Tonight there was little revelry at Un Noveautie. The demands of a poor harvest had taken many of her companions back to their lands to administer their estates in such a way they would all come through the approaching winter. As a result, Comtesse Orienne was bored. She had been listening to her musicians for the better part of the morning, and in the afternoon she had gone out with her falcon, but now that evening was approaching, she could think of nothing that would amuse her but taking one of the servants to her bed. That had led to difficulties in the past but she was almost prepared to deal with that if it would mean she had something interesting to do in the meantime.
Jaques appeared in the door of the solar where she sat on the soft cushions looking out into the lavender sky. "There is someone to see you."
Her brows went up and her cat's face showed good humor for the first time that day. "Oh? Who?"
"A priest, mistress. I do not know him." Jaques hesitated. "He does not mean to do well by you. It is in his eyes."
Comtesse Orienne shrugged petulantly. "You mean he will lecture me and try to convince me to repent? I have heard such before. They are predictable, but they are occasionally entertaining," she said, then looked more closely at her servant. "Well? You looked troubled. Is there something about this priest you have not told me?"
Jaques hesitated once more. "Mistress, do not go to him. He means you ill, and men of that sort will not hesitate ... Do you recall that Chevalier, the Gascon who beat you for giving him too much pleasure?"
"How could I not recall? He left me with one eye swollen shut for three days and a bruise on my thigh that took more than two weeks to fade." She lifted one hand in an invitation for him to continue. "What has this priest to do with that Gascon Chevalier?"
"They have the same look about them. There is a severity in the face, mistress, and a turn to the mouth that does not bode well." He knew he had said as much as she would permit, and he lowered his head. "If you must see him, let it not be alone."
This was too much for Comtesse Orienne, who laughed easily. "Time lies as heavily on your hands as mine, does it, Jaques? You must imagine dangers behind every pillar to keep from going out of your mind with the sameness of it all."
"It is more than that," he insisted in a mumble.
She rose and came toward him, caressing his cheek. "Your devotion pleases me, Jaques, and it touches me. You have done well to warn me, and for that I thank you and will see you suitably rewarded."
He brought his eyes up to meet hers. "I do not warn you for the chance of a reward, mistress."
"You shall have one just the same," she said, her tone low and promising. "Now show me where you have put this priest and I will try to endure his rantings for an hour or so." She permitted him to lead her down the corridor, using the time to adjust her old-fashioned but provocative gates-of-hell to its best advantage.
"In the smaller salon, mistress," Jaques said, standing aside at the top of the stairs so she could descend them. "Have care."
Comtesse Orienne smiled blandly back at him. "You are good to me." She was still smiling when she entered the smaller salon and found Padre Bartolimieu waiting for her, his face thunderous and his fury so apparent that he might have been quilled and clawed. "You are the priest who wishes to see me?"
Padre Bartolimieu ran his eyes over her. "I am the priest. You are the enemy."
Inwardly Comtesse Orienne faltered, but her smile did not change. "I am no one's enemy, mon Pere. I am a creature of pleasures, which you doubtless know, but you also know that God made many of us thus." She chose a seat some distance from him. "Pray do not stand. I prefer it that my guests be comfortable."
"So that they are unwary of the ills you do them," he told her, though he did not sit down on one of the padded benches. For a little time they only looked each other over, measuring the degree of opposition in the other.
"You are displeased with me?" Comtesse Orienne ventured at last. "You speak as if I had compelled someone to come here against his will. Or her will." This last was intended to needle him, and it did.
"You say that, secure in your lies and your wiles. Yet you have brought about the fall of more good men than the Greek demon Helen." He leaned forward, his jaw thrusting. "You have brought many souls to your master, have you not?"
Comtesse Orienne shook her head impatiently. "I am without a master: it is one of the few joys of being noble and a widow, mon Pere. If you are speaking of another master, then I admit I am the dutiful subject of le Roi and I am loyal to the Church in Avignon." The entertainment she had hoped this priest would give her was disappointing. Her head began to ache once more. "You presume too much if you say otherwise."
"You have learned your work well, demon. You are gifted in the ways of the flesh and you have a soft word to those who challenge you, which disarms them, as the sight of your body and the opulence of your villa disarms them. Everything about you is calculated to cause a prudent man to forget his natural caution and to assume that you offer him no greater danger than Venus' pox." He sounded calmer now, though his chin jutted more emphatically.
Now Comtesse Orienne could sense what it was Jaques warned her about, and she decided to be more circumspect with her annoying visitor. "Mon Pere, you doubtless believe you have suffered because of something I have done, and it may be that one of your flock has told you that he was brought here against his will or that I compelled him to do acts that he did not desire. And it may be that after leaving here, when he reflected on what he had done, he may have felt some shame - I do not say that many do, but there must be a few who have decided they cannot live as I do - and therefore confessed to you. While attempting to mitigate his sin, he may have told you he was forced to come here and was required to do things he did not like. Such coercion is repugnant to me. If a man does not choose to be here, I do not want him to remain. I am not a woman who enjoys reluctant lovers, and if that turns a man from me, then well and good; we are neither at loss in that instance." She wished now that she had worn one of her more modest gowns, but with the weather so warm, she had selected the coolest garment she owned, and worn it without the cote beneath it. The armseyes of this cote-hardie were so deep that a man standing beside her could see most of her body. She moved in the chair so the gates-of-hell were not quite as open as they had been.
"So you say, while you are given to every voluptuous practice and every seduction. What man would not think himself willing while you are there to work your sorcery upon him and bring him to his ruin?" Padre Bartolimieu glared at her. "You are a vicious snare, made beautiful to the unwary, so that you may the more completely devour those who are your victims."
When Comtesse Orienne laughed, there was a quiver in the sound, an echo of the nervousness she felt. "You come here, mon Pere, full of purpose and the need to redress a great wrong which you are convinced I have done you. If I have, I most truly ask your pardon. I wish no man ill, and if there has been wrong done in my name, I would wish to see it remedied."
"How dare you assume the mask of innocence? You, who are more dangerous than half the hosts of Rome!" He got to his feet. "You have brought a good and holy man, one who was fired with truth and zeal, to such degradation that he is without strength any more!" He began to pace, not looking at her as he nursed his rage. "You have taken the soul of a good priest and turned it from his purpose and from the defense of his faith!"
More quietly than before, Comtesse Orienne said, "I know no such priest, mon Pere; I have told you already. Those Churchmen who come here do so willingly and with glad hearts. We have cause to enjoy one another as suits our natures, and when it is over, they do not curse me, but pardon me for my sins and pray that I will not repent them too soon." She hoped her servants were not far away, for she could see that the priest would not easily be persuaded to leave.
Padre Bartolimieu halted by the window and looked out into the vast, overgrown orchard where the last of the fruit was starting to shrivel in the trees. The scent of apricots was strong, though now it was faintly tinged with the sharp sweetness of rot. "You speak of pleasures, and you will not see them as the odium they are. You defend your appetites, and say they are only to give delight rather than the damnation you instill." He began to weep with wrath. "You, who claim to be only as God made you, you, you have taken the soul of a good priest and you have destroyed it. There was such work we might have done together. There were tasks that lay before us for the Glory of God, and you have deprived us and Our Lord of the victory, so that the forces of Hell advance in this land!"
"Mon Pere!" Comtesse Orienne protested. "Such accusations are grave and I will not tolerate them in my own villa."
"You will not tolerate them? You? You are the spawn of Lilith herself, and you reek of debauchery! You are the portal to damnation, and it lies not in the sides of your garments, but between your thighs, where you bring your lovers and cause them more travail than any other woes the world has to offer. You are what has opposed the Church from the beginning, the sweet poison of flesh and desire that turns the minds of men from God and the promise of Heaven. For that we are all punished, and rightly so. The Kingdom of God is far off as long as such as you walk the earth. You are what has brought the Plague upon us! You are what destroys us all!" His voice had become a howl, almost incoherent with the power of his increasing ire. "Mon eveque came here, and it was not of his own will, you serpent! He was brought here through guile by one who is already your slave."
Comtesse Orienne blinked. "Your eveque? That puny little worm? Is that what you are so overwrought about?" She had been hoping to discover the source of his grievance, but she had never suspected it might be something so minor as that terrified little man with the pouting rose-bud mouth that Pierre had requested she bed. "For all the Saints, mon Pere, he was here but once, and if he had told you he did not enjoy himself, then he lied to you."
"No!" Padre Bartolimieu rounded on her. "More deceptions, more vilifications! You insinuated yourself into his grace and then you set upon him, confounding his reason so that he ... he ... succumbed to you!"
"That last I will not argue," she said, a degree of amusement bursting through the alarm that ran through her. "He did succumb and would have succumbed more if I had been willing. But he was most inexperienced and did not wish to learn how to pleasure me, only how to achieve his own enjoyment. He left in the morning, tired but satisfied, and he promised to come again when it was possible." She leaned back in her chair. "I have not seen him since that day, and it is nothing to me if he never comes here again."
"Now that you have degraded him, you cast him aside so you may seek new prey!" Padre Bartolimieu accused her. "You will never stop until you have brought down His Holiness! You are the center of corruption in France, and - "
This time she laughed openly, but there was anger in the sound. "I have listened to enough. You make me to be one of the monsters of Saunt Jean, and that is more than I permit in my own villa. You have said what you came to say, you have heaped your vituperations on me, and that is sufficient. You will go now, mon Pere, and I will try not to hold this against you in my heart." She rose with the intention of leaving the salon.
"Wait!" Padre Bartolimieu ordered, taking three quick steps toward her as he fumbled in his sleeve.
"No. You have exhausted your welcome. My servants will escort you to - " Her dismissal ended in a sharp cry as the barbs of his scourge hissed past her face. "You disgusting hypocri - "
This time the lashes caught, the tips of the iron hooks digging into her forehead and cheek, raking and tearing down the side of her face. "Thus do we abjure your work, Satan!" Padre Bartolimieu shrieked in terrible rapture as he swung the scourge again.
Comtesse Orienne screamed, the sound high and shuddering as the pain went though her. "To me! Jaques! To me!" The third time the scourge struck her, the agony of it was worse than anything she had felt before. She fell away from the scourge and tried to crawl behind her chair for protection. The smell of her blood was strong in her throat. She coughed, and tasted the warm, metallic fluid.
"You destroyed eveque Amalrie!" Padre Bartolimieu bellowed, and launched himself into the attack once again, the light of battle bright in his face. "You will pay for it now and in Hell!"
His scourge struck her shoulder and ripped the linen. He had drawn his arm back and was moving closer to her when strong hands fell on him, restraining him and pulling him away from the whimpering woman on the floor. Knees, fingers and fists gouged and pummeled him while he tried to break free, but it was to no avail. Two pages, a house steward and a footman wrestled Padre Bartolimieu to the floor and with pleased efficiency, beat him into unconsciousness.
Jaques was the first to approach Comtesse Orienne, who had dragged herself into a corner of the room where she lay in half-stupor, her screams now reduced to strange, child-like mewlings. Jaques shook his head as he saw the extent of the damage the metal-tipped lashes had done: long furrows scored her face and forehead, her nose was torn and there was so much blood that he could not tell what had become of her right eye. Flesh was torn on her neck and shoulders, but the bleeding was not so great. He turned to the others. "Take that man to le Duc. Truss him up like a boar if you must, but take him there and tell le Duc what he did to our mistress. He will see to the man."
"But this is a priest," the footman protested, not wishing to offend the Church.
"It would not matter if it were the Pope. Le Duc is her champion, and she has suffered ... " - he swallowed against a sudden obstruction - "very much at his hands. It is for le Duc to redress her wrongs." He was trying to think of whom he ought to call to tend her, for the injuries Comtesse Orienne had sustained were far beyond what he could treat. "Well, hurry. Get that madman away from here at once!"
The other three exchanged looks but hastened to obey. As they got him to his feet, Padre Bartolimieu began to shout imprecations at the men who restrained him. "You will be hurled into the Pit! Demons will consume your entrails!" he raved, but to no avail.
When they had gone, Jaques knelt down and lifted his mistress into his arms, holding her gently, speaking to her quietly as he bore her to her bedchamber with dread in his heart.
In the latter part of the night, it was the task of Seur Theodosie to watch over Seur Catant, to see that she did not harm herself. It was something the quiet nun hated doing, and because she knew the hatred was wrong, she fulfilled her obligations with great dedication, trusting it would make up for her sin. She often sang hymns and Psalms to herself to help the night go by, but this evening, with the first of the autumn storms brewing, there was little distraction or consolation in the words she sang to herself. Heaven seemed to be an unfriendly place as the clouds gathered overhead, blotting out the stars.
"Troubled?" asked a light voice from the end of the corridor.
Seur Theodosie turned to see the intruder. "Go away. It is not right for you to be here. I will call la Mere to show you out if you do not leave at once." She had a brittle tone, one that became more noticeable when she was upset. The appearance of this unknown man in the convent halls was troublesome indeed.
"But how uncharitable," Thibault said. "When all I wished to do was to give my regards to poor Seur Catant. Would you refuse me the chance to comfort the sick? It is a virtue, isn't it?" He had strolled up to her and gave her a wide smile.
"When it is used for malice, it is no virtue," she answered, prepared to stay where she had been sent. "You cannot cozen me, stranger. We have been told to be on guard, and my good Angel warns me that you will do harm if you can." She took up her station with more firmness than before.
Thibault chuckled. "How fierce! And to think I might have tried my wiles on so devoted a Sister. Why, I should cry shame on myself."
"You have no shame," Seur Theodosie said without any fear at all. "You have only the harm you can do. If you will not be gone, well, then remain until sunrise when you shall be found with me, and you will be in more danger then than ever I am now." It was invigorating to say these things, express sentiments she had never voiced aloud before in her life. "God will aid me."
Thibault shook his head. "What am I supposed to do? Challenge you to battle? Meet for a contest of strength?"
"We are having that contest now," Seur Theodosie said with conviction. "And as my strength is in God, you will not prevail." She looked at him steadily. "You are one of those who do the work of the Devil. You are everything that we are taught we must resist. It is not a difficult thing to resist you." Her confidence was increasing with every word she spoke. "Go away, demon, and take whatever form you must to leave us in peace."
"I might simply go down stairs and dally with Seur Aungelique," he suggested, his smile remaining fixed.
"Then do so. She has made her choice. I have made mine." She folded her hands and started to sing another hymn, this time finding merit in the words that had eluded her before.
"Do you realize that I can kill you?" Thibault asked in his most charming way.
"We have too many mouths to feed. Kill me if it must be that: I will go to God and you will still be what you are." She resumed her hymn, satisfied she at last understood what her vocation meant to her.
He bent and drew a knife from his boot. "I might cut off your lips, so that you cannot sing."
"God hears my soul, not my words," she answered, then stared at him again. "You are very like Mere Leonie, demon."
"Very like," he agreed most soberly. "It is ... convenient." His face remained composed, but something in his voice smiled its mockery.
"And you are ready to do ill in her name," Seur Theodosie said. "That cannot be permitted. You will be stopped."
In the cell behind her, Seur Catant had wakened again and was shrieking, making garbled, steady cries with the determination of a hungry infant.
"You hear? She knows I have come for her, ma Seur. She longs for me. She has said so many times before, and now she will have me." Thibault took another step nearer, the knife held firmly in his hand. "She calls to me, and I answer when I am called."
"You will not. You will not touch her." Seur Theodosie braced herself, unaware of how fruitless a gesture she made. "You may do what you want, but you must kill me first. And if you kill me, know my death does not alter my beliefs, but confirms my faith, demon." She folded her hands and began to sing, the melody of her hymn a strange descant to Seur Catant.
There was a rush of feet at the end of the hall and Seur Elvire came running, responding to the insistent screams. She was out of breath and was not able to call out, promising aid.
"You are not favored, this night, ma Seur," Thibault murmured to Seur Theodosie, and closed the space between them, pressing his knife home, through her habit, under her breastbone and up. He moved the blade from side to side, feeling the resistance and slice of tissue in the wrapped steel of the hilt. He held her with his free arm, so that she could not slip away from him.
Seur Theodosie trembled and jerked, then blood welled from her mouth and nose; she slumped down the door as Thibault, satisfied, released her.
"What are you doing?" Seur Elvire cried out, gasping. She had never seen that close embrace before, but feared what it meant. "Seur Theodosie, what is the matter? What have you done?" She stood quite still in the corridor, not caring to intrude, but fearing more what she could not understand. Seur Catant's screams drove her almost to distraction, yet she could not bring herself to move.
Then lightning tore through the clouds, and its sudden, deathly glare penetrated the corridor through the windows of the cells. Seur Elvire saw the blood, turned almost indigo by the blanching brightness. As she watched, Thibault withdrew his knife and blood spread over Seur Theodosie's habit. He turned away and ran down the hall, away from Seur Elvire, who had not yet realized what she had seen.
As Thibault disappeared around the corner, Seur Elvire's screams were added to those of Seur Catant, and both were lost in the shattering thunder.
By mid-afternoon the sky had cleared, but ominous clouds marshaled like hostile cavalry at the horizon, promising another storm by morning. Pierre stood in the bow of his study window, looking out over the magnificence and squalor of Avignon. His interview earlier in the day, during the pelting squall that had been blown up the river from the sea, had left him apprehensive, and reflection on what Cardinal Seulfleuve had told him served only to disturb him more.
"A woman has arrived," his chamberlain said from the door. "She insists on speaking with you."
Pierre signed and turned his back on the buildings of Avignon. "What woman is this? Why does she seek me out?"
The chamberlain paused in his answer. "She said ... she said that she came to you because you will champion her."
"Ah." He had been waiting for this since Comtesse Orienne's servants had come to him with Padre Bartolimieu trussed and gagged like a boar after the hunt. "I must see her then, mustn't I?" He had meant this to be a quip but it sounded like the reading of a verdict. "Where I have given my word, I must uphold it in the face of God, if it comes to that."
"You will see her, then?" the chamberlain asked, surprised that his master should acquiesce so miserably and so readily.
"I am her champion." He came back to his writing desk. "Give me a moment and then I will speak with her in my reception room downstairs. I have to record one or two minor instructions, in case ... Do all that hospitality demands to make her welcome."
The chamberlain knew better than to question le Duc further when he was in such a humor. He bowed and withdrew to do as he had been ordered, but his thoughts were grim.
Pierre sat and drew one of the rolls of parchment toward him. As he smoothed it open in front of him, he saw it had not been entirely scraped clean, so that the words of his Will crossed lines of almost vanished love lyrics written three centuries before. Like most of his contemporaries, Pierre had the rudiments of reading and writing, but putting words on paper had always been a laborious task for le Duc de Parcignonne, and never more than now, when he contemplated the disposition of his personal fortune.
Given that the hours of man are short and that we may be struck down at any time it pleases God to take us from this life, I, Pierre Fornault, for the sake of my conscience and my House, make the following Will in regard to my lands and possessions. To my uncle, Michau d'Ybert, I leave my horses and armor, with the wish that he bestow them on a man-at-arms of sufficient rank and honor to deserve them.
He sat reading over the paragraph he had written, wondering what else he ought to say. There were other things he owned, but he did not know how to indicate their disposal. Finally, he made his decision.
The rest of my belongings that are not part of my rank and House, I leave to Holy Church, to buy Masses for the salvation of my soul, which is fallen and tainted by the constraints of honor.
He prepared wax and fixed his signet to the end of the parchment, then held it flat while the ink dried and the wax cooled. When he was certain the ink would not smear and the wax would not crack, he rolled the parchment loosely and set it in the middle of the table. He rose, thinking he would have preferred another means to keep his good name, but no idea of how to achieve this came to mind.
When he reached the reception room, servants had brought hot pastries and honeyed wine to le Duc's veiled visitor. It pleased him to think that no matter how dire his predicament, his servants had done as they were required to do for the lady. He inclined his head. "God give you good day."
Comtesse Orienne looked up through the silk of her veil. "May He protect you and defend the Right," she answered, and though her voice was still low, it no longer purred and promised as it had done before.
"You have come to me to champion you," Pierre said without inflection. "You wish me to uphold your name."
"Yes." She watched him, her eyes burning behind the soft, sheer fabric. "You gave me your word that you will be my champion. Now I have suffered a grievous wrong and there is no one but you to see that I am avenged." Her tone was flat, as if she discussed the cleaning of fish, but she sat straight on the bench and the tension in her body shook her.
"Of course," Pierre said, convinced that she would not be deterred from the course she had set for herself.
"You swore, when I went to that eveque to please you, that you would be my champion. You did not expect you would have to do more than see I have a new falcon each spring, and I wanted nothing more than a reward for enduring so uninteresting a lover. But that is changed now." She lifted the end of the veil to carry the goblet of honeyed wine to her lips. She took great care not to reveal her face.
"I am saddened, Orienne, that you should have suffered." He could think of nothing else to say. "I am troubled it was a priest who brought you to this. They are mad, most of them."
Her laughter was as brief as it was harsh. "And when we look after them, we are punished for our pains. I was punished, Sieur le Duc, and now I want that priest to know a little of what he gave to me. Do you understand?" She drank her wine far too quickly and poured herself more at once. "You have the man who did this to me. You know what you must do."
"Honorable combat? Will you accept that?" Pierre asked, wishing to disgrace himself no more than was necessary.
"If you insist. He is not noble, and you need not concern yourself with his House, for they know nothing of him, and do not stand high enough to question anything you do." She did not drink quite so quickly this time, but still she was indulging herself as she had never done in the past.
He thought that perhaps he was trapped in a dream, and that no matter what he said or did, it would fade from his thoughts when the morning came. It was his greatest hope that this would turn out to be a warning, a dream that God had given him for his teaching and protection. In his heart, he was aware this was not the case, and he would not suddenly discover that his predicament was a dream. He wished now he had obtained the dispensation and taken Aungelique from the convent in spite of her father's objections. Had he done that, he would never been trapped in this question of honor. "He is a man of God and, for that, I must treat him as a nobleman, ma Comtesse." For a moment, he had forgotten to speak to her, and now he tried to compensate for his lack of courtesy. "The Church will not approve no matter what I do, but they will be more reasonable if I do not offend their priest with a peasant's death. I will see that he is challenged, and I will fight him on foot and not mounted, so that it cannot be said that he was disadvantaged in that way."
"But you will kill him?" Comtesse Orienne demanded in a soft, furious tone.
"Unless God guides his hand against me, I will kill him. We will fight with axes, so that it will be quick." He had decided that earlier in the day.
"I will come, so that I may watch." This would not be questioned, no matter how irregular her demand.
"If that is your desire, it is my duty to see it done." He bowed to her slightly. "You are most unforgiving."
"I am unforgiving." She mused over the accusation. Then, with some of her old languor, she turned toward him. "Look for yourself, mon Duc, and then tell me again that I am unforgiving." Slowly she lifted her veil and faced him, gazing at him steadily with the one eye Padre Bartolimieu had left her. Beneath the gaping socket, there were deep furrows across her cheek, turning from raspberry to puckered white. Her nose, which had been perfect, was cut away on the right side, and what little flesh there was had healed badly, pulling the skin up and back, giving her some of the aspect of a pig's snout. Above her mouth ran another scar, and one corner drooped under the white cicatrix of the scourge.
Pierre had seen men maimed and disfigured in battle, but the sight of them did not sicken him as this devastation did, for the men had gone to battle as soldiers with the prospect of injury before them. This was entirely different, and the sight of Orienne's destroyed beauty brought the taste of bile to the back of his mouth. He took a deep, unsteady breath. "I will do what I may to avenge you, and the world will judge as it must."
It was no longer possible for Orienne to smile, and the grimace that she was able to produce only served to make her face more hideous. "Thank you, Sieur le Duc, my champion. I am grateful to you."
He acknowledged this by pouring a second goblet full of honeyed wine and drinking it quickly. It was potent enough to rush to his senses and bring a leaded flush to his cheeks, but for once in his life, he could not taste the drink, nor respond to its warmth.
Seur Ranegonde sat opposite Seur Aungelique in the small weaving room on the second floor of the convent. Sunlight angled in the window, ripe as grain, warm where it touched. The rest of the room was cool and the wind promised that the year would turn toward the dark again soon.
"What will you do when your infant is born?" Seur Ranegonde asked as she set stitches in a little robe of cast-off linen. Neither woman had spoken much of their pregnancies, let alone the babies they carried, but now as delivery grew nearer, they occasionally ventured into the forbidden territory.
"I will be free of the Church. I will send it to my father, and he may raise it or not as he sees fit. I will go to live as I wish to live." She tossed her head as if she were not wearing coif and gorget and wimple. "I have a place where I will be welcome. The woman who lives there is a great beauty, and she has let me stay with her in the past." She went on with her sewing, and then added. "I did not think it would take so long for my cousin to make proper arrangements for me, but you know what men are. Well, of course you must; look at you."
These occasional jibes did not sit well with Seur Ranegonde, who colored deeply. "No man did this to me. It was a demon."
"And a demon did this to me, but it was because he wanted me." Her face grew serious briefly. "My cousin was the one who should have loved me, but he did not wish for my love, and so..." She shrugged. "You've heard me speak of it before. I will not repeat myself. That is too much like confession."
"Do not speak so!" Seur Ranegonde protested. "You do not know what it is to long to confess and to feel the fruits of sin rob you of your will to admit how greatly you have erred." She went on sewing. "Your babe. You will give it to your father? Truly?"
"Yes. Why shouldn't I? Other women do. I have sisters and aunts who will care for it, and if it pleases my father, he can adopt it. That way, he will have the heir he wishes and will still be able to be rid of me." Her eyes flashed with anger and pride. "I was sent here to be made tractable, and I have not surrendered. My great-grandmother was chatelaine, and defended her lands from rival lords. She upheld the honor of our House, and she showed herself to be tireless in battle. Her blood is in my veins, and her mark is on me. She would not have been content in the Church, and I am not." She threw down the cloth she held. "She would not have spent her day in needlework, but in battle and in loving. When I am free of this place and this thing that turns in my belly, I will be as she was, and all of France will speak of me with respect." She got up, striding down the room. "I do not want your pity, though you are about to give it to me, aren't you?"
"I ... you have need of solace, for being so far from grace, and..." Seur Ranegonde was not able to go on.
"But you have fallen from grace as well, haven't you? And your father will not take your babe, will he? You will have to find a way to raise it. You may be certain that Pere Guibert will not allow it to remain here. He will send it to Saunt-Elizair to the monastery where they care for the orphans and foundlings. Doubtless he will not say that a nun gave birth to it because of a demon, but will lie and tell them that a peasant family died of Plague. Or it may be he will tell them that it was abandoned by travelers. And it will be in the care of the monks, who will feed it and put rags on it and will tell it all its life that it is worthless and therefore must be grateful for what little the monks do for it." She laughed, clapping her hands with satisfaction. "That is the life of your baby, ma Seur. Mine will be loved and doted upon. God will give it the pleasures that are his by rights, as He will deny them to your bastard."
Seur Ranegonde's face had darkened and now she looked as near to angry as ever she had in her life. "You have no right to say this to me, ma Seur. You are the one who was first touched by demons, and you are the one who brought them to us here. If my babe is to suffer, then your babe will suffer more." She got up from the bench, swaying a little as she balanced herself against the burden of her pregnancy. Her back ached and her face was damp. "You are the one who has brought this upon us and God will not forgive you for what you have done. I know that I must find it in my heart to pardon you before I die, or suffer in Hell."
"You are not to speak to me this way!" Seur Aungelique shouted, offended beyond all reason. "You are not of the nobility, and you have no right to speak to the daughter of Michau d'Ybert in this manner!"
"I speak to you as a child of God, for you are that, too!" Seur Ranegonde glared at the other nun. "You are not deserving of the rank to which you were born, and you have been trying to throw it away since you came here. You want to be more than your father is, and for that, you are cast down into the Pit!" Her head ached; shouting only served to make it worse.
"You dare not say this! You are nothing more than - " Seur Aungelique began, preparing for a tantrum.
"Both of you will beg pardon of the other, and tonight when we have our meal, you will serve your Sisters on your knees and beseech each of them to forgive you for this outburst!" Mere Leonie's pale eyes blazed at the two nuns. "I have had enough of your bickering and discontent. You have much to bear, and it causes you distress, but that does not excuse what you have said and done here!"
"Ma Mere..." Seur Ranegonde was the first who turned away, shamefaced. "I apologize to you, and pray you will find it in your heart to pardon my impropriety." She crossed herself, then clumsily lowered herself back onto the bench where she had sat.
"And you, Seur Aungelique? Have you anything to say to me?" Mere Leonie stood very tall and regarded the rebellious nun with quiet disdain. "Who is your defender, that you believe it is your right to challenge me?"
Seur Aungelique's chin lifted higher. "My lover would not hesitate to oppose you!"
"Do you think so?" Mere Leonie asked. There was a strange glitter at the back of her eyes. "You may go to your cells, both of you, and remain there until you serve your Sisters at the evening meal. Then each of you may keep vigil in turn, prostrate before the altar."
"Prostrate?" Seur Aungelique repeated, her face turning ugly with indignation. "You wish us to crush our babes?"
"Our Lord will protect them, ma Seur. Go to your cell at once, Seur Aungelique, and think on the sin of pride, and how it has brought you to this pass." She made no move, but Seur Aungelique fell back before her. "At once, ma Seur."
"I will be away from here soon, and then I need never speak to you again!" She hurried out of the room, her features set and her head high.
"You as well, ma Seur," Mere Leonie said, less forcefully, to Seur Ranegonde. "The rest may do you good. From your face, I would think that you have been suffering of late."
"It is the babe. I remember that my mother was similarly afflicted. Her ankles would swell and her hands. She said that with every new babe, she was worse. When she died in childbed, she said that her flesh and not the babe was to blame." She lowered her head. "I am frightened, ma Mere. I know that God will protect me if I am dutiful and repent my sin."
"But you think of your mother, is that it?" Mere Leonie asked. "You fear that you will die as your mother died, and that nothing will save you from that fate."
Seur Ranegonde made a gesture as if to wipe away what she heard. "It is part of my fear, yes. I have prayed and prayed and prayed, but Pere Guibert has said that it is for Eve that we must be tormented with giving birth, and that God will not relent in this for our disobedience. And it ... I cannot bear thinking of it. I see my mother, and it is myself." She started to cry, her hands covering her face. "I deserve the death, for I let a demon possess me. I deserve it. I know it. But I dread it, and when I think of my child, I am in despair."
Mere Leonie made no effort to comfort her. "Pere Guibert will do all that he must to see that you are protected and saved, if that is the will of God."
"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," Mere Leonie 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 Mere Leonie's long, narrow hand. "Ma Mere, 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, Mere Leonie, tell me that you will not desert my babe."
Mere Leonie 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?" Mere Leonie 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 Mere. You have saved me, if you promise this."
"I would not have thought," Mere Leonie 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 Mere Leonie 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 eveque 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.
