Cecily awoke the next morning consumed with a sense of dread. She heard mass as always, but today Adeline was there, too. Cecily did not sit with her, preferring a pew further back from the altar; it made her feel as if she could see better, and on days when the sun was out and its light streamed through the stained glass on the back wall, it was as if God Himself illuminated the space.
Adeline, who had waited outside the door when the service ended, took Cecily by the arm as she stepped over the threshold. “I must beg your forgiveness,” she said. “I had taken too much wine last night and said some despicable things. Tell me I can still count you among my most treasured friends.”
“How could I deny such a request?” Cecily said, but her heart hung heavy in her chest. She worked on her embroidery in a quiet corner of Adeline’s parlor that afternoon, not joining the other ladies for a ride in the forest.
“You are quiet today,” Father Simon said. “I’ve been searching for you and twice passed by this room thinking no one in it. Riding is a favorite pastime of yours, and you have denied yourself that pleasure. Is something troubling you?”
“I find staying on an honorable path not always so easy,” Cecily said. “Even conversing with you could be misconstrued. Christine de Pizan warns against forming friendships with men.”
“I am a priest, not an ordinary man, and would be honored to take the role of your confessor. No one, not even Madame de Pizan, would deny you the right to that.”
“I thought I had finally achieved some measure of peace, the first I’d had since arriving here,” Cecily said. “I see now, though, that one cannot escape the burdens of sin.”
“What is the sin of which you speak?” Father Simon asked.
“I am not worthy to be the daughter of the holy woman my mother was.”
“None of us is as worthy as we might be,” he said. “God wants us to always strive to be better. Your mother miraculously survived the plague and spent her life serving the Lord. We are not all meant for that sort of contemplative life. To my mind, your mother’s path was a difficult one, for she lived between the contemplative and active worlds when she wanted to stay only in one. I believe she resisted her adopted father’s decision that she marry?”
“Yes,” Cecily said. “She would have preferred the convent.”
“God had other plans for her, and you were part of that plan.”
“I killed her.”
“No,” Father Simon said. “Childbirth is inherently dangerous. Many women die during it, and it would be wrong to blame the innocent babe. Your mother was called home to the Lord. We are not meant to understand why.”
“She would not have died were it not for me,” Cecily said. “That is my burden to carry. I seek forgiveness through penance, but knew not where to begin until I came here. When I realized what I must do, I rejoiced, but I am finding the path treacherous and difficult.”
“Do not let that daunt you,” Father Simon said. “The most onerous journeys are often the most rewarding. Remember Christine de Pizan’s wise counsel that the good and proper active life cannot function without some part of the contemplative. You must nourish your spiritual side. That will, in turn, feed the active. Never hesitate to call upon me for guidance. As I have said before, it would be my honor to serve as your confessor.”
“I shall remember that,” Cecily said, but even as she spoke she recalled Adeline’s warning that Father Simon was William’s friend, not hers, and that she ought to be very careful about trusting him. Yet it seemed to her he was far worthier of trust than Adeline. Surely, so long as she conducted herself honorably, she had nothing to fear. No one, no matter whose friend, could accuse her of wrongdoings then.
* * *
Until now, no member of the English army—from the highest-born man-at-arms to the lowest cook—had dared defy King Henry’s order to leave unmolested the places through which they marched. No one had burned crops, interfered with women, or stolen even a mouthful of food. That a man had dared to do so now, and in a church of all places, sent a shiver of horror through the army. How could God be on their side now?
The king ordered the soldier to stand trial that very day, and the verdict of guilty of behaving “in God’s despite and contrary to royal decree” surprised no one. The criminal was strung up on a tree, his body hanging before the gathered troops. No one else would dare violate the king’s command.
The wound on William’s face was still throbbing as he watched the execution and then as the body was cut down and buried. It was justice well-served and surely would be pleasing to God. But still, he felt a pall come over him, as if the shroud had been wrapped around him rather than the dead man.
They marched on, more slowly with each passing day. Their supplies were running short, and the extra effort of carrying the large sharpened stakes the king had ordered each archer to fashion and bring helped neither their speed nor their stamina. When they reached Nesle, they were denied food, and the citizens hung red cloths from the walls of the city.
“What does it mean?” his squire asked, but William could only shake his head and agree with the king’s orders that the modest houses outside the walls be burned the next morning. They could not allow the French to get away with such open acts of defiance.
It had begun to seem as if they would never be able to reach the other side of the Somme, and the insult served them at Nesle made William fear their campaign was doomed. But then, as if by some miracle, the scouts found a crossing, a short distance away. The king rescinded his order that the village be burned, and the army set off once again. The crossing was not easy, but it was a success, and that night, at last, their morale began to improve.
Perhaps God was still on their side.