A Mortal Glamour (31 page)

Père Guibert drew back, not entirely pleased with this revelation. “A relative, Chevalier?"

"In a manner of speaking,” Thibault said, winking once.

"Your manner is insolent,” Père Guibert rebuked him, disliking the beautiful young man more intensely with every passing moment.

"I cultivate it,” Thibault confessed. “Anything less will not serve at court, not for one such as I am.” He held out his hand to Père Guibert in common greeting, his light blue eyes alight with some unreadable emotion. “Look at me, good priest. There is a resemblance between me and Mère Léonie, or so we have always been told."

Grudgingly Père Guibert did as he asked. “Yes, you have something of the look of Mère Léonie,” he said with a sigh. “Very well. Until Mère Léonie comes from her meditations, you may remain in the hospice."

This offer was deliberately insulting, but Thibault accepted it with a grin, “Would you not prefer to keep me in a rabbit hutch?"

Père Guibert did not dignify the question with an answer. “The door to the hospice is there. Once you have stabled your horse, you may seek out Seur Tiennette for a meal. She is in the refectory."

"May Our Lord reward you, mon Père,” Thibault said, and strolled away without waiting for a proper blessing.

It was a dream, Pierre thought as he saw the tent flap draw back. It had to be a dream, for it was inconceivable that Mère Léonie would come to him in the night in a shift of linen so fine it was nearly transparent. He gazed at her, fascinated, as she came nearer, her pale eyes fixed on his face, her body, glimpsed through the linen as strong and lithe as a boy.

"Sieur le Duc?” she said, now less than an arm's length from where he lay. “Am I welcome? Did you want me?"

"Christ!” he burst out, thinking he was shouting instead of whispering.

"Not exactly,” she responded.

He wanted to grab her, to plunder her body until his passion for her was gone, but he dared not. “You're a dream,” he said.

"If that is what you want. How do your dreams go?” She touched the scar on his face with her long, lean fingers. “Do you dream of battle, then? Do you dream of love? Tell me, Sieur le Duc."

He grabbed her hand, pressing it to his face. “You're convincing, I'll say that for you. When I wake I'll—"

"You doubt your senses? You hold my hand; isn't it solid enough for you? Or would you rather I came at you with steel so that you might be more ... comfortable with me?” The linen of her shift brushed against his arm. “Well?"

Pierre pressed her hand to his face, biting her fingers lightly. “I like this so much. Teton de Marie, this is sweet."

Mère Léonie made a sound between purring and laughter. “My breasts are sweeter than la Mère Marie's,” she said. “Taste them. See for yourself."

"Oh, God,” he groaned, seizing her shift in both hands and tugging at it with all the strength he could muster. The fabric held, then was rent from her neck to her ankles. His fingers brushed her leg. “Jesu, Marie!"

"Do you want me, Sieur le Duc? Though it is a sin and may cost you your soul, do you want me?” She tangled her hand in his hair. “Is there a nobleman in France who does not have lice on his head?"

"Bald ones,” he growled, reaching for her, wrapping his arms around her hips and pulling her down to him. “Dream or no dream, I will have you."

"Though it cost you your soul,” she repeated, holding him off.

"My soul, my title, my patrimony, for so sweet a dream, I will give anything.” His blunt fingers sank into her hip and he thought with satisfaction that if she were real, she would have marks to remember him by. “Be rid of that shift; it's ruined anyway."

"In a moment, a little moment.” She seemed to mock him now as she let him touch her. “You will have to do a few things more, first.” She bent and kissed his face, just to the side of the scar. “You want me?"

"Christ, yes!” He stared up into her hot, pale eyes. “Must I say it again? Come here, woman, and I will show you how I want you."

"Enough to serve me, Sieur le Duc? Enough to get on your knees to me as you have to your sovereign?” She braced her arm against his shoulder and to his amazement kept him from drawing her any nearer. “Answer me, Sieur le Duc: would you get on your knees to me?"

"Certainly,” he said, hardly paying any attention to what he said, so great was his desire for her. “Anything. Once I possess you."

"Ah, no,” she taunted. “First, mon Duc. First you will get on your knees and you will crawl to me."

He half-rose at that. “I crawl to no man!"

"But I am a woman. Crawl.” She stepped back from him, avoiding his hands as they grasped at her. “I am waiting, mon Duc. I am waiting for you to crawl to me.” She stood just beyond the end of his camp bed, holding her torn shift open so that he could see her body. “I have no lice. My flesh does not stink of sweat. I will open my legs to you if you will crawl."

Desire and rage coursed through him as he stared at her, and a fever like the passion of battle took hold of him. He flung his blankets away and yanked his chemise over his head, casting it aside. “Crawl, you say? To a Duc of France?"

Her movements were like dancing. She escaped his first lunge and his second. “You will not have me that way, mon Duc. If you crawl, then you will have me.” She stood out of reach, deliberately cupping one small, high breast with his long fingers. “Don't you long to do this? Wouldn't you like to put your lips here? Wouldn't you like to kiss me?"

"Don't goad me, woman!” he shouted at her, striving to get hold of her once more.

"Crawl, mon Duc. On your knees, if you want me."

He had no answer but the determination to catch her, and the more she eluded him, the more determined he was to have his vengeance on her. Yet he quickly found himself tiring while she continued to tantalize him with the sight of her flesh and with her jeers. Finally he stopped and stood, panting heavily, his body wet from his exertions. Each beat of his pulse felt like an explosion behind his eyes. His lust had not diminished; if anything, it had grown as he pursued her.

"You need only crawl, Pierre,” she said softly. “I will be so pleased to see you crawl that I will let you have me."

"If I reach you, I'll throttle you!” he threatened.

"You will reach me when I want, mon Duc, and not an instant before. You will touch me when it pleases me to have you touch me. That will be after you crawl to me.” This time when she smiled, her face was predatory. “Think, Pierre, what it will be like to lie atop me—you wish to be on top, don't you?—so that you can crush me. That would satisfy you, wouldn't it? My thighs against your legs, my arms around your neck, my lips under yours—that is what you crave, isn't it?"

"Damn you! DAMN you!” he bellowed at her as she slipped out of reach once more.

"Why don't you crawl, Pierre?” She was close enough for him to put his hands on her, but he was not able to, for as soon as he moved, she danced away from him. “You could be inside me, Pierre, if you will crawl."

He threw himself at her, arms flailing out toward her, then fell, his breath tearing through him. “I will have you,” he vowed between clenched teeth.

"Yes; when you crawl.” She came up behind him and lay down on his back, her body cool against his. “Tell me you will crawl and I will let you feel my thighs, Pierre."

"You're a devil!"

"Not a demon?” she teased him. “Poor Père Guibert; he must be looking for the wrong thing. So I am a devil, am I?” She kissed the nape of his neck, then moved lightly away as he wrenched himself around.

"Stop!” he ordered her.

"No, Pierre. I am not one of your men-at-arms to bow to your will. I do as I wish.” She stopped and the hot light of her eyes licked over him like fire. “You are the one who has desired me. You are the one who seeks me. So be it, Pierre. I am the thing you seek. Now; crawl!"

He dropped to his knees. “Oh, no."

"Yes. Yes, Pierre. Crawl, Pierre.” Her voice captivated him, so low and ripe it was, the very note he had imagined so many times before and never heard. “You will crawl."

"I will,” he mumbled, and reveling in his disgrace, he did as she ordered, his head down so that he could not see her. He felt wonderfully despicable, loathsome and marvelous at once. When he reached her, he pressed his lips to her knee.

"Kiss my foot, Pierre.” She raised her heel so that the arch was presented to him.

In a rapture of misery he obeyed, taking her foot in his hands and holding it like a revered object, a holy treasure that the Church would defend with force of arms. He was so base, so foul that there was nothing he could not do, for he could not dishonor himself further. “Now I will have you."

She bent down, taking his head in her hands. She turned his face upward and kissed his mouth avidly. “Now you will have me. You have groveled; you've earned the right."

Ordinarily he would have been stung by what she said, but not now. He grasped her by the waist and forced her to come down onto the earth with him, under him. He went into her heedlessly, hammering at her until he was spent, his seed wrung from him so thoroughly that he could not believe he would be able to father children for a year.

Mère Léonie rolled him off her with contemptuous ease. “Next time you will crawl without such fuss,” she whispered as she held the lobe of his ear between her teeth. “Then you will discover what you most desire."

He had hardly breath enough to answer her. “I will never crawl again. Not to you; not to anyone."

"Won't you?” She was on her feet now, watching him flounder in an attempt to rise.

"God's Prick, woman, what did you do to me?” he groaned. He felt a quiver of fear run through him at his uncanny weakness. He could not remember a time when fucking had left him so enervated.

"Only what you wanted, beau Pierre.” She gathered up her shift.

"You're monstrous,” he accused her as he sank back down on the earth.

She lifted the tent flap. “You are not the only one who has said so,” she told him, very softly, then stepped back into the night.

Pierre stared at the place she had been. “It was ... a dream? A dream.” He rolled onto his side. It had to be a dream. Mère Léonie would not come to him, more debauched than he had thought possible. He felt hollow, used. He ought to confess his desires and cleanse his soul. And perhaps he would do that, when he had tired of the dream.

As the Sisters chanted Vespers, Padre Bartolimieu hovered outside the door of Mère Léonie's cell. It had been six days since she secluded herself, subsisting only on bread and water left for her at midnight at her order. He wanted to open the door, to insist that she come forth and aid in the examination of her Sisters, but he dared not. Should the Church begin a Process, his actions would mean a severe reprimand at the least.

"Troubled, Padre?” Thibault asked as he came down the hall.

"You are not supposed to leave the hospice,” he said by way of an answer.

"It is a dreary place, the hospice. The Sisters are in the chapel at prayer. Do you fear I will assault them before the altar?” Thibault's smile flickered and was gone.

"You make light of evil."

"Are you so certain it is evil?” Thibault fingered the slashing of his blue silken sleeve. “Nuns have so little to entertain them, haven't they? Can you blame them for preferring a demon to boredom? If there is a demon?"

"If Mère Léonie were not your kinswoman...” Padre Bartolimieu began, then caught himself.

"No doubt you would have le Duc and his men remove me under escort.” Thibault made a gesture of contempt. “Is it true that two more Sisters have been visited in the night?"

"Of course not,” Padre Bartolimieu said, much too quickly.

"That makes seven now, doesn't it?” He nodded as he saw the priest's face darken. “Pity the poor demon, with so much to do.” With mock humility, he crossed himself. “Our Lord protect us."

"Amen to that, little as you ... or any of us deserve it.” Padre Bartolimieu said. He curbed the impulse to castigate the fair Chevalier, reserving that pleasure for later, when his worst fears had been vindicated.

Thibault snickered. “You priests, with your abasements and denials, you are the worst of all—thinking that you have access to God. You cower in fear at your own shadows and you fill your flocks with dread, and then you hold out the prospect of Heaven and the threat of Hell to invest yourselves with authority. You are usurpers, every one of you.” He winked at Padre Bartolimieu, whose face had gone ruddy with wrath. “It takes so little to annoy you, doesn't it?"

"You are speaking heresy!” Padre Bartolimieu accused him.

"And blasphemy, too, I should think. Pay no attention. I will confess it and make an act of contrition.” With this flippant assurance, Thibault bowed slightly to the priest and strolled away down the hall. “If you wish to harangue me, I will be in the refectory,” he called over his shoulder.

It took every bit of will he possessed for Padre Bartolimieu to let Thibault depart without railing at him. “He will be with the goats,” he muttered, and was satisfied with the thought. As all priests did, he knew all the tortures and torments of Hell, and he spent a while in the satisfying contemplation of them, imagining Thibault to be the sufferer. This restored him and he once again gave his thoughts to finding a way to call Mère Léonie from her cell.

"Padre Bartolimieu!” Seur Adalin cried out to him as she rounded the corner.

He started at the sound of her voice. “What is it, ma Seur?"

"In the chapel! Come quickly, I beg you.” She was breathless and on the verge of tears. “Please!"

"Yes, yes,” he said, responding at last. “What has happened now?"

Seur Adalin put her hands to her face. “Seur Fleurette—she has fallen into a fit. She says that there are demons in her flesh. She says ... O Saunt Marie! Listen."

A high, delirious voice filled the hall, keening. “What it does!” Seur Fleurette cried over and over again.

Padre Bartolimieu crossed himself and restrained Seur Adalin for a moment. “When did this begin?"

"We ... noticed it just now. But we have been chatting. She might have started before, and none of us noticed—” She stopped abruptly. “May we be forgiven for that lapse."