Just as the light started to flirt with the shadows in Dominique’s tiny bed chamber, an urgent hand shook her out of the last vestiges of sleep. A concerned Sister Marguerite, disobeying the vow of silence, whispered frantically in Dominique’s ear, “hurry, child, you must come and minister to Sister Dafne!”
Dominique had become quite well versed in tinctures and teas that she regularly used to ease the suffering of the Sisters of the convent. While these remedies had long been used by Father Pierre, there was something about Dominique’s care that set her apart, so she was called upon quite regularly to minister to the sick.
Leaping out of her tiny cot, Dominique shared Sister Marguerite’s concern. Having entered the convent at the same age as Dominique, Dafne had sought her out and showed her a kindness that none of the other nuns of the convent had expressed. Sister Dafne had been at the convent for ten years and proved to be a welcomed mentor for Dominique. Dafne had a lovely spirit which shone warmly through her soft brown eyes. While Dafne had come from a wealthy, aristocratic family in contrast to Dominique’s poor social standing, they did share a strong bond with their fathers.
As they scurried purposefully and silently through the dark hallways to Dafne’s room, Dominique allowed herself only a moment of panic at the thought of losing the one person who had proven trustworthy enough to share her innermost self. Pushing that thought aside, Dominique fell into a silent prayer that God would work through her to bring healing to her friend. Stopping only long enough to gather the herbs, mortar and pestle, cups and hot water that she would need for her tea, they hurried to Dafne’s bedside.
Dafne thrashed in her bed, alternately hot and cold. Complaining of the cold and shivering, she reached for covers only to throw them off the next moment. Suffering from a high fever and the accompanying delirium had been symptoms mimicked by a number of the nuns and parishioners of late. In a few of the worst cases this sickness had let to their deaths. Dominique prayed that they were not too late. Her hands shook slightly and she ground the herbs together and created a most foul-tasting tea from the mixture. She and Sister Marguerite supported Dafne’s feverish body and coaxed her to drink the elixir. Coughing and spluttering, she managed to drink a good portion of the tea before collapsing back onto her now sweat-soaked bed linens.
“I will administer some more tea in an hour or so but for now there is nothing we can do but wait and pray, Sister Marguerite,” Dominique whispered to her superior. “I am sure your absence will be noted from Terse this morning, so I will stay with her.” Dominique ventured, half hoping that she would leave them alone. As part of her healing ritual, Dominique used touch and was afraid that Sister Marguerite might misinterpret her actions as pagan in nature.
“As you wish, child, please come and find me if there is any change in her condition. I sincerely hope that God does not call this soul to Him today.” Sister Marguerite looked on the verge of tears as she left the side of her fellow Sister whom she had come to love. As Marguerite left through the small door and closed it quietly, Dominique stood over Dafne’s body and placed her hands, one on her heart and one on her fevered forehead. Intuitively, Dominique understood that in doing so she was energetically linking Mother Earth’s energy up through her heart with that of that of the Divine down through Dafne’s crown. Dominique prayed that God’s white light bask her and that the angels come to help heal her friend. She felt a pulse of energy run through her hands essentially connecting sacred energy of the Earth to that of the Heavens. Her hands grew very warm, energy mixing with the heat of Dafne’s fever, as she kept them on her friend, praying all the while for the returned health of this woman who had come to mean so much. Dominique’s own body tingled with the surge caused by the higher vibration.
Dominique made some more tea and urged Dafne to sip from the cup despite the disgusting taste. Then all she could do was wait and pray. She pulled a chair beside Dafne’s bed and bent her head in prayer over her now quieted form. They had shared much over the past months and Dafne had been a good listener as well as willing to share her own heart. Closing her eyes as her forehead rested on the edge of the bed, Dominique recalled the story that Dafne had shared with her about how she had come to the Eglise des Carmes.
Growing up in the Tuscan countryside had been blissful for Dafne. Her family’s land stretched farther than she had even explored, and exploring was her favorite pastime. Having lost her mother a few years earlier, leaving her father to raise her on his own, the eleven year old Dafne was a little bit free-spirited. But she adored her father and looked forward to evenings spent reading with him or conversing about subjects not normally embraced by young girls.
The local Bishop was acquainted with Dafne’s family and made frequent visits to their home. He became quite enamored with the young Dafne on these visits and was charmed by her spirit and intellect. His growing obsession was becoming increasingly obvious until one day, he shocked Dafne’s doting father with a marriage proposal. He had done his best to raise his children following his wife’s death and, as the youngest, Dafne held a special place in his heart. His reaction to the Bishop was one of disgust and anger. He did not care who this old man was, he was not going to just give him his precious daughter.
His abrupt dismissal of the proposal was neither well-phrased nor politically-correct and a very angry Bishop left their home. Fuelling the political fire, Dafne’s father sent a very strongly-worded letter to the Pope, expressing his disgust at the Bishop’s unwanted attention towards his daughter. Having sent the letter, he knew immediately this situation had become untenable. His position in society dictated staying in the good graces of the Catholic Church, but the thought of his beloved daughter facing marriage to a lecherous old man sickened him.
One afternoon shortly after this storm began to brew, a bearded older man in a long white robe walked past their orchards with the help of a well-worn walking stick. When he got closer to the main house, he asked politely if there was any chance of a hot meal and some shelter for the night. Being a man of great kindness and generosity, Dafne’s father had invited him in and welcomed this stranger.
As the old man ate, Dafne’s father felt strangely compelled to discuss with him the situation he now faced with regards to the future of his daughter. “I really don’t know why I am sharing this with you, old man, but you seem wise and I am afraid I have no counsel in this situation,” he lamented. After some pensive thought, the old man told him of a convent in Loudun, France where the girl could be sent for an education within the confines of the Church.
Shocked that this was the solution offered, Dafne’s father immediately rejected it. This seemed a most grave solution for both himself and Dafne. This child was precious to him and reminded him every day of his wife, whom he had loved whole-heartedly. And what of Dafne—he feared—this seemed like unfair punishment. After much discussion, Dafne’s father could, however, see some merit. There seemed no other adequate solution to the dreadful predicament. The Bishop could not argue with his decision to send the girl into the ranks of the Carmelite nuns. Without the Bishop’s wrath, his relationship with the Church might be assuaged. What remained was the torment he faced in sending his beloved girl away.
Putting down his spoon, the old gentleman softly explained that within five years the Bishop would no longer pose a problem, and the good graces of the Church would be restored. He concluded knowingly, “Dafne will be well-cared for, educated and will find friendship and comfort within the walls of the Eglise des Carmes.” He continued, “I am, in fact, on my way there. I would be honored to accompany young Dafne and see to it that she is settled safely in the arms of the Carmelites. You have my word that no harm will come to her.” So at the tender age of eleven, Dafne bid a tearful goodbye to her father, her glorious vineyards and set off on her voyage towards the convent and a new life in Loudun.
Dominique stirred from her half-waking reverie to hear her friend murmur, “what are you doing here, Dominique?” Her fever had broken and Dafne seemed to have turned a corner. “Oh, thank God, Dafne, I was so afraid we were losing you.” Dominique said tearfully. “I don’t know what I would do without you, my friend.”
“Well, it looks as though God did not see fit to have me right now. Is there any chance, you could find me something to eat, dear one, I seem to be famished.” Dafne, while still weak, looked brighter by the minute.
Still in her nightclothes, Dominique stopped by her room on the way to retrieve Dafne some food. Her eyes gravitated immediately to her still unmade bed where she found a book of Greek Mythology and a note peeking out of the first pages. The note read: Thought you might find the escapades of the Greek Gods somewhat enjoyable. The note was signed Abbot Ian. That was thoughtful, Dominique mused, and perhaps Dafne is completely wrong about him.