A Mortal Glamour (21 page)

Seur Tiennette accepted this oblique chiding with a single nod. “You are more dedicated that Mère Jacinthe, ma Mère,” she muttered.

"I have more need of devotion, perhaps. Mère Jacinthe served this convent well."

"That she did,” Seur Tiennette said with feeling. “Would you permit me to sit with Seur Lucille this evening?"

Mère Léonie looked surprised; most of the Sisters subtly avoided this responsibility. “You may, if that is what you wish."

"It isn't what I wish, but she is my friend. God is requiring much suffering from her, and I believe that I must do all that I can for her before she is gone away from us."

"I see.” Mère Léonie lifted one hand in benediction, though properly such a gesture was reserved for priests. “It is to your credit, Seur Tiennette."

"I do not sleep much, in any case. I might be as well pass time with Seur Lucille.” It was a simple admission, yet few of the other nuns would have dared to say the night was more disruptive than day in the convent.

"We must pray for our Sisters,” Mère Léonie said, by way of acknowledgement. “I myself spend many hours alone in mediation."

"It might be as well if you were to speak to us, when there is ... trouble.” Seur Tiennette waited for a rebuke.

"It is best, I think, if I do not dignify the nightmares and restlessness of some of our Sisters with my presence or comments. Let others learn to be calm within themselves, and we will once again have order, even in the darkest hour of the night.” She looked directly at the older nun. “Or do you wish to correct me, Seur Tiennette?"

Faced with so direct a question, Seur Tiennette turned and fled.

Seur Marguerite was weeping when Seur Catant found her in the orchard. She looked up and managed to say, “My poor little ones,” before she burst out in frantic sobs.

Seur Catant's patience had been tried to the limit, and she made no attempt to give a soft answer to the other nun. “What is it now? Are your wits wholly gone, or are you merely wandering in your memories?"

"It's...” Seur Marguerite could not bring herself to speak, and it was some little time until she could explain her distress. “I heard them calling me,” she said thickly. “They were all of them ... my poor little beauties ... and they have never done harm. They called to me. They knew it was too late, but they wanted me to aid them. It is like the rest of us, calling to God though it is too late and the Devil has come to us. That's the reason they died."

By this time, Seur Catant had realized that one of the hives was silent, and she stared in astonishment at the dead bees that littered the ground around it. “When did this happen?"

"Only yesterday. It was the Devil. He came and breathed on them, and that was poison to them, as it is to all mortals. They struggled, but they died.” Seur Marguerite mopped her face with the sleeve of her habit.

"It may be the weather,” Seur Catant suggested. “The spring has been humid, and bees do not take well to that.” She remembered hearing her uncle say that, many years ago. “You'd better watch the other hives."

"The Devil has come here, and nothing is the same. I have seen him, fair as an angel, and he comes with ease to us, and we ... he is like the Plague. One moment all is thriving and well, and the next all has sickened and in time it will fade and die. That is the way of the Devil. I have seen it before. Never so plainly, never so brazenly."

Seur Catant stopped listening. Like the other nuns, she knew that Seur Marguerite was not right in her wits and was given to strange pronouncements and outbursts. This was just another such, and she did not intend for it to disturb her. “I must see to the grafts on the trees,” she explained as she started to move away.

"They will fail, too,” Seur Marguerite warned her, then wept again.

"There could be trouble, with the weather,” Seur Catant said, determined not to be caught up in Seur Marguerite's visions. God disposed and it was for man to accept His dictates. To do otherwise was heresy. If God had determined that there should be famine in the valley, then it would be so, and some of them would starve. She crossed herself at this dreadful notion. “It's a sin to be cast down. That is doubt of God's Love, and therefore a great error.” She did not want to have to beg her bread for it, and shut it from her mind.

A light wind blew through the orchard, scattering petals capriciously so that they landed on Seur Catant's coif like a forgotten wreath. The air was warm and slightly damp, scented with the growing things of spring.

At first, Seur Catant was buoyed up by this indecorous display, and the gloom that had closed in on her was dispersed. Then she inspected the grafts, and her apprehension returned; for where there should have been new sprouting limbs, there were only dark, brittle sticks fuzzed over at the base with rot. She took the first one of these she found and tested it, only to have it break off in her fingers and send a fine spray of bluish dust over the front of her habit. “Bon Dieu!” she expostulated, wrinkling her nose. “Let us hope that the others are better.” She said this loudly enough so that all the trees could hear her.

Behind her, Seur Marguerite was crooning to the hives, putting her arms around the smallest and singing bits of the only song she knew, which was the threnody that had been sung in Lyon for the greater part of a year when the Plague held sway there.

But the others were worse, if anything, and she saw with dismay that the rot had spread in one of the trees from the grafts to the other branches. That tree was barren of leaves and it had not blossomed. Seur Catant tried to convince herself that the little petals had all been blown away, but she knew that was not the case. The orchard had been blighted, and something had to be done at once if the illness was not to spread.

Seur Ranegonde frowned at the shuttle and the broken thread trailing behind it. She had been weaving for more than two hours and this was the fifth time her thread had broken. She drew the shuttle out of the web and looked at it closely. There was nothing wrong that she could see. She ran her fingers over it slowly, searching for edges or nicks that might weaken or snap the thread. She found nothing. With a prayer for patience, she pulled the broken thread free of the cloth and held it up to the light. The end was frayed, as if the thread had simply come apart. She moistened the break with her tongue and carefully knotted the thread together again.

"Is something the matter?” Seur Adalin asked from her chair where she sat embroidering a new altar cloth.

"Oh, nothing, really.” Seur Ranegonde guided the shuttle through her loom slowly, concentrating on how it went, watching for any further difficulties.

"Perhaps you'd better speak to Seur Elvire and Seur Morgance; they're doing most of the spinning now.” Seur Adalin held up her work so that the light could shine through it. “I've had some trouble with threads. And when I've dyed them, they haven't taken the color as they should."

"Mère Léonie says that we should not worry about it; with all that has happened here, it would be surprising if we had not more upsets to contend with. She says it is because we are indulging our sins instead of...” Her voice trailed off as the thread broke again.

"Instead of cleansing ourselves, as Our Lord bade us,” Seur Adalin finished for her. “But Our Lord never was a weaver or a needlewoman, was He?” She gave an apologetic laugh. “I should confess that, shouldn't I? It was wrong of me to jest about Our Lord, Who had more to do than any of us."

"This thread is impossible!” Seur Ranegonde burst out. “No matter what I do, it breaks!"

"Can you use another spindle in your shuttle?” Seur Adalin suggested. “It may be only the one that is wrong."

Seur Ranegonde shook her head. “I ... I have the headache. I can't keep at this much longer.” She leaned back on the weaving stool and nearly overset herself. Exasperation flared, and she pulled the shuttle out of the loom and threw it at the far wall. “I will have to confess that,” she admitted without chagrin. “I will have to confess it all."

"But...” Seur Adalin began, then stopped as she saw the redness puckering the other nun's eyes. “Go to the refectory and ask Seur Tiennette for some of that lotion to soothe your eyes. It may be that you need the lotion as much as another Sister to spin the wool for you."

Seur Ranegonde was about to object, but could not bring herself to do so. “Perhaps you are right. The headache...” She started to get off the stool and was nearly overwhelmed by dizziness. “Heaven protect me."

"Seur Rane—” Seur Adalin started from her low bench.

"No!” Seur Ranegonde cut her off. “It's nothing. Just ... the headache. I moved too quickly, that's all. You see?” She moved away from the loom. “I am better already."

Though she doubted this, Seur Adalin held her peace as she watched Seur Ranegonde make her way unsteadily out of the room.

The small company of men-at-arms that accompanied Pierre Fornault to Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion were not pleased with their mission, and though they did not complain directly, their attitude showed in the slowness of their actions and the sour expressions they wore.

Pierre made a last attempt as they reached the convent to calm them. “Listen to me: it isn't right that you should feel slighted by this work. The Pope Himself has said that we are to discharge his orders here. You may receive recognition for what you do and—"

"Fine recognition!” one of the men scoffed. “Are we to receive a Vidamie for building convent doors? Will we be advanced in glory?"

"There is more glory in Heaven than on earth,” Pierre said without much conviction. “The Pope has given us orders.” He had a dogged attitude about the work; he liked it no more than the men he led.

"Then let God show us a little favor, a little help. Why not send an angel or two to fix the doors? Surely He has a few to spare—these are his brides, not ours. Shouldn't He protect them?” This was Ivo, who had chafed most openly at their task since it was assigned them.

"Don't let a priest hear you blaspheme that way,” Pierre told him, not bothering to scold. “We have work to do. The sooner it is done, the sooner we may be rid of it.” He looked up at the scarred and battered walls. The convent, to his eyes, looked more like a defeated fort than a refuge for devout women.

"They did a job on the place, I'll say that,” Ivo allowed, nudging the man next to him with his elbow. “For peasants with nothing more than rocks and whips, they did a lot of damage."

"This is mild,” Pierre said quietly. “You haven't seen where the church in the village was. They brought the whole building down."

This caused a momentary hush to fall over the men. Then one of the older ones braced his hands on his hips and laughed. “Surely there are other women in the world. They didn't have to go to these lengths to get at nuns, did they?"

The others echoed his laughter, and for the moment their resentment faded.

From her post at the grille, the warder Sister—today it was Seur Victoire—listened to the men and felt her face heat. She knew that she should call out to them and ask what their business was, but she could not bring herself to make a sound, thus admitting she had heard everything. She excused herself with the thought that she stammered and speaking out would embarrass both herself and the men.

"Isn't there supposed to be someone on duty here?” one of the men-at-arms asked.

"A warder Sister,” Pierre confirmed. “I wonder...” He strode over to the grilled window and peered in, shading his face so that he could more easily pierce the darkness of the warder post.

"God be with you,” Seur Victoire gasped, running the words together.

"And with you, ma Seur,” Pierre responded. “Will you carry a message for me to Mère Léonie?"

"I ... I will,” Seur Victoire said, wanting to bolt from the place.

"Tell her that le Duc de Parcignonne is here with men to rebuild the doors. He would like to speak with her before the labor begins.” He imagined Mère Léonie coming to him, her long, clean way of walking showing the length of her leg against her habit, her light eyes like points of flame. He was not certain what more he wished her to do, at least not at once. “Ma Seur?"

Seur Victoire shook herself and nodded to the intruder. “I will d-do it,” she said, abandoning her post with haste.

Pierre strolled back to his men, content to wait for Mère Léonie to come to him.

Ivo was pointing out the corner of the burned stable, saying to the others, “And doubtless we'll have to repair those as well. Do you think that will increase our glory, or merely make our bodies ache?"

"You're too worldly for this task, Ivo,” one of the others said with good humor.

"Who among us isn't? Why couldn't they send monks to do this? Why did it have to be us?” His indignation was shared by the others, and one of them spat to show his contempt.

"They sent us,” Pierre answered, speaking with exaggerated precision, “because there are other heretics in this part of the country. If the convent were to be set upon again, monks could do little to help the nuns. We, on the other hand, are able to assist them."

The men-at-arms nodded, a few of them shifting their weight uneasily. All but one of them had dismounted, but the man still on his horse reached for the hilt of the long sword slung across his back. “Let them come,” he said with relish. “Anything to liven this ordeal."

"What about the Devil?” Ivo suggested. “Would you want to match blades with him, or will heretics do for you, Godellbert?"

"Either will do,” Godellbert replied laconically. “I've fought Turks, and the Devil has nothing on them."

Though most of the men laughed at this, Pierre remained quiet. It troubled him that his men were restive even before their work had begun. He had warned the Cardinal that this might happen, but his worries had been dismissed as foolish. Now he was afraid that he had underestimated the discontent of his men. He would have to find something more for them to do; replacing the convent would not be enough if they were to keep from mischief.

"Pierre!” The call interrupted his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder to see not Mère Léonie but Seur Aungelique coming toward him from the vegetable garden. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, like enormous pools hidden from the light. She was almost running now. “Pierre! You've come!"