A Mortal Glamour (19 page)

"Hold there!” the man shouted in short, choppy breaths, the words muffled by the helm he wore. “Stop!"

Seur Philomine remained quite still, grateful to have this excuse not to tend to the fallen heretic. She would have to confess the fault, she knew it, and would have to do penance for her moral failure, but that she could bear, would bear with patience. At the moment, she felt nothing but abiding thanks for her deliverance. “Good chevalier ... I am...” she said, addressing the rider.

The man-at-arms paid no attention. He went to the Flagellant and leaned down in the saddle to drive his broadsword through the man's back. That done, he looked toward Seur Philomine, who gazed in horror at the prone figure. “Did he harm you, Sister?"

"What?” Seur Philomine asked stupidly, her voice girlishly high. “You ... I don't understand."

Very carefully, he repeated his question. “If he has harmed you, I will have to inform your Superior."

"He ... no. He did not touch me ... There were curses, but ... no.” She could not say anything more to the man, afraid that she would give herself away if she did.

"Good. These ... damned Flagellants"—he modified what he had intended to say with embarrassed haste—"have done unspeakable things to some they have chanced upon.” He dismounted. “Are there any others outside the walls, Sister?"

Seur Philomine pressed her hands to her cheeks, forcing her mind to be calm so that she might provide reasonable answers to the man-at-arms. “I do not think there are any others,” she responded. “I have not seen any."

"That's something,” he said, beginning to sound tired. “I can't escort you back to the convent. Not yet. A little while, and all will be clear, but for the time being...” His shrug was more audible than visible, his armor clanking as he lifted his shoulders. “Is there a place we might sit? And I'll need some water for my horse. He's dry."

"There is a stream, just off there,” she said, pointing away through the orchard. “Be careful. The ground is uneven.” She wanted to laugh at the ordinariness of what they were saying. Neither of them looked at the convent.

"Thanks. I will return shortly. You remain there unless more of those ... vermin come this way. Then you run and hide, Sister. No use giving them a chance to harm you.” He chuckled, sounding very young. “They've ruined old ladies; a morsel like you would delight them."

As the man-at-arms rode off, Seur Philomine sank to her knees beside the dead Flagellant and folded her hands in prayer.

As the ponderous doors to the courtyard were pulled open at last, the remaining Flagellants were driven inside by the men-at-arms. A few could not avoid being forced into the dying bonfire, and their screams were louder than the trampling hooves and the ringing of blows. In the little space, the heretics and the chevaliers milled, each trying for enough space to strike back at the others.

The nuns retreated to their corridors, and huddled there, between the courtyard and the chapel, their whispers unheard by anyone but themselves as they alternately thanked God for their deliverance and begged la Virge Marie to intercede for them in Heaven.

Mère Léonie remained nearest the courtyard, her striking features unreadable in the dark. Only the glint in her icy eyes was noticeable, like the shine on the edge of a sword. She moved her lips silently and as the battle progressed, she smiled.

"Oh, Mère Léonie, what are we to do?” Seur Odile yelled at her when two of the Flagellants nearly succeeded in entering the corridor.

"Patience, ma Seur. Patience and faith,” Mère Léonie said in a loud voice. “We are in the hands of Our Lord."

Seur Odile crossed herself as she moved farther back toward the chapel.

A bit later, while one of the men-at-arms dragged a Flagellant over the flagstones by his heels, ignoring the screams of the man, Seur Adalin shrieked out a protest.

"Be silent, good Sister,” Mère Léonie admonished her. “You would have fared worse than that if those heretics had succeeded here."

The Sisters became restless when they heard this; it was one thing to have that prospect in their thoughts, another to be so curtly reminded of it. Seur Tiennette pressed her lips together, determined to show no emotion. Across from her, Seur Aungelique giggled.

There was a sudden increase in the rhythm of the fighting, a scurrying of men, quicker, more abrupt cries and orders. While it lasted, it was unendurable, but it ended with awesome speed. Then the men-at-arms herded the remaining Flagellants into the center of the courtyard and brought their panting horses around them. Shortly after, a gravelly, deep voice called out, “It's over, good Sisters."

Before the nuns could emerge from their shock at this announcement, Mère Léonie turned to them. “Thank Our Lord for what He has done for you, my Sisters; let la Virge know you are grateful for her protection."

The nuns took only a moment to respond to this familiar requirement. There was solace in prayer, and for that, most of them sought the chapel.

"You enjoyed this,” Seur Aungelique accused Mère Léonie as she prepared to follow the rest of the women.

"I enjoy the triumph of faith, Seur Aungelique,” Mère Léonie said mildly.

"It's more than that,” Seur Aungelique insisted.

Mère Léonie pretended not to have heard her. “I must speak to the captain of the men-at-arms. I will be with you as soon as it is possible. Père Guibert is still in the refectory, and he must be informed.

Seur Aungelique shook her head, but accepted her dismissal with more fatigue than meekness.

Pierre Fornault de Parcignonne dismounted, his sword already wiped clean and returned to its sheath, when Mère Léonie came across the devastation of the courtyard toward him. He could not see her countenance clearly in the low, ruddy glow of the dying bonfire, but he thought for an instant that he saw the flicker of a smile in her handsome features. “We've done what we can, Mère Léonie,” he said, by way of beginning his report to her.

"I see that you have, Sieur le Duc, and I am more than grateful for your deliverance.” She let him come to her, those last few steps. “Do you know yet how much damage they did?"

"No, and I will not be able to assess it for you until morning. I've assigned three of my men to put the fire in the stable out and to keep watch through the night to be sure that the fire does not start again, or spread.” His hand was sore where one of the Flagellants’ whips had struck him, and he could feel the stiff welt forming. It troubled him to think he would not be able to wield his sword with ease until the wound healed.

"Are any of your men hurt, mon Sieur?” Mère Léonie asked, cutting into his thoughts with her solicitous inquiry.

"A few. Nothing to speak of. We're in armor and carry swords. Those madmen had nothing but their whips to protect them.” He paused, thinking of what they had found in the rubble of the church in Saunt-Vitre-lo-Sur. “Still, that was enough."

"You must bring them to us for help,” Mère Léonie said with warmth. “It is little enough for all you have done. There will be nuns to aid them, to tend their hurts and see them fed. We will need little more than half an hour to prepare.” She looked around the courtyard. “This will be tended to later."

"There will be those to work for you,” Pierre told her, wondering why her assurance of aid for his men made him feel so uncomfortable.

Mère Léonie sensed that there was something he was holding back from her, and she pressed him for information. “Did they do much harm before you stopped them?"

"Yes,” he said brusquely. “They have done more than many another might do. They are worse than invading English, and I have seen my share of them in my time.” He sighed deeply. “Rome might pray for such agents as these, for all they have done."

"Do you believe that Rome sent them, then?” Mère Léonie inquired, looking toward the few pitiful men who were all that remained of the heretics that had besieged the convent and wrought such suffering among the nuns.

"I think that they are possessed of the Devil, for the Pope has said that they are. I think that they are the servants of Satan and dedicated to the destruction of the Church. And the Pope has said that the Romans are wedded to the Devil and are deep in his clutches. So, whether Rome sent them or they came of their own accord, they serve the same master, the heretics and the Romans.” He turned abruptly to shout at one of his men. “Get them outside the walls and tie them up. The trees in the orchard should serve!"

"At once,” came the exhausted reply, and the mounted men-at-arms began to do as their Duc had ordered them.

"What will become of them?” Mère Léonie asked, a trifle unsteadily. She did not look at the heretics or Pierre's men.

"The Church demands that they be put to death. That is required. It is not for me to decide or change.” He recalled again what he had seen before, and knew that Avignon would not permit the heretics to live, and would not let them leave their flesh quickly. “Whatever the Pope decrees, I will ... execute.” He coughed, his throat gone dry with a desire that stifled him; Mère Léonie was a step closer.

"Where will you take them, Sieur le Duc?” Her voice was low.

"Wherever I am told.” He forced himself to move his attention from her. “Where are your Sisters, ma Mère?"

"They are safe. Be sure of that."

"But where?” His demand was sharper than he had intended, but he did not excuse it, for fear of bringing attention to his reaction to her.

"They are in the chapel, most of them,” she replied with a trace of hauteur. “A few are in the refectory, a few are in the hospice, and there may be one or two outside the walls. Seur Marguerite has said that she wants to give the heretics a little of the honey from her hives, because her bees are God's creatures and holy."

"I see."

She lowered her head. “Seur Marguerite has been much afflicted. Yet there is charity in her, Sieur le Duc."

"Madness is not charity,” Pierre corrected her.

"Still, hers is a worthy example, is it not?” She shook her head. “I should learn of her. I am entrusted with the well-being of all these women, and I have failed the mandate of Our Lord in these hours."

"Nonsense! How failed?” Pierre demanded, coming a little closer to her. It was not wise to approach a nun in this way, but she fascinated him and he did not want to keep off from her. He could confess his desire later, when he had dealt with the heretics and his men.

"You may ask that, mon Duc, for you must fight in the world, and in the world there are simple defeats and victories. But I battle for souls with a great enemy and there is no quarter offered or given, and no ransom that can be made either way. God might promise redemption, but not for those who turn their backs on Him.” She raised her head, directing her pale blue eyes directly at him, fixing him with their light as with the little blue flame in the heart of an oil-lamp. “You do not have the same issues I do to contend with. You will admit the truth of that, won't you? Or do you think that God is the same as the King or the Pope?"

"The Pope is the voice of God on earth,” Pierre said stiffly, looking down at his hand and flexing the fingers experimentally. “For that, our war is the same war."

"But fought in different ways,” she pressed. “Is that not so?"

"It ... may be,” he allowed. “Well.” He broke free of the spell of her eyes. “I must see to these heretics and the setting up of camp. You must attend to your Sisters. I was wrong to keep you so long.” He turned on his heel and strode toward his horse, wishing that he might delegate someone else to speak with her later, and all the while looking forward to the next time he would have occasion to be in her presence.

Mère Léonie watched Pierre mount and ride out the ruined gates of the convent. There was something in her face—not quite like greed, but close to it—that was unlike her usual expression. Then it was gone, and she went back into the corridor that led toward the chapel where the nuns were waiting.

[Back to Table of Contents]

What was left of Père Foutin and Frère Loys was laid in the earth beside the broken altar-stone of their church. Père 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,” Mère Léonie admonished her.

"It is not a swift death, and they will have a taste of the punishment that awaits them in Hell,” Père 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."