And it was also unfair, Cecilia Rosa thought. For no woman or man could choose her own appearance; the best-looking fathers and mothers could have the ugliest children, and vice versa. Whatever God’s intention for creating Rikissa in the image of a witch, at least it was not her own fault.
“That is a sad story you have told me, Mother,” she finally began cautiously. “But it is true that your sin was a grave one; I have felt it on my own skin and through many a bitter winter night. But God is good and merciful, and anyone who regrets her sin as you do shall not be lost. My forgiveness is of only minor importance, my wounds have healed long ago, and the cold has long since left the marrow of my bones. You must seek God’s forgiveness, Mother. How could I, insignificant sinner that I am, take precedence over God in such a matter?”
“So you will not forgive me?” Mother Rikissa sobbed, leaning forward as if in pain and twisting so that a rattling sound betrayed the cilice she wore under her woolen clothes.
“There is nothing I would rather do, Mother,” replied Cecilia Rosa, relieved that she had actually managed to wriggle out of this dilemma. “The day that you are convinced of God’s forgiveness, come to me, and together with great joy we shall offer a prayer of thanksgiving for His grace.”
Mother Rikissa slowly straightened up from her hunched position and nodded thoughtfully, as if she had found Cecilia Rosa’s words proper and worthy of consideration, even though she had not received the forgiveness she had sought. She wiped her eyes as if she had actually shed a few tears, and sighed deeply. Then she began to speak about all the trouble that had been caused by the two who had run off from Gudhem and Varnhem. Both she and the elderly Father Henri had been harshly taken to task by the archbishop for this grave sin, which it had been their responsibility to prevent.
But Mother Rikissa had not had anything to say in her defense, since she had known nothing about what had gone on behind her back. Now, so long afterward, couldn’t dear Cecilia Rosa show some mercy and explain the truth of the matter? Cecilia Rosa turned to ice inside. She scrutinized Mother Rikissa and thought she could see the serpent eyes of the Devil, for the pupils in those red-rimmed eyes had turned to slits. They looked like the eyes of a snake or perhaps a goat, didn’t they?
“No, Mother Rikissa,” she replied stonily. “About this matter I know no more than you. How would I, a sinful penitent, come to know anything about what a monk and a nun were planning?”
She got up and left without saying anything more, and without first kissing Mother Rikissa’s hand. She kept her temper under control until she had closed the doors on her and come out into the lovely arcade. There the roses now twined their way up all the pillars as a constant greeting from Sister Leonore, of whom nothing had been heard, nor of Brother Lucien. And since nothing was heard about punishment and penance or excommunication, that was good news. By now they were probably both in southern France, happy with their child and without sin.
Cecilia Rosa walked slowly past all the climbing roses in the arcade, smelling the red ones and caressing the odorless white ones. All the roses seemed to send greetings from Sister Leonore and the happy land of Occitania. Yet a cold shiver went through Cecilia Rosa although it was a warm summer night.
She had been sitting in the presence of the Serpent herself. The serpent had spoken as sweetly as a lamb, and for a moment she had made Cecilia Rosa believe that the Serpent was indeed a lamb. What great misfortune and what a terrible punishment might have resulted if she had given in to that siren song.
In every phase of life, it was important to try and think like a man of power, or at least like Cecilia Blanca.
There was one thing that had happened in recent weeks that might offer an explanation for Mother Rikissa’s penitence, or rather her fruitless attempt to lure Cecilia Rosa into betraying herself as the worst sort of sinner against the peace of the cloister. A message had come from Queen Cecilia Blanca saying that she would not come alone to Gudhem on her next visit. She would bring the jarl Birger Brosa with her.
This was fateful news. The jarl was not a man who would travel to the convent to waste his valuable time speaking with some poor penitent woman, even if he had shown Cecilia Rosa his support. If the jarl came, there was something important afoot.
Cecilia Rosa also suspected this when she received the message. Nowadays Mother Rikissa could not keep such an imminent event to herself. The yconomahad to know well in advance what sort of hospitality was expected from Gudhem, so that she could send her men to purchase all the sorts of food that would normally not be eaten at Gudhem. The rules naturally forbade all men and women who had dedicated their lives to God from eating four-footed animals. But for jarls there were certainly no such rules. Nor did such rules apply in all cloisters. It was well known that the Burgundian monks at Varnhem, under Father Henri’s supervision with his clear consent, had created the best cuisine in the North. Birger Brosa could come to Varnhem unannounced and still dine better than at any of his own tables. But when it came to Gudhem, he was more prudent.
Yet whatever Birger Brosa had on his mind, it was not something that Cecilia Rosa worried about beforehand. She had nothing special to hope for except that eventually her long penance would come to an end. Until that time, no king or jarl could do anything at all for her except try to keep Mother Rikissa, if not obedient to the nurture and admonition of the Lord, then at least within the discipline of the secular authorities. And unlike Mother Rikissa, Cecilia Rosa had nothing to fear from the jarl and the queen. For her it was only a matter of sweet anticipation as she waited for her dear friend Cecilia Blanca’s visit, which this time would be much different.
The jarl arrived with a great retinue. He was already quite well-fed and content because for safety’s sake he had stayed up at Varnhem for a day and a night before he and the queen continued the short distance to Gudhem.
Horses’ hooves clattered on the new cobblestones outside the walls, and men spoke in loud, rough voices. A great din arose from the tent posts, ropes and windlasses as the camp for the jarl’s men was raised; the tension inside Gudhem grew with each unfamiliar sound. But Cecilia Rosa, who could now go out to the hospitiumwithout asking Mother Rikissa’s permission, sat inside with her books and her goose quill, finishing up all the bookkeeping occasioned by the state visit. It felt good not to rush off to see the queen, whose visit cheered her heart each year; instead she would first conclude her work, as a good toiler in God’s garden. She believed that enjoyment and rest were the rewards for good work. And that was a belief that she would take with her one day, to her life outside Gudhem. For now so much of her penance had been served that she could see the end of it, and she had cautiously begun to imagine what her life might be like in the future. But she couldn’t be very specific in her daydreaming, because one thing was not at all clear.
It had been several years since any news had come from Varnhem and Father Henri about Arn Magnusson. The only thing she knew for certain was that he was not dead, for according to what Father Henri had told Cecilia Blanca, Arn had now risen to the high rank of a Templar knight. If he had fallen in the holy war, masses would have been read for his soul all over the Cistercian world. So she knew that he was among the living, but nothing more.
However, tidings of Arn were the first thing Birger Brosa spoke of when she went out to the hospitium, embraced Cecilia Blanca, and then bowed her head to the jarl. She didn’t dare embrace him because her years in the cloister had begun to take a deep toll on her, although she was not aware of it.