Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

The inevitable rumors started to pass through Engelthal. The nurses, upon returning from prayers, had interrupted the story of Inferno enough times to know that we were sharing some kind of secret. And no one could miss that there was something more than the relationship between nurse and patient in the way we looked at each other. The time we spent together could no longer be explained away as simple medical treatment.

I was certain that Gertrud and Agletrudis were behind the stories. “The mercenary is corrupting our sweet Sister Marianne.” I suppose this was even true, because I was learning it was possible to love more than just God. In fact, I was learning that it was better to love more than just God.

It had to happen. Mother Christina decided to remove you, but because you had not yet fully healed, she was sending you to stay with Father Sunder and Brother Heinrich. “To ease your transition back into the world,” she said. “The arrangements have already been made.”

There was nothing for me to say, as I was pledged for all my life to serve my prioress. So you gathered your few items and thanked us all, the other nun-nurses as much as me, for our kind ministrations. Your farewell was so businesslike that it hurt, but I suppose the best warriors know which battles not to fight. Just like that, you were taken out of my life and put into the care of others. I told myself that it was for the best, and I was even determined to make myself believe it.

It was time to move on. God had not bestowed my literary gifts to enable me to translate blasphemous Italian poets, so I locked Inferno away in my trunk. I told myself that my feelings for you were nothing more than a test, so that I might overcome my earthly longings and thus serve God better. I attended all my prayers and worked late each night at the scriptorium, concentrating on Die Gertrud Bibel. Gertrud had started to design a cover for the book and occasionally wondered aloud whether jewels were too much. I assured her that nothing was too extravagant in honoring the Lord.

This lasted for a week, and then it struck me. I couldn’t keep Inferno locked away in my trunk, because it was not actually mine. It was only proper that I return it to you. Just as the nuns didn’t have the right to destroy your clothing, neither could I keep your book. This would be a kind of thievery, and I knew that the Lord did not wish that I be a thief.

I decided to sneak a visit to Father Sunder, and why should I not? I’d been making midnight visits to him all my life, so why should things be any different because you were there? If I avoided my regular habits I’d be allowing your presence to alter my routine-which was exactly what the prioress was trying to prevent. So there it was. The only way to keep you from influencing my life was to sneak a visit to the house where you were staying.

Father Sunder answered the door and nodded to the corner where you were sitting. “This one,” he said, “has spent the week trying not to mention your name.”

There was more color in your cheeks than when I’d last seen you, and when you stood I could see that your upper body swung more freely. Soon you’d be well enough to leave, I thought, and in that instant, my heart almost stopped. I turned to Father Sunder and asked in a panic, “What am I going to do?”

He looked over at Brother Heinrich and something passed between them, a look or a memory, before he turned his attention to me and said with that sweet voice, “Sister Marianne. You’re going to leave Engelthal, of course.”

For as long as I could remember, Father Sunder had railed on about his regrets for the sins of his youth, and now he was advising me to flee the monastery to enter that same sinful world? It was the last thing that I ever would have expected so I whispered, too low for you to hear, “Why?”

“I was with Mother Christina the night you were found at the gates,” Father Sunder answered in a return whisper, “and I argued that your appearance was a sign from God. I believed then that the Lord had special plans for you, and I still do. But I am no longer convinced these plans are meant to be fulfilled at Engelthal.”

It was not enough, and I needed him to explain further.

“When this man arrived, again I was present for the event. I saw his condition, and he should have died-yet he did not. None can doubt you are the reason. I cannot help but think your journey with him is not finished, and that it is a journey upon which the Lord smiles.”

“But to leave my vows is a sin.”

“I do not believe,” whispered Father Sunder, “in any God that considers love to be a sin.”

Those words were exactly the permission I needed, and I didn’t even have the words to thank him. I just threw my arms around him and squeezed, so tightly that he had to plead with me to loosen my grip.

I returned to my cell and gathered my few possessions. A couple of robes, my best footwear, and Paolo’s prayer book: I had nothing else worth taking. It was raining as I started back towards Father Sunder’s, through the garden. As was the custom for every nun walking along the cloister path, I recited the Miserere for the souls of the dead nuns buried below, but my thoughts of the future had me trembling with fear and anticipation. The rain was good, I thought, as if it had been sent to cleanse the monastery from me.

“You appear to have a bag packed, Sister Marianne.” It was the voice of Agletrudis. “Have you at least said goodbye to your champion, the prioress?”

It was an immaculate swipe. It didn’t matter to me what Agletrudis or Gertrud might think, but deep in my heart I felt that I was betraying Mother Christina. But what could I have said to her? I wouldn’t have known how to deal with the hurt in her eyes. She had always believed in me, even when I had not, and she would never have anticipated my disloyalty.

I walked away from Agletrudis without answering, and she called out after me. “Don’t worry about Mother Christina. I’ll ensure that she never forgets you.”

I almost turned around to ask what she meant, but what good would that have done? So I kept walking. I knew that Agletrudis would not raise the alarm on my departure. It was in her best interests to let me go quietly and reassume her position as armarius-in-waiting.

By the time I reached Father Sunder’s house, I had banished Gertrud and Agletrudis from my mind. The face of Mother Christina, however, still lingered. Brother Heinrich packed some food and even though Father Sunder was nearing seventy, he insisted on walking part of the way with us. I protested because of the rain, but he simply pulled on his pluviale and came anyway.

As we walked, Father Sunder in the middle, my thoughts were not upon what lay ahead but what I was leaving behind. Despite Father Sunder’s kind words, there could be no arguing against the simple and damning fact that it was a sin for me to break my holy covenant. I tried to rationalize it and, after great effort, even devised an argument that had some semblance of sense.

Of all the Engelthal nuns, I was the only one who had not made the decision to enter the life. Even if they arrived as young girls, they had known a life outside the monastery walls; they had lived in the secular world and knew what they were forfeiting when they entered the sisterhood. I had never had that opportunity. So if I left Engelthal with you and came back later, the religious life would be worth more. Finally, it would be my choice rather than that of the parents who abandoned me at the gate: to learn if my destiny lay within the monastery, I had to leave it.

After we had walked about a league, I could tell you were becoming fatigued. It was understandable, as your injuries were considerable and you’d had only limited activity since your accident, but you were determined to show as little weakness as possible-whether to convince yourself that you would be fine or to convince me, I was unsure. It was Father Sunder who had to stop first, however, too tired to continue because of his advanced years. He grasped your arm and warned you to love me well, and then he pulled me to the side so that we could speak a moment in private.