A Mortal Glamour (2 page)

"May God send His Peace, which is not of this world, to guide and comfort you,” said the tall young woman who climbed, unassisted, out of the wagon. Her voice was low, almost masculine, and in another might have been thought seductive. Though she moved slowly, in solemn grace, she gave the promise of energy, perhaps even zeal. She looked around her. “Oh, very good,” she said warmly. “Most surely good."

The Sisters gaped at her, some with relief, some with dismay, for none of them had expected such a replacement for the old and saintly Mère Jacinthe. Most Superiors were of a respectable age and demeanor, grave in countenance and somber of disposition, not glowing and gracious like this newcomer. Even the gorget and wimple could not hide her attractive features, nor disguise the vitality that coursed through her. Two of the older nuns exchanged sharp looks.

"It has been so long,” Mère Léonie said softly, speaking to herself or some inner part of her soul. “How I have yearned for this."

Only Seur Elvire heard her clearly, and knew that she would enjoy unusual attention for a day or two as she related this remark to the other nuns. She bowed her head, grateful for the opportunity Mère Léonie had provided her.

The wind whipped around the courtyard, tweaking the hems and cuffs and habits, disarranging coifs and causing the horses to snort.

"Your convent, Mère Léonie,” Frère Odo said unnecessarily.

"Yes. Pray God we will do well.” She gazed up at the slated roof of the hospice. “There is a need."

It was an awkward moment, for none of the women wanted to put themselves forward, yet all knew that one of their number must greet the new Superior.

One young woman, standing a little apart from the other nuns, spoke up first. “And my Savior send His blessing to guide you, ma Mère,” she said in a carrying voice whose accent, as much as her carriage, revealed a noble background.

Mère Léonie crossed herself. “As I most humbly beseech Him every day.” She advanced a few steps, meeting the eyes of her nuns forthrightly.

Frère Odo came swaggering along behind her, his coarse features spread over with a smug look that just missed being a grin. He nodded to the nuns around him, sizing them up. One or two showed promise, but he did not want to be hasty. The soft drone of whispered conversations stilled as he passed, and he knew that the nuns were speaking of Mère Léonie—he could hardly blame them for that—and perhaps of him as well. He whistled a hymn tune very quietly through his teeth.

"Ma Mère,” said one of the nuns dressed for the kitchen. “It is Seur Lucille who should greet you; she is the oldest of us and the one with the longest vocation. But she is supervising work in the orchard and will not be back for a little while. At Vespers, she'll...” She looked around for aid.

The well-born young nun who had been the first to speak came to her rescue. “Seur Fleurette is right, ma Mère. Seur Lucille is supervising work, as she said. The almond trees did badly for our last harvest."

"It is not important,” Mère Léonie said gently. “None of you knew when I was to arrive, and there is no need to disrupt yourselves for me. A good Mother does not set an example by disorder.” She looked around her, sensing the doubts of the women she had been sent to lead. “Return to your appointed tasks, my Sisters, and I will wait until the end of the evening meal to speak to you.” Her eyes fell on a novice. “Will you guide me, Seur?"

The novice looked up sharply. “I thank God for the honor,” she said, but her tone was slightly distracted, as if her mind had been on other matters.

Frère Odo looked up at Mère Léonie's sharp summons. “I need your aid, Frère,” she said, nodding toward the wagon that contained the two leather cases she had brought with her. “If you will follow us?"

The monk grumbled, but did as she ordered him. He had decided that he would try to get a few moments alone with one of the younger nuns, a great strapping girl who looked as if she had been raised on a farm doing hard work. Such women, he knew from long experience, were often more than eager to forget their vows for an hour or two, even on a winter's night, if there was a fire close at hand. With his mind still on the possibility of conquest, he climbed up into the wagon and brought down the larger of the cases, then trudged after Mère Léonie.

"The old refectory is in the far wing,” the novice was saying to Mère Léonie as Frère Odo caught up with them. “The community being reduced in size, we do not use it often now, and then only as a hospice for travelers."

"And when there is illness?” Mère Léonie inquired. “Is aid provided here?"

"It was, for a time. This valley was much taken by Plague, the last time it swept the land. From what we have been told, we fared less well than many other villages. You must have noticed that half the fields are fallow and...” She looked away, crossing herself in a vague manner. “There were many deaths, you see."

Mère Léonie also crossed herself, her face grave as she listened. “Is that the extent of it, or has there been worse?"

"There is always worse. Mercenaries sacked Mou Courbet last year—"

"Mou Courbet?” Mère Léonie repeated.

"The village at the end of the valley, just where the road turns toward the pass. It was more than twice the size ten years ago, or so I'm told.” She frowned once more. “We have prayed to God and the Virgin for aid, but it has not been granted us. Mère Jacinthe, toward the end, warned us that our sins would cost us all dearly if we did not forsake them and repent."

"Is the convent so full of wickedness?” Mère Léonie marveled, permitting herself a gentle smile.

"We must be,” the novice answered. “If not, then the wickedness is elsewhere, and I dare not think ... that God, being just, would ... require that...” She was unable to finish.

"Well, in Rome they would say it is because we are faithful to the true Pope at Avignon, though Rome has seen the Plague of late.” Her head turned away from the novice. “Is that the chapel, Seur?"

"One of them. There is a larger one, where Père Guibert says Mass for us twice a week. This chapel is for our own devotions.” She stood aside so that Mère Léonie could inspect the little stone-floored room. “When there were more of us, and there were three priests at the church in Saunt-Vitre, we had Masses every day, Matins and Vespers, but there is only Père Foutin now, and he has the village to attend to. Père Guibert arranged..."

"Very good of him,” Mère Léonie said as she left the chapel. “May I know your name, Seur?"

The novice blushed. “Seur Philomine, ma Mère. I've taken only tertiary vows, so that if my family should...” She almost said “relent,” but stopped herself in time.

Mère Léonie nodded. “You family has suffered much?"

"As have all families, in these days,” Seur Philomine said at once, not wishing to appear self-pitying.

"And for which we must pray all the more for God's Grace,” Mère Léonie added in a careless way. “Do your relatives believe that you are safer here than you would be with them, or have their fortunes suffered reverses?"

Seur Philomine blushed. “There have been some reverses,” she admitted with difficulty.

"It must be similar for many of the nuns,” Mère Léonie said sympathetically. “I should learn these things, that I may better fulfill my duties toward you all,” she added as explanation. “Doubtless you have heard, even here, that since the Church has been weakened by the ... rift between Rome and Avignon, many tasks have been neglected that—"

Seur Philomine shook her head in confusion. “Ma Mère, it is not my place to hear these things."

"Forgive me,” Mère Léonie said at once, then turned back to motion to Frère Odo. “Where shall he put this trunk? I have brought a few books and several lengths of cloth which I was told were needed here."

Once again Seur Philomine was surprised to have the new Superior confide in her. “Your cell and study are at the end of this hall, to the side of the chapel."

"Excellent,” Mère Léonie exclaimed. “Take those cases—the one you carry and the one remaining in the wagon—to the study."

Groaning a feeble protest, Frère Odo moved to do as he had been told.

"But don't you wish to see your quarters?” Seur Philomine asked, unable to conceal her puzzlement.

"Not at the moment. There are more important things for me to see, aren't there?” She smiled at Seur Philomine. “I will need to see the grounds and the storerooms as well as the buildings being used at the moment. Will you guide me, or should I ask for other escort?"

"I suppose I may guide you,” Seur Philomine told her, wondering why she had been chosen to do this when there were other nuns who would believe themselves more entitled to the privilege.

"God send you His blessing for your service,” Mère Leonine said at once. “Do you read and write?"

"Sufficiently for the demands of our service,” Seur Philomine said, averting her eyes from the new Superior. “I was not the first daughter, and so..."

"And your older sisters?” Mère Léonie inquired as they came to another turn in the hallway.

"They married, as was arranged, but ... then they died.” She crossed herself and coughed once. “It is not a thing that I wish to speak of, Mère Léonie."

"It was not meant unkindly, ma Seur,” Mère Léonie said with a touch of sternness about her mouth as she spoke. “As Superior, I am required to acquaint myself with the lives of those in my charge. In the name of Mère Marie, give me your understanding and forgiveness."

Seur Philomine knew already that she had behaved improperly, and she accepted her rebuke with all the humility she could find within her. “It was wrong of me to question you, ma Mère. It is I who must be forgiven."

"Of course. With the times the way they are, it is not astonishing that all of you here would be cautious of a newcomer, even one sent to lead you.” Her faint, equivocal smile, framed as it was by gorget, wimple and coif, was strangely sinister, a thing out of place in that handsome face. “I pray that you and your Sisters will guide me in the days that are to come."

"Amen to that, ma Mère,” Seur Philomine said as she opened a door and stood aside. “Here is the ante-chamber to our kitchen. When it is possible, we offer charity to those in greatest need, especially to travelers and women with children."

"But the priests in Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur, don't they provide for...” Mère Léonie made a gesture that implied that it was not the responsibility of the nuns to do such work.

"For the village itself, yes they do, but there are others who live here, and those who are without homes and shelter who pass this way. Mère Jacinthe enforced all the devotional offices required of us. Before the Plague came the last time, it was not as urgent a need. Now, you ... well, you saw how it was, didn't you?"

"Yes,” Mère Léonie answered thoughtfully. “Yes."

"She troubles me,” Seur Catant whispered to the woman on her right. “Look at her. If she were not tranquil, she would be...” She stopped, breaking her small, flat loaf and placing it on the wooden trencher before her as the blessing was invoked for their simple evening meal.

Beside Seur Catant, Seur Elvire listened with slight attention; Seur Catant was known to be discontented with her lot and often gave vent to her feelings through petty outbursts of spite.

The voice of Mère Léonie rose above the others, bringing the whispers of conversation to an end. “I am saddened to see you so lax in the Rule of Order,” she said, turning this observation into subtle and damning condemnation. “In these times, with war and the might of the Plague around us, we must be the more rigorous in our devotions, to ward off the evil which has been so long visited upon us. God will not forgive our lapses now, or at any time. We are His sheep, and He our shepherd. If we do not follow our Shepherd, then we will each be alone, at the mercy of the ravening beasts that stalk us. ‘Who among us is safe?’ you ask when you pray, and do not trust God to care for you, though He promised His care, and gave the life of His Son in bond."

The nuns looked around uneasily, and one of them made a sound that could have been jeering laughter or a choked sob.

"Yes, think of what you do, and remember that we have been given the consolation of our faith, where others of this dreadful world must wander in darkness, without guidance and without hope of life everlasting.” Mère Léonie rose. “I have been with you for seven days, and I have wanted to speak each of those days, for all that I saw distressed me more than I have the capacity to express.” Her hands pressed at her thighs through the shapeless drapery of her habit. “It is not that you have fallen into sin and worse, for it that were the case, it would be easily dealt with; the Church would only have to file complaints of heresy against you and the matter would be at an end. The convent would be closed and rites of purification carried out so that once again worship could be given cleanly. But that is not what concerns us.” She paused, her eyes measuring the women before her. “What has happened here is more insidious than simple heresy, and it is the more dangerous to all of us. You have fallen into the error of liberality, which leads to corruption and such vileness that I cannot speak of it. You have been lax in the exercise of your faith because you believe that the ordeals of these dreadful times excuse you from the strictness of your observations and vows. This is a fault, and you have all succumbed to it. I cannot inform the Pope in Avignon that you have served your vocations well; you have not."

One of the nuns, the thin and nervous Seur Odile, had begun to weep, but the others did not dare make so obvious a display of their emotions. The room was entirely quiet now, for Seur Odile did not sob.

"Let me advise you and I will ask you to renew the fervor and full dedication of your vows, and I will petition the Church for a strict review of the practices here. It does not become me to speak ill of one who has led you, but in good faith I must protest that Mère Jacinthe did not do all that she might to instill in you the gravity of your position. There are those who believe that the Plague which has ravened through the land was sent to test you and that the suffering it has brought will expunge much of the worldliness that infects us even as the Plague has done. This is false, my Sisters, for outward ills cannot pardon inward loathsomeness. It will not bring credit to you or this Order if you permit your thoughts to be thus led astray. You must search inwardly for your failings and imperfections and do all that you can to eradicate them from your character, so that la Virge in Heaven may look upon you as handmaids deserving of honor, handmaids who have preserved themselves in perfect trust through the years of suffering and trial that have been sent to this despairing world. For that reason, I wish each of you to pray for one hour each day, fully prostrate, in the chapel, alone or with one other companion so that it can be determined that the simplicity and purity of our Order is restored and each of you is once again secure in her vows."