What was left of Pere Foutin and Frere Loys was laid in the earth beside the broken altar-stone of their church. Pere Guibert wept with anger as he said the holy words that would still the grief that raged in the hearts of the few peasants who had survived the attack of the Flagellants. He did not want to quiet those who listened, not the shocked men and women, not the nuns from Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion, not the men-at-arms who guarded them. He longed to fill their souls with an abiding hatred of the Flagellants that would endure to the end of the world and shine before the Throne of God. With shaking hands he wiped the sweat from his face before raising his head. "You have seen what was done here, what indignities and cruelties were visited on these holy men before God released them into death. I do not need to tell you that their suffering, while not the exalted agony of Jesus on the Cross, still was more than most of us will know in all the ills of the body in our entire lives. Think of that, when your resolve is shaken by doubts, when you begin to wish that the heretics might not have to undergo the punishment that has been decreed for them." He paused. "Cardinal Seulfleuve has sent a messenger" - this was common knowledge, but he wished to remind all the people gathered around the graves of the magnitude of the crimes that had been committed here - "with word that the remaining heretics are to be stripped, placed over stretched hempen ropes with stout men at their hands and feet to drag them over and back the length of the ropes until they are sawn in pieces."
Pierre exchanged a glance with his captain-at-arms; his face grim.
"You will all watch and benefit by what you see."
Among the nuns, Seur Aungelique began to laugh.
"Be silent," Mere Leonie admonished her.
"It is not a swift death, and they will have a taste of the punishment that awaits them in Hell," Pere Guibert said with satisfaction. "No matter what they may say or do while their sentence is carried out, steel yourselves against their wiles, for they are the minions of the Devil and it is to your own soul's destruction that they lure you."
Mere Leonie brought her folded hands up, concealing her mouth.
"We are told that the Devil roams the earth and that we, the children of God, are his victims. Every thought, every desire, every act that does not lead to virtue gives aid to the Devil, and admits some portion of his vileness in your lives. Pray that God will guide you away from the snares of the Devil and his servants, so that you may return to God at the end of your sojourn here a soul as pure as when He gave it to you." Pere Guibert cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked. "Be very sure that you do not taint yourself with secret sins, and think you are safe because they go unconfessed. Those are the very sins that will be your downfall. Do not imagine that anything is hidden from God, Who is Omnipotent and Omniscient. You are weak and imperfect vessels, all of you. None of you is worthy of the great sacrifice God made for you. Each of you is consumed with iniquity, but so long as you live in faith and hope, there is a chance that your evil will be purged. With the heretics, the purging of their sins is too late, for they are given to the Devil. You need not face such an end, nor such utter damnation. You must all beg God to give you His Grace, that you may not succumb to your base desires and appetites."
Seur Odile let out a long, keening sob.
"Be rigorous. Examine your thoughts and your deeds for Deviltry. Do not excuse yourself any little lapses, but chastise yourself the more for making light of sin."
A few of Pierre's men were growing restless and two of the infants were howling. The sun, which had been veiled by gauzy clouds, was now beating down on the gathering.
"Go each of you to your beds tonight, and pray that all your sins may be revealed to you so that you may the sooner repent them and be absolved. This is God's Mercy to you - the heretics have forfeited it, and with it, they have lost their souls." It was not nearly enough, Pere Guibert thought, but it was all he could bring himself to say for the time being. Later he would find other words, other phrases to fire his flock with the zeal that smoldered in his soul.
"All right," Pierre said in his loud, rough tones. "Those of you who live here, go home. You Sisters, come with us back to the convent. Pere Guibert, let me offer you my horse to ride." This last was not an entirely sincere suggestion, and he hoped that the priest would not accept."
"I will walk," Pere Guibert muttered. "Our Lord walked."
"As you say," Pierre agreed, and went for his mount.
Mere Leonie came slowly up to Pere Guibert and took her place beside him, though not quite even with him, so that he would lead the nuns back to Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion. "You are much moved, mon Pere?"
"Yes, ma Fille. You should be, too." He did not want to admonish her too unkindly, but he was stung by her apparent lack of concern.
"Yes," she said promptly. "But I cannot turn my mind to such matters quite yet. I would hope that my Sisters will take your exhortations to heart, but Our Lord will show the way. I must devote myself to the securing of our convent before I will think it right that I pursue the cleansing of the spirits of my Sisters."
There was nothing in her manner that hinted at disrespect, but Pere Guibert, excited to a rare level of passion, could not contain himself. "It is not enough! No, Mere Leonie. You are confusing the temporal with the eternal. Walls will come down, but the spirit will remain forever. You are entrusted not with the bodies of your nuns, but their souls."
Mere Leonie crossed herself. "May Our Lord grant that I carry this burden as He would wish."
"Amen to that." He was being churlish, he knew it.
"But if they cannot keep their lives Ordered and with our Rule, then I have not acquitted myself as I have vowed to do. Nuns who live in wild places are suspect by the Church. Those living decently in cloisters preserve themselves in the eyes of the Church as well as of God. Therefore I must see that the walls are repaired and the convent made safe once again." She paused. "Think what would happen with Seur Aungelique if I do not repair the doors and the walls."
Pere Guibert blanched. "Yes."
"Then perhaps you will pray for me, and guide me with your wisdom?" In another woman, her tone might have been thought taunting, but not in so devoted a Superior as Mere Leonie. Pere Guibert, listening to her, railed at himself for his harshness that only brought confusion, where he most wanted to bring light and salvation.
"Hear me, ma Fille," he said when he had gathered his thoughts. "You are the key to the peace of your convent and the protection of your Sisters, and for that God must put you in His especial care. You cannot ask for such notice, for that would be pride, and the worst sin. You must humble yourself before Him and petition la Virge to intercede on your behalf, in order that you might have not only Grace for your tasks and your life, but true piety as well." He walked unsteadily, his fatigue catching up with him at last and rendering him light-headed. There was a pebble in his sandal, but he refused to bend down and remove it, trusting instead that this minor discomfort would serve to vilify his flesh and exalt his soul. "After such trials, your Sisters will be much in need of religious exercise to restore their tranquility and serenity."
"I will do all that I am able to comply," Mere Leonie said, turning subservient in her manner. "Forgive me for treating your instructions improperly."
"Of course," he replied, not paying much heed to his pardon. He was already trying to frame his next sermon in his mind, so that when he addressed the nuns again, they would partake of his faith and share in his saintly lust for vengeance.
Seur Philomine, keeping her vigil in the chapel, was the first to hear the strange cries that came from Seur Aungelique's cell three nights after the heretics had been sawn to pieces. Her thoughts were confused, and she welcomed the intrusion that the sudden urgent sounds provided. Rising from her place before the altar, she stood in the darkness, trying to determine where the shrieks came from, afraid that they might originate in her mind. Then she heard a few jumbled words, and rushed out of the chapel.
"Oh, no. Not that!" Seur Aungelique yelled, but not with repugnance.
Outside the door to her cell, Seur Philomine paused to listen to Seur Aungelique's protests, hardly aware of her own breathing. "God protect me," she murmured before she rapped on the door.
"No, no. Oh, God, no more. Don't touch me there!" Seur Aungelique whimpered. "Oh, not there. Not ... there. You don't ... know ... Ah! Jesus and Marie! ... your hands are ... sweet. No." There were two or three high, childlike yelps, and then she spoke again. "You mustn't ... Thibault, you must not ... must ... not ... Yes, there ... There, Thibault ... Oh, for Pierre!"
Seur Philomine frowned deeply as she knocked once, hesitated and knocked again, "Seur Aungelique? Is there anything the matter?"
"AH-H-H-h-h-h-h!" came the sudden, desperate outcry, trailing off into what sounded like exhausted panting.
"Seur Aungelique!" Seur Philomine repeated, this time more loudly. "Is anything wrong?"
Seur Aungelique's cell was quiet all at once. Then a bleary voice called out, "Who's there?"
"It is Seur Philomine," she answered. "You ... called out in your sleep." She very nearly made a question of it rather than a statement. Had Seur Aungelique been asleep? Had she made any sound at all?
"Oh." The nun's tone was dull, listless. "I ... must have ... had a bad dream. The Devil sends such dreams, doesn't he?"
"So we are told," Seur Philomine said, not sure of it as she spoke. "Should I get Mere Leonie or..."
"No!" This was more forceful, and almost at once, Seur Aungelique modified her objection. "There is no point. It would make ... too much of a ... bad dream. Let me be, Seur Philomine."
By rights, Seur Philomine knew that she ought to insist that Seur Aungelique open the door to her cell and admit her so that they might pray together, but she could not bring herself to intrude so much on the other nun. "I ... others may have heard you call out."
"I will beg their pardon when we break our fast," Seur Aungelique assured her. "I am very tried, Seur Philomine. The ... bad dream has worn me out." This last was breathless, almost like inward laughter. "You're kind to ... bear with me."
Nothing of what Seur Aungelique said was satisfactory, but Seur Philomine did not press the matter. "I will have to speak of this to Mere Leonie. And Pere Guibert."
"Do that. Oh, yes, do that." Seur Aungelique's words ended with a catch in her breath, as if she had yawned.
"Seur Aungelique?" Seur Philomine ventured, still troubled.
"Yes?" This time she was curt.
"I will pray for you." It was not what she had intended to say, but she could not bring herself to press further. Reluctantly, she turned back toward the chapel and was startled to see Seur Odile standing in the door of her cell. "What?..."
"She's at it again, is she? It's bad enough with Seur Marguerite screaming when the fits are on her, and Seur Lucille moaning of her wounds, but..." Seur Odile crossed herself. "God will know what will heal Seur Aungelique. We may only pray on her behalf."
Seur Philomine looked down at her hands and fancied she could still see the burns in the gloom. "We paid a great price, we nuns, to keep our convent."
"That's pride, Sister, and for that you will beg your bread. Mere Leonie would be the first to reprimand you for such sentiments." Seur Odile shook her head. "There is more hazard in pride than in all the heretics in the world. Pere Guibert said so."
Seur Philomine nodded, remembering the fierce sermon the priest had delivered the morning before. "I don't know if I..."
"What we know and do not know is not important where heresy is concerned; it is faith that matters, not knowledge." She raised her head, showing more importance than she had ever felt in her entire time as a nun.
"But..." Seur Philomine began, then stopped. "They say that the Devil may come here, in order to corrupt us."
"So he might," Seur Odile answered with satisfaction. "My faith is staunch. Let the Devil come and try me."
"Isn't that pride, too?" Seur Philomine could not resist asking.
"It is the strength of my faith. I am not like some who falter and question. My path is clear to me, and my steps are guided."
It was tempting to challenge this assertion, but Seur Philomine said nothing; her vigil had been penance for such doubts and she did not want to spend any more hours than necessary in the chapel at night. "May your good angel guard you then, my Seur," she said, and started away from the other nun.
"You will tell Mere Leonie what transpired?" Seur Odile called after her.
"I must," Seur Philomine said.
"Very good. Report what I have said accurately." A tinge of accusation had come into Seur Odile's tone. "I do not wish Mere Leonie to be mistaken."
"I will ask that you be present." It was the best solution she could think of, and as Seur Philomine said it, she decided that in future, she would always use such devices to avoid unpleasantness.
"Pray well, Seur Philomine," Seur Odile told her, and shut the door to her cell.
How many others had heard? Seur Philomine asked herself as she took her place prostrate before the altar. How many had listened? How many had listened to Seur Aungelique and lain silent in their beds? The questions haunted her as she recited her prayers.
A light spring rain was falling as Seur Tiennette bustled through the stillroom, turning the cheeses that had just been brought in from the creamery. There were fewer than usual, in part because the ewes had not been producing as they had in the past, and in part because the convent was more short-handed than usual. Seur Tiennette pursed her lips as she examined the rounds, sniffing each critically and inspecting its color. The first six had gained her qualified approval, but the seventh was another matter: there was a mold on the rind that did not belong there, and the smell of it was offensive, like the stench of rotting eggs. With disgust, Seur Tiennette dropped the cheese into the sack she carried, annoyed at the waste. The next cheese on the rack exuded the same dreadful odor, and the one after that. In all, five cheeses had gone bad, far more than Seur Tiennette might have expected.
"But it might have been for many reasons," Mere Leonie soothed her when Seur Tiennette reported her find to her Superior. "You yourself said that you were not confident that the Sisters aiding you knew what they were about. You warned me something of this sort might happen."
"But five cheeses..." Seur Tiennette protested. "And so far gone, too."
"Yes; you showed them to me. It is most unfortunate, and it may that we will have to speak to the women in Mou Courbet to arrange with them to have a few of their cheeses. You are right that we will be hungry without them. Though," she added in a thoughtful manner, "an occasional fast would not be a bad notion for the Sisters here. They have become too confident of their pleasures and of the table, and they do not observe fasts but for penance. It may be that Our Lord has sent us this test to show us that we must nurture the spirit as well as the body. Let me think on it for a little while." She made a gesture of dismissal.
Seur Tiennette did not leave. "I do not mean to overstep my bounds, Mere Leonie, but I fear that we will need more than a few cheeses if we are to come through the summer without hunger. The heretics lost us more than our walls. We have fewer animals, and only half the number of chickens as before. It might be best if Pere Guibert were to speak to the Cardinal, to explain our situation."
"When Pere Guibert returns, doubtless I will speak of this with him," Mere Leonie said at her mildest. "You cannot think that I would neglect the well-being of my Sisters, can you?"
"No; of course not." Seur Tiennette sighed. "If you do not object, I will inform you of our needs tomorrow after Vespers."
"That is good of you," Mere Leonie told her. "For the moment, however, you must excuse me. It is time for my prayers and it would be a poor example to the others if I shirked my duties."
Seur Tiennette accepted this oblique chiding with a single nod. "You are more dedicated that Mere Jacinthe, ma Mere," she muttered.
"I have more need of devotion, perhaps. Mere Jacinthe served this convent well."
"That she did," Seur Tiennette said with feeling. "Would you permit me to sit with Seur Lucille this evening?"
Mere Leonie looked surprised; most of the Sisters subtly avoided this responsibility. "You may, if that is what you wish."
"It isn't what I wish, but she is my friend. God is requiring much suffering from her, and I believe that I must do all that I can for her before she is gone away from us."
"I see." Mere Leonie lifted one hand in benediction, though properly such a gesture was reserved for priests. "It is to your credit, Seur Tiennette."
"I do not sleep much, in any case. I might be as well pass time with Seur Lucille." It was a simple admission, yet few of the other nuns would have dared to say the night was more disruptive than day in the convent.
"We must pray for our Sisters," Mere Leonie said, by way of acknowledgement. "I myself spend many hours alone in mediation."
"It might be as well if you were to speak to us, when there is ... trouble." Seur Tiennette waited for a rebuke.
"It is best, I think, if I do not dignify the nightmares and restlessness of some of our Sisters with my presence or comments. Let others learn to be calm within themselves, and we will once again have order, even in the darkest hour of the night." She looked directly at the older nun. "Or do you wish to correct me, Seur Tiennette?"
Faced with so direct a question, Seur Tiennette turned and fled.
Seur Marguerite was weeping when Seur Catant found her in the orchard. She looked up and managed to say, "My poor little ones," before she burst out in frantic sobs.
Seur Catant's patience had been tried to the limit, and she made no attempt to give a soft answer to the other nun. "What is it now? Are your wits wholly gone, or are you merely wandering in your memories?"
"It's..." Seur Marguerite could not bring herself to speak, and it was some little time until she could explain her distress. "I heard them calling me," she said thickly. "They were all of them ... my poor little beauties ... and they have never done harm. They called to me. They knew it was too late, but they wanted me to aid them. It is like the rest of us, calling to God though it is too late and the Devil has come to us. That's the reason they died."
By this time, Seur Catant had realized that one of the hives was silent, and she stared in astonishment at the dead bees that littered the ground around it. "When did this happen?"
"Only yesterday. It was the Devil. He came and breathed on them, and that was poison to them, as it is to all mortals. They struggled, but they died." Seur Marguerite mopped her face with the sleeve of her habit.
"It may be the weather," Seur Catant suggested. "The spring has been humid, and bees do not take well to that." She remembered hearing her uncle say that, many years ago. "You'd better watch the other hives."
"The Devil has come here, and nothing is the same. I have seen him, fair as an angel, and he comes with ease to us, and we ... he is like the Plague. One moment all is thriving and well, and the next all has sickened and in time it will fade and die. That is the way of the Devil. I have seen it before. Never so plainly, never so brazenly."
Seur Catant stopped listening. Like the other nuns, she knew that Seur Marguerite was not right in her wits and was given to strange pronouncements and outbursts. This was just another such, and she did not intend for it to disturb her. "I must see to the grafts on the trees," she explained as she started to move away.
"They will fail, too," Seur Marguerite warned her, then wept again.
"There could be trouble, with the weather," Seur Catant said, determined not to be caught up in Seur Marguerite's visions. God disposed and it was for man to accept His dictates. To do otherwise was heresy. If God had determined that there should be famine in the valley, then it would be so, and some of them would starve. She crossed herself at this dreadful notion. "It's a sin to be cast down. That is doubt of God's Love, and therefore a great error." She did not want to have to beg her bread for it, and shut it from her mind.
A light wind blew through the orchard, scattering petals capriciously so that they landed on Seur Catant's coif like a forgotten wreath. The air was warm and slightly damp, scented with the growing things of spring.
At first, Seur Catant was buoyed up by this indecorous display, and the gloom that had closed in on her was dispersed. Then she inspected the grafts, and her apprehension returned; for where there should have been new sprouting limbs, there were only dark, brittle sticks fuzzed over at the base with rot. She took the first one of these she found and tested it, only to have it break off in her fingers and send a fine spray of bluish dust over the front of her habit. "Bon Dieu!" she expostulated, wrinkling her nose. "Let us hope that the others are better." She said this loudly enough so that all the trees could hear her.
Behind her, Seur Marguerite was crooning to the hives, putting her arms around the smallest and singing bits of the only song she knew, which was the threnody that had been sung in Lyon for the greater part of a year when the Plague held sway there.
But the others were worse, if anything, and she saw with dismay that the rot had spread in one of the trees from the grafts to the other branches. That tree was barren of leaves and it had not blossomed. Seur Catant tried to convince herself that the little petals had all been blown away, but she knew that was not the case. The orchard had been blighted, and something had to be done at once if the illness was not to spread.
Seur Ranegonde frowned at the shuttle and the broken thread trailing behind it. She had been weaving for more than two hours and this was the fifth time her thread had broken. She drew the shuttle out of the web and looked at it closely. There was nothing wrong that she could see. She ran her fingers over it slowly, searching for edges or nicks that might weaken or snap the thread. She found nothing. With a prayer for patience, she pulled the broken thread free of the cloth and held it up to the light. The end was frayed, as if the thread had simply come apart. She moistened the break with her tongue and carefully knotted the thread together again.
"Is something the matter?" Seur Adalin asked from her chair where she sat embroidering a new altar cloth.
"Oh, nothing, really." Seur Ranegonde guided the shuttle through her loom slowly, concentrating on how it went, watching for any further difficulties.
"Perhaps you'd better speak to Seur Elvire and Seur Morgance; they're doing most of the spinning now." Seur Adalin held up her work so that the light could shine through it. "I've had some trouble with threads. And when I've dyed them, they haven't taken the color as they should."
"Mere Leonie says that we should not worry about it; with all that has happened here, it would be surprising if we had not more upsets to contend with. She says it is because we are indulging our sins instead of..." Her voice trailed off as the thread broke again.
"Instead of cleansing ourselves, as Our Lord bade us," Seur Adalin finished for her. "But Our Lord never was a weaver or a needlewoman, was He?" She gave an apologetic laugh. "I should confess that, shouldn't I? It was wrong of me to jest about Our Lord, Who had more to do than any of us."
"This thread is impossible!" Seur Ranegonde burst out. "No matter what I do, it breaks!"
"Can you use another spindle in your shuttle?" Seur Adalin suggested. "It may be only the one that is wrong."
Seur Ranegonde shook her head. "I ... I have the headache. I can't keep at this much longer." She leaned back on the weaving stool and nearly overset herself. Exasperation flared, and she pulled the shuttle out of the loom and threw it at the far wall. "I will have to confess that," she admitted without chagrin. "I will have to confess it all."
"But..." Seur Adalin began, then stopped as she saw the redness puckering the other nun's eyes. "Go to the refectory and ask Seur Tiennette for some of that lotion to soothe your eyes. It may be that you need the lotion as much as another Sister to spin the wool for you."
Seur Ranegonde was about to object, but could not bring herself to do so. "Perhaps you are right. The headache..." She started to get off the stool and was nearly overwhelmed by dizziness. "Heaven protect me."
"Seur Rane - " Seur Adalin started from her low bench.
"No!" Seur Ranegonde cut her off. "It's nothing. Just ... the headache. I moved too quickly, that's all. You see?" She moved away from the loom. "I am better already."
Though she doubted this, Seur Adalin held her peace as she watched Seur Ranegonde make her way unsteadily out of the room.
The small company of men-at-arms that accompanied Pierre Fornault to Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion were not pleased with their mission, and though they did not complain directly, their attitude showed in the slowness of their actions and the sour expressions they wore.
Pierre made a last attempt as they reached the convent to calm them. "Listen to me: it isn't right that you should feel slighted by this work. The Pope Himself has said that we are to discharge his orders here. You may receive recognition for what you do and - "
"Fine recognition!" one of the men scoffed. "Are we to receive a Vidamie for building convent doors? Will we be advanced in glory?"
"There is more glory in Heaven than on earth," Pierre said without much conviction. "The Pope has given us orders." He had a dogged attitude about the work; he liked it no more than the men he led.
"Then let God show us a little favor, a little help. Why not send an angel or two to fix the doors? Surely He has a few to spare - these are his brides, not ours. Shouldn't He protect them?" This was Ivo, who had chafed most openly at their task since it was assigned them.
"Don't let a priest hear you blaspheme that way," Pierre told him, not bothering to scold. "We have work to do. The sooner it is done, the sooner we may be rid of it." He looked up at the scarred and battered walls. The convent, to his eyes, looked more like a defeated fort than a refuge for devout women.
"They did a job on the place, I'll say that," Ivo allowed, nudging the man next to him with his elbow. "For peasants with nothing more than rocks and whips, they did a lot of damage."
"This is mild," Pierre said quietly. "You haven't seen where the church in the village was. They brought the whole building down."
This caused a momentary hush to fall over the men. Then one of the older ones braced his hands on his hips and laughed. "Surely there are other women in the world. They didn't have to go to these lengths to get at nuns, did they?"
The others echoed his laughter, and for the moment their resentment faded.
From her post at the grille, the warder Sister - today it was Seur Victoire - listened to the men and felt her face heat. She knew that she should call out to them and ask what their business was, but she could not bring herself to make a sound, thus admitting she had heard everything. She excused herself with the thought that she stammered and speaking out would embarrass both herself and the men.
"Isn't there supposed to be someone on duty here?" one of the men-at-arms asked.
"A warder Sister," Pierre confirmed. "I wonder..." He strode over to the grilled window and peered in, shading his face so that he could more easily pierce the darkness of the warder post.
"God be with you," Seur Victoire gasped, running the words together.
"And with you, ma Seur," Pierre responded. "Will you carry a message for me to Mere Leonie?"
"I ... I will," Seur Victoire said, wanting to bolt from the place.
"Tell her that le Duc de Parcignonne is here with men to rebuild the doors. He would like to speak with her before the labor begins." He imagined Mere Leonie coming to him, her long, clean way of walking showing the length of her leg against her habit, her light eyes like points of flame. He was not certain what more he wished her to do, at least not at once. "Ma Seur?"
Seur Victoire shook herself and nodded to the intruder. "I will d-do it," she said, abandoning her post with haste.
Pierre strolled back to his men, content to wait for Mere Leonie to come to him.
Ivo was pointing out the corner of the burned stable, saying to the others, "And doubtless we'll have to repair those as well. Do you think that will increase our glory, or merely make our bodies ache?"
"You're too worldly for this task, Ivo," one of the others said with good humor.
"Who among us isn't? Why couldn't they send monks to do this? Why did it have to be us?" His indignation was shared by the others, and one of them spat to show his contempt.
"They sent us," Pierre answered, speaking with exaggerated precision, "because there are other heretics in this part of the country. If the convent were to be set upon again, monks could do little to help the nuns. We, on the other hand, are able to assist them."
The men-at-arms nodded, a few of them shifting their weight uneasily. All but one of them had dismounted, but the man still on his horse reached for the hilt of the long sword slung across his back. "Let them come," he said with relish. "Anything to liven this ordeal."
"What about the Devil?" Ivo suggested. "Would you want to match blades with him, or will heretics do for you, Godellbert?"
"Either will do," Godellbert replied laconically. "I've fought Turks, and the Devil has nothing on them."
Though most of the men laughed at this, Pierre remained quiet. It troubled him that his men were restive even before their work had begun. He had warned the Cardinal that this might happen, but his worries had been dismissed as foolish. Now he was afraid that he had underestimated the discontent of his men. He would have to find something more for them to do; replacing the convent would not be enough if they were to keep from mischief.
"Pierre!" The call interrupted his thoughts and he glanced over his shoulder to see not Mere Leonie but Seur Aungelique coming toward him from the vegetable garden. Her face was gaunt, her eyes sunken, like enormous pools hidden from the light. She was almost running now. "Pierre! You've come!"
He folded his arms and scowled. "What is this? What sort of manner is this for a nun?"
Seur Aungelique grinned roguishly. "I need not worry about that with you, cousin," she teased. "You know that I am here under duress. I need not pretend with you." She reached out and took his arm. "Have you brought word from my father? Has he reconsidered? Will he let me go be a waiting woman?"
"Hush, girl," he admonished her. "There are others here."
"Well, if you don't wish her to speak, I will listen to her," Ivo called out, coming a little nearer. "You cannot mean to keep such a treasure to yourself, can you, mon Duc?"
"Curb yourself," Pierre growled. "You don't know what - " With an impatient grunt, he pulled himself free of Seur Aungelique's hands. "No matter what your vocation may be, you should mind your conduct, cousin. These men are not monks and lapdogs. You would not want to ... fire them."
"Yes, I would. I want to fire the whole world." Seur Aungelique laughed loudly, her attitude becoming more coquettish. "I would not mind if every one of your men fell at my feet and begged to kiss me. I would enjoy that, I think. It's better than spending half the night lying in front of the altar begging forgiveness for all the sins I wish to commit. Isn't it?" This last was a challenge and she faced him squarely.
"For the honor of your house, Aungelique!" Pierre hissed at her. "Keep a guard on what you say."
"Why?" she taunted him. "So that you can tell my father more lies? So that I can be immured here forever? That's what you want, isn't it? You, my father, all of them, they want to be rid of me, and this is better than having me strangled. Isn't it? Well?" Her accusations were hurled at him like weapons, and she was pleased to see him flinch at them. "Am I wrong, sweet cousin?"
"Not here!" he shouted at her, wanting to beat her for what she was saying.
"Not here!" she mocked him. "Because you don't want me to speak the truth? Or is it more than that?"
"Aungelique, I warn you - " He could sense the interest of his men and it shamed him that they should witness this encounter. "Whatever you wish to say, you will wait until Mere Leonie permits us to speak privately!"
"And if she will not? You'd find that convenient, wouldn't you? You could tell my father that you wanted to have words with me, but that Mere Leonie would not permit it. And that would let you continue to ignore me. I refuse to be ignored by you, my good, sweet cousin," she said venomously. "You have caused me pain and suffering and this ... this imprisonment, and you will answer for it!"
Godellbert leaned down in his saddle. "Do you need a champion, Demoiselle?"
"Stop!" Pierre ordered him in such a dangerous voice that Godellbert backed his horse away from the Duc and his strange cousin.
"Why did you do that?" Seur Aungelique demanded, and now there was a hint of despair in her voice. "Do you refuse me everything? You will have nothing to do with me, and you keep me from the enjoyment of others. Pierre! I feel as if I am in my grave already. My cell is a tomb."
"For God's sake, Aungelique," he protested.
"You're cruel, Pierre. You are destroying me. There are demons in the air, and you have abandoned me to them, yes. You don't care that I am damned for the desires you awakened in me! You want me to succumb to them, so that you will be free of me. Better demons than a man of flesh, that's what you - "
"Seur Aungelique!" Mere Leonie interrupted as she came through the ruined doors.
The place was suddenly silent. Only the soft sound of the Superior's sandals, like the beat of a rapid pulse, could be heard.
"Mere Leonie," Pierre began when he had recovered himself. "We were sent to you, at the order of the Cardinal Belroche. He wants us to see to the repairs of your doors and whatever else you may require. I ... did not know that my cousin would ... be near."
"But you hoped, didn't you?" Seur Aungelique demanded stridently. "You cannot abide my love, but you seek me out because of it!"
"Be silent, ma Seur," Mere Leonie said softly. "I will inform you when you have leave to speak again."
The look Seur Aungelique gave her Superior was acidic, but she did not disobey.
"Now," Mere Leonie said, giving her attention to Pierre as if there had been no confrontation, "you say that you have been sent to help us rebuild?"
"At the instruction of Cardinal Belroche and the behest of Pope Clement," he concurred. "We are also to afford you any protection you may require."
Mere Leonie nodded slowly. "There are more bands of heretics, then?"
"And agents from Rome; yes." Pierre indicated his men. "We are armed and prepared to fight if we must. The Cardinal said that we are not to provoke attacks, but if such should occur, then we are to defend you and your Sisters to the death."
This was more to the liking of the men-at-arms, and they stood a little straighter at this suggestion. Ivo went so far as saluting the Superior.
"Surely your men do not wish to be humble carpenters?" Mere Leonie said.
"No, they do not," Pierre admitted. "But they have been ordered to do this, and they are bound to comply."
"For fealty," Mere Leonie said, and needed no confirmation. "I am grateful that you are here, little as you wish to be. We are in danger, as things stand now, and without your aid and goodwill, our danger will continue." She let her eyes travel from one man to the next. "Your duties here may appear trivial to you, perhaps even demeaning? It may seem so to you, but to us, you are angels of mercy."
Ivo, his color heightened, coughed once. The others were still.
"Mere Leonie," Pierre ventured when the silence again became awkward, "we must make a camp. It is not fitting that we stay too near your walls. What would you ... suggest we ...?"
She looked around. "There is the orchard, if that is to your liking, but there, beyond our vegetable and herb garden, you will be nearer the stream and at a better position, I would think, to keep watch on the convent and the road." She looked directly at Pierre. "If that is to your satisfaction, I will instruct Seur Tiennette to be sure you are fed twice a day. We cannot provide breakfast, for we are then at prayers. But midday and evening, you may rely on us to fill your bellies."
Seur Aungelique gave a sound like a snort but no words escaped her.
"We thank you for that, Mere Leonie," Pierre said, including his men with a sweep of his arm. "This afternoon we will assess what is to be done; in the evening, you and I should confer." It would provide him an opportunity to be alone with her, and he was pleased at the prospect.
"That is satisfactory. For the time being, I will leave you to your tasks." She reached out and took Seur Aungelique by the wrist. "Until this evening, then. Come, ma Seur." She permitted no opposition to this order and it seemed to Pierre as he watched the two women that though both nuns walked at a sober pace, Mere Leonie was dragging Seur Aungelique back inside the walls of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion.
Comtesse Orienne was picking over the remains of a roast swan when one of her pages came into the solar. "Yes?" she said, licking the spice-flavored fat from her fingers. "What is it?"
"There is a monk to ... a monk." He was young enough not to know what more to say. He swallowed hard and looked up at the ceiling. "He says he knows you."
"Another one of the messengers from Avignon, no doubt," la Comtesse said wearily. "I hope they will tire of the game soon, and leave me in peace. Well, you had better show him in and see that he is offered food and wine. If he's like most of them, he'll spurn it, but still, we must offer. Hospitality requires it, though I don't want him here any more than he wants to be here." She sighed in a languishing way. "Well, bring him to me. The sooner this folly is over, the better."
The page bowed and went to do as his mistress ordered. In the months he had served at Un Noveautie, he had come to think that none of the tales he had heard were true and that there were no intrigues beyond amorous ones enacted within the villa's walls. Now, perhaps, he would learn otherwise. And then his masters would reward him at last for all he had done for them.
"Will la Comtesse receive me?" the monk asked anxiously.
"Yes, mon Frere, she will. If you will follow me." He turned and led the way through the halls, wishing he had an excuse to ask questions of the monk.
"So," Comtesse Orienne said as the monk was escorted into the solar. "Have you come for more useless answers?" She was helping herself to sweetmeats and did not look directly at the newcomer.
"I trust not, Comtesse," said the monk.
Comtesse Orienne turned at the sound of the voice, her eyes narrowing and the start of a predatory smile on her vixen's face. "Do they know you're out, ma Freree?"
Aungelique giggled as Orienne spoke. "By now, they must. The cry will be up." She came across the room. "Is there any of that bird left? Or more sweetmeats? I'm famished."
Orienne reached up and pushed back Aungelique's hood in order to kiss her in welcome. "You surely look to be starving," she said as she regarded Aungelique's sunken cheeks. "What have they been doing to you?"
The page, unheeded in the door, gasped in shock, then turned quickly and left the room, thinking that this might not be the sort of information he had been sent to obtain, but still could interest the men from Rome who were so curious about what went on at Un Noveautie.
"They have been giving me vigils and fasts, to drive the Devil from my flesh so that my soul may come to saintliness," Aungelique answered, gulping back laughter. "I could not bear it any longer, and so I have come to you. You will not send me away, will you? There is nowhere else I can go."
"No, of course I will not send you away," Orienne promised, perplexed at the way Aungelique behaved. "You are still the defiant one, ma Freree?"
"Yes!" The answer was more vehement than it had been when Aungelique first stayed with her, and that vexed Orienne.
"That could be difficult," she said, indicating one of the other chairs in the room. "I will have wine brought. Then you may dine. If this is not enough" - she indicated the remains of her meal - "then I will have them turn a capon on a spit for you, and bring you white bread."
"My thanks," Aungelique said, her mouth dry one instant and wet the next. "I'm hungry. I've been hungry for months."
"You need not hunger here. There may not be much I can do for you, ma Freree, but you will not lack for food here." She leaned back in her chair. "What was it this time? Did they threaten to put you in a stricter Order?"
"No," Aungelique said, resisting the urge to reach out for the wing of the swan. "It was ... many things."
Orienne was used to evasiveness and for that reason made no mention of it; instead she noted this in her mind and determined to pursue it at another time, when Aungelique was more disposed to speak frankly. She reached for a little brass bell and rang it sharply. "I will want food and drink for my friend," she told the page who answered the summons. "Bring the wine at once, and bread. And ... yes, you had better tell the cook to put two capons on a spit with onions and apples inside them." She saw Aungelique nod eagerly at this order, which pleased her. "Bring the wine at once," she said as she waved the page away.
"I'm ... delighted. I'm overjoyed to be here. Orienne, I have missed this place and you so much. I would dream of it as I lay before the altar, when I should have been confessing my sins and begging forgiveness for all I have done." Her giggle was high and frantic. "I knew that once I returned here, all would be well."
"Let us hope," Orienne said circumspectly. "We do not wish to bring the wrath of your father down on us. Now that he has been made vidame, he has taken to making a show of himself. We will have to be a bit careful of him, so that he will not be able to complain to the Pope that I have debauched you." It was a real concern of hers, as far as it went, but more than Aungelique's father, she feared what the Cardinal might demand of her in exchange for his silence and cooperation.
"Is my father in Avignon, then?" Aungelique asked with a quick, worried glance over her shoulder, as if she feared he might be lurking behind one of the tapestries.
"He was a little while ago, but not now," Orienne said, seeking to calm her guest. "It may be necessary to ... prevaricate." She heard her page approaching. "We'll decide what's best to do later. For now, get a meal into you." She indicated what was left on the table as the page put a large earthenware decanter on the table. "Wine, and food, and a little rest and all will be clear to us."
Aungelique accepted the goblet of wine, taking one long draught of it; then she tore one of the wings off the swan and set to work gnawing on it.
Comtesse Orienne watched her, smiling, hiding the envy that filled her with a practiced courtesy. In time, she told herself, she would know how best to use her little runaway nun.
