A Mortal Glamour (46 page)

"Mon Père!” Comtesse Orienne protested. “Such accusations are grave and I will not tolerate them in my own villa."

"You will not tolerate them? You? You are the spawn of Lilith herself, and you reek of debauchery! You are the portal to damnation, and it lies not in the sides of your garments, but between your thighs, where you bring your lovers and cause them more travail than any other woes the world has to offer. You are what has opposed the Church from the beginning, the sweet poison of flesh and desire that turns the minds of men from God and the promise of Heaven. For that we are all punished, and rightly so. The Kingdom of God is far off as long as such as you walk the earth. You are what has brought the Plague upon us! You are what destroys us all!” His voice had become a howl, almost incoherent with the power of his increasing ire. “Mon Évêque came here, and it was not of his own will, you serpent! He was brought here through guile by one who is already your slave."

Comtesse Orienne blinked. “Your Évêque? That puny little worm? Is that what you are so overwrought about?” She had been hoping to discover the source of his grievance, but she had never suspected it might be something so minor as that terrified little man with the pouting rose-bud mouth that Pierre had requested she bed. “For all the Saints, mon Père, he was here but once, and if he had told you he did not enjoy himself, then he lied to you."

"No!” Padre Bartolimieu rounded on her. “More deceptions, more vilifications! You insinuated yourself into his grace and then you set upon him, confounding his reason so that he ... he ... succumbed to you!"

"That last I will not argue,” she said, a degree of amusement bursting through the alarm that ran through her. “He did succumb and would have succumbed more if I had been willing. But he was most inexperienced and did not wish to learn how to pleasure me, only how to achieve his own enjoyment. He left in the morning, tired but satisfied, and he promised to come again when it was possible.” She leaned back in her chair. “I have not seen him since that day, and it is nothing to me if he never comes here again."

"Now that you have degraded him, you cast him aside so you may seek new prey!” Padre Bartolimieu accused her. “You will never stop until you have brought down His Holiness! You are the center of corruption in France, and—"

This time she laughed openly, but there was anger in the sound. “I have listened to enough. You make me to be one of the monsters of Saunt Jean, and that is more than I permit in my own villa. You have said what you came to say, you have heaped your vituperations on me, and that is sufficient. You will go now, mon Père, and I will try not to hold this against you in my heart.” She rose with the intention of leaving the salon.

"Wait!” Padre Bartolimieu ordered, taking three quick steps toward her as he fumbled in his sleeve.

"No. You have exhausted your welcome. My servants will escort you to—” Her dismissal ended in a sharp cry as the barbs of his scourge hissed past her face. “You disgusting hypocri—"

This time the lashes caught, the tips of the iron hooks digging into her forehead and cheek, raking and tearing down the side of her face. “Thus do we abjure your work, Satan!” Padre Bartolimieu shrieked in terrible rapture as he swung the scourge again.

Comtesse Orienne screamed, the sound high and shuddering as the pain went though her. “To me! Jaques! To me!” The third time the scourge struck her, the agony of it was worse than anything she had felt before. She fell away from the scourge and tried to crawl behind her chair for protection. The smell of her blood was strong in her throat. She coughed, and tasted the warm, metallic fluid.

"You destroyed Évêque Amalrie!” Padre Bartolimieu bellowed, and launched himself into the attack once again, the light of battle bright in his face. “You will pay for it now and in Hell!"

His scourge struck her shoulder and ripped the linen. He had drawn his arm back and was moving closer to her when strong hands fell on him, restraining him and pulling him away from the whimpering woman on the floor. Knees, fingers and fists gouged and pummeled him while he tried to break free, but it was to no avail. Two pages, a house steward and a footman wrestled Padre Bartolimieu to the floor and with pleased efficiency, beat him into unconsciousness.

Jaques was the first to approach Comtesse Orienne, who had dragged herself into a corner of the room where she lay in half-stupor, her screams now reduced to strange, child-like mewlings. Jaques shook his head as he saw the extent of the damage the metal-tipped lashes had done: long furrows scored her face and forehead, her nose was torn and there was so much blood that he could not tell what had become of her right eye. Flesh was torn on her neck and shoulders, but the bleeding was not so great. He turned to the others. “Take that man to le Duc. Truss him up like a boar if you must, but take him there and tell le Duc what he did to our mistress. He will see to the man."

"But this is a priest,” the footman protested, not wishing to offend the Church.

"It would not matter if it were the Pope. Le Duc is her champion, and she has suffered ... “—he swallowed against a sudden obstruction—"very much at his hands. It is for le Duc to redress her wrongs.” He was trying to think of whom he ought to call to tend her, for the injuries Comtesse Orienne had sustained were far beyond what he could treat. “Well, hurry. Get that madman away from here at once!"

The other three exchanged looks but hastened to obey. As they got him to his feet, Padre Bartolimieu began to shout imprecations at the men who restrained him. “You will be hurled into the Pit! Demons will consume your entrails!” he raved, but to no avail.

When they had gone, Jaques knelt down and lifted his mistress into his arms, holding her gently, speaking to her quietly as he bore her to her bedchamber with dread in his heart.

In the latter part of the night, it was the task of Seur Theodosie to watch over Seur Catant, to see that she did not harm herself. It was something the quiet nun hated doing, and because she knew the hatred was wrong, she fulfilled her obligations with great dedication, trusting it would make up for her sin. She often sang hymns and Psalms to herself to help the night go by, but this evening, with the first of the autumn storms brewing, there was little distraction or consolation in the words she sang to herself. Heaven seemed to be an unfriendly place as the clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the stars.

"Troubled?” asked a light voice from the end of the corridor.

Seur Theodosie turned to see the intruder. “Go away. It is not right for you to be here. I will call la Mère to show you out if you do not leave at once.” She had a brittle tone, one that became more noticeable when she was upset. The appearance of this unknown man in the convent halls was troublesome indeed.

"But how uncharitable,” Thibault said. “When all I wished to do was to give my regards to poor Seur Catant. Would you refuse me the chance to comfort the sick? It is a virtue, isn't it?” He had strolled up to her and gave her a wide smile.

"When it is used for malice, it is no virtue,” she answered, prepared to stay where she had been sent. “You cannot cozen me, stranger. We have been told to be on guard, and my good Angel warns me that you will do harm if you can.” She took up her station with more firmness than before.

Thibault chuckled. “How fierce! And to think I might have tried my wiles on so devoted a Sister. Why, I should cry shame on myself."

"You have no shame,” Seur Theodosie said without any fear at all. “You have only the harm you can do. If you will not be gone, well, then remain until sunrise when you shall be found with me, and you will be in more danger then than ever I am now.” It was invigorating to say these things, express sentiments she had never voiced aloud before in her life. “God will aid me."

Thibault shook his head. “What am I supposed to do? Challenge you to battle? Meet for a contest of strength?"

"We are having that contest now,” Seur Theodosie said with conviction. “And as my strength is in God, you will not prevail.” She looked at him steadily. “You are one of those who do the work of the Devil. You are everything that we are taught we must resist. It is not a difficult thing to resist you.” Her confidence was increasing with every word she spoke. “Go away, demon, and take whatever form you must to leave us in peace."

"I might simply go down stairs and dally with Seur Aungelique,” he suggested, his smile remaining fixed.

"Then do so. She has made her choice. I have made mine.” She folded her hands and started to sing another hymn, this time finding merit in the words that had eluded her before.

"Do you realize that I can kill you?” Thibault asked in his most charming way.

"We have too many mouths to feed. Kill me if it must be that: I will go to God and you will still be what you are.” She resumed her hymn, satisfied she at last understood what her vocation meant to her.

He bent and drew a knife from his boot. “I might cut off your lips, so that you cannot sing."

"God hears my soul, not my words,” she answered, then stared at him again. “You are very like Mère Léonie, demon."

"Very like,” he agreed most soberly. “It is ... convenient.” His face remained composed, but something in his voice smiled its mockery.

"And you are ready to do ill in her name,” Seur Theodosie said. “That cannot be permitted. You will be stopped."

In the cell behind her, Seur Catant had wakened again and was shrieking, making garbled, steady cries with the determination of a hungry infant.

"You hear? She knows I have come for her, ma Seur. She longs for me. She has said so many times before, and now she will have me.” Thibault took another step nearer, the knife held firmly in his hand. “She calls to me, and I answer when I am called."

"You will not. You will not touch her.” Seur Theodosie braced herself, unaware of how fruitless a gesture she made. “You may do what you want, but you must kill me first. And if you kill me, know my death does not alter my beliefs, but confirms my faith, demon.” She folded her hands and began to sing, the melody of her hymn a strange descant to Seur Catant.

There was a rush of feet at the end of the hall and Seur Elvire came running, responding to the insistent screams. She was out of breath and was not able to call out, promising aid.

"You are not favored, this night, ma Seur,” Thibault murmured to Seur Theodosie, and closed the space between them, pressing his knife home, through her habit, under her breastbone and up. He moved the blade from side to side, feeling the resistance and slice of tissue in the wrapped steel of the hilt. He held her with his free arm, so that she could not slip away from him.

Seur Theodosie trembled and jerked, then blood welled from her mouth and nose; she slumped down the door as Thibault, satisfied, released her.

"What are you doing?” Seur Elvire cried out, gasping. She had never seen that close embrace before, but feared what it meant. “Seur Theodosie, what is the matter? What have you done?” She stood quite still in the corridor, not caring to intrude, but fearing more what she could not understand. Seur Catant's screams drove her almost to distraction, yet she could not bring herself to move.

Then lightning tore through the clouds, and its sudden, deathly glare penetrated the corridor through the windows of the cells. Seur Elvire saw the blood, turned almost indigo by the blanching brightness. As she watched, Thibault withdrew his knife and blood spread over Seur Theodosie's habit. He turned away and ran down the hall, away from Seur Elvire, who had not yet realized what she had seen.

As Thibault disappeared around the corner, Seur Elvire's screams were added to those of Seur Catant, and both were lost in the shattering thunder.

By mid-afternoon the sky had cleared, but ominous clouds marshaled like hostile cavalry at the horizon, promising another storm by morning. Pierre stood in the bow of his study window, looking out over the magnificence and squalor of Avignon. His interview earlier in the day, during the pelting squall that had been blown up the river from the sea, had left him apprehensive, and reflection on what Cardinal Seulfleuve had told him served only to disturb him more.

"A woman has arrived,” his chamberlain said from the door. “She insists on speaking with you."

Pierre signed and turned his back on the buildings of Avignon. “What woman is this? Why does she seek me out?"

The chamberlain paused in his answer. “She said ... she said that she came to you because you will champion her."

"Ah.” He had been waiting for this since Comtesse Orienne's servants had come to him with Padre Bartolimieu trussed and gagged like a boar after the hunt. “I must see her then, mustn't I?” He had meant this to be a quip but it sounded like the reading of a verdict. “Where I have given my word, I must uphold it in the face of God, if it comes to that."

"You will see her, then?” the chamberlain asked, surprised that his master should acquiesce so miserably and so readily.

"I am her champion.” He came back to his writing desk. “Give me a moment and then I will speak with her in my reception room downstairs. I have to record one or two minor instructions, in case ... Do all that hospitality demands to make her welcome."

The chamberlain knew better than to question le Duc further when he was in such a humor. He bowed and withdrew to do as he had been ordered, but his thoughts were grim.

Pierre sat and drew one of the rolls of parchment toward him. As he smoothed it open in front of him, he saw it had not been entirely scraped clean, so that the words of his Will crossed lines of almost vanished love lyrics written three centuries before. Like most of his contemporaries, Pierre had the rudiments of reading and writing, but putting words on paper had always been a laborious task for le Duc de Parcignonne, and never more than now, when he contemplated the disposition of his personal fortune.

Given that the hours of man are short and that we may be struck down at any time it pleases God to take us from this life, I, Pierre Fornault, for the sake of my conscience and my House, make the following Will in regard to my lands and possessions. To my uncle, Michau d'Ybert, I leave my horses and armor, with the wish that he bestow them on a man-at-arms of sufficient rank and honor to deserve them.