A Mortal Glamour (49 page)

"It will be as God wills, ma Fille,” Père Guibert said, hating his reluctance to touch her, even for the salvation of her soul. He had the fleeting impression that she was not giving birth, but drowning. “Confess your wrongs, and God will welcome you to His glory."

"You must hurry, ma Père,” Seur Philomine said urgently. “It will not be long before the babe is here, and then ... there may be bleeding, and if there is, she will not be able to hear you."

"Yes; yes,” Père Guibert said with ill-concealed aggravation. “Ma Fille, tell me how it is that you carry this babe, and who fathered it."

"The demon,” Seur Ranegonde said, her voice fading. “Let it end, mon Père,” she begged as her body shook with her labor.

"The demon; ma Fille, it is not certain that there is a demon. Tell me of your lover, and how he gained access to you. For the sake of your soul and your babe, ma Fille."

"He came to me. He found me out. He said I would have a child by ... another man because ... Oh, Saunt Virge Marie, Sacre Mère!” She drew her legs up suddenly, howling once.

"You had more than one lover?” This surprised Père Guibert, for he found it difficult to believe that she had had one.

"No ... no. Mon Père, he said ... he visited a man, and had seed of him.” She drew in several short, sharp breaths, then shivered. “It is tearing me apart, mon Père."

"It must be endured, ma Fille,” Père Guibert reminded her, though he knew he had gone pale. “You must tell me. What man?"

"...He did not say ... He never said. Seur Philomine...!"

"It will not be much longer, ma Seur,” she said in a low, even tone. “Do not be frightened, Seur Ranegonde. The babe comes early, but we will care for it."

"God will give you grace to...!” She convulsed suddenly, then went limp and it was a moment before her eyes focused on Père Guibert's face again. “He came, saying that he would give me a child. He would not tell me more."

Père Guibert leaned forward. “They say demons are black and hideous, that they are endowed like stallions and their members are cold as ice.” It was the teaching of the Church, and Père Guibert repeated the description as if reading from a text.

But Seur Ranegonde was shaking her head, her feeble protests barely audible. “No. He is tall and slender, with hair like an angel and eyes ... lighter than Mère Léonie's.” Her body jerked as if gaffed.

"You must be mistaken,” Père Guibert said, horrified by what Seur Ranegonde had said. “There is an error."

"Mon Père,” Seur Philomine warned him. “It will be soon. Hear her out and grant absolution, I pray you."

"But there is a mistake!” Père Guibert repeated, more loudly. He rose from Seur Ranegonde's side. “There must be ... a mistake!"

In confusion, Seur Ranegonde reached up to detain Père Guibert. “Help me, mon Père! There is no mistake; I..."

Père Guibert tugged his stole from her fragile grasp. “No! There is a mistake, I tell you! The demon is black and his member is made of ice. You cannot save yourself with lies about a youth like ... like an angel! God sees your deception, and will damn you for it!” His voice had risen, and he slipped out of reach of Seur Ranegonde's hands. “That youth was a dream. A dream, not a demon. It is this place that causes the dreams. No demon is as fair as the morning, with such eyes and...” He looked wildly about the cell. “You cannot say such things, ma Fille, and go unpunished."

"I am punished,” Seur Ranegonde whispered. “I have this child, and it is killing me."

"Mon Père...” Seur Philomine began, shocked by the sudden change in the priest.

"That was no demon!” Père Guibert whimpered. “It could not be a demon!"

"The child is almost here,” Seur Philomine said, distressed to see Père Guibert moving away from Seur Ranegonde. “She must be absolved."

Hastily Père Guibert sketched a blessing in the air. “I grant you provisional absolution, if you have truly repented your sins and acknowledge the wrong you have done. Be contrite, ma Fille, and God will forgive you.” He was edging toward the door, his thoughts in complete disorder. He could not help but recall the degrading, captivating dreams he had had earlier in the year, dreams that had cost him many hours of prayer and guilt, but that he had desired as ardently as he desired salvation. “Confess your errors to God, ma Fille. Tell Him that you erred. There was no pale-haired young man!"

Seur Philomine, who had placed one hand on Seur Ranegonde's swollen abdomen, looked at the priest in disbelief. “Mon Père, you cannot leave ... you cannot!"

"I must!” He threw open the door. “The nuns are in the chapel. I will tell them to ... to pray.” With that he bolted, leaving Seur Ranegonde to keen her despair as Seur Philomine strove to save her and the wizened, malformed little son that struggled out of his mother's body on a tide of blood long before the dawn broke through the thinning clouds.

By midday, Seur Ranegonde's body had been washed and laid out in the chapel in preparation for burial. Two nuns kept vigil over her corpse and the pitiful infant that lay folded in her arms. No hymns were offered on Mère Léonie's orders since Seur Ranegonde had not been able to complete her confession and might still be caught in the toils of sin. Only Seur Marguerite sang for her, and since she was mad, no one thought God would be offended by her prayers.

Père Guibert kept to his room, his head sunk in his hands, his mind in torment. He had tried to return to Seur Ranegonde's cell twice before she died, but he had not been able to move. Now he was left with his guilt and the corrosive fear he had been more to blame in her sin than he could possibly have imagined. He heard the nuns gather in the chapel and he heard, distantly and incompletely, the words Mère Léonie spoke over the dead woman. All through it, he could not banish from his mind the memories of dreams that had wrung his body and soul.

"It was a dream. The youth was a dream,” he said, his forehead pressed against his clasped hands. The dream would not fade; as he tried to divert his thoughts, his body responded, his flesh jutting out, making a mockery of his misery. With a sudden cry he thrust his hands into his lap, forcing his offending erection back against his leg, denying it with such vehemence that his skin burned with his disgust. He sat in that posture for a long time, and slowly the swelling faded, and he was able to move without bringing more disgrace upon himself. He dropped to his knees at once and prayed fervently for God's pardon.

Still he could not banish the dream from his thoughts. The instant he permitted himself to fall silent, he imagined he saw the long, serious, taunting face that had bent over him in his dream, and had whispered such promises, rewarded him with such damnable ecstasy that he once again lost control and felt his groin warm and stiffen.

"No! NO!” He cried out, appalled at what he felt. He could not endure this humiliation. He thought of the unspeakable things the dream had done to him, of how the youth's firm lips had pressed his mouth and his breast and his manhood. To dream such a thing was a terrible sin; the act itself was mortal, but he could not deny the fascination. He was in anguish even while his body throbbed and rose with desire. “My God, my God, why do you permit this? Am I not Your sworn servant?” There was no answer to this desperate question. “It was a dream, O God! Nothing more than a dream. I would never offend You with such depravity."

It was quite late when Père Guibert at last stole out of his room and went silently through the corridors, down the stairs to the refectory, where he found a kitchen knife to rid himself of that part of himself that gave him such infamy and shame.

The agony that drove through him was worse than anything he had ever known. He had just enough time to see the blood erupt between his legs before he lost consciousness, to lie alone and unattended as his life flowed away.

Tristan arrived at the convent toward the end of the day, less than two hours ahead of the Papal troops. He dismounted in the barren orchard, tethering his horse to the empty hive before running to the stable on the side of the building. He heard the slow, unmusical toll of the mourning bell as he entered the stable, and he wondered which of the nuns had died.

The mule nipped at his shoulder as he sought out a resting place in the straw, and he slapped the animal sharply across the nose to keep it back. He wished now he knew where Philomine had her cell; he was willing to offend the other nuns if it gave him a chance to save her. His good sense told him that she would have to come to feed the animals before nightfall and he trusted that she still performed this task. It would not do to try to convince one of the other Sisters to aid him.

He did not have long to wait. In a short while the courtyard door opened and Seur Philomine came into the stable. She held an oil lamp in her hand which he carried as high as possible.

"Did you fear you had been forgotten?” she asked, reaching down to pat one of the few sheep left in the pen. “It has been longer today, hasn't it? You're restless, and I cannot blame you: we are all restless.” As she spoke, she gathered up the wooden buckets to refill them with water. “It will not be long, little ones, and you'll be fed.” She reached over, taking the pitchfork from its hook on the wall, and began to spear quantities of hay from the loft above. It was good to do such mindless work, where she did not have to think of the tragedies that had beset the convent for the last several days. Once she tried to hum, but it brought her perilously near weeping, so she stopped. She had attended to the sheep and the last sow when she heard movement behind him; with her pitchfork raised and ready to strike, she turned toward the sound.

"Philomine,” Tristan said, rising from his hiding place. “My love."

Philomine did not lower the pitchfork. “Tristan? You?"

"Yes.” He frowned. “What ... why?"

At last she let the pitchfork drop, and she sagged, only to be caught in his arms. “Oh God, I was afraid...” She kissed him as if his lips could blot out that admission of fear.

He kept her close in his embrace; when he was able to speak, he asked, “What has happened here? I have heard such things ... And you welcome me with a pitchfork.” He had wanted to make light of it, but it was apparent to them both that she was not entirely herself.

She pressed her head to his shoulder, feeling the strength of his body through the metal-studded leather tunic he wore. “It has been ... dreadful. Seur Catant bit off her tongue, and now she howls in her cell, and we must guard her.” As his fingers traced down her face to her lips, she kissed them. “Seur Ranegonde died giving birth. Seur Theodosie was murdered. Seur Tiennette ... Père Guibert.... “It was too difficult for her to say it. “Père Guibert is dead."

Tristan was aghast by what she told him, but he mastered himself sufficiently to comfort her before he added to her dismay. “It will be over soon, Philomine. You will not have to live here much longer."

"I wish it were so,” she murmured, putting an arm around him at last.

"It is. It must be.” He kissed her brow, then her eyelids. “You must come away with me. Now, love."

She was too relieved to protest, though she wondered why he was suddenly so insistent. “I would want to, if it were possible."

"It must be possible,” Tristan said, this time with more force and less affection. “You must come with me at once. Now. Now."

"But...” She moved back from him, but not out of the circle of his arms. “I cannot leave. We have not yet buried Père Guibert ... and it must be tonight it is done."

"Tonight?” Tristan repeated, baffled. “Why at night? Godly men are buried in the day. Why would ... How did Père Guibert die, that he is to be buried at night?” He looked into her face, trying to read her unhappy expression.

"He ... he took his own life,” she said, her voice sinking to a whisper. “He will have to be buried at the crossroads after moonrise. There are not ... many Sisters who can help to do this.” She trembled. “When it is done, then come for me and I will go anywhere you wish."

The joy that seized him at her compliance was marred by distress. “Now, Philomine. You will not be ... able to later.” He clung to her as he spoke, pulling her tightly to him, protecting her with his nearness.

"But...” She frowned with vexation. “The priest must be buried."

"There isn't time,” he said, finding no way to soften the blow. “There are Papal troops coming."

"What?” She turned her head to stare at him in disbelief. “Papal troops? What nonsense is this?"

"Not nonsense.” His chest tightened as he went on. “They took Pierre Fornault, for killing that Swiss priest. He said the demons here caused the trouble. He ... he was racked for that, and ... I have heard that ... he accused the nuns of diabolism, before they were through. Frère Renaut saw it all, and he told me that ... that the nuns are to be taken ... as sorceresses; to suffer the fate of sorceresses.” He coughed to keep from crying. “Pierre tried to tell me, but I did not understand, not then. I thought he meant that he did not want me to fight the men-at-arms when ... He was trying to—” It was not possible for him to go on. “When I heard Pierre had been racked, and that he had said that he had been enchanted here, I could not believe it. Then Frère Renaut told me that troops had been ordered. I came away then, as quickly as I could."

"And le Duc?” Seur Philomine asked weakly.

"Frère Renaut prayed he was dead.” They both were silent, knowing what the monk intended to convey.

"But sorceresses? We are not that. It's ... absurd!” She grasped his woolen sleeves so tightly that her knuckles showed white. “We are the ones who have suffered, who have resisted the demons in spite of abuse and neglect, and this is what they believe of us, that we are sorceresses?” Her eyes filled with tears. “I must warn them. They must know of the danger."

"There is not enough time!” He did not release her. “Even if they believed you, by the time they could leave, the troops would already be here. They are not more than two hours behind me.” He was fierce now, holding her with all his strength. “You cannot do it, Philomine. You must come with me, now, at once, alone!"