Sylvia (24 page)

The first night in Master Yap's
winkelhaus
came as a surprise, not only because it turned out to be what it was, but also because of my singing. I had all the while thought of myself as a modest person as I saw little in me of particular note and was aware that as a peasant I had no learning or importance. But ever since the Miracle of the Gloria I had grown accustomed to folk being in praise of my voice and without thinking about it must have all the while grown quite vainglorious. The very afternoon prior to arriving at Master Yap's the people in the church square had cheered and clapped and wished to touch me. Now Reinhardt and I stood within the canopy in Ali Baba's Courtesans' Room and my singing and his playing went completely unnoticed. It was as if we were invisible and after each folksong there was silence from the patrons. When it was all done I expected Master Yap to show his displeasure and to inform us that we would not be needed on the morrow. But instead, while not over-generous with his praise, he told us that we had performed satisfactorily and that he would no longer cause a French lute player to stand by. That night I went to bed at the widow's lodging exhausted. It had been a very long day, from the visit to the woods in the morning to bed well past the midnight hour. Reinhardt, as exhausted as I, grumbled that the rat-ridding at Master Solomon's had caused him to have little sleep.

‘If you'd been wearing thy cloak and peacock feather cap, the rats would have scurried off in amazement without you playing your flute,' I teased. But I do not think he was amused.

You might imagine my consternation, then, when the widow woke me with the news that an urchin had come to fetch me to go to St Mary's on the Kapitol. It was Nicholas, who by some mysterious way only known to street children, knew where I lived and came to summon me to an examination by the blessed Father Hermann Joseph and Father Paulus. It was no more than an hour after the ringing of the Angelus.

‘Come, Sylvia, the blessed Father has set aside an hour from his prayers, and Father Paulus, the scribe from St Martin's, is with him.'

‘Nicholas, there is an explanation,' I cried, but then realised I could explain no further to a ten-year-old boy.

‘They will see the bishop if it turns out well,' Nicholas said enthusiastically. ‘Already the people in the market know and marvel about the white rose you held that wept tears of blood.'

‘How can that be? It was nigh dark and not long before the ringing of the curfew bell that we departed from St Martin's.'

‘Street children rise early,' he said simply.

‘And are tattletales!' I exclaimed.

Nicholas looked at me, astonished. ‘But we have witnessed a miracle! Do you think we would keep this a secret?'

‘It is
not
a miracle, Nicholas!' I scolded.

‘That's not for you to say, Fräulein Petticoat,' he retorted.

‘Call me Sylvia!' I demanded, feeling both guilty and frustrated. ‘Nicholas, you must not believe everything you see to be true. There may be yet another explanation.'

‘As you wish, Fräulein Petticoat,' he said, not believing me. ‘Can you please hurry – they are awaiting your attendance at St Mary's on the Kapitol.'

I had always been forthright about the events in my life, even though I seemed to be one of those people who was constantly misconstrued and seemed always to be explaining or denying. How then was I going to explain the blood on the Virgin's rose? I would have to admit that I had stained my white gown with my woman's blood in front of perhaps five hundred people. Already the street children had spread the news of the latest miracle, who knows how far and wide. The commonfolk were always receptive to gossip and no doubt anxious to hear more of the Petticoat Angel, who, judging from my reception in St Martin's square, seemed to them to be touched by a divine hand. Now I must confront two priests and my shame and their piety made it impossible to admit the truth.

Perhaps the matter of the blood on the rose would soon be forgotten. Until now all the misconstruction placed upon events in my life had been witnessed by ordinary folk, who are always on the lookout for signs and portents and cry ‘miracle' at the flapping of a bird's wing. On only one occasion had the scrutiny of a priest been involved and Father Pietrus had summarily dismissed the Miracle of the Gloria. I felt sure these two priests would do the same. Walking towards St Mary's on the Kapitol with Nicholas I prepared myself for the humiliation I was about to face.

But I had not reckoned on the blessed Father Hermann Joseph who, since childhood, had been devoted to the Virgin. It was known he spent countless hours kneeling before her image in ecstatic raptures. Miracles and visions were commonplace to him so that he was no Doubting Thomas to begin with. His life since childhood was so blameless that his fellow priests dubbed him Joseph, a nickname he would not in all humility accept until he had a vision where he was mystically espoused to Mary with a ring and so became Joseph her earthly husband.

As a child of seven he was already enraptured with the Virgin and the Child and would occupy every moment he possessed kneeling before the blessed stone carving of Mary and the infant Jesus at St Mary's on the Kapitol. The best-told story of him was when as a hungry child he had been given a precious apple and instead of eating it he had presented it to the Christ Child recumbent on the Virgin's lap. Jesus had reached out, accepting it. Thereafter, Mary helped him to climb over the choir screen to play with the baby Jesus in the presence of Joseph and John the Evangelist.

Of course I knew none of this at the time. As we walked Nicholas told me what had occurred the previous evening when he'd taken the rose to the two priests.

Nicholas and his street urchins had run all the way to St Mary's on the Kapitol and trembling with faith asked to see Father Hermann Joseph who had just gone in to prayers after the ringing of the Angelus. Nicholas, unwilling to wait, brushed aside the monk on duty and entered the church, running down the aisle to confront the priest as he knelt in his accustomed place before the statue of the Virgin and Child.

‘Father! Father! There has been a miracle!' he cried, still trembling.

Father Hermann, deep within his devotion to the Virgin, at first ignored Nicholas, until the boy grabbed him by the cord of his cassock and pulled, demanding his attention. The priest, who had worked all his life so that he might be sanctified, had never been known to show anger, but he would later confess that the boy's rude interruption to his devotions had tested his spirit sorely. Containing his vexation he rose to his feet. ‘What is it, Nicholas? Can you not wait?' he asked the agitated urchin.

Wide-eyed and trembling, Nicholas held out the white rose now stained with blood. ‘A miracle, Father, we have seen a miracle. Your Virgin's rose has wept blood as the Petticoat Angel sang to the glory of our Saviour!'

‘Blood? The Virgin's rose? What mean you, Nicholas?'

‘A miracle, Father, ask anyone!' He turned to the urchins who now stood behind him. ‘They saw it!'

‘Yes, Father!' several chorused while others nodded their heads in confirmation.

The priest now took the rose and examined it carefully. ‘Aye, I do not deny this is blood, perhaps a thorn upon the stem?'

‘Nay, Father, you did yourself remove the thorns,' Nicholas said.

‘Perhaps one I missed?' Father Hermann said gently. ‘My eyes are not as good as they once were.'

‘Then it would be present now,' Nicholas protested.

‘Or removed?'

‘Nay, Father, look, all the petals to the underside are stained but not the stem.' Nicholas was close to tears knowing the priest doubted his word.

Father Hermann, ever gentle, then explained, ‘A miracle must have verification, Nicholas.'

‘But . . . but we all saw it!' Nicholas cried again.

‘A priest or someone whose truth cannot be denied must be a witness. While I truly believe you
think
you saw a miracle and speak the truth, Nicholas,' Father Hermann said gently, ‘alas, the bishop will not accept the word of a street child or the verification of his companions.'

‘Father Paulus saw it!' Nicholas exclaimed. ‘He called it a miracle and fell to his knees and kissed the Petticoat Angel's hands.'

‘Paulus the scribe? I know him well!' the priest said, surprised. ‘I will call upon him at St Martin's tomorrow.'

But there was no necessity for this, because, almost as he spoke, Father Paulus arrived, much agitated and puffed from hurrying through the streets. He seated himself to recover his breath and in a halting voice exclaimed, ‘A wondrous happening . . . the rose.' He saw the rose in Father Hermann's hand. ‘See, it bleeds!'

‘Aye, I have explained to Nicholas here, a thorn perhaps to the finger of the maiden?'

‘Nay, I clasped her hands and turned them palm upwards to examine them more closely, and there was no blood, nor single wound or prick to her fingers!'

‘Are you sure, Father?'

‘I swear it upon my life, Father Hermann! You know me well enough to know that I am not, as thou art, blessed with holy visions. I am but a humble scribe and scholar trained to tell things as they are. I came to ring the Angelus and heard this maiden sing. It was as if the heavens had opened and she was the solo voice to that celestial choir.' He pointed to the white rose. ‘Then I saw the bleeding to the underside of the petals with mine own eyes and will verify it to the bishop or any other without fear or contradiction.'

‘Nicholas, come here,' Father Hermann commanded suddenly. Nicholas stepped forward to stand in front of the priest. ‘Spread your hands.' The boy spread his hands and Father Hermann examined them closely. ‘Now the underside, your palms, show me.' Nicholas turned his hands so that his palms faced upwards and the big priest examined each finger individually for the slightest sign of a cut. ‘No cuts. There are no cuts!' he exclaimed. Now greatly excited, he cried, ‘The white rose of Mary, the mystical rose Herself! We must jointly confront this maiden they name the Petticoat Angel and examine her before we go to the bishop. We must be quite sure.' He turned to Nicholas. ‘You shall bring her here tomorrow, Nicholas. I will pray to the blessed Virgin for forgiveness that I doubted you and as penance I will wear a garland of the Virgin's rose thorns about my neck for a week.'

Nicholas, delighted that Father Paulus had verified his word, promised he would seek me out. ‘She can call the birds from the trees to sit upon her hand, ask anyone, Father,' he said.

‘We saw it ourselves!' some of the urchins chorused.

‘Aye, and the rooks to come down from the belltower,' Father Paulus added, then he smacked his hand to the side of my head. ‘Oh, glory be! I have forgot to ring the Angelus.'

With all the questioning on thorns and pricks to my fingers, I thought that Father Hermann would be most wary and demand an explanation. Father Paulus, as a scribe, would be even more particular with his questions. Priestly scribes, I had often heard, were both a cynical and doubting breed. But when Nicholas told of Father Paulus's emphatic insistence that no coincidence of thorns was possible and then further, how Father Hermann had promised to wear a necklace of rose thorns in contrition for his doubting the boy's word, my heart sank.

It was only then, with Nicholas at my side, that I thought to withdraw Father John's dagger from my stave and cut my finger, but it was too late and I recalled how Father Paulus had looked carefully when he kissed my palms.

By the time we reached St Mary's on the Kapitol I was in a state of near terror that I must either be seen a liar within the sanctity of the Church or tell a truth that would shame me forever. Worse still, upon our arrival, we were taken to stand outside the open door to the sacristy where the reliquary and vestments were kept and through the doorway I glimpsed a small carving of the Virgin clasping to her bosom a rose. The two priests waited in front of the door, in view of the figure. I felt that I must turn and run for my life, for if I should tell a lie in such a place I felt sure God would strike me dead right there where I stood in front of the Holy Mother.

Father Hermann was an elderly man, perhaps over sixty years. He was big-boned and must once have been powerful in his physique but now was thin and sallow in his face, the hair surrounding his cleric's bald pate grown white. Around his neck was a garland of rose thorns and already several sharp pricks marked the skin on his neck. I felt terribly ashamed that I should be the cause of his penance and his pain.

Father Paulus, who I remembered from the previous day, was the younger of the two, aged forty or so, small in stature, not much bigger than myself. His red hair was speckled with grey, his eyes a pale washed blue. But it was his nose that was most unprepossessing. It dominated all his other features and was so straight and long it seemed falsely appended to his tiny face. It was as if it was intended for someone else and God, momentarily distracted when in the process of His creation, had affixed it to the wrong visage. It extended beyond his bottom lip and cast a shadow upon his chin.

Both greeted me most courteously and in the manner of an equal so that I grew even further afraid in their presence.

‘Please, fräulein, show me your hands,' Father Hermann asked. I held out my hands. ‘No, turn them over,' he instructed. I did as he asked and from his cassock he produced a round magnifying glass such as scribes use to do illumination and brought it down to my hands, his eye up against it, examining every part of the palms and fingers. Then he turned to Father Paulus. ‘Praise be to God, there are no cuts!'