Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Thibault held her but offered her no comfort beyond the strength of his arms. His light eyes turned even colder. “There is someone coming,” he said at last, and released her, stepping back as he did.
"But...” Seur Aungelique protested, reaching out for him, heedless of his warning.
"Later, sweeting. It is what you wish, then? You will not deny me? You desire me?” His scimitar smile flashed once, and he made her a mocking reverence. “Is it what you wish?"
"Yes!” she cried. “Yes, yes.” With a quick, wild glance over her shoulder, she thought she saw a nun approaching. “Can you wait!"
"I can always wait.” He ambled away from her toward the bramble patch. “But can you?"
She wanted to say no, to demand that he let her come to him at once, now, here, but though she had high-running passion, she was without courage, and this lack halted her as wholly and efficiently as if a poisoned moat lay between them.
"Seur Aungelique!” came a voice through the trees. “Where are you! Seur Aungelique!"
She wrenched her eyes away from the place she had seen Thibault stand last, turning now toward the caller. “A moment. A moment, ma Seur,” she called, trying to gain a better hold of herself and regulate her thoughts. Her eyes still were wet and she could feel the streaks of tears on her face. She would have to think of a reason for them. Perhaps she could say she had been praying, or was filled with sorrow for all she had done that offended Heaven. Such a lie, she knew, would stick in her throat and would eventually be found out. Then there would be more vigils and fasts and prayers, and she might never be allowed into the orchard again, and would not see Thibault, who would grow bored with waiting, and leave, so that she would be even more alone than before, abandoned by all the world, and trapped inside the walls of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion until....
"Seur Aungelique, is anything wrong?” asked Seur Odile as she touched the other nun on the shoulder. “You seem so ... distant."
"Why, no, nothing's wrong,” Seur Aungelique answered in a distracted way. “I have been ... thinking of my father's offer. You must have heard that he has proposed another marriage.” This last was not entirely free from malice; the convent thrived on gossip.
"Yes,” Seur Odile said quietly, “so I have been told. Word was brought to you not long ago, and Mère Léonie has been asked to notify your father when you have made up your mind."
Seur Aungelique sighed, not wanting to be angry with the inoffensive little woman beside her. “Yes. And I have been trying to come to a decision. But I do not know who the bridegroom is to be, nor where he lives, and ... I don't know if I can do it. My family will be disappointed. I do not want to be undutiful, but...” It was a clumsy fabrication, but apparently Seur Odile accepted it, because she shook her head in commiseration and tried to provide a little sympathy.
"Well, at least your father gives you the chance to accept or refuse. Think of all the women married without such consideration. My mother knew nothing of my father until they went to church to marry. You ... can be spared that.” She made the sign of the cross. “Come. Père Guibert has arrived and it is time for confession."
"Confession?” Seur Aungelique repeated. “I ... thought it was tomorrow."
"He is early; aren't we fortunate?"
Try as she would, Seur Aungelique could detect no sarcasm in Seur Odile's demeanor. She mumbled a few words and fell into step beside the other woman while she turned her thoughts to finding a way to see Thibault again.
Seur Philomine rose from the floor and crossed herself. It was still early and she knew that she would not be permitted to dawdle in the chapel with travelers in her hospice. She tidied her habit and pushed a few stray wisps of hair back under her coif. There was food to serve, and later in the day, she would have to clean out the stable. It was wrong of her to be resentful of that task, she knew, and yet she could not free herself from that sin entirely. She looked up at the sound of a cough and saw Seur Catant staring at her from the door.
"God give you good day, Sister,” Seur Philomine said in a perfunctory way.
"And be with your spirit,” Seur Catant responded. “Is Seur Elvire about? Have you seen her?"
"Not since prayers,” Seur Philomine answered. “Is there some trouble?"
"One of the travelers is ill. We have need of her herbs.” She made a nervous gesture.
"Ill? How?” Seur Philomine answered. “Is there some trouble?"
"He awakened with bloody flux. Bon Dieu, Seur Philomine! It might be ... anything.” She crossed herself. “And I pray, oh, I pray la Virge that it is not the Plague. It is wrong to wish misfortune on others at the price of my own safety, I know, I know, but Plague ... I have seen it before. I would rather face starving wolves than that.” She pressed her hands to her mouth, aghast at what she had said.
"God forgives you, Seur Catant,” Seur Philomine assured her, going toward her at once. “He surely knows how you have suffered with the Plague. As He knows what it was that turned Seur Marguerite's mind. He brings nothing that we cannot bear, and all He asks is that we give our sins to Him, for His forgiveness and our redemption.” She had heard this said so often that she could repeat it without thought.
"But Plague ... It must not be the Plague. Why goes God permit the Devil thus to walk among us, unchallenged, and garner souls fro the fires of Hell?” She crossed herself again and stared at the altar. “Here we are supposed to be safe. This is the one true refuge. That is what I have always believed."
"Then you have nothing to fear,” Seur Philomine said a bit more sharply; some part of Seur Catant's dread was attaching itself to her and it disturbed her more than she wished to admit.
"But Mère Léonie has already warned us that we must ... be cautious. We must take care.” She looked about, distraught. “She has said that we cannot let such contamination come to us. She has said that we must observe charity, but that we cannot expose others to so great a danger as Plague is. She told us that the travelers must be protected as well, and not permitted to enter a place where there may be sickness.” She clenched her hands and took a few hasty steps toward the altar, then dropped to her knees. “O God, Who has the sun and the moon in His hands and set the world in place in the void, spare us, your sin-ridden children, though we are unworthy of Your care. Do not bring the Plague among us, not again. Haven't we suffered enough, or do You demand that we all be sacrifices as Your Son was sacrificed? Wasn't that enough? You said it was, then, but now there is Plague, and ... Do You demand more of us now?"
"Seur Catant!” Seur Philomine protested, shocked at the other nun's accusation. “You're distraught. You're not considering what you say, for this you bring sorrow to la Virge, who will intercede for us in our need."
The look that Seur Catant shot over her shoulder was as venomous as it was vulnerable. “If you want to die for a stranger, you go tend him, and remember that you will bring Plague to half the world through your folly. We must keep the travelers away, from the convent and the valley. Then it might be that we will be touched but a little. But do not forget that if you minister to one who carries the Plague, you will have the Tokens and you may sweat and thirst and fill your flesh with pustules before you die, and see the same happen to your Sisters. But I won't!” She turned back to the altar and continued her prayers in silence over her white knuckles.
Seur Philomine looked about helplessly, and wished she were back home, away from this enclosed place, with her family around her and her heart free from fear. Better yet, she would want to be in Brittany with Tristan, with no more objections to their marriage. As always, when she thought of Tristan, she felt the warm flutter of her love, a sensation that began in her chest and spread through her veins in a subtle tide. “I must ... ask you to excuse me, Seur Catant,” she said, and left without waiting to hear if the other woman had anything more she wished to say.
"I have ... not freed myself of the lascivious thoughts that have possessed me all my life, and though I beg God for His aid and guidance, I am what He made me, and the thoughts persist.” The sound of Seur Aungelique's voice in the screened confessional was unearthly to Père Guibert, though he sat with only a stone pillar between them.
"Have you kept the vigils Mère Léonie gave you? Have you recited the prayers?” He doubted that such methods would make much difference, for he had seen other cases where no vocation existed and the lure of the world was far stronger than the promise of Heaven.
"I have tried, mon Père, but when I lie on the stones, they press me like a lover, and the lusts of the body are binding.” She felt her forehead become moist, and she licked her upper lip. “Mon Père ... uh ... I cannot say this easily. I have ... been met by a man, who ... desires me."
This time Père Guibert could not turn from her. “A man? How is this, ma Fille?"
"He ... had met me before.” Her breathing was fast and shallow, as if she suffered from a sudden fever. “He came here. To find me."
Père Guibert felt himself grow cold. “You knew him from your family?” He doubted that was the case, but needed to ask, to delay as long as possible the moment of actual revelation. “He is known to your family?"
"I ... don't know,” Seur Aungelique answered, trying to be honest with her confessor. Yet she could not bring herself to admit that Pierre knew Thibault; the betrayal she felt would cut too deeply if she did.
"Then you met him...” He cleared his throat. “You met him where I found you?"
"Yes, mon Père.” She lowered her head, wishing she could feel true shame, but unable to summon up any more demanding emotion than a general hunger for the life she had tasted so fleetingly at Un Noveautie.
"I see.” Père Guibert wanted to shake the girl he listened to. He had hoped that her wildness would be better contained, but that was apparently not the case, and her episode of rebellion might well be repeated. “This man; what did you do with him while you were ... there?"
"I talked with him. He was a guest.” She sensed Père Guibert's discomfort and it gave her surprising satisfaction. “He told Comtesse Orienne that he wanted me. I was pleased that he did."
"Seur ... ma Fille, do not say so, or you place yourself in gravest peril."
"But he was pleasant to me, and did not insult me.” That was openly a lie, and she did not care if he recognized it as one. She wanted to flaunt all she had done, to retain some of the satisfaction she had felt while away from the convent. “I have prayed for the aid of my good angel, mon Père, and this man comes to me. What am I to think of that?"
"Some of us are more tested in our lives than are others, and it may be that you are one such, ma Fille. In any case, you must not lose faith that your soul is as precious to God as any soul, and that He will rejoice that you come purely to Him.” He doubted that his words had much meaning for Seur Aungelique, and no matter what he had been taught and had preached for so long, he felt his inner certainty erode a little more.
"But what am I to do? I do not know if this man will try to see me again, and if he does, I do not know what will become of me. He stirs me, mon Père, as no one has before.” She thought that it was partly accurate, but not wholly, not candidly. She wanted Thibault to pursue her, as much for the chagrin it would bring Pierre if he ever learned of it—as undoubtedly he would—as for the smoldering desire within her that she sought to slake in Thibault's passion.
"Ma Fille, did you hear me?” Père Guibert inquired brusquely, and repeated, “Where did this man come upon you, and why did you permit him to speak to you?"
"I was ... grafting the trees. I was in the tree,” she lied. “He came to the tree, and I could not ... well, it was not possible to descend modestly."
"You did not call for help?” He was suspicious of Seur Aungelique, and though he wanted to believe that she would not deceive him during confession, he was not entirely convinced that she would tell him the truth. “God reads your heart and will judge lies told before Him with severity and grieving for your sin."
"No!” Seur Aungelique shrieked, striking out at the screen with her hand. “No! If God wishes me to be chaste, then He should not torment me with my flesh. He should give me the courage to resist. He should show His Will to me so that I need not be ... what I am.” Her anger satisfied her in a way that contrition could not. “I don't care if this means more penance and more vigils. It is not right that I should have to suffer this way because I try to live as my soul demands. It is not right for man to contravene the Will of God, and that is what you are doing, in forcing me to be a nun!"
Père Guibert had risen to his feet, and now, against all canon, he wanted to confront Seur Aungelique as a woman, not a nun, to castigate her properly for all the trouble she had caused at a whim, an inability to turn her mind from the gross demands of the body to the more enduring merits of the soul. He was impatient, but strove to speak with calm. “You will not say such things. Who are you, a woman not yet seventeen, to question the way of God? What pride in your heart shows you more wisdom than the judgment of Heaven? What have you learned that is sufficient to challenge the omniscience of Our Lord?"
"I am a creature of God, and I know how He made me,” she insisted, her wrath-pale face showing around the pillar. “I belong to the world, and it is there I will be."
"The world is the province of the Devil,” Père Guibert reminded her, very soberly. “And you are likely to fall victim to him if you persist in these dangerous caprices. You put eternity at risk for an afternoon of idle luxury."
"Then I welcome Hell. I am eager for it, so that I may sooner end this travesty that you and my father have brought upon me. I have said that I cannot be a nun, and everything that I have endured here reveals the truth of it. And I will not be a pawn, but you conspire to make me one or the other."
"You are a woman, and you have a woman's weakness and a woman's place,” Père Guibert said. “God has given you the burden of Eve, but Saunt Marie has saved you from it, if you will remain chaste.” He sensed that she would accept nothing he said now, and for that reason, he despaired as he watched her.