The Gathering Storm

Page 308

“When the elements mingled and were corrupted by darkness, it was the voice of God, the Word of Thought, that separated darkness out from the others and propelled it into the depths where it naturally belongs. Because it was the Word that gave birth to this world, it is our words that give birth to the community of believers on Earth.”
“Tell us the story of the phoenix and the miracle, Brother Sigfrid!” cried one of the novices. “Tell how God restored your tongue!”
The others begged Sigfrid to tell the story yet again, although in the last year and a half he had told it a hundred times. Because Ivar stood at the back of the crowd, he easily slipped away and climbed out of the gentle amphitheater composed by the natural contours of the ground. Here the inhabitants of the cloister assembled on fine days to discuss the Holy Book and the ineffable mystery of God as well as the more tangible acts of humankind which had confined them in this prison.
At times like this, he just felt so unspeakably weary.
The amphitheater stood at the limit of the grounds, which were measured on one side by the rocky ridge that closed off the northern end of the vale, ringed to the east and west by a straggling line of forest and the steep slopes of hills, and opening to the south on a vista that looked up the vale over the buildings and fields of the cloister to the palisade. He shaded his eyes to peer into the distance. The estate had turned gold, with only a few greens to relieve the pallor. It had been a hot, dry summer, and the crops had suffered because of it. Dust smeared the sky beyond the palisade. Someone was coming, horsemen and perhaps wagons, if he judged the height and density of the cloud correctly.
He left Sigfrid and his listeners and jogged along the track that led past fields of seared wheat and rye and the withering vegetable gardens to the central compound. He trotted past the weaving hall and took advantage of the shady porch fronting the infirmary to cool his head before cutting across the last strip of open ground to reach the main compound.
The audience chamber lay empty, so he crossed it and walked out onto the portico that faced the inner courtyard. The fountain—a playful trio of dancing bears—had long since run dry, and buckets had to be hauled in every day to keep the herb bed and the roses watered. The grave post dedicated to poor Sister Bona had been freshly whitewashed; her ivory Circle dangled from a nail hammered into the wooden post. It had been over one year since her death, and yet the memory of that awful day remained as vivid as if it had happened last week—the first shock of it, like a punch in the belly, transformed into a numb ache.
One nun knelt among the herbs, weeding. The other attended the biscop, who sat in the shade at her writing desk, which had been moved out onto the portico because of the extreme heat.
Constance looked up, hearing Ivar’s footsteps, and extended a hand to greet him warmly. “What brings you here to me, Brother Ivar? You have deserted the company at the very hour when your discussions may yield the ripest fruit.”
He kissed her hand, then dropped to his knees before her. “Someone is coming, Your Grace. I saw a cloud of dust as I stood outside the amphitheater.”
“Ah.” She smiled softly.
“I am anxious, Your Grace. I fear this cloud brings ill news.”
“It may be, but we can do nothing to prevent its arrival. Go to the gate, if you will, and see what comes our way. I will wait in the audience chamber.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Sister Eligia, I pray you, assist me.” The young woman hastened to Constance’s side, offering her the walking stick, supporting her arm, and helping her negotiate out from behind the desk.
“Do not hesitate to go before me, Brother,” said Constance. “The community has more need of legs than my royal honor, which has not served us well these past two years.”
He sketched a bow and hurried out through the chamber, hearing the scrape of her ruined leg against pavement and the tap of her stick as she moved one laborious step at a time off the portico. He rapped on the door. The guards opened it, looked him up and down, then let him through. The door thudded shut behind him.
He was free—they all were except the biscop—to walk where he willed within the confines of the palisade. He strode down the track that led past the sheep pasture and the bramble fields where the goats made their home, arriving at the closed gates at the same time as the new arrivals. Harness jingled and a man cursed a recalcitrant mule. A pair of dogs barked. A woman laughed as the captain called down jovial curses from the parapet as a greeting for the soldiers come to relieve the last crop of guards.
“… bastard whoresons. It’s quiet enough, I grant you, but all we have to amuse ourselves is dicing. There aren’t even any fine ladies in want of swiving in the village, for they’ve sworn to have nothing to do with us on account of they’ve been corrupted by the prisoner and her lying words. You’ll be wishing yourself off at the wars after a few days stuck here!”