Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
A Mortal Glamour (48 page)
"And if it is not? I will be in the earth, waiting for the Last Judgment, and my babe will be turned out among strangers with no one to care for him."
"Our Lord will care for him,” Mère Léonie assured her. “Our Lord cares for all those who are abandoned."
Seur Ranegonde's cry became a thin wail, as if she were the infant she was made wretched for. “No. Not that. I must have more than that.” She sank to her knees and clasped Mère Léonie's long, narrow hand. “Ma Mère, I have no right, but I beg you, for the goodness and mercy of this Order, promise me you will look after the child and care for it.” The fever spots in her cheeks burned brightly and tears glazed her eyes. “Someone must promise me. Please, please, Mère Léonie, tell me that you will not desert my babe."
Mère Léonie did not attempt to withdraw her hand. “Why do you want this, ma Seur?"
"So that my babe will not be lost and left alone. I know what happens to such children, for there were many after the Plague came. They were lean and skittish as cats, and they died under bridges and in deserted buildings. I do not want my child to live and die that way.” She had managed to stop her tears, but her voice was still an echo of misery.
"In the name of Our Lord, I will take your babe if you do not live to do it. Will that suffice, ma Seur?” Mère Léonie said, disengaging herself from Seur Ranegonde's grasp. “You may find you do not require my aid. You may deliver as easily as a young mare, and be back at prayers before the oil is dry on his forehead."
Seur Ranegonde closed her eyes. “Thank you, thank you, ma Mère. You have saved me, if you promise this."
"I would not have thought,” Mère Léonie said with a hint of severity, “that it was so simple a thing to save one who has been used by demons."
With a shriek of despair, Seur Ranegonde rushed from the room, leaving Mère Léonie to pick up the two half-finished infants’ garments that had been left behind.
When Pierre returned to the monastery, Papal soldiers were waiting for him. He stood, framed in the light of the door, and made no move to resist them.
"Pierre Fornault, Due de Parcignonne,” said the Captain, bringing his lance forward so that the bat-wing blade was not far from Pierre's face. “We are here on orders of His Holiness, Clement VII, by grace of God His Vicar on earth, Pope of the One True Catholic Church."
Pierre sighed heavily. “My men are outside. They have the body of the priest."
"For the offense of attacking one of the dedicated servants of God and Holy Church, you are to be detained and tried for blasphemy and heresy. Your lands are to be seized by the Church and your name is to be stricken from the roll of honor kept by the Seneschal of le Roi."
"What I did I did for honor. If that removes my name from the roll, then honor is dead in France.” He was fatigued beyond any exhaustion he had known before. He knew he had made himself despicable, that no matter what he had done, he would bear the odium of his Church and country. He looked at the Captain, making no move to oppose him. “Will there be torture, do you think?"
"You do not wish to know."
"There will be torture then.” He lowered his head. “That priest attacked a woman whom I had promised to champion. I had to defend her for the sake of my Word."
"That is not in question here, Fornault. Your acts were against the Church, and for that you must suffer the consequences.” The Captain hesitated. “How many men-at-arms are with you?"
"Two. Ivo and Tristan. They have fought with me in battle and they came to see that honor was not compromised.” He stared at the Captain. “What was I to do? Let my honor lie in the dust because my Word was held for nothing? Was I supposed to permit la Comtesse to go unavenged?"
"It is not a question we can answer, Fornault,” the Captain said implacably. “We are sworn to uphold the honor of the Pope and you have killed one of his servants."
"And if it had been the honor of the Pope that compelled you to fight, would you have gone against the champion of le Roi?” Pierre asked, but without rancor. “You are good soldiers, all of you, and your fame is deserved. I have done what you would have done, and for it I must surrender to you, to be ... subjected to the demands of Holy Church. God made me noble, good Captain, to defend His people on this earth. What would you have me do? Forget that obligation?"
"No,” said the Captain with more understanding than he had betrayed at first. “You have done as you must, by right of birth, and we will do as we must."
"Then you have nothing more to say to me.” Pierre paused, then went on. “My men are not to be implicated. They did not consent in what I did, but came only to uphold my honor and the honor of France.” He looked around the hall, at the armed men who stood impassively. “Let me speak before you take me. After the monks have had their way with me, I may not wish to vindicate myself."
The Captain glanced at his men, knowing that what Pierre requested was improper, but reluctant to deny a Seigneur de France his right to be heard. “Say what you must,” he conceded unhappily. “But tell your men they are to remain silent."
Pierre gave the signal; Ivo and Tristan, carrying a laden stretcher between them, came into the cavernous doorway to the hall of the monastery and stood there in stillness while Pierre spoke.
"It was my cousin who brought me to this, for she had been sent to Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion for preferring me to the husband her father chose for her. I was required to guard her within the Church so her honor would not be compromised. But it was, and for that I have become a priest killer and my name is nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Padre Bartolimieu came to the convent when it was thought demons might be there. It was my cousin who first was attacked by them, and the Church wished to determine if it was lust or the instigation of hellish creatures that brought her to her rebellion and her distress. Her passion for me was undiminished while she struggled with demons, but mine for her decreased, and in time I found myself ... caught in the thrall of the demon.” He could hear the monks, standing in the shadows, whisper at this revelation. “My cousin weakened me, and through that the demon came to me, in the form of the nun that I desired, and through this minion of Hell, I became a plaything of evil, a degraded and debauched man with little to maintain honor but the worth of my word."
Tristan shifted, wanting to object to this, for he could sense the avidity of the monks as they seized upon his confession and enlarged upon his admission in their minds. The air was as potent as raw wine.
"It was the habit of my cousin to take refuge with Comtesse Orienne when she wearied of convent life, and for that reason, I renewed my acquaintance with la Comtesse at her villa Un Noveautie. She gave protection of a kind to Seur Aungelique, but what my cousin learned there was not good for her soul, and she sought out her demon with determination. For that and other reasons, my guardianship failed, but my obsession did not, and I would not remove myself from its spell. For that, I have lost my honor and my House, and it may be that I have lost my soul."
"You need not say more,” the Captain interjected, anxious to quiet Pierre before he accused himself of crimes worse than surrender to a demon.
"But I wish to, mon Captain. It is necessary that I do.” Pierre laid his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Because of the demon, I exposed a good Christian to the sin of lust, and for that he has taken the palm. It is a far better course than mine.” He spoke more slowly, as if he were falling asleep. “When Padre Bartolimieu could not continue his godly work, he blamed not me, who had provoked the ill that befell him, but the woman who was the instrument of Évêque Amalrie's downfall. For that he went to her and beat her, which was his right as a Churchman, but not as a priest to a Comtesse. For that she demanded vengeance, and I, as her champion, have killed the man, may God pardon me.” He drew his sword with his left hand, holding it awkward by the pommel, then let it drop, clanging and striking sparks, to the stone floor. He looked at Ivo and Tristan. “You have done well. I thank you for your honor. I dismiss you now, and declare that you are innocent of any wrong I have done. Put down that stretcher and leave."
The two men-at-arms hesitated, then lowered their burden to the floor. Ivo looked at the Captain. “It was fought well. The priest defended himself, but he had no skill. Sieur le Duc killed him cleanly, without cruelty, and with honor.” Saying this, he turned on his heel and strode away from the monastery, toward the place where his horse was waiting.
Tristan came to stand beside Pierre, accepting his duty. “The death was with one blow and the priest took it valiantly.” He heard one of the monks hiss in disapproval. “We do not know what is right and what is wrong; we do as God inclines us and the Church instructs us, as all worldly men must do."
"You have still given death to one pledged to God,” said the oldest monk.
Though it was futile, Tristan laid his hand on his sword. “I will stand by my oath to you, Sieur le Duc."
Pierre restrained him with a gesture. “Go. I release you from your oath to me; I no longer deserve your fealty,” he said gently. “Do not try to save the nuns, either. The Church will deal with Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion, as it will deal with me.” He motioned Tristan away from him, then faced the men-at-arms. “That is all I have to say.” And so it remained until life departed his ruined body in the dark hours at the end of the night.
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 Père 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 Père Guibert. You go to Mère Léonie,” 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 Père Guibert slept.
It took some little time for the convent to be roused, and a little longer than that for Père 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 Père 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 Mère 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 Père Guibert. “It will not be long, mon Père; she is very weak."
Père 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 Père, 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. Père 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."