A Mortal Glamour (32 page)

Padre Bartolimieu moved once more, wondering where Père Guibert was. He entered the chapel and saw the nuns in the twilight, their grey habits making them look like old candles or pillars of smoke. He pushed his way through the disorder to where Seur Fleurette lay huddled on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face in a rictus of terror. “God fortify me,” he whispered as he knelt beside the nun.

"What must we do, Padre?” the nearest Sister asked in faint accents.

"Pray for her,” he answered without thinking. “She needs your prayers.” As he said this, he reached out to Seur Fleurette.

She screamed as if she had been touched by a hot iron. “NO!"

Padre Bartolimieu hesitated. “What ...?"

"She said that the Devil sent imps to her,” Seur Morgance volunteered. “She said they are inside her."

"She tried to scratch, but when she drew blood, then she started screaming,” Seur Elvire told him. “What is to become of us, mon Padre?"

"We are in the hands of God,” Padre Bartolimieu said, and felt his words were inadequate. He could not forget what had happened to those who trusted him before. Now it had begun again, and once again he was failing God's test.

"Is it demons?” Seur Odile asked, afraid to hear the answer.

"It may be. It may be madness or tainted bread.” He moved back, resting on his heels. “Is Père Guibert close at hand? Should he be called?"

"You are a priest,” Seur Victoire reminded him, sounding shocked that he could speak in this way.

"But Père Guibert is her confessor.” It was an excuse: he knew it in the depths of his soul. Yet the nuns accepted it. “She knows him. I am a stranger."

"I'll find him,” Seur Adalin offered, hurrying out of the chapel once again.

Seur Fleurette continued to shriek in the steady, methodical way of an angry infant. Her eyes were screwed shut and her lips had drawn back from her teeth.

"She does not weep,” Seur Morgance observed. “The others have wept."

"Poor Sister,” Seur Ranegonde said to the air, making futile motions with her hands. “What are we to do?"

"We need Mère Léonie,” Seur Odile said, and the others agreed with conviction.

"She has secluded herself, good Sisters,” Padre Bartolimieu reminded them, speaking loudly enough to be heard over Seur Fleurette's noise.

"Then we must ask her to come out of seclusion,” Seur Tiennette declared. “She is a good and pious Superior, but now she must attend to us. That is what the Pope requires of nuns, that they submit themselves to the good of their communities."

"But she is helping my children,” Seur Marguerite objected. “Without her, the last of them will die. Imps have been at them, too. Mère Léonie has saved them and she must—"

"This is not the same as a few dead bees,” Seur Catant snapped. She was huddled against the edge of the altar, staring at Seur Fleurette as if she were an adder.

"She kept the Flagellants away from us; she must help us again,” Seur Odile demanded. “Make her help us, mon Padre."

"I...” He faltered. “Yes. Very well. I will speak to her. I will try to convince her to come to your assistance.” It would get him out of the chapel, away from the hysterical Seur Fleurette. He stood up, feeling dizzy. When he had steadied himself he hurried out of the chapel, the screams pursuing him, driving him like a heretic's lash.

Off in the dusk the stream gurgled softly; frogs and crickets creaked and chirped, an owl hooted, the grasses whisked against the wind.

"You mustn't remain here,” Tristan said to Philomine as they walked through the fields. “I fear for you, off in this demented place."

She could not dispute with him, nor did she want to. “Will your Duc allow you to take me with you when you leave?"

A week ago, Tristan would have said yes without hesitation. Now he considered the question carefully. “I don't know. I wish I did. Parcignonne has not been like himself of late. He sleeps poorly. There are times you would think he had been cursed.” He held her hand more tightly in his. “If he will not permit it, then I will leave his service."

"You have an oath of honor,” she said, not looking at him. “You have bent the knee to him and you wear his badge."

"But he has his obligation to me as well.” He paused, looking at her with unwonted intensity. “If he will not defend me and mine, then he is not worthy, and I am not bound to him."

"You would bring shame on your House,” Philomine said sadly.

"Just as well, if we are to go together,” he said, chuckling. “I will speak to le Duc as soon as I may."

"Tonight?” The question was not meant to press him, but she held his hand more tightly. “You must do it when you wish."

He let go of her hand in order to put his arm around her shoulder. “It will be soon; it must be.” They walked in companionable silence for a little while, enjoying the sounds of the night and their nearness. “Parcignonne troubles me. When we first arrived, he was eager to be gone, and sought only to find out the truth of the rumors he had heard, and to remove his cousin, if that were necessary. Now, he goes through the days with his eyes haunted and his mind ... distracted. He has said that he cannot leave yet. Then he says that he must leave at once for the good of his soul."

Philomine listened to this sympathetically. “He is as unfortunate as the Sisters, then.” She stood still, turning toward him. “If he stays here, so must you."

His smile was slow, deeply content. “That is so. And for that I am grateful to my lord. While I am here, I can be with you."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, glad that she wore none of her required head gear. “I wish you might stay with me forever."

"For all my life, Philomine,” he whispered. “There is nothing that will separate us but death."

"Hush, Tristan.” She kissed him. “If there are demons here, they will hear you and..."

"And what?” he asked when she did not go on. “They cannot harm me. Not while you and I are together."

Philomine trembled. “Don't speak that way, Tristan. I...” She had no way to tell him how much she dreaded becoming like the other nuns, subsisting on their dreams and their nightmares. “Le me be with you, and the whole world is real. If you are lost to me, then even I am ... nothing, and the rest is less than nothing."

He held her more closely. “Be with me now, Philomine, and we will both be real.” Their kiss was long, their need was shared. “Is there time?"

She laughed. “Yes. Not much, but enough time.” As she said it, a frisson passed through her, for she felt she was speaking not of making love but life itself.

"Do you mind that it must be ... quick?” He tilted her face up to him. “If you mind, we will wait."

"Of course I mind,” she answered. “I want to lie in your arms all night long and wake to you. I want to see you as you sleep. I want to bear the weight of you.” She put her arms around his waist so she could feel his body through her clothes. “I will not forgo this chance simply because it is not ideal."

He stepped back, but only far enough to be able to strip off his surcote. “Do you need help with your habit?"

"Oh, Bon Dieu!” For the first time she felt merry. “Of course not. I have got in and out of it every day for three years."

His answering smile was strangely shy. “I am sorry it has been so long."

She stopped undressing and touched his arm. “It has been what it has been. It is past and gone. Now we are here and this is the time we have."

He looked steadily at her. “Yes. Oh, Philomine, yes."

Half-dressed, shivering in the cool of the evening, they clung together, seeking one another with ardor. They finished undressing slowly, caressing each other as their garments fell into the long whispering grasses beside the stream.

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Guards flanked the door of Georges, Cardinal Belroche, their swords properly sheathed, but braced before them. Père Guibert and Padre Bartolimieu glanced at them uneasily as the Papal page opened the door and stood aside to admit them.

The Cardinal, a squat, sour-eyed man, sat at his writing table, a sheet of vellum spread before him. He looked up, squinting at the newcomers, and called out in his high, metallic voice, “Who's there?"

"It is Padre Bartolimieu, Swiss, and Père Guibert, French,” the page said, knowing that the Cardinal's eyesight was falling and that the Prince of the Church did not like to be reminded of it.

"Illustrissimi,” Père Guibert said, kneeling before the table, his head bowed. Beside him, Padre Bartolimieu did the same.

"Oh. You're the ones with the convent. Yes. I recall the names.” The Cardinal snapped out his words, looking in the direction of his page. “Have I time to speak to them now, or..."

The page shifted his stance. “There are services for the men killed in Italy, Illustrissimi."

"When is that?” He had not yet given the blessing to the two priests and was satisfied to keep them on their knees before him.

"In an hour, Illustrissimi,” the page said.

"You will summon me in time.” He waved his hand to dismiss his page, then made the sign of the cross over his visitors. “You have until he comes to explain your report. What is this nonsense about demons?"

"I fear greatly that it is not nonsense,” Père Guibert said, his head still bent as much with shame as with respect to the Cardinal. “There is something that is wrong at the convent, and if it is not demons, we do not know what it is."

"I have seen nuns in the grip of those ... forces,” Padre Bartolimieu declared, his voice high with emotion.

The Cardinal said nothing. One of his large sandaled feet tapped in irritation.

"We are in need of aid,” Père Guibert ventured in the uneasy quiet.

"You say in your message that le Duc de Parcignonne has brought men-at-arms to your nuns. Surely he can aid you.” His tone was becoming more terse and impatient. “You should know better than to petition for another priest at a time like this."

"I...” Père Gilbert began, chastened and perplexed. “I did not think that there would be difficulties."

"You circuit priests!” the Cardinal scoffed. “All you think about are those few religious and peasants you hear confess. You believe that they are the Church. Mon Fils, we are the Church, we of the Papal Court. The rest are the flock we lead, as we must, but it is not they but we who are the Church.” He slapped the flat of his palm on the table, a sharp explosion of sound. “And we are under assault as surely as if there were an army at the gates of Avignon."

Padre Bartolimieu coughed. “The Devil sends his minions in many forms, Illustrissimi,” he said awkwardly. “Roman spies to you and, it may be, demons to the good Sisters of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion."

"Hardly the same thing,” the Cardinal said. “What has happened? You report that there are those who are abused with fleshly dreams and others who fall into fits. There was much of that when the Plague was visited on us before, and most of them died who were afflicted in such wise. Is there Plague in your valley, perhaps, or has there been Plague recently?” He drummed his fingers on the table. “If there is Plague, it is a sin not to inform me of it."

"There is no Plague, not as you mean,” Père Guibert said, thinking over his answer carefully. “There are demons, but there has been no Plague."

"There were heretics not long ago,” Padre Bartolimieu interjected, as if confessing a secret vice.

"Those were the ones the Sisters fought off, weren't they?” Cardinal Belroche asked. “There was mention of it in your report."

"Yes,” Père Guibert answered, startled that the Cardinal should be familiar with what he had said. “They defended themselves and their convent until le Duc de Parcignonne and his men arrived. They were valiant, the Sisters. Only one of them died from her wounds."

"A worthy death, and one that doubtless gained her a martyr's crown,” the Cardinal said, disinterested beyond his own remark. “She was an older Sister, I believe."

"Yes, and from a good House,” Père Guibert said, then cleared his throat. “I saw her shortly before she died. She suffered much and there was little that could be done to relieve her pain. Her Sisters took good care of her, but she failed in spite of that."

"Unfortunate,” the Cardinal said in a crushing manner. “Tell me of these demons you fear: how long has the convent been infested with them—if it is infested at all?"

"For seven weeks, perhaps more,” Père Guibert answered, stung that the Cardinal should care so little for Seur Lucille. “There is one Sister, Seur Aungelique, who does not have a vocation and has been compelled to enter the convent by the will of her father, who hopes to teach her obedience through this ruse. She has been a ... disruption."

"Ah. And who is this nun?” The Cardinal folded his arms and belatedly motioned for the two priests to rise.

"The daughter of Baron Michau d'Ybert,” Père Guibert said with sudden trepidation.

"The new vidame?” the Cardinal asked with sharper attention than he had shown before. “Why did you not mention this?"

"It ... it was part of the report. I informed you, Illustrissimi, that Seur Aungelique is the cousin of le Duc de Parcignonne,” Père Guibert answered, his discomfort increasing unpleasantly. “I did not intend to ... to misrepresent her to you, Illustrissimi. But her father has shown no interest in her beyond placing her at the convent and le Duc is often present, and thus, as you may expect, I assume that she had been made his ward, or some similar arrangement. Mère Jacinthe, the old Superior who died last winter, she made no disposal either way to me, and it was natural that I ... that I...” He forced himself to stop babbling. “Of course I should have made it clear that Seur Aungelique is d'Ybert's daughter."

"Indeed you should,” the Cardinal agreed, not as dauntingly as Père Guibert feared he might. “And you, Swiss?"

Padre Bartolimieu coughed once. “I have only recently attended the nuns, at the request of Père Guibert. I do not know them well.” He disliked his cringing answer, but could not change it. The Cardinal terrified him more the longer they were in his presence.

"The Swiss always equivocate,” Cardinal Belroche declared, leaning back and pointing to two low benches not far from his writing table. “Sit down, priests. I will hear you out."