A Mortal Glamour (5 page)

"And Seur Aungelique ignored you.” This time the Superior seemed almost satisfied, as if a prophesied disaster had at last occurred.

"No.” Seur Philomine faltered. “Not ... that way."

"Then what way?” Mère Léonie rapped out.

"She ... I entered the cell, with a prayer for forgiveness if I trespassed. I was prepared to explain why I had done so, and to remind my Sister that the Order requires that we tend to one another in every extremity and...” She knew she was babbling, but dreaded coming to the final revelation. “I ... I looked at Seur Aungelique's bed, Mère Léonie. She was not in it. I felt the blankets and they were cold."

"A-a-a-h,” Mère Léonie sighed. “We must search her out."

"I have ... already looked in the chapel. I went there in case she had come after me, to pray.” Seur Philomine felt she had to justify in some way her failure to locate the missing nun. “I thought that she might have gone there to pray again."

"Not she,” Mère Léonie murmured. “Well, we must gather now, for the Rule requires that we worship, and it would be a greater failure on our part to put the folly of one Sister ahead of the good of the souls of all the rest. Such are the snares that wait for those who do not respect the demands of their faith, but assume that such lapses, being caused by human frailty, will be forgiven.” She straightened up. “Wake the rest, if you have not done so. We will speak more of this after prayers."

By mid-afternoon, Seur Aungelique wanted to stop, and would have done so, but fear of pursuit drove her on, and the donkey began to falter when the way grew steep. She had thrown back her hood in order to watch more carefully, but once she caught sight of the distant palaces of Avignon, she no longer dared to reveal her face; even in a monk's habit, her features were feminine beyond any doubt.

When at last she caught sight of the villa hidden in a tangle of fruit trees left to riot on their own, she gaped at it as if it were the holiest of shrines and her one salvation instead of the iniquitous place it was known to be. Seur Aungelique dismounted and led the donkey along the meandering lane that ended in front of the squat arch at the entrance to Un Noveautie, where la Comtesse Orienne de Hautlimois lived.

"A pleasant evening, Frère,” said a servant who had appeared just as Seur Aungelique reached the doors. “Have you lost your way?"

Seur Aungelique decided then that a bold answer would be best. “No,” she said, making no attempt to disguise her voice. “I hope I have found the way."

If the servant was surprised by the revelation of this monk as a woman he showed no indication of it. He bent his head as courtesy required. “You are welcome here, Demoiselle, but I fear my mistress will demand some explanation of you."

"Fine,” Seur Aungelique said at once. “I will be pleased to give it. Only let me present myself to her and I will answer whatever questions she desires to put to me."

The servant made a gesture of compliance. “Your animal will be tended. You must follow me."

A second servant, much younger than the first and boyishly pretty, appeared in the door. He took the donkey's reins without comment and left Seur Aungelique with the elder.

"What...” Seur Aungelique asked as the first servant bowed her into the house.

"The donkey will be in the stables. He will be properly tended, do not fear.” He was walking through the long entry way, skirting the main part of the little palace. Yet even in this part of Un Noveautie there were signs of the luxury for which la Comtesse was famous. There were carpets on the floor, thick and beautiful, so that the steps were muffled as they went. Braziers fueled by sweet-smelling herbs and spices stood along the walls, giving off fragrant smoke along with a moderate amount of light. The scent of the place was heady, like new wine, and Seur Aungelique was hard-pressed not to succumb to it. Her senses bathed in the fragrance.

"If you will come through these doors,” the servant said, changing direction again and leading Seur Aungelique toward the rear wing of the palace.

They found la Comtesse in a garden, within a striped pavilion, which had been erected to protect her from the chill of the afternoon. Inside the pavilion there was an enormous stone basin so carved as to resemble a seashell. Hot, perfumed water frothed in the basin as la Comtesse lounged in her bath. Her antics were accompanied by the plaintive sounds of the rebec and shawm.

"Fair mistress,” the servant leading Seur Aungelique said, raising his voice to be heard over the sound of music and splashing. “Fairest mistress."

Comtesse Orienne stopped playing and turned her head. She was a beautiful woman, and would be for a few more years. Her hair, caught up in braided loops and covered by a golden crespine net knotted with jewels, was the color of dark honey. Her long, languid eyes were the reddish-brown of chestnuts. Her figure was ample, with high, rounded breasts and a deeply curved waist. Her brows, plucked almost to non-existence, raised at the sight of Seur Aungelique. “What manner of monk is this, pray?"

"...She came to the door, ma maîtresse,” the servant said.

"But how odd,” la Comtesse said, then laughed, mockery making the sound harsh.

"I came here,” Seur Aungelique said unexpectedly, “for sanctuary."

This time la Comtesse's laughter was more derisive. “Sanctuary? Here? Truly?"

"Yes.” Seur Aungelique took a step forward. “You can save me, Comtesse. Nothing else can, I fear."

But Comtesse Orienne was shaking her head. “No one comes here for salvation, ma Frèrée,” she stated. “There are other things offered here, but not what you are seeking."

"But you are what I seek,” Seur Aungelique insisted. “I swear to you, Comtesse. If I had not been told that you..."

"Told?” la Comtesse echoed. “Who told you of me?"

For the first time, Seur Aungelique did not speak promptly. “I have a kinsman, a distant kinsman, but ... He told me of you, many times, and how you live here. He said you are the most beautiful woman in the world, and that there is no pleasure of the senses that you do not know as art.” There had been other things her third cousin had told her, but Seur Aungelique did not dare to repeat them.

"And who is this distant kinsman who told you of me?” Comtesse Orienne asked as she resumed rubbing her skin with pungent oils.

"He is le Duc de Parcignonne, Pierre Fornault.” Seur Aungelique raised her chin as she answered and her expression was faintly defiant.

"Oh-ho,” Comtesse Orienne exclaimed. “So Pierre has been telling tales, has he? How wicked of him.” Her smile, contented and feline, gave the lie to her supposed rebuke.

"I wanted to know all about you,” Seur Aungelique admitted.

"But why, ma Frèrée?"

"Because I want to be like you,” Seur Aungelique burst out. “I want to have lovers and to live for pleasure."

Comtesse Orienne gave a signal to the musicians, and they set their instruments aside. “And that is why you have come here?"

"Yes.” Without warning, Seur Aungelique burst into tears. “They want to make a nun of me, but I won't. I won't."

"Not if you live as I do,” Comtesse Orienne agreed as she came to the edge of the shell-shaped basin and climbed out of it. Immediately a page approached, holding a drying sheet out to her.

"And so I ... I ran away and came here."

Comtesse Orienne stopped in the act of wrapping herself in the sheet. “We will talk, ma Frèrée. You will dine with me. Then we shall see."

Père Guibert bowed his head as he listened, shame filling his heart. “I will follow after her, of course, ma Fille,” he said to Mère Léonie. “I deeply ask that you pardon me for not believing you when you warned me of the wildness in Seur Aungelique."

"It is not my forgiveness you must seek,” Mère Léonie reminded him. “La Virge and le Bon Dieu will know where the fault lies, and they will be advocate and judge of you as they will be for all mankind.” She paced the short length of her study. “You have heard her confession. There may be things she spoke of—no, I have no desire to know what she has said under seal—that may tell you where she has gone. Her father, perhaps?"

"It is not likely,” Père Guibert said with a heavy sigh. “One of the reasons she had been sent here was that she and her father could not agree about an acceptable husband, and she refused to take the man he had chosen for her, preferring another.” He looked at Mère Léonie with an expression at once miserable and ludicrous. “I beseeched him at the time not to treat his daughter so, that a nun without vocation is a hazard in cloisters, but he was adamant."

"So I surmise,” Mère Léonie told him over her shoulder. “It is a misfortune that many convents have had to contend with, however, especially in these times with Plague and war making havoc of the most careful plans.” She laughed once, and Père Guibert was startled to hear it.

"Ma Fille!"

She appeared to recover herself. “There are no plans but those of God. There is no life but acquiescence in His Will, and those who spend their lives attempting to subvert His Will are worse than fools."

Again Père Guibert felt the zeal of her dedication. “It is true enough, but it is not an easy thing to tell a discontented parent this.” He hated the way this excuse sounded, as if he, too, were caught up in worldly exercises.

"You will inform him of Seur Aungelique's actions, however?” Her hands were on her hips and for all the demure lines of her grey habit, she looked martial and ready for conflict.

"I am required to do so. And I will send a messenger from Avignon. I must go there, you understand. I have to report this."

"Of course,” Mère Léonie agreed. “And what of the Sisters here; what do I tell them?"

"Of Seur Aungelique? They must know that she left."

"They know that she stole a donkey, fashioned some sort of disguise and fled into the night. It has made them all fearful, as you might expect, and I must contend with their doubts and questions more than ever before. I wish to offer them good counsel, but how am I to do so if I have nothing to offer them other than that you have gone to search for her?” Her proud head ducked a moment and Père Guibert thought he understood the sense of shame and failure that troubled the new Superior. To have such a disaster strike her nuns, and so soon after assuming leadership of the convent, must be trying for her.

"Pray for guidance, ma Fille, and God will read your heart aright.” He blessed her without looking at her, and then went reluctantly to the door. “I will see that you have news from me as soon as it is possible."

"Deo gratias,” Mère Léonie answered without any other sign of courtesy.

Distressed, Père Guibert left the study and went into the courtyard where his mule was saddled and waiting for him under lowering clouds.

Though the sky was cloudless it was empty, as if a fine blue bowl had been inverted and clapped over the world. Comtesse Orienne stood in her solar at the tall windows and stared out into the afternoon. “My gardeners say it will rain,” she remarked to Aungelique, who reclined on one of the larger silken cushions. “I will have to have the oilcloths put up, I suppose. A nuisance."

Aungelique shrugged. “There are other rooms, Orienne, and your banquets do not need a cloudless sky to be enjoyed.” She had been with her hostess for a little more than a week and in that time most of the outward look of the convent had left her. She no longer dressed in shapeless grey wool but in a samite cote the color of oranges and a surcote of heavy rust-colored linen that was ornamented with a center row of large amber buttons. Because her hair was short, crespine nets were not suitable for her, and so she wore instead a capuchon with elaborate pleating around her face. On Orienne's suggestion, she had opened the lower part of this close-fitting hood so that from her throat to her bosom her skin was bared. The pale saffron color showed her olive flesh to advantage.

Other rooms. Orienne sighed. “Well, of course it is possible, and you're probably right—I could serve the meal in a byre and half of them would not notice. They are not fools, but they do not think of..."

"Of?” Aungelique asked when Orienne failed to go on.

"Oh, of a thousand things.” She shook her head slowly as she turned away from the window. “I suppose you're right. I will tell the steward to move all this down to the lesser hall, and have the fires built up, so that we will not feel the drafts.” She smiled unexpectedly. “Are you looking forward to this evening, ma petite? Do you want to taste debauchery at last, or do you only want to watch and be shocked by what we do?"

"Inspired,” Aungelique corrected her with an arch look. “I believe I have a talent for debauchery, if what Mère Léonie told me is right."

"Ah, yes, the penance and the willow wands. She may be right.” Then Orienne turned more serious. “It is not something to feign, Aungelique. You must be born to it, as some are born to virtue and austerity. It must be a riot in your blood that is as undeniable as the phase of the moon. This is not an acquired skill, like the making of cloth or hunting of stags; it is more a talent, like what my musicians have."

Aungelique was taken aback at the strange turn of their conversation. “The Church speaks of the Devil who leads us into ... into vice."

"Pafth!” Orienne exclaimed as she spat. “There are those who cannot hear the difference between the lowing of cattle and true voices, either, and say that there is no such distinction. Those of us who are held by fleshly chains know otherwise, as young Jaques knows his notes. You may deny it all your life long, but the chains are there, nevertheless."

Aungelique shivered as she recalled the nights she had lain, sleepless, with the taunting needs of her body gripping her as tightly as a lover. “I have known those chains,” she said with an emotion that was part shame and in part pride.

"You will find out, one way or the other, Aungelique. We will see to that.” Orienne came to another of the large cushions and sank down on it. “I did not know at first what it was that ruled me, for I was sent young to a husband who was a stranger to me. The marriage had been arranged when I was still a child, and when the time came and they knew I was a woman, the wedding took place as my father wished. My husband was ... well, he was not a young man, and his tastes were gone in dissipation by the time he took me to wife. There were other women for him, and boys. Of me he required nothing but heirs. I gave him two before ... the Plague came.” She toyed with one of the fringes on the cushion. “I did not mourn him long; I would not have mourned him at all, but for the children, and they, too, were lost before ... it was over.” She leaned back. “And so now I live as I wish, and the flesh is my master and I am his thrall."