The woman gazing at the scene wished with all her heart that she could do exactly that…but she was not free to do as she wished. She was confined in the dreary halls of Dryton Manor. She could be free only in her mind.
She reached for the pouch tied around her waist. Inside it was a tiny silver box, wider than it was tall. She undid the silver catch, and opened it to expose the contents—a lock of hair. The light brown curl made her smile softly, and she pictured the owner of the hair. Her son Henry, only ten years old and now far away from her. He’d always loved the scenes she created, and she wished more than anything that he could be with her to see it.
“Truly remarkable,” a voice said from over her shoulder. It was the priest who lived at the manor, Father Mark. “Is this what you saw in your vision of heaven, my lady Angelet?”
“Yes, Father.” Angelet closed the box and looked over the scene she’d embroidered, elaborately stitched in many colors of silk thread, the stitches laid so close that the underlying fabric was hidden entirely.
She had worked hard on the altar cloth, and she had been permitted to purchase expensive materials all the way from London: not only gold and silver thread, but even purple, which was more costly than the gold, due to the great rarity of the dye.
Angelet labored over the design for a long time, and the result was a vivid scene of unusual detail. It depicted a soul entering heaven, surrounded by all the splendor Angelet had seen in her visions: blue and purple clouds parting to reveal an otherworldly palace. In the middle of it was a set of doors worked in gold and silver. The doors were open, and in the space between them stood an angel, a six-winged seraph ready to welcome the righteous into Paradise. Emerald green vines covered the borders of the cloth, and white lilies bloomed in the corners.
“In my vision,” she said to the priest, “the scene was far more beautiful. I tried to recreate it as best I could, but it is only a poor imitation.”
“It is a gift from God,” Father Mark said. “You must never doubt that, child.”
“Lord Otto does not share your opinion.” Otto Yarborough ruled over Dryton Manor, and thus over Angelet as well. Otto was her father-in-law, but he never treated her much like family. Angelet’s marriage to his first son had been brief—Hubert died less than a year after their wedding, shortly before Henry was born. However, Angelet remained with the Yarborough family, hoping to be reunited with her son. Her own home in Anjou seemed worlds away, and it was unlikely she’d ever be sent there again.
First, there was the war. With Stephen and Maud fighting over the English throne, everyone living in England was touched by the conflict. Since Angelet’s family supported Maud’s claim and Otto supported Stephen…well, it was a point of contention, and it transformed Angelet into a hostage of sorts. Then there was her dowry. As long as Otto had Angelet, he had control of her dowry too, until Angelet should marry again. But Otto didn’t seem to want her to. The result was that Angelet found herself in the position of so many women of her time. She was weak and without practical power, at the mercy of stronger men.
And finally, there were the visions.
Angelet didn’t want the visions, however beautiful they were. The visions were as much a curse as a blessing. They terrified the household when they occurred, though her descriptions of what she saw in her visions drew many listeners afterward. Father Mark encouraged her to write down what she’d seen—Angelet was literate and had a passable hand. She dutifully recorded many of her early visions, which were filled with descriptions of the beauty she saw—a world of bright light and palpable joy. She knew Father Mark passed on some of her writing to other priests he knew. Even Otto took a passing interest in the visions, largely because they made Angelet marginally useful due to the scenes she created from them.
Otherwise, Angelet was a useless ornament. She had few skills—only those that a lady was expected to know. She did have an exceptional hand for embroidery, and she could play the harp, and she possessed a naturally sweet voice that people told her was a pleasure to hear singing. But there her skills stopped. The manor functioned without her participation, and no one seemed to care very much if she was present or not.
The only person in the world who did care about her was Henry, and he had been sent away to be fostered with another family. It was common practice among the wealthy lords of England, but Angelet hated that Henry had been sent so far away, all the way to Dorset in the south.
She looked out the open window. The morning had dawned cold and bright, the late frost sparking on young shoots of irrepressible green grass. Winter was nearly over, and soon the spring would calm the bitter winds and warm the whole world.
But Angelet’s soul felt as cold as ever. “I dreamed again,” she told Father Mark.
The priest’s eyebrows rose, and he leaned forward eagerly. “Another one of your visions?”
She shook her head. “No, Father. Just a dream, an ordinary dream. I dreamt of Hubert. He was alive, and as old as I am now. We were still together, him and me, and with Henry too. We were happy.” She’d actually felt warm in the dream, feeling safe in the arms of her husband. It had been so long since she’d felt such affection.
“My child, of course you think on your late husband with longing, and it is natural that you would have such a dream. It is a comfort sent from God.”
It did not feel like a comfort to Angelet. It only served to remind her of how alone she now was. “But does it indicate…that I am…”—she paused, hunting for the right word—“discontent?”
“Yearning is the lot of all mortals,” Father Mark said. “You are not unique in this, Angelet. Indeed, we all know you yearn most ardently for greater things—the special visions you see are proof. God has graced you, Angelet.”
Angelet sighed. The visions that occasionally came upon herwereglorious, and more. They uplifted her, transported her from a dull life into pure light and sound, filling her with utter peace and joy.
Unfortunately, the price she paid for such visions was high. Her body shook violently, then seized up, sometimes for hours. She’d collapse, too weak to even crawl. A great pain blossomed in her head, so strong she could barely eat or sleep. Any light was too much for her—even a candle made her wince. Sometimes it took a full day for her to recover enough to be able to stand up.
Worse, Angelet rarely had much warning that a fit was coming. Once, she was seized while walking outside of the manor grounds, and she lay helpless for hours, until a passing fieldworker happened to find her and summoned help. Since then, she kept to the manor, afraid of what might happen if she ventured forth again.
“My child,” the priest was saying. “To think of what you have lost is no sin in itself. But I worry that you are dwelling too much in the past, and not looking to the future.”
“What future is there for me?” she asked dully. “What purpose can I serve, other than as a vessel for these visions? Am I to marry again? I doubt it.” The truth was that she held very little appeal as a potential wife now.
Father Mark sat down beside her, letting out a thin sigh as his knees creaked. He was over sixty, with white, wispy hair cut into a tonsure. His heavily wrinkled face wrinkled even more when he smiled, which was often. Mark aspired to be a shepherd, and always tried to lead his flock very gently. Rather too gently, one could say, for Otto and those under his rule often disregarded Mark’s teachings and counsel. There was only one world that interested Otto, and it wasn’t the heavenly realm.
“Ah, these bones feel the damp!” Mark said. “Every spring seems damper, too…unless I’m getting older!”
“We are all getting older. For instance, I am too old to be a bride now,” she said, choosing the most obvious objection first.
“I have performed weddings for couples older than you, dear, and seen them thrive together. You’d find that many men would court you, pretty as you are.” He chucked her affectionately under the chin as he spoke.
