It’s a message from Mama.
When the door bangs open and it is Griete, Aleys whispers, “Behold!” But when her eyes return to the ceiling, she sees only rafters.
“Supper is ready,” says her sister. “We’re all waiting for you.”
Aleys goes down in a daze, can barely lift her spoon. The pewter gleams like silver, for hours, until it fades. But her heart holds the glow.
Until it doesn’t. For she can’t seem to bring the angel back. She prays at the same time, with the same words, in the sun and in the rain. It never happens again, and there is a corner of her that wonders whether maybe, just maybe, she dreamed it.
3
Friar Lukas
Brugge
One league up the canal, in a quiet church in the mercantile capital of the Low Countries, Friar Lukas is at prayer. He’s a small man of great faith.Bring me Martha, he prays.Bring me Mary. Send me Ruth, or Miriam, or Esther. A woman of virtue, a woman of learning, who can lead with humility, who seeks material poverty to reap spiritual riches. Bring me a woman with the faith of a saint.
He has never met a woman like this. Nor a man, he thinks. To be fair.
Friar Lukas, the leader of the Franciscan preachers of Brugge, has sent his band of men into the lanes to fill their begging bowls from the back gates of households. He’s stayed behind to pray.Help me serve you, Lord.I’ve spoken to shopkeepers and seamstresses, examined the daughters of merchants, queried midwives and nuns. I have looked high and low to find a woman able and willing to establish a new order in Flanders. A woman who can lead the humble life of Saint Clare, in its pure austerity, to inspire the women of Brugge to the utmost edge of devotion. We need a dedicated, fearless Franciscan woman to lift up this city of greed.
“You want what?” the women say.
Poverty, chastity, obedience. To renounce the material world for a life of prayer. To seek God above all else. To spread his word.
Even the nuns think he’s extreme.
Lukas sits back on his heels and sighs. All he wants is to bring God’s kingdom to this particular corner of earth, the wealthiest city in northern Europe. It’s been twenty years since he renounced his life as a banker’s son and took vows with the Franciscans. Twenty years of preaching on street corners, five as the head of the band of brown-robed friars. He loves his men with their empty bellies and full hearts. He just needs more of them. It’s his mission to expand the order. But the people of Brugge are hard with greed like they hunger for hell. They’ve had no new recruits since Lukas took charge. People love the brown friars, but they don’t want to join them. At least, not under him.
But then it struck him. There’s another half of the population. When Saint Francis founded their order in Assisi, not so very far away and not so very long ago, he had only a handful of followers—until the arrival of Saint Clare. Upon hearing Francis preach, young Clare gave her possessions to the poor and fled her noble family to join him. Hers was a true faith, and the people responded. Under Francis’s guidance, Clare established a large order of Franciscan women. She healed the sick, she fed many from little. Saint Clare’s prayer was so powerful she saved Assisi from an attack of infidels scaling the city walls. Dazzled by her, the invaders fell from their ladders and fled. The pope attended her funeral. That’s the kind of woman Friar Lukas needs.
Saint Francis had Clare. Abraham had Sarah. Adam had Eve. Well, that didn’t work out so well. But that’s the point. He needs a rare woman, a woman of virtue and faith, to bring Brugge to God.
4
Aleys
Damme
As the days grow long, Aleys finds she understands the priests better than they understand themselves. She cringes as their village pastor stumbles through the readings. The Latin syllables wash over the rest of the congregation like a cleansing burble of river water over a bed of stones, but not Aleys. She wants to correct the priest—he stresses all the wrong words—but she can’t explain how she knows, so she bites her tongue. Finn is her secret.
But then their priest takes ill, and a substitute, one of the Franciscans, is sent from Brugge. Everyone is impressed by the wandering friars who strive to live like Christ’s apostles. Everyone watches to see if they can succeed with so little; there are those who take bets whether they’ll survive another year. The friars own nothing but the robes on their backs and the bowls in their hands. They’re the begging preachers that Papa admires. No monastery lands. No vineyards. They collect no rents and no taxes, not like the bishop’s priests, who grow fat on fees for baptisms and burials, whose trade in indulgences is so brisk that rich patrons purchase forgiveness before they even commit their sins. Claus and Henryk bought discounted pardons from a priest in the next town, stocking up for a life of depravity. “Miserere mei,” Henryk intones piously, rehearsing.
No, the friars are different. They’re like the common people. That’s why she loves them. Why everyone loves them.
So the parishioners of Damme welcome this visiting friar, who they say leads his order in Brugge. He’s a middle-aged man, rather meek seeming for the head of an order, the fringe of his tonsure starting to gray. He gathers himself as he surveys the congregation. He takes a deep breath and opens the day’s scripture and begins to read the Latin verse. Aleys looks up. The man reads like he knows the language. Really knows the language. He probably assumes no one else does. Nevertheless, he starts to redden. A flush creeps over his Adam’s apple. He intones, “Ecce tu pulchra es amica mea” and buries his head in the book to hide the rest of the line. Aleys stares at him. What did he just say?Behold, you are beautiful, O my love. Your eyes are those of a dove. He looks up, and their eyes meet. The friar runs his hand over his bald pate, which glows bright with perspiration, but he doesn’t stop. He’s actually reading it; he’s not making it up. It’s like a play about a pair of lovers:Behold, you are handsome, O my beloved, and graceful. Our bed is flourishing. In the church! Who is this beloved? The friar is sweating, the congregants are nodding off, and Aleys can’t wait to get her hands on the text. She runs from the church to find Finn.
“Oh!” says Finn. The tips of the wheat behind him catch the last of the sunlight. “TheCanticum Canticorum.”
“The Song of Songs?”
“Mmm.” He scratches his nose. “I’m not sure we should ...”
“It’s a proper psalm, isn’t it?”
“No, it is. It is. It’s part of the Old Book. The Canticle is the most beautiful, the most poetic psalm.” He looks a bit misty eyed. He’s seen it already, she thinks. He can get a copy. She wants a copy. She needs one. Aleys knows, somehow, that it has answers to questions she doesn’t even know yet to ask.
“We should read it.” She leans in. “For the vocabulary.”
