A Mortal Glamour (47 page)

He sat reading over the paragraph he had written, wondering what else he ought to say. There were other things he owned, but he did not know how to indicate their disposal. Finally, he made his decision.

The rest of my belongings that are not part of my rank and House, I leave to Holy Church, to buy Masses for the salvation of my soul, which is fallen and tainted by the constraints of honor.

He prepared wax and fixed his signet to the end of the parchment, then held it flat while the ink dried and the wax cooled. When he was certain the ink would not smear and the wax would not crack, he rolled the parchment loosely and set it in the middle of the table. He rose, thinking he would have preferred another means to keep his good name, but no idea of how to achieve this came to mind.

When he reached the reception room, servants had brought hot pastries and honeyed wine to le Duc's veiled visitor. It pleased him to think that no matter how dire his predicament, his servants had done as they were required to do for the lady. He inclined his head. “God give you good day."

Comtesse Orienne looked up through the silk of her veil. “May He protect you and defend the Right,” she answered, and though her voice was still low, it no longer purred and promised as it had done before.

"You have come to me to champion you,” Pierre said without inflection. “You wish me to uphold your name."

"Yes.” She watched him, her eyes burning behind the soft, sheer fabric. “You gave me your word that you will be my champion. Now I have suffered a grievous wrong and there is no one but you to see that I am avenged.” Her tone was flat, as if she discussed the cleaning of fish, but she sat straight on the bench and the tension in her body shook her.

"Of course,” Pierre said, convinced that she would not be deterred from the course she had set for herself.

"You swore, when I went to that Évêque to please you, that you would be my champion. You did not expect you would have to do more than see I have a new falcon each spring, and I wanted nothing more than a reward for enduring so uninteresting a lover. But that is changed now.” She lifted the end of the veil to carry the goblet of honeyed wine to her lips. She took great care not to reveal her face.

"I am saddened, Orienne, that you should have suffered.” He could think of nothing else to say. “I am troubled it was a priest who brought you to this. They are mad, most of them."

Her laughter was as brief as it was harsh. “And when we look after them, we are punished for our pains. I was punished, Sieur le Duc, and now I want that priest to know a little of what he gave to me. Do you understand?” She drank her wine far too quickly and poured herself more at once. “You have the man who did this to me. You know what you must do."

"Honorable combat? Will you accept that?” Pierre asked, wishing to disgrace himself no more than was necessary.

"If you insist. He is not noble, and you need not concern yourself with his House, for they know nothing of him, and do not stand high enough to question anything you do.” She did not drink quite so quickly this time, but still she was indulging herself as she had never done in the past.

He thought that perhaps he was trapped in a dream, and that no matter what he said or did, it would fade from his thoughts when the morning came. It was his greatest hope that this would turn out to be a warning, a dream that God had given him for his teaching and protection. In his heart, he was aware this was not the case, and he would not suddenly discover that his predicament was a dream. He wished now he had obtained the dispensation and taken Aungelique from the convent in spite of her father's objections. Had he done that, he would never been trapped in this question of honor. “He is a man of God and, for that, I must treat him as a nobleman, ma Comtesse.” For a moment, he had forgotten to speak to her, and now he tried to compensate for his lack of courtesy. “The Church will not approve no matter what I do, but they will be more reasonable if I do not offend their priest with a peasant's death. I will see that he is challenged, and I will fight him on foot and not mounted, so that it cannot be said that he was disadvantaged in that way."

"But you will kill him?” Comtesse Orienne demanded in a soft, furious tone.

"Unless God guides his hand against me, I will kill him. We will fight with axes, so that it will be quick.” He had decided that earlier in the day.

"I will come, so that I may watch.” This would not be questioned, no matter how irregular her demand.

"If that is your desire, it is my duty to see it done.” He bowed to her slightly. “You are most unforgiving."

"I am unforgiving.” She mused over the accusation. Then, with some of her old languor, she turned toward him. “Look for yourself, mon Duc, and then tell me again that I am unforgiving.” Slowly she lifted her veil and faced him, gazing at him steadily with the one eye Padre Bartolimieu had left her. Beneath the gaping socket, there were deep furrows across her cheek, turning from raspberry to puckered white. Her nose, which had been perfect, was cut away on the right side, and what little flesh there was had healed badly, pulling the skin up and back, giving her some of the aspect of a pig's snout. Above her mouth ran another scar, and one corner drooped under the white cicatrix of the scourge.

Pierre had seen men maimed and disfigured in battle, but the sight of them did not sicken him as this devastation did, for the men had gone to battle as soldiers with the prospect of injury before them. This was entirely different, and the sight of Orienne's destroyed beauty brought the taste of bile to the back of his mouth. He took a deep, unsteady breath. “I will do what I may to avenge you, and the world will judge as it must."

It was no longer possible for Orienne to smile, and the grimace that she was able to produce only served to make her face more hideous. “Thank you, Sieur le Duc, my champion. I am grateful to you."

He acknowledged this by pouring a second goblet full of honeyed wine and drinking it quickly. It was potent enough to rush to his senses and bring a leaded flush to his cheeks, but for once in his life, he could not taste the drink, nor respond to its warmth.

Seur Ranegonde sat opposite Seur Aungelique in the small weaving room on the second floor of the convent. Sunlight angled in the window, ripe as grain, warm where it touched. The rest of the room was cool and the wind promised that the year would turn toward the dark again soon.

"What will you do when your infant is born?” Seur Ranegonde asked as she set stitches in a little robe of cast-off linen. Neither woman had spoken much of their pregnancies, let alone the babies they carried, but now as delivery grew nearer, they occasionally ventured into the forbidden territory.

"I will be free of the Church. I will send it to my father, and he may raise it or not as he sees fit. I will go to live as I wish to live.” She tossed her head as if she were not wearing coif and gorget and wimple. “I have a place where I will be welcome. The woman who lives there is a great beauty, and she has let me stay with her in the past.” She went on with her sewing, and then added. “I did not think it would take so long for my cousin to make proper arrangements for me, but you know what men are. Well, of course you must; look at you."

These occasional jibes did not sit well with Seur Ranegonde, who colored deeply. “No man did this to me. It was a demon."

"And a demon did this to me, but it was because he wanted me.” Her face grew serious briefly. “My cousin was the one who should have loved me, but he did not wish for my love, and so...” She shrugged. “You've heard me speak of it before. I will not repeat myself. That is too much like confession."

"Do not speak so!” Seur Ranegonde protested. “You do not know what it is to long to confess and to feel the fruits of sin rob you of your will to admit how greatly you have erred.” She went on sewing. “Your babe. You will give it to your father? Truly?"

"Yes. Why shouldn't I? Other women do. I have sisters and aunts who will care for it, and if it pleases my father, he can adopt it. That way, he will have the heir he wishes and will still be able to be rid of me.” Her eyes flashed with anger and pride. “I was sent here to be made tractable, and I have not surrendered. My great-grandmother was chatelaine, and defended her lands from rival lords. She upheld the honor of our House, and she showed herself to be tireless in battle. Her blood is in my veins, and her mark is on me. She would not have been content in the Church, and I am not.” She threw down the cloth she held. “She would not have spent her day in needlework, but in battle and in loving. When I am free of this place and this thing that turns in my belly, I will be as she was, and all of France will speak of me with respect.” She got up, striding down the room. “I do not want your pity, though you are about to give it to me, aren't you?"

"I ... you have need of solace, for being so far from grace, and...” Seur Ranegonde was not able to go on.

"But you have fallen from grace as well, haven't you? And your father will not take your babe, will he? You will have to find a way to raise it. You may be certain that Père Guibert will not allow it to remain here. He will send it to Saunt-Elizair to the monastery where they care for the orphans and foundlings. Doubtless he will not say that a nun gave birth to it because of a demon, but will lie and tell them that a peasant family died of Plague. Or it may be he will tell them that it was abandoned by travelers. And it will be in the care of the monks, who will feed it and put rags on it and will tell it all its life that it is worthless and therefore must be grateful for what little the monks do for it.” She laughed, clapping her hands with satisfaction. “That is the life of your baby, ma Seur. Mine will be loved and doted upon. God will give it the pleasures that are his by rights, as He will deny them to your bastard."

Seur Ranegonde's face had darkened and now she looked as near to angry as ever she had in her life. “You have no right to say this to me, ma Seur. You are the one who was first touched by demons, and you are the one who brought them to us here. If my babe is to suffer, then your babe will suffer more.” She got up from the bench, swaying a little as she balanced herself against the burden of her pregnancy. Her back ached and her face was damp. “You are the one who has brought this upon us and God will not forgive you for what you have done. I know that I must find it in my heart to pardon you before I die, or suffer in Hell."

"You are not to speak to me this way!” Seur Aungelique shouted, offended beyond all reason. “You are not of the nobility, and you have no right to speak to the daughter of Michau d'Ybert in this manner!"

"I speak to you as a child of God, for you are that, too!” Seur Ranegonde glared at the other nun. “You are not deserving of the rank to which you were born, and you have been trying to throw it away since you came here. You want to be more than your father is, and for that, you are cast down into the Pit!” Her head ached; shouting only served to make it worse.

"You dare not say this! You are nothing more than—” Seur Aungelique began, preparing for a tantrum.

"Both of you will beg pardon of the other, and tonight when we have our meal, you will serve your Sisters on your knees and beseech each of them to forgive you for this outburst!” Mère Léonie's pale eyes blazed at the two nuns. “I have had enough of your bickering and discontent. You have much to bear, and it causes you distress, but that does not excuse what you have said and done here!"

"Ma Mère...” Seur Ranegonde was the first who turned away, shamefaced. “I apologize to you, and pray you will find it in your heart to pardon my impropriety.” She crossed herself, then clumsily lowered herself back onto the bench where she had sat.

"And you, Seur Aungelique? Have you anything to say to me?” Mère Léonie stood very tall and regarded the rebellious nun with quiet disdain. “Who is your defender, that you believe it is your right to challenge me?"

Seur Aungelique's chin lifted higher. “My lover would not hesitate to oppose you!"

"Do you think so?” Mère Léonie asked. There was a strange glitter at the back of her eyes. “You may go to your cells, both of you, and remain there until you serve your Sisters at the evening meal. Then each of you may keep vigil in turn, prostrate before the altar."

"Prostrate?” Seur Aungelique repeated, her face turning ugly with indignation. “You wish us to crush our babes?"

"Our Lord will protect them, ma Seur. Go to your cell at once, Seur Aungelique, and think on the sin of pride, and how it has brought you to this pass.” She made no move, but Seur Aungelique fell back before her. “At once, ma Seur."

"I will be away from here soon, and then I need never speak to you again!” She hurried out of the room, her features set and her head high.

"You as well, ma Seur,” Mère Léonie said, less forcefully, to Seur Ranegonde. “The rest may do you good. From your face, I would think that you have been suffering of late."

"It is the babe. I remember that my mother was similarly afflicted. Her ankles would swell and her hands. She said that with every new babe, she was worse. When she died in childbed, she said that her flesh and not the babe was to blame.” She lowered her head. “I am frightened, ma Mère. I know that God will protect me if I am dutiful and repent my sin."

"But you think of your mother, is that it?” Mère Léonie asked. “You fear that you will die as your mother died, and that nothing will save you from that fate."

Seur Ranegonde made a gesture as if to wipe away what she heard. “It is part of my fear, yes. I have prayed and prayed and prayed, but Père Guibert has said that it is for Eve that we must be tormented with giving birth, and that God will not relent in this for our disobedience. And it ... I cannot bear thinking of it. I see my mother, and it is myself.” She started to cry, her hands covering her face. “I deserve the death, for I let a demon possess me. I deserve it. I know it. But I dread it, and when I think of my child, I am in despair."

Mère Léonie made no effort to comfort her. “Père Guibert will do all that he must to see that you are protected and saved, if that is the will of God."