Sylvia (36 page)

More so now than ever I felt myself the reluctant nun. I knew in the pantheon of nuns that loved Jesus as their betrothed and He them as His faithful and devoted wives that He would place me last. All-knowing, He knew that I came to the holy altar for selfish reasons and, moreover, had indulged myself up to the very last moment and not delivered myself up unto Him unsullied and virginal before pledging my troth and accepting His sacred ring.

But I confess as I lay supine with the arm of my lover about me I did not think even a moment on this consequence. In truth I felt cleansed and consummated and filled with the wonder of the creation of loving. Then came the first blush of guilt, for I realised that I did not know my lover's name and in my haste to abandon myself to him had not even thought to ask it.

I turned and resting on my elbow I looked at him and asked, ‘What is your name, my lovely lute player?'

He smiled a quiet smile. ‘Ah, that is the joy of it, Sylvia. You know it not and are much the better for it.'

‘Pray tell, how am I better for it?' I asked, grinning stupidly to hide my shame.

‘I have been told that you are about to enter a nunnery?'

‘Aye. Do you think me shameful?'

He laughed. ‘Do you think you are?'

‘Perhaps . . . Aye, I confess, it is, but I truly loved it.'

‘Then how may it be shameful?'

‘I go to be God's bride,' I said, suddenly shamefaced, these words summoning the awful truth of what I'd done.

He thought a moment then turned to me. ‘Sylvia, I am well accustomed to loving women. I count myself most fortunate – my lute attracts them like a bee to summer blossoms and I confess I seldom sleep alone. If this seems boastful then take it as you may. But this I say to thee. I am told, though you did not bleed, that I am the first man you have known and I am truly grateful to have been so chosen. You are an exceptional lover and as pretty as a maid might ever be. How learned you such loving ways and kept your virgin's mantle I cannot say, but the pity is that such joyous coupling will now be lost to all who may have been fortunate enough to pluck this lovely rose. What would be shameful is if you possessed my name and forever after thought only that it was I you loved and not what you
truly
loved, which was the act of loving. When this is felt and it is rarely so the first time for a maid, then it is the mystery of life and is created by God. Only He can create perfection and only His name may be used when thinking of it.'

With these lovely words, which did both forgive my sinning and flatter me immensely, he rose and quietly dressed and then he kissed me. ‘Farewell, Sylvia, I must leave you, but will cherish you for what you brought to me.'

‘Nay! Lute player, I thank you for your tender loving, but I wish but one more thing from you.'

‘What is it, Sylvia?'

‘The words to the love song you played when you came for me.'

To my surprise he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Nay, you do not want them.'

‘Please, I must!' I begged.

‘Nay, they are foolish. A joke before I truly knew you.'

‘I
must
have them, or else they will haunt me forever.' I hummed the first few bars. ‘See, I have the tune already, now I
must
have the words.'

‘I fear you will think less of me for telling you.'

‘Nay, I will not. Please?' I begged again.

But still he seemed reluctant and looked at me somewhat shamefaced. ‘It is a song composed by a young novice nun who finds herself bemoaning her new life in a convent. I thought it a joke most private when I played it. But now I fear this feeble jape turns on me, nor will it serve you well to know the words.'

‘Lute player, I am not easily made churlish, but if you do not tell me I will scream and tear my gown and beat myself to bruising and gouge my eye, then swear that I came about this state by thy cruel hand,' I laughingly threatened him.

‘Very well, Sylvia, but know you that it was you who persisted. It is called “The Reluctant Bride”.'

Whereupon he sat and taking up his lute he sang to me while I memorised the words. And when he was done and I had this song in my head, I could feel my courage begin to fail me.

The following morning, shortly after the ringing of the Angelus, Father Hermann and I departed for the long day's walk to the Benedictine convent at Mount Disibodenberg. St Mary's on the Kapitol possessed a horse and cart for the transporting of priests but he refused to use it. ‘We shall walk as do all commonfolk,' he informed me. Then he added in his usual critical manner, ‘Not like other members of the clergy that arrive seated on a cart with their feet clean and the hem of their cassocks free of dust or mud.'

‘I would much prefer to walk, Father,' I replied. This was true, as I knew I might not appear back in the outside world for four years or even longer. It was late summer and the wheat and barley were being brought in from the fields, always a happy time in the countryside.

‘Our Lord did only once ride upon a donkey when he entered Jerusalem for Passover, which is what we now call Lent,' he reminded me. ‘But at every other time he walked with His disciples. Tush! We priests have forgotten that we are called in His name to follow in His footsteps. Footsteps, you hear, Sylvia! Not cart wheels or mule hooves, footsteps! Only
once
a donkey! But oh no! Now we would raise ourselves to some lofty status that denies our vows of humility. Now we travel high-seated above the crowd, waving a blessing to those who acknowledge us, our chins and stomachs bouncing and a fat basket filled with bread, smoked fish and wine recumbent at our feet.'

‘I have a little money for food, Father,' I replied.

‘Nay, child, it is but a long day's journey. We shall trust in the Lord and if He doesn't provide, it can only be that our precious Saviour means us to fast this day.'

I felt sure that the other priests thus constantly regaled by Father Hermann's sanctimonious piety regarded him as a tiresome and self-righteous bully. I thought of poor Father Paulus, a recent victim of his brusque, disapproving and forthright scolding, although, I felt sure, all the while Father Hermann simply sought to conceal his lack of learning by seeming more pious, humble and worthy, proving himself to be a more conscientious disciple than his more learned brethren. This practised humility was simply another form of arrogance, in its own way just as vainglorious as the priest who rode high-handed on a mule or travelled contented in a cart. Humility does in silence; it does not constantly remind others what it does.

The prospect of not eating all day was not a pleasant one. For just a few small coins, food in the countryside was abundant and to a priest more likely given freely without payment. The bread would be baked with new-harvested corn and the wine would be young and sweet. Besides, to stop for a short repast would break the tedium of the long journey to the convent. I had not eaten before our departure and slept little as it was well after midnight when Master Yap's night watchman escorted me home. Once abed I lay awake for the remainder of the night, at alternate times savouring the moment then feeling guilt-ridden, at once knowing myself wicked and then altogether fulfilled as a woman.

The Benedictine buildings on Mount Disibodenberg were far more formidable-looking establishments than the Monastery of St Thomas. As we approached the high walls and massive wooden gates reinforced with iron bars and studs that enclosed the first building, I thought little more than two years had passed since I had left the carpentry shop of the sainted Father John. So much had changed from the little girl who had felt Frau Anna's spittle landing on the back of her neck. Now, God willing, I would become a scholar in search of the truth and perhaps some day I might return to the village of Uedem where even the abbot of St Thomas would treat me, a famous woman scholar, with due respect.

Father Hermann rang the rope that hung from a belltower on the wall full thirty cubits above us. In the stillness of the late afternoon the sound of the bell clanging seemed far too intrusive for announcing someone of such small importance as me. Presently a door not much larger than a man's face opened in the lower region of the great gate and a monk's head inquired as to our business.

‘I bring a novice for instruction!' Father Hermann boomed, even though the monk's head was but two cubits from where we stood. It was as if the size of everything confounded the priest and he must match it with the stridence of his voice.

The monk winced at Father Hermann's barking. ‘Nay, not here. The convent is the next building. Go to the side . . . there is a gate.' Whereupon his head withdrew abruptly and the tiny door closed.

‘What side, left or right?' Father Hermann bellowed, perhaps to hide his discomfiture at mistakenly approaching the wrong entrance.

There followed a pause before the door opened again and the monk looked at us bemused. ‘Er . . . the side with the mole on the ear, ' he said, and then once again quickly slammed the door shut.

‘It's to the right, Father,' I grinned, realising the monk had not known his right from his left, but had spotted the large mole on the priest's ear.

‘What mole?' Father Hermann demanded to know, then turned and examined both my ears. ‘Rubbish, there is no mole on your right ear, Sylvia.'

We walked quite some distance beside the massive monastery walls and once when I made some small remark Father Hermann, lost in thought, impatiently replied, ‘Shush, Sylvia, I am preparing our announcing!' We walked in silence until we came upon a small door set into the stone wall, the bell above it much smaller and its clang polite enough. We waited some time and Father Hermann, ever impatient, moved to ring a second time when a small peephole opened in the gate and a female eye asked, ‘Who is it?'

‘I bring you Sylvia Honeyeater, the blessed child of God, known to folk in Cologne as the Petticoat Angel. It is she who doth charm the birds from the trees, has caused the Virgin's rose to bleed and sings with the voice of an angel. Her miracles are, as I speak, with the bishop himself. How fortunate you are to have her in your nunnery!' Father Hermann stentorously announced. It was immediately apparent that his words were much rehearsed and I blushed to the point where I did not know where to hide my head.

‘Oh, the novice,' the eye said, staring. ‘She is five days late!'

‘But I sent a message!' Father Hermann protested, taken aback at this accusing and unexpected reply from the single staring eye.

‘We did not get it,' the eye said firmly.

‘Perchance it went to the monastery?' Father Hermann suggested, his voice surprisingly intimidated.

‘Men!' the eye exclaimed. ‘They never do things right.' There followed a pause and I looked up at Father Hermann to see that he seemed lost for words. Even a humble disciple of Jesus who walked everywhere and was the earthly husband of the Virgin Mary and a giver of rosy red apples to the baby Jesus was still a priest and so was unaccustomed to any woman speaking to him in such an abrupt and contemptuous manner. But even before he had sufficiently recovered, the eye launched yet another tirade. ‘Well the abbess is not pleased! Five days is a terrible long time to be late! Terrible! Terrible!' she scolded further. Then still not yet completed added, ‘We'll have to have reasons.' The eye seemed to be looking directly at me. ‘Lots and lots of reasons and explaining! Our plans are spoiled for this extreme tardiness of time, this coming, then not coming and now coming! We must know the reasons or it will not bode well for this untimely novice!'

My heart started to beat furiously – I wasn't even within the gates of the convent and already I must tell a big fat lie. What could I possibly give as reasons to the abbess?
I am delayed
because the whores in Cologne's most famous brothel did wait the
five days after my monthly bleeding to be sure that I was safe from
becoming pregnant. This they did because they had procured for me
a handsome young knight who played the lute wondrously well and
possessed violet eyes and dark hair and lips that seemed dipped in
nectar, and with his cunning finger, pliant tongue and lovely rod did
fulfil my every desire. Of all the young maids in Cologne I am the
rose best plucked. This is why I am five days late, Abbess.

But now Father Hermann seemed at last to recover his equanimity. ‘Learning!' he said emphatically. ‘Lots and lots of learning. This blessed child of Jesus who has two miracles for the bishop's appraisal doth study the testaments in Latin, Greek and Hebrew under the great scribe Paulus of St Martin's. Her curriculum did require five more days to be completed.'

‘Never heard of him,' the eye replied.

‘Well, he's famous and was the first cleric to witness the Miracle of the Blood on the Rose,' Father Hermann said, vastly exaggerating the status of Father Paulus. Which was in fact somewhat lowly, a scribe who lived in the belltower and rang the bell at the approved times and was steadily going deaf as a consequence. Besides, he seemed to have forgotten Father Paulus taught me only Latin.

‘Bleeding rose? A rose bleeding! Never heard of that either and I'm a gardener and should know,' the eye remarked flatly.