“You’re not going into a trance, Edyth. You’re staying right here with me.”
She gets me to breathe in rhythm with her until it passes. We sit side by side in the quiet for a good while, staring at the cross above the altar.
“You never get used to death, do you?” says Alice, her light hand on my back.
I wait a long time to respond. “It’s not just that.”
“What, then?”
“I knew those two who died.”
“Really?” she asks. “Were they from your town?”
“No, from my journey here. But that’s not it, either.”
“Tell me,” she insists.
“Alice, last night, I saw a star fall—a huge ball of fire. It came so close, I could see the flames licking off it. But right at the moment when it looked like it would land on the town, it broke into pieces and they went in every direction.”
I point up at the window of the stag and tree, and there the comet soars above them. “Do you see that picture? I’ve been dreaming of that image since before I came here, and now I see it everywhere. I need to figure out what it means.”
“You’re thinking—”
“That boy and his da—I think it’s bigger than them. Something’s coming—for all of us.”
— 25 —
The rain has passed, the air’s fresh, but I take my Monday-morning walk with tension. I drift among the gardens and orchards, and climb the yew in the churchyard, perching on a branch and staring at the fresh grave.
Mason comes around the back of the infirmary and sees me. He sidles up and leans against the tree trunk, careful to make it seem like he’s not talking to anyone.
“I’m sorry I shouted at you, Edyth,” he says into the air.
“You did what you had to.”
“I’ve missed you,” he says. “I barely slept last night. I wished…you were with me.”
Our eyes meet. We reach for each other, touch fingertips.
“Every time I fell asleep,” I tell him, “I dreamed of that father and son, rolling out of their shrouds and tangling me with them, tumbling down into the grave, only to have the bottom disappear from the pit. It’s the thought of all that weight and soil and rock on top of you. I can’t shake that image away.”
“But the body isn’t the person,” says Mason. “We both know that. That’s just the shell. The hollow, empty shell.”
“That’s what Da would say.”
A group of sisters walk by the churchyard, and Mason pretends to busy himself with tidying the ground around the grave.
Once they pass, “I heard you’re back at the scriptorium,” he changes the subject. “As an illuminator! It’s about time they realized what you can do.”
“That’s right,” I chuckle. “No more fetching. And no more Agnes—at least not as close.”
“But less chance of seeing you.” He looks up at me, a bit doleful.
“I know, but I think we can exhale a little now. Let’s meet tonight.”
“Only if you think you’ll be safe.”
“Without Agnes breathing down my neck, I think I will be. And I don’t want to do this dance anymore. I want to make a plan with you. A real plan.”
“I do, too, Edie,” he says, reaching up, grasping my ankle. “I hate not seeing you. I don’t want to be without you.”
“Tonight, then?”
“Tonight.”
* * *
—
It’s hard to stay awake the next morning at chapter. I stayed up far too late with Mason, telling him about the comet, both of us speculating about what it all means.
Prioress Margaret announces that Saint Christopher’s will be offering a meal for the poor this afternoon: a simple pottage, bread and ale for wanderers or peasants. She wants us to remember that the abundant life we live is not for ourselves only, but for others less fortunate.
“Remember,” she says, “as those for whom God took on a suffering body, we must comfort others with the comfort we have received.”
Agnes speaks up. “Venerable Mother, shouldn’t we protect our own first? We can send bread down to the parish churches and have them distribute it.”
“Caring for our flock means getting our hands dirty, Sub-Prioress,” she challenges. The community shuffles with the discomfort of their two leaders at opposite poles.
“Well, after all, we do pray for them every day…,” Agnes huffs.
“Good, Sister Agnes. I’m glad to hear of your commitment to the welfare of the stranger. Thank you. You will be in charge of laying hands on any sick who come to us.”
* * *
—
We set up trestle tables inside the gatehouse arch. Alice spreads the tables with clean white linen cloths. Cook and her assistants bring out the big pots full of pease pottage with salt pork and barley, as well as a week’s worth of bread. By the noon bell, people are lined up at the gatehouse all the way over the stone bridge crossing the river—the hungry, the sick, little babies as well as old men with crutches, but also young men simply having a tough year with this wet summer. Peasants come in a spectrum of fortune, but no one’s above a bad harvest.
Joan and Cook serve pottage at one table; Muriel, Anne and Brother Timothy tear off hunks of bread at the next. Alice and I pour jugs of ale for the grateful guests, and Bridgit jokes it up with some of the regulars who come for Mass. The air is sweet and clean, and the warm summer sun feels good after all the damp of last week. Everyone spreads their cloaks on the great lawn and sets out their picnics. The builders gather with extra jugs of ale and sit around telling tall tales. Families laugh together, enjoying the weather and the company.
But out of the corner of my eye, I see that something isn’t right.
Over in the shady nook of the gatehouse wall, one of the carpenters is crouched alone, clutching himself and rocking back and forth.
“I’m going to fill this pitcher,” I tell Alice.
“Nice excuse.” She winks at me. With a roll of my eyes, I leave with an empty jug, pretending to go to the brewhouse, but passing close enough to the man at the wall to get a good look.
He’s sweating—no, drenched—trying to hold in a cough but letting it out into his sleeve. And on the cuff, there’s blood. I veer away from him toward the group of builders. As I walk by Mason, I clear my throat. A minute later, he meets me at the entrance to the brewhouse.