Simple, my foot, he thinks.There’s nothing simple about you.
“Good. I have arranged for you to perform a public healing. My carriage will collect you this evening at the tolling of the Lakenhalle.”
She blanches. “Your Excellency, God does not require human tests and demonstrations.”
“You instruct a bishop on God’s requirements?”
“My gift is capricious.”
I bet it is.
She looks to Friar Lukas. “If someone is healed, it is God’s will, not mine.”
“Well,” sighs the bishop, “then we will rely on God’s will to prove your virtue.”
“And if I refuse? Or fail?”
“Then it would appear to be God’s will to close this begijnhof. In addition to harboring a possible deceiver”—he gives Aleys a long look—“we have reason to suspect that one or more women here—women lettered in Latin—are making unsupervised translations of scripture.” He nods at Aleys, Sophia, and Katrijn. “It’s enough to make some arrests, perhaps close the whole enterprise.” He opens his palms. “Such a shame. It’s really quite lovely, what you have here.”
He smiles at Willems.Your work, come to fruition. I hope you are enjoying this theater of our making.
Aleys twists around. Her eyes narrow. “The man from themagna rota.”
“How the wheel turns,” Willems responds, doffing his black cap and extending a leg. He replaces it on his head at the perfect angle.
Such style, that man, thinks the bishop. He will do well in Rome.
“This evening we look forward to your demonstration of God’s will on earth.”
29
Aleys
As the men leave, a breeze blows over the rooftops and the sheets lift from the lines. They float in the dawn light, impossibly lovely. As they settle, one by one, the beguines emerge from their homes, until Aleys is surrounded by women in gray. The only noise is the children, who have begun their games, unaware of their mothers’ plight. I want to be a child again, thinks Aleys. Several of the beguines have bowed their heads before her, believers who think her capable of anything. To the side, Katrijn, who thinks her capable of nothing, stands with arms crossed. Only two beguines can begin to understand the impossible bind she’s in.
Ida murmurs, “I’m so sorry, Aleys.” Ida has been beside her at the hospital. She knows Aleys is helpless to control this thing.
Sophia steps forward to take Aleys in her arms. “Child, come here.”
“I might not be able to heal them,” she whispers.
“I know.” Sophia looks around at the community she’s built. A band of sunlight illuminates the first lines of laundry. “I know.”
“I can’t do it,” says Aleys. “I can’t, I can’t do this.”
“Shhh. It won’t be your doing. It will be God’s choice, whatever happens.”
“But why? Why would he do this?” Isn’t he supposed to protect them?
“I wish I knew.”
“But if I fail—”
“It’s not in your hands. You’ve told me so yourself. You can’t will what happens.”
But can’t she? She thinks of Marte. Aleys wishes now that Marte still limped as badly as the day they met. It would have been better if she’d failed that day, if her hands had been inert, if there’d been no rush of sensation when she placed her hands on Marte’s foot. Then she’d know she had no power to heal at will, that her own desire had nothing to do with it. What will happen to Marte if she fails? To all of them? Where will they go?
A thing so precious and beautiful as this place, these brave women. All of it in her hands.
