And so, God, we began our cloistered life. The day after we took our vows, Dominic left for Carcassonne and after breakfast Guillelmette called us into the chapter house. The pricks of my cilise were already becoming familiar.
“This is your daily schedule,” she said holding a paper lettered in her careful hand.
Midnight: Matins
Morning sleep
Dawn: Lauds
Prayer and devotions
Sunrise: Prime
Wash
Morning meal and readings
Midmorning: Terce and Mass
Chapter
Opus Manuum
Midday: Sext
Dinner
Opus Manuum
Afternoon: None
Instruction
Eventide: Vespers
Study or prayer
Before Retiring: Compline
Evening Sleep or Vigil
“You will commit it to your memory and follow it with diligence. I will ring the chapel bell to signal it is time for Daily Offices. It matters not what you are doing—you will cease your work or prayer immediately. For matins, lauds, prime, and vespers you will gather in the chapel choir. For terce, sext, and none we will meet here in the chapter room.”
“But, Guillelmette, what if we don’t wake up for matins?” Paperin inquired.
“You will address me as domina,” the prioress corrected. “And you may not break the rule of silence, Paperin, unless you have received consent to do so,” she added in rebuke. “If you desire to speak, you will place your hands together thus,” she said and brought her fingers to her lips.
Paperin nodded.
“I will make sure that you awaken after I ring the bell,” the domina continued, “but you will soon adjust to the rhythms of your day and awaken on your own.”
Alaide bowed her head and touched beseeching fingers to her lips. Guillelmette nodded her consent.
“Are we to remain awake once we have sung our matins?” she inquired.
“After you’ve offered prayers to God you may return to bed until lauds,” Guillelmette replied.
Then Gentiana gave the sign she wished to speak.
“I’m very sorry for my ignorance, but I do not read Latin,” she began. “Pray tell what is the opus manuum?”
“It is the sacred work that you will give to God,” Guillelmette explained. “For now, most of you shall continue with the labor you have already been given. In time, you will learn to do all the work and rotate jobs. Berengaria, Clarette, and Elmina, during the growing season you will continue to oversee our gardens and the apothecary, but in the winter months I will assign you other tasks to do. Berengaria, you will be our cellarer. You will take charge of our provisions. You’ll make a list of what we have and inform Father Guilhem of our needs.”
Berengaria nodded her assent.
“Clarette, I will teach you how to make candles. It will be your job to make sure we are never without light.”
Clarette opened her mouth as if to reply. Then she remembered the silence and gave a nod as well.
“And, Elmina, you will be the keeper of the kitchen fire. You will bring in wood and gather kindling. Throughout the winter months you will light the fire each morning before matins and keep it from dying throughout the day.”
Keeper of the fire? I almost gasped. My childhood terror reared its ugly head. I could not do that job. Did not Guillelmette know that fire sets off a terror in my soul? Had she not noticed that I avoided the fire pit and always sat in the refectory with my back turned to the flames of the kitchen fire? I felt the color draining from my face and raised my fingers to my ashen lips.
“Please, Domina,” I whispered. “I don’t mind carrying the wood or gathering kindling, but I am afraid of flames. I beg of you not to make me keeper of the fire.”
Guillelmette looked at me as if I were a begging cur. “Just yesterday you vowed obedience to your superior. Have you so easily forgotten? Come. I will show you what you have to do.”
I’m sorry, God, I was not able to obey her. My heart was pounding, and my breath came fast and shallow. Please no, I begged her with a silent pleading. Just as at Dominic’s disputation, I felt the blood drain from my head. The room began to spin, and I tumbled into a heap upon the floor. I heard my sisters rushing to my aid, but the prioress pushed them all away.
“Perfect faith casts out fear,” she intoned. “Elmina must stand up and face her fears. She will do her assigned task.” Kneeling down she took me by the shoulders and shook me gently. “You will get up and learn to tend the fire,” she ordered not unkindly. “And you may wait until tonight to do penance for your disobedience.”
I stood up slowly, as if in a trance, and followed Guillelmette across the room. Dear God, I still do not know how I obeyed her. I looked upon the smoldering coals and shrank away. But the prioress pulled me forward. Handing me an iron rod she said, “Use this to push the coals into the center of the fire. Then lay more wood atop them.” I did as I was told. The flames leapt up as if they were the very fires of Hell, and I released a scream. But every hour throughout the day I added yet another log and kept the fire alight.
That night after compline, I remained alone in the chapel. I recalled my disobedience and Guillelmette did not need to show me what to do.
Santa Deu, that first winter at Prouilhe, how You tested us. By February, the stores that Dominic had brought from Carcassonne were almost gone, and our late garden had not yielded vegetables enough to feed us. We no longer baked bread. Our only food was a thin pottage that Alaide and Curtslana kept upon the fire. They added barley, beans, and rye to the water in their pot and put in bits of beet and onion. On days the hens produced, they would put in an egg as well.
Dear God, from times of fasting I had known the pangs of hunger, but that winter was different. Our skin grew pale, and we cast our gaze upon the cross through sunken eyes. My cilise hung loosely round my waist and rattled as I walked. Slowly the pain of hunger just died away, and thoughts of bread turned into distant memories. In their place I began to feel a deadness and fatigue that would not ease. O God, I called to You in my distress, but I could hear no answer. I must confess that a fury flared within me. Why did Dominic bring us to this hovel of a monastery only to abandon us here? Why do You turn Your back on us when we have promised our whole lives to You? I tried to do penance for my anger, but not even the flagellum brought relief to my soul.
Berengaria spoke with Father Guilhem and begged him to procure more food to see us through the spring. I am certain he did his best. Each week he would go out to ask for alms. Sometimes he would return with moldy oats or a sack of beans; but often he would come back with his head hung low and pockets empty. Neither the Church nor the Good Christians of Fanjeaux seemed to care much of our survival.
But God, despite my anger I did not sicken, for You graced me with the gift of a strong body. Others among us fared far worse than I. Jordana and Curtslana were the first to suffer with asthenia. Each day their strength drained from them, and soon their feebleness confined them to their beds. We did not yet have an infirmary, and so we nursed them in their hut and listened to them moan at night from costiveness. We had neither violet nor flax seeds to relieve their bowels; all we could do was urge them to drink chamomile tea and offer them an extra egg in their pottage when one was to be had.
Perhaps we all began to wonder if we had made a mistake following Dominic to Prouilhe, but beautiful Alaide was the most vocal about it. She’d look with horror when she caught the reflection of her gaunt face in the brass chalice or a bowl of water. One night she broke the silence as she slipped into her nightshift.
“This is not how I thought it would be,” Alaide lamented. “I didn’t follow Dominic to starve to death in some mud hovel. I thought we would become a proper monastery and live in more comfort than we had at the ostal. I pictured how lovely we would all look in our white habits as we knelt to sing the hours. But there is no beauty here. It is just ugliness and hardship. I do not wish to stay.”
“But what would you do?” whispered little Paperin.
“I would agree to marry Jacques!” she answered without hesitation. “He wanted me and always told me that I was the most beautiful girl in Fanjeaux. Look at me now! I am so thin he would never even rest his eyes on me. And my lovely nose—it was my best feature, and now my face is so sunken it looks huge. Oh, what am I going to do? I do not want my beauty to waste away!”
Dear God, I knew Alaide’s vanity was repugnant to You, but I would be lying if I said I did not have some of the same feelings. I too had not expected life at Prouilhe to be so hard. But I had no suitor who would take me back. I had made my vows, and I could not give up the hope that Dominic would soon return to us. And so I had no choice but to trust that You would see us through.
Then little Paperin took ill. She had become so thin it seemed that she might float away, and her bloated belly pushed against her ribs. She weakened so very quickly. It was as if her body did consume itself. She no longer wished to eat and wouldn’t even drink the chamomile tea we prepared for her. Poor little Paperin. She moaned so softly in her sleep that we could barely hear her. As the February snows built up around us, Jordana and Curtslana grew slowly stronger. But not so dearest Paperin. Each night we took turns holding her and keeping vigil in the chapel. You know, O God, how hard we prayed for You to save her.
I begged to know why You would cause such a dear soul to suffer so. In my distress I went to Father Guilhem, forgetting he was a young man but five years older than me. I bowed my head and touched my fingers to my lips as Guillelmette had taught me, and I placed my right hand on my heart. He nodded and bid me to speak. And, God, You know how my foul doubts poured forth.
“Pray tell me why God makes Paperin to suffer so,” I cried. “Why did He bring her to this place only to let her starve?”
Father Guilhem took a deep breath and spoke as if from a great distance. “God’s ways are not our ways,” he replied. “You must pray that her soul will find release.”
“I cannot pray to any God who would allow such cruelty,” I countered as tears began to stream upon my cheeks.
“Elmina, you utter blasphemy. Do you presume to know better than God? You will not speak such words again. Go to the chapel now. Prostrate yourself, and pray the Hail Mary one hundred times. And you will beg God to have mercy on your soul.”
I bowed my head and fled into the chapel. Lying down before our Blessed Mother, I did begin to pray, “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .” My tears turned into sobs, and the words rang hollow in my head. But I continued, “Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.” Slowly the familiar cadences began to calm me, and when I had completed them a warm glow spread about my prostrate form. Lord Jesus, I looked around to see Your broken body on the cross, and I did feel Your arms around me, holding me and rocking me in Your eternal grace. I could almost hear You saying to me, Dearest Elmina, all is well.
I do not know how long I rested there in Your sacred holding. Time had stood still. I wished with all my heart that Your embrace might last forever, but of course it did not. My attention returned to the chapel and to the icy floor on which I lay. I was cold and sore. And yet, I knew that I was changed. I sensed with wordless certainty that my soul rested in the holy glow of Your eternal love. And I offered up to You my fervent prayer. Indigent Misercordia Domine:
“O God, we are in need of Your compassion,
especially our sister little Paperin.
Please make her well.
O my Jesus, forgive our sins, save us from the fires
of Hell; lead all souls to Heaven, especially those in most
need of they mercy.
Amen.”
When I returned to the dormitory, Berengaria and Riccarda were bathing dear Paperin. My heart sunk as I saw them gently dry her flaccid limbs. But then, I heard her stir!
“Paperin’s fever has broken,” said Berengaria. “God has intervened on her behalf. Go quickly and bring some warm pottage.” For a moment I stood frozen, as if in a trance of wonder. Was it possible, God, that You heard my prayers and answered them?
“What are you waiting for?” Berengaria repeated urgently. I snapped to my senses and scurried across the courtyard.
It was during the early thaws of spring, two days before the feast of the Annunciation, that Dominic returned, accompanied by two new brothers.
“Please greet Brother Bernard and Brother Noel,” he instructed.
Brother Bernard surveyed our withered frames and offered a stiff bow. Brother Noel let his eyes settle on each one of us and nodded his greeting as he did so. The two were laden with alms of grain and oil. They carried medicines and new seeds for our garden. That afternoon Jordana and Curtslana baked flax seed bread, and its aroma filled our hearts with wild anticipation.
At eventide, we savored all its doughy goodness, and Dominic again stood at the lectern. Instead of reading from the Rule or the Lives of the Saints, he spoke to us of glorious news. Pope Innocent had given his support to the mission of Diego and Dominic and had set forth a new strategy for converting the Albigensians. No longer would the legates and the missionary priests be asked to traverse all the Languedoc. Instead, each one would focus on a single region. Twelve new Cistercian abbots had been appointed to the mission. Arnaud Amaury of Citeaux had arrived to join the legates at Montréal; Bishop Diego would stay in Pamiers; and Dominic would maintain a base for the preachers right here at Prouilhe! They would live at the Church of St. Martins. Our part would be to provide food to nurture their bodies and prayers to support their sacred work. The archbishop, Berenger of Narbonne, had blessed this new approach. He’d given funds to help defray the costs of the endeavor and given a charter to what was now the Sancta Praedicatio, the Holy Preachers.
“My precious daughters of Prouilhe,” Dominic asserted in his resounding voice, “we are together the body of Christ and we have been blessed with a most holy mission. Just as our bodies have many parts, so does the body of Christ. Diego, the brothers, and I will serve as its legs and voice, spreading the word of truth to the lost souls of the Languedoc. And you shall be the body’s heart and hands. Through your sweet prayers and contemplation, you shall bless all our endeavors. Your steadfastness will give your brothers courage in the task that God has set before them. And through the work of your hands, you will provide the food and clothing and medicine that the Holy Preachers will need to fulfill their mission.”
O God, as I listened to Dominic, I scarce could contain my excitement! I did not raise my eyes once as he spoke, but my soul did rejoice at having the red-haired preacher back at Prouilhe. The gleam in his eyes and the passion of his voice made my heart quiver, and I too was filled with a most holy zeal. I thought of my experience in the chapel, surrounded by the great love of Your Dearest Son. And I wanted to be a part of the Santo Praedicatio. At that moment, Dear God, I did forget that the Good Christians already knew the fullness of Jesus’s love. I didn’t think about their kindness or the sacred power I’d experienced at Aude’s consolamentum. Instead, I too began to think of them as heretics in need of Christ’s salvation. I even came to believe that Bonata, Aude, and Amelha would be damned to Hell if they were not brought into the Catholic Church. And I would be part of a mission to save them.
*
That spring of 1207, as the sun warmed the earth and shed its glow upon us, we were content—all of us, that is, but Alaide. We sang the Daily Offices with renewed joy as our voices blended with those of Dominic, Guilhem, and the new brothers. But Alaide grew quiet and morose. A melancholy air settled upon her face, and lines of worry marred her lovely brow. In prayer, she was distracted. She’d pull at her cropped russet locks and run her finger down her perfect nose. One afternoon in chapter, she touched her lips to ask if she might speak. Guillelmette nodded her consent.
“I cannot stay here,” cried Alaide. “My heart is plagued with melancholy, and I can no longer pray. I do not belong in a monastery. There was a man in Fanjeaux who admired my beauty. I beg you to release me so that I might go and find him.”
“Dear, Alaide,” Guillelmette replied. “Do not be tempted by the demon of vainglory. You’re young and you are foolish. It’s true that you are beautiful, but your beauty will fade, and the man who admires it will look elsewhere if beauty is what he desires. The only true beauty is to be found within your soul. I will not give you leave to forsake your vows or sacrifice communion with Our Lord for such temporal pleasure.”
“Please let me go,” Alaide begged again. “My presence is no longer a blessing to the monastery.”
“I’ve spoken,” Guillelmette replied. “You will be silent now and ask God to keep you from temptation. You are dismissed.”
Alaide bowed her head and slowly shuffled back to the kitchen.
The next day the sun shone brightly, and Berengaria and I went out together to begin work on the garden. We swung our mattocks to loosen the earth after the long winter and raked away the weeds. We dug a pond for water. And then we placed our precious seeds into the ground: onions, garlic, and chives; kale and white-headed cabbage; fennel, turnips, and red beets and beans. With every seed we planted, God, we offered prayer that You might give us food to survive the next year.
Once we had planted our kitchen garden, we tilled the soil to grow our herbs and medicines. Brother Bernard had come from a Cistercian monastery and had brought seeds for many herbs and healing plants. We thought of how we’d longed for medicine just two short months ago and took great care in planting them. We had most all we needed. We’d saved seeds from the fall, and to them we added those that the brothers brought. But I noted with a tinge of disappointment that he had not given us mandrake root.
I made bold to sign my desire to speak and asked if he might find it for us.
“The mandrake root,” he hissed in disgust. “Do you not know that it is of Satan? Its form is like that of an obscene woman and its fruit will turn a soul from God. Is that what you desire?”
I shook my head and turned back to my labors. Aude had not told us that some plants were created by God and others by the Devil.
As Berengaria, Clarette, and I worked side by side, it was almost as it had been in Na Bonata’s garden. We plowed the fertile earth and set our seeds to grow. We carried water from the river. But there was one big difference. No longer was it words that bound our hearts in friendship. We worked together silently. Dear God, it was Your very presence that wove itself among us and joined our hearts in amity and peace.
That April morning was like all the others. Clarette was sowing violets, Berengaria had been digging a row to plant our poppies, and I was raking out the grass and stones for a field of flax. It was a balmy morn, and I half-wished that I might work all day out in the sunlight. But then we heard the noontime bell ring out for sext. In haste, I threw my rake upon the ground. We rinsed the dirt from off our hands and raced back to the chapel.
Once more we knelt in prayer upon the choir bench. Once more we joined in harmony to sing our psalms of praise. Dominic’s rich bass anchored us while Guillelmette’s sweet tones floated up above. Once more Father Guilhem read the short captuluum and offered words of prayer. But this time Alaide was not with us. Just as we started to pray the Paternoster, we heard a loud scream coming from the garden. Guillelmette jumped up, but Dominic signaled for her to remain seated. He ran outside while we completed our prayers.
And then we all rushed out to join him. There was Alaide upon the ground, her lovely face covered with blood. Already it was swelling and her perfect nose was smashed and bent off to the side. I saw the rake beneath her foot and knew what had occurred. We took Alaide to the kitchen and used moss to stop the flow of blood. I made a tea from yarrow leaves the brothers had brought from Carcassonne and bid her drink from it.
Alaide could see the horror on our faces, and her cries of pain turned into sobs of anguish.
“I am no longer beautiful,” she wailed, and none of us denied it. “I can no longer go into the world nor make my lover desire me. What am I now to do?”
“My dear, Alaide,” Guillelmette responded. “I know you do not see this accident as good fortune, but you will come to know it as God’s will. God can forgive your foolishness and so can we. You will do penance for your vainglory and disobedience, and you will come to know well your real beauty. Dearest Alaide, you once believed yourself to be called to the religious life. Turn again to your God and your vocation.”
Alaide hung her head and nodded her resigned consent. She stayed with us and over time she gave her heart to You. We all did as that halcyon year of 1207 unfolded.