could follow the sermon, much less take notes on it. The man must be plotting some revenge. When, at the end of the service, Raynald left the church, Edgar resolved to follow him.
After the service, the nuns went to the refectory for their one meal of the day. Catherine ate her bread slowly, afraid her stomach would reject it. The stench of the sickroom still lurked in her nose. While the bread was deciding what it would do, Catherine noticed Paciana leave the lay sisters’ side of the room. She signaled a request to go also, indicating that she was not feeling well, and hurried after her.
Paciana was not returning to the building where the lay sisters slept. She had gathered up her skirts and was heading outside the convent to the tiny graveyard.
When Catherine saw where she was going, it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t follow. It was a private grief. It was not her right to intrude.
She slowed her steps and hid behind a tree. Watching wasn’t as bad as intruding, she told herself.
Her voices were too outraged to comment.
Paciana knelt by the new grave. The ground was lumpy with clods left behind by the diggers. She threw herself forward, lying on her face across the mound of earth. She made no sound although her face was streaked with tears and dirt. She pushed herself up and, ripping open her tunic, she dug her fingernails into her chest, clawing across her breasts until there were deep streaks of blood.
“We have to stop her!” a voice hissed in her ear.
Catherine nearly cried out. Edgar put his fingers to her lips.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed back.
“Neither of us should,” he answered. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Paciana,” Catherine said. “You’re right. We must keep her from hurting herself. But she will be furious if she knows we’ve been watching. Why did you follow me?”
“I didn’t,” Edgar said. “I followed him.”
Catherine looked where he was pointing. At the edge of the cemetery stood Count Raynald.
“You! Woman!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Stunned, Paciana quickly covered herself before she looked up.
Count Raynald moved closer to her in the twilight.
“Don’t think you can fool me with some fake show of grief,” he sneered. “All you want from Alys is her property. That abbess of yours has no business …”
His voice stopped as if snuffed out. He had seen her face.
“‘Ciana!” he said. “Oh, Paciana!”
Catherine listened in astonishment. She had never heard the count speak with a trace of emotion before, and now …
He was almost crying. “Dear God, ’Ciana, they told me you were dead!”
Paciana remained kneeling in the soft earth, one hand holding her ripped tunic against her chest. Her face showed no emotion and she rose to her feet and backed away from Raynald.
For the last time in her life, Paciana spoke.
“I am dead,” she said.
Seven
The cemetery of the Paraclete,
twilight, Good Friday, April 5, 1140
Habet effrenis elatio hoc amplius surperbia ut, cum hec superioritatem, illa nichilominus dedignetur paritem …
He who has unbridled conceit is worse than one who is proud, for the latter thinks no one is his superior, while the former believes no one is his equal …
—Abbot Suger,
Vita Ludovici Grossi Regis
P aciana turned and walked slowly back toward the convent. Raynald moved as if to follow her, then shook his head and stumbled in the opposite direction, toward the town. In their hiding place, Catherine and Edgar watched in astonishment.
“What just happened?” Edgar asked.
“I’m not sure,” Catherine said. “In all the time I’ve been here, Paciana has never made a sound. She must have been terribly upset to break her vow. I swore I would say nothing about her, Edgar. I promised, so I can’t explain why I believe this. But I’m sure she knows what happened to Raynald’s wife.”
“Her grief was not that of a stranger,” Edgar said.
“No, she knew the
After the service, the nuns went to the refectory for their one meal of the day. Catherine ate her bread slowly, afraid her stomach would reject it. The stench of the sickroom still lurked in her nose. While the bread was deciding what it would do, Catherine noticed Paciana leave the lay sisters’ side of the room. She signaled a request to go also, indicating that she was not feeling well, and hurried after her.
Paciana was not returning to the building where the lay sisters slept. She had gathered up her skirts and was heading outside the convent to the tiny graveyard.
When Catherine saw where she was going, it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t follow. It was a private grief. It was not her right to intrude.
She slowed her steps and hid behind a tree. Watching wasn’t as bad as intruding, she told herself.
Her voices were too outraged to comment.
Paciana knelt by the new grave. The ground was lumpy with clods left behind by the diggers. She threw herself forward, lying on her face across the mound of earth. She made no sound although her face was streaked with tears and dirt. She pushed herself up and, ripping open her tunic, she dug her fingernails into her chest, clawing across her breasts until there were deep streaks of blood.
“We have to stop her!” a voice hissed in her ear.
Catherine nearly cried out. Edgar put his fingers to her lips.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she hissed back.
“Neither of us should,” he answered. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Paciana,” Catherine said. “You’re right. We must keep her from hurting herself. But she will be furious if she knows we’ve been watching. Why did you follow me?”
“I didn’t,” Edgar said. “I followed him.”
Catherine looked where he was pointing. At the edge of the cemetery stood Count Raynald.
“You! Woman!” he shouted. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Stunned, Paciana quickly covered herself before she looked up.
Count Raynald moved closer to her in the twilight.
“Don’t think you can fool me with some fake show of grief,” he sneered. “All you want from Alys is her property. That abbess of yours has no business …”
His voice stopped as if snuffed out. He had seen her face.
“‘Ciana!” he said. “Oh, Paciana!”
Catherine listened in astonishment. She had never heard the count speak with a trace of emotion before, and now …
He was almost crying. “Dear God, ’Ciana, they told me you were dead!”
Paciana remained kneeling in the soft earth, one hand holding her ripped tunic against her chest. Her face showed no emotion and she rose to her feet and backed away from Raynald.
For the last time in her life, Paciana spoke.
“I am dead,” she said.
Seven
The cemetery of the Paraclete,
twilight, Good Friday, April 5, 1140
Habet effrenis elatio hoc amplius surperbia ut, cum hec superioritatem, illa nichilominus dedignetur paritem …
He who has unbridled conceit is worse than one who is proud, for the latter thinks no one is his superior, while the former believes no one is his equal …
—Abbot Suger,
Vita Ludovici Grossi Regis
P aciana turned and walked slowly back toward the convent. Raynald moved as if to follow her, then shook his head and stumbled in the opposite direction, toward the town. In their hiding place, Catherine and Edgar watched in astonishment.
“What just happened?” Edgar asked.
“I’m not sure,” Catherine said. “In all the time I’ve been here, Paciana has never made a sound. She must have been terribly upset to break her vow. I swore I would say nothing about her, Edgar. I promised, so I can’t explain why I believe this. But I’m sure she knows what happened to Raynald’s wife.”
“Her grief was not that of a stranger,” Edgar said.
“No, she knew the
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