Gosford's Daughter (38 page)

Sorcha gave her brother a wry smile. “It sounds like
a bribe.” She put a hand out to touch his chest just above where he
held the wineglass. “I think it’s all madness, especially your
notion that there’s anything I can do to dissuade Brother Jacques.
But if it will please you, yes, I will help.”

Rob’s features relaxed slightly as he put one hand
over Sorcha’s. “You may be right—my idea’s quite mad. But then, so
is the rest of the world, Sorcha.”

She felt the warmth of his fingers, the bond of flesh
and blood their parents had forged from a union of love, and Sorcha
knew that mad or not, she would play out her part with a fanatic
monk, a heretic king, and a strange woman called Athene.

T
he morning dew was still
heavy on the grass when Sorcha emerged from the chapel to seek out
Brother Jacques. He had not been at Mass, but Rob said that wasn’t
unusual. Brother Jacques, who was a Dominican and not in actual
residence at the Recollect priory, often spent his mornings at
prayer in his cell or in the company of Athene, the woman he called
his patroness.

Since Rob had not found the young monk anywhere on
the premises, Sorcha headed out across the meadow toward the river.
It was much farther than she’d expected, and her feet, which had
grown unaccustomed to rough tracks during her stay at Le Petit
Andely, began to hurt by the time she reached the crossing. And
even then, she had only traversed halfway to Athene’s hut. Indeed,
she became aware that Rob’s seemingly precise directions were based
on hearsay from Brother Jacques rather than firsthand knowledge.
The path through the bracken was easy enough to follow, but Sorcha
came to a standstill at a feeble stream flanked by tall evergreens.
The trees inched up a hillside, the ground bare except for a few
twigs and fallen branches. Relying on her Highland instincts,
Sorcha followed the listless stream until she reached a plateau
where burbling springs oozed out of a marsh.

There were fresh prints, but they belonged to deer
and possibly squirrels. Sorcha felt her feet begin to sink into the
mire and moved quickly to firmer ground. Gazing overhead at the
filigree of branches against the bright blue sky, she wondered if
there were any point in pursuing the trail farther.

Sorcha’s worn shoes were not only damp, but one
leather sole felt loose. Annoyed, she bent down to examine her
footgear, and as she leaned storklike against a tree, she noticed a
small cross carved in the bark. A blaze, perhaps, to mark the way
to the hermit’s dwelling. Sorcha decided that since she had no
other signposts to indicate the way, she’d go farther into the
woods, in the hope that other crosses might guide her.

The loose sole flapped on her left shoe, providing a
constant irritant. But within another ten yards, she discovered a
second cross. A third was cut into a young larch. The trees grew
more densely, blocking out the sunlight. Fallen branches and
moss-covered logs cluttered the forest floor as proof that the
local peasants didn’t come this way to gather firewood. From high
up in a pine tree, a bird’s screeching cry startled Sorcha, causing
her to stumble over an exposed root. She righted herself quickly,
but paused to frown at the dense berry vines barring her path. With
a brisk swish of her skirts, Sorcha turned to her left, shoving
aside a stand of tall, feathery ferns.

She was still searching for another cross when she
heard a sound that wasn’t identifiable as either bird or animal. It
might have been the wind or a distant waterfall, yet as it sounded
the second time, it had an unsettling human quality that was more
like a heavy sigh or even a groan. Slowing her pace, Sorcha noted
that up ahead the sunlight penetrated more easily through the tall,
thick trees. She moved carefully, still listening for that strange,
unnerving sound.

An immense, ancient evergreen all but blocked her
way. Almost at eye level, Sorcha spotted a cross. It was larger and
deeper than the others. As she drew closer, she saw that a real
cross, delicately made of silver with the body of Christ etched
upon it, had been placed into the carved wood of the tree trunk.
The familiar sight was comforting, and Sorcha blessed herself
before circumventing the tree’s girth.

The scream that erupted from her throat scattered a
family of quail and set at least a half dozen squirrels racing to
safety. Sorcha rocked back on her heels and would have fallen had
she not collided with the bulk of the great tree directly behind
her. Even as she stared, wide-eyed and openmouthed, the weird,
wrenching moan echoed in her ears once more.

There, virtually in front of Sorcha, stood a ten-foot
stump still rooted in the ground. From the strong branch that had
been affixed crosswise hung the body of a man, attired in the white
robes of a Dominican monk, with a crown of brambles ringing his
fair hair. He moaned again, writhing in apparent agony. Sorcha put
a hand over her eyes, pressing at her temples. Her brain told her
to flee, to escape, to go back to the priory and leave this grisly
place, but her feet refused to move. Slowly, she slipped her hand
from her eyes and forced herself to look at the crucified figure.
It seemed like forever before she realized with a gasp of shock
that the man was Brother Jacques.

“
Jesu,” Sorcha whispered, again
crossing herself. Urging her feet to uproot themselves, she started
toward the monk but stopped in her tracks when Brother Jacques
spoke in a strangled, yet astonishingly untroubled
voice.

“
Do … not be … afraid. This
is … my … test. My God … will not …
forsake … me.” From under the brambles that bloodied his
forehead, Brother Jacques fixed an ecstatic gaze on Sorcha’s
stunned face. “I will … come down … when it is …
time.”

At last able to focus on more than the frightening
apparition itself, Sorcha took in the ropes that held Brother
Jacques’s arms in place on the cross. His sandaled feet dangled a
foot or so above the ground, though there were burls on the stump
that would have permitted him adequate support if he had desired
it.

Suddenly, Sorcha was no longer shocked or horrified,
but angry. While she had not been exposed to many deeply religious
persons in her life, she knew enough about piety from Mother
Honorine, about zeal from Rob, and about dedication from Adam
Napier to realize that Brother Jacques’s self-crucifixion was not
merely misguided but a mockery of faith.

“
It’s time to come down,” Sorcha
asserted through clenched teeth, “
now
.” Lessons learned in
the art of knot tying from her seafaring father served her well as
she reached up to undo the ropes that bound Brother Jacques. He
cried out in protest, raining down various curses in French so
rapid that Sorcha lost their meaning, if not their intent. As the
ropes came loose, he fell, face first, onto the ground, the crown
of brambles rolling off into the dirt.

“
Devil’s whore!” screamed Brother
Jacques, the attempt to pound his fists stymied by lack of
circulation. “No one but Athene takes me down!” He again pumped his
arms but succeeded only in a limp flail of flowing
sleeves.

“
Then Athene can put you back up,
you silly wretch!” Sorcha’s olive skin was flushed, the long hair
more tangled than usual. “I refuse to be a party to such demented
devotion!”

“
Heretic!” Brother Jacques was
scrambling about in the dirt, trying to get to his knees. “What of
Saint Simeon Stylites and those other holy penitents?”

“
If I may say so, I always thought
they were a bit touched in the head, too.” Sorcha pushed her hair
out of her eyes and brushed some evergreen needles from her dress.
Near her hem lay the sole of her shoe; angrily, she snatched it up
and shoved it into her deep pocket. “Anyone who preached to people
from a sixty-foot pillar in the desert under a scorching sun had to
be deranged.”

“
You dare!” spat Brother Jacques, at
last achieving a seated position. He was filthy, the white robes
now torn in at least two places and the blood congealing above his
beetled eyebrows. “What does a slut like you know of
saintliness?”

“
I prefer saints such as Helena, who
went to search for the True Cross, or Monica, who managed to save
her son Augustine from dissipation, or our own holy Margaret, who
taught the Scots to eat with a fork. I can hardly imagine any of
them hanging from a tree in the middle of a forest like some great
white bat.” Sorcha stormed about the little clearing, skirts
whipping at her ankles, heedless of the rough ground.

Brother Jacques, however, had gotten to his feet and
was attempting to compose himself. “You don’t understand,” he said
for the third time, aware that Sorcha had paid no heed to his first
two tries. “You must meet Athene—then you’d realize why I’m
so … fervent.”

The word caught Sorcha in midstep. Flinging her hair
out of her face briskly, she turned to face Brother Jacques, who
now looked almost rational and vaguely repentant. “Fervent?” Sorcha
shook her head. “Scarcely the word I’d have chosen. As for Athene,
if this,” she emphasized, jabbing with her thumb at the makeshift
cross, “is her idea of religious fervor, I must send my regrets. I
hardly need to confront an addled old crone to further despoil my
day.”

Brother Jacques looked shocked. “Oh, no, no, no!” He
placed his hands over his breast, inadvertently covering up one of
the rents in his habit. “Athene is neither old nor addled! She is
astounding in her wisdom, and amazing in her kindness.” He
swallowed, his face turned heavenward so that the sun shown
directly on his bland, yet exhilarated features. “And …
belle. Très belle
, like the Virgin, like Aphrodite!”

The confusion of language and imagery puzzled Sorcha,
though she knew it shouldn’t, considering Brother Jacques’s
peculiar mental state. It also piqued her curiosity. Having gone
this far, she decided that meeting one more maniac could do little
harm. And if Athene or Aphrodite, or whatever the weird woman of
the woods called herself, turned out to be as hopelessly mad as
Brother Jacques, Sorcha could honestly offer Rob her genuine
defeat.

Brother Jacques was already traipsing along what had
now become a fairly well-traveled path. They moved across the crest
of the hill, then through a clearing where overhead the midday sun
was beginning to intensify. Once again, they plunged into a dense
forest, where they crossed a tiny yet raucous stream and followed
it until the trees became so tall and close together that the sun
was almost blotted out. Only a few minutes earlier Sorcha had been
too warm; now, she actually shivered as a faint breeze riffled the
evergreens.

Two fallen logs all but obscured the hermit’s hut
from view. To Sorcha’s surprise, up close the dwelling was neither
as small nor as mean as it had appeared at first glance. There was
an open door, a window made of horn, and a dormant little chimney
rising from a fireplace at one end of the stone building. In truth,
Sorcha noted, it was far sturdier—and more commodious—than many a
crofter’s home in the Highlands.

Sorcha disdained the hand that Brother Jacques
offered to help her over the logs. “I was raised in wilder country
than this,” she asserted, and scowled at the monk, who motioned
frantically for her to speak more softly. “Is this a hut—or a
shrine?” Sorcha demanded, though she consented to lower her
voice.

Brother Jacques didn’t answer. He was already
approaching the open door with diffidence, reminding Sorcha of an
errant serving boy being summoned into the irate presence of Lady
Fraser.

Even before Brother Jacques’s slight frame slipped
inside, he gestured for Sorcha to stay back. Impatiently, she
leaned against one of the logs, arms folded over her chest. Jacques
Clement all but disappeared inside the darkened stone hut, though
Sorcha could just make out his voice engaged in conversation with
someone else.

The exchange between the monk and whoever dwelt
beyond the entrance seemed to go on a very long time. Sorcha began
to sigh rather loudly and tap her foot against a large, gnarled
root. At last, in a flurry of earth-stained white garments, Brother
Jacques turned to face Sorcha, his arms outstretched, a beatific
smile on his seemingly innocuous face.

“
Athene welcomes you! She is pleased
to meet another female who has braved the wilderness to explore new
dimensions of spirituality.” He brought his thin hands together in
a prayerful gesture, humbly stepping aside to let Sorcha enter the
hut.

Despite the gloom of the surrounding forest, it took
a few moments for Sorcha’s eyes to grow accustomed to the virtual
dark of the hut’s interior. No fire burned on such a warm summer’s
day, nor did any candle dispel the inky void. Only the open door
permitted any light at all, and at last Sorcha began to perceive
the outlines of the fireplace, a few sparse furnishings, a huge
kettle, and a cot covered with what appeared to be luxurious
furs.

It was there that Sorcha’s hostess reclined, a
graceful figure enveloped in black draperies more suited to Araby
than the Île-de-France. Indeed, as Sorcha peered into the opaque
gloom, she saw that only the woman’s eyes showed. They seemed to be
a beautiful blue, but neither warm nor welcoming. Sorcha stiffened
slightly and waited for the other woman to speak.

At last she did, in a honey-edged spate of French
that Sorcha failed to understand. Nor were the words directed at
her but at Brother Jacques, who leaped forward like a pony in
leading strings and knelt before his patroness. Again, the
white-clad monk and the black-draped woman spoke low and with some
urgency. Standing just a few feet away and unable to catch more
than her own name and Rob’s, Sorcha began to feel not only annoyed
but uneasy. Just as she was about to interrupt or beat a hasty
retreat, Brother Jacques stood up and bowed himself out of the hut.
Athene’s fingertips emerged just enough from her draperies to
beckon Sorcha nearer.