Free A Mortal Glamour by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro Page A

consolation was inadequate.
    "I have prayed and meditated,” Padre Bartolimieu protested, plainly untouched by what Père Guibert had said. “Nothing has changed. I am ... what I am. I suppose it was God's will that I flee, but He has not revealed to me how I am to live with this failure."
    Père Guibert could find no heartening sentiments to lay before the troubled Swiss priest. “Each of us must face trials some time in his life.” It was a more dreadful failure than his last attempt at comfort. “Flagellants and the rest of your suffering, there is not one who could come through such an ordeal unscathed."
    "I have told myself that for days on end, for months, and there are times I almost think it is true. But at night, in my dreams, I see my parish and the Flagellants with their whips, and I watch my church fall, and the guilt comes back.” He folded his hands. “While I am here, I want to strive for tranquility, but there is so much guilt on my soul that I despair, and that is a greater sin ... I fear that I am lost, Père Guibert. In my heart, I cannot find the courage to go on."
    "Then you must beg God to show you His Plan. Prayer is never unanswered.” It was another lesson he had repeated so many times that it no longer had meaning, and he said it without thought.
    "I know. I have trusted in that. But of late, I have started to wonder if it may be that the answer God has for me is ‘no'.” The Augustinian crossed himself as if to protect himself from these heretical doubts. “One day, it will be plain to me. That much I can still have faith in, and live in hope. But on that day, if it should be that I no longer ... God does not desert man; man deserts God,” Padre Bartolimieu said with harsh emphasis. “Only my failure will..."
    A portative organ wheezed in the chapel and the sound of the first monks gathering for Holy Service rustled through the cloisters.
    "I should attend,” Padre Bartolimieu said half-heatedly.
    "As should I,” Père Guibert seconded. “It will do my soul good to hear Mass with these Brothers. I have not done so for some little time.” He hoped that this simple ordinary observation would lessen the other man's despair.
    Padre Bartolimieu looked away, out of the cloisters toward the distant peaks in the east. “Will it?"
    Though this denial was offensive to Père Guibert he kept his words mild. “But mon Padre, that was the promise given in the Body of Christ.” He crossed himself and waited for Padre Bartolimieu to do the same.
    "Yes.” He let his breath out slowly; his hands remained still. “But that was so long ago."
    * * * *
    Six men-at-arms accompanied le Duc de Parcignonne to the doors of Le Tres Saunt Annunciacion, remaining in the saddle when le Duc dismounted and strode to the grilled window to announce his arrival. He had been riding steadily since dawn, and it was now past midday. He had two errands to discharge and both of them troubled him, making him move more slowly than he usually did. He was of a good height and burly, carrying his armor and weapons with habitual ease. His square face was seamed on the left cheek by a jagged scar, giving him a severe aspect that many found disquieting. “Good Sister!” he shouted through the grille.
    After a brief silence, he was answered by an unseen woman who was still breathless. “Traveler, pray enter at the doors of this hospice. We do not give admittance here."
    "I am no traveler, I seek no shelter or lodging, either for myself or my men. I am here at the request of my cousin, le Baron Michau d'Ybert, newly made Vidame de Figeac, who has charged me to speak to his daughter on his behalf. She is known here as Seur Aungelique.” He slung his weight into the hip where his sword rested.
    "Sieur le Duc,” Seur Odile began, her nervousness causing her words to rumble out in choked whispers. “I must ... get the permission of our Superior to ... permit you to—"
    "Then do that,” Pierre said testily. “I have little