Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Évêque Amalrie clapped his hands to his face and dropped to his knees; now only his head was visible at the edge of the table, eerily disembodied. “It was not that. God has shown us the way and we must be as He intended us to be. That is what any worthy Christian must believe. But we are told that when the Devil enters our hearts, then we are lost to the light of God, and we go into darkness and fire.” He crossed himself, and his hands appeared at the edge of the table for a moment. “And the Devil entered my heart, Illustrissimi. I had thought in my vanity and pride that I had come through the test the God had made for me in a manner that pleased Him, and I relaxed the guard I had set upon myself, confident that I was inured to the flesh and had demonstrated it.” His mouth shook and he had to compress his lips before continuing. “I was under escort and returning here. We stopped for the night at a villa near here. It was a wild place, with flowers and fruit trees run riot."
"In fact, an Eden?” Cardinal Belroche said, smiling.
"If you meant the home of the Serpent, then it is apt.” He closed his eyes and began to weep. “Le Duc de Parcignonne was the one who brought me there, saying that the mistress was noble. I thought that it would be appropriate for one of my station to be there, for it was not an inn where godless men come. Better I had slept in a hovel than in those fine sheets.” He wiped his tears. “I am not worthy to bear this guilt, for my sins stink to Heaven."
Now Cardinal Belroche was curious. He had already heard what le Duc had reported, and had found it amusing. This self-castigation perplexed him. In a cloistered monk, it might be understandable, but in a young Bishop, it was ridiculous. “You have done nothing to suggest you are beyond redemption, mon Évêque."
"I have fallen. The Devil sent his demon to me, in a form so sweet and so bound in the pleasures of the flesh that...” He stopped, swallowed hard and went on. “I had not known what it was that the Sisters felt when the demons came to them. I had thought that it was the weakness and deception natural to their sex that made them long for the touch of the demons, and that they persisted because of the obstinacy of women. I did not know what it was to have a demon with ... with me.” The last was a whisper.
"A demon came to you? At Un Noveautie?” Cardinal Belroche turned away so that Évêque Amalrie could not see his expression. “What need of a demon when there is Comtesse Orienne?"
Évêque Amalrie boggled at him. “But ... you cannot know ... what she did. What I did because of her. It was a demon. It had to be a demon. You do not know what she is capable of, what she can cause others to do. It cannot be ... no woman is so far gone in ... corruption that she will...” He turned a deeper shade of plum. “Women are the seat of iniquity and the snares for the souls of men. But they are foolish and without reason. This woman, this demon was ... was with reason ... God protect me!"
This time Cardinal Belroche got to his feet. He looked at the weeping man kneeling before his writing table and he gave a short, discontented sigh. “There are many who would think you were fortunate beyond reckoning for what you have tasted, and I would be one of them, if I believed you knew what you have had.” He flicked a mosquito off the fresh vellum that was spread on the table for his later use. “You have let yourself be seduced by the most accomplished courtesan in all France, and you fear that this is evil. God does not expect men to turn from being men, but to choose the godly part. You have been chaste for most of your life. That you have lapses from time to time is reasonable. God did not make you to be without these lapses.” He blessed the young Bishop. “Confess your sin, such as it is, and then accept the offer of a short time of retreat. You have magnified your transgression beyond all thought."
"It was a demon. It was. I tell you, I know that it was!” He had started to rise, his hands reaching out as if to grab the Cardinal.
"Stop this at once!” Cardinal Belroche ordered in so stern a voice that Évêque Amalrie quailed at the sound of it. “You are indulging yourself in your guilt as you have indulged yourself in the flesh. Take care that you do not sin for pride and vanity in this as in your piety.” He stepped back. “If you intrude upon me again, I will have my guards remove you.” He hesitated, then decided to soften the blow a little. There was no telling how far this difficult young man might advance within the Church. “Take heart in knowing that others have sinned as you have, and with less concern for their souls while they did it."
Évêque Amalrie gave a strange sob, then flung away from the Cardinal, staggering toward the door. “Pernicious! Pernicious! There is sin everywhere. The Devil is here before me!"
"Mon Évêque—” Cardinal Belroche called out, but the Bishop paid him no heed.
By the time Père Guibert reached the convent, he was too tired to want to do more than sleep. He rang for the warder-Sister and had a considerable wait for a yawning Seur Odile to come to admit him.
"God be with you,” he said to her as she swung the doors closed behind him.
"And with your soul, mon Père. We are grateful you have returned.” She looked about, then said quietly. “You are alone?"
"When Évêque Amalrie was recalled, Padre Bartolimieu decided to petition the Pope to continue the investigations here. I am not certain when he will return. He ... thinks highly of Évêque Amalrie.” He held the reins out to Seur Odile, and was startled when she did not take them. “Ma Fille? What is this?"
Seur Odile was in a quandary. “Your pardon, mon Père. I would take the mule, but the last time I ventured into the stables, the Devil found me there and I was set upon by his fiends, who tormented me.” She crossed herself. “I have prayed and fasted since then, and Mère Léonie has said that she believes the worst has passed, but I dare not go there again. Not until you have heard my confession and have determined that it is safe for me to go there.” Her breath was shaky, but she was able to say the rest. “I know that the fiends came to me because I desired them. That is what Mère Léonie said to us: that the Devil comes where he is welcome and only when he has been summoned, just as those who are Saints are called of God."
Père Guibert heard this with misgivings. “Mère Léonie has the right to it, but not all of it. Those who are godly and in grace can nonetheless be tempted. That is what we must guard against.” He patted the mule absently. “Do you wish me to stable the beast, or is there another Sister who will tend to him for me?"
"There is Seur Tiennette, who is making cheese in the still-room, and Seur Marguerite is awake.” It was all she could legitimately offer to him, and both were aware of it.
"Ask Seur Tiennette if she would mind stabling my mule for me. I must have half an hour for prayer and then I will sleep. If I do not, I will not be in the clear state of mind I must be to hear your confessions tomorrow.” He stood still, waiting for Seur Odile to do something. “Seur?"
"Yes. I will tend to it,” she promised, then crossed herself in fear. “Our Lord between me and evil,” she whispered, then hurried away, calling back, “I will not be long. And I will inform Mère Léonie that you have arrived."
"Deo gratias,” Père Guibert said, watching her go. He did not like this time of day, when all but the last of the light had faded from the skies, when the stars began to show overhead, for at such times, he knew he was most vulnerable, thinking himself still safe. He looked over his shoulder at his mule. The animal was getting old, he thought, for he had ridden it now more than nine years. Shortly the Church would have to find him another.
"Mon Père!” Seur Tiennette called as she lumbered into the courtyard. Her girth had expanded of late, and there was a wheeze in her breathing that had not existed a year ago. Her habit was covered with a patched apron and it reeked of the curds she had been handling. “I am sorry to have to greet you this way, but I trust you will give me your forgiveness?"
Over the years, Père Guibert had come to regard Seur Tiennette as something of an older sister, a part of the family he could not remember, and he responded now with a warmth that was not often apparent in his manner. “I am pleased to have such industrious escort, Seur Tiennette, and I am only regretful that I must take you from your own labors to tend to me.” He gave her the reins. “He will need water as well as feed."
"I am thankful for the task, mon Père,” she said, then looked at him closely. “Will they be back, those men from Avignon, or will we be left in peace, do you think?” She misinterpreted his silence. “It is not proper for me to ask, but there has been such turmoil here, that I must do what I may to discover how much more of it I will have to endure."
"Endure?” he asked.
"Oh, I know that if there is reason for correction of sins, then we must be thankful for the rod that brings us once again to virtue. I have no argument with that. But I do not wish to be corrected for wrongs that are not my own.” She stopped to put her hand to her brow. “It is nothing, mon Père. Do not listen to me. It is late and I have become ... cranky. In the morning, I will have rid myself of these resentments."
This was so unlike what Père Guibert was used to from Seur Tiennette that he almost urged her to tell him more. But his back was sore, his eyes ached and he could not give her the attention he felt she wanted, and so he made the sign of the cross over her. “God guide your thoughts and your steps, ma Fille. I will hear your confession tomorrow."
"Deo gratias,” she murmured, then led his mule away.
Lightly the blows fell, lightly, persistently, to the count of the nun with the scourge in her hand. She was naked to her waist and her back bore evidence of the rigor of her devotions. “Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty,” she said breathlessly. Here she paused, the sting and burn of her stripes making her dizzy when she struggled unsuccessfully to get to her feet. Her body was clammy to the touch as she pulled her habit back over her shoulders, trying to transcend the pain that blossomed in her like an enormous, appalling flower. She thought of the martyrs who had suffered far worse trials than she had for God's Glory, but this did not serve to improve her feeling, nor make her movements any easier.
"Seur Ranegonde,” said the soft voice in the shadows.
"Apage, Satanas,” she muttered, her eyes swimming as she searched for the speaker.
"I am behind you, ma Seur,” was the pleasant response. “Would you like me to face you? Or would you wish to face me?"
Seur Ranegonde closed her eyes, determined to shut out all awareness of this intruder. “Where hearts are pure and the devotion of God is genuine, then the Devil and his messengers cannot enter, and the true Christian may rest secure in the arms of the Lord,” she whispered determinedly to herself. “Where there is evil, goodness will drive it out. God does not bargain with the Devil."
"Doesn't He?” asked the gentle voice. “What of Job? Did not God and the Devil play for his soul?” He waited while Seur Ranegonde continued to pray.
"Virge Marie, hear me, for I am weak and in danger, and but for your mercy and the mercy of God, I am lost to the Pit. God made me pious, but I have no courage but what you will lend me. I am afraid, and my heart will fail me for fear, if you will not enter my heart."
"Poor Seur Ranegonde,” Thibault said, coming up behind her. “Do you think the ceiling will open and show you visions of Heaven? Do you think that Virge Marie will wrap you in her mantle?"
"Let me not hear the words that the Devil has spoken. Let me hear only the hymn of praise that the Angels sing forever at the Throne of God,” she said, her words coming faster and faster, as if their speed alone could carry her to safety.
"There are other hymns, Seur Ranegonde, and they are more pleasant to hear,” Thibault said, deliberately placing his hands on her shoulders so that the hurt of her scourging rushed through her. “What glory is there in this agony? What good father permits his children to harm themselves in this way?"
"Bon Dieu!” she sobbed, stricken with terror. “Save me! O Thou Who brought Moses out of the desert, save me!"
"He brought Jesus to the Cross, as well,” Thibault reminded her in the most gentle tone. “What will He do for you, if that is how He treated His Son?"
"Do not say that. I will not listen to you!” Seur Ranegonde cried. “You do not speak the truth."
"It is part of your faith, Seur Ranegonde. You have sung of it every Pascal Feast. You ask aid of a deaf assistant. You cannot wait for God to serve you. But I will serve you, and not in Heaven. I will serve you as you long to be served, here, now, in this cell.” His hands had moved down her arms so that he held them pinned to her sides. “You are weak with fever, little dove, and you persist in these scourgings. What is so hideous that you must treat yourself in this way?"
"We are not worthy,” Seur Ranegonde answered, then closed her mouth firmly, determined not to be tricked into talking again.
"Of what? Of the death of a carpenter over a thousand years ago?” He gave her a little silence, then went on. “Do you think that whipping yourself to ribbons will make you more acceptable a sacrifice?” He sounded almost amused as he asked, and when she still remained silent, he made a third suggestion. “Tell me, little dove, do you believe that you will be taken to the marriage bed by Father, Son and Holy Ghost, to know at last what you have denied for so long? Must it be deities only that violate you?"
She wrenched in his arms, but her weakness was too great for her to fight free of him. “Let me go!"
"To what? To another beating? To dream of a lover that is without body or passion?"
"There is passion! There is!” she insisted, then wished she could recall the words. “There is passion, but it is not—"
"Is not what?” Thibault cut in. “There is no surrender? But there must be; you surrender in prayer hours every day. There is no embracing? You lie prostrate with your arms outstretched, and they hold nothing but stones. Think of this, little mouselette. You are afire, you kindle the flames in your heart, and then you strive to subdue the very embers you have fanned. That scourge will change nothing except the number of scars on your skin."