A Mortal Glamour (50 page)

"How can I desert them? Without warning, she gave a wrenching sob. “You must be wrong, my dearest. They will not betray us so utterly."

"No, Philomine, I am not wrong.” They clung together in shuddering despair. “One woman, with a man, might get away unnoticed. But there are more than a dozen Sisters here, and they would be noticed if they left at once, especially at night. Please; you are my life. Come with me, Philomine, before none of us can leave."

She struggled with her wretchedness, attempting to control the grief that threatened to overcome her. “Let me ... “—she wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve—"let me at least tell Mère Léonie. Someone must know, or I will be one with Judas."

"Where is she? Can you find her quickly?” He could not argue with her for this, since it was what he would have done himself in her position.

"I will try. If I cannot find her, I will speak to one of the other Sisters, so that they will be warned.” She touched his face. “I have cost you so much, my love. I pray that there will be no more burdens for you to carry for my sake."

He kissed her fingers. “Quickly, then, my love.” He let go of her, but reluctantly, not wanting her away from him now that he had her near. “Hurry. I will wait here."

"Yes. Yes, love.” She went back into the courtyard, half-running, the skirt of her habit hitched up into her hempen belt so that she could move more freely. She entered the corridor at a trot and went directly to Mère Léonie's study, and was shocked to find it empty. She rushed on, and in the chapel found Seur Aungelique and Seur Marguerite keeping watch over the body of Père Guibert that lay face-down before the altar.

"Our vigil is not finished yet, Seur Philomine,” Seur Aungelique said with such boredom that Seur Philomine wished she had the authority to rebuke her.

"Have you seen Mère Léonie? It is most urgent that I speak with her.” This lack of conduct on her part earned Seur Philomine a withering sneer.

"So important that you do not recall how to behave. No, to answer your impertinent question, I do not know where Mère Léonie is.” Seur Aungelique nodded once toward Seur Marguerite, who stared vacantly into space and hummed to herself. “Nor does she."

It worried Seur Philomine to entrust Seur Aungelique with her warning, but she had given her word to Tristan that she would not linger. “You must find her at once, ma Seur, and give her a message for me. Will you do this, in the name of Christ and la Virge Marie?"

"By God's Nails, ma Seur, you sound distraught. Say an Ave or two and you will be more yourself.” She raised her hand languidly. “Very well; tell me your message. I would just as soon be out of here. The good Père is beginning to stink. Three days is too long too keep a corpse out of the ground.” She got up from her post by the altar, her body ungainly with the weight of her pregnancy. “Tell me what has you so distressed, ma Seur."

"It is...” She stopped, not wanting to have the words tumble out of her. “There are Papal soldiers coming, to take all the Sisters to try them as sorceresses. Those who can must get away at once. The soldiers will be here by nightfall."

Seur Aungelique laughed outright. “Where did you hear this tale? I would have expected something of the sort from Seur Marguerite here, but not from you. They have always said that you are sensible, and this is ... a tale for little boys."

"It is true. The Church has taken Pierre, and he has confessed that—” Too late she stopped herself; the stricken, outraged face of Seur Aungelique filled her vision as the young nun rushed at her.

"What lies are these! What new humiliation do you bring me?” Seur Aungelique's fingers were curved into claws that reached for Seur Philomine's eyes.

"No, no, ma Seur!” Seur Philomine shouted, stumbling back from this attack. “It is true. I promise you, I do not lie!"

"You do!” She lunged, striking Seur Philomine in the shoulder as she tried to rake her face. “Lies! Lies!"

Seur Marguerite watched the assault in mild puzzlement. “Sisters do not lie to one another, Seur Aungelique,” she said as Seur Philomine bolted for the door.

"She said that Pierre said we are sorceresses. He would never do that. He is a man of honor, a Duc, by the grace of God and le Roi!” She was not able to run after the fleeing Seur Philomine, so she screamed with all the wrath in her, “Seur Philomine has invited the Devil to come for Père Guibert!"

"That is not true,” Seur Marguerite protested gently, bending to touch the waxen, clay-colored head of the dead priest. “She said that we are accused of sorcery. She said that there are troops coming to take us all. I heard her speak, Seur Aungelique, and she said nothing about—"

Seur Aungelique turned on her, slapping her as she yelled, “It is not true, what she told us! Don't you understand that? Pierre would not do that."

"Oh.” Seur Marguerite stared down at her hands. “But you said you would tell Mère Léonie. If you do not, I must."

"I will tell her when the vigil is finished. I will say that I do not believe it. Then Mère Léonie will decide what is to be done.” Her features were distorted still with her anger. “And if any other Sister contradicts me, I will say that she has been suborned by Seur Philomine and the demon who has been sent to torment us. Do you know what that would mean, Seur Marguerite? It would mean pincers and the boot.” She got back on her knees. “When the vigil is over, I will speak to la Mère. I gave my word, and I will honor it.” She crossed herself. “Pierre will be furious when he hears of this. You may be certain of it."

Seur Marguerite looked at the other nun with a strange sympathy in her worn features. “I pray that you will have the right of it, ma Seur, for we stand in the greatest peril if you are in error."

"You are mad to think that,” Seur Aungelique said, her mouth dropping petulantly. “I will see that Seur Philomine pays for her folly.” With that promise, she bowed her head and continued the recitation of prayers for the dead.

They had almost made it to Tristan's horse when the first of the soldiers rode into view.

"Run!” Tristan shouted, all but dragging Seur Philomine through the orchard. “They must not see us!"

Seur Philomine had discarded her habit and now wore a shepherd's cloak over her chemise. In the advancing night, she was chilled so that her teeth chattered when she tried to answer. Wooden sabots made her clumsy and she could not run as swiftly as Tristan did.

On the road, the troops divided into three groups, one riding toward the empty hospice, one to the tall doors to the courtyard, and one toward the stable and the orchard beyond. Tristan saw this and his heart went cold within him. “Hurry! My love, hurry!” He was breathing more quickly, as much from fear as from running.

"Yes,” she panted, hardly able to spare the breath to speak. “Are they ... close?"

He did not answer with words; he tugged more firmly on her arm, his determination making him faster than he knew was possible. The speed of his approach startled his horse, and the big mare shied, whinnying her alarm.

Not far behind, one of the Papal men-at-arms caught sight of them, and set up a shout. “There! Stop them!"

"Oh, God!” Tristan moaned, stretching to grab the reins as Seur Philomine staggered after him. The mare reared and broke the leather that held her. In the next moment she had bolted, crashing away through the orchard toward the open fields beyond the stream.

"Get them!” shouted one of the soldiers, and their horses raced nearer.

Tristan turned and gave Seur Philomine a swift, desperate embrace. “Hide! In the clearing behind the berry vines. I will join you!” His kiss was harsh, fast and aching with love for her.

"But...” she started, but was thrust from him.

"Do as I say. As you love me!” Before she could object again, he had turned away to face the charging horsemen, drawing his sword as he did.

The first quarrel hit him in the shoulder, ripping the flesh and splintering bone. He flailed his arms to keep erect and the agony of the wound fogged his mind, numbing him to the risk he faced. “Philomine!” he shouted. “Go!"

At the sound of his voice she had faltered, but the desolation in his cry made her go on, so that she did not see when the second quarrel struck, catching him on the side of the neck, lifting him and sending him sprawling, his head half cut off from his neck where his life's blood gouted.

"What about the other?” the nearest crossbowman shouted to his officer.

"A boy? Let him go. We'll see to that man later,” the officer responded, gesturing toward the fallen Tristan. “Don't let any of the women out through the stable. They will try to escape, or so the Duc said before he died."

The men-at-arms who had killed Tristan gave him one last look. “Poor swine, to play with demons that way."

"Don't waste your pity. He and his kind are a danger to all Christians.” The officer dismounted. “Tether your horses away from the convent. We don't want any of those women taking them to get away.” As he spoke, he was already drawing a mace and a short sword. “Do not kill them unless they fight. The Cardinal wishes to question them before they are sent to their deaths."

"Can we do anything else?” one of the other asked as he swung out of the saddle. “It seems a shame to waste all those women."

"They're the consorts of demons,” his officer reminded him. “Better to bed with a Turkish whore with the pox and a knife than to touch one of these.” He crossed himself. “In the name of Clement VII, Pope of the One True Catholic Church, and for the glory of God."

The other men copied him, most of them kissing the hilts of their weapons for additional protection. Then they strode away toward the stables.

Seur Philomine crouched behind the berry vines and wept as if it were her body that had been transfixed with quarrels.

The convent was empty and still when dawn came. The men-at-arms had refused to remain there once the nuns had been gathered up and loaded into two wagons where they were fettered to benches for the long journey to Avignon. When the wagon had departed, the eerie wail of Seur Catant could be heard long after the jingle, groan and clop of the harness, wagons and hooves had faded.

When she was certain that no one else would approach, Seur Philomine came out of hiding. She was full of bitterness, of anger and deep-fanged grief that gave her no respite. With profound misery, she located the body of her dead lover, and took a terrible satisfaction in dragging him to where the Sisters were buried, where she scraped out a shallow grave for him with her hands, digging until her fingers were torn and bleeding.

"So you did get away,” said someone behind her. “I thought you might."

The sun was in Seur Philomine's eyes as she turned, and she was briefly dazzled by the tall, slender figure that stood behind her. “What? Who...?” She realized that she ought to be afraid, but she had been too badly hurt by what had happened, and could not summon up fear.

"But surely you know me?” Thibault said in Mère Léonie's voice. “You, of all of them, should know me."

Philomine quivered. “Which are you? What are you?"

"I am ... whatever you wish. Superior, courtier, man or woman or demon, does it matter which?” He went down on one knee and lifted a handful of earth. “Most enterprising."

She shaded her eyes, staring hard at him. “You are the demon, then.” It did not alarm her to say this; she had gone beyond that.

"Of course.” He cast the earth onto Tristan's livid, ruined face. “Your lover, wasn't he?"

She swallowed hard. “Yes."

"The Papal soldiers killed him?” Thibault studied the wounds, his head tilted to one side. “He would not have lived, ma Seur."

"Don't use that title,” Philomine ordered him.

"Adjusting your calling? But you are a tertiary Sister, aren't you? Novice habit, no final vows. No true vocation. You have less to repudiate than the others.” He settled back on his heel, bracing his elbow on his other knee. “I often wondered what it was about you that made you so stubborn. All the others were tractable in their ways, but not you. Or poor Seur Marguerite."

Philomine began the slow task of putting dirt over Tristan's body. “And Seur Aungelique?"

Thibault chuckled, a sound like small things breaking. “She was the most tractable of all, if one addressed her properly.” He watched her. “Do you want assistance?"

"No."

"As you wish.” He dusted his hands off against each other, then got to his feet. “Do not be long at that; we have far to go today."

Irate tears stung her eyes, the first she had shed since she had found Tristan's body. “I will go nowhere—nowhere!—with you."

He looked down at her. “They will send more men-at-arms soon, and if you are here, they will find you and arrest you. What will come after that, you know as well as I do. Your legs will be turned to jelly in the boot, or your guts will be pulled out of your mouth with the wet knotted cord, and you will be consigned to the flames. After all this, what would be the point of it, Philomine?"

"I will seek refuge...” She broke off, looking away from him. “There must be a place I can go."

"And where the men-at-arms will find you. And those who sheltered you will suffer the same fate you will. Poor return for charity, little one.” He squinted as he looked over the fields. “I have no control over you; you may believe that or not, as you choose, but for once it is the truth."

Philomine stopped her work and regarded him with the first stirrings of curiosity. “Why do you say that?"

He shrugged. “What point in there in lying? You know too well how to see my deceptions."

In spite of herself, she asked, “Why is that?"

He chuckled again. “Because, my little bird, you want nothing of me. You have had what you wanted and accepted it as it was. We have no hold on that, not I nor any of those like me who serve Our Lord on the earth."

She blinked. “You are not a demon?"

There was no trace of laughter in him now. “Do you doubt it?"

She shook her head. “No,” she told him quietly, and resumed the burial.

"You will need to be away from here soon,” Thibault said a little while later. “You are in danger, though you may not care about it now. You will be hunted."