Women in the Wall by Julia O'Faolain Page B

said something about Chlodecharius but Radegunda  was not deviated.
    “He is with God,” she said. “We must be concerned now for ourselves. Death is the rule of this world. His was not exceptional. If you stay here you must expect to see murders. The manner of this one makes me believe God has special plans for you. He sent you a dying lover to point the way the flesh must go. The flesh, Agnes, is future carrion. If you stay, you will begin to crave its enjoyment with another man. You will marry. Your nurse is probably planning a marriage already.”
    “Yes.”
    “Ah! And is that what you want?”
    “No.”
    Radegunda looked pleased. “I had feared you might hope for a family. Are you sure you don’t? A family …”
    Could not, Agnes decided, be counted on. People left you. Radegunda was leaving. Chlodecharius had and, before that, her parents dead so long ago that she could remember neither them nor the villa they had lived in except through Fridovigia’s opulent recollections: glimpses of malachite and porphyry glimmering and darkening like weed in the wall of a wave. Drowned vistas, they dissolved under scrutiny like reflections on water.
    “It’s over,” Agnes had finally shouted at her that morning . “Can’t you see! They’re dead!”
    Fridovigia wanted it all to begin again: ceremonies, painted rooms, a husband for Agnes who would provide babies and a household of solid figures. In Agnes’s eye-view the figures danced impishly away. The only one to be truly counted on was Fridovigia herself. And, because she could be counted on, there was no need to give in to her. Radegunda was far less reliable.
    “Please don’t go away, Radegunda,” Agnes begged. “Don’t you leave me too. I love you, Radegunda!”
    “That mustn’t be your motive. I am casting off all human affections. If you come with me as my sister in God I will love you accordingly. Will you?”
    Love? Yes. “But”, said Agnes, “is it forever?”
    “Would you play the harlot with God. Give him the gift of yourself then take it back?”
    The queen was excited, looked for an excitement to match her own in the little girl. But Agnes resisted. When she was with Radegunda she saw her, some of the time, with Fridovigia’s sardonic eye. When away from her she missed her tenseness, the yearnings which burned in her—and decided she could not let her go. Instinctively, she bargained, held back.
    “Must I decide now?”
    “Yes. I leave tomorrow. We will need the night to pack. You may think”, persuaded Radegunda, “that your regret for the world means you should not make this leap. But without regret there would be no sacrifice. It is the nerve and core of it. I feel none and so my home-coming will be less pleasing to God than your sacrifice. Come over here, Agnes and sit with me.” Radegunda swept a row of gold ornaments off a bench. “You are nervous,” she smoothed Agnes’s hair which the girl had been biting and twisting through her fingers. “Listen, I know you are weak. It’s because I know it that I want to spare you the disappointments you’d meet if you stayed in the world. It is because I know them that I want you to escape them. Can’t you let me save you, Agnes?” The queen’s tone was tender, coaxing. She ran her splayed fingers gravely down the girl’s face and neck, then past her chest, waist, knees, right down to her sandals which were muddy. In embarrassment Agnes caught the hand. “Now,” said Radegunda, “while you are young and almost unhurt, fresh, now is the time to give yourself to God. Once you’ve taken the decision you’ll never have to think again. You’ll find peace.”
    Agnes listened. The voice was mesmeric and very convinced. It talked of love, a haven, gentleness and how Agnes needed to feel secure. The words were comforting, persuasive. “God,” said Radegunda and the word, Agnes could tell, meant something violent and personal and satisfying to Radegunda. At the same time it was very