble, eh? What about
their
shabby little peasant souls?” He knew these last phrases had emerged with too sharp an edge, and made a conscious effort to regain his elevated tone. “Your husband told me that you did attend Mass with him once, early in your marriage, at his insistence. But according to him—and let me interrupt myself here to say that I can be
fair
, Your Grace, I shall listen to
your
side of the story, too—I know how husbands can exaggerate! Nevertheless, according to His Lordship, you refused to go to Confession, declined to take Communion, were overheard humming to yourself during the sermon, and at the end of
the service actually muttered ‘Fie, fie, fie, amen.’ I pray you will tell me this simply is not true! Oh my
child
!”

Richard de Ledrede had worked himself up to the pitch of sincerity he had been seeking. Now he felt the momentum begin to operate on its own, suffusing him with genuine sympathy for this sinful woman whose eternal life hung in jeopardy. He must save her. He must ride like a hero to her rescue. A desire for her soul seized him; he wanted that soul, he had a right to it. He could feel a holy lust rising in him, and he heard it inspire his speech with conviction.

“My dear, my
dear
, oh will you not let me aid you? Such disrespect for the Church is perilous. These are times when the Horned One walks the earth conspiring with evil-doers and worshippers of false gods! You may think we are safe here on this remote little island. But my priests tell me that Lucifer—or Robin Artisson, as the Son of the Black Arts is called in these Isles—has been seen in these very parts, and not long ago! A black man, wearing female flesh but with horns glowing bright on his hideous head, riding bareback across the heath on stormy nights! You see, my dear, how you gamble with your soul, when you behave so appallingly in Church? These are real dangers of which I warn!”

He paused to grope for his silk kerchief and wipe a film of sweat from his forehead, noting that his listener remained curiously unfazed by the hazards he had so vividly described.
Well then, if she was unimpressed by spiritual admonishments, perhaps he should bolster them with a few practical threats.

“You,” he said sternly, as befitted a future prince of the Church, “would have been publicly flogged for such an offense, Madam, were you not a noblewoman. Nevertheless, Christians must be merciful even when sorely wronged. So your husband and I are willing to permit your attendance at Confession and Mass with merely one week’s penance of bread and water on your part. And your contrite apology to me. In public.”

Richard de Ledrede now felt secure. Laboriously, he heaved himself up from the chair where he had been wedged, and began to stride back and forth before Alyce, waggling a finger at her. Noting that her expression had hardened into something resembling a glare, he was undeterred. He knew that demons resisted most fiercely just before withdrawing from a contested soul.

“These are all ungodly, unwomanly, scandalous acts in which you have been indulging,” he thundered. Then, lowering his voice, “Which is not even to
speak
of the more private … intimate problem. This—delicate matter of Sir John’s. His concern—that is, his unease—about his own safety in this house. I am informed that you hide forbidden potions in your cupboards! He said he had left you and moved to another dwelling because—absurd as it sounds—he fears for his life around you.” He paused, waiting for loud protestations of denial.

There was now a green blaze in Alyce Kyteler’s eyes. But she clipped out only one word in answer.

“Finish.”

So she would force him to spell it out in sordid detail. The Bishop shouldered the cross of yet another degrading task.

“Well, you
have
been married
four times
. Sir John admitted to me his suspicions about the … departures of his three predecessors. Nor is it only Sir John who accuses you, Lady Alyce. Your stepchildren from previous husbands claim that you bewitched their fathers by sorcery to enrich you with generous gifts of property, and that you then—well, hurried them along to Heaven. But Your Grace, let me say frankly that on this issue I
defended
you. ‘Ludicrous!’ said I. I said that you—especially you, a lettered woman
—knows
a husband is his wife’s lord, and for a vassal to harm a lord—even to disobey him—why, that is
treason
. Men are
hanged
for treason, and women
burned
. So I want you to know that I assured Sir John and your stepchildren that no woman would
dare
—I mean, three adult able men—it is simply too laughable. I also reminded Sir John of the indissoluble marriage Sacrament, and I reproached him for having left you. You see how fair I can be, Your Grace? But his apprehensions, combined with consternation about his own health—worsened, I gather, by ill humours borne by the night air—well, unfortunately he is now so alarmed as to—”