The Gargoyle

XIX.

Behind me lay the only life I had ever known, and ahead of me stretched a life I could not even imagine. As we walked, I looked over my shoulder to see Father Sunder’s figure disappear into the night. He’d been in my life since my first memories, and now he was gone. Only then did I realize that neither you nor I had any idea where we were going.

You led the way, pretending that you knew what you were doing, putting distance between us and Engelthal. I doubt you were worried about a posse of nuns chasing us down; you were probably more concerned that I’d lose my nerve and turn back. So you kept moving forward, despite the fact you were still suffering from your burns, and I had to struggle to keep up. My feet slid in the mud but I was determined to show that I could keep any pace that you set. I suppose it was important to me because I didn’t know if it was true.

I could see that your battles had taught you to forget the physical body and push forward on willpower alone. I had assisted in your recovery, I knew this effort was far beyond anything you’d attempted since being brought to Engelthal, and I was amazed by your endurance-until, all at once, it failed utterly.

Your feet slipped in the mud and you went down awkwardly. You tried to jump up immediately, but it did not work: as soon as you were upright, you lost your balance again. This time, while falling, you put out your arms to brace yourself, but the contracted skin across your chest caused you to cry out in pain. You withdrew your arms instinctively and dropped face first into the mud.

I reached out to assist you and your first instinct was to push me away. Then, perhaps realizing that we needed to work together if we were to proceed, you allowed me to help you upright. You said, trying at a joke, “I think the devil pushed me down.”

After a few moments, you had recovered enough that we could move together under a tree. There we sat, covered in mud, as the rain continued to fall. We huddled together for heat and it was the closest I had ever been to another body, a male body no less, but it was nothing like I had imagined. I knew this moment would eventually arrive and I had expected it to be thrilling and terrifying, but I only felt anxious fear that I had made the wrong decision in leaving Engelthal.

This was the start of our life together: in freezing rain, unable to move forward, waiting for the morning to arrive and perhaps-perhaps-bring some warmth with the sun. Maybe, I thought, this was the sign for me to turn back. I might arrive before anyone even knew I was missing, and I could feign illness in my cell. In a day or two, I could resume my duties, and life would be as it always had been.

But no. Agletrudis would not allow my actions to go unreported, and I could not leave a sick man at the side of the road, especially a man for whom I felt such great responsibility. Still, I could not help but think about the calmness of the monastery and my place there. I was at home in the scriptorium, among the books. But under a tree, in a storm, with a man I barely knew but upon whom I had pinned my future: how could that be the direction of my life?

And there was nothing to do but wait out the night.

When the morning broke into a dull gray, the rain slowed but did not stop. We started moving again, but all your pretense of vigor was gone. Each attempted step was a trial, and each completed step was a small triumph. I was at your side for each of these little victories, my arm wrapped around you, worried that if you fell again you would not get up.

Then came our first bit of luck, in the guise of a farmer’s cart. The horse clopped up to us, and you waved for the man to stop. You asked where he was headed-the answer was Nürnberg, to market-but when you requested a ride, the farmer denied us. No room with the pigs, he said, pointing out the cargo with which his cart was loaded.

“How much for two of the animals?” you asked.

The farmer named his price and you drew out the coins necessary, handed them over, and slowly climbed up into the cart. You tried to lift out one of the pigs but found you were not quite able, so you beckoned me and our combined strength was enough. As soon as the pig’s hooves hit the ground, it ran squealing into the forest, and then we unloaded a second animal to the same result. You turned to the bewildered driver and said, “Now you have room for us.”

The farmer begrudgingly admitted that he supposed he did. I could tell he was not happy about having human companions, but he must have known you would not allow him to drive off without us. Since he already had the money, consenting was easier than arguing.

The pigs jostled for position the entire ride, curiously bumping into us, carrying out inspections with their snouts. At first I tried to shoo them away, but the effort was doomed by the fact they had nowhere to go. If I managed to force one to move, another immediately slid into its place. They squealed incessantly but the sound was inconsequential compared with the smell, and by the time we finally arrived at the outskirts of Nürnberg, I was certain that God had resorted to sending His messages through pig excrement.

The farmer dropped us at an inn, where I might speculate he had a personal dislike of the keeper. We were certainly a strange sight, and smell, as we tried to negotiate a room. The keeper was hesitant to take us in, having no idea what to make of a burned man and a nun who traveled with livestock, and intended to share a room. But you slipped him extra coins and I offered to say a few words of blessing for him, assuring him that despite my appearance God would hear my prayers all the same. Reluctantly he found us a room at the very back, far removed from his own lodgings, and we were only allowed that if we would first wash ourselves in a nearby stream, clothes and all.

There was only one bed in the room and this emphasized what I’d been trying desperately not to think about. There’d obviously been something sexual between us through all our conversations at Engelthal. I knew I was not running off to live as your sister, but I had no idea about the ways of men and women. The look on my face must have been obvious. You walked to the middle of the room and laid down some cloth, saying that you were used to sleeping on the ground from your mercenary days. You did not look upon me as I climbed out of my wet habit and into the bed, and I will always remember that kindness.

Despite how tired I was, I still could not sleep. Perhaps you heard the way my leg was jittering, or maybe it was that my breathing did not relax. Whatever the clue, after a few minutes you spoke again. “Marianne?”

I was almost afraid to answer, but I did. “Yes.”

“It has not been a very good start, but it is a start nonetheless,” you said. “I promise that it will get better. For tonight, just sleep and know that you are safe.”

Those words reassured me in a way that you cannot imagine, and in return I did the one thing that I could do. I handed over the arrowhead necklace-lacking even the courage to slide it over your neck myself-and said that Father Sunder had blessed it for your protection.

“Then I shall wear it always, and proudly,” you said, “and I thank you.”

We slept until early the next morning, and decided to stay one more night to recover before setting out again. We still needed to set our destination and even this scared me, because we had the freedom to choose what would happen next in our lives. Choice was something you had not had since entering the condotta, and it was something that I had never known.

The innkeeper prepared dinner for us and I was stunned that food could be so tasty. Remember, the nuns always thought their humility was measured by the blandness of their cooking. You and I talked while we ate. We both wanted to go to a place of some size, to blend into the crowd as much as we could, for obvious reasons. The two large cities in the region were Nürnberg, on whose edge the inn sat, and Mainz. There was a great deal of construction occurring in Mainz, mostly on new churches, so that was an advantage. Your only training other than archery had been in stonework, so this was what you’d attempt for a living. It wouldn’t be easy, as you’d been out of the craft for over a decade and were still recovering from your burns, but we lacked any better options. You had some money from your mercenary days and Brother Heinrich had forced some coins into my palm before we left, so we could hold out for a while.

There was another reason for choosing Mainz: it had a strange balance of the religious and the secular. The citizens had earned the right to elect their own government and manage their own financial affairs, rather than have the Church do it for them. Though my place in Engelthal hadn’t been particularly important, I’d feel better knowing we were in a city that maintained a certain autonomy from the Church. Nürnberg was too close to Engelthal both geographically and historically-after all, it was from Nürnberg that Adelheit Rotter had led the Beguines to establish the monastery.

Having decided upon Mainz, we now had to get there. I couldn’t travel any farther in my nun’s habit, because I would feel as if I were lying. Although I didn’t yet know how to define myself, I knew I was no longer a sister. We found a place that sold the current fashions, and that was an education in itself. I tried on a surcot with large openings at the arms, the kind that I’d been taught were “windows to Hell” because they’d tempt men to reach inside. Such a garment was not for me. In the end I decided upon woven tights and a simple tunic. I packed my nun’s robes into my rucksack rather than throw them away. Even if I wanted to, there was no way I could toss them as garbage.

We entered Mainz on the east side, through the gates that opened onto the Rhine. You would not believe how fascinating it was for me. There were people shouting! I know that doesn’t seem like much, but remember that I’d lived my entire life in a monastery. We pushed through the crowds by the food stalls, and past the drunks stumbling out of taverns. Not a single person bowed in my direction, as they’d always done when I was in my habit. I was just another citizen.

We headed for the poorer areas of town, in search of the cheapest accommodations we could find. Eventually we found decent lodgings in the Jewish section behind a shop run by an older couple. They were a little puzzled by why we’d want to live there, because it didn’t take the woman long to place me as Christian. I assured them that the last thing I wanted to do was press for converts, and this was good enough. I suppose our sincerity was obvious and they could see that we were nothing more than an anxious couple in love. Whether we were or not was another story altogether-I certainly wasn’t sure yet-but so we appeared to our landlady. We paid our first few months in advance and they even gave us some bread in welcome.

We took some time to explore the town, as you weren’t ready to immediately throw yourself into the hunt for work. I had my fingers crossed during that entire first week, hoping that we’d like the city and, more important, that we’d continue to like each other. Mainz was only a kilometer or two across, not so large, but there must have been twenty thousand people. A good size at the time. There was a citizens’ center with a market in the northeast corner, and the first time we visited we encountered a lively festival. The city hall was there, as well as the hospital dedicated to the Holy Spirit, the one that I’d suggested when you were first burned. There was an orchard on the west side, and a pig farm run by the Antonite monks. For some reason, they believed that raising swine perfectly complemented their other work of caring for the sick.

The sheer number of religious orders in Mainz was remarkable. There were the Franciscans, the Augustinians, the Teutonic Order, the Carthusians, and the Magdalens, and…I don’t know, too many to remember. But I was most interested in the Beguines, who were essentially nuns without any formal orders. Given my situation, you can imagine that I felt a kind of kinship with them-they were not quite of the Church but not quite of the world, either. They seemed to be everywhere on the streets and it lifted my heart a bit. Even though I had deserted Engelthal, I had no intention of deserting God.

The Cathedral of St. Martin towered over all the other churches in the city. It was built under the direction of Archbishop Willigis around the year 1000, because he needed someplace grand after securing the right for German kings to be crowned in Mainz. But on the day before its official consecration, St. Martin caught fire. It seemed to develop a taste for flames, in fact, because by the time that we arrived it had burned twice more. I always thought that there was something appropriate about that. Burned three times, resurrected three times.

St. Martin was a thing of great beauty. There were bronze doors and a stunning carving of the Crucifixion, and beautiful tracery windows that flooded the nave with amazing colors on sunny days. There was a main choir loft behind a transept and a secondary choir loft in the east. It contained the tombs of some of the archbishops-Siegfried von Epstein, I think, and Peter von Aspelt. During our years in Mainz, a tomb for Archbishop von Bucheck was added. You couldn’t step into the place without feeling the weight of its history.

After we finished our exploration of the city, you set about finding work. You knew that you’d have to start at the bottom, but you were certain your work ethic would ensure that good things would follow. Every morning you got up early to visit all the churches under construction, and every day you’d be turned away by them all. Then you started visiting private houses being built, commercial buildings, and new roads, but all these worksites turned you away as well. You became as well known around the construction sites as a colorful dog, but no matter what you did, no one would offer you a job.

Your first problem was that you refused to lie. When foremen asked about your experience, you were always forthright that you’d not practiced masonry for some time. When they asked about what you’d done in the interval, you would say that you’d been a soldier. If pressed about exactly what type of soldier, you’d remain quiet. But the real reason you were turned away, time after time, was your burns. They weren’t nearly as extensive as they are today, but try to imagine the superstition of the age. Who knew what a burned man had been involved with, especially if he withheld the details? Something sinister, no doubt.

Every night you’d drag yourself home, but you’d take a moment outside the door to our lodgings. You’d straighten your clothing, and then clench your fists and splay your fingers a few times before shaking a smile onto your face. I know this because I used to watch you through the little window. Before you entered, I’d reposition myself so that you never knew that I’d seen it.

My pains in adjusting to our new life were different. I felt oppressed by the freedom. With no schedule of prayers to follow, I visited the churches around town on my own time, but it was different praying when I really didn’t have to. I started teaching myself to prepare food, something I’d never done in the monastery. I stuck with fresh vegetables and fruits, thinking I couldn’t go wrong, until, after a few weeks, you indicated that you’d appreciate something more “substantial.” That meant something heated, something involving meat. Overcooked, undercooked, mixed improperly, I managed to destroy just about everything I lit a fire under. You smiled your way through my efforts, hiding the scraps in your pockets and telling me that I was getting better. More kindness on your part. In the end our landlady, who could no longer stand the smells from my kitchen, finally showed me enough tricks to get by.

But cooking was simple, compared to playing the role of a lover. God, was that terrifying! But again you were patient, certainly more than I could have reasonably expected. Perhaps in part that was because of your burns; some nights you were too tender to be touched. You weren’t innocent and it would have been naпve of me to expect that, but you never apologized for the fact that you’d known women before me. There was the time before we met and the time after, and that was that. Just as I’d left my previous life behind, I had to accept that you’d done the same. For the most part it wasn’t too difficult, although sometimes I had to wrestle my jealousies into the closet when you weren’t looking.

There was an advantage to your experience in the arena of physical love. Strangely enough, it was the same thing that I had spent my entire life trying, but failing, to perfect in spiritual love. I never had to lead, I only had to receive. You introduced me to a sensuality that I had no idea I possessed. I discovered that I…Look at me, all these years have passed, and I still blush. I still can’t talk about it. Let’s just say that I had always lived with my vows, but after a few months with you I realized that a life of chastity was hardly any life at all.

In any case, I adjusted to living outside the monastery. I still visited St. Martin but I was soon praying for your health and success in finding work, which meant I was praying for what I wanted to happen rather than for what God did. Outside the church, I found myself talking to the Beguines on the street, and I struck up friendships with a few.

The Church basically considered it unbecoming for amateurs to meddle in the affairs of God, but that’s not how it appeared to me. The Beguines were working the streets and living out their vows of poverty; they presented quite a contrast to the churches, for I was discovering that the majority of priests were unqualified and even corrupt. The Beguines supported themselves on what they earned from small crafts and hospital work, supplemented with people’s donations, rather than by imposing mandatory taxes. Each night they returned to their beguinages so they could start the whole process again the next morning, and their sincerity was beyond question. It was not long before I came to believe that the main reason the Church opposed the Beguines was because these amateurs made them look bad.

The Beguines couldn’t quite figure me out. I could speak at length on the Bible and I could read both Latin and German. I had studied all the biblical scholars and masters. I knew about Mechthild von Magdeburg, a mystic of great importance to the Beguines, and was familiar with her masterwork, The Flowing Light of the Godhead. I knew all these things, but I couldn’t-wouldn’t-tell them how or why. I was impressive but confusing. What interested them most, however, was my extensive knowledge of bookmaking. I knew more than their own experts, who made the Pauper’s Bibles they handed out on the streets.

Winter was approaching; you still hadn’t found employment, and the repeated rejections were taking their toll on you. The construction managers were becoming increasingly hostile to your repeat visits, and each night you dragged yourself home with less energy. You started berating yourself for the inability to “do what any decent man should be able to do.” I was learning yet another lesson about the outside world, the lesson of male pride. I wanted to help you but any suggestion I made was met with anger. It didn’t make it any easier that I knew you were angry with yourself, not me.

Another major impediment was that you lacked your journeyman’s papers, which were expected of any worker your age. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t your fault, that it was never your plan for both your parents to die while you were still a boy. But there it was. The Masonry Guild was strong and you simply didn’t meet their requirements. Something had to be done, and quickly, because our funds wouldn’t last forever.

So I made two decisions, and told you about neither. The first thing I did was to offer my services to the Beguines. Not as a member, but as a freelance worker.

Their production of the Pauper’s Bibles wasn’t complicated, just woodblock printing of images and text, but I found them impressive nonetheless. So few people could read that the pictures were the only way to bring religious stories to the masses. Stories from the New and Old Testaments were placed side by side, so the reader could contemplate their connection: rather than underestimate the readers, the Beguines tried to engage them in reflection. Still, I knew that I could improve the quality of the writing and suggest better scene combinations. The Beguines were unconvinced, so I provided some samples and they had to admit I was good. When they remained leery about including an outsider in their work, however, I decided that it was time to tell them about my life at Engelthal.

Upon learning this, they could not bring me into their ranks fast enough. They didn’t admit it aloud, of course, but I suppose they thought that if they rubbed up against me, maybe a little bit of Engelthal would rub off. While they couldn’t afford to pay me, they made me gifts of bread and turnips. This actually made things easier because when you came home from job hunting I could tell you, honestly, that the food was a charitable donation. I didn’t have to say that I was earning while you were not.

The second thing I did, I’ve never told you before now. Please remember that it was a long time ago, and I hope you’ll forgive me.

You got up one morning and prepared for your daily search for work. I asked, casually, about which churches you’d visit, and you answered that you’d start with St. Christoph before moving on to the Poor Clares and then St. Quintin. After that, you really didn’t know. When you went out the door, your heels dragging, I put on my nun’s robes for the first time since leaving Engelthal. I headed to St. Quintin, knowing that it would take some time before you arrived there.

“It will be a beautiful church,” I said to the construction manager. “The nave seems relatively short and the aisles are tall. It’s an interesting effect.”

He thanked me, but knew full well I wasn’t there to talk about architecture. Politely-because who wants to insult a nun?-he asked about the real purpose of my visit. I’d come on behalf of a friend, I answered, a man in need of work. A man covered in burns. The manager rolled his eyes and answered that, yes, a man like that came by every goddamn day, pardon his language, but they had enough workers. Besides, the man’s appearance unsettled the other workers.

I used my most soothing voice, the one I’d developed specifically to speak about God. “But surely a man must not be judged by appearance alone. I know for a fact that this man has an excellent heart and a history in stonework.”

The manager responded, politely again, that your work history seemed to have been interrupted for many years while you were some sort of soldier, and a mercenary unless he guessed wrong.

I neither confirmed nor denied the construction manager’s guess but I did suggest, rather cryptically, “There are soldiers who fight on God’s behalf, men whose actions are necessary but not bragged about in public. So I ask you again, in constructing a church as fine as this, surely there must be room for one more worker? Even one with some holes in his history? I can personally vouch for his character.”

He looked me over from top to bottom and asked where, exactly, I was from. I answered that I was from Engelthal, not indicating that I was no longer an active sister. I couldn’t tell if the man was impressed or not. He’d obviously heard of Engelthal, because he nodded. He said that he’d see what he could do but that he wouldn’t make any promises.

“I thank you for indulging me. Should you find a spot for him, please do not tell him that I was here. He’s a proud man and it would be well if he believed his persistence had paid off.” I bowed and, for good measure, mentioned to the manager that I’d pray for him.

After changing out of my habit, I headed directly to St. Martin. Not to pray for the construction manager’s soul, as I’d suggested, but for my own. My deception in the clothing of the Church had made me sick to my stomach. When I left the cathedral, I did not have any feeling that I’d been forgiven. I had asked for a sign, but none was shown.

Until that evening, when you came through the door exhausted but smiling and covered in stone dust. “One of the managers took me on today.”

Weeks passed, and you made a favorable impression at the site. When work ran out at St. Quintin’s, the manager recommended you to St. Stephan’s. It continued that way through the winter, you shuffling from one church to the next. You built a small reputation and made some friends, and each day you were overjoyed to bring home a handful of coins. I heated water and filled a large bucket so that I could wash you. You were still scarred and tight, and I massaged your body until the knots loosened. The work was difficult for any man, but because of your injuries it was twice as bad for you. Still, you were becoming stronger each day. I’d feed you whatever we could afford, usually only turnips or dark bread, cheap cuts of sidemeat, and whatever I’d secretly earned from the Beguines.

There was always just enough money to keep us in our lodgings. Our landlady continued to teach me about cooking and introduced me to some of her friends. It took time for them to accept me, because relations with Christians had always been complicated for the Mainz Jews-stories were still told about the massacre at the hands of Emich’s Crusaders, and how the archbishop had once tried to expel all Jews from the city. But as they were living and conducting business within the city, it was impossible not to deal with all types of people. I suppose they decided that since I never pressed my religion upon them, they could accept me as an individual.

So now I had some Jewish acquaintances to go with my Beguine associates, and you had the construction workers at sites all over town. I stopped praying for a sign that I’d made the right choice in leaving Engelthal. I knew that I had.

In the spring, a mason you’d befriended made an unusual and unexpected offer. He said that he was “tired of training stupid little boys” and was longing for the company of a man. If you didn’t mind the low pay, he’d petition the Masonry Guild for a special exemption to take you on as an apprentice. He warned that it would not be easy and that there’d be a cut in your current income, but in the end you’d receive your journeyman’s papers. We only discussed it for a few minutes before deciding that an offer like this might never come along again. There was some difficulty in convincing the guild but in the end they agreed, and that’s how you became the oldest apprentice in Mainz.

You threw yourself into the work, arriving early and leaving late. You did whatever was asked, never complained, and paid deep attention to all your instructions. It didn’t hurt that you had a natural aptitude for stone. The lessons you had learned under your father had not been lost over the years.

Belief in a better future is an amazing gift. We still had no money, but we started talking about eventually getting a new place. “A small house, maybe.” It gave us something to dream on and the dream was necessary because the loss in income was affecting all parts of our life, most noticeably our diet. Without the “charity” from the Beguines, we never would have made it.

Though our stomachs were empty, we’d walk around town and point out the houses that we’d move into. Someday.

“And when we do,” you said, “I will ask you to honor me by becoming my wife.”