The Huguenot Thief

by L. K. CLEMENT

  Chapter 38

  Sister Marie, prioress of the Convent of Corbie, heard a faint rattle and looked up from where she knelt in her private chambers. The portress, Sister Simone, stood quietly, clutching the convent master keys that were her responsibility to secure.

  “The wagon is almost here. We can hear it on the road,” said the portress.

  The prioress pushed up from the cold stone floor. “Thank you, Sister Simone. Are the rooms ready? The travelers will be tired and hungry.” She put her hand on Sister Simone’s shoulder, and the two women moved out of the chamber into one of four long stone-covered walkways that outlined a square herb garden. As they walked, a shaft of the setting sun illuminated the columns lining the corridor. The crouching lions, monkeys, and demons carved into the granite tops of the columns were a constant reminder to the nuns that the world outside held unknown dangers. Sister Marie often wanted to smile when she saw them, the figures reminding her not of monsters, but of the carnival she had seen once as a child.

  The prioress could hear slow hoof beats, a creak of leather and the rattle of wheels. Reaching an arched door at the end of the north corridor, Sister Simone pulled out a large key. This door was one of two that led to outer corridors that formed the primary walls of the convent. The chapel, meeting house, treasury, kitchen, infirmary, and parlor formed the connecting rooms housed in the north, east, and west corridors. The rooms in the south corridor, built to house noblewomen who visited the convent from time to time, were now a prison.

  The two nuns walked through the door and down a small hall past the parlor, reaching another door more massive than the first and locked with three different mechanisms. This was the receiving door, and the prioress, sub-prioress, and portress were the only nuns in possession of keys to unlock it. This door led to the outside courtyard, the last barrier between the convent and the outside world. Sister Simone methodically fitted the keys into the three locks, never fumbling for the right one, and pushed the large door open, not an easy task because the door was heavy. It was meant to keep visitors out, not to welcome them.

  As Sister Marie walked through to the courtyard, the wind that constantly blew on the hill where the convent stood chilled her. She stood with her back to the door, looking through a wide iron gate set into twelve-foot tall stonewalls. A wagon crept up the ascending lane to the convent, pulled by farm horses, their heads down. Two soldiers sat beside the driver. The driver was dressed in the dull, dirty clothes of his station, while the soldiers wore yellow livery, in the form of elaborate embroidered jackets and tall black boots. The curly wigs of the soldiers bobbed beneath wide velvet hats that held exotic feathers waving in the breeze. One of the soldiers turned and said something to a traveler behind him in the wagon.

  The prioress heard crying, and a woman giving an angry retort to the soldiers. The two men laughed, and jumped down as the scowling driver waited for the nuns to open the gate.

  The first soldier bowed to her as he walked to the gate and took off his hat. “My good woman, our horses are lame. Do you have someone who can attend to them?” Sister Marie saw two magnificent horses behind the wagon, one favoring a leg. The young soldier was handsome. His companion stood on the ground, holding his musket, while the driver, not a military man, remained at his post, dour and clearly unhappy.

  Sister Marie nodded, and the portress unlocked the iron gates. Sister Simone waited for the soldiers to push open the heavy iron of the opening, but neither of them moved. Finally, the soldier at the gate shrugged, and shoved it open with ease. The driver clicked and the two horses pulled the wagon into the courtyard.

  The prioress could see that the wagon contained ten or so women of all ages and half a dozen or so small children. The women were clothed in rough gray wool with dirty white cloth covering their hair, but she could see that two of the women wore finer cloth, their hair covered with embroidered caps. In the fading light, she also saw eyes turned to her, waiting for her instructions.

  She had seen a bear baiting once in her childhood village, and remembered the eyes of the bear, sentient and pleading, as the dogs tore him to pieces. These eyes looked the same.

  Addressing the men, she said, “My good sir, do you not have your business to conduct with me before we attend to your horses? I believe you and your passengers have been on the road for some time. Let us attend to them first.”

  One of the soldiers grimaced and swept his arm towards the wagon. “These heretics? These are just Huguenot whores. They are not harmed, and while they are putting up a fair stink, there is no urgency to their care. I insist that you tend to our horses to so that we might return to Paris.”

  Sister Marie said, “What is your name, my son?”

  “I’m Henri de Lefort, son of the Duke of Bifou.”

  “Well, Henri de Lefort, since I presume you are a good Catholic, I will tell you that if you attempt to deter me from my duty to these women, I will send a letter to your father, informing him that his son did not behave in a way fitting to a Christian and a son of a duke. Now, I insist that you and your companion leave this courtyard immediately and go to the stable just there.” She pointed to a building a little distance away outside the gate. “First I need the papers.”

  The convent, something she thought was common knowledge, disallowed men, other than bishops and priests from passing through the iron gates. She wondered whether he was insolent or simply ignorant as he lingered in the courtyard.

  He sullenly handed her a sheaf of papers, and said in a sly tone, “Are you able to read these, good Sister, with only one eye?”

  Sister Marie touched the eyepatch over her left eye, and said, “Perfectly well, young man.” She began to read. This wagon of Huguenots was from Dieppe. Dieppe? Sister Marie had spent the first sixteen years of her life in a village outside of that town, so some of the names were familiar. A few of the women appeared to be from notable families. She blinked hard and sniffed, handing the document to the portress.

  “Come, come,” she said to Sister Simone. “Let us get these poor unfortunates to their quarters.”

  The soldiers untied their horses from the wagon and walked back outside towards the stables. Henri de Lefort stared at the prioress over his shoulder, but he did not utter another word.

  The prioress walked to the wagon and looked up at the driver. He finally unlatched the wagon postern and stepped down. “Well,” she said, “please help your passengers down.”

  He spat. “I’ll not put my hands on such as these.” He walked to the front of the wagon and began to adjust the bridles.

  The head of the convent looked at him and decided she would not argue. She spoke to the oldest woman in the front. “Are you able to climb down on your own? What is your

  name?”

  “I’m Mistress Pepin, from Dieppe.” The woman climbed out of the wagon, turned, and began helping the others. Most of them were crying.

  One of the smaller girls uttered anguished gulping cries. “Papa, papa!” Her mother, or perhaps her sister, tried to comfort her.

  The prioress led the sad, bedraggled group into the convent, through the red door that demarked the courtyard from the convent proper, occasionally saying in a soft voice, “Come this way, please.” These Huguenot women would be made to bathe, their hair inspected for lice, and what meager belongings they had would be taken from them. They would be fed and then locked into the south corridor prison. The choir nuns knew their duty, as this was not the first group of Huguenot women the bishop had sent to be imprisoned. How the prioress was to obtain the funds to keep her flock from starving she did not know.

  Sister Marie turned and watched the wagon move slowly out of the courtyard, the driver taking it to the stables where the soldiers were. After it cleared the heavy iron gates, the portress pushed them closed herself, the hinges screeching from their lack of use, locked them, crossed the courtyard and relocked the receiving door behind he
r.

  “Sister Marie, I will take care of this group of Huguenots. Please rest. We will need to talk to the bursar tomorrow about funds.”

  Yes, thought Sister Marie. The nun who held the purse strings would certainly have some words to say. The prioress nodded and moved slowly away from the courtyard towards her apartment to continue the letters she had begun earlier that day, and to pray, always to pray, for direction.

  A sound came behind her. She and the portress turned and saw a young woman in the corner behind the door.

  “Child, come forward, please. What is your name?” Sister Marie held out her hand. The young woman shook her head and began to shout, holding her arms out to her side.

  “My father told me that papists were wicked because you wanted all of us dead. What are you going to do with all of us? Are you going to sell us to the Turks?”

  The prioress was shocked to her core—not about the girl’s accusation that the papists wished the Huguenots dead, which held some truth to it, but about the Turks. She stepped back. “Where did you hear such a wicked idea? Of course we are not going to sell you to the Turks. What a thing for you to say!”

  “My brothers were sent to the galleys. If they become sick, they will be sold to the Turks.”

  Sister Marie walked quickly over to her, holding her arms out to the girl. “I am Sister Marie, the prioress of this convent. If you return to the true faith, you will be allowed to return home.”

  At that, the girl gave a cry and ran into the cloister towards the other women from Dieppe. The prioress put her hand on the cool stone of the walls and turned towards her rooms. What was she to do with these Huguenots? She did not want to become harsh as her bishop advised. He had often insisted that only physical mistreatment could show these Huguenots the error of their ways. According to the bishop, one of the convents had gagged their Huguenots, an example he was eager for her to follow here at the Convent of Corbie, for he said that after their gagging all of the women had recanted their Protestant faith.

  If the girl’s brothers were in fact in the galleys, they would not be given any opportunity to recant, much less escape. If one of them did become ill, he was doomed. The King’s ships gave no succor to the galley slaves. Sick men would be thrown overboard or sold at the nearest port. She shuddered at the thought of any Frenchman, even a heretic, being sold to the Turks, and made the sign of the cross.

  Chapter 39

  At dawn, the prioress led prayers in the chapel, hearing several of her young novices whispering to themselves about the latest group of children and women delivered to the convent. This was the fourth group of Huguenots to come to their sanctuary. The first group had been kept in the meetinghouse, a room where the convent’s inhabitants met to conduct business, but this had not been satisfactory due to the location of the privy, which required the Huguenots to pass by the chapel. Some of the women would shout blasphemies at the nuns in prayer. After attempting to manage the situation for a month, the prioress had finally requested help. The bishop moved the first group of Huguenots, to where she did not know, and gave the prioress funds to convert the rooms in the south corridor to a self-contained prison with its own privy.

  Before retiring the night before, the prioress had read the official letters condemning each of the Huguenot women to her convent prison. All of them had refused to adjure. Most of the women presumably had male relatives, and the prioress knew that if these women’s husbands, sons, and fathers had also refused to recant, the men would indeed have been sent to row ships for His Majesty’s navy.

  How long she was to house the women she did not know. She would have to ask the bishop on his next visit. He and his retinue visited from time to time, with pomp and fanfare, bringing nobles and clergy from all over Europe who wanted to see the relics her convent housed in its altar.

  All of this ran through her mind as she prayed, realizing with a start that her robes were cold and wet, and the nuns behind her in the chapel were silent. Two young nuns came over silently and helped her up.

  A novice, whose name she couldn’t remember, stood to the side. “Excuse me, Sister Marie, but there is a messenger here from the bishop. He is most anxious to see you privately. The portress said he is in the parlor.”

  She looked at this young woman, saw entirely too much animation, and thought the messenger must be the bishops’ young nephew, a comely young man who had recently taken the orders. As a priest, he would be waiting inside the cloistered halls in the parlor, visible to any of the nuns who happened to walk by. He had been here once before and had brought much unwelcome attention to himself, although she had to admit, he did not seem to be aware of his good looks.

  Entering the room, she saw her surmise was accurate. The young man stood quickly, bowed, and kissed the ring on her outstretched hand.

  “Please sit down. I believe you are Edward?”

  “Yes, I am, but now I go by Pastor. The bishop sends his regards and hopes you are well. He has sent me on a mission to this convent and five others with news. You must prepare for more heretics. His Majesty ordered dragooning in your district, and while the bishop expects this act to move more heretics to return to our faith, there will certainly be those who will not.”

  The prioress was stunned. To place armed soldiers in the homes of the Huguenots would ignite the flames of religious hatred, simmering now, into a boil. Dragooning, as the occupation of homes by soldiers was called, was the most feared weapon of the king. She had heard that entire villages of Huguenots had recanted in advance of the arrival of the dragoons. These soldiers were allowed to do anything they wished, short of murder. The king had bowed to pressure from the pope and was going to plunge his country into chaos, if not another civil war. She dropped her head to her chest, feeling tears in her eyes.

  “Sister Marie, shall I ring for someone?” asked the young priest in a solicitous tone. “We gave thanks this morning that all of France would return to its rightful religion to receive the blessings of our Lord. His Majesty has received a message from God and has acted on it.” The young man’s face was shining with devotion and certainty.

  The prioress stood. “Thank you. I will take you to the kitchen so you may be refreshed for your ride to the next convent.” She walked with him slowly through the corridor to the kitchen, certain there were many watching eyes. Far better for her to pretend she didn’t notice.

  “Please give my sincere regards and prayers for the bishop’s health to your uncle.” She bowed and turned to leave the kitchen.

  “Oh, there is one more item. I have a letter for you.” At this, she stopped and turned to face the young man. He produced a letter from his robe and handed it to her with a sly smile. “I don’t believe you have many letters other than from the bishop. He is most curious as to its author.”

  Sister Marie stood stock still, recognizing the handwriting. She looked at the wax seal, praying it had not been opened. “Please tell the bishop that this is from a remote relation of mine who promised to write when her daughter was of age. I expect that this letter will confirm the dowry we will receive when she takes her vows.”

  She knew that avarice, which surely had been passed down to the nephew from the bishop would divert the young priest, and from the expression on his face, she was right. Funds from dowries provided a great deal of income for the bishop. Looking at him, the prioress thought that he would probably be a very successful man of the church.

  Chapter 40

  Sister Marie walked back to her rooms, closed the door to her quarters, and sat down at her small desk. With shaking hands, she unsealed the letter and smoothed it open. The author was her father.

  Dearest Marie,

  I remember with shame the time of our last meeting. How I devoutly wish the words that passed from me to you had never been uttered. I pray for your forgiveness, which I know you will freely offer, given your kind and gentle nature that I am too late to admi
re.

  By the time you read this, I will be dead. I am in prison and have the same fever that killed your brother’s wife. Your brother and his sons have been sent to the galleys. The only one of your family that is left is Marin, my granddaughter and your niece. She has been sent to your convent with a group from Dieppe, a feat that has been accomplished with our Lord’s blessing and help from a devoted friend, a friend who also smuggled this letter out of my cell.

  Sister Marie stopped reading and recited a prayer for her father. Over thirty years ago, she had rejected the Protestant religion of her parents and refused to marry the man of their choice. That she would become a nun in order to escape marriage had enraged her father, and the rest of the family had been forbidden to acknowledge her existence after he ordered her to leave. The last family members she had seen were her brother and mother, still as the suits of armor in Dieppe’s castle, staring at the wagon that took her to this convent. Some years ago, she had received a letter from a remote relation about her mother’s death, and she knew her brother had married and had children, but nothing else until this.

  I beg of you to be kind to her, to love her as your own, and to protect her as best you can. She has your eyes, one brown and one green. She tries to hide this as some have said it is a sign of witchcraft, but you know well that this is a monstrous lie. She does not know you are her relation, and I leave it to you and God if she should be told.

  The nun put her hand to the patch that covered her left eye. On the road to the convent thirty years ago, she had adopted this patch, and none had seen her without it since. She read on:

  Oh, how I was mistaken in believing the Comte’s character was of a good man. The one you refused so many years ago is indeed a man of few scruples, no honor, and much greed. He is the reason for what has befallen our family. He created terrible tales about how our family desecrated the Holy Bible and took them to the local bishop. Our property has been seized and will be given to him.