by Mary Daheim
Sorcha finally broke the silence, cradling the wineglass against her breast and offering Rob a wan, feeble smile. “Am I going to hell?”
It was Rob’s turn to emit a truncated little laugh. “No one knows who will go to hell, except God Himself.”
“Well,” said Sorcha, standing up and stretching her neck muscles, “I’ve asked God to make me sorry. But nothing happens. I’ve asked Him to send Gavin back to me. But Gavin doesn’t come. Mayhap God doesn’t hear my prayers.”
“He hears,” Rob replied, still staring off into the far corner of the room. Slowly, he got to his feet, holding his wineglass before him as if it were a chalice. “I can’t give you a second penance. But will you make yourself more pleasing in the sight of Almighty God by helping prevent the murder of the King of France?”
Sorcha gave her brother a wry smile. “It sounds like a bribe.” She put a hand out to touch his chest just above where he held the wineglass. “I think it’s all madness, especially your notion that there’s anything I can do to dissuade Brother Jacques. But if it will please you, yes, I will help.”
Rob’s features relaxed slightly as he put one hand over Sorcha’s. “You may be right—my idea’s quite mad. But then, so is the rest of the world, Sorcha.”
She felt the warmth of his fingers, the bond of flesh and blood their parents had forged from a union of love, and Sorcha knew that mad or not, she would play out her part with a fanatic monk, a heretic king, and a strange woman called Athene.
Chapter 19
The morning dew was still heavy on the grass when Sorcha emerged from the chapel to seek out Brother Jacques. He had not been at Mass, but Rob said that wasn’t unusual. Brother Jacques, who was a Dominican and not in actual residence at the Recollect priory, often spent his mornings at prayer in his cell or in the company of Athene, the woman he called his patroness.
Since Rob had not found the young monk anywhere on the premises, Sorcha headed out across the meadow toward the river. It was much farther than she’d expected, and her feet, which had grown unaccustomed to rough tracks during her stay at Le Petit Andely, began to hurt by the time she reached the crossing. And even then, she had only traversed halfway to Athene’s hut. Indeed, she became aware that Rob’s seemingly precise directions were based on hearsay from Brother Jacques rather than firsthand knowledge. The path through the bracken was easy enough to follow, but Sorcha came to a standstill at a feeble stream flanked by tall evergreens. The trees inched up a hillside, the ground bare except for a few twigs and fallen branches. Relying on her Highland instincts, Sorcha followed the listless stream until she reached a plateau where burbling springs oozed out of a marsh.
There were fresh prints, but they belonged to deer and possibly squirrels. Sorcha felt her feet begin to sink into the mire and moved quickly to firmer ground. Gazing overhead at the filigree of branches against the bright blue sky, she wondered if there were any point in pursuing the trail farther.
Sorcha’s worn shoes were not only damp, but one leather sole felt loose. Annoyed, she bent down to examine her footgear, and as she leaned storklike against a tree, she noticed a small cross carved in the bark. A blaze, perhaps, to mark the way to the hermit’s dwelling. Sorcha decided that since she had no other signposts to indicate the way, she’d go farther into the woods, in the hope that other crosses might guide her.
The loose sole flapped on her left shoe, providing a constant irritant. But within another ten yards, she discovered a second cross. A third was cut into a young larch. The trees grew more densely, blocking out the sunlight. Fallen branches and moss-covered logs cluttered the forest floor as proof that the local peasants didn’t come this way to gather firewood. From high up in a pine tree, a bird’s screeching cry startled Sorcha, causing her to stumble over an exposed root. She righted herself quickly, but paused to frown at the dense berry vines barring her path. With a brisk swish of her skirts, Sorcha turned to her left, shoving aside a stand of tall, feathery ferns.
She was still searching for another cross when she heard a sound that wasn’t identifiable as either bird or animal. It might have been the wind or a distant waterfall, yet as it sounded the second time, it had an unsettling human quality that was more like a heavy sigh or even a groan. Slowing her pace, Sorcha noted that up ahead the sunlight penetrated more easily through the tall, thick trees. She moved carefully, still listening for that strange, unnerving sound.
An immense, ancient evergreen all but blocked her way. Almost at eye level, Sorcha spotted a cross. It was larger and deeper than the others. As she drew closer, she saw that a real cross, delicately made of silver with the body of Christ etched upon it, had been placed into the carved wood of the tree trunk. The familiar sight was comforting, and Sorcha blessed herself before circumventing the tree’s girth.
The scream that erupted from her throat scattered a family of quail and set at least a half dozen squirrels racing to safety. Sorcha rocked back on her heels and would have fallen had she not collided with the bulk of the great tree directly behind her. Even as she stared, wide-eyed and openmouthed, the weird, wrenching moan echoed in her ears once more.
There, virtually in front of Sorcha, stood a ten-foot stump still rooted in the ground. From the strong branch that had been affixed crosswise hung the body of a man, attired in the white robes of a Dominican monk, with a crown of brambles ringing his fair hair. He moaned again, writhing in apparent agony. Sorcha put a hand over her eyes, pressing at her temples. Her brain told her to flee, to escape, to go back to the priory and leave this grisly place, but her feet refused to move. Slowly, she slipped her hand from her eyes and forced herself to look at the crucified figure. It seemed like forever before she realized with a gasp of shock that the man was Brother Jacques.
“Jesu,” Sorcha whispered, again crossing herself. Urging her feet to uproot themselves, she started toward the monk but stopped in her tracks when Brother Jacques spoke in a strangled, yet astonishingly untroubled voice.
“Do … not be … afraid. This is … my … test. My God … will not … forsake … me.” From under the brambles that bloodied his forehead, Brother Jacques fixed an ecstatic gaze on Sorcha’s stunned face. “I will … come down … when it is … time.”
At last able to focus on more than the frightening apparition itself, Sorcha took in the ropes that held Brother Jacques’s arms in place on the cross. His sandaled feet dangled a foot or so above the ground, though there were burls on the stump that would have permitted him adequate support if he had desired it.
Suddenly, Sorcha was no longer shocked or horrified, but angry. While she had not been exposed to many deeply religious persons in her life, she knew enough about piety from Mother Honorine, about zeal from Rob, and about dedication from Adam Napier to realize that Brother Jacques’s self-crucifixion was not merely misguided but a mockery of faith.
“It’s time to come down,” Sorcha asserted through clenched teeth, “now.” Lessons learned in the art of knot tying from her seafaring father served her well as she reached up to undo the ropes that bound Brother Jacques. He cried out in protest, raining down various curses in French so rapid that Sorcha lost their meaning, if not their intent. As the ropes came loose, he fell, face first, onto the ground, the crown of brambles rolling off into the dirt.
“Devil’s whore!” screamed Brother Jacques, the attempt to pound his fists stymied by lack of circulation. “No one but Athene takes me down!” He again pumped his arms but succeeded only in a limp flail of flowing sleeves.
“Then Athene can put you back up, you silly wretch!” Sorcha’s olive skin was flushed, the long hair more tangled than usual. “I refuse to be a party to such demented devotion!”
“Heretic!” Brother Jacques was scrambling about in the dirt, trying to get to his knees. “What of Saint Simeon Stylites and those other holy penitents?”
“If I may say so, I always thought they were a bit touched in the head, too.” Sorcha pushed her hair out of her eyes and brushed some evergreen needles from h
er dress. Near her hem lay the sole of her shoe; angrily, she snatched it up and shoved it into her deep pocket. “Anyone who preached to people from a sixty-foot pillar in the desert under a scorching sun had to be deranged.”
“You dare!” spat Brother Jacques, at last achieving a seated position. He was filthy, the white robes now torn in at least two places and the blood congealing above his beetled eyebrows. “What does a slut like you know of saintliness?”
“I prefer saints such as Helena, who went to search for the True Cross, or Monica, who managed to save her son Augustine from dissipation, or our own holy Margaret, who taught the Scots to eat with a fork. I can hardly imagine any of them hanging from a tree in the middle of a forest like some great white bat.” Sorcha stormed about the little clearing, skirts whipping at her ankles, heedless of the rough ground.
Brother Jacques, however, had gotten to his feet and was attempting to compose himself. “You don’t understand,” he said for the third time, aware that Sorcha had paid no heed to his first two tries. “You must meet Athene—then you’d realize why I’m so … fervent.”
The word caught Sorcha in midstep. Flinging her hair out of her face briskly, she turned to face Brother Jacques, who now looked almost rational and vaguely repentant. “Fervent?” Sorcha shook her head. “Scarcely the word I’d have chosen. As for Athene, if this,” she emphasized, jabbing with her thumb at the makeshift cross, “is her idea of religious fervor, I must send my regrets. I hardly need to confront an addled old crone to further despoil my day.”
Brother Jacques looked shocked. “Oh, no, no, no!” He placed his hands over his breast, inadvertently covering up one of the rents in his habit. “Athene is neither old nor addled! She is astounding in her wisdom, and amazing in her kindness.” He swallowed, his face turned heavenward so that the sun shown directly on his bland, yet exhilarated features. “And … belle. Très belle, like the Virgin, like Aphrodite!”
The confusion of language and imagery puzzled Sorcha, though she knew it shouldn’t, considering Brother Jacques’s peculiar mental state. It also piqued her curiosity. Having gone this far, she decided that meeting one more maniac could do little harm. And if Athene or Aphrodite, or whatever the weird woman of the woods called herself, turned out to be as hopelessly mad as Brother Jacques, Sorcha could honestly offer Rob her genuine defeat.
Brother Jacques was already traipsing along what had now become a fairly well-traveled path. They moved across the crest of the hill, then through a clearing where overhead the midday sun was beginning to intensify. Once again, they plunged into a dense forest, where they crossed a tiny yet raucous stream and followed it until the trees became so tall and close together that the sun was almost blotted out. Only a few minutes earlier Sorcha had been too warm; now, she actually shivered as a faint breeze riffled the evergreens.
Two fallen logs all but obscured the hermit’s hut from view. To Sorcha’s surprise, up close the dwelling was neither as small nor as mean as it had appeared at first glance. There was an open door, a window made of horn, and a dormant little chimney rising from a fireplace at one end of the stone building. In truth, Sorcha noted, it was far sturdier—and more commodious—than many a crofter’s home in the Highlands.
Sorcha disdained the hand that Brother Jacques offered to help her over the logs. “I was raised in wilder country than this,” she asserted, and scowled at the monk, who motioned frantically for her to speak more softly. “Is this a hut—or a shrine?” Sorcha demanded, though she consented to lower her voice.
Brother Jacques didn’t answer. He was already approaching the open door with diffidence, reminding Sorcha of an errant serving boy being summoned into the irate presence of Lady Fraser.
Even before Brother Jacques’s slight frame slipped inside, he gestured for Sorcha to stay back. Impatiently, she leaned against one of the logs, arms folded over her chest. Jacques Clement all but disappeared inside the darkened stone hut, though Sorcha could just make out his voice engaged in conversation with someone else.
The exchange between the monk and whoever dwelt beyond the entrance seemed to go on a very long time. Sorcha began to sigh rather loudly and tap her foot against a large, gnarled root. At last, in a flurry of earth-stained white garments, Brother Jacques turned to face Sorcha, his arms outstretched, a beatific smile on his seemingly innocuous face.
“Athene welcomes you! She is pleased to meet another female who has braved the wilderness to explore new dimensions of spirituality.” He brought his thin hands together in a prayerful gesture, humbly stepping aside to let Sorcha enter the hut.
Despite the gloom of the surrounding forest, it took a few moments for Sorcha’s eyes to grow accustomed to the virtual dark of the hut’s interior. No fire burned on such a warm summer’s day, nor did any candle dispel the inky void. Only the open door permitted any light at all, and at last Sorcha began to perceive the outlines of the fireplace, a few sparse furnishings, a huge kettle, and a cot covered with what appeared to be luxurious furs.
It was there that Sorcha’s hostess reclined, a graceful figure enveloped in black draperies more suited to Araby than the Île-de-France. Indeed, as Sorcha peered into the opaque gloom, she saw that only the woman’s eyes showed. They seemed to be a beautiful blue, but neither warm nor welcoming. Sorcha stiffened slightly and waited for the other woman to speak.
At last she did, in a honey-edged spate of French that Sorcha failed to understand. Nor were the words directed at her but at Brother Jacques, who leaped forward like a pony in leading strings and knelt before his patroness. Again, the white-clad monk and the black-draped woman spoke low and with some urgency. Standing just a few feet away and unable to catch more than her own name and Rob’s, Sorcha began to feel not only annoyed but uneasy. Just as she was about to interrupt or beat a hasty retreat, Brother Jacques stood up and bowed himself out of the hut. Athene’s fingertips emerged just enough from her draperies to beckon Sorcha nearer.
Espying a piece of wood that might have been a chopping block, Sorcha sat down without being asked. She sniffed once or twice, recognizing an exotic scent. Was there more of Araby about this strange woman than her flowing garb? Sorcha wondered.
“So,” the woman remarked after a long, unsettling pause, “you are Sorcha Fraser, sister to the much-admired Rob.”
To Sorcha’s surprise, the woman’s English was good. She spoke forthrightly, though her tone was too self-possessed for Sorcha’s taste. “I am,” Sorcha replied after more of a pause than she’d intended. “I’ve been living in France with my sister for about a year.” She hadn’t meant to divulge that much, but there was something compelling about those lovely, chill blue eyes.
The woman held a long index finger against the gauzy black veiling that concealed the lower part of her face. Fleetingly, Sorcha wondered who waited upon the hermit woman in her rude surroundings. Certainly her hands were better tended than Sorcha’s.
“I’ve heard much of your history,” Athene said at last, the honey tone sharpening, the sibilant sounds hissing with a trace of venom. Sorcha drew back in spite of herself and tried to hide her puzzlement. Except for the fact that she was Rob’s sister, there was no reason for the inhabitants of Compiègne to be interested in her. Unless, of course, Athene, in her guise as Brother Jacques’s mentor, paraded omniscience as part of her arsenal of influence.
Whatever Athene’s reasons, the preliminaries had gone on long enough. “Let us get to the heart of the matter,” Sorcha declared, making a move closer to Athene to prove her own staunchness. “I’m told that Brother Jacques has a mad plan to kill King Henri. If this is so,” she ploughed on, despite a gesture on the other woman’s part to interrupt, “then he must be discouraged. I frankly find him a troubled soul.”
“You’ve barely found him at all,” Athene replied with more verve than Sorcha guessed she usually cared to display. “You know nothing of Brother Jacques, nor the King of France, nor what goes on in our world here. I suggest you cease meddling and return
to your peaceful convent in the Seine.”
Athene folded her arms across her drapery-clad bosom, her hands disappearing up the flowing black sleeves. Sorcha was reminded of Mother Honorine, yet while the mother superior’s movement suggested security and serenity, Athene’s gesture was secretive, almost malevolent, as if a dagger might be hidden beneath the folds of her artful hangings.
Briefly, Sorcha reflected upon Athene’s words, which seemed intended to dismiss further argument. One thing was clear—whatever Brother Jacques’s mad plan, it was at the bidding of this mysterious recluse. Was she a nun, Sorcha wondered, a member of one of those strange contemplative orders that sought salvation through seclusion? But though her garb was black, it evoked eroticism, not mysticism. A darting glance confirmed that there was nothing—not even a cross—to indicate Christian zeal. It struck Sorcha that there was more evil in the hut than good, and she was suddenly not just uneasy, but afraid.
Taking a deep breath and summoning all her courage, Sorcha stood up. “The matter of men and murder is everybody’s business,” she asserted loudly enough so that if Brother Jacques were eavesdropping, he would hear. “I cannot think why a Catholic monk would kill a Catholic king, knowing that the heir to the throne is a Protestant from Navarre. I know little of French politics, but I do know madness.” Sorcha swept at the air with her hand. “And herein, I see it; I smell it in my nostrils like any other foul stench.”
In a breeze of draperies, Athene was on her feet, arms outstretched in warning. “Begone! Away with you, Scots whore!” She was close to six feet tall and towered over Sorcha like a vengeful raven. The long nails slashed just past Sorcha’s face as the chill blue eyes glittered hard as diamonds. “You, who consorts with priests! Go, before I put a curse on you that will drag you into hell twice over!”
The shrieking babble that erupted from Athene’s lips sounded like no language Sorcha had ever heard. Unwilling to concede defeat, yet aware of the need for retreat, Sorcha slowly began to move backward toward the entrance.