Now and at the hour of our death.Aleys feels the prayer unfurl within her. Her throat is too tight to speak, so she hums the words until the verse fills her chest.Ave Maria, gratia plena.She drops to her knees beneath the cross, bracing her hands on the wall, finding her voice.The Lord is with thee.She sings the words over and over until they wreathe the cell like incense. The wisps form a curving labyrinth that draws inward, ever inward, circling. The prayer calls her on, beckoning. A glimpse of blue, the scent of juniper just beyond reach. She knows, in the center, is the courage she seeks.
As the last light ticks across the floor, Aleys enters the maze. Wind tosses the crowns of the trees above. She presses on, excitement pulling her heart. The way is stony, the way is plain. They are there, just around the corner. She is about to find them, again, to be fully reunited with her beloved. Then, before her, a wall. Impenetrable ivy, the psalter’s ivy, the ivy that curls around the monk and doe of Compline. She looks up to a gold sky. She knows this place. She sinks her hands into the vine, feels its thick pulse, tries to rip it down. It will not yield. She turns to face the archer she knows will be behind her. He has stepped from the page, the man of malachite and cinnabar, ink arrows in his quiver.
The mystery crashes around her. Has she known, all along, this would be the cost? And yet—and yet. Her soul calls out.Spare me, Lord.
His voice, from above, from beyond, from within:Have I not given you the gifts of apostles?
Yes. It is but the first heaven.
And the treasure of prophets?
You know of what I speak. You gave them the second heaven. You are beyond.
You will be honored with the martyrs.
I do not seek honor.
What do you seek?
The third heaven. Beyond the joy of seraphs.
The archer raises his bow.Nothing exists beyond their joy.
Union.
You know not of what you speak.He fletches the arrow.
Then tell me.
You do not understand the price.The archer draws taut the string.
Name the price.
Your self.
Then where would I be?
Her soul answers:The droplet in the ocean, the blue in the flame.
He says:Thou art by nature, mine, and I am thine.
The archer awaits her order. Christ says to her:Be thou my wounded doe.
She offers all she has.Take me.Aleys looks down to her flank and sees crimson bloom.
Later, when Aleys wakes, her fingers grope for the wound. It is sealed, and within her, courage.
The last to come, at Compline, is Finn. His gray eyes are anxious. He seizes the bars of her cell as if he could bend them apart. She sees the chapped bunion on his third finger, where he’s gripped the quill for long hours.
“It’s all set,” he says. “I have a horse. We’ll go to the Black Forest. And then on to Freiberg, or maybe south over the Alps. To Assisi.” He’s speaking too fast. “Assisi would be good. They won’t know us there.”
“I thought you’d come.” She rises to meet him. Assisi. The land of Clare and Francis, where basilicas dot the hillsides. They could find shelter there. She almost laughs. Like Beatrice, she thinks. Finn could sweep her away for a life of happiness. All she has to do is recant. She reaches through the bars and he takes her hands and turns them to kiss her palms. She feels his warm lips where she once felt the buzz of miracle. If she leaves with him, she could be a woman, just a woman, nobody’s saint.
He folds her hands in his. “The abbot sent me to offer you the last chance before they ... well, it doesn’t matter. You’ll recant. That’s it, you’ll be free. We leave, in an hour, together.”
She hopes Finn can feel the weight of the decision in her hands. Between her palms is the fate of Marte and all the women of the begijnhof. The women learning to read, carding wool, gossiping about saints. If Aleys escapes the bishop, he will turn his fury on the begijnhof. He will destroy them all. She has seen it. And the town who have come to trust her touch, her counsel, her blessing? She would betray them, too. If she denies what God has revealed, if she refuses to bear Mary’s truth, Aleys will sever herself from all she’s ever prayed for. It would be worse than excommunication by the Church. She might as well excommunicate herself.
“You’ve risked so much to come, my friend.” Aleys withdraws her hands from his, into her sleeves.
