The Miracle Thief (24 page)

Juliana

ROCHEMONT ABBEY

Increasingly, the abbess had been entertaining her guests at our meal—her relations as well as her lover—and the refectory had become a kind of provincial court filled with singers and mimes and tumblers and all manner of amusements, which we sisters tried in vain to ignore. Though in previous times Sister Isolda had always read scripture to us during the meal, her readings had been set aside for more worldly delights. The careless discipline of the abbess bred laxity throughout the novitiate, and now even my fellow sisters were speaking to one another in plain voice. When the guests began to flirt with the nuns, I wondered that some of the sisters might even try to put off their veils.

In spite of all those things, I could not bring myself to hate the abbess completely. I understood what it was to be thrust into a position that was not of your own making. But while I had forfeited my rights for my duties, she seemed to prize the former over the latter. I did not doubt she had a keen mind. I did, however, doubt her happiness. Even her lover did not seem to be able to assuage her moods. And mostly she retreated to her rooms when her presence was not required at the offices or at our meal.

I had once told a girl much like her not to despise the life she had been given.

Would that I could tell the abbess that very same thing. She could do much good here if she would but use the power and the influence she had been given. The thought lay so heavily upon my heart that I went to see her one morning after terce, before I returned to the hospice.

She was gazing out a window at the white-topped mountains that rose behind the abbey. Her veil and wimple had been removed, and her hair lifted in the breeze that sifted in through the opening. At my entrance, she turned. “There is snow already. I did not think it would come so soon.”

It always came this soon, but though it was always expected, it was never celebrated.

“I suppose we will be trapped here for the winter.”

“It is not a bad place to have to stay, Reverend Mother.”

She sent a speculative look at me as she sat in her armed chair, drawing a fur up over her shoulders. “Perhaps not for you, who are used to being enclosed in such a place.”

“You are not happy.”

“I do not think this place was constructed for happiness.”

“There is contentment to be found here, if one has the faith to look for it.”

The glance she gave me was wary. “I have faith.”

“Then why can you not use it for our benefit, Reverend Mother?”

Her smile, when it came, was sardonic. “Because I am already using it for my father's benefit.”

“But the nuns have need of you. And so will the pilgrims, when they return in the spring.”

“Then they shall have to stand in line.”

“You could do much good here.”

“
Could
do? I am
doing
. I am doing much good for my father. It was he who installed me here. Should my first thought not be for him?”

“But what of God?”

“Why should He not approve of me?” She had lifted her chin as if daring me to answer.

“I do not think you have the…
temperament
of a nun.”

She slouched in her chair, putting her elbows to the armrests and steepling her fingers beneath her chin. “Ah. You speak of my lord, the Marquess of Belfort. I do wish you would keep your sentiments and your observations to yourself.”

“I, too, was once young.”

The corners of her mouth lifted. “But even so, I doubt any suitor you might have had could compare to mine. You, who have chosen to deny your body for your soul, cannot know how it feels to yearn for something, some
one
, whom others have said you cannot have.”

But I did. And so I gave her the advice the old abbess had given me. “You must think on other things. You must sacrifice your own poor interest in his soul to One whose interests are higher and greater. You must rest in the thought that He can do more for my lord, the marquess, than you can.”

Her chin seemed to tremble. “If only it were that simple.”

I went and knelt before her. “It is. It may not be easy, but it is not very complicated. And dwelling upon your losses will only prolong your pain.” As I spoke the words, I realized at last I had come to believe them. And though the abbess soon dismissed me, I left her rooms with a gladdened heart. Perhaps my salvation was not quite so far off as I had once despaired.

That forenoon, as we sat in the refectory for our meal, the door suddenly swung open, and our chaplain appeared. He was flush of face and panting, cap clutched in his hand. “There are Danes—” He wheezed and then doubled over in a cough. “There are Danes out there! I saw them. I saw them with my own eyes!”

The abbess had paused in her eating at the chaplain's appearance, and the novices had stopped their ceaseless chatter.

“You must come. There are Danes—” His voice seized once more.

An uproar ensued, and the abbess rose from her armed chair, hand at her throat. “Did you—what did you say?”

“Danes! There are
Danes
!”

A canon wearing robes that must once have been quite fine appeared beside the chaplain. He raised a hand. “There is nothing to fear. They have promised me they will not hurt you as long as you give them Saint Catherine's relic.”

The abbess had bolted from her table as the men spoke, and now she ran forward, tunic flapping around her ankles. She grabbed the canon about the arm. Sinking to her knees, she released her grip on him. “Danes? Are you certain?”

“Of course I'm certain. I came with them. Rather, they have come with me.”

Her face creased with fear. “Save me. You
must
save me. I cannot die!”

The canon spread his arm wide as if in supplication. “No one will die. I promise you. Just give me the relic.”

She let loose a long, loud wail. “The Danes are going to kill us all!”

At the far end of my table, Sister Rotrude had not stopped laughing since the chaplain had first appeared. Toward the middle of the table, Sister Amicia was rocking back and forth, whispered words tumbling from her mouth, while the whole front half of the table was taken in furious conversation.

“The relic? May I have it?” The canon's appeal was put to no one in particular.

At the head of the table, Sister Berta stood. “If we give you the relic, they will leave us? They will turn around and go?”

The canon clapped a hand to his chest as he looked toward heaven. “I promise you. I swear on the veil of the Holy Mother herself.”

“We are all going to perish!” The abbess still trembled at his feet. “Please, save us!”

Sister Berta turned to Sister Isolda. “Go to the chapel, take the canon with you, and give him Saint Catherine's relic.”

“No.” The word leapt from my lips before I knew I was even thinking it. “Stop!”

For one long moment there was complete and total silence.

Rising, I addressed myself to the canon. “Who are you? And what right do you have to demand our relic from us?”

His mouth gaped wide for a moment, and then he shut it up. “You do not understand. They are
Danes
. If you do not give them the relic, they will come here and take it by force. And I cannot guarantee they will not take whatever else they want as well.”

As he spoke, I closed the distance between us. “But in whose name do you come to us?”

“The—the Archbishop of Rouen.”

“And why should we give him what he asks?”

“What
he
asks? It's the Danes who want it now. If you wish to save your lives, you'll do as they request.”

Beneath us at our feet, the abbess moaned. “When have Danes ever kept their word? Whether we give it to them or not, they will kill us. They will murder us all!”

“We're to give you the relic because the
Danes
want it? What do you have to do with the Danes? Why should something holy be demanded by those who are so foul?”

“If you would only—”

Ignoring his pleas, I turned back toward my fellow sisters. “We must not do this. We must pray, all of us.” I sank to my knees as I spoke. “And we must ask God to save us.”

The abbess had listened to my words. Now, chin quaking, she looked up at me in terror. “Ask
God
to save us?!” She stood then and looked around at us all with crazed eyes. “Run! All of you. Save yourselves!”

I raised a hand. “No, please!” But I might as well have asked the wind to cease its blowing. No one listened. Leaving benches overturned and the tables a-kilter, the sisters had fled. And the abbess had followed on their heels.

Only the canon and I remained.

He clutched my hand. “Just tell me where it is. In the name of God, just tell me so I can take it!”

“You call yourself a man of God? How can you be a part of this? How can it be right for you to lead the heathen here?”

“If Saint Catherine wishes to leave, then nothing you can do will stop them from taking her.”

“And why would she wish to go anywhere with the depraved and the wicked?” But then why would she wish to stay here, when the abbey had been turned into a brothel?

“They don't want it for themselves. It's for the archbishop.”

“And why does he want it?” From the courtyard came shrieks and bellows and other sounds of panic.

“Because…” He sighed. “It's for the princess.”

“The princess? Gisele?” My daughter? “Then why did she not come herself?” Why had she sent Danes to take it from us?

“She wanted to, but then…”

“Please. Tell me!”

“The princess has been promised to the chieftain of the Danes. She asked the king for leave to come to the abbey and inquire of Saint Catherine herself.”

She would not have asked to come if she had wanted to wed the Dane. Of that I was certain. “And the king?”

“The king agreed to allow it, but then he was called to Lorraine. They want to make him their king. So he left the princess in the care of the Count of Paris, and
he
did not want her to make the journey. The archbishop suggested the relic would be better housed at the cathedral in Rouen, so I was dispatched to bring the relic to her.”

“He had no right!” None of them had.

“And the Dane sent his men along to make certain I did not fail. So all has turned upon itself. What started out as an expedition to inquire of Saint Catherine has been overtaken by the pagans.”

A great rage burned within my breast. It was not right that they should demand what did not belong to them, that we should be forced to forfeit what we held most sacred. And it was not just that my daughter was not to be allowed to inquire honestly of Saint Catherine. I did not suffer from delusions: if the saint wished to leave, there would be no stopping the Danes from taking her relic, but that did not mean I had to offer it to them. “They cannot have it.” My daughter had wanted Saint Catherine to decide. In this, at least, I would try to grant her wish.

“But they will sack the place. No one will be safe! Not one. We did not have to warn you. Indeed, even now, we could just take it, but I persuaded them to allow me to ask you for it. To try to obtain it without damage.”

“But we cannot leave. We cannot let you take it. Surely you must know that. If we flee before the vile and the wicked, will God not find us lacking in faith? If we cannot trust God, then why should we ask Him to save us? And besides, do we not have Saint Catherine on our side?”

“What good is Saint Catherine in the face of pillage and rapine! She is—she is
dead
! And these Danes are not god-fearing men! I have done what I can, but if you refuse my request, I cannot be held responsible for their actions.”

“They cannot have it.”

“And you are going to stop them?” His tone was incredulous. “How? Look around you. The rest of the sisters have fled.”

Speak
truth; stand for what is right
. “Then their faith has nothing to do with mine.”

“The Danes will have no mercy.”

“If God is for me, then who can be against me?” That is what I had always been taught. I could only hope it did not matter that the men like him who had done that teaching did not seem to believe the words they spoke.

“If you refuse, I will not be able to help you.”

“I do not look to you for salvation.” I hoped I sounded braver than I felt.

He simply stared at me, shaking his head. And then he turned and started toward the courtyard. “The sisters said it was in the chapel. I'll just take it myself and save them—and you—the trouble.”

“For
shame
!”

He turned, a cynical smile twisting his lips. “If you think to offend me, then you are mistaken. I have lived with shame for quite some time now.”

“For God's sake!”

“For God's sake I have perverted justice, I have bowed to every request of my uncle the archbishop, and I have thrown in with the Danes. For God's sake I have done a hundred things I have begun to think have nothing to do with Him at all.”

“But you're—”

He looked down at his robes, throwing his arms out. “A cleric. A canon. Yes, I am. But I am also a man of so little faith that—”

“Our Lord has said, ‘Though our faith be so small as a mustard seed…'”

Rage erupted in his eyes. “Yes! ‘Though it be as small as a mustard seed, still I can move mountains.' But I care nothing for mountains! My faith is worn and beaten and so exceedingly small it cannot see any other way than this.”

“Then it must never have been faith at all.”

A wave of great sadness swept his face.

“Or if it was, you must have placed it in the wrong thing.”

“The wrong thing.” His eyes met mine. “The wrong man.”