Wullebreken, Wullebreken
Nun in the convent
Wullebreken, Wullebreken
Send me a priest
If he’s not holy, take me to the begijnhof
Wullebreken, Wullebreken
We’ll have a feast
Wullebreken, Wullebreken
Priests want your money
Wullebreken, Wullebreken
So do the nuns
The beguines will make you work for your living
Wullebreken, Wullebreken
Till the fleece is done
Within moments, the air is full of angels. These girls look way too happy to join the Franciscans.
The problem is that theyallseem happy. So Aleys has decided Marte should be her first target. She’s stalked Marte through the laundry, spied as she sweeps the church, watched her kneading dough. Perhaps a life of prayer would be a relief from constant toil. She’s noticed how Marte lingers at the evening readings.
Marte is on her knees, scrubbing a doorstep.
“Marte? Do you have a moment?”
Marte pauses to wipe sweat from her forehead but doesn’t look up. “What’s on your mind, miss?”
“I’ve been hoping to talk with you.”
“You’ve not wanted for opportunity.” She puts down the brush and sits back on her heels, wiping her hands against her apron. “You’ve been on me like a brown shadow all week.” Marte hoists herself to stand. “What do you need? You can just ask.”
“Well, I ...” Already the question seems preposterous. Marte, limping down the lane with an alms bowl? Aleys has to start somewhere. She claps her palms together. “I thought you could join the brown friars.” She waits. Marte frowns. Aleys rotates her palms against each other. “With me,” she adds.
“The friars?” Marte squints. “Why ever would I do that, miss?”
“To get closer to God?”
“Hmph.” Marte snorts. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, God seems to prefer me at a distance.”
“But ...”
“You forget that I’m married.”
“Oh.” She had forgotten.
“I don’t know that your brown friars are recruiting any wives. If God wants me closer, he’ll need to make me a widow.” She rubs the back of her neck. “I might thank him for that.” She picks up the scrub brush. “Until then, miss, I’m grateful to be here with the beguines.”
Aleys next considers Cecilia, who’s carried herself with fresh confidence since the reading of Mary Magdalene. Perhaps she’s looking to go deeper. At least she’s friendly. But Cecilia’s never alone. On a wet afternoon, Aleys finds her among the dormitory girls winding skeins onto niddy-noddies that look newly made. Katrijn must have recently ordered them. Aleys picks up a spare one, examines the slim rod of beech crossed by bars at the top and halfway down; it’s well-made, neatly polished so the wood won’t snag the yarn that’s wound in figure eights over the crossbars. Ida nods curtly as Aleys takes some yarn from the pile and perches at the end of her cot, away from the rain splashing off the windowsill. Aleys loosely knots the yarn onto the top cross and begins wrapping. There’s not a woman in Flanders who doesn’t know how to wind yarn, how to keep the tension even and the twist constant so that the skeins won’t tangle when they’re slipped off. They can wind yarn while walking, while minding a toddler, while talking. As usual, it’s Cecilia who’s doing the latter.
