On Sunday Evangeline made her way to the church with the rest of the servants and villagers. Muriel was not speaking to her, Evangeline had a long bruise on the back of her lower leg, and the blisters on her hands were bloody and oozing again. But as she considered the previous week, she could be thankful that Westley was alive and well and that no one had been seriously injured when the ale barrels fell.
As she trudged up the slight hill, her mind kept going to what the king was thinking of her, what Lord Shiveley was doing at this moment to try to find her, and her lie to Westley and everyone else that she was mute and a poor, abused servant. By the time she reached the church, her shoulders were heavy and she kept her head down and eyes on the floor.
Everyone was reverent and quiet. The priest and the small choir of boys began the plainsong hymn. Some people sang along. Evangeline tried to follow them. She didn’t know the words, so she simply listened. The second hymn she recognized as one of the psalms.
On Sundays, Evangeline always tried to meditate on her own sins from the past week, so she stood thinking: Lying. Deceiving. But, God, I had to do it to escape Lord Shiveley. Hating Sabina. Imagining throwing Sabina in the river. Forgive me, God. Disobeying the king of the land.
But somehow she did not imagine God holding against her the fact that she did not want to give herself to the Earl of Shiveley.
During the priest’s homily, he spoke a message of “love your neighbor.” Several minutes into it, he quoted the verse from the Bible, “ ‘There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.’ ”
This was good news to Evangeline, now that she was a lowly servant, at least in the eyes of everyone in Glynval. But then the priest went on to talk about lying and deceiving spirits “who will say anything to get what they want.”
I’m sorry. Evangeline squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Forgive me, God.
But the more her mind replayed all her sins, particularly the sin of falsehood and deception, the more she wished she could confess them and somehow get atonement.
Westley and his family stood near the front, listening respectfully to the priest. Saving the life of one like Westley le Wyse, someone who was so obviously adored by his family and his demesne’s villeins, would that atone for her sins?
Whether it absolves me of anything or not, God, I will be grateful all my life that You put me there so I could save him.
When the service was over, everyone left the church, filing out slowly and quietly. No one seemed to notice Evangeline lingering behind. When they were all gone, she wandered toward the baptismal font. If the priest came near and asked anything, she might just speak to him, confess everything to him. Perhaps he could tell her what she must do to find favor with God again.
The stone font was ringed with blue and gray tiles with different symbols and pictures. But etched between the tiles, on the bare places, were crude crosses and other pictures. Someone had been trying to get a message to God, to gain the answer to a prayer, perhaps.
On the wall she found more symbols, and even the words, God save us or we perish. Next to the words was written, June 1349. The Great Pestilence. Someone desperate for God’s help and intervention had scratched the words, fearing, no doubt, that the entire village of Glynval, the entire world, might be perishing from the strange sickness that killed so many so quickly. Though no one at Berkhamsted Castle had died, even Evangeline had heard of the terrifying time, of how thousands of people had perished in the large town of London, and many hundreds more in various villages all over England.
Whoever had etched that message into the stone, Evangeline could feel their desperation, their great need to seek God’s favor and attention, even as she sought it now. “Thank You, God. You heard this person’s cry. Thank You for having mercy and not destroying the village of Glynval.”
Finding a smooth place on the stone wall, she took out her table knife, which she carried in her pocket, and started carving. In a few moments she had written, Absolve me. Beside it she carved three crosses. “Remember me, Lord,” she whispered, “the way You remembered the thief on the cross beside You. I don’t want to lie anymore.” Love me. Please love me, in spite of my selfishness. The lump in her throat moved to her eyes, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” The verse from her Psalter invaded her thoughts. For a moment she stood transfixed, letting the words sink into her spirit.
She put her knife back in her pocket. “A contrite heart, O God, You will not despise,” she whispered another promise from the Psalter and wiped her face with her hands. And somehow she did feel lighter, better . . . absolved.