After Robert left Fontevraud, Madeleine spent very little time in the garden. Although beans obligingly climbed the arbors and yarrow bloomed plentifully, no clutch of poppies flamed red against a silver patch of lambs’ ear or burst suddenly from beneath an artfully placed slab of granite. Clove-scented gillyflowers no longer bumped blossoms with violets. The young novitiates pruned the bushes to conform to arbitrary borders of stacked river rock, segregated the hyacinth bulbs by hue, and plucked all volunteer seedlings, whether fiddle fern or dandelion, and tossed them aside like weeds. And while Madeleine dearly missed the bold clash of colors, the sloppy cascade of bridal wreath and the careless creep of periwinkle, her new work afforded her a different and far greater pleasure.
Initially Hersend had objected when Robert established a women’s scriptorium and placed Brother Peter in charge. With few exceptions, the monks believed creativity was a male prerogative, and she worried that they would see female scribes as rivals and this rivalry, whether real or imagined, would distract them from their duties. But Robert, with Philippa’s assistance, argued that an abbey established to serve the needs of women must embrace a larger notion of creativity. “Freedom and salvation comes to us in many forms,” he said, “why not through rubricating manuscripts and painting miniatures?”
Hersend relented. The women’s scriptorium, much smaller than the men’s, found a home in the Abbess’s residence. What the room lacked in size it made up for in light. Two large windows caught the morning sun and held it fast until late afternoon, and even on cloudy days, a dozen tapers and a large fireplace tossed a warm glow onto the pine tables and benches arranged against the walls. After a while Hersend assigned Hildegard, a commoner from Jumièges, and Eleanor, a reformed sinner from Orléans, to work in the Abbess’s scriptorium as it came to be called. But in the beginning only Peter and Madeleine worked daily in the small room.
The moment Peter took Madeleine under his wing she felt born anew. Even before she picked up a brush, she saw in her mind’s eye the infinite possibilities of color. She started out as a rubricator, highlighting chapter headings and capital letters in the body of the text. Initially she relied on pattern books and stencils, but as she grew more confident, she created her own style of initials. After applying a base coat, she made outlines in lead plummet that Peter, if he judged the image satisfactory, filled in with color. When she grew proficient, Peter allowed her to paint portions of his miniatures—the feathery wings of an angel or the gilded garment of a saint. Gradually he granted her permission to compose her own illustrations.
Peter never commented on Madeleine’s affinity for painting biblical women of virtue and courage, but he complemented her bright and varied pallet. In response to his encouragement, she dared to experiment, grinding carmine and azurite, mixing the powdery pigment with glair or gum Arabic. He also praised her attention to details, noting the folds in a robe or the sinewy slide of a serpent’s tail brought the spirit of the gospels to the page.
Early in her apprenticeship Madeleine realized that painting, much like gardening, celebrated God’s glory through the beauty of color. But while a garden bloomed only briefly, a fickle splendor that withered and died in a matter of weeks, a miniature’s beauty lasted far longer.
In addition to satisfying Madeleine’s urge to create and to spread the word of God, painting allowed her to hide her oddity. She remained ill at ease around people. With few exceptions, she continued to distrust men and her infrequent contact with the monks of Fontevraud did little to change that. For while the monks willingly served aristocratic nuns as penance for their sins, they balked at sharing the privilege of their position with commoners. They were outraged when she began illustrating manuscripts. In response to their angry whispers and scathing glances, Madeleine concealed her true emotions with a modest drop of her eyes, for she believed that the appearance of timidity and compliance in woman calmed most men. She felt certain that Marie, a pragmatic soul who understood that success is sometimes achieved in circuitous ways, would approve of this deception.
As for the women of Fontevraud, the reformed sinners lived apart from the nuns cloistered in the Grand Moutier. Madeleine spoke daily with Bertrad, but seldom saw the twins. She heard talk that Agnes had fallen in love with a stone cutter from Tours, and suspected that she and her sister would very soon take leave of the abbey. Madeleine and Philippa remained friendly, but Philippa was by birth a woman of great power and Madeleine never completely relaxed in her presence.
Although Madeleine’s distrust of people limited the number and nature of her relationships, it seemed to benefit her art. All of her unexpressed emotions found their way into her illustrations.
Of course she had a life apart from the scriptorium. Little Marie, a sturdy, confident child with a sharp mind, exhibited none of her mother’s timidity. More fearless than most girls, Little spoke forcefully at times, but always with kindness. Robert said that in loving her daughter Madeleine had forgiven Evraud, and she suspected he was right, for she knew that without Evraud’s unwanted seed there would be no Little, and Madeleine did not want to imagine that life. While not as expressive as Philippa’s or as attentive as Bertrad’s, Madeleine’s love for her child deepened with each passing day.
Aside from Little, Robert was the only living person ever-present in Madeleine’s thoughts. He once told her that redemption was a long journey of the soul. And while he spoke of his own journey, Madeleine understood that his words applied to hers as well.
That day when the Master returned from Anjou, Madeleine had been preoccupied with thoughts of Saint Lucy, the subject of her next miniature. Deeply immersed in her private world of inspiration, Madeleine momentarily mistook Robert’s nimbus for the one she envisioned glorifying Lucy.
Usually the movement back from the flexible world of the imagination happened gradually, a cautious re-entry that, nevertheless, left Madeleine confused. But when Robert said her name, her confusion evaporated and her breath caught in her throat. Blushing, Madeleine dropped her eyes, but not before she noticed the look in Robert’s eyes.
Ignoring his evasive words, she sought the cause of his distress in the cloud of light surrounding his head. What she gleaned sent a shudder through her body, for amidst the bands of color she recognized the ruby glow of lust. Taking a deep breath, she focused on the long slow rush of air into her lungs and willed herself calm. When she had regained her composure, she took a closer look.
Unlike the men she had known in Rouen, Robert’s lust did not dominate his colors. Instead, bands of blue, turquoise, and pink joined and intertwined with the ruby creating a rainbow of compassion. Robert’s desire was not separate from his love, but prompted and tempered by its presence. Once she understood the meaning of his halo, her feelings for him became translucent. When she placed her hand against Robert’s beard, their love for each other lit the room and wrapped them in its glory. Then fate interceded, and Robert, weak from fasting, grew faint.
Sitting beside him while he slept, Madeleine hummed softly and considered the possibilities implicit in their love. By the time Robert woke, she had made a decision. And while she could not have rendered her resolve into words, she recalled the emotion that prompted it when she painted Saint Lucy’s hands cleansing the wounds of Saint Sebastian. Sooner or later Robert would judge any love that distracted him from his love of God as adulterous, and that betrayal would destroy him. With this realization, waves of loss washed over her. In their wake she felt a ripple of relief, for she suspected that she did not have it in her to love as a woman loves a man. What she felt for Robert, the tenderness of unrealized passion, contained a purity of restraint that comforted and sustained her. She prayed it was the same for him.
Madeleine thought often of the night she met Robert, She remembered a solemn man with a bright halo and a persuasive voice who took her breath away. When he spoke of the abbey he hoped to build, she remembered entering the grand portal into a place of light.
But who can tell with memories what is real and what is imagined? Time is an unreliable storyteller, shifting focus, providing details where none exist and filling in lapses with fancy and lies. Regardless of what happened in Rouen, the scriptorium was Madeleine’s place of light.
Marie would have argued that miracles are few and far between, that most of what happens in life is a result of hard work and good luck. Robert would insist that happiness is a matter of grace. Madeleine did not pretend to understand the workings of grace, but she knew for certain that she had found her life’s purpose at Fontevraud. In this she felt truly blessed.