A Mortal Glamour (51 page)

The grave was half-filled and she was sweating with the effort of the work. “And it would be better to go with you?"

"Little though you may believe it, yes, it would.” He turned toward the orchard. “Poor Seur Marguerite; she wanted to take her hives with her, though they were empty. She begged the Baron who led the soldiers to permit her to bring the hives, so the Pope might breathe on them and restore the bees to life.” He snapped his fingers twice. “The Baron did not know that she is mad, of course, and he will testify that the nuns here have raised the dead."

Philomine wanted to shriek at Thibault, to say something that would tear at his vitals as her loss tore at hers. Instead she fixed him with a contemptuous stare. “You permitted that?"

"Our Lord will protect her.” And then he laughed, with such enormous malice that Philomine trembled to hear it. “Our Lord protects you all."

"That is heresy,” she said without thinking.

"And blasphemy and all the rest of it. That is why we are here.” He walked around the grave. “You will need another hour to finish, Philomine. Then you must decide."

"I would be a fool to take anything that comes from you.” She knew beyond question it was true, but the admission that she could turn to no one but Thibault caused her such devastation of spirit that she found it prostrating to think of it.

"Possibly,” he allowed, still speaking in Mère Léonie's voice. When he continued, he sounded distant, speculative. “I would take you to a woman who has more need of you than of me—for the moment. She languishes and suffers and will take solace of no one. For that she must be pitied, which I would do if I were capable of it. I would pity you all."

Philomine cut her hand on a sharp stone and stopped her work to suck it. She kept her eyes on Thibault, watching him attentively as he explained.

"She will destroy herself shortly if she does not have someone with her, someone who did not know her before. You have no one to take you in, and you are not easily dismayed.” He favored her with his mercurial smile. “She was beautiful once, but now she is quite hideous. With you to be with her, she may once again wish to live, and when that happens—” He stopped.

"When that happens, what?” she asked, irritated at herself for indulging him.

"Then she will yearn for ... things. She will want admirers and those with a taste for insouciance around her. And she will not be able to have them, not as she did when she was lovely.” He looked down at her, holding out his long, slender hand. “Here. Wrap the cuts on your hand before you go on."

"Why should I?” She felt anger growing in her, blotting out the sorrow that possessed her.

"Because it would not suit my purpose to have you lost to infection,” he answered coldly. “If you become diseased, I would leave you here for the men-at-arms to deal with."

She recognized he was telling her the truth, which infuriated her. “Leave me to them, then. Why should I live to aid you, when it was you who brought down the convent and destroyed my Sisters?"

"You are sure of that, are you? But I did nothing that might not have happened without me.” He dropped his hand when she did not take it.

"Seur Ranegonde would have died in childbirth? Seur Aungelique would have been wanton? Père Guibert would have...” She was not able to say what he had done.

"Seur Ranegonde wanted to be overpowered—that was her desire; I did not force it on her. Seur Aungelique was made wanton by God, I did not make her so. Ask her father, if he will speak of her without cursing. Père Guibert had his appetites, and I did nothing more than indulge them. Le Duc de Parcignonne had his desires, as well, and when he longed for them, I complied. That is all I may ever do.” He offered his hand again, and this time she took it, permitting him to lift her out of the grave.

"Do you have a linen strip?” When he did not answer, she bent and tore away part of the hem of her chemise, which she wrapped three times around her hand, then tied in a knot, using her other hand and her teeth to tighten it.

"You manage well.” The compliment was sarcastic, and she was about to give him the most cutting retort she could think of when he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her head up toward him. “Oh, yes, you are burning with grief now, and you despise me for what I have done. You believe that what love you had for that ... carrion in the grave will suffice a lifetime. It may be that you are right.” She tried to break free of him, but he pinched harder, so that she winced and was still. “But there may come a time, little bird, when you have desires that torment you, though the bitterness in your heart will rob you of courage and your strength to love. Then you will long for me, for the pleasures I bring. You have only to call me, and I will come. My illusion can be more delightful than what is real, little bird. Remember that."

She pushed on his arm and he dropped his hand once more. “You are repugnant to me!"

He bowed slightly. “That is a start. There was a time when you were only indifferent. In a year, who knows what you may want."

Philomine gave him no response; she sank to her knees and went back to filling in Tristan's grave.

Thibault reached out and touched her short brown hair, tweaking one of the curls. His hand dropped to her shoulder, long fingers pressing hard. “See how strong your anger is?” Abruptly he turned and walked away from her.

As she listened to his footsteps fade, Philomine pounded her closed fists on the ground, once, twice, three times. Rage and loneliness swept through her soul like winter wind, and she wished it had been she, not Tristan, in the grave. Slowly, carefully, she shoved the earth into the hole until instead of a declivity, there was a long, raw mound, like a fresh, raised scar. She remained on her knees, her hand pressed together as she tried to recall the prayers that would aid him when he came to God. The words eluded her. He was gone, and the loss of him engulfed her. He lay only a few feet from her, but he was as far away from her as if her had sunk to the deepest point in the most distant sea. In time she would forget the weight of his hand, the salt of his body. She had told Seur Aungelique she would live to affirm her love of him, but without Tristan, the love was hollow and he another ghost in this world of ghosts. Would she still know the sound of his voice in a year, or would it fade? The more she searched her mind, the less consolation she found there.

Some little time later she got to her feet and started away from the grave. It was then that she saw Thibault standing in the shadow of the convent walls, waiting for her.