A Mortal Glamour (8 page)

"L'Etivaz, where I had my church...” Padre Bartolimieu reached up and shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun as the scattered clouds opened. “When Rome and Avignon became ... enemies, there was much distress. The Cantons are wary both of Italy and France, and no one knew where our loyalty lay. Within the town there were those who favored Rome and those who thought the right was with Avignon. In seeking to find the way, we abused the faith of our people, and for this we...” He coughed. “God strengthen my resolve."

Père Gilbert frowned. “I don't ... Padre, you are difficult to follow."

"Yes. May God forgive me for this cowardice, as I have had to beg His forgiveness for so many other sins.” He crossed himself and for a little time was lost in prayer. “There was Plague three years ago. This district suffered then, as well, didn't it?"

"Praise to the Mercy of God for sparing so many,” Père Guibert said quickly, hoping to placate the ire he recalled all too vividly. “It has been worse, before."

"So they have said. They have also said that so many died already that there are not enough left to die now.” He pulled absently at the ends of his belt. “We were mad with folly then, thinking that the Plague would pass over more quickly if we determined where we must ally ourselves. For this neglect, we were sorely tried and punished, for the Flagellants came ... You have encountered Flagellants?"

"Thanks be to God, not directly,” Père Guibert said with deep sincerity. “There were some not too far from here, at Romans-sur-Isère, and at Valence.” He stopped, not knowing what more to say.

"They brought catastrophe,” Padre Bartolimieu whispered. “They razed my church, and those whom the Plague had not claimed, they buried in the rubble, smashing their limbs with the candlesticks from the altar before pressing them with stones."

Père Guibert crossed himself slowly. “And you?"

"To my everlasting shame, I ran,” Padre Bartolimieu admitted. “It is hard to speak of it, but silence is worse. When the Flagellants broke down the church doors and began first to defecate on the rushes, I fought them. Then they lit fires, and after they started to break up the central pillars, I ran. I have petitioned both the Pope at Rome and the Pope at Avignon to assign me penance for my crime, but there has yet to be a response from either See."

"Do you know if your petitions were delivered?” Père Guibert asked, not wanting to pursue the priest's transgressions unless he had to.

"Not surely, no. Yet the messengers who took the petitions went under guard, and on behalf of the Bishop of my district, in order to report what ... happened.” He leaned against the empty fountain at the center of the garden. “Now, I have come here, and will stay here until I have other instructions."

"I see."

"I doubt if the Flagellants will come here; it's too remote. And the Plague has already been here for the decade.” He rubbed his face with trembling hands. “I must make some compensation. Contrition is not enough."

"No,” Père Guibert agreed sadly.

"Yet I lack guidance.” He gave Père Guibert a long look. “I have confessed already and done what was required, but my soul is foul with my act, and it is not enough."

"Abbé Christolfe has ... much need of aid here,” was his first tentative suggestion.

"I will do what is needed,” Padre Bartolimieu said at once. “But this is not my Order, and the Brothers follow another Rule. What can I do?” His helplessness went far beyond the immediate situation, and Père Guibert had nothing to offer him as solace.

"We must await a...” His voice softened. “God requires the faith of all of us, and when the world is most benighted, when we are most severely tested, then our faith is the brighter and our salvation the more glorious.” He had preached this lesson many times and most of the time believed it, but looking at the other priest, he knew his consolation was inadequate.

"I have prayed and meditated,” Padre Bartolimieu protested, plainly untouched by what Père Guibert had said. “Nothing has changed. I am ... what I am. I suppose it was God's will that I flee, but He has not revealed to me how I am to live with this failure."

Père Guibert could find no heartening sentiments to lay before the troubled Swiss priest. “Each of us must face trials some time in his life.” It was a more dreadful failure than his last attempt at comfort. “Flagellants and the rest of your suffering, there is not one who could come through such an ordeal unscathed."

"I have told myself that for days on end, for months, and there are times I almost think it is true. But at night, in my dreams, I see my parish and the Flagellants with their whips, and I watch my church fall, and the guilt comes back.” He folded his hands. “While I am here, I want to strive for tranquility, but there is so much guilt on my soul that I despair, and that is a greater sin ... I fear that I am lost, Père Guibert. In my heart, I cannot find the courage to go on."

"Then you must beg God to show you His Plan. Prayer is never unanswered.” It was another lesson he had repeated so many times that it no longer had meaning, and he said it without thought.

"I know. I have trusted in that. But of late, I have started to wonder if it may be that the answer God has for me is ‘no'.” The Augustinian crossed himself as if to protect himself from these heretical doubts. “One day, it will be plain to me. That much I can still have faith in, and live in hope. But on that day, if it should be that I no longer ... God does not desert man; man deserts God,” Padre Bartolimieu said with harsh emphasis. “Only my failure will..."

A portative organ wheezed in the chapel and the sound of the first monks gathering for Holy Service rustled through the cloisters.

"I should attend,” Padre Bartolimieu said half-heatedly.

"As should I,” Père Guibert seconded. “It will do my soul good to hear Mass with these Brothers. I have not done so for some little time.” He hoped that this simple ordinary observation would lessen the other man's despair.

Padre Bartolimieu looked away, out of the cloisters toward the distant peaks in the east. “Will it?"

Though this denial was offensive to Père Guibert he kept his words mild. “But mon Padre, that was the promise given in the Body of Christ.” He crossed himself and waited for Padre Bartolimieu to do the same.

"Yes.” He let his breath out slowly; his hands remained still. “But that was so long ago."

Six men-at-arms accompanied le Duc de Parcignonne to the doors of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion, remaining in the saddle when le Duc dismounted and strode to the grilled window to announce his arrival. He had been riding steadily since dawn, and it was now past midday. He had two errands to discharge and both of them troubled him, making him move more slowly than he usually did. He was of a good height and burly, carrying his armor and weapons with habitual ease. His square face was seamed on the left cheek by a jagged scar, giving him a severe aspect that many found disquieting. “Good Sister!” he shouted through the grille.

After a brief silence, he was answered by an unseen woman who was still breathless. “Traveler, pray enter at the doors of this hospice. We do not give admittance here."

"I am no traveler, I seek no shelter or lodging, either for myself or my men. I am here at the request of my cousin, le Baron Michau d'Ybert, newly made Vidame de Figeac, who has charged me to speak to his daughter on his behalf. She is known here as Seur Aungelique.” He slung his weight into the hip where his sword rested.

"Sieur le Duc,” Seur Odile began, her nervousness causing her words to rumble out in choked whispers. “I must ... get the permission of our Superior to ... permit you to—"

"Then do that,” Pierre said testily. “I have little time for this ... foolishness. The sooner I have completed my commission, the better.” He made no apology for what he had said and chose to ignore the scandalized silence that his opinion inspired.

"I'll seek Mère Léonie at once,” Seur Odile said at her most prim.

"God reward you.” He heard movement on the other side of the grille and nodded to himself in satisfaction. “You might as well dismount,” he told his men-at-arms as he went back to them. “I fear it will take longer than I supposed. We'll be lucky if we get to Mou Courbet by nightfall."

"Trouble?” one of the men asked.

"Difficulties, nothing more. Get down."

His men did as they were told, and passed the time walking their lathered horses back and forth in front of the convent in order to cool them. None of them had a change of mount at hand and knew that the beasts they rode had a distance to go before they rested.

"Too bad there isn't a stream,” one of the soldiers said. “I could use a drink."

"As could your horse,” Pierre added. “There is one, the other side of the orchard, as I remember. Wait for me there. These poor women probably think they're under siege with so many knights at the door.” He laughed at his own rough humor. “You. Antois. You're in charge.” He signaled his men to move, then added, “When you go through the orchard, leave the hives alone. I was told that the nun who tends them is mad."

The men accepted this at once, dreading the attention of those who were crazed in their wits.

As soon as the men-at-arms and their horses were away from the gate, it opened and Pierre Fornault found himself facing a tall young woman in the stark and shapeless grey habit of the Assumptionist Order. “God give you good day, Sieur le Duc."

"And to you ... um...” He waited for the nun to introduce herself.

"I am Mère Léonie, Superior of this convent. I bid you enter and will permit you to speak to Seur Aungelique on behalf of her father. However,” Mère Léonie added sharply as she took a step closer to Pierre, “since Seur Aungelique has transgressed most seriously, you are not to inquire anything of her but what her father requires. All other intercourse is forbidden. Do you accept this?"

Pierre was not used to such forthright speech from a woman, but he gave it his consideration. “I will try to respect your instructions,” he answered with more caution than usual. “Will we be observed?"

"Perhaps.” Mère Léonie stared hard at him. “Perhaps."

Fasting and long vigils at night in the chapel had reduced Seur Aungelique's body to gauntness and made her strangely light-headed, so that when she first heard Pierre's voice in the hall, she thought it was another one of the pleasant dreams she had been enjoying more and more often of late. She had already begun to weave a tale about him in her thoughts when Seur Philomine tapped on the door of her cell. “What?” she called out, forgetting the proper forms for address.

"God be with you, Seur Aungelique,” Seur Philomine said in gentle correction.

"And with your soul,” Seur Aungelique answered, recalling herself. “What is it now, good Sister?"

"There is a person to see you. He is in the Sisters’ chapel.” Seur Philomine waited to give Seur Aungelique escort, for Mère Léonie had given orders that Seur Aungelique was to go nowhere unaccompanied unless stripped first.

"Very well. I am coming.” Seur Aungelique's head swam as she got from her knees to her feet, and she steadied herself against the wall before going the few steps toward the door. It was difficult for her to acknowledge the presence of Seur Philomine when the door opened, since it divided her already scattered thoughts.

"Your guest has come far to speak with you,” Seur Philomine said pleasantly as she fell into step beside Seur Aungelique. “Mère Léonie would not ordinarily allow this opportunity."

"Wouldn't she?” Seur Aungelique asked vaguely. “Is she afraid that I will run away again? I don't think I could. She'd make me go naked, wouldn't she? How could I do that?” Her eyes moved uncertainly from Seur Philomine to the corridor walls, now freshly whitewashed.

"Surely...” Seur Philomine began, then faltered, recalling the severity of the Superior's attitude toward Seur Aungelique's transgression. “In time, when it is readily apparent to all that you have repented your sins, you will have the same ease of commerce we all have under Mère Léonie.” Since she had heard Mère Léonie make just such a promise, she was confident in repeating it.

"For that, God will forgive you, ma Seur, because you do not deceive with malice,” Seur Aungelique said in sing-song tones. “This is to be my oubliette; my father and the Superior have determined upon it."

This accusation shocked Seur Philomine deeply. “You are not yourself, Seur Aungelique, and have endured much, and so I will not listen to what you say. Your vigils and fasting have brought about this fancy, and in time you will see that you ... “—she reached the door of the chapel and stood aside respectfully—"Do not fear, Seur Aungelique."

She could not remember the proper response to give Seur Philomine, but it hardly mattered. She caught sight of Pierre Fornault standing near the altar, his head lowered in thought. It was the stance that she felt was most characteristic of him, and seeing it, she held back, dizziness fingering her. It was an effort for her to speak aloud, for fear that he would vanish and another, quite ordinary, person take his place.

In the door, Seur Philomine saw Seur Aungelique's confusion. “Here is your kinswoman, Sieur le Duc,” she announced before leaving the two alone.

Pierre had turned at the words, and stood, arms folded belligerently, brow creased. “God futter the Saints!” he ejaculated at the sight of Seur Aungelique. “What has happened to you?"

"Good cousin?” Seur Aungelique said with sudden joy. “Have you really come for me?” If it were true and not just another wondrous dream, she thought that her trials since her return to the convent were well paid.

"By Marie's Tits.” He came toward her with urgent, angry steps. “What has happened to you, little bee? You look ready for your winding sheet.” He grabbed her by the shoulders, pressing his fingers hard against her, making her wince as he scrutinized her face.

The dream was muddled in her mind and Seur Aungelique shook her head to protest his roughness. “You must be gentle ... good cousin,” she said, suddenly unable to catch her breath.

"Are you ill?” Pierre shouted. It was bad enough that he had to speak to this girl—it always disquieted him. To find her in this state made it worse. He did not want to have to tell her father that she was near death. “Aungelique, are you ... what is wrong?” She was dressed in her engulfing habit and so there was no way he could determine if the dreaded Tokens were on her. She did not have the bright warning flags in her cheeks that revealed fever. “You're ... dazed."