“Truly? You would not lie to me, Maman?”
“No, my dearest, I would not lie. The Archbishop of Canterbury convinced them that you’d been blessed with a vision, that you were doing God’s bidding and it was not for them to thwart His Will.”
Joanna had wept more in the four months since she’d learned of Richard’s death than she had in all the years since she’d flowered into womanhood. But now the tears were different; they were tears of joy for the most precious gift she’d ever received—salvation.
“Thank you, Maman, thank you!” She tired very easily and soon afterward, she slept again. But this time she fell asleep smiling.
“WHAT OF MY BABY?”
This was the question Eleanor had been expecting and dreading. Joanna had spoken of her child’s plight before, but her fear of eternal damnation had been like a vast, smothering storm cloud, blotting out the sky. Now that she no longer need fear for herself, it was only natural that she would fear for the baby in her womb.
Eleanor was not the only one loath to address that plaintive query. Master Gervase, her physician, took a sudden interest in a psalter lying open on the table. Joanna’s chaplain, Jocelyn, began to finger the Paternoster looped at his belt. The two midwives, Dame Clarice and Dame Berthe, remained silent. Nor did Joanna’s attendants speak up, for none of them wanted to discuss one of their Church’s most troubling teachings—that unbaptized infants were denied entry into Heaven.
Joanna knew that, of course, for it cast a shadow over every woman’s birthing chamber, the knowledge that babies who died before they could be christened could not be buried in consecrated ground; few city cemeteries did not have small, pitiful mounds bordering the graves in hallowed soil, looking lonely, untended, and forlorn. But what gave parents the greatest grief was knowing their dead children would be consigned to Limbo for eternity, never to look upon the face of God.
Joanna’s question seemed to echo in the air, the cry of mothers since time immemorial. Abbot Luke at last took up the burden, grateful that at least he no longer need tell her that her child would suffer the torments of the damned. For much of their Church’s history, priests could give grieving parents no comfort at all, but in the last fifty years, there had been a change for the better, thanks in some measure to the controversial French theologian Abelard, who’d argued persuasively that St Augustine was wrong and babies guilty only of original sin would not burn like the sinners cast down into Hell. Although Abelard had disgraced himself by seducing the beautiful young Heloise, Abbot Luke was glad that his doctrine had gained such quick acceptance, sparing him the need to defend the indefensible.
“Whilst your baby will not be able to pass through Heaven’s Gates, my lady,” he said gently, “in Limbus Infantium, he or she will suffer only the pain of loss, not the pain of fire.”
Joanna looked sadly at the abbot. But he will have lost the vision of God, so even if there is no physical torment, he will endure spiritual torment for all eternity. Not only will he be denied God’s Love, he’ll be denied the love of his family. He’ll never know his father, his brother and sister. He’ll never know his mother.
She said none of that, though, for Abbot Luke was a good man. He did not deserve to be berated for a misery not of his making. Nor had her question been directed at him or her chaplain. Her gaze moved past the abbot, seeking out the two midwives. Dame Berthe had been summoned first, but although she’d come highly recommended, she’d not found favor with Joanna’s ladies—a tall, raw-boned, awkward woman with scant social skills and a blunt tongue. Beatrix and Anna had taken it upon themselves to find Dame Clarice, a soft, motherly soul who was sugar to Berthe’s salt. It was Clarice who came forward now, blue eyes brimming with tears, for she knew what Joanna would ask and what she must answer.
“I have heard,” Joanna said haltingly, “that there are ways of baptizing a child whilst still in the womb.”
“That is so, my lady. Sometimes when a mother is unable to deliver her baby and they are both sure to die, a baptismal sponge can be inserted up into her womb so he can be blessed with God’s grace.”
“Then . . . you can do that for my son?” Seeing the midwife’s lips tremble, the tears start to trickle down those rosy cheeks, Joanna felt such pain that she gave an anguished cry. “Why not? I beg you, save my son!”
“My lady, I would if I could! But that can only be done when the woman has begun labor and her womb is dilated.”