Chapter 28 The Bishop
The Bishop
The bishop’s carriage comes to a clattering halt at the footbridge as the last wandering stars fade above the rooftops.
The bishop descends, his red cloak billowing, followed by Willems like a black echo and Lukas like a muted shadow.
Jan would storm over the bridge, break through the doors into their stronghold, but it’s as impregnable as a fortress with a moat.
He will have to knock. It’s annoying that the cobbles are smeared with sodden loaves of bread.
He refuses to soil his slippers with their offerings.
“Clear this!” he orders. Guards jump from his carriage and start shoving food into the canal with the blades of their spears. Below, the swans beat their wings in displeasure, but they have grown fat and fickle on white flour, and none rise to defend the beguines.
The begijnhof doors crack open to reveal the face of a small woman with dark hair and sharp features.
Her eyes dart among the men and land on his pectoral cross.
She admits them with a frown. The bishop is reminded how much he dislikes these beguines.
They should be put into convents. Or wed.
Once he gets to Rome, he’ll have them outlawed.
The girl’s heels click on the flagstones as she leads them through the passage into the courtyard.
I’ll marry you to a ratcatcher, he thinks.
Jan had expected to surprise the women in their beds.
Not so. Though the sun is just visible over the red-tile roofs, the yard is already stretched end to end with linens.
The bishop is confronted by the industry of women, a labyrinth of taut cloth, forbidding and female.
Above the dawn laundry looms their gray church.
A handful of startled women emerge from the linen maze, then scatter like mice into doors that look identical.
Good. Fear is first cousin to reverence.
A broad-shouldered woman marches toward them.
She halts and dips her head in a gesture that manages to convey more disrespect than respect.
Willems raises a subtle eyebrow and looks pointedly at her large hands, and he notices the ink stains on her fingertips.
The widow Janssens, then. Draper and translator.
A very busy woman. He’d like to arrest her for the look in her eyes.
“Where is your magistra?”
“At prayer. You can deal with me.”
Oh, believe me, I would if I could. “Summon her. And bring out the girl.”
The draper furrows her brow. “Which girl would that be?”
God, he wishes he could arrest her. “Sister Aleys.”
“She also is at prayer.”
“Get them!” he barks.
Katrijn holds her ground for a moment, glaring.
Finally, she gestures to the small woman to go to one house and Katrijn crosses to another.
Around the courtyard, women peer through lace curtains.
How he would love to shut this whole operation down.
It wouldn’t please the mayor. It wouldn’t please the guild. But it might make the pope happy.
Lukas stands to the side, his arms up his sleeves.
On the way over, in the carriage, Jan thought Lukas looked frayed.
His brother kept rubbing his hand along his rope belt.
It’s a rather disturbing tic. A strange film of nervous excitement is newly layered over his brother’s melancholia.
He needs to be careful, thought Jan. Melancholia can seed delusion.
When Lukas raised his hand against the window frame, Jan saw that the webbing between thumb and forefinger was pink and weeping.
“You should have her fix that for you.”
Lukas looked at his hand like he was surprised to find it on the end of his arm. He scowled. “She doesn’t perform on command. She’s not a jester.”
“More’s the pity. But even you must appreciate that we need to examine her.”
“Why? Why can’t you accept a miracle?”
His brother was so blind to politics, it was almost charming.
He sighed. “Because, Lukas, we are the Church. This is our job. Besides, if she proves herself before the town dignitaries, I won’t arrest her for translation.
I might not need to arrest anyone for translation.
” Because that will be the next bishop’s problem.
“God will protect her.”
“What, you think she’s real?” Jan peered at him. “You do, don’t you?”
Lukas looked back out the window into the twilight. Rectangles of light were beginning to appear in windows.
“At least I believe in something,” he said, raising hard eyes to Jan. Their mother’s eyes. “Do you believe in anything?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
Poor man. What favor has belief ever granted him?
“You’ll see,” said Lukas. “Her faith will convert you.”
Across the courtyard, a door opens to reveal a tall woman.
Katrijn Janssens walks quickly to intercept her, blocking the path.
They argue briefly, urgent whispered words he can’t make out.
The woman places a hand on the draper’s shoulder with an unmistakable authority.
This must be their grand mistress, Sophia Vermeulen. The magistra steps around Katrijn.
“Your Excellency.” Sophia bows. “To what do we owe this visit?”
That’s more like it, he thinks. He notes a tremor in one hand, sees her silence it with the other. Does everyone have a twitch today?
“Magistra. We have been made aware of certain activities at the begijnhof”—he circles his hand lazily and watches Katrijn and Sophia exchange alert glances—“and Sint-Janshospitaal.”
He pauses. Clearly, they think he has come about the translations. He doesn’t mind letting them stew. Behind doors, he imagines women hastily stuffing parchment under mattresses and spilling inkpots out back windows into the canals.
Lukas breaks the tension. “Magistra, it is marvelous. The bishop is here to announce a public demonstration of Sister Aleys’s gift.” Jan has the distinct impression that Lukas is signaling to them. That is all—you are safe.
Sophia nods. “Your Excellency, we will arrange for you to visit the hospital. There are many there who have been cured.”
“That won’t be necessary. We will hold a demonstration in the Markt before local authorities.
I’ve invited the clergy, the monasteries, the abbeys, and the heads of the guilds.
” He might even let the nuns out for the day.
“All the burghers and merchants of the town. Everyone should witness the wonder.”
Sophia frowns and puts a hand to her temple. “We must ask Sister Aleys, I think.” She turns to Lukas. “Father, as her spiritual advisor, should you not counsel her?”
“I have already discussed this with Friar Lukas,” says Jan. “All is set for this evening. They assemble the platform as we speak.”
Another door opens to reveal a young woman in brown. This must be her. Jan glances over and is startled at the eagerness on his brother’s face at the sight of his girl. Lukas is such an innocent. He needs to be more careful.
As the girl approaches, Jan is struck by her strange eyes, the bright blue rims swallowed from within by black pupils. He once saw a boxer stagger to his knees after a hard blow—his eyes had the same dazed quality. And then he collapsed. This woman stands upright.
The second thing he notices is the translucent quality of her skin, as if the early morning light bends to pass through her.
The girl has a certain beauty, he supposes, if your taste runs to elves.
Jan is unimpressed by beautiful women. Beautiful women serve him wine, warm his bed.
And he’s seen virgins with visions before.
Marriage cures them of imagination. But there is something different about this one, unearthly, a vapor wraith from the woods.
“Sister Aleys,” he says, “we have heard much about you.”
She says nothing. He has a feeling she’s judging him.
“You claim to work miracles.”
“I make no such claim.” There is a hint of defiance in her voice.
“Yet you lay hands upon the ill.”
“As do your priests.”
“My men are ordained to perform sacraments.” She’s quite slippery. “But you have healed patients in the hospital.”
“I work there.”
He didn’t expect this. He didn’t expect denial. It’s good. A show of humility, a certain attractive reluctance could be part of the act. He glances at Willems. What do you think? Good enough for the stage? For the pope?
Willems jerks his head toward their guards. Jan looks around.
The guard behind him is making a surreptitious cross over his throat. The other is gazing at the girl with his mouth agape. God help him. He wonders if the pope could be this gullible. Infallible, but gullible.
“You are too modest. The esteemed Friar Lukas”—he nods at his brother—“has witnessed your healings. It seems you have been given a gift of the spirit. You can bring people back from death?”
He’s giving her an opening. She doesn’t take it. Instead, her eyes graze his finery, the costly fabric, his belt paved with precious stones. Her gaze, focused to a pinpoint, rests on his pectoral cross like she could melt it.
Well, he has plans for her and her insolence.
“The Church, as you can imagine, is interested in all powerful manifestations of the Holy Spirit. Witnessing such gifts can”—his eyes flick to Lukas—“cause faith to flower in desert rock and streams of belief to turn into oceans.” He is laying it on a bit thick. He wants to see what she’s got.
“I am a simple servant.”
Simple, my foot, he thinks. There’s nothing simple about you.
“Good. I have arranged for you to perform a public healing. My carriage will collect you this evening at the tolling of the Lakenhalle.”
She blanches. “Your Excellency, God does not require human tests and demonstrations.”
“You instruct a bishop on God’s requirements?”
“My gift is capricious.”
I bet it is.
She looks to Friar Lukas. “If someone is healed, it is God’s will, not mine.”
“Well,” sighs the bishop, “then we will rely on God’s will to prove your virtue.”
“And if I refuse? Or fail?”
“Then it would appear to be God’s will to close this begijnhof.
In addition to harboring a possible deceiver”—he gives Aleys a long look—“we have reason to suspect that one or more women here—women lettered in Latin—are making unsupervised translations of scripture.” He nods at Aleys, Sophia, and Katrijn.
“It’s enough to make some arrests, perhaps close the whole enterprise.
” He opens his palms. “Such a shame. It’s really quite lovely, what you have here. ”
He smiles at Willems. Your work, come to fruition. I hope you are enjoying this theater of our making.
Aleys twists around. Her eyes narrow. “The man from the magna rota.”
“How the wheel turns,” Willems responds, doffing his black cap and extending a leg. He replaces it on his head at the perfect angle.
Such style, that man, thinks the bishop. He will do well in Rome.
“This evening we look forward to your demonstration of God’s will on earth.”