Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
"Seur Adalin will read from the Scriptures today,” Mère Léonie announced when the prayers were finished. “She reads very well, and it is to the Glory of God that the words are given to us.” She looked around the room. “You will all rejoice with me; I know that Seur Aungelique will return to us soon."
This time there was a buzz of conversation which Père Guibert halted as he stared hard at Mère Léonie.
"Have you had a message? Why was I not informed of it?” His voice was too high and he knew he ought not to be curt, but he had more than enough to cope with in the last day, and was not minded to tolerate any more from these Sisters.
"The messenger was from Our Lord,” Mère Léonie said serenely. “It has been given to me to see her return, and for that I am especially grateful, for her return gives strength to Our Lord.” She crossed herself and smiled at Père Guibert.
"You do not know it was a true vision. If it is not, you stand in great danger of heresy and apostasy, ma Fille,” Père Guibert informed her testily.
"It is the truth. I am sure of it. The other time when Seur Aungelique was gone, I kept to my cell and prayed and she came back.” She had already picked up the portion of cheese that was part of the breakfast.
"And if she does not return, then what?” Père Guibert asked, unwilling to give up his objections.
"Then I will pray again, until she is with us once more.” She turned to Seur Adalin. “Read, ma Seur, from the Book of Ruth and do not stop until you are instructed to do so."
Père Guibert did not like having his authority usurped in this way, but he was reluctant to challenge Mère Léonie with her emergence causing such excitement among the Sisters. As soon as it was apparent that Seur Aungelique was not coming back, he would be able to warn her about zealotry. “It is beneficial to hear Holy Words,” he contented himself with announcing, and the other nuns prepared to listen while they ate their bread and cheese in silence.
One of the fat-tailed ewes had stopped suckling her lamb, so Seur Philomine had taken it upon herself to try and save the baby sheep. Twice a day she would venture into the field where the flock grazed and would present the lamb with a rag protruding from an old wine crock that had been filled with milk. Most of the time she was able to get the lamb to nurse and so far it seemed he would live.
So it was that she was the first to see the escorted wagon turn away from the main road and approach Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion. She faltered in her task, almost dropping the wine crock, then, in response to the lamb's demanding bleat, once again held the crock at the proper angle.
The little cavalcade drew up at the main gates and one of the knights dismounted so that he could approach the grille and speak to the warder Sister. Seur Philomine narrowed her eyes, trying to see more clearly. The figures were too distant for her to recognize the devices on the cotes that covered their armor, but it was plain enough that the wagon belonged to the Church, for the arms of Avignon and the Pope were emblazoned on the hangings that concealed the passenger from prying eyes of ordinary folk, or curious travelers. As Seur Philomine watched, the doors, newly repaired and refitted and glistening with wax, were opened and the mounted men passed inside, the wagon following them.
At her side, the lamb butted her hip, eager for more of the milk. Dutifully, Seur Philomine finished her feeding of the lamb before she started back to the convent, her thoughts caught up in speculation about the new arrival.
Many of the Sisters had left their chores and come to the courtyard, all wondering what the occasion of the visit might be.
"It is Seur Aungelique,” Seur Catant said, without much enthusiasm. “Mère Léonie said she'd be back. It must be her."
"But why?” Seur Elvire asked. “There are others who might choose to come here. It is not only Seur Aungelique who has reason to—"
"And under escort. It is her Baron-and-Vidame father, you may be sure of that,” Seur Catant announced.
Seur Morgance shook her head slowly. “It is wrong to make too much of this,” she told the others, who paid her no heed.
"They bring the Devil,” Seur Marguerite warned them all. “The Devil is here, but he is sleeping. Now he will be roused and will walk among us. My children are dying because the Devil has breathed upon them, as he breathed upon others and they fell from the Plague. My children are too small for me to see the Tokens."
"By la Virge Marie!” Seur Catant warned, reaching over and pinching Seur Marguerite's upper arm. “Let it wait!"
"But by then you will all be lost,” Seur Marguerite said with vague sympathy. “The Devil will have you."
Père Guibert was late, coming into the courtyard after most of the Sisters had already got there, and he had to elbow his way through the nuns to reach the men-at-arms. “I give you welcome; my God give you His blessings."
"And to you, mon Père,” said the officer who had been the first to dismount. “We are men-at-arms to le Duc de Parcignonne, and he has mandated us on his authority and the authority of the Cardinal Belroche to deliver one of your Sisters to you.” He touched his visor, then knelt for a benediction.
In an abstracted way, Père Guibert pronounced the phrases expected of him, though his mind was more taken up by the wagon, which had still not been opened. “Mon Chevalier, will you tell me who it is you bring to us in this way?"
"The cousin of le Duc, who is one of this Order,” he answered properly as he rose from his knee. “I have been given the honor or providing her escort.” He indicated the other two men-at-arms. “We were all selected for this task by le Duc and approved by the Cardinal."
"Excellent,” Père Guibert said faintly. He was startled to realize he had not expected Mère Léonie's prophecy to be correct, and yet, here was Seur Aungelique, back once more to the convent she claimed to hate.
The nuns were conversing quite openly now that it had been confirmed that their Superior had been correct after all. Seur Victoire shook her head and said pointedly that it might be better if Seur Aungelique were to go away again, and a few of the others agreed with her. Only Seur Adalin objected. “She kept her vigils and fasts, and she was determined in the defense of the convent. We should thank God that she had been delivered to us safely."
"If she has,” Seur Catant sneered. “That remains to be seen. Père Guibert has not heard her confession."
"Would the Cardinal provide her this wagon if she had lost her chastity?” Seur Elvire asked, addressing no one in particular.
"What matter chastity when your father is a Baron?” Seur Catant countered.
"You will beg your bread for that malice,” Seur Adalin told her, and moved away from the older nun toward Seur Ranegonde, who was looking faint in the crush.
"If it is she,” Seur Ranegonde said, pleased that someone had taken notice of her, “then Mère Léonie will have much to take pride in. But she is not proud, of course.” Her confusion made Seur Adalin laugh.
"No, she is not proud in that way."
The curtain was drawn back, and Seur Aungelique, in an enveloping and demure houppelande of dark grey wool, stepped out, her eyes lowered and her manner restrained.
Père Guibert helped her down, and lifted his brows in surprise when she knelt for his blessing. “You are welcome, ma Fille."
"Deo gratias, mon Père,” she responded softly. She was enjoying her little charade but knew it would pall soon.
"There have been prayers for you, and your Sisters have worried,” Père Guibert informed her with a little more severity.
"I am not worthy of their concern, but for their charity I thank them.” She rose gracefully and looked around the courtyard.
There was another flurry of disruption as Mère Léonie came from the convent. Her handsome features were unusually cheerful as she caught sight of Seur Aungelique. “Ah. You are back."
"Mère Léonie said she knew you would return,” Seur Elvire offered. “We did not know it ... would be so soon.” This lame ending was not what she had had in mind to say, but prudence dictated modification.
"Did you?” Seur Aungelique asked, looking at Mère Léonie in some surprise.
"Yes. Our Lord revealed this to me.” She indicated the nuns in the courtyard. “You see; they doubted and now they know there is no reason to doubt."
At the back of the courtyard, near the passageway to the stables, Seur Philomine hung back as she stared at the gathering. It was not her Sisters that held her attention, nor the wagon, nor Seur Aungelique, but one of the men-at-arms. She took hold of the crucifix that hung from her belt as if it would lend her support.
He was standing on the lowered step of the wagon, reaching for the small chest Seur Aungelique had brought with her. Then, as he held out the chest to one of the other men-at-arms, he stopped, staring hard, as if he had heard his name called. He scanned the faces of the nuns, seeing little more than wimples, gorgets and coifs. And then his eyes met Seur Philomine's, and held with the strength of Damascus steel. Distractedly he released the chest and climbed slowly down from the wagon.
Seur Philomine remained where she was, knowing that he would come to her now that he had found her. She held back the laughter that trembled in her. How absurd that they should meet again, he in his armor, she in her habit, each disguised from the other. She wanted to tear off the restrictive headgear and remove the habit: don scarlet and samite and run with him through the fields, away from the convent and his battles, so they might live as they wished to live.
Mère Léonie was inviting Seur Aungelique to enter the convent again, and as the nuns gathered around her, Père Guibert indicated to the leader of the men-at-arms that their horses should be taken to the stables.
Never had Seur Philomine been pleased to tend the animals more than she was as she heard those words. She swung around and all but ran to the stables, knowing that in a moment, Tristan Courtenay, Sieur de Giraut, would follow her, and they would be together once more.
Moonlight stretched its pale fingers through the orchard, touching the man and woman who walked there. One should have been keeping watch, the other should have been keeping vigil, but neither of them cared. It had been too long, and there was not time enough for all the phrases and courteous words that another night might have demanded; they could not let their opportunity be lost on emptiness.
"Then why did you accept the veil?” Tristan asked, his dark blue eyes black as the night as he looked down into her face.
Philomine had removed her gorget, wimple and coif, letting her fawn-brown hair curl around her face. “What else was there to do? I did not want to be a charge upon my House, when I had no intention of agreeing to any match but you. It was not honorable in me to stay with them. I have no relatives left who would have worked for me, and so, this way the best, I thought. Here I would do something.... “She let her words trail away.
"But what?"
"Give food to travelers, minister to their hurts, tend their animals.” She shrugged. “I have taken only tertiary vows, my dearest dear. I am not a nun as the others are.” She put her hand on his arm, glad that now all he wore was a short Flemish houppelande instead of a surcote with armor beneath it.
"Oh, Philomine.” He stood still, hearing the movement of the wind in the grasses and the faint scratching of the trees as branches and twigs were jostled by the breeze. “There has never been a day when you have not been in my thoughts.” He paused. “I did not expect that. I assumed it would be one of those encounters that glow for an hour like the forge of a smith, and then fade to nothing but pleasant ashes. It may be that the fires are banked, but they only burn hotter.” He made no apology for his language, as he might have with another, for he thought of himself as a man-at-arms, not a poet.
In words that were half melody, Philomine said, “I will never forget; how green the grass was outside the window where we met.” She laughed once, gently and freely. “I have wanted to make a song of it, but try as I will, I can find no more words."
"The grass was green,” he agreed, and opened his arms to her embrace.
They were silent for a time, content to stand this way, knowing only their nearness.
"You,” Philomine whispered at last. “You are what is real. And all the rest is ... so much smoke. To have you here—oh, my cherished love—is so sweet it is almost unendurable.” Her arms held him more fiercely. “Everything else is shadows; you are the sun."
He kissed the corner of her mouth, very briefly, but he did not let her go. “What of God, Philomine?"
"God, the Devil, they are just other shadows, less than the women I see every day. I touch them, I hear them, I see them, but it means only that they are there and they speak. Your memory is ten times more vivid than that, and to be with you ... I am whole. I am immense and glorious.” Their mouths touched.
"Don't speak of it,” he said when he could speak again. “It's frightening."
Her fingers pressed his lips. “No; never frightening. Enormous, perhaps, but ... how could this frighten?” She never thought of herself as a bold woman—often she held back in the presence of others and had always been known for her good sense and modest demeanor. What drove her now was more than the intense hunger of her body to know him, the salt of him, the weight of him, but the need to reach his soul.
The way her breast was covered was profound knowledge to his hands, a thing to be treasured more than the heft of a worthy sword. The shiver that traveled from her feet to her brow entranced him.
The night was chill enough to make them gather their discarded clothes around them as they lay under the trees. In the clover and long grasses they welcomed one another, discovering the limitless delight in caresses and kisses, in looks that pierced the soul; each one different and complete while leading to other joys more fulfilling.
No hesitation marred their union, no lingering fear of intrusion or betrayal or shame held them back. They were as graceful as creatures of the sea, carried together as the tide carried waves to the shore, they carried each other with an exaltation that neither had known. Philomine held Tristan on her, within her, caught in the rhythm of his love. Soft, joyous cries like the call of night birds came from her to blend with unexpected laughter.