Jan reaches the end of his pacing before a small door set in the wall, the entrance to the old anchorhold where the recluse Gunther lived. Another fanatic. They’re all over Europe now, these hermits, pretending they’re the original desert fathers who abandoned their earthly possessions, shouting that they were off to commune with God. Madmen. Back in the first centuries of Christendom, before there were more comfortable ways of showing devotion. Like becoming a bishop. But today’s hermits, the anchorites? God, they’re even more unhinged. Instead of wandering free in the wild, they volunteer to be walled into cells hastily slapped on the sides of churches and abbeys—for a life of prayer. Especially women. There are over a hundred anchoresses in England, even now. It’s too strange. He remembers, as a boy, how they’d throw pebbles at Gunther’s window, daring each other to peer through the panes of shaved horn. Even though you couldn’t quite see into the anchorhold, Jan always feared that Gunther’s leering shadow would pop up in the window like a jack-in-the-box.
Jan turns the corner, setting his back to the empty hold. Gunther died years ago. He has more immediate issues with the living zealots. People thirst for wonders. The problem is, he can’t arrest Lukas’s girl now. He doesn’t believe she’s actually performing miracles, but as long as the people do, the girl is untouchable. He might not even be able to arrest the magistra who houses her. He still needs an arrest. This miracle business is complicating everything.
How ironic it would be if the miracles were real. Just as he was about to round up the heretics, God raises his head from his soup and makes one of them a saint? No. He can’t think like that. It’s unproductive. Why would God get involved in the affairs of his own church? He’s turned a blind eye to the corruption for centuries.
No, the thing that needles Jan the most is the missed opportunity. There must be a way to monetize the miracles. He needs to meet her. Either she’s as accomplished an actor as Willems, or she’s a bona fide miracle worker. If she’s the real thing, he’ll present her to the pope. If she’s a good actor, he’ll present her to the pope. If she fails, if she’s a bad actor, he needs her to fail flagrantly, publicly, so the people see her scam, and he can arrest her and close down the whole begijnhof for fraud. He can throw in translation to make it stick. Problem solved. No matter what, he’s going to Rome. He just needs to think of a test.
28
The Bishop
The bishop’s carriage comes to a clattering halt at the footbridge as the last wandering stars fade above the rooftops. The bishop descends, his red cloak billowing, followed by Willems like a black echo and Lukas like a muted shadow. Jan would storm over the bridge, break through the doors into their stronghold, but it’s as impregnable as a fortress with a moat. He will have to knock. It’s annoying that the cobbles are smeared with sodden loaves of bread. He refuses to soil his slippers with their offerings.
“Clear this!” he orders. Guards jump from his carriage and start shoving food into the canal with the blades of their spears. Below, the swans beat their wings in displeasure, but they have grown fat and fickle on white flour, and none rise to defend the beguines.
The begijnhof doors crack open to reveal the face of a small woman with dark hair and sharp features. Her eyes dart among the men and land on his pectoral cross. She admits them with a frown. The bishop is reminded how much he dislikes these beguines. They should be put into convents. Or wed. Once he gets to Rome, he’ll have them outlawed. The girl’s heels click on the flagstones as she leads them through the passage into the courtyard.I’ll marry you to a ratcatcher, he thinks.
Jan had expected to surprise the women in their beds. Not so. Though the sun is just visible over the red-tile roofs, the yard is already stretched end to end with linens. The bishop is confronted by the industry of women, a labyrinth of taut cloth, forbidding and female. Above the dawn laundry looms their gray church. A handful of startled women emerge from the linen maze, then scatter like mice into doors that look identical. Good. Fear is first cousin to reverence.
A broad-shouldered woman marches toward them. She halts and dips her head in a gesture that manages to convey more disrespect than respect. Willems raises a subtle eyebrow and looks pointedly at her large hands, and he notices the ink stains on her fingertips. The widow Janssens, then. Draper and translator. A very busy woman. He’d like to arrest her for the look in her eyes.
“Where is your magistra?”
“At prayer. You can deal with me.”
Oh, believe me, I would if I could.“Summon her. And bring out the girl.”
The draper furrows her brow. “Which girl would that be?”
God, he wishes he could arrest her. “Sister Aleys.”
“She also is at prayer.”
“Get them!” he barks.
Katrijn holds her ground for a moment, glaring. Finally, she gestures to the small woman to go to one house and Katrijn crosses to another. Around the courtyard, women peer through lace curtains. How he would love to shut this whole operation down. It wouldn’t please the mayor. It wouldn’t please the guild. But it might make the pope happy.
Lukas stands to the side, his arms up his sleeves. On the way over, in the carriage, Jan thought Lukas looked frayed. His brother kept rubbing his hand along his rope belt. It’s a rather disturbing tic. A strange film of nervous excitement is newly layered over his brother’s melancholia. He needs to be careful, thought Jan. Melancholia can seed delusion. When Lukas raised his hand against the window frame, Jan saw that the webbing between thumb and forefinger was pink and weeping.
“You should have her fix that for you.”
Lukas looked at his hand like he was surprised to find it on the end of his arm. He scowled. “She doesn’t perform on command. She’s not a jester.”
“More’s the pity. But even you must appreciate that we need to examine her.”
“Why? Why can’t you accept a miracle?”
His brother was so blind to politics, it was almost charming. He sighed. “Because, Lukas, we are the Church. This is our job. Besides, if she proves herself before the town dignitaries, I won’t arrest her for translation. I might not need to arrest anyone for translation.” Because that will be the next bishop’s problem.
“God will protect her.”
“What, you think she’s real?” Jan peered at him. “You do, don’t you?”
Lukas looked back out the window into the twilight. Rectangles of light were beginning to appear in windows.
“At least I believe in something,” he said, raising hard eyes to Jan. Their mother’s eyes. “Do you believe in anything?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
Poor man. What favor has belief ever granted him?
