Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Two of the younger nuns stared at the new Superior, one of them not able to conceal the panic that had entered her eyes.
"Let each of you accuse herself of her transgressions, and where you have the most offended, let you scourge that fault from body and soul. If gluttony or lust or melancholy have taken hold of you, it must be the body that pays the price, for these are sins of the body. We are only permitted to chastise with willow branches, but see that you use them with a will, so that you may be the more preserved against greater offence. Those who have sinned with the soul, through greed or rage or vanity or envy, you must give yourself to contemplation of your errors, for if even one of you taints her soul, all her Sisters must be diminished."
There was a soft, terrible cry from one of the nuns. “Oh, ma Mère,” Seur Marguerite wailed, unable to contain herself. “I have seen too much—Plague, yes, and all that it does, I have seen it. You must not condemn me to remember those things. You cannot, in charity, demand that of me. I came here to find refuge!” She lifted her clasped hands to Mère Léonie and her lined and well-worn face was seamed with tears.
The Superior studied the old nun and recalled all that she had heard about her. “Come, bring your heart to me, Seur Marguerite. You have endured much, and it may be that there are other devotions that will aid you. The prostrate prayers are required of all Sisters here, and you must not seek to avoid them. But if you fear damnation for what has been in your life, then meditation on damnation may answer to grace as well."
The other nuns, hearing this, exchanged uneasy glances. All of them were aware that Seur Marguerite was not entirely sane, and could not be held to the same code of behavior as the rest of them; nevertheless, they could not suppress a twinge of guilt at the thought that Mère Léonie might grant her an exemption when the rest of them were being castigated. Seur Elvire almost drummed her fingers on the table, but could not summon the courage for so outrageous an act.
"Ma Mère,” said one of the nuns in a tone that suggested dissatisfaction, “why do you require this of us now, when—"
Mère Léonie turned toward the upstart. “Were you moved to speak by the fullness of your heart, or is this petulance?"
The young nun set her jaw. “I am not used to—"
"Seur Aungelique,” Mère Léonie cut her short, “when you have finished your meal, you are to go to the chapel where you will find a willow scourge waiting for you. Use it when your prayers are done."
Seur Aungelique flushed with indignation. “I am the daughter of le Baron Michau d'Ybert who is—"
"Titles of the world have no meaning here,” Mère Léonie reminded her. “Recall that you are not free of vanity while you try to purge yourself of gluttony and lust."
For once, Seur Aungelique was too shocked to speak. She wanted all the nuns to look at her with sympathy, and at the same time, she was shamed by the rebuke she had received and wished she could become invisible.
"For the rest of you,” Mère Léonie went on, “I will expect to speak to each of you alone in my cell, where you may unburden your souls of the doubts that have festered there and so together we may find remedy for your afflictions.” She looked around the room in that keen, searching way that impressed and worried the nuns. The long tables were no longer full of Sisters; the walls that were once whitewashed and pristine were now dingy from neglect. “There is much to be done if we are to overcome our enemies and the destruction of our faith. Those of you who have heard of the conflicts between Rome and Avignon and have thought that these debates were above them commit a gross error. Those ‘debates’ as they are being called are the very essence of the Church, and from the outcome will all of Christianity take shape. Those who believe that it is of small consequence if Rome or Avignon makes the Pope forget that it is the Pope who speaks for God on earth, and if we harken to false counsel, then we damn ourselves as surely as if we had made a pact with Satan and signed it with our life's blood. You must pray for the wisdom to decide in these matters, for although we are only women, and live out of the world, our mission takes us above those of our sex who live for the duty of home and children. We are required to show the acumen of men in the conduct of our vocation, to seek ways to glorify God that honors Him as He demands."
Seur Elvire dropped her wooden cup and looked about guiltily at the noise it made.
"You have not had scripture read to you at meals for over a year, or so I have been told. That will be remedied at once. You.” She pointed across the room to Seur Aungelique.
"Mère?” the young nun asked.
"In preparation for your evening penance, you will read from the Book of the Prophet Jeremiah,” Mère Léonie ordered, motioning to one of the nuns to bring the large, unused Bible. “You will kneel and read, Seur Aungelique."
"Deo gratias,” Seur Aungelique muttered as she came forward, glaring at the Superior. “I am poor at my letters."
Mère Léonie smiled. “Where you falter, I will help you.” She dropped gracefully to her knees and gestured to Seur Aungelique to do the same. “You may begin where you like, Seur Aungelique."
Seur Aungelique lay on her bed, feeling the hempen slats through the two blankets that served as a mattress. She could not sleep. Her thighs and belly ached where the willow had lashed them, bringing pain at first, but now something else, a sensation that was less than hurt but more than discomfort. Seur Aungelique rolled onto her side, but the disturbing ... warmth did not subside. It shut out all other thought; not even prayer could banish it. Impetuously, Seur Aungelique threw back the heavy wool blanket she was permitted in the cold of winter, and drew up her shift as far as her waist in the vain hope that the chill February air would give her a measure of peace. Her cell was dark, and so she used her hands to assess what the willow wands had done to her.
There were a number of sensitive tracks across her abdomen and on her thighs, and when she touched them, no matter how gingerly, pain spurted through her. She gave a little gasp, but it was not entirely for hurt—the touch of her hand had awakened other aches, deep, abiding pangs that she feared now would not be banished with prostrate prayers and willow switches.
It was a sin to touch herself, Seur Aungelique knew that from the many harangues she had endured since before her breasts had been bee-sting bumps on her skinny chest. Her father's priests had railed at her for sins of the flesh then, and Père Guibert had admonished her, with more than a little despair, to resist the urges of her flesh so that the Devil would have no means to take her soul.
Her fingers slipped—of their own account, it seemed—between her legs, to the strange little nubbin that jumped for ecstasy at her ministrations.
"Virge Mère Marie,” she whispered as her fingers rubbed and plucked, “you were a woman. You bore a Son. Surely you knew what it was to have ... oh! Jesu, Jesu ... to be filled with ... ah! ... It is not lust, Mère Marie. It is not lust. It is too ... Dieu, Dieu! ... not lust.” Her brow was slick with sweat, her prayers jumbled in her mind as she writhed and tried to keep from moaning aloud. Under her wimple, her short-cropped hair was damp, and though she trembled, it was not from the icy embrace of the night, but from rapture that her fingers wrung from her.
She would have to confess, when Père Guibert came, she would have to confess that she had failed again, that she had succumbed to her body. It was worse, somehow, that she had done so after prayer and penance. It would make her error more enormous and her sin more damning. She knew this, but rebelled at it as she began again to search out that unimaginable release that she knew was wrong, terribly wrong, but so very, very sweet. Her hand teased and pressed; it was easy to imagine that it was not her hand at all, but someone else's, something else that pleasured her. Surely the sin was not so grievous if someone else had forced it from her. Surely she would be less to blame if the joy that shivered through her was forced upon her, not sought on her own. Did not the Saints themselves often wrestle with demons, combating lust as well as terror? She was secretly horrified that she compared herself to Saints, for that could be heresy or worse. She might be branded apostate if her feelings were known. Bad enough that her carnal desires should be known, but—Her thoughts dissolved in a burst of pleasure that drove her beyond caviling argument to thrashing release.
In the floating, sated tranquility that followed, she at last found some little sleep, and for that short time between her satisfaction and the call to morning devotions, Seur Aungelique was not troubled—not by the banked fires of her needy body, nor the stern dictates of her enforced calling. In sleep, she found a kind of peace that eluded her in her waking hours.
Père Guibert gazed warily across the courtyard of la Couvent de la Tres Saunt Annunciacion. His eyes ached, and his feet had long since stopped hurting and become numbed. His mule sighed with almost human exasperation and refused to move again until Père Guibert climbed out of the saddle and drew the animal forward with the curve of the reins. With thumb and forefinger the priest rubbed at his gritty-feeling eyes. For more than twenty years he had striven to do honor to his Order and to his God, but of late he had found it ever more difficult to accommodate all the demands of his calling. It troubled him more than he could admit, and increasingly he wished for a reduction of his duties so that he could devote himself to contemplation and prayer that would restore his soul. A noise distracted him; he saw Seur Ranegonde come toward him from the hospice door, her habit in some disorder. “God keep you, good Sister, and send you His Peace,” the priest said, blessing her in a mildly distracted way.
"I thank you most humbly,” the nun answered, crossing herself before she came nearer.
It was a chore for him to summon up the necessary phrases, and he did not bother to do so, but glowered deeply. “Is the stable ready for this beast?” Père Guibert asked testily, more worried now about his aching muscles and empty stomach than the courtesy that should be observed in convents.
"Of course, mon Père,” Seur Ranegonde said, as if there was nothing churlish in his behavior. “Let me take him for you.” She was a small woman, and thinner than the last time the priest had come to hear confessions.
"How do you go on, Seur Ranegonde?” Père Guibert inquired, not relinquishing the reins as he realized belatedly that his manners were hardly worthy of his calling.
"I do as God wishes me to,” she responded, waiting for the mule, her hands trembling. By now, Père Guibert began to feel shame for his brusque words. “You have taken the decoction that Père Sannule..."
"Of course, and I thank God for it,” she said, then looked over her shoulder.
The hospice door had opened again, and this time Seur Aungelique came out, approaching the priest in an unusually subdued way.
"God be with you, ma Seur,” Père Guibert murmured and automatically gave her his blessing. He was startled to see how pale the young woman looked, how deeply her eyes had sunk into livid shadows.
"And with your soul,” she responded. “We did not think to see you for a day or so. There is so much going on that..."
"Excellent,” Père Guibert said, recalling the apathy that had seized the convent after the death of Mère Jacinthe.
"Yes. Yes, we have much to do now that Mère Léonie is here,” Seur Ranegonde said quickly.
"Yes. Your new Superior.” He patted the neck of his mule. “I don't wish to trouble Seur Ranegonde, who plainly has yet to return to blooming health. If you would be kind enough..."
Seur Aungelique nodded at once. “Yes, mon Père. Deo gratias.” She took the proffered reins and tugged the mule toward the little thatch-roofed stable.
Père Guibert gazed after her, thinking that he had never seen Seur Aungelique so tractable. If that was evidence of the rule of the new Superior, he would be disposed to admire her for her dedication and discipline.
"I would have been willing to take the mule, mon Père,” Seur Ranegonde murmured. “I do not want to shirk my duties and put greater burdens on my Sisters."
"Naturally,” Père Guibert said, falling back into his usual demeanor of stern benevolence, as was required of him by the duties of his Order. “You are a nun of rare vocation, Seur Ranegonde, and it is an example of your vocation that you do not wish to give burdens to others. But you must also accept the mandates of God, and to attempt tasks that are for a time beyond you only show pride, not vocation."
Seur Ranegonde lowered her eyes at this reprimand. “I will pray to be worthy of my Order and my faith."
"It is not God's way to burden you...” He stopped, trying to forget the last time he had so admonished a nun, for it had been during a visitation of the Plague that had ravaged the kingdom of France and the lands around it not so many years ago. His strength had been at its farthest ebb then, and in faulting the Ambrosian Sister, he had appalled himself: there had been times when he had longed for the Plague to take him, too, so that he would not have to endure the suffering around him. What had that burden shown him, and why had God put it upon him? The question was like a mouse in his thoughts, gnawing, gnawing with sharp little teeth. He was not entitled to fault the nun for her errors.
"Mon Père?” Seur Ranegonde ventured, her face not quite averted and her eyes downcast.
"I am tired,” he offered as an explanation, though it was no answer at all. “The sun is dropping in the sky and my soul turns inward. Forgive me."
Seur Ranegonde nodded. “Thus does God touch our lives.” Then she looked away toward the hospice again. “If I may not tend your mule, would you permit me to lead you to our new Superior so that she may greet you?"
"I would be most grateful.” He did not wish to be alone with his memories any longer. He permitted Seur Ranegonde to lead the way. “It will be Vespers soon,” he observed so that Seur Ranegonde would feel free to speak to him.
"It will. My Sisters will come together for devotions then.” She stood aside so that he might enter the building ahead of her. “Mère Léonie spends this time in the chapel at her devotions."