The thrall women did have souls like other people; Father Henri had told her as much in strong and convincing terms. And in the Kingdom of Heaven there were no freedmen or slaves, wealthy or lowborn, only the souls who had proved themselves worthy through acts of goodness. Sigrid thought that this might well be true.

   When Father Henri came into the room she saw that he had his prayer vestments with him. He had understood what kind of help she now sought. But at first he didn't let on, nor did he bother to chase out the thrall women who were rushing around sweeping, or who came running in with fresh buckets of water, and linen and swaddling clothes.

   "Greetings, honorable Mistress Sigrid, I understand that now we are nearing an hour of joy here at Varnhem," said Father Henri, his expression calmer and more kindly than his voice.

   "Or an hour of woe, Father, we won't know until it's over," whimpered Sigrid, staring at him with eyes full of terror as she felt more pain on its way. But she was just imagining it; none came.

   Father Henri pulled over a little three-legged stool to her bedside and reached out a hand to her. He held her hand and stroked it.

   "You're a clever woman," he said, "the only one I've met in this temporal world who has the wit to speak Latin, and you also understand many other things, like teaching the thralls what we know how to do. So tell me, why should what awaits you be so unusual, when all other women go through it? Highborn women like yourself, thralls and wretched women, thousands upon thousands of others. Just think, at this very moment you are not alone on this earth. As we speak, at this moment, you are together with ten thousand women the world over. So tell me, why should youhave anything to fear, more than all the others?"

   He had spoken well, using a sermon-like tone, and Sigrid thought he had probably been thinking about this for days— the first words he would say to her when the hour of dread approached. She couldn't help smiling when she looked at him, and he saw by her smile that she had seen through him.

   "You speak well, Father Henri," she said in a weak voice. "But of those ten thousand women you speak of, almost half will be dead tomorrow, and I could be one of them."

   "Then I would have a hard time understanding Our Savior," said Father Henri calmly, still smiling with his eyes, which remained fixed on hers.

   "There is something Our Savior does that you still don't understand, Father?" she whispered as she braced herself in anticipation of the next contraction.

   "That's true, of course," nodded Father Henri. "There are even things that our founder, Holy Saint Bernard de Clairvaux, doesn't understand. Such as the terrible defeats our knights are now suffering in the Holy Land. He wants more than anyone for us to send more men; he wants nothing more than victory for our righteous cause against the infidels. And yet we were beaten badly, despite our strong faith, despite our good cause, despite the fact that we are fighting against evil. So of course it's true that we human beings cannot always understand Our Savior."

   "I want to have time to confess," she whispered.

   Father Henri chased out the thrall women, pulled on his prayer vestments, and blessed her. Then he was ready to hear her confession.

   "Father forgive me, for I have sinned," she gasped with fear shining in her eyes. She had to take a few deep breaths and collect herself before continuing.

   "I've had ungodly thoughts, worldly thoughts. I gave Varnhem to you and yours not only because the Holy Spirit told me that it was a right and just cause. I also hoped that with this gift I would be able to appease the Mother of God because in foolishness and selfishness I had asked her to spare me from more childbeds, even though I know it's our duty to populate the earth."

   She had been talking low and fast, waiting for the next jab of pain, which struck just as she finished speaking. Her face contorted and she bit her lip to keep from screaming.

   Father Henri got up and fetched a linen cloth, dipping it in cold water in a pail by the door. He went to her, raised her head, and began bathing her face and brow.

   "It is true, my child," he whispered, leaning forward to her cheek and feeling her fiery fear, "that God's grace cannot be bought for money, that it's a great sin both to sell and buy what only God can bestow. It's also true that you in your mortal weakness have felt fear and have asked the Mother of God for aid and consolation. But that is no sin. And as far as the gift of Varnhem is concerned, it was prompted by the Holy Spirit descending upon you and giving you a vision which you were ready to accept. Nothing in your will can be stronger than His will, which you have obeyed. I forgive you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. You are now without sin and I will leave you so, for I must go and pray."

   He carefully laid her head back down and could see that somewhere deep inside her pain she seemed relieved. Then he left quickly and brusquely ordered the women back into the house; they rushed in like a flock of black birds.

   But Sot stayed where she was and tugged cautiously on his robe, saying something that he didn't understand at first, since neither of them was fluent in the common Swedish speech. She renewed her effort, speaking very slowly, and supplementing her words with gestures. It then dawned on him that she had a secret potion made of forbidden herbs that could alleviate pain; the thralls used to give it to their own who were about to be whipped, maimed, or gelded.

   He looked down at the diminutive woman's dark face as he pondered. He knew quite well that she was baptized, so he must talk to her as if she were one of his flock. He also knew that what she told him might be true: Lucien de Clairvaux, who took care of all the garden cultivation, had many recipes that could achieve the same effect. But there was a risk that the potion the thrall woman spoke of had been created using sorcery and evil powers.

   "Listen to me, woman," he said slowly and as clearly as he could. "I'm going to ask a man who knows. If I come back, then give drink. No come back, no give drink. Swear before God to obey me!"

   Sot swore obediently before her new God, and Father Henri hurried off to converse with Brother Lucien first, before he gathered all the brothers to pray for their benefactress.

   A short time later he spoke to Brother Lucien, who vehemently rejected the idea in fright. Such potions were very strong; they could be used for those who were wounded, dying, or for medicinal purposes when an arm or foot had to be amputated. But on pain of death one must not give such a potion to a woman giving birth, for then one would be giving it to the child as well, who might be born forever lame or confused. As soon as the child was born, of course, it would be permitted. Although by that time it was usually no longer necessary. But it could be interesting to hear what that painkilling potion was composed of; perhaps one might gain some new ideas.