A Mortal Glamour (13 page)

Seur Aungelique set her hands on her hips. “I have seen what has become of other women, and I want no part of it. I want to live as Comtesse Orienne lives, not as someone's broodwife, to bear children and keep accounts. I want to live as the women the troubadours sing of and poets celebrate."

"Those women lived long ago,” Père Guibert pointed out.

"Then in me they will live again. Did Heloise turn nun, shut herself up from the world while Abelard was yet a man? Who is so foolish to think she was beset by the Devil?"

"She died in holiness, an Abbesse, repentant of her lust."

Seur Aungelique laughed. “They do not remember her as a nun, but a lover. Who has said that Iseult was anything damned? And do not remind me of her love potion, or the death of her knight, for that is what makes her so splendid. The world hears her tale and says, ‘O that there may be another like her, that we may love her,’ and for that they are called wise."

"No, Seur Aungelique, you do not understand—"

"I wish for one little chance to be what those women were, to leave my name and my loves on the songs of France, and I am warned that the Devil is about to snare me like a hare in a trap.” She pulled at the neck of her habit.

Père Guibert moved back from Seur Aungelique. “You are not yourself, ma Fille. You have been ... too much indulged. Your father has permitted you great liberty, and you abuse it. He seeks now to restore you to your family and your duty as the daughter he honors and does honor to him."

"My father is nothing like that. He is punishing me!” Seur Aungelique stamped her feet and very nearly tore off her coif.

"You must stop this at once. I will speak to Mère Léonie and ask her to give you a new penance and more contemplative exercise.” He knew it was inadequate, but there was nothing he could think of that would deal well with so rebellious a nun. If her father did not still intend her to marry, Père Guibert would have requested permission to beat her, but so far Michau d'Ybert had been adamant—no marks on his daughter unless her husband put them there. Scars, he had ordered Mère Jacinthe, detracted from a girl's beauty and made it appear she was unbiddable. “Your father must be consulted.” He would find a way to convince le Baron that Seur Aungelique should be chastised.

"Go ahead! Do anything, it doesn't matter. I am not a nun. I will never be a nun. Nothing you or Mère Léonie can do will make me a nun!"

Père Guibert tried to find a way to calm her. “But ma Fille, we wish that God would come to you, Mère Léonie and I, and all your Sisters. You must not turn away from God."

"Has He not turned away from me? Many of the Sisters here are truly devout, and see what has happened to them—they are set upon by disaster, and you tell them that God tests those He loves. Why does He not send a lion to raven here, and be done with it?” She tossed her head. “For all that God has given to us for our faith, we might as well have fallen to the Devil and worshipped him instead!"

"No, no,” Père Guibert protested, holding out his hand as if it could stop what she said. “You are in error, ma Fille."

"I am? Then what do you see around you? Disaster has been invited here!” She looked away from him, ignoring his determined attempts to speak more to her. “I will leave here and ... and—” She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth—"What I do then is no concern of yours."

"What you do must always concern me,” Père Guibert said sadly as he blessed her. “I am your confessor and your soul is in my keeping."

"Then I reclaim it,” she said, and rushed out of the chapel, leaving him to sit in worried silence.

Not long before sunset, Seur Marguerite paid a last visit before Vespers to her hives. She pottered between them, crooning to the bees, showing no alarm when they lit on her hands and face. “They are your kisses, aren't they?” she asked, and was content with the answer she heard in her mind. The smell of honey was dense on the air and she breathed it in, smiling to herself. “All the babies are in the house, and the Elfin King will guard you all.” She bent down to put a bit of honeycomb on a broken plank of wood. “I have paid the price and he will guard you."

"Leaving treats for the Devil?” inquired a light, pleasantly insulting voice.

Seur Marguerite turned, but in no particular haste or surprise. She saw a figure approaching out of the setting sun, a man of middle height, slender and graceful, whose clothes and features she could not distinguish without squinting. “God give you good day, stranger,” she said mildly. “Have a care that my little ones do not hurt you."

Thibault paid not attention to the bees. “You threat them like children."

"And so I might; they are mine. They are good to me and care for me, as I care for them.” She crossed herself and said a brief prayer. “God must remember the bees while I sleep."

"If He treats them as He treats His human children, you might desire other aid,” he suggested.

"One must find aid where they may,” Seur Marguerite answered after a moment. “Otherwise, you will be lost. You will be worse than the wild creatures, and will know no sleep but death."

The unmelodic clang of the convent bell caught the attention of both Seur Marguerite and Thibault Col. “There, ma Seur,” Thibault said. “Like the bells on cows, it leads you home."

Seur Marguerite laughed vaguely. “Home? No, not to my home. That is not my home. I can never come home, for that would be worst of all. I would be prey to worse than you, far worse.” She was wholly unaware of insulting the beautiful young man, for she smiled at him. “It isn't you I seek. It isn't you I run from. There are others. You would not know them, no matter what you know. You would not find out from the bees, if they knew. No one will discover it.” There were sudden tears in her eyes. “You are not like them, but I do remember the others, some of the time. I know what they are. There are men in the mists, filled with Plague, and they are worst of all."

"I have heard you have Plague here,” Thibault said, casually insolent.

"No, no,” Seur Marguerite responded at once. “It is pox. Bad enough for the likes of you, but there has been no mist, and the others have not come.” She touched the side of one of the hives. “You have come here before. I think you have come here before."

"Perhaps."

"You are like the ones in the mists, and have many guises. I have seen those in the trees, too, making the bark move when they are hungry. They strangle the birds in their branches and eat them when they fall. You should not stand too near the trees, it makes them hungry."

"I will take care, ma Seur,” Thibault said. “I will be here tomorrow. I would prefer you are not."

"My bees wait for me. You do not.” She lifted up her skirts and started away from him toward the convent. “It is Vespers. La Virge opens to the Holy Spirit and labors all the night. I have seen her, sometimes, when she is about to be delivered. Once she birthed monsters.” Her voice was slightly raised so that it would carry back to Thibault, who watched her from his place beside the hives. “You have seen the monsters."

Thibault gave her no answer but an equivocal smile, which Seur Marguerite could not see.

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Shortly before noon the next day, a priest on a lathered mule was admitted to the courtyard of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion. Before he was out of the saddle, he was calling for Père Guibert in a high, terrified voice that sent nuns scurrying to find their confessor. The newcomer paced distractedly while he waited for Père Guibert, only speaking to grant one of the nuns permission to lead the mule away to the stables. He stared about as he roamed, moving like a beast in a cage, too unpredictable to approach.

By the time Père Guibert came into the courtyard, he was seriously alarmed by the various descriptions he had heard of this new arrival. He feared that he would be confronted with a madman or worse; he doubted he would be able to subdue such a creature. “God be with you, friend,” he said cautiously.

"And with your soul,” Padre Bartolimieu responded, rushing toward the other priest.

"Bon Dieu!” Père Guibert cried, recognizing the Augustinian. “What has happened, good Padre, that you come here?"

"We have had word...” He looked about at the nuns gathering in the courtyard. “Not here. There must be a place more private."

"Of course,” Père Guibert said, understanding at once his hesitation. “Of course. There is a cell we may use where we will not be disturbed. You may tell me there.” He signaled to Seur Elvire. “I pray you, inform Mère Léonie where I have gone, and that I will need to speak with her shortly. I do not want to alarm the convent further, and so I caution you to speak circumspectly."

Seur Elvire, pleased at being singled out for this errand, despite the implied rebuke, ducked her head to conceal her satisfaction as she hurried out of the courtyard. There would be opportunity later on to whisper to her Sisters of Mère Léonie's response.

Padre Bartolimieu had grabbed Père Guibert by the elbow and was attempting to shove him through the main door. “We must not delay. God on the Cross! It is ... it is...” Again he forced himself to be silent, gulping air as he glanced over his shoulder. “That matter we spoke of? Do you recall? Do you remember what I said about my church? What became of it? Do you remember that? Do you?"

The urgency of these questions distressed Père Guibert. “We spoke of many things,” he said in an effort to soothe the other man. “This way, good Padre. There are steps, just there, and at the top of them, turn ... have a care."

"Hurry!” Padre Bartolimieu, heedless of this warning, lurched up the stairs, all but dragging Père Guibert after him. “There is so little time. You do not know how they can move, when they want. Who knows what might ... You must warn your village, here, and the others in the valley, if you can. Word must be sent at once. They will have to find arms and...” He took a deep breath and reached out to steady himself against the wall. “I left as soon as the messenger arrived, and still, I don't know if I am far enough ahead of them."

Père Guibert indicated a door on the left, then reached to push it open before Padre Bartolimieu fell through it. “Who is this you speak of? What danger? Romans?” He pointed to the pallet under the crucifix. “Rest, Padre. You are exhausted."

"I can't rest. I must not rest,” Padre Bartolimieu protested as he dropped onto the blankets. “There is not time to rest. Dear God, if I fail now, I will know without doubt I am to burn in Hell forever and ever, with all my sins still fresh on my soul and my repentance worthless as perfume on a nun."

Père Guibert had a fleeting, unhappy memory of finding Seur Aungelique at Un Noveautie. He bit his lower lip. “What is the danger, Padre? Is it Plague?” He did not wait for Padre Bartolimieu to answer. “Because if it is, your fears are unfounded, at least here. We have had pox here, but not Plague."

"That is bad enough,” Padre Bartolimieu said, crossing himself for protection. “No, this is not Plague, or pox, or anything of that sort. I could almost pray that it were. There are men coming to kill us and ruin our church, this chapel, the convent, all of it. The village churches are the most in danger, but these places are not spared, not when the Flagellants come. They seek to bring an end to the Church, for they believe that the Church has ... deserted them, and that God has shown His Wrath with Plague, and therefore, they must destroy all before God Himself brings about the end of the world.” He lowered his head. “I have prayed and prayed, and found no solace, but if I can save one church, one convent, any true believer from these terrible men, then it may be that I will not be forgotten in Heaven or cast into Hell or outer darkness at the Last Judgment."

The pathetic expression in Padre Bartolimieu's voice, the wholly downcast posture, touched Père Guibert deeply, and he had to control himself to keep from weeping. “How did you learn of these Flagellants? Are you sure they are coming this way?"

"They cannot go through the passes, yet; therefore they must come here. It is the only way the road will take them, toward Avignon. It is where they wish to go. To Avignon, to kill the Pope and destroy the Church. Is it not enough that we have Romans to contend with? Must we be subjected to this as well?” This last outburst was directed at the ceiling, as if he hoped for God to answer him.

"When did you learn of this?” Père Guibert asked, hoping he would be able to find out enough to protect Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion as well as Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur from attack.

"I left ... yesterday. I stopped after sunset to sleep and was in the saddle before dawn. The damnable mule is a strengthy beast, but he has no speed."

Père Guibert nodded, agreeing about mules. “And your messenger—how far ahead of the Flagellants was he?"

"A day at the most, he said. He had been in the saddle for more than a day, and had not slept. His horse was spent and he was worn as a ghost.” Padre Bartolimieu set his jaw. “I must face them, Padre ... Père Guibert. I owe that much to le Bon Dieu, for my cowardice before."

"If you think it is necessary,” Père Guibert said dubiously. “But for the moment rest. I will speak with Mère Léonie and we will determine how best to proceed."

Padre Bartolimieu looked up at Père Guibert in hopeless resignation. “It is the Devil; he is winning at last. He has been the Foe of God since the beginning of the world, and he has power in the world. He is the one who brings Plague upon us, and for the weakness of our faith and the depth of our sins, we are permitted to succumb to it, and the Devil triumphs. And the Flagellants, they are also in the ranks of the Devil, filled with his evil spirits as were the swine into which Our Lord cast the demons. They are already in Hell, and they bring it through the land, and more fall into error and are lost to God. If we do not fight them, then we are more despicable than Pilate or Judas, who both surrendered Our Lord to His enemies and His death."

"We will not fail, Padre. I will send messengers at once.” Père Guibert did not feel as resolute as he sounded, but that did not keep him from speaking with conviction. “Word will go out today, and Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur will have time to prepare, as will we."