Midmorning, he and Willems had scrambled to curate Lukas’s record of Aleys’s showings, redacting all that was irrelevant, keeping that which made its own case. It was easy. Out of context, and with a few tweaks for clarity, her accounts were blatant contradictions of doctrine.
The legate turns to Lukas. “Friar, do you attest that the accused reported these as showings from God?”
His brother nods, miserable.
“You must say it aloud,” prods Jan.
“I swear it.” The clerk makes the notation.
62
Friar Lukas
Lukas moans inwardly, crossing his arms over his belly. He suffers wounds of the spirit worse than pain of the body. Though Hervé came quickly in the night to poultice and bind Lukas’s ribs, no one can heal his soul. Lukas confessed to Hervé that he entered her cell. “Brother,” said Hervé, “that is grave indeed.” Lukas felt his faults curdle in his gut like a mud so dense it had to be cradled, like a thing he might birth.
“You must pray,” said Hervé. “Here, I will pray with you. We are all sinners, there is redemption for all of us.”
It will not be enough, thinks Lukas. He still wants what she has. He can’t understand where he went wrong. He did it for God. He thought her fire would course his limbs, consume him. That he would become clean as silver ash.
They try her for heresy, but Lukas knows she will be exonerated. As soon as they hear the beauty of the showings, they will revere her as the sacred vessel she is.
Lukas considers the man in scarlet who is the voice of the pope. It should be the real pope, thinks Lukas, not this stray-eyed envoy. She deserves to be heard in Rome. She has been with Christ. She is more precious than rubies. He loves her that much; he hates her that much. She’s the fulcrum of his passion. His stomach spasms.
A bee flies in through the closed courtroom window. Only Lukas sees it. It hums of miracle; it hums of madness. He has lost the ability to tell the difference, if ever he had it. If there even is a difference. The bee circles her once and lands on the rail beside her hand.
Her words are holy. The panel is reading them now. They will find no heresy. They will find music.
The Dominican stabs at the document, then raises his head to stare at Aleys. “It says here that you claim that male and female are one. That spirit and flesh are one.”
Her voice is steady. “So I was shown.”
“That is in error,” the Dominican states, as if presiding over a university debate. “And this: You say God is naught but love. Nothing else exists.”
“No devil?” the abbot interjects, incredulous. “No hell?”
The Dominican leans forward to trap her. “All is God? Are sinners also God?”
“This is heresy sure,” mutters the abbot.
The legate has been watching intently. When he speaks, there is interest in his voice. “It says here you claim”—he turns the document toward Aleys and points at the words—“that youareGod.”
Lukas is puzzled. She didn’t say that. Not exactly.My me is God, is what she said. He will never forget when she swept aside the curtain. The illumination included not just her, not just him, but the windowsill, the chair, the sound of carts outside. The world stopped for an instant. He looked at her, and then at his hands, which sang with energy, almost dissolving in the soup of light. As if he were swimming in God. And for a glimmer, he, too, was God. Then, as fast as it came, the vision fled. His hands resolved into flesh and nail, the sound on cobbles only that. But he had felt it. He had felt the grace.
“Did you not?” The legate waits. “Say you are God?”
Lukas should speak up to defend her. Yet how can he explain? He reeks of sin. He’s no longer an instrument of good.
He sees her hands tighten into fists, her knuckles pale. Is she angry that her words are turned to weapon, that men have beaten her showings into swords? Then her hands relax. She balances them lightly on the rail of the dock. He has the impression that she has just let go of solid earth. As if she prepares for flight. When she answers the legate, she speaks from far away, already gone.
“I was shown. To understand God is to be God with God.”
“To be God,” repeats the legate. “You don’t deny it?”
She looks at him intently, like she would draw something from him. The legate leans forward. He wants to know.Careful, Lukas warns the legate silently,be careful or you will touch the barbed faith. You will go too far.
“Do you not see?” She lifts her eyes to the cross on the wall behind the legate. “The bridegroom calls you out.”
Lukas follows her gaze. He cannot help himself. Even now, he strains to see what she sees.
