E. M. Powell (2 page)

He had to succeed.

♦ ♦ ♦

“I confess that my mind wandered during this morning’s Mass.” Kneeling on her wooden faldstool, Sister Theodosia Bertrand kept her mouth close to the small, barred cell window that opened out onto the back wall of Canterbury Cathedral. Secure across it, the embroidered white linen curtain kept her screened from her confessor, Brother Edward Grim.

“When the holy sacrament was being said by Archbishop Becket himself?” came the monk’s low-voiced reply. “I cannot believe your openness to distraction, Sister. You are nineteen, preparing to take your final vows, yet you are tricked by the devil like a peasant girl daydreaming at her loom.”

Her cheeks warmed at his sharp words. “I am so ashamed of my lack of control, Brother. It should not happen, I know that.”

“Have you more to trouble my spirit with your besieged vocation, or have you cleared your conscience?”

“Not yet, Brother. There is more.”

“Go on.”

Her enclosure meant she had not had sight of a man, nor indeed woman or child, for over two years. But she could picture Brother Edward’s tall imposing presence, his immaculately tonsured black hair. The stern disapproval in his green eyes. She squeezed her clasped hands tight as she sought the right words.

“Brother Edward, I…I had a wicked dream last night. I dreamt I was dancing. At a feast day, the kind of dancing I saw when the lay sisters would take me out visiting the sick, when Mama was at prayer.”

“Mama?”

She crossed herself at the slip. “I mean Sister Amélie.”

“You do. But we do not speak of her or that time.”

“No. Forgive me, Brother.”

“Tell me of this sinful dream of dancing.”

“I was part of a group, with other girls. We had dresses of bright reds and yellows and straw bonnets, decked with flowers. We danced before an audience who clapped and sang.”

A sniff from Brother Edward. “Such brazen displays are most impious.”

“I know, my dear brother. I used to think so too when I saw it. I could hardly believe women could disport themselves so. But there is more.”

“More.”

“In my dream, a man joined the group and danced with me. H-he put his arms around my waist, linked my hands, spun me round. Put his cheek to mine. I made no attempt to stop him.” She paused, summoning her courage to reveal the depths of her repulsive imaginings. “Not even when he went to kiss me. But before he could, I woke. Woke in a frightful state at such a terrible lapse.”

“Oh, Sister.” Brother Edward exhaled a long breath. “It is no mere lapse. You know you have been visited by Satan himself, don’t you?”

“It was a man, not — ”

“Satan is as cunning as he is cowardly, and takes many forms. He waited until you lay in bed and sleep overcame you, waited until you were defenseless and vulnerable. When you were dead to the world, Sister, you were dead to God.”

“But I am alive to God. I am private in here with Him, I am away from all temptation.”

“Indeed you are away from the world. Behind locked doors and surrounded by thick stone walls. So how do you think Satan got his chance to uncurl the vile tentacles of lechery within you?”

She clasped her hands tighter. “I let him.” She dropped her head to the sound of another long breath from Brother Edward, this time of satisfaction.

“Yes, Sister. Let him in with a weak mind, a weak body. A weak soul. Your confirmation as a bride of Christ is still a long way off.”

Theodosia dipped her head to fight down mortified tears, her veil brushing against her cheeks. Its gray cloth might never be replaced by black. “I am so sorry, Brother,” she whispered.

“It’s not I you have to repent to.” His tone softened. “Sister Theodosia, you still have much to do in your quest to achieve holiness. Yes, you have put aside many luxuries. But sleep is also a luxury. To stay awake, to watch and pray, is a weapon against evil that you must master. Is there anything else you need to confess?”

“No, I have cleared my conscience.”

“Good. As you have freed your mind from guilt, so you have armed yourself afresh against the onslaught of sin. For your penance, a full rosary after Vigils.”

She flinched and lowered her forehead to her hands. A further hour of prayer after the midnight office, when her cell would be as cold and still as the grave and her whole body would cry out for rest.

As if reading her thoughts, Brother Edward said, “Hardship, Sister: that is what will bring you to God.” He sniffed again. “And it will be fewer hours for you to be at Lucifer’s pleasure. Now make your act of contrition.”

She began the oft-repeated Latin prayers, and Brother Edward murmured her absolution in a quiet harmony.

“
Et Spiritus Sancti.
Amen.” The monk finished his blessing and his silhouette rose before the screen. “Good night, Sister. God be with you.” The swish of his robes and his fading footsteps confirmed his departure.

Readying herself for the next recitation of the Divine Office, Theodosia opened her Book of Hours and Psalter on the sloped reading shelf. The words crystallized into instant meaning, but she could draw no comfort from her reading. She still did not have the nobility, the purity, the containment she needed to make her final vows. She stood up from her faldstool, heartsick at her continued weakness.

She tucked her chilled hands into the covering outer sleeves of her black woolen habit and paced the floor of her tiny stone cell. The cell that kept her from the world, that should keep her soul safe. Three short paces brought her to the far wall and her wooden pallet bed. She stared at it with a wave of loathing. For all its hardness under her bones, for all its prickly straw-filled pillow, for all its rough sackcloth cover, when she lay in it and closed her eyes, she might as well be a whore on a silken couch, calling to Lucifer in her wanton dreams. He would stand right here, on this spot, looking down at her as she slept. He was tall — she knew that from her illuminated manuscripts. Tall, with the muscle and hair of an animal across his near-naked body. A face of sharp, pointed features and a ravenous mouth, and feet and hands that twisted into yellow-nailed claws, and the stench of decay as he breathed on her cheek…

“Oh, Saint Christina, help me.” She called aloud for the intercession of her beloved virginal saint. The vision of Satan faded in the chilly air, with only the racing of her pulse to remind her of his presence.

Theodosia turned from the bed to resume her pacing, knees weak. Two long steps to the left wall, where her supper awaited on a simple table: the usual coarse maslin loaf and jug of cold spring water. She kept a frugal diet to suppress her physical desires, but even so, her innards growled at the sight. She turned from it with disgusted resolve. She would not eat tonight, not risk inflaming her lust.

With her remorse a dead weight in her heart, she finally focused her gaze on the large wooden crucifix nailed on the wall opposite. Hanging from it, painted in colors so lifelike He looked alive, was her Savior. Despite her failings, His outstretched arms looked ready to embrace her, His bowed head lowered for her kiss. He had forgiven her, though she did not deserve it. Tears pooled in her eyes, blurred her sight. The words of Aelred of Rievaulx, whose great teachings she studied, echoed through her soul:
Touch Him with as much love as you would feel for a man.
She loosed her hands from her sleeves and stepped over to the carving as her tears spilled over. She reached her hands out and caressed the stretched sinews of her tortured God with trembling fingers. How could she, as His waiting bride, have added to His suffering through her pathetic sinfulness?

Her hands showed pale against her Lord’s bleeding wounds, lilies of purity against His royal roses. But that was a wrongful pride — she should not admire them so. She palmed her eyes dry and turned from her Lord.

Squatting to the ground, she started her daily task of scraping the earth from her cell floor. She rubbed harder and harder at the cold stone until her skin rent. With furious satisfaction, she examined her filthy, damaged palms.
Not lilies now.
But the ritual was her proof, her reminder, of her true vocation as an anchoress: she would die, be buried, and rot in here. That was her sacred calling.

♦ ♦ ♦

The narrow slats of the ladder that led below decks were slick with rain and seawater. Palmer climbed down with care, as the ship’s bounce and roll could have him off at any minute. The wooden hull juddered in the deep thud of every wave, the planks groaning and squeaking like a creature lived in them.

“Oi! Watch your feet.”

Palmer looked down past his wet boots at the sudden call. A crewman of around his own age sat on the damp floor of the hold, propped up against a pile of full grain sacks. The man clutched a small covered lamp, which cast a dim glow.

The slacker.
Palmer got to the bottom of the ladder, ready to send him up above. But now that he was closer, he saw the sailor had a deep cut down one cheek, deep enough to see the white of bone in the bloody gash.

“Excuse my rude tongue, sir knight.”

“It’s I who should seek excuses, fellow.” Palmer hauled his drenched surcoat up over his head and flung it over another pile of sacks to dry. He nodded at the man’s injury. “That’s a belter.”

“Deck plank came loose and caught me smack on.” Forehead pebbled with sweat, the man shifted his eyes to Palmer’s hand. “Yours isn’t bad either, sir.”

Palmer looked down. Scarlet drips swirled through the small puddles of seawater around his wet boots. He examined his jagged cut. “Can’t feel much at the minute; my hands are that cold.”

“That’ll pass,” said the man, “and it’ll hurt like the devil then.” He swallowed and tried to smile. “Like me face.”

Palmer looked around the swaying, cramped space. A large jug of wine with a cork stopper sat wedged between two sacks. He reached down, uncorked it with a flick of his thumb, and bent down to pass it to the man, hanging on to the sacks for balance. “Get some of that down you. My squire master swore by drink to help lay the pain. And even if it doesn’t, at least you won’t care so much.”

The man murmured his thanks and drank.

As he did so, Palmer ripped a strip from the top of one of the sacks with his knife. He tore the rough cloth in two with his teeth, then wound it around his injured hand. The man was right. In the warmer air, the open flesh throbbed with new life. He took the offered jug from the sailor and downed several large mouthfuls himself.

A clatter came from the ladder. The scrawny calves of Sir Hugh de Morville appeared, scrabbling for a hold on the wet rungs.

“Hold this thing steady, can’t you, Palmer?” The whined request was thin as the man himself.

Palmer moved over and propped it with his foot while he drank another draught of wine.

De Morville slid from the ladder and gave the injured man a disinterested glance. Like a hungry bird, he eyed the jug Palmer held. “Share it, can’t you? I’m piss-wet through and half-frozen besides.” He clicked his fingers as he held out his hand.

Palmer wiped his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand and passed the jug over. He no longer wanted any. The movement of the cabin in the storm stopped his thirst. Soon he’d have to spew the alcohol out to the fishes. At least he had its warmth and numbness — that would last a while. He took another section of torn sack and tried to wipe down his wet chain mail.

Two loud thumps came from the ladder. Sir William de Tracy jumped from the middle rungs and landed with a bang on the floor, narrowly missing the injured crewman. “Saints alive, man. Don’t get underfoot.”

The man murmured a low apology and tried to shift.

“Leave him be,” said Palmer. “He’s caught a bad blow.”

“Bugger him,” said de Tracy. “I smell Gascony, don’t I?”

De Tracy hadn’t much on de Morville in height, but with his barrel chest he made two of de Morville crossways. It was the same with his hair: de Morville’s sat like a thin, dead rat on his head, while de Tracy’s curled red and thick till it met under his chin in a heavy beard.

De Morville hung on to the jug. “Do you have to arrive everywhere like a battering ram, de Tracy?”

“That’s because I’ve nowt to hide.” He signaled for the wine. “You don’t have to look like a widow who’s going to be ravished. I’ll give you the bloody thing back.”

De Morville handed it over and watched de Tracy’s supping with greedy eyes.

De Tracy pulled the vessel’s rim from his lips with a loud smack and held it out to Palmer. “You did a right special job up there, boy. I’ll warrant Fitzurse chose well when he asked you to join us on our quest.”

Palmer wordlessly waved it back to de Morville. His head rocked in time with the tossing boat.

“You’re white as a corpse, Palmer. What’s the matter with you?” said de Morville. “Fainting because you lost a finger of blood?”

Palmer shook his head in reply. He stepped past the injured man over to the ladder, hand firm over his mouth.

“Can’t hold your drink? Thought so, with a wench face like yours.” De Tracy laughed hard. “And a sap with no sea legs too.”

Palmer scrambled up the ladder to the deck, willing his stomach to hold on. He made it out on deck and ran to the edge. He leaned out over the thunderous waves and retched himself empty, same as the day he’d been sent away to become a page. Seven years old, his landless cottar father dead from a terrible growth that filled his stomach and ate the rest of him away. His four small sisters clustered in a mute group, as his weeping mother pushed him from her to the rough clutch of the earl’s steward. The bewildering journey by cart, which ended at a busy port, where a ship waited to wrench him from his family, his home, his childhood. The green and gray curves of land had shrunk fast as the vessel tossed up, then down. His insides had coiled in loss so hard he thought his heart would stop. But he wouldn’t cry, not in front of the hard-eyed men who sailed the ship and mocked him for a fearful whelp. Yet he couldn’t keep his grief and loss in: he’d gone to the side of the ship and vomited and vomited.

As Palmer straightened up, he used his tongue to clean off his coated teeth. Fitzurse stood by the mast, deep in conversation with the hulk le Bret. Neither seemed to notice that, though quieter than before, the world tossed and bounced beneath them. The ocean raced past, the set sail making quick work of the many miles’ journey to England.