But once Eleanor was seated on the bed beside her daughter, that certainty began to crumble, for Joanna did look as if her life could be measured in weeks, even days. She was painfully thin, her collarbones thrust into sudden prominence, her face almost gaunt. Her eyes were sunken back in her head, so darkly shadowed that they seemed surrounded by contusions. Her skin was as white and cold as falling snow; her lips, too, were pallid. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her pulse so faint that Eleanor could barely find it when she pressed her fingers to Joanna’s wrist. Even her hair, always as brightly burnished as molten gold, was limp and lusterless, feeling like sun-dried straw. “I am dying, Maman,” she whispered, “and I am so afraid. . . .”
“I know you are, dearest. But your baby is not due for more than two months. There is time enough for you to recover, to get your strength back. I’ve already sent for Rouen’s best midwife, and my own physician will attend you. . . .”
She stopped then, for Joanna was shaking her head, closing her eyes as if even that small movement had exhausted her. Her hand tightened on Eleanor’s own; her fingers felt as fragile and delicate as the hollow bones of God’s fallen sparrow. “My sweet child, listen to me,” Eleanor said, with all the conviction at her command. “You are not going to die.”
“You do not understand. It is not death I fear so. . . . Maman, I am damned. When I die, I will be condemned to Hell.”
Eleanor was not easily shocked, yet her daughter had managed it. “My darling girl, why would you say that? Why would you think that?” When Joanna did not reply, she held that cold hand against her cheek, inadvertently triggering a troubling memory of doing that during her deathbed vigil for her son. “Joanna, you are making no sense. What sins could you have committed that would deserve eternal damnation?”
“The worst of sins. . . .”
Joanna said nothing more and Eleanor realized that she was ashamed to confess this “worst of sins” even to her mother. What could she possibly have done to believe God had turned His face away from her? “You can tell me anything, my darling. I would never judge you.” Feigning a smile, she said, “How could your sins be darker than mine, after all?”
Joanna turned her head aside on the pillow. “I hoped I would lose my baby. My own child. I was so sick, so sick. . . . I just could not take any more. . . .” She’d begun to sob, but softly, as if she did not even have the energy to grieve. “I actually prayed that it would happen. I know now that I was praying to the Devil, for God would never heed such a wicked prayer. . . .”
Eleanor gathered the younger woman into her arms. “Joanna, you must not judge yourself so harshly. You were ill, not in your right senses. The Almighty will understand that.”
“No, He will not. This was my child, Raimond’s son, but I would have sacrificed him if I could. I even thought about asking Mariam to get me pennyroyal or black hellebore. I could not do that to her, though, could not damn her, too. . . .”
Eleanor tightened her arms around her daughter. “God absolves us of our sins if we are truly contrite. He will forgive you.”
“I cannot forgive myself, Maman. So how could God forgive me? A mother’s first duty is to protect her child. I would have murdered mine if I could have. . . .”
“You are tormenting yourself needlessly. Since you are unable to believe me, I will send Abbot Luke of Turpenay to you. He accompanied me to Fontevrault, never left my side as I had to watch Richard die. He will hear your confession, lay a penance upon you for whatever sins you have committed, and then absolve you of them.”
“No priest can shrive me of such a sin. Contrition is not enough. There is only one way I can hope to escape eternal damnation, Maman. Two nights ago, she came to me in a dream, told me what I must do.”
“Who, Joanna? I do not understand.”
“The Blessed Lady Mary, Our Saviour’s mother. She said that God would forgive me only if I can take holy vows, can die as one of the sisters of Fontevrault.”
Eleanor knew the Church would not allow it. But when Joanna raised her head, her eyes filled with panic and pleading, and entreated her to make it happen, she heard herself promising that she would do her best, words that sounded as hollow as she felt. Her promise seemed to give Joanna her first measure of comfort, though, for she could feel some of the tension ebbing from her daughter’s shoulders. Lying back upon the bed, Joanna closed her eyes again, murmuring, “Thank you, Maman, thank you . . .”
Within moments, she slept. Eleanor brushed her hair back from her face, tucking the covers warmly around her, for she’d been shivering as if it were winter, not late August. Only then did Eleanor lean forward, dropping her head into her hands. How much more would the Almighty demand of her?