Excited, she said, as if to herself, ‘My song inspired a vision. I have heard of this happening.’
‘But your song was joyous and the vision was filled with pain.’ Margaret struggled for breath and found it difficult to keep her eyes focused. She was being pulled down into the sleep of exhaustion.
‘Rest a while,’ Bethag whispered, stroking Margaret’s forehead as she drifted off.
Margaret woke with a start, confused by the high ceiling and the rattle of beads near her ear. Moving her head she discovered it was resting in Bethag’s lap and the nun was praying, her paternoster beads rattling as she fingered them.
‘I must have slept,’ said Margaret, her voice cracking a little.
‘Are you thirsty?’ asked Bethag. She set the beads aside and helped Margaret sit up, then handed her a cup of water.
Only then did Margaret notice the servant kneeling a few paces from them, her expression one of rapt wonder. She was about to ask whether the woman had been there earlier, but Bethag answered the question before she asked.
‘Mary came to change the flowers on the altar and found us here. She brought water for you.’ Bethag smiled. ‘Your colour has returned.’
‘How long have I been here?’
Bethag laughed as she stood up and took a few uneven paces, rubbing her right thigh. ‘Long enough for my right leg to lose all feeling, but at my age that does not take so long as it did in my youth.’
It took all Margaret’s strength to struggle up on to her feet. She felt shaky, as she often did after falling asleep during the day, but also as if all the light in her life had been smothered.
Dame Bethag saw her anguish. ‘Do not be afraid. God spoke through me to you.’
Owls and mystics – Margaret wondered why Godwould speak to her through others. ‘Why do you think God used you?’ Margaret asked. ‘What did you see while you sang?’
‘The Blessed Mother’s light of grace.’
‘So, too, did I – at first. But afterwards–’ Margaret hesitated, glancing at the servant Mary. ‘Might we talk privately?’
Dame Bethag nodded to the servant, who shyly rose and departed. The nun withdrew to a bench to one side of the altar. Margaret joined her, still feeling almost as if she were walking in her sleep so tentative did her movements feel to her.
Bethag smoothed Margaret’s forehead and then took up one of her hands. ‘You are so cold. Tell me what troubles you. As God is my witness I shall not betray your confidences to the other sisters.’
Margaret was loath to call to mind her terrible vision; but she needed guidance, and with the hope that Dame Bethag might be able to help her she described her experience, as well as the recurring dream.
As Margaret spoke, Dame Bethag dropped her head and listened with eyes half-closed. Margaret felt the nun’s hand grow as cold as her own.
‘Oh my dear,’ Bethag said at last, raising a tearful face to Margaret. ‘This is indeed a frightening vision. But the Lord must have cause to show this to you. Give thanks to Him and let it be – in prayer it will come clear to you why you have seen your husband’s death. It may not speak to his actualdeath at all. It might not even have been Roger Sinclair whom you saw.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I am certain it was my husband.’
‘If he suffers such an end, it is God’s wish.’
That made it no more palatable for Margaret. ‘Have you ever had such a vision of what might come to pass?’
Bethag sighed. ‘I have been graced with no such power, young Margaret. My visions are but expressions of the ecstasy I experience when I touch the divine.’
‘How do I know that this vision is not the devil’s work?’
‘You also saw the Virgin Mary’s grace,’ Bethag said, as if that were all the argument necessary.
She looked so serene and spoke with such confidence that Margaret was tempted to believe her; but Bethag made it all seem too simple. Life was far more complicated.
‘I believe you are
‘But your song was joyous and the vision was filled with pain.’ Margaret struggled for breath and found it difficult to keep her eyes focused. She was being pulled down into the sleep of exhaustion.
‘Rest a while,’ Bethag whispered, stroking Margaret’s forehead as she drifted off.
Margaret woke with a start, confused by the high ceiling and the rattle of beads near her ear. Moving her head she discovered it was resting in Bethag’s lap and the nun was praying, her paternoster beads rattling as she fingered them.
‘I must have slept,’ said Margaret, her voice cracking a little.
‘Are you thirsty?’ asked Bethag. She set the beads aside and helped Margaret sit up, then handed her a cup of water.
Only then did Margaret notice the servant kneeling a few paces from them, her expression one of rapt wonder. She was about to ask whether the woman had been there earlier, but Bethag answered the question before she asked.
‘Mary came to change the flowers on the altar and found us here. She brought water for you.’ Bethag smiled. ‘Your colour has returned.’
‘How long have I been here?’
Bethag laughed as she stood up and took a few uneven paces, rubbing her right thigh. ‘Long enough for my right leg to lose all feeling, but at my age that does not take so long as it did in my youth.’
It took all Margaret’s strength to struggle up on to her feet. She felt shaky, as she often did after falling asleep during the day, but also as if all the light in her life had been smothered.
Dame Bethag saw her anguish. ‘Do not be afraid. God spoke through me to you.’
Owls and mystics – Margaret wondered why Godwould speak to her through others. ‘Why do you think God used you?’ Margaret asked. ‘What did you see while you sang?’
‘The Blessed Mother’s light of grace.’
‘So, too, did I – at first. But afterwards–’ Margaret hesitated, glancing at the servant Mary. ‘Might we talk privately?’
Dame Bethag nodded to the servant, who shyly rose and departed. The nun withdrew to a bench to one side of the altar. Margaret joined her, still feeling almost as if she were walking in her sleep so tentative did her movements feel to her.
Bethag smoothed Margaret’s forehead and then took up one of her hands. ‘You are so cold. Tell me what troubles you. As God is my witness I shall not betray your confidences to the other sisters.’
Margaret was loath to call to mind her terrible vision; but she needed guidance, and with the hope that Dame Bethag might be able to help her she described her experience, as well as the recurring dream.
As Margaret spoke, Dame Bethag dropped her head and listened with eyes half-closed. Margaret felt the nun’s hand grow as cold as her own.
‘Oh my dear,’ Bethag said at last, raising a tearful face to Margaret. ‘This is indeed a frightening vision. But the Lord must have cause to show this to you. Give thanks to Him and let it be – in prayer it will come clear to you why you have seen your husband’s death. It may not speak to his actualdeath at all. It might not even have been Roger Sinclair whom you saw.’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No, I am certain it was my husband.’
‘If he suffers such an end, it is God’s wish.’
That made it no more palatable for Margaret. ‘Have you ever had such a vision of what might come to pass?’
Bethag sighed. ‘I have been graced with no such power, young Margaret. My visions are but expressions of the ecstasy I experience when I touch the divine.’
‘How do I know that this vision is not the devil’s work?’
‘You also saw the Virgin Mary’s grace,’ Bethag said, as if that were all the argument necessary.
She looked so serene and spoke with such confidence that Margaret was tempted to believe her; but Bethag made it all seem too simple. Life was far more complicated.
‘I believe you are
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