Ida lowers her voice. “If you must have a reason: Her old father is gone deaf, but he can still read. She makes three copies. One for us, one for the townspeople, and one for him.” Ida looks Aleys straight in the eye. “She doesn’t want him to die without joy.”
“But it’s so risky.”
“You learned Latin to read the psalms”—she purses her lips—“to yourself.”
“But that’s not illegal.”
“You think we can all study like you? That we all own psalters? It’s hard enough to read in Dutch. We can’t master Latin, too. Some of us have to work.”
It’s the most she’s ever heard her say at once. “Ida, I could teach you.”
But Ida is shaking her head. “You still don’t see, do you? It’s not just me. Look around. God rules our lives, our deaths. He judges whether we will spend eternity in heaven or hell, but Rome won’t let us read his word?” Ida grips Aleys’s arm and the look in her eye is fierce. “She does this for us.”
Katrijn’s translation is a gift. Sure as bread on the table, she’s given them meaning. She’s offered Cecilia forgiveness. She’s given Marte the solace of stories of the afflicted. Katrijn brings her father poetry when he can no longer hear. Some want to understand so they can follow. Sophia, so she can lead. And Ida? Ida just thinks no priest should stand between the people and their God. And Aleys realizes that it’s not just her, not just the beguines—there are people all over the Low Countries who would hold the word close if they could.
“Magistra? Might I seek counsel?” Aleys knocks on Sophia’s door.
“Advice from an old beguine?” Sophia smiles. “Come in.”
Sophia’s home is modest, with nothing more than a prie-dieu, a painted wall cupboard, and a table, but there’s a thick rush mat on the floor and the chairs before the fireplace have good wool blankets across their backs. On a table lies open an accounting book, ink still wet on the page; Sophia has just been making an entry. A narrow stair leads to a bedchamber above. It’s not the largest house in the begijnhof, but the magistra doesn’t take in boarders as some others do. It would be nice to have a room like this, thinks Aleys, all to yourself.
Sophia gestures her into one chair and takes the other. “What’s on your mind?”
“I wanted to ask you”—Aleys hesitates—“about the translations. I know we don’t discuss the source.”
“But you’ve figured it out. I thought you might.”
“Yes.” Aleys releases her breath. She adds, hurriedly, “No one told me.”
Sophia nods. “And you want to help.”
Can Sophia read her mind? “Exactly! If I could get parchment and ink, then I could—”
Sophia leans forward and puts a hand on Aleys’s knee. “I’m sorry, child. I can’t permit that.”
“Why not?”
“This is a matter between you and Friar Lukas.”
“But the friars don’t translate.”
“Exactly, and for good reason. The Franciscans are so radical, their commitment to poverty and love so uncompromising, that it makes powerful men uncomfortable. You know there are those in Rome, right now, trying to persuade the pope that the friars must be forced to own property? As it is, the Franciscans dance on the edge of papal approval. They don’t dare translate, even if they’re sympathetic. If you did, you’d be putting your own order in danger.”
“Then why do you risk it?”
“The Church isn’t concerned with the activities of old women who mend stockings.”
“We could keep it secret, if I helped.”
Sophia gives her a long look. “That attitude is in neither the spirit nor the law of your vows.”
“It’s the only thing I know to do!”
“Child, there are many gifts of the spirit. Prayer, charity, devotion, healing, teaching, among others.”
“But what’s my gift?”
Sophia laughs. “Such impatience! You’ve been in religious life for what? Two months? Not even prophets foresee their own gifts. God will call your talent from you when it’s needed. Until he does, child, serve with a full heart. It’s all he asks.”
