Courtly Love (41 page)

But for all its seclusion, the cloister had its ties with the secular world. Well-born widows often retired within the high stone walls—some joined the order while others chose merely to live out their remaining years in the privacy accorded by the cottages provided by the order. The youngest daughters of impoverished freemen as a matter of course joined the ranks of the order for lack of a dowry. Noblewomen frequently retired to the cloister for weeks of contemplation, meditation, and renewal of their soul. But the spiritual solitude of the cloister—while available to all—was also balanced with worldly cares.

Buildings fell into disrepair, cloth was needed to sew the order's habits, and while the sisters tilled the soil to provide their own grain, meats had to be procured from the outside world. So when the titled women took their leave, their purses were lighter by a good many coins. With the establishment of a small orphanage, finances were even more pressing, so the good sisters took needle in hand and fashioned tapestries, altar cloths, coverlets, and eventually as word spread of the fine workmanship, ladies' marriage gowns and babe's swaddling.

Idleness was the enemy of the soul and the black-robed sisters saw to it the novices quickly learned the inadvisibility of sloth; those who did not were scourged and when the weals on their back faded or their knees ceased to ache from the long hours spent kneeling on the unrelenting stones of the chapel floor, the novices had been thoroughly chastised and went about their duties with renewed vigor.

The scourge was used with less frequency since Sister Theodosia had become abbess upon the death of Sister Agatha; although in her own way Sister Theodosia was as implacable as Sister Agatha had been. The quiet tongue-lashing delivered by the abbess was far more painful and humiliating than the scourgjngs had ever been; yet the abbess was held in tender regard and respect where Sister Agatha had only been feared. A woman of gentle temperament, the abbess trusted in God to attend to the spiritual needs of her flock, and herself for their daily survival.

But on this day in early summer, the abbess's normally clear brow was clouded as she watched a young novice, an iron kettle in each hand, start down the path leading to the river.

"She is an asset to the abbey, our Sister Anne." The abbess turned and smiled at the tall, spare nun beside her. For the past five and twenty years since Sister Theodosia had joined the order, she and Sister Marcella had been as close as the rules allowed, until now each knew what the other was thinking.

"How has Sister Anne spent her day?" The abbess glanced once more at the grey blur vanishing into the trees.

"She has attended all the Offices and spent the rest of the time with the children. The babes especially seem to fascinate Sister Anne." Sister Marcella fell into step alongside the abbess. "You should speak with her again, Reverend Mother, her appetite has all but disappeared in the past few weeks and she rarely sleeps. I believe she spends most of the night in the chapel."

"Praying?" The abbess questioned with a smile.

"Mayhap, but I think not."

"Tis sad—she would make an excellent addition to our order." The two nuns stepped from the brilliant sunshine into the enveloping shade of the abbey.

Sister Anne filled the kettles with water and then, on impulse, knelt and bent over the river to lave her face. There was a slight breeze and she sat back on her heels, lifting her eyes to watch the tree tops dance against the sky. How peaceful it was with only the sighing of the wind and the chirping birds for companions. Sister Anne studied the light playing over the water, turning the small waves into brightly tipped daggers that stabbed at her eyes and brain, bringing to mind memories of another sun-washed day—a small boy, laughter, a cool, refreshing pond . . .

The impression faded and Sister Anne pressed tapered fingertips against the ache that was beginning in her temples. "When you are ready God will reveal alL" the Reverend Mother had said when she was strong enough to walk to the abbess's office.

Sister Anne recalled the terror that had swept over her when she awoke to find two black-gowned sisters hovering over her pallet. Though it seemed to take hours, it was in fact only a few minutes until Sister Baptista and Sister Madeline had quieted her screams and calmed her down sufficiently to ask her name.

Sister Anne had stared at her questioner blankly. "I do not know."

"Where is your home, child?" Sister Baptista had smoothed back the hair from her face.

"I do not know!" Sister Anne's eyes had widened in horror. "I ... I cannot remember. Oh! please, tell me ... where am I? What has happened?"

"Child, child," Sister Madeline had soothed. "Calm yourself, my dear. Can you remember anything at all?"

"I ... no ... I must leave." She had tried to sit up but fell back with a small cry at the pain that knifed through her head and side.

"You must rest, child." Sister Madeline had pressed her back to the pallet. "You are hurt, you have been ill for three weeks and you must regain your strength."

"Sister, you . . . you do not understand ... I must warn." The flickering image in her mind had died and she began to sob helplessly.

She could recall nothing; no face, no name. It was as if she had been born again at the moment she awakened in the cloister. While she lay in her cubicle day after day, her wounds healing, she would try to remember who she was and where she came from. But when she did, a dull ache would begin in her head and the harder she tried to envision people and places, the sharper the ache became. Only at night when one of Sister Judith's potions brought sleep to her did vague pictures flare into her mind and torment her dreams. Upon awakening in the mornings she would try to recall what she had dreamed, but that, too, was futile, and she was left with only a feeling of deep loss.

When Sister Madeline proclaimed her strong enough, she had been escorted to the abbess. The black robes of the order no longer frightened her and she herself wore the grey robe of a novice, the rough cloth rubbing painfully against her skin and causing her to wonder if she was accustomed to finer material. She had been spared the wimple that completed the habit and her hair was freshly washed and tied back with a scrap of cloth. She had examined the shining locks curiously—she had no remembrance of what she looked like, had no idea of her coloring or features, and mirrors were forbidden within the convent walls lest the good sisters be taken with their looks and fall prey to the sin of pride.

The abbess had smiled kindly and indicated that she should be seated. "Well, child, how are you feeling?"

"Much stronger, Reverend Mother, thank you. I am most grateful for the care the sisters have given me— I wish there was some way I could repay your kindness."

"Do not trouble yourself with such matters." The abbess had settled herself behind a table. '"We must now consider you—your future. Sister Madeline has told me you remember naught of your past."

"That is true, Reverend Mother. I do not even know how I came to be here!" Unconsciously she had copied the abbess's movement and placed her hands within the wide sleeves of the robe.

In her quiet voice the abbess had recounted how a band of mummers had found the girl wandering from the forest, her side and head seeping blood and delirious with fever. The band had cared for her as best they could and though they managed to staunch the flow of blood, an infection set in and her fever worsened, sapping even more of her precious strength. They had realized that if the girl were to live she needed shelter and rest, something their way of life did not permit. One of the band remembered the cloister and they changed direction immediately and brought her to the abbey. The rest the girl knew. She had fought the infection threatening her life for three weeks and had won—but when she awoke her memory was gone.

"Then they knew nothing of me?" The girl had asked softly. "I had hoped ..."

"Nay, child, none of the mummers knew you or had seen you before you happened upon them," the abbess had continued brusquely. "But you are well now and must decide what to do."

"Do?" she had repeated. "I ... I had not thought . . ." Tears pricked her eyes and she lowered her head. "Would it not be possible for me to remain here?"

The abbess had smiled. "You may remain as long as you wish, child. Aah, we cannot continue to call you that. Have you a name you favor?"

"Anne," she had promptly replied without knowing why. How could she? She did not remember her mother nor the fact that her name was also Anne.

The abbess's eyebrows had raised a fraction at the swift answer but she made no comment.

So an identity had been created for the bewildered girl—she was no longer "child" but Sister Anne, she was dressed as a true novice of the cloister and performed the required duties. To those who entered the cloister after her arrival she was simply Sister Anne, a nun who preferred not to speak of her past and her privacy was respected. Sister Anne was pious, obedient, rarely angered, tireless in her devotion to her work, and throughout the winter months she seemed to have completely adjusted to and accepted her fate. But along with renewal of life, spring had also brought a depression to Sister Anne's spirit.

Her appetite declined and Sister Anne soon lost the pounds Sister Madeline and Sister Judith had labored so diligently to replace. She spent long hours in the chapel, her fingers moving ceaselessly over her rosary, her blue eyes wide open and staring blindly at the statue of the Virgin. Sister Anne's repose was once again invaded by the demonic images that had not plagued her for many months, until now in early summer she avoided her pallet; making her way to her cubicle only when she was so weary that her vision blurred. With increasing frequency, however, even that strategy was not entirely successful and her sleep continued to be riddled by disturbing dreams. She found the visions of her sleep returned to haunt her days as well.

Sister Anne wrenched her thoughts back to reality. The sun would set in a short time and she would have to return to the cloister for Vespers and Complin. As she had done every day since the ice had thawed from the river, Sister Anne knelt on the grassy bank and leaned forward until her watery reflection stared seriously up at her. Large eyes made even more enormous in the delicate, thinly refined face studied the alien features as her trembling fingers touched her hollowed cheeks, the slender nose, the rosebud mouth.
My face,
she thought in a mixture of wonder and confusion,
and I do not even recognize it.

Her hands moved to the wimple and in one easy motion Sister Anne pulled it from her head. Gold-streaked brown hair spilled out of the wimple, tumbling around her face, down her shoulders to her waist. Her hair had been left uncropped—unlike the other postulants'—at the abbess's insistence, for in all good faith the abbess could not allow the woman known as Sister Anne to join the cloister, not until her identity was fully revealed. Now Sister Anne drew her fingers thoughtfully through the soft curls—and was immediately struck by a dim memory of a pair of strong, lean hands twining themselves in the same locks, fingers meshing at the back of her head, lips slanting across her own . . .

Almost, almost she could picture another face beside hers in the pool. The pain in her temples increased unbearably and with a smothered cry Sister Anne closed her eyes, allowing the image to slip away.
Please, God,
Sister Anne prayed as the throbbing diminished,
please help me to remember. I know 'tis selfish of me. You must have a reason, but
. . . Despair rose within her and Sister Anne began to weep as she had not done since coming to the cloister. As her sobs quieted she heard the sound of the chapel bell. Vespers! She had forgotten. Her hands flew to the discarded wimple and she hurriedly tucked her hair into the veil and secured it around her head.

Having delivered the water to the kitchen, Sister Anne raced across the courtyard to the chapel. The service had already begun and she slipped as unobtrusively as possible into her seat on a hard wooden bench. Without conscious thought, her lips began to move through the psalms and antiphons of the Office, but Sister Anne's mind returned to the disturbing thoughts that had touched her—surely they had been a man's hands, not a woman's. Of that Sister Anne was certain as she was of nothing else. But who was the man? Husband? Lover? Had they been happy together?

The Vespers' Canticle began:
Magnificat anima mea.

Dominum
, My soul doth magnify the Lord. And Sister Anne felt the music flow soothingly over her confused and heavy soul. Her eyes turned to the soft glow of the candles and, mesmerized, she watched the flickering flames. The chapel had always been a comfort to Sister Anne, as had the sweet sound of the sisters chanting the lessons or lifting their voices in the canticles, but tonight the usual all-pervading solace was missing and in its place a vague uneasiness.

Sister Anne's gaze traveled about the chapel as if seeing it for the first time. Unlike the order's residence, the chapel was constructed entirely of wood; the altar, walls and pews having darkened and warped over the years so that even on the brightest day the sanctuary was shadowed and dark. Candles burned in profusion, casting all the occupants of the chapel into a curious relief, their silhouettes dancing against the walls. The silver crucifix on the altar was the center of the chapel, catching and reflecting the uncertain light in gleaming rays. A small chapel, it could hold no more than fifty people, yet the massive pillars that supported the ceiling lent an impression of height, so that when the sisters gave voice to the hymns of praise the sound appeared to be heard in heaven. The chapel enfolded the worshipers as a mother hugs her child to her breast: loving, peaceful, serene.