The Prince in Exile

Chapter 13

The pain sat upon her like a dragon on its golden hoard, its scales and claws sharp, digging deep, its body scorching. Still Gertrude clung to her, but now her words had become prayers, a quiet precise litany of the Hail Mary.

"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Ave Maria, gratia plena..."

"Enough," Erzsebet hissed, the pain making harsh her tone. The anguish had subsided enough that she could straighten herself, lean back and breath deeply once more. Gertrude quieted and moved off, looking chastened; Erzsebet saw how soaked her frock had become, and with a softer voice said, "It has passed. Thank you."

The girl gave her a shy smile, eyes darting quickly away.

In truth the cramps had not passed, merely become manageable, but atop the pain was a lightness of mind, an airiness that made all matters seem less dire, less worthy of worry. She almost felt drunk, but not quite–this fey mood was not in her blood, but in her breath, and her head. If she looked too quickly to a side, the world would spin; if she closed her eyes, she felt like she was rising up out of herself.

Perhaps it was the pain, or the medicine, or the heat; perhaps it was all and none of these, that saw her inhibition set aside. Whatever the cause, she found within herself a sudden pointedness, a need to set aside the vagaries of courtly custom–a need to speak, and to be heard. "A good Christian you are," she said, looking slowly towards Gertrude lest the world upend. "Your prayers–they comfort you?"

Sheepish came the answer, as if the admission embarrassed her. "They do–great comfort. Not so for you?"

"Not so for me," Erzsebet answered, smiling. "Too often does the Bible say I must submit to men solely because they are men. Too often do the priests agree with the judges, and together they decree our lives are not our own, but belong to our fathers, then our husbands. Too often is Eve blamed for how she was made, blamed for the world she was born into." This blasphemy was just as dangerous as a pregnancy, just as likely to see her banished from these courts and doomed–yet she felt no fear in giving it voice. She looked to Gertrude, watched for the horror or affront to seize her look, assured all the while that it would not come.

Indeed, only a small sadness came upon her as she nodded in answer. "I certainly can't blame you–I have lost much, at the hands of churchmen."

"But still you believe?"

Another sad nod. "But still I believe."

"Why? How?"

She shrugged. "I feel it, deep in my heart, that there is something true to this. The love–love permeates the teachings, a love so boundless and so beautiful, it could only be divine. The teachings were written by men, passed from man to man, preached by men, given as tools by men for other men to use as they ruled–and yet still, through all that corruption, the love persists. It cannot be smothered, it cannot be lost–what else but divinity could endure centuries of misuse? There must be something true, something real, beneath it all–and it needs to be protected. It must persist, it must be brought to others, to help the poor and the weak and the suffering. The words and work of Christ–that is what I believe in, the life I try to live."

Erzsebet could almost swallow it. She looked upon Gertrude's earnest face, her distant gaze, and once more she saw the Holy Virgin etched upon the girl, replete with a halo of light setting stark the edge of her figure against the lurid darkness behind. Erzsebet blinked, and the afterimage persisted through blindness and vision, a truth beyond the senses. "Is that why you're here?" she asked.