A Mortal Glamour (7 page)

Orienne shrugged. “Who knows? In time your father will die. You need not take your final vows while he lives, and if you do not, upon his death, you will be free to do as you wish unless your brother holds you to your father's will.” She reached out for another date and chewed it thoughtfully. “I would not mind having you here, if that were the only consideration, but with your father's reputation, well, I have nothing to oppose him that would mean anything to those good men of the Church."

"I hate the convent,” Aungelique whispered, turning miserable instead of defiant. “We pray and prostrate ourselves and whip ourselves with willow rods."

"You told me,” Orienne reminded her kindly. “But I can't change the Rule of the Order, can I?"

"And Mère Léonie ... Everyone says that she is doing such good for us, but I think that she ... that she is ... is...” Her voice dropped to nothing as she searched her mind for an adequate description of Mère Léonie.

"She is new, ma Frèrée, and from everything you've said, she is trying to reform the whole convent at once. They're either like that, or they are so vague and spiritual that little short of a collapsing roof will catch their attention.” She recalled herself enough to offer Aungelique a date. “They're very good, and you won't have many of them at the convent."

Aungelique's eyes filled with tears. “No.” She reached out and took five of the precious dates. “I'll have to eat them all before ... before I arrive back, or I'll be made to do penance for them.” She stuffed two of them into her mouth at once and began to chew vigorously. It was almost impossible for her to swallow against the tightening in her throat, but she forced herself to consume all the dates as she listened to Comtesse Orienne. Her breath was bound tightly in her chest, so that she panted, almost like one of the little ferrets that Orienne kept indoors to eat the leavings of the banquet table and kill the rats and mice that lived in the rushes.

"You think it's cruel of me to deny you all the things you want so badly. It may be that God made me cruel; he has made many thus. I know that you suffer, but the whole world suffers, ma Frèrée, and God permits it. So I will do all that I may to keep my pleasure—I will refuse to help you or anyone. I will take my salvation now in flesh rather than in the spirit for eternity.” She put her hands to her temples. “Hell can be no worse than my head right now, and I know I can endure it. You are not in a position to do as you wish, but few of us are, Aungelique. If the Cardinal had not befriended me, I would have had my head shaved years ago, and been given to one of my distant kinsmen for chastisement. It would be harder for me than for you."

"But—” Aungelique protested around the dates.

"No. I won't discuss it more. There will be another time, when you will be able to come here without the threat of your father's wrath looming over you, and then, if you still want to share my life here, you would be most welcome. Until that time, be wise, ma Frèrée, and do as they wish you to do."

"I won't whip myself.” Her resolve, which had been weakening, was once again firm.

"That is for you to decide. I will not forget you, and should I hear word from Pierre, I will let you know of it, one way or another. You will not be wholly cut off, or—” She held out the last of the dates.

Aungelique hesitated only an instant, then took them. “I thank you, Comtesse, for your courtesy."

"And at the moment you want to scratch my eyes out. I would, too, if I had to go from here to a convent, whips or no whips. This is pleasure; the convent is not.” Orienne rose languidly so that the throbbing in her temples would not make her ill. “I have ways to get word to you, ma Frèrée, and in time you will find the means to send messages to me as well. It is often done, no matter what you hear. When you have had a little time, you will discover—"

"I don't want to find the means!” Aungelique shouted, unable to control her temper any longer. “I want to run away."

"From here as well? And then what? They dare not take you at a brothel, and you are not one to sell yourself at the waterfront, are you? That is no more free than life in your convent, believe me. I have spoken to women who ... But that isn't what you mean, is it? You want to find yourself your own Noveautie, where you may live for your pleasure and the delight of others.” She sighed and held out her hand as if to make amends. “When next you come here, it will be different."

"Will it? Because I will then be so old and haggard that all I will be good for is setting stitches in servants’ clothing? Because I will have forgotten everything I desire?” She trembled. “I want what you have, Orienne; lovers and food and pleasures and ... the rest of it. I was never made to be a nun, and God will not be fooled by my father's determination.” In one last attempt, she went on as emphatically as she could. “In fact, it may be that in returning to the convent, I am aiding him in the worse sin—pride, for he believes he can instill a vocation where God has not bestowed it. It may be that if I remain here, his fault will be less, and in time he will thank me for refusing to do as he wished and add to his—"

"You are clever,” Orienne interrupted her. “And perhaps you are right. But God's wishes are not for us to ponder and His Will is not in question; your father's is. He has said that you will accept the bridegroom he has chosen or you will wear the veil, and until he is dead, you must abide by what he declares. I will welcome you when you return, ma Frèrée, but I have already said that it is not in my nature to take up gauntlets on others’ behalf. It is too dangerous, and there is no merit in it.” She gave Aungelique an arch smile. “It is not forever, little one. That young man—Thibault Col? Is that his name?—will not forget you."

"That ... has nothing to ... do with it,” Aungelique insisted without conviction.

"And if not he, then another will want you. There are always men, ma Frèrée, and they have their desires. Your Pierre cannot forget you, either, can he? And not only because you are cousins. This Thibault will miss you, and Pierre."

"Thibault Col will not remember,” Aungelique murmured, thinking of the many things she had seen in her brief stay with Comtesse Orienne.

"There you are wrong,” Orienne said, raising her head a trifle in order to remind Aungelique which of them was the more worldly; and to take the sting out of the words she repeated, “He told me he wanted you."

Aungelique was too young and too pleased to keep from asking, “But when?"

"Last night,” Orienne admitted. “When he lay with me.” Suddenly she could not bring herself to remain in the same room with Aungelique; with nothing more than a quick, cutting glance for farewell, she left her young guest alone.

Three more hours and the first night of her penance would be over. Seur Aungelique felt the cold stones under her, pressing her naked body, the welts from her scourging felt like fire in the cold. If only she were not alone in the hospice chapel, far from her Sisters. The isolation Mère Léonie had imposed on her had been welcome at first, but it was turning to be a greater trial than lying stripped and prostrate before the altar throughout the night. The hospice was empty; no travelers were abroad yet, with the spring so new and the officers of the Roman Church taxing every merchant seeking to enter France. Seur Aungelique moaned and dutifully resumed the prayers she had been told to recite.

"Votis vocemus et patrem

patrem perennis gloriae,

Pater portentis gratiae culpam releget lubricam.

Informet actus strenuos, dentem retundat invidi:

casus secundet asperos,

donet gerendi gratiam."

She said the words distinctly but without thought or understanding. The prayer Seur Aungelique wished to have answered would not be received well in Heaven, for she wanted longings satisfied that her novice vows required she put behind her. How much more to her liking would be silken cushions under her instead of the stone floor. How much more welcome would be the sound of sweet instruments playing soft tunes than the muttered prayers she must say through the night. She wanted to conjure up again the luxuries that had surrounded her at Un Noveautie, the hangings and cushions and carpets, the trays of fruit and sweetmeats, the servants to do her bidding, the spiced wines and little cakes and fresh-baked meats, all the joys that made life more than bearable. And people; oh, people. She almost interjected that into her prayers, but feared that someone might overhear. Servants to bring her all that she desired, Seur Aungelique thought. That would be a beginning. All that she desired, yes, and that would mean not simply cooks and musicians, but lovers, men who desired her to madness. She squirmed against the flagging.

It would begin slowly. Slowly, so that the desire would build in them both.

"Laetus dies hic transeat:

pudor sit ut diluculum,

fides velut meridies..."

They would recline in the solar, on the silken cushions and her lover—let it be Thibault Col, she decided—would bring her a goblet of hot wine mixed with honey and nutmeg and pepper, and they would drink from the same goblet, letting their fingers touch as they held it between them. It did not matter so much what he would say, but that there would be the same desire in his eyes that Seur Aungelique had seen when she had inadvertently watched the Chevalier make love to Comtesse Orienne. La Comtesse had cried out that she was caught in the talons of love, and Thibault Col had tightened his hold upon her, his hand on her breast sinking into the soft flesh in a way that Seur Aungelique had thought should be painful, but, if Orienne's gasp had meant anything, was not. Would he use her so? Not at first, not while she preferred to be wooed. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel a warm hand laid across her aching buttocks, a lean, sensitive hand that stroked and then probed, so that the pain of her thrashing was submerged in pleasure. That hand—if she would wish it into palpability—would know precisely where and how to touch her, and she would writhe with rapture at its ministrations.

There was a sound in the chapel, like a low chuckle, then the rear door groaned open and Mère Léonie approached.

"You are sweating,” she said to Seur Aungelique. “Are you ill?"

Seur Aungelique felt the color deepen in her face and neck as she strove to rise. “It is ... nothing, ma Mère.” Had Mère Léonie overheard her? And what had there been to hear? Had she forgotten her prayers in those ecstatic moments when her dream was almost real?

"Are you troubled, Seur Aungelique?” Mère Léonie asked. “Père Guibert will hear your confession tomorrow morning, and you may tell him what torments you have endured."

"It's ... not that, ma Mère.” She wished she had something to cover herself; she feared her traitorous flesh would somehow give her away, that her desires could be seen as blatantly upon it as the marks of the willow wand.

"Return to your cell and put on your habit. And think of your shame as you go."

Arms crossed on her breasts, her face averted, Seur Aungelique hurried away from the imposing, grey-habited figure of her Superior. She had started to weep, and try as she would, she could not convince herself that she was going to the embraces of her lover instead of fleeing the scene of her abasement.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Père Guibert strode restlessly through the cloisters of Fôrlebene, his face set in a forbidding scowl. It was bad enough that five of the brothers had died here during the winter, but with an ancient Abbot with a wandering mind, the Brothers lacked direction and many felt their vocation faltering. This was not the report that Cardinal Seulfleuve would welcome when Père Guibert returned to Avignon. He tried to compose his thoughts by turning them to a contemplation of the Holy Spirit, but that only intensified his burden of guilt and failure.

"Père Guibert...?” said a pleasant voice in the adjoining ambulatory.

"Yes?” He looked around sharply. “Who calls me?"

It was not a proper response for one Brother to give another, but the man who replied did not point this out. “I was told you were at your meditations here. If I intrude, I will beg your pardon and leave."

Inwardly appalled at his own behavior, Père Guibert attempted to make amends. He came up to the stranger and offered his hand in blessing, and was puzzled to find the movement returned. “I must beg your pardon; my thoughts were elsewhere."

The stranger, in the tan-and-white habit of an Augustinian, bowed his head. “I fear your concerns are of a worldly nature, mon Père."

"Uh...” Père Guibert blinked in surprise.

"So are my thoughts turning,” the Augustinian went on, apparently unaware of Père Guibert's discomfort. “Those of us who revere our vows and our Church must be consumed with worldly thought, whether we will or no.” He stepped into the cloister garden where several clumps of dried twigs gave promise of summer herbs.

Where had this man come from? Père Guibert wondered. The Abbot, old and feeble, had said nothing of a stranger in the monastery. He should have been informed if there were a new Brother in the community, let alone an Augustinian with a peculiar accent. “I fear, mon Frère, that you have the advantage of me."

The Augustinian turned to look at Père Guibert. “I must. I am Père Bartolimieu Reiter. Although in the Cantons, we are called Padre, not Père."

"Padre Bartolimieu,” Père Guibert acknowledged, more confused than ever.

"I came here seeking ... sanctuary?” He was tall, this Swiss priest, lantern-jawed and spade-handed. He was between forty and fifty years of age, his fringe of hair almost completely white, as was the tangle of his eyebrows. “Père Guibert, may I speak with you? It has been long since I have had the counsel of any thoughts by my own..."

Père Guibert folded his hands. “Of course. But, Padre, why did you, a priest, come to a monastery for sanctuary?” It was a tactless question, but Père Guibert was in no mood for endless, polite, evasive conversation. “If your fears are worldly, there are other places where sanctuary is more ... appropriate, though la Virge knows you are isolated here.” He paused.