A Mortal Glamour

Chapter Sixteen

It was a foul night; cold, blustery rain flung itself across France, bringing the first new snow to the mountains and destroying the late crops still waiting for harvest. In Mou Courbet, the last of the hayricks were soaked and useless; in Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur, rye and oats were lost. At Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion, only a few grapes were the victims of the storm - most of the plantings had failed already.
"It is too early for the babe to come," Seur Odile said to Seur Adalin as they heard Seur Ranegonde scream.
"God protect her, she delivers too soon," Seur Adalin said. "One of us must wake Pere Guibert."
"May God be thanked that he is here, for who is to hear her confession if not him?" She crossed herself, shivering more from the shuddering cries that Seur Ranegonde gave than from the dank chill of the corridor.
Seur Adalin asked in a nervous under-voice, "Who keeps vigil in the chapel just now?" as if she feared her question would be overheard, and held against her.
"Seur Marguerite. She is mourning her bees." Seur Odile gave an exasperated gesture. "She says her children are dead. What can anyone do, when she is as mad as that?"
"We will have to find a way to return her to her cell, so that the rest may gather to pray for Seur Ranegonde," Seur Adalin said, looking annoyed.
"Let her remain. It will change nothing. And she mourns for her bees. I don't think Seur Fleurette will leave her cell. She has refused to be seen for the last two days and she may not be willing now."
Two quick, panting shrieks cut through the air; both nuns started guiltily at the sound.
"I will wake Pere Guibert. You go to Mere Leonie," Seur Adalin said quickly. "Never mind Seur Marguerite. It does not matter that she is there, I suppose." Without waiting for Seur Odile's response, she hastened away toward the room where Pere Guibert slept.
It took some little time for the convent to be roused, and a little longer than that for Pere Guibert to put on the proper vestments for attending a woman who was delivering so tragically early. He said his prayers as quickly as he could, but when he reached Seur Ranegonde's cell, he could see he had already taken too long, and that she was slipping away from him quickly.
Her eyes had a febrile shine; her short dark hair was matted on her face. She had drawn her chemise down as far as her lifted knees out of modesty, but there was little she could do to cover herself until the infant was out of her and the afterbirth examined. She lifted her hand vaguely in his direction and made a strange gesture of resignation. "It hurts," she said breathlessly as Pere Guibert made the sign of the cross over her.
"That is the legacy of Eve, ma Fille. You must bear it for the sake of Mere Marie, who also suffered to bring Jesus into the world." He found room to half-sit on the side of her raised pallet as he prepared the oil to anoint her forehead. "Give me your confession, ma Fille, so you may be spared the pains of Hell if it is the wish of God that you leave this life."
Seur Philomine, who attended to Seur Ranegonde, signaled Pere Guibert. "It will not be long, mon Pere; she is very weak."
Pere Guibert nodded, feeling his throat tighten as he spoke. He had never learned to attain the tranquility he was supposed to have when attending a deathbed, and what little reserve he had acquired all but deserted him now. "You must confess, ma Fille!"
With a little sob, Seur Ranegonde looked at him. "It is coming, mon Pere, isn't it? It will be here soon, and that will be the end of me. It will take my life to have life itself. Won't it?" She took the edge of his sleeve but her hold was so weak that when he moved his hand, she could not retain it.
"God judges us, ma Fille. It is not for us to decide." He blessed her and began the ritual of Extreme Unction, hardly able to speak the words loudly enough for her to hear them. He wanted the whole thing to be behind him, to have her deliver and live or die, as it pleased God she should do. "Tell me of your sins, ma Fille. Tell me of the lover that gave you this child that shames your habit and the honor of this Order." He had not intended to be so severe, but his nerve was fading rapidly, and he could not offer her sympathy for fear that his little remaining resolve would crumble.
"I ... I have sinned," she said after a moment, and then stiffened with pain, thrashing on the bed with the force of it.
"No. No, ma Seur," Seur Philomine said, reaching to hold Seur Ranegonde still. Pere Guibert envied her presence of mind more than he could admit. "Be still. It is for your babe to work, not for you."
"It must be soon!" Seur Ranegonde cried. "This cannot go on much longer."
"It will be as God wills, ma Fille," Pere 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 Pere," 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," Pere 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 Pere," 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 Mere!" She drew her legs up suddenly, howling once.
"You had more than one lover?" This surprised Pere Guibert, for he found it difficult to believe that she had had one.
"No ... no. Mon Pere, 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 Pere."
"It must be endured, ma Fille," Pere 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 Pere Guibert's face again. "He came, saying that he would give me a child. He would not tell me more."
Pere 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 Pere 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 Mere Leonie's." Her body jerked as if gaffed.
"You must be mistaken," Pere Guibert said, horrified by what Seur Ranegonde had said. "There is an error."
"Mon Pere," Seur Philomine warned him. "It will be soon. Hear her out and grant absolution, I pray you."
"But there is a mistake!" Pere Guibert repeated, more loudly. He rose from Seur Ranegonde's side. "There must be ... a mistake!"
In confusion, Seur Ranegonde reached up to detain Pere Guibert. "Help me, mon Pere! There is no mistake; I..."
Pere 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 Pere..." Seur Philomine began, shocked by the sudden change in the priest.
"That was no demon!" Pere Guibert whimpered. "It could not be a demon!"
"The child is almost here," Seur Philomine said, distressed to see Pere Guibert moving away from Seur Ranegonde. "She must be absolved."
Hastily Pere 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 Pere, 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 Mere Leonie'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.
Pere 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 Mere Leonie 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 Pere 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 ... Pere Guibert.... "It was too difficult for her to say it. "Pere 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 Pere 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 Pere 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. Frere 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 Frere Renaut told me that troops had been ordered. I came away then, as quickly as I could."
"And le Duc?" Seur Philomine asked weakly.
"Frere 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!"
"How can I desert them? Without warning, she gave a wrenching sob. "You must be wrong, my dearest. They will not betray us so utterly."
"No, Philomine, I am not wrong." They clung together in shuddering despair. "One woman, with a man, might get away unnoticed. But there are more than a dozen Sisters here, and they would be noticed if they left at once, especially at night. Please; you are my life. Come with me, Philomine, before none of us can leave."
She struggled with her wretchedness, attempting to control the grief that threatened to overcome her. "Let me ... " - she wiped her eyes with the cuff of her sleeve - "let me at least tell Mere Leonie. Someone must know, or I will be one with Judas."
"Where is she? Can you find her quickly?" He could not argue with her for this, since it was what he would have done himself in her position.
"I will try. If I cannot find her, I will speak to one of the other Sisters, so that they will be warned." She touched his face. "I have cost you so much, my love. I pray that there will be no more burdens for you to carry for my sake."
He kissed her fingers. "Quickly, then, my love." He let go of her, but reluctantly, not wanting her away from him now that he had her near. "Hurry. I will wait here."
"Yes. Yes, love." She went back into the courtyard, half-running, the skirt of her habit hitched up into her hempen belt so that she could move more freely. She entered the corridor at a trot and went directly to Mere Leonie's study, and was shocked to find it empty. She rushed on, and in the chapel found Seur Aungelique and Seur Marguerite keeping watch over the body of Pere Guibert that lay face-down before the altar.
"Our vigil is not finished yet, Seur Philomine," Seur Aungelique said with such boredom that Seur Philomine wished she had the authority to rebuke her.
"Have you seen Mere Leonie? It is most urgent that I speak with her." This lack of conduct on her part earned Seur Philomine a withering sneer.
"So important that you do not recall how to behave. No, to answer your impertinent question, I do not know where Mere Leonie is." Seur Aungelique nodded once toward Seur Marguerite, who stared vacantly into space and hummed to herself. "Nor does she."
It worried Seur Philomine to entrust Seur Aungelique with her warning, but she had given her word to Tristan that she would not linger. "You must find her at once, ma Seur, and give her a message for me. Will you do this, in the name of Christ and la Virge Marie?"
"By God's Nails, ma Seur, you sound distraught. Say an Ave or two and you will be more yourself." She raised her hand languidly. "Very well; tell me your message. I would just as soon be out of here. The good Pere is beginning to stink. Three days is too long too keep a corpse out of the ground." She got up from her post by the altar, her body ungainly with the weight of her pregnancy. "Tell me what has you so distressed, ma Seur."
"It is..." She stopped, not wanting to have the words tumble out of her. "There are Papal soldiers coming, to take all the Sisters to try them as sorceresses. Those who can must get away at once. The soldiers will be here by nightfall."
Seur Aungelique laughed outright. "Where did you hear this tale? I would have expected something of the sort from Seur Marguerite here, but not from you. They have always said that you are sensible, and this is ... a tale for little boys."
"It is true. The Church has taken Pierre, and he has confessed that - " Too late she stopped herself; the stricken, outraged face of Seur Aungelique filled her vision as the young nun rushed at her.
"What lies are these! What new humiliation do you bring me?" Seur Aungelique's fingers were curved into claws that reached for Seur Philomine's eyes.
"No, no, ma Seur!" Seur Philomine shouted, stumbling back from this attack. "It is true. I promise you, I do not lie!"
"You do!" She lunged, striking Seur Philomine in the shoulder as she tried to rake her face. "Lies! Lies!"
Seur Marguerite watched the assault in mild puzzlement. "Sisters do not lie to one another, Seur Aungelique," she said as Seur Philomine bolted for the door.
"She said that Pierre said we are sorceresses. He would never do that. He is a man of honor, a Duc, by the grace of God and le Roi!" She was not able to run after the fleeing Seur Philomine, so she screamed with all the wrath in her, "Seur Philomine has invited the Devil to come for Pere Guibert!"
"That is not true," Seur Marguerite protested gently, bending to touch the waxen, clay-colored head of the dead priest. "She said that we are accused of sorcery. She said that there are troops coming to take us all. I heard her speak, Seur Aungelique, and she said nothing about - "
Seur Aungelique turned on her, slapping her as she yelled, "It is not true, what she told us! Don't you understand that? Pierre would not do that."
"Oh." Seur Marguerite stared down at her hands. "But you said you would tell Mere Leonie. If you do not, I must."
"I will tell her when the vigil is finished. I will say that I do not believe it. Then Mere Leonie will decide what is to be done." Her features were distorted still with her anger. "And if any other Sister contradicts me, I will say that she has been suborned by Seur Philomine and the demon who has been sent to torment us. Do you know what that would mean, Seur Marguerite? It would mean pincers and the boot." She got back on her knees. "When the vigil is over, I will speak to la Mere. I gave my word, and I will honor it." She crossed herself. "Pierre will be furious when he hears of this. You may be certain of it."
Seur Marguerite looked at the other nun with a strange sympathy in her worn features. "I pray that you will have the right of it, ma Seur, for we stand in the greatest peril if you are in error."
"You are mad to think that," Seur Aungelique said, her mouth dropping petulantly. "I will see that Seur Philomine pays for her folly." With that promise, she bowed her head and continued the recitation of prayers for the dead.
* * * *
They had almost made it to Tristan's horse when the first of the soldiers rode into view.
"Run!" Tristan shouted, all but dragging Seur Philomine through the orchard. "They must not see us!"
Seur Philomine had discarded her habit and now wore a shepherd's cloak over her chemise. In the advancing night, she was chilled so that her teeth chattered when she tried to answer. Wooden sabots made her clumsy and she could not run as swiftly as Tristan did.
On the road, the troops divided into three groups, one riding toward the empty hospice, one to the tall doors to the courtyard, and one toward the stable and the orchard beyond. Tristan saw this and his heart went cold within him. "Hurry! My love, hurry!" He was breathing more quickly, as much from fear as from running.
"Yes," she panted, hardly able to spare the breath to speak. "Are they ... close?"
He did not answer with words; he tugged more firmly on her arm, his determination making him faster than he knew was possible. The speed of his approach startled his horse, and the big mare shied, whinnying her alarm.
Not far behind, one of the Papal men-at-arms caught sight of them, and set up a shout. "There! Stop them!"
"Oh, God!" Tristan moaned, stretching to grab the reins as Seur Philomine staggered after him. The mare reared and broke the leather that held her. In the next moment she had bolted, crashing away through the orchard toward the open fields beyond the stream.
"Get them!" shouted one of the soldiers, and their horses raced nearer.
Tristan turned and gave Seur Philomine a swift, desperate embrace. "Hide! In the clearing behind the berry vines. I will join you!" His kiss was harsh, fast and aching with love for her.
"But..." she started, but was thrust from him.
"Do as I say. As you love me!" Before she could object again, he had turned away to face the charging horsemen, drawing his sword as he did.
The first quarrel hit him in the shoulder, ripping the flesh and splintering bone. He flailed his arms to keep erect and the agony of the wound fogged his mind, numbing him to the risk he faced. "Philomine!" he shouted. "Go!"
At the sound of his voice she had faltered, but the desolation in his cry made her go on, so that she did not see when the second quarrel struck, catching him on the side of the neck, lifting him and sending him sprawling, his head half cut off from his neck where his life's blood gouted.
"What about the other?" the nearest crossbowman shouted to his officer.
"A boy? Let him go. We'll see to that man later," the officer responded, gesturing toward the fallen Tristan. "Don't let any of the women out through the stable. They will try to escape, or so the Duc said before he died."
The men-at-arms who had killed Tristan gave him one last look. "Poor swine, to play with demons that way."
"Don't waste your pity. He and his kind are a danger to all Christians." The officer dismounted. "Tether your horses away from the convent. We don't want any of those women taking them to get away." As he spoke, he was already drawing a mace and a short sword. "Do not kill them unless they fight. The Cardinal wishes to question them before they are sent to their deaths."
"Can we do anything else?" one of the other asked as he swung out of the saddle. "It seems a shame to waste all those women."
"They're the consorts of demons," his officer reminded him. "Better to bed with a Turkish whore with the pox and a knife than to touch one of these." He crossed himself. "In the name of Clement VII, Pope of the One True Catholic Church, and for the glory of God."
The other men copied him, most of them kissing the hilts of their weapons for additional protection. Then they strode away toward the stables.
Seur Philomine crouched behind the berry vines and wept as if it were her body that had been transfixed with quarrels.
* * * *
The convent was empty and still when dawn came. The men-at-arms had refused to remain there once the nuns had been gathered up and loaded into two wagons where they were fettered to benches for the long journey to Avignon. When the wagon had departed, the eerie wail of Seur Catant could be heard long after the jingle, groan and clop of the harness, wagons and hooves had faded.
When she was certain that no one else would approach, Seur Philomine came out of hiding. She was full of bitterness, of anger and deep-fanged grief that gave her no respite. With profound misery, she located the body of her dead lover, and took a terrible satisfaction in dragging him to where the Sisters were buried, where she scraped out a shallow grave for him with her hands, digging until her fingers were torn and bleeding.
"So you did get away," said someone behind her. "I thought you might."
The sun was in Seur Philomine's eyes as she turned, and she was briefly dazzled by the tall, slender figure that stood behind her. "What? Who...?" She realized that she ought to be afraid, but she had been too badly hurt by what had happened, and could not summon up fear.
"But surely you know me?" Thibault said in Mere Leonie's voice. "You, of all of them, should know me."
Philomine quivered. "Which are you? What are you?"
"I am ... whatever you wish. Superior, courtier, man or woman or demon, does it matter which?" He went down on one knee and lifted a handful of earth. "Most enterprising."
She shaded her eyes, staring hard at him. "You are the demon, then." It did not alarm her to say this; she had gone beyond that.
"Of course." He cast the earth onto Tristan's livid, ruined face. "Your lover, wasn't he?"
She swallowed hard. "Yes."
"The Papal soldiers killed him?" Thibault studied the wounds, his head tilted to one side. "He would not have lived, ma Seur."
"Don't use that title," Philomine ordered him.
"Adjusting your calling? But you are a tertiary Sister, aren't you? Novice habit, no final vows. No true vocation. You have less to repudiate than the others." He settled back on his heel, bracing his elbow on his other knee. "I often wondered what it was about you that made you so stubborn. All the others were tractable in their ways, but not you. Or poor Seur Marguerite."
Philomine began the slow task of putting dirt over Tristan's body. "And Seur Aungelique?"
Thibault chuckled, a sound like small things breaking. "She was the most tractable of all, if one addressed her properly." He watched her. "Do you want assistance?"
"No."
"As you wish." He dusted his hands off against each other, then got to his feet. "Do not be long at that; we have far to go today."
Irate tears stung her eyes, the first she had shed since she had found Tristan's body. "I will go nowhere - nowhere! - with you."
He looked down at her. "They will send more men-at-arms soon, and if you are here, they will find you and arrest you. What will come after that, you know as well as I do. Your legs will be turned to jelly in the boot, or your guts will be pulled out of your mouth with the wet knotted cord, and you will be consigned to the flames. After all this, what would be the point of it, Philomine?"
"I will seek refuge..." She broke off, looking away from him. "There must be a place I can go."
"And where the men-at-arms will find you. And those who sheltered you will suffer the same fate you will. Poor return for charity, little one." He squinted as he looked over the fields. "I have no control over you; you may believe that or not, as you choose, but for once it is the truth."
Philomine stopped her work and regarded him with the first stirrings of curiosity. "Why do you say that?"
He shrugged. "What point in there in lying? You know too well how to see my deceptions."
In spite of herself, she asked, "Why is that?"
He chuckled again. "Because, my little bird, you want nothing of me. You have had what you wanted and accepted it as it was. We have no hold on that, not I nor any of those like me who serve Our Lord on the earth."
She blinked. "You are not a demon?"
There was no trace of laughter in him now. "Do you doubt it?"
She shook her head. "No," she told him quietly, and resumed the burial.
"You will need to be away from here soon," Thibault said a little while later. "You are in danger, though you may not care about it now. You will be hunted."
The grave was half-filled and she was sweating with the effort of the work. "And it would be better to go with you?"
"Little though you may believe it, yes, it would." He turned toward the orchard. "Poor Seur Marguerite; she wanted to take her hives with her, though they were empty. She begged the Baron who led the soldiers to permit her to bring the hives, so the Pope might breathe on them and restore the bees to life." He snapped his fingers twice. "The Baron did not know that she is mad, of course, and he will testify that the nuns here have raised the dead."
Philomine wanted to shriek at Thibault, to say something that would tear at his vitals as her loss tore at hers. Instead she fixed him with a contemptuous stare. "You permitted that?"
"Our Lord will protect her." And then he laughed, with such enormous malice that Philomine trembled to hear it. "Our Lord protects you all."
"That is heresy," she said without thinking.
"And blasphemy and all the rest of it. That is why we are here." He walked around the grave. "You will need another hour to finish, Philomine. Then you must decide."
"I would be a fool to take anything that comes from you." She knew beyond question it was true, but the admission that she could turn to no one but Thibault caused her such devastation of spirit that she found it prostrating to think of it.
"Possibly," he allowed, still speaking in Mere Leonie's voice. When he continued, he sounded distant, speculative. "I would take you to a woman who has more need of you than of me - for the moment. She languishes and suffers and will take solace of no one. For that she must be pitied, which I would do if I were capable of it. I would pity you all."
Philomine cut her hand on a sharp stone and stopped her work to suck it. She kept her eyes on Thibault, watching him attentively as he explained.
"She will destroy herself shortly if she does not have someone with her, someone who did not know her before. You have no one to take you in, and you are not easily dismayed." He favored her with his mercurial smile. "She was beautiful once, but now she is quite hideous. With you to be with her, she may once again wish to live, and when that happens - " He stopped.
"When that happens, what?" she asked, irritated at herself for indulging him.
"Then she will yearn for ... things. She will want admirers and those with a taste for insouciance around her. And she will not be able to have them, not as she did when she was lovely." He looked down at her, holding out his long, slender hand. "Here. Wrap the cuts on your hand before you go on."
"Why should I?" She felt anger growing in her, blotting out the sorrow that possessed her.
"Because it would not suit my purpose to have you lost to infection," he answered coldly. "If you become diseased, I would leave you here for the men-at-arms to deal with."
She recognized he was telling her the truth, which infuriated her. "Leave me to them, then. Why should I live to aid you, when it was you who brought down the convent and destroyed my Sisters?"
"You are sure of that, are you? But I did nothing that might not have happened without me." He dropped his hand when she did not take it.
"Seur Ranegonde would have died in childbirth? Seur Aungelique would have been wanton? Pere Guibert would have..." She was not able to say what he had done.
"Seur Ranegonde wanted to be overpowered - that was her desire; I did not force it on her. Seur Aungelique was made wanton by God, I did not make her so. Ask her father, if he will speak of her without cursing. Pere Guibert had his appetites, and I did nothing more than indulge them. Le Duc de Parcignonne had his desires, as well, and when he longed for them, I complied. That is all I may ever do." He offered his hand again, and this time she took it, permitting him to lift her out of the grave.
"Do you have a linen strip?" When he did not answer, she bent and tore away part of the hem of her chemise, which she wrapped three times around her hand, then tied in a knot, using her other hand and her teeth to tighten it.
"You manage well." The compliment was sarcastic, and she was about to give him the most cutting retort she could think of when he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her head up toward him. "Oh, yes, you are burning with grief now, and you despise me for what I have done. You believe that what love you had for that ... carrion in the grave will suffice a lifetime. It may be that you are right." She tried to break free of him, but he pinched harder, so that she winced and was still. "But there may come a time, little bird, when you have desires that torment you, though the bitterness in your heart will rob you of courage and your strength to love. Then you will long for me, for the pleasures I bring. You have only to call me, and I will come. My illusion can be more delightful than what is real, little bird. Remember that."
She pushed on his arm and he dropped his hand once more. "You are repugnant to me!"
He bowed slightly. "That is a start. There was a time when you were only indifferent. In a year, who knows what you may want."
Philomine gave him no response; she sank to her knees and went back to filling in Tristan's grave.
Thibault reached out and touched her short brown hair, tweaking one of the curls. His hand dropped to her shoulder, long fingers pressing hard. "See how strong your anger is?" Abruptly he turned and walked away from her.
As she listened to his footsteps fade, Philomine pounded her closed fists on the ground, once, twice, three times. Rage and loneliness swept through her soul like winter wind, and she wished it had been she, not Tristan, in the grave. Slowly, carefully, she shoved the earth into the hole until instead of a declivity, there was a long, raw mound, like a fresh, raised scar. She remained on her knees, her hand pressed together as she tried to recall the prayers that would aid him when he came to God. The words eluded her. He was gone, and the loss of him engulfed her. He lay only a few feet from her, but he was as far away from her as if her had sunk to the deepest point in the most distant sea. In time she would forget the weight of his hand, the salt of his body. She had told Seur Aungelique she would live to affirm her love of him, but without Tristan, the love was hollow and he another ghost in this world of ghosts. Would she still know the sound of his voice in a year, or would it fade? The more she searched her mind, the less consolation she found there.
Some little time later she got to her feet and started away from the grave. It was then that she saw Thibault standing in the shadow of the convent walls, waiting for her.
- The End -