Anselm smiled, opening both eyes.
"A good marriage is one of the most precious gifts from God," he observed. "If you had the good sense to recognize and accept the gift, it is no reproach to you. And consider…" He tilted his head to one side, like a brown sparrow.
"You have been gone from your place for nearly a year. Your first husband will have begun to reconcile himself to your loss. Much as he may have loved you, loss is common to all men, and we are given means of overcoming it for our good. He will have started, perhaps, to build a new life. Would it do good for you to desert the man who needs you so deeply, and whom you love, to whom you are united in the bonds of holy matrimony, to return and disrupt this new life? And in particular, if you were to go back from a sense of duty, but feeling that your heart is given elsewhere—no." He shook his head decisively.
"No man can serve two masters, and no more can a woman. Now, if that were your only valid marriage, and this"—he nodded again toward the guest wing—"merely an irregular attachment, then your duty might lie elsewhere. But you were bound by God, and I think you may honor your duty to the chevalier.
"Now, as to the other aspect—what you shall do. That may require some discussion." He pulled his feet from the water, and dried them on the skirt of his habit.
"Let us adjourn this meeting to the abbey kitchens, where perhaps Brother Eulogius may be persuaded to provide us with a warming drink."
Finding a stray bit of bread on the ground, I tossed it to the carp and stooped to put my sandals on.
"I can't tell you what a relief it is to talk to someone about it," I said. "And I still can't get over the fact that you really do believe me."
He shrugged, gallantly offering me an arm to hold while I slipped the rough straps of the sandal over my instep.
"Ma chère, I serve a man who multiplied the loaves and fishes"—he smiled, nodding at the pool, where the swirls of the carps' feeding were still subsiding—"who healed the sick and raised the dead. Shall I be astonished that the master of eternity has brought a young woman through the stones of the earth to do His will?"
Well, I reflected, it was better than being denounced as the whore of Babylon.
The kitchens of the abbey were warm and cavelike, the arching roof blackened with centuries of grease-filled smoke. Brother Eulogius, up to his elbows in a vat of dough, nodded a greeting to Anselm and called in French to one of the lay brothers to come and serve us. We found a seat out of the bustle, and sat down with two cups of ale and a plate containing a hot pastry of some kind. I pushed the plate toward Anselm, too preoccupied to be interested in food.
"Let me put it this way," I said, choosing my words carefully. "If I knew that some harm was going to occur to a group of people, should I feel obliged to try to avert it?"
Anselm rubbed his nose reflectively on his sleeve; the heat of the kitchen was beginning to make it run.
"In principle, yes," he agreed. "But it would depend also upon a number of other things—what is the risk to yourself, and what are your other obligations? Also what is the chance of your success?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Of any of those things. Except obligation, of course—I mean, there's Jamie. But he's one of the group who might be hurt."
He broke off a piece of pastry and passed it to me, steaming. I ignored it, studying the surface of my ale. "The two men I killed," I said, "either of them might have had children, if I hadn't killed them. They might have done—" I made a helpless gesture with the cup, "—who knows what they might have done? I may have affected the future … no, I have affected the future. And I don't know how, and that's what frightens me so much."
"Um." Anselm grunted thoughtfully, and motioned to a passing lay brother, who hastened over with a fresh pasty and more ale. He refilled both cups before speaking.
"If you have taken life, you have also preserved it. How many of the sick you have treated would have died without your intervention? They also will affect the future. What if a person you have saved should commit an act of great evil? Is that your fault? Should you on that account have let that person die? Of course not." He rapped his pewter mug on the table for emphasis.
"You say that you are afraid to take any actions here for fear of affecting the future. This is illogical, madame. Everyone's actions affect the future. Had you remained in your own place, your actions would still have affected what was to happen, no less than they will now. You have still the same responsibilities that you would have had then—that any man has at any time. The only difference is that you may be in a position to see more exactly what effects your actions have—and then again, you may not." He shook his head, looking steadily across the table.