The Wandering Arm Read Online Free PDF Page B

admonitions of Sister Bertrada, who had supervised her morals and behavior during her days at the Paraclete. All she knew was that they surfaced at the most annoying times.
    Catherine, they repeated. You are not alone. Have faith.
    Catherine clenched her teeth. She was not in a mood to be told that God had not forsaken her. She wasn’t ready yet to forgive God for letting her child die without even the promise of heaven. And if those voices were reminding her that they were always with her, she wanted none of it. They were welcome to go harass some other poor fatua.
    “Catherine?”
    “Leave … me … alone!” she begged, putting her hands over her ears.
    Wait. That voice was real.
    “It’s all right, dear. I know how you feel.”
    Her sister-in-law, Marie, was standing beside the bed. “I was up early and had the cook steep some herbs and honey for you. I think I strained most of the leaves out.”
    She uncovered the thick clay bowl. Steam rose from it.
    Catherine smiled an apology and pushed herself to a sitting position. She took the bowl in both hands and drank the posset down in one long draught. Much of the heat had already escaped but there was enough to warm her a bit.
    “Thank you.” She handed the bowl back. Marie patted her cheek and smiled in sympathy. Catherine felt the tears gather at the edges of her eyes. “How can we bear it?” she asked.
    Marie shook her head. “I don’t know how,” she answered. “We just do. Most of us. I’m not a theologian, Catherine. I don’t really understand why, if we are in this life only to prepare for the next, we should want so deeply to live here and now. I don’t know why, when we try our best to obey God’s law, we should still be given such pain. I asked Father Anselm once, and he said the desire for pleasure was a snare of the devil and we should accept the pain as our lot. But I don’t think he was any more satisfied with his answer than I was.”
    In earlier days, Catherine would have been happy to explain various theories of temptation and salvation, but now she only nodded. Life was certainly much easier when she had set it out in sententiae , with all the positions of the Fathers of the Church in neat rows. She wondered if Saint Augustine had been able to remain philosophical when his son had died. She would have to look it up when she was better.
    “Marie,” she said, “if they won’t let Edgar stay with me up here, can’t I be moved back down to one of the alcoves off the Hall?”
    Marie shook her head firmly. “You mustn’t be jostled yet, not until we’re sure the bleeding has stopped. Furthermore, you need to rest. You’ve had a hard time. It always takes a while to get your strength back, even when everything goes well.”
    Catherine gave the fur coverlet a feeble, frustrated thump. Dust rose from it, making her sneeze.
    “Aiee!” she cried. Her eyes crossed. “Now I know why Saint Perpetua didn’t fear the gladiator’s sword. It couldn’t have hurt more than childbirth.”
    Marie nodded calmly, checking under the covers to make sure Catherine hadn’t caused any damage with the sneeze.
    “I suspect,” she said, “that’s why most of the stories of the female martyrs make such a fuss about their being virgins. Now you see why you shouldn’t be moved.”
    “But I will go mad just lying here,” Catherine answered. “Where’s Edgar? Will you let him come in when the other women have wakened and dressed?”
    “He was sitting by the hearth when I passed through the Hall on my way up here,” Marie told her. “I don’t think he slept last night. Of course he may visit you when the others have gone.”
    There was a moment of silence. Catherine sighed again. “Guillaume must have told you how many stillborn children our mother had,” she said. “At least two between his birth and mine, then several after Agnes and little Roger. I remember once, after she had miscarried, sitting on the staircase listening to the men telling