ONE

The woman on the bed had lost the capacity to scream. Apart from the drumming of her feet and the thump of her fists against the sheets, her gyrations were silent, as if she were miming agony.

The three nuns, too, kneeling at either side, might have been aping intercession; their mouths moved soundlessly, because any noise, even the sibilance of a whispered prayer, set off another convulsion in the patient. They had their eyes closed so as not to see her suffering. Only the woman standing at the end of the bed watched it, showing no expression.

On the walls, Adam and Eve skipped in innocent tapestried health among the flora and fauna of the Garden while the Serpent, in a tree, and God, on a cloud, looked on with amiability. It was a circular room, its beauty now mocking the ghastliness of its owner: the fair hair that had turned black and straggled with sweat, the corded veins in the once-white neck, lips stretched in the terrible grin.

What could be done had been done. Candles and burning incense holders heated a room where the lattices and shutters had been stuffed closed so as not to rattle.

Mother Edyve had stripped Godstow, her convent, of its reliquaries in order to send the saints' aid to this stricken woman. Too old to come herself, she had told Sister Havis, Godstow's prioress, what to do. Accordingly, the tibia of Saint Scholastica had been tied to the flailing arm, droplets from the phial containing Saint Mary's milk poured on the poor head, and a splinter of the True Cross placed into the woman's hand, though it had been jerked across the room during a spasm.

Carefully, so as not to make a noise, Sister Havis got up and left the room. The woman who had been standing at the end of the bed followed her. "Where you going?"

"To fetch Father Pol. I sent for him; he's waiting in the kitchen."

"No."

Like the stern but well-born Christian she was, Havis showed patience to the afflicted, though this particular female always made her flesh creep. She said, "It is time, Dakers. She must receive the viaticum."

"I'll kill you. She ain't going to die. I'll kill the priest if he comes upstairs."

It was spoken without force or apparent emotion, but the prioress believed it of this woman; every servant in the place had already run away for fear of what she might do if their mistress died.

"Dakers, Dakers," she said—always name the mad when speaking to them so as to remind them of themselves—"we cannot deny the rite of holy unction's comfort to a soul about to begin its journey. Look…" She caught hold of the housekeeper's arm and turned her so that both women faced into the room where their muttered voices had caused the body on the bed to arch again. Only its heels and the top of its head rested on the bed, forming a tortured bridge.

"No human frame can withstand such torment," Sister Havis said. "She is dying." With that, she began to go down the stairs.

Footsteps followed her, causing her to hold fast to the banister in case she received a push in the back. She kept on, but it was a relief to gain the ground and go into white-cold fresh air as she crossed to the kitchen that had been modeled on that of Fontevrault, with its chimneys, and stood like a giant pepper pot some yards away from the tower.

The flames in one of the fireplaces were the only light and sent leaps of red reflection on the drying sheets that hung from hooks normally reserved for herbs and flitches of bacon.

Father Pol, a mousy little man, and mousier than ever tonight, crouched on a stool, cradling a fat black cat as if he needed its comfort in this place.

His eyes met the nun's and then rolled in inquiry toward the figure of the housekeeper.

"We are ready for you now, Father," the prioress told him.

The priest nodded in relief. He stood up, carefully placed the cat on the stool, gave it a last pat, picked up the chrismatory at his feet, and scuttled out. Sister Havis waited a moment to see if the housekeeper would come with them, saw that she would not, and followed Father Pol.

Left alone, Dakers stared into the fire.

The blessing by the bishop who had been called to her mistress two days ago had done nothing. Neither had the all the convent's trumpery. The Christian god had failed.

Copyright © 2008 by Ariana Franklin.