The Passion of Dolssa (19 page)

If he looked behind him, acres of fertile countryside stretched down the mountain, bathed in blue sky and golden sun. Bees worked alongside the lay brothers, and all was peace.
To end one’s days in such a place . . .
thought Hugo.

Finally a turn in the path brought buildings into view, and the walls of a grand abbey church. He passed fragrant herb gardens and flowers tended by silent, sweating laborers in the September sun. He reached the stables, and a lay brother hurried out to take his horse.

“
Bonjọrn
,” Hugo said to the brother, who bowed in reply and then led the horse away. Other brothers, Hugo saw, had taken note of his coat of arms. The abbot would be here before long to greet him. He’d better hurry.

For such a place of holy contemplation, the
abadia
swarmed with activity. Other travelers and pilgrims toiled up the path, as did brothers guiding donkey carts full of grapes. Stonemasons perched on scaffolding and chipped away at column heads. Dozens of lay brothers came and went, while from beyond the walls to their refectory, the voices of the monks in song filled the drowsy air with sweetness.

“Good friar.” Hugo accosted a youthful lay brother, then bowed to him. The brother’s soft face blanched at being so addressed by a noble knight, and he hastily bowed in return.

“Is there a place here where visitors may come to pray?” Hugo asked the young brother.

The quivering youth gestured toward a small chapel tucked against the hillside.

“And do you see many travelers stopping here for sanctuary in their travels?”

The lad nodded.

“Has there been, by chance, in the last few weeks, a noble
donzȩlla
, dark of hair, and slight of build, traveling alone?”

He frowned and shook his head at such an unlikely picture. His cowl appeared to itch his neck.

“Tell me,” said Hugo, leaning closer to his ear. “I am also looking for information about a party of peasants passing through. They had one older
ome
, two hearty young
omes
, one youth, and two
tozas
. Two donkey carts, and some other animals. Have you seen them?”

The young brother’s eyes lit up. He nodded solemnly.

Hugo dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, my friend,” he said. “It would be a blessing if you happened to know where they were going.”

The brother shook his head sadly, as if regretting he could not be of more use.

“No matter,” Hugo said. “Now, here is a curious thing. It was said of this party, by some, that they carried a foul-smelling cargo. Some horrid, offensive odor. Did you notice that?”

His companion took a step back and shook his head.

“No odor that you detected?” None. Hugo shrugged. “Not all tales can be believed.”

The young brother began to show signs of wishing to be anywhere but here. The glow, it seemed, of conversing with a noble knight had lost its luster.

“One final question.” Hugo spoke before his captive could escape. “Did this party, by some chance, have any wish to bury a body?”

The lay friar shook his head so fast, his chin wobbled. He bowed, pressed his hands together, and fled.

Hugo watched him go, and nodded.
Bon
. He intended to find her alive. This news held no guarantee he would, but he was satisfied. Then doubt set in. Was this party he’d seen pass, and later heard tales of, a waste of his time?

The abbot, flanked by monks, emerged from an arched doorway and made his stately way toward his noble guest. Best not to seem too inquisitive to him. Unsuspecting lay brothers to interview would be plenty. Moments would appear, and Hugo would know how to seize them.

BOTILLE

ealing bells woke me before the sun had begun to peep over the lagoon. It was Sunday, but these weren’t Sabbath bells. Someone had died.

I threw a blanket over my shoulders and stumbled through the dark corridor to the front room of the tavern. My sisters followed like haggard ghosts, wrapped in anything they could snatch. We threw the latch and ventured out into the street.

Autumn had come in the night. The air bit my throat, and my breath fogged before me. Leaves’ edges had begun to turn, and the lagoon brooded quietly upon the prospect of approaching cold.

When no one opened the door next to us, I began to fear it was Lisette’s baby, but of course they would not ring bells for an
eṇfan
. Soon Lisette ducked through her low doorway with the child, quiet for once, in her arms, and tall Martin, who had to bend double to clear the door, hunching along beside them, carrying their sober little daughter, Ava.

Up and down the road the doorways opened as the bells still rang. We counted ourselves and counted one another.
Oc
, we were still there. We saw our neighbors and were glad they were not gone, but each revelation brought new fear. Who had left us?

Then the name slid along the strands of peasants roping through the streets of Bajas: Felipa de Prato. Young mother and farmwife. The one whose blessed and fertile fortune my little
s
rre
had only just foretold.

Sazia turned away. Lisette reached with one arm to embrace her young daughter, and kissed the crown of her sleepy head.

Plazensa enveloped Sazia with her blanket-draped arm and held her close. Sazia hid her face in her hands. I wrapped my arms around them both. Plazensa met my gaze.

“Was it the pregnancy?” she whispered.

I shook my head. “No one said so to me.” Did anyone even know about the pregnancy? Did her husband, Joan de Prato?

“Maybe she wasn’t pregnant.” Sazia spoke from the hollow of Plazensa’s collarbone.

Plazi stroked her hair. “Hush. Of course she was.”

“I must have been wrong.” Sazia’s breath caught in her throat, but my proud sister would not cry. “If I was wrong about her prospects, I must have been wrong about her child.”

Felipa already had two young children, who were close to starving. I supposed that was why the news of this third arrival had not filled her with joy.

I steered my sisters indoors. Up and down the street, somber Bajas slowly returned to their homes. Inside the tavern, we sat down together at the bar, and I poured Sazia some ale.

“I am through with telling fortunes.” Sazia’s voice was flat. “What cruelty is it to give a dying woman false hope?”

“Oh, Sazia, you mustn’t do this to yourself,” I said. “Giving hope to the dying sounds like mercy to me, not cruelty. You believed what you said was true.”

“And you were right about it. She died from her pregnancy,” said Plazensa firmly, as if she could settle the matter. “She probably didn’t follow your instructions.”

“No, don’t,” moaned Sazia. “Are you saying it’s her fault she died, for not following my advice?”

Plazensa chewed on this. “Not her fault, I’ll grant you,” she said. “Perhaps she was too poor to eat the foods you told her she needed. What was it? Leeks? Melons?”

“You don’t die,” Sazia told her ale, “for want of melons.”

“But you do die,” I said, “for want of food, if you’re ill. Felipa was very thin.”

“They had a farm,” Plazensa protested. “It’s harvest time! Remember the
legums
she brought us when she wanted Sazia to tell her fortune?”

Sazia took a mournful swig of ale. “Don’t remind me.”

“Maybe,” I said, “they were most of the
legums
she could find. Remember what Sazia said? That Joan de Prato needed to get off his
aze
and water his crops?”

Plazensa rubbed Sazia’s back vigorously. “It’s a crime! For a mother to starve right under our noses!” She flexed her fingers, as if she were ready to tear justice out of someone’s skin. “Maybe,” she said on further thought, “Felipa wasn’t so much worried about his cheating as about starving. And about her
eṇfans
.”

Sazia was miserable. “She probably always fed them first.”

“The
eṇfans
,” I repeated. “Plazi, what’s cooking today?”

She nodded, rose to her feet, and began poking around shelves. “There’s
fogasa
left over,” she said, “and some nuts, and plenty of cheese.”

“Plums,” Sazia suggested, “from Lisette’s tree.”

“Ale.” Plazensa produced a pitcher. “At dinner we can take them something hot.”

“Thank you.” I kissed both of their cheeks. “I’ll get dressed and take the food over, and see how the
eṇfans
are doing.”

“If you need to, bring them here,” said Plazensa.

Sazia and I looked at each other. “That’s dangerous, don’t you think?” I pointed toward the room where Dolssa still slept. “Hard to hide her from little children.”

My older sister frowned. “Then arrange for someone else to look after them,” she said. “No telling whether that man can look after his own self now, much less his little ones.”

“I’ll go look after them,” Sazia said. “I owe poor Felipa at least that much.”

And so, Bajas, all of us, we drifted to the de Prato home. The late September winds blew through our clothes, but we didn’t feel them. We wandered in, and we wandered out. We listened to the low songs and prayers Dominus Bernard murmured for Joan de Prato’s benefit. We listened, because the hollow-faced widower could not. His thoughts were somewhere else.

We left bits of food like offerings at a shrine. Felipa’s two children, a boy and a girl who seemed nothing more than round faces on
flamenc
legs,
watched us come and go, then dove into the food. The poor mites were too young and confused to know they’d lost their
mamà
. The one thing they knew well was hunger. Today, inexplicably, a feast had arrived, pot by pot, in their small home. I wondered if, in days to come, when the little ones realized what had happened, the rare memory of full bellies would confuse their hearts about what had truly happened in their lives this day.

We drifted home. We gnawed on
fogasa
we couldn’t taste, and washed it down with wine. We drifted back up the hill to mass. Far more of us than usual went to hear Dominus Bernard that day. After the liturgy, he spoke of resurrection, and we cried for the poor sad babes too hungry to understand their
mamà
had flown.

BOTILLE

hat has happened?”

I brought Dolssa some food and found her seated, leaning against the wall, stroking Mimi and looking longingly at the weak light filtering through the doorway.

“
Una femna
has died.” I set down her bowl of porridge, and Mimi slipped closer to investigate. “
Una maire
, with young
eṇfans
.
Un filh
and
una filha
. And another was on the way.”

Her wide eyes held my gaze. A thousand lifetimes lay there, and somewhere, the maiden Dolssa de Stigata hid behind them, behind her torments. Could she venture out, I wondered, into our world enough to feel this loss?

“Was she ill?”

“Not that we knew.” I sat down beside her. “Some illnesses, the eye doesn’t see.”

She closed her eyes for some time. Her lips moved.

She’d gone far away again. I wondered if she remembered what we’d been talking about, or even that I was still with her in the room. When she spoke, it surprised me.