The Wanderer and the Way 23
Holding Hands
This is Chapter 23 of The Wanderer and the Way, now available for purchase.
He closed his fingers around her hand, exerting no more pressure than she was applying to his. In this pose he sat in silence, not daring to speak. Though her whole body had lain against his back for several nights, her hand in his now seemed a far greater intimacy because it was born of no necessity. He could not guess, and dared not ask, its meaning. It might, perhaps, prove to be the apex of joy in his life, and, if so, he studied only to prolong it by silence and stillness, as if a robin had suddenly aligned on his finger out of the air.
“I feel very light today,” she said at last. “I don’t know why.”
“You are safe and well after many weeks of danger and sickness,” he said. “It is no surprise that you should feel light in this moment. I feel just the same.”
“I don’t think it is right, though,” she said. “I have been thinking about Hathus and his men. I have been telling myself for so long that it must all have been a great misunderstanding and that any day we would stumble upon them, or they would be spread out across the countryside looking for us. But Mother Rotlenda tells me that this is foolish. Had they survived, she says, they would have sent a rider to the foot of the pass, since we would have had to come this way. And no such rider has come. And so they must all have died. And they died saving me. I should not feel so light. I should be so terribly sad, and I have been for many days now, but today I feel light.”
“They died saving me,” Theodemir replied. “I am the king’s ambassador. They were sworn to my service, not to yours. It was I who saved you, and I did not die doing it.”
These were dangerous words, adventurous words, and he held his breath, expecting her hand to be angrily withdrawn. But her hand remained clasped in his, though she made no answer.
“Hathus would wish you to be light,” he said. “He died for me, which is to say that he died for his king, Alphonso, for I would have counted for nothing had I not been the king’s ambassador. But it is true that he would have been glad to give his life for you, as we all would, and none of us would wish to see a tear stain your cheek. Be light then, for all our sakes.”
“You will make me cry if you go on,” she said, but she said it with a lightness in her voice, and still her hand remained in his. Not wishing to make her cry, he lapsed into silence.
After a period of quietness, while the sun played on the water and crisp brown leaves settled gently to earth from trees alive with birdsong, she said, “Mother Rotlenda says I am not cursed by God and that I am a terribly vain girl for thinking that I am.”
“She is right that you are not cursed by God,” he said immediately and with conviction. “She is wrong to say that you are vain,” he continued. “It would be vanity to imagine your beauty to be greater than it is, and that would be impossible for you.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said idly, her hand still lying in his. But then she resumed her theme: “She said she meant spiritual vanity. I don’t really know what she means. Do you?”
“No,” he said. “But still, I do not think it is true.”
“She tells me that instead of imagining I am cursed and running away from it, I need a positive vocation, something I can run toward.”
“She tells me that I am foolish to think I have a positive vocation and for running toward it.”
“Perhaps she just likes being contrary,” she said.
“You are not cursed,” he said.
“God did not make me your vocation,” she replied.
“I love you,” he said, “Whether it is by God’s dictation or merely the prompting of my own heart, I will serve you in any way I can. Indeed, it seems to me that if it is not God’s particular dictation that I should love you, the prompting of my heart could be taken as God’s prompting in a more general sense and therefore obeyed in the same spirit.”
“You should be a theologian,” she said.
“You should read the letters they write before you condemn me to so harsh a fate,” he replied.
She squeezed his hand.
“You are not cursed,” he said again.
“I half believe it,” she said. “Mother Rotlenda’s words convince my head. If only I could hear Mother Wynflaed and Sister Eormenberg say the same words, I think they might convince my heart.”
“Do my words not convince your heart?” he asked.
“Your words are not disinterested,” she said.
“No,” he said, “But they are not less sincere for that.”
“She says I am not cursed for my sin, for that has been forgiven by a priest, and I have done the penance he imposed, and therefore I am absolved of it, and God will not punish a sin for which I have received absolution. But still, there is the way I look, the way I am. Men behave so strangely towards me. I once thought how wonderful it was that I could enchant men so, without even trying, without even wanting to. But now I think that it is a curse in itself, that God cursed me from my birth, not from the time of my sin.”
“Do you know of a song called the Iliad?” he asked her. “It is this woefully long Greek song that I heard in Rome about a war long ago that was fought over a woman named Helen. She was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world. She was stolen from the Greeks by the Trojans, and so all the Greeks sailed to Troy to win her back. She is called ‘the face that launched a thousand ships.’”
She pondered this. “My face has launched two ships,” she said. “And burned one. I suppose that means my curse is less than hers.”
“But not your beauty,” he said.
“Stop that,” she replied. “What became of Helen?”
“The poets disagree, apparently. But I prefer the story that she returned to her husband and lived happily with him.”
“I have no one to return to,” she said.
“Then you are free to choose another,” he said.
“I am a woman torn in two,” she said. “Which half of me do you want to marry?”
“Elswyth is a woman of desire and fancy,” he replied, “But I love Agnes.”
“Agnes is not the marrying kind.”
“Suppose an Agnes not oppressed by melancholy and sorrow,” he said.
“Is that anything but Elswyth?” she asked.
“If you are a woman torn in two, it is melancholy and sorrow that have made the division. Remove them, and Agnes and Elswyth become one.”
“There was no Agnes before my melancholy and my sorrow. She was born of them, made of them. Take them away, and there will only be Elswyth.”
“Then take them away, and I shall love Elswyth as I love Agnes.”
“Elswyth is gone. She is nothing but a dress I can put on to please a hall for an evening.”
“If that were so, you would not be a woman at all, but only two masks, one Elswyth, one Agnes. But a mask must be worn by an actor of flesh and blood. The hand I hold in mine is flesh and blood. Not a riddle, but a woman. And the flesh of me, and the blood of me love the flesh of her and the blood of her. And the soul of me loves the soul of her.”
“But the flesh of her is Elswyth, and the soul of her is Agnes,” she replied.
“I love them both. Perhaps I love them so combined more than I ever would have loved them alone.”
“And yet, if I marry, one must fade and go. I should be only Agnes or only Elswyth.”
“Then I should love whichever remained, for I love both already.”
“I’m sure all those Greeks said the same thing to Helen,” she said. But still she did not let go of his hand.
They sat in companionable silence a while, still holding hands. Then he said, “Mother Rotlenda tells me that I should be on my way. She reminds me that I have a duty to my king. But she says that my duty to you is complete, and I should leave you here and go on without you, leaving you to her care.”
“She said the same to me,” Agnes replied. “But I can’t stay here. It’s nice enough. This is a pleasant spot. But it still feels empty. No troubles. No joys. A place to heal, perhaps. But not a place to live.”
“Oh, no,” he said, “You are quite mistaken. It is not a place without joy. I think I feel more joy at this moment than I have in all my life.” He said this because her hand was in his. But then he paused and said, “But for the rest, I agree. It seems so to me also.”
“Well, you can’t stay in any case,” she said. “You are the king’s ambassador. You must go on to Aachen and deliver Alphonso’s message to Charles, King of the Franks.”
“That is my duty, yes,” he said. “But if you would not stay here, where would you go? Would you return to Iria Flavia? I think it is too late for any good you might do there. Nor have you any more power over my uncle than you have ever had.”
“You will return there after your embassy is complete?” she asked.
“I must,” he replied.
“And you will enjoy the king’s favor.”
“If I succeed, yes. I have made a poor job of it so far.”
“The king will put you out of your uncle’s power,” she said.
“If I succeed.”
“You will,” she said dreamily. “And you would not let me fall into his power again.”
“I would kill him sooner. I am a blooded man now. I have killed three men to keep you from rape, and I would think nothing of killing a fourth. I would do it without flinching.”
There was silence for some minutes before she spoke again. The woodland and the river faded, and there was nothing but her hand in his.
“I can’t stay here,” she said, breaking the spell. “The truth is, I cannot stand that woman.”
“Mother Rotlenda?”
“I think she is wise,” she said. “At least, I think she is right about you, and about Hathus.”
“And about you,” he said, “except about vanity.”
“Perhaps about me too,” she said. “But there is no affection in her. Sister Eormenberg in Whitby was a strict woman. She punished me cruelly for my sins. But she loved me and wanted me to be better. Mother Rotlenda is a bitter woman. Her words are meant to wound, not to heal. That she is right only makes the wound deeper. I don’t think I could stand much more truth from her.”
“I bear the bruises of her tongue also,” he said.
“So you see, I must go,” she said. “But I cannot go alone. Unless I have someone to protect me on the road, I cannot go anywhere at all. So I will go with you if you will take me.”
“You will go with me to Aachen, then return with me to Iria Flavia?”
“If you will take me.”
“It may be a long, hard journey.”
“I’m used to that now.”
“What will you do there when you return?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I will appeal to the king if I must.”
“Be my wife,” he said.
“No,” she said and let go of his hand.
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