“... want to limit our trade in English wool, prohibit us from selling ... Father, are you listening?”
“How is Sister Aleys?”
She sighs. An exasperated tone enters her voice. “Aleys is”—she pauses—“well educated. Now, we need your help with the guild.”
“Yes, of course.” Wool is their livelihood. “But has she won over any converts?”
“Converts?” Sophia stares at him. “You’ve sent her to convert us?”
He realizes it doesn’t sound good. “No, of course not.” He’d have thought no one would complain if a few beguines set down their spindles and took up the robe. Beguines leave the begijnhof all the time, they turn left for marriage or right for the convent. No one seems to mind. They are free women, after all. “I thought perhaps she would inspire others. If enough seek to join us, I’ll secure them a home of their own.”
“Father, you are welcome to evangelize among my beguines. If you find any who would prefer Aleys’s company to ours, they are free to go. We wouldn’t hinder any woman from joining the Franciscans, if that is her calling.” She lowers her voice. “But I don’t think Aleys is winning you any converts.”
“Why not? She is brimming with faith, she is learned, she is ...”
Sophia looks at him. The look contains a warning. “She has a calling, Lukas, I can see that. It doesn’t mean she has charisma.”
He winces. People have said the same of him.
After the service, Aleys cuts across the courtyard, trampling buttercups.Be careful with such new life, he thinks.
“Pax et bonum,” he greets her. “Peace and goodness to you, Sister, and may you spread faith where it’s needed.” Which is everywhere. “How have you been?”
He remembers the moment he first saw her, the wild desire in her eyes. Now it seems subdued. This is good, he thinks, her passion is finding channels of obedience. At least he thinks it’s good. He’s never been spiritual advisor to someone like this. Usually, his work has been to whip up faith among people, not transmute it. This is like taming a wild horse to the plow. The girl was left on her own for too long, reading, interpreting, praying without guidance, hallucinating angels. A feral faith, really. He will pray on it.
“Father, I know it’s Midsummer.” She’s already shaking her head. “I’ve not found many who want to become Franciscan.”
It’s as Sophia described. “Why not?”
“I’m not sure.” She looks at her hands.
“This is about a calling to serve God. Are you not presenting it correctly?”
“They already serve God. In the hospital, at deathbeds. In the school.”
“So you’ve convinced none of them? Not one?”
“It’s just that they’re happy here. Maybe I could recruit from town. If I could preach like my brothers ...”
“Women don’t preach.”
“But that’s what Franciscans do.”
“Franciscan friars.”
“You revere Mary Magdalene. She spread Christ’s message. You said she was a model of womanhood.”
“To be venerated, not imitated.” Aleys has a quick way of turning his words. She’d make a good theologian if she were a man.
“But—”
“If you preached in public, you’d be teaching men. That’s forbidden.”
“Father, didn’t you tell me women are more likely than men to reach heaven?” Her voice rises. “Maybe men should heed us.”
“Like Adam did Eve? We’d still be in paradise if she’d kept her advice to herself.”
Aleys gives a huff. A verging-on-disobedience huff. “You know the magistra instructs us. She’s perfectly capable.”
