"That is what you asked me when I heard your confession, is it not? What have I done? And what shall I do?"
"Yes, that's it. And you're telling me that I haven't done anything wrong? But I've—"
He was, I thought, nearly as bad as Dougal MacKenzie for interrupting.
"No, you have not," he said firmly. "It is possible to act in strict accordance with God's law and with one's conscience, you comprehend, and still to encounter difficulties and tragedy. It is the painful truth that we still do not know why le bon Dieu allows evil to exist, but we have His word for it that this is true. 'I created good,' He says in the Bible, 'and I created evil.' Consequently, even good people sometimes, I think, especially good people," he added meditatively, "may encounter great confusion and difficulties in their lives. For example, take the young boy you were obliged to kill. No," he said, raising a hand against my interruption, "make no mistake. You were obliged to kill him, given the exigencies of your situation. Even Holy Mother Church, which teaches the sanctity of life, recognizes the need for defense of oneself and of one's family. And having seen the earlier condition of your husband"—he cast a look back at the guests' wing—"I have no doubt that you were obliged to take the path of violence. That being so, you have nothing with which to reproach yourself. You do, of course, feel pity and regret for the action, for you are, madame, a person of great sympathy and feeling." He gently patted the hand that rested on my drawn-up knees.
"Sometimes our best actions result in things that are most regrettable. And yet you could not have acted otherwise. We do not know what God's plan for the young man was—perhaps it was His will that the boy should join Him in heaven at that time. But you are not God, and there are limits to what you can expect of yourself."
I shivered briefly as a cold wind came round the corner, and drew my shawl closer. Anselm saw it, and motioned toward the pool.
"The water is warm, madame. Perhaps you would care to soak your feet?"
"Warm?" I gaped incredulously at the water. I hadn't noticed before, but there were no broken sheets of ice in the corners of the trough, as there were on the holy water fonts outside the church, and small green plants floated in the water, sprouting from the cracks between the rocks that lined the pool.
In illustration, Anselm slipped off his own leather sandals. Cultured as his face and voice were, he had the square, sturdy hands and feet of a Normandy peasant. Hiking the skirt of his habit to his knees, he dipped his feet into the pool. The carp dashed away, turning almost at once to nose curiously at this new intrusion.
"They don't bite, do they?" I asked, viewing the myriad voracious mouths suspiciously.
"Not flesh, no," he assured me. "They have no teeth to speak of."
I shed my own sandals and gingerly inserted my feet into the water. To my surprise, it was pleasantly warm. Not hot, but a delightful contrast to the damp, chilly air.
"Oh, that's nice!" I wiggled my toes with pleasure, causing considerable consternation among the carp.
"There are several mineral springs near the abbey," Anselm explained. "They bubble hot from the earth, and the waters hold great healing powers." He pointed to the far end of the trough, where I could see a small opening in the rocks, half obscured by the drifting water plants.
"A small amount of the hot mineral water is piped here from the nearest spring. That is what enables the cook to maintain live fish for the table at all seasons; normally the winter weather would be too bitter for them."
We paddled our feet in congenial silence for a time, the heavy bodies of the fish flicking past, occasionally bumping into our legs with a surprisingly weighty impact. The sun came out again, bathing us in a weak but perceptible warmth. Anselm closed his eyes, letting the light wash over his face. He spoke again without opening them.
"Your first husband—Frank was his name?—he, too, I think, must be commended to God as one of the regrettable things that you can do nothing about."
"But I could have done something," I argued. "I could have gone back—perhaps."
He opened one eye and regarded me skeptically.
"Yes, 'perhaps,' " he agreed. "And perhaps not. You need not reproach yourself for hesitating to risk your life."
"It wasn't the risk," I said, flicking my toes at a big black-and-white splotched carp. "Or not entirely. It was—well, it was partly fear, but mostly it was that I—I couldn't leave Jamie." I shrugged helplessly. "I—simply couldn't."