Free The Saint's Mistress by Kathryn Bashaar Page B

fashion, and a cushion of green, embroidered with a pattern in
    white and gold. On one wall hung the cross that the Christians took as the symbol of their
    crucified god.
    35

    Monnica entered the room with such quiet grace that I didn’t realize I was no longer alone
    until she spoke.
    “Your ride here was comfortable?” she asked.
    I nearly jumped out of my chair, I was so startled. I readjusted my tunic, composing myself a
    little before I had to look at her. “Yes, thank you.”
    “May I offer you some wine?”
    Although I was parched, I felt uneasy accepting anything from her. “No, thank you.” I
    finished my clothing adjustments, and slowly dared to glance at her as she settled herself on the
    couch across from me.
    She picked up a piece of embroidery and started pricking it with a needle, frowning. She
    made a couple of quick stitches and the looked up at me. She compressed her lips slightly, as if
    sizing me up, and then she spoke. “My son tells me you are with child.”
    I flushed. I had assumed that, like me, Aurelius would keep our secret from his parent. “Yes,
    ma’am,” I admitted.
    “His child?” She gazed at me intently, as if her eyes could pierce my heart and read in it truth
    or falsehood.
    “Yes, ma’am,” I repeated, meeting her gaze. “It couldn’t possibly be anyone else’s.”
    She held my gaze a few more seconds and then nodded. “And Urbanus has offered you a
    household,” she stated, and I sensed behind her carefully neutral phrasing the discipline it took to
    conceal her rage and frustration.
    I nodded. Although I longed to rearrange my tunic again, I willed myself to stillness.
    Monnica frowned down at her embroidery. I could see that she was stitching a scene of lambs
    and flowers. “Is that the life you dreamed of for yourself?” she asked me.
    It was not the question I expected. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
    She set down her work and spread her hands. “Well, is this all you want out of life: a few
    months or years as concubine to a man above your station, and one or two children who you will
    have to hand over to him or to the Church when he tires of you?”
    I felt the blood drain from my face, and knew I must look as startled as I felt. “What – what
    do you mean?”
    “Aurelius Augustine is called to the Church,” Monnica said firmly. “I’ve felt it since he was
    born. He doesn’t see it yet, but he’s young and –“ she gestured towards my still-flat belly, “ – full
    of lust. He’ll hear the call eventually, and if he hasn’t tired of you before that, he will dismiss
    you then. Your child – or children? They too will be given to the Church, or to his brother and
    his wife to raise. This is what you want then?”
    No response formed in my brain, only incoherent panic.
    “There are other choices. You’re a pretty girl; my family could help your father find a very
    suitable husband for you, who could raise your child as his own. We could quietly see to it that
    the child – and your whole family – never suffered any want, and we could use our influence to
    find a good match or a place in the Church for the child when he reached adulthood. He would
    have many of the same advantages he’d have as Aurelius’ acknowledged bastard, with the
    advantage to you of keeping him by your side as he grows.” Monnica picked up her embroidery
    again, smoothing it with her hand as if to soothe herself.
    I was still speechless, trying to digest the possibility that I could be sent away without the
    child at some point. I had forgotten that I’d tried to abort it only two weeks ago. My child felt
    real to me now that I had imagined a future with him.
    36

    “Or perhaps you’re not ready to be a mother at all?” Monnica continued. “You could enter the
    Church if you like. I know you’re not a Christian, but there are communities which take any
    chaste woman as a catechumen. We could help you with that if you prefer.” She paused. “We
    want to