The blessed mystery, bread made by my hands and transfigured by my words into His very flesh. Upon that fragment stood our immortal souls, the eternity of our existence. My hands had become Christ’s hands. I had climbed the sacred mountain for them.
But the mountaintop was deserted. I stood barefoot and alone in the holy place and saw that it was empty. Nothing came back from all my prayers and questions except a hollow, mocking silence. I could make bread into flesh for them, but in my own mouth it had turned to dust. My hand trembled and drops of red wine spilled onto the white cloth.
I BUSIED MYSELF in the chapel cleaning the vessels, until I saw Osmanna rise and make her way towards the door. I called her and she paused with her back to me. Hesitated, just for a moment, a scintilla of defiance was all, but it was enough. Then she turned and walked back meekly, the semblance of obedience.
I’d had days to think about this moment, yet I’d still not decided how to begin it. I folded the linen cloth. The wine had seeped through it and beneath there was a small bloodred stain on the white stone of the altar on which the Mass stone rested. I scrubbed at it with a little water, but it would not come out.
“Was there something you wanted me to do, Servant Martha?” God in Heaven, could she not at least wait for me to speak? Her arms were thrust behind her back and she stood watching me, her head on one side and her eyebrows raised quizzically. Did she really not know why I’d asked her to stay?
“Did you observe, Osmanna, that eight women did not come forward to receive the Blessed Host tonight?”
Her gaze flinched away from mine and she swallowed hard. At least she appeared to retain some slight awe of me. That was something.
“I was lost in my prayers, Servant Martha… I didn’t notice who went forward. Surely we’re not supposed to watch-”
“Lost is indeed an apposite term for you, Osmanna, and for that very state in which you now find yourself. I foolishly trusted that you sought only to come to a greater understanding of the sweet mystery that is the Sacrament, but not only have you not returned in all humility to the table of our blessed Lord, you have incited others to follow your example and turn away.”
I found myself pacing up and down the chapel and was suddenly aware that my voice had risen to a strident pitch. I forced myself to lower it.
“Some of the women are not blessed with your reason, Osmanna. They were content in their faith and you have deliberately set out to undermine it. To wrestle with our own doubts is part of every religious life, but it must be done in private. To infect others with that venomous worm-”
“I have no doubts, Servant Martha.”
She stood by the altar, glowering at me. Her face was flushed, her hands clenched at her sides as if she was struggling to hold them in check. She looked as she did that first day I laid eyes on her in her father’s house. I was beginning to think he was right about her after all.
“You have no doubts, Osmanna? Then forgive me, for I see you are indeed blessed above all God’s saints, for I know of no other who makes such a claim.”
“I didn’t mean… What I… Servant Martha, you yourself say our souls may reach out directly to God and He to us. We don’t need anything else.”
Blessed Lord, forgive her youth. “I do not need reminding of what I’ve said, Osmanna. I may seem ancient to you, but I can assure you my wits are not wandering yet. I’m flattered that you listen to me so well. That being so, it makes your refusal to take His blessed body the more inexplicable. God laid hands upon me in spirit to consecrate the bread and wine as He lays His hands upon every one of His servants. Even you, Osmanna, could do this one day if-”
“No! You don’t understand!”
How dared she raise her voice to me and in here? Still, at least it was evidence that my words had penetrated that armour of self-possession. I met her gaze unblinking and she finally had the grace to lower her eyes.
She took a deep breath. “Servant Martha, don’t you see, that’s the whole point.” She spoke unnaturally slowly, as if she was struggling to keep control of her temper. “You said… I mean… doesn’t it say that God is spirit and we should worship Him in spirit? So why do we need to eat bread? Why should this little piece of wheat and water have any more power to save us than the loaves that we share daily in the refectory? It is only our faith that makes it so and our faith does not need physical signs. You taught me that.”
“It was our Lord’s command that we should do it. That should be enough for you. Did Abraham question why God commanded him to slay his son?”
“When the women were afraid to take Ralph in you sa… you said God is in each of us, Servant Martha. So if God is already in me, why must I take His flesh into my body? All I have to do is reach out for salvation and take it. I don’t need you or anyone else to give it to me.” Osmanna thrust out her chin as if she could take the world with a snap of her fingers.
It took every grain of self-control I possessed not to slap her. “Osmanna, I give you nothing. I am merely the channel of His love and mercy.”
“No, Servant Martha, you are not a channel, you are a guard barring the way. The priests won’t let the people speak to God except through them. They tell us that no one can be saved unless they eat the bread that they alone have the power to consecrate. They control who will eat and be saved and who will be refused and damned. Like some peddler in the marketplace, they offer an elixir of life and they decide the price. You haven’t changed anything, Servant Martha. All you have done is to take the priests’ place in the gateway. Now, instead of them, you stand between us and God.”
Holy and Blessed Mother of God, hadn’t she understood how far we had come? Didn’t she realise the power we had taken into our own hands? And now she thought to cast it aside as if it was a mere nothing, an empty eggshell, to be discarded on the midden.
“Do you dare to presume, girl, that the disciples who were with Jesus daily had less faith than you? Yet, did Jesus not command them to eat the bread after His death? And the blessed Saint Peter who had walked with our Lord, did he not instruct the first Christians to eat of the bread though they did so in fear of their very lives? How dare you presume that you do not need to obey God in this? It is not for us to know what divine plans are accomplished through this act of obedience.”
“Servant Martha-”
“Be silent! I will not debate this with you. To claim that salvation may be obtained without the sacraments is heresy. Don’t you realise that the words you’ve spoken today, if they were heard outside these walls, would be enough to have you convicted of the most heinous crime that any man or woman may commit? Do I really need to remind you of the punishment which awaits those so condemned?”
Her eyes opened wide in alarm. She stared at me in horror.
“But I didn’t… I didn’t mean…” she stammered.
At last I had succeeded in driving home the enormity of what she had done. For once there were no clever words forming in her mouth, no blaze of truculence in her eyes. She was a terrified child, waiting for me to tell her what to do.
But what should I tell her to do? I could insist upon a public retraction before all the beguines, but if I demanded that of her I would have to demand the same of all those who had dissented or I would make a martyr of her, and I didn’t need a martyr on my hands. Let her, let all of them slip back into the fold without any fuss, as if they had never been away. If we ignored it as though it had never happened, it would more quickly be forgotten.
“Next Sunday at Mass in chapel, Osmanna, you will receive the Host again. The others will soon follow your example and if they don’t, I will speak to them privately and encourage them.”
She opened her mouth to speak. Her expression had suddenly changed and I could see her words were not going to be those of meek acceptance. I stepped rapidly towards her and grasped her shoulder. Under my hand, I felt her stiffen.
“Osmanna,” I said as soothingly as I could. “Think of it in this way: If, as you claim, the sacrament is but an outward symbol of a spiritual action, then what harm can there be in consuming the bread as an example to those whose understanding is not as great as yours? We must not put stumbling blocks in the way of our weaker sisters.”
Her mouth was trembling, but her fists remained clenched.
“Osmanna, we cannot afford divisions now. The villagers blame us for the sickness. You saw the mood of those women when they demanded their children be allowed to touch Andrew’s relic. If the fever continues, as I fear it will, their hostility towards us can only increase and as we have already incurred the wrath of the priest, I feel sure he will do nothing to calm their fear of us. To stand firm against them, I need the support of all the beguines, especially you. That the other women have followed you in refusing the sacrament proves you have the gift of being able to influence others. Use it for us, Osmanna. For the beguinage.”
I released my grip on her shoulder and turned back to polishing the vessels, making it quite clear that the discussion was at an end. From the corner of my eye, I could see her staring up at the face of the Blessed Virgin in Glory painted on the wall behind the altar. I had no idea if I had succeeded in convincing Osmanna. Would she defy me at the next Mass? And what would I do if she did?
She turned away without looking at me and strode towards the door.
“Osmanna,” I called out after her, “where would you go if you had to leave this beguinage?”
Her backbone jerked upright, as if she had been struck from behind. Then she tugged the door open and ran from the chapel without answering, leaving only a puddle of moonlight on the floor.
january
gangs of youths, or plough jacks, dragged a plough from house to house demanding money. if they were refused they ploughed up and wrecked the garden. bawdy and violent plough plays were performed by mummers.
