A Mortal Glamour (15 page)

"If you believe it is terrible, why do you not try to convince them? Tell them what the Flagellants have done to other villages. Padre Bartolimieu has seen them for himself, and he can bear witness to the ferocity of those servants of the Devil. Surely that would be enough for God, and your conscience.” She said this kindly and Père Guibert was annoyed that he imagined malice in her concern. “Mon Père?"

"It is nothing,” he said, giving her his attention once again. “I want so to aid these families, and it causes me much ... travail."

"It is to your credit that you are conscientious, but you have admonished me for the depth of my fervor before. It may be that you, too, should think of what you are saying and how you have said it.” She bowed her head. “Forgive me for the impertinence, mon Père. I have been much worried to think of our predicament and it has led me to speak in a way not becoming of one in my position. I will confess my error and beg God's understanding. He knows what is in my heart."

"Ma Fille...” Père Guibert began, but she would not let him continue.

"Who here is unscathed by danger? These Flagellants are like Plague, aren't they? A thing that is capable of laying the whole world to waste, but wholly unseen and unknown. I feel I am helpless now, and ... I do not know what else to do, but permit the village women to depart."

This burst of confidence was welcome to Père Guibert, who listened with indulgence. He reminded himself that Mère Léonie, for all her abilities, was a young woman who often expected more of herself than God had given her to do, and he had been concerned that she might have the seeds of pride planted deep within her. It had caused him to pray for wisdom in his dealings with her, and here he felt the first touch of reward for his devotions. Now he could understand where her questions came from, and he knew that there was a reason to hope for her, to recognize the strengths that were manifested so that her virtues would shine all the brighter. “I think we would both benefit from an hour of meditation, ma Fille. You have shown a stalwart attitude that must be helpful to your Sisters, but is ultimately difficult for you. Let me suggest that you go to chapel now, while I spend some time with the women from the village. Your mind will then be once more at rest and we may discuss the predicament again, when we both have given our fears into the keeping of Heaven and la Virge."

"I will beseech Our Lord,” she said submissively. “It is not fitting that I should subject the convent to my concerns and frailties, for each must carry the burden that Our Lord sends to us in the manner that we are made to carry it. That is the way of the world, isn't it, mon Père?” She crossed herself. “I would appreciate it if you would take a little time to speak to Seur Aungelique. She has imposed more vigils on herself, and this, I am afraid, is evidence of defiance, not acquiescence."

"It may be,” Père Guibert said, feeling his heart heavy within him at the need to talk to the difficult young nun again. “I will hear her out, if she will confess."

"Yes. You told me the last time she was not very willing to surrender to the Will of God.” Mère Léonie paused, then continued. “She keeps her own counsel now and will not entertain questions or ... well, you know how revels draw her and contemplation does not."

"Yes.” He blessed the Superior with an old sense of dissatisfaction which he decided was apprehension from all they had dreaded as they waited for the Flagellants to come. He nodded gravely. “You have done well, ma Fille. You are not to think you have erred or ... or done anything displeasing to la Virge."

"Deo gratias,” she said. “I hope with all my heart that it is true. Our Lord is precious to me.” She rose from her knees and accompanied Père Guibert along the hall to leave him at the chapel door with a low bow and a gentle smile.

That smile remained flickering at the back of Père Guibert's mind while he tried to convince the village women—without success—to remain at Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion for another day. He thanked God that Mère Léonie was dedicated to the Church, for such a smile on a worldly woman would be as devastating as the wiles of Comtesse Orienne. The smile was haunting him still as he stood in the door of the convent courtyard and watched the small group of women and children trudge back to their houses. He was sad for them, knowing how they had come to resent the convent and its Sisters. He would have to make a gesture of sorts to them, through their priest. He determined that the next day he would go into Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur and arrange for something with Père Foutin. He did not know what these peasants would find acceptable, or what he would be able to provide them. In times of difficulties, it seemed that instead of drawing closer together as God had often admonished His children to do, they remained apart and angry with one another. This stay had been such a case, with the village women coming to dislike the Sisters more with every passing hour, and the Sisters reaching not with the compassion they should give, but with contempt. How unfortunate it was, he thought, when all they had wanted to do was protect the village from danger.

During the night, the Flagellants came.

It was near the middle of the night when the first men appeared on the road from Mou Courbet. They walked with steady determination, silent and inexorable. All of them carried whips. Some had short-handled whips with braided lashes tipped with metal, the scourges used by monks to beat the Devil from their flesh. Some carried carter's whips, great long strands of leather knotted for strength and weight. A few had bullock's whips, the heaviest and most punishing of them all, tight-braided horsehide that cut to the bone in a single blow. Some of the men showed weals and scars where they had been struck by their own weapons, but others were untouched, their stony faces without any sign of human feeling.

There were about fifty men in the first group, nowhere near the number Père Guibert or Padre Bartolimieu had feared, and they showed none of the frenzy that was said to be the mark of their damned fellowship. Soldiers were more rowdy, even on forced march, than these men. Monks made more sounds with their chanting, merchants with their conversation. These were not like other men, and for that alone, they were frightening.

Père Foutin and his sour-faced sacristan were the first to see the men approaching.

"What do you think...?” the sacristan muttered.

"I don't know,” Père Foutin answered, much troubled. “The village ... they should be roused. Who knows what manner of ... The bell. Ring the bell, Frère Loys. Do that.” He stepped back into his old, drafty church and closed the door. He would open it again, once the bell had been rung, but until he knew who was coming, and at such an hour, he could not bring himself to keep the church unprotected.

Frère Loys bustled toward the stairs leading to the squat bell tower when he heard the first sound the strange men made—an eerie rumble, like a growl, deep in the chest, no louder than the purring of a large cat. He stopped in mid-stride and nearly fell for the utter terror that coursed through him. Then he bolted, reaching out for the rope to the bell as he might grasp for the hand of an angel.

Père Foutin was appalled at the sound, and knew that he did not need more warning than that to rouse the village. The hair on his neck prickled and he could hardly bring himself to breathe. His hand moved in a blessing, but he was not aware of it. “For all that I have done to offend Thee, I beg You will forgive me now,” he muttered as he pressed his forehead against the thick wooden doors that now seemed woefully inadequate to keep them safe. “I repent my sins and despise myself that I committed them, knowing that they were...” His voice dropped to nothing as he heard the rough clamor of the bell. “Let it be enough,” he prayed. “O Bon Dieu, let it be enough."

The purring sound grew louder, angrier, deeper. The men gathered in front of the church, spreading out to bar the way to any who might seek to enter or leave the church.

The bell sounded again, more emphatically, as Frère Loys tugged and cursed.

Suddenly the men fell silent once again, and this was more awful than the droning they had made mere pulse-beats ago.

"Virge Saunt Marie,” Père Foutin whispered, “You who care for us at the hour of our death, intercede for me; tell them that I did not mean all the venal things I've done, that I did not intend to desert my brother when the Plague came. I have tried to undo the wrong I have done. You know that I have. If I am weak, God must know it. You will remind Him, Supreme Virge, that He gave me little bravery. I did all I could with what I have.” He crossed himself. “You may stop, Frère Loys,” he called out with a calm that was more surprising to him than his companion.

"But...” the sacristan shouted, clanging the bell again.

"Stop,” Père Foutin said, feeling weary to the marrow of his bones.

The bell was stilled; Père Foutin and Frère Loys waited in the darkness for the men to act.

By the time the swineherd reached Le Tres Saunt Annunciation, he was panting so much that he could not speak at all. He gasped through the grille to the warder Sister in a few incoherent syllables and was admitted at once by Seur Philomine, who had heard the bell of Saunt-Vitre ring in the distance. She escorted him quickly through the halls, knowing that it was improper for a man to be in that part of the convent without the express permission of Père Guibert and Mère Léonie. She was prepared to deal with the reprimand she would undoubtedly receive later, but for now she realized that Mère Léonie must know at once what had happened.

"Come,” said the Superior when Seur Philomine rapped on her cell door.

"It is Seur Philomine, ma Mère. There is a swineherd come from—"

"Where is he?” Mère Léonie interrupted her.

"He is with me, ma Mère.” She knew better than to offer apology for this; later more than a simple apology would be required.

"I see.” The door opened. Mère Léonie, fully habited, stepped into the hall. “And?"

Seur Philomine was about to answer, but the swineherd took a deep breath and said, “Men. In the village. Around the church."

"I see,” Mère Léonie responded with difficult composure. “Those unfortunate women."

"Ma Mère!” Seur Philomine protested, turning pale.

"The women? But...” the swineherd began, and left unfinished.

"We must prepare,” Mère Léonie went on. “If this is like the others have been, we will have much to do to ensure...” She did not finish her thoughts. Turning to the swineherd, she stared hard at him. “How long did it take you to reach here?"

"Not long,” he answered in an intimidated way. “I ran."

"I should imagine. There will be something for you in the kitchen. Seur Philomine, go along with him and see that he has some broth before he leaves."

"Leaves?” Seur Philomine repeated. “But Mère Léonie, if those are Flagellants ... Mère Léonie, they will ... He should not..."

"I do not mean to send him back to the village, ma Seur. But he cannot properly remain here, and we will have much to do to prepare for what ... may come.” With that, she swept away from them down the hall toward the chapel, her grey habit billowing with the speed of her pace.

"What...?” the swineherd asked, trying to sort out what had happened.

"Mère Léonie must inform the others of ... your news.” Seur Philomine started in the direction of the kitchens, hoping that she could think of a plausible reason for her Superior's actions before she poured out broth for the swineherd.

Père Guibert saw smoke rising over the village of Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur and he bowed his head in prayer. He looked around the courtyard of the convent, thinking that he had rarely seen so bleak a dawn. His eyes stung, and he told himself it was from the smell of smoke drifting across the sky. He heard the nuns’ voices from the chapel where the chants for protection were being sung. “I could ask that I have their faith,” he mused, afraid to address his doubts to Heaven. “I have asked for aid before.” If he were alive by the end of the day, he would have to go to Saunt-Vitre and see what remained of the place, a thing so intolerable to him that he very nearly wished that he might not survive.

"Père Guibert,” said Mère Léonie as she came into the courtyard. “My Sisters will be ready to carry out your instructions as soon as possible. Seur Lucille returned yesterday, and she will inform you of what she had learned. When you wish her to do so, of course.” This last afterthought was said in so offhanded a fashion that Père Guibert knew Mère Léonie had her mind on other matters.

"Thank you. We will need aid by the end of the day, I fear."

"It would appear so,” she said carefully. “But I ask you not to speak so where the others may hear you; they are frightened children now, every one of them, and it would be cruel and contrary to our faith to increase their apprehension now."

Père Guibert did his best to take this rebuke as the nervous concern he knew it was. “You will have to inform them sometime, ma Fille."

"I hope not,” she answered. “Forgive me. I am not quite myself.” She began to pace, her long, boyish stride setting the skirts of her habit swinging in a distracting way. “I wonder if it might be possible for us to ask His Holiness for one or two of his vidames to guard us."

"There are many convents that would wish the same, and the vidames cannot send away all their men-at-arms.” He gave the chiding as gently as he knew how. “I, too, would take comfort in the presence of men in armor.” He studied her to see what reaction his words evoked, but there was little he could learn from her demeanor. “Do you want to pray with me?"

"I want to do something. I want to strike back, so that we are not just so many virgin sacrifices for the Glory of God.” She stopped, her hands coming to her face before Père Guibert could express his shock at her outburst. “I did not mean..."

"It is difficult,” Père Guibert agreed, wishing that he might give vent to his feelings as she had done.

"There is not time enough for us to flee.” She was much more composed now. “I wish I had sent the older nuns to safety."

"Sadly, we do not know how many more of the Flagellants are on the road, or where they are bound. It might have endangered more to send them away."