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The Season of the Beast. Andrea Japp
Читать онлайн.Название The Season of the Beast
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9781908313324
Автор произведения Andrea Japp
Жанр Ужасы и Мистика
Издательство Ingram
Éleusie watched the two women disappear round the corner at the end of the corridor. Naturally she trusted her nuns, even her novices, as well as the majority of the lay servants, who were offerings to God. She could no doubt have shared the burden of her secret with some of them: Jeanne d’Amblin, for example, the most loyal of all, intelligent and, despite having no great illusions about the world, an optimist. These qualities, coupled with her tenacity, had encouraged Éleusie to confer on her the challenging task of Extern Sister.17 Adélaïde Condeau was no less of an ally. She had been baptised thus after a cooper discovered her at the edge of a forest of that name. She was only a few weeks old, two or three at the most. The man was not glad of his discovery and took the infant to the abbey. He had no need of a baby girl but the famished new-born infant’s cries had moved him. Despite her youth and impressionability, Adélaïde, too, was already showing evidence of great perseverance coupled with an unwavering faith. Blanche de Blinot, the most senior nun and her prioress and second in command, had long been her confidante. Blanche’s advanced age was her greatest asset, for she forgot most of what she was told. Even Annelette Beaupré, the apothecary nun, for all her tetchiness and arrogance was someone upon whom she knew she could rely. On the other hand, she did not entirely trust Berthe de Marchiennes, the cellarer nun,18 who already occupied that demanding post before Éleusie’s arrival at the abbey. Berthe’s resentment was palpable beneath the façade of her devoutness. Her lack of physical beauty and a dowry had left her no other option but the monastic life, although she would certainly have preferred the secular one.
No, absolutely not. A secret is best kept when it is shared with no one. And in any case what right had she to burden these good women with dangerous revelations that were difficult to bear? It would be selfish of her. No, none of the sisters must know of this man’s presence. He would leave as he had arrived, like a troubling enigma.
In order to reach the kitchen, Éleusie decided to cut through the guest house19 that was squeezed in between the hot-room and the storeroom. With the exception of Thibaude de Gartempe, the guest mistress, and possibly of Jeanne d’Amblin, neither of whom were cloistered, she ran little risk of bumping into anyone at that hour. She hadn’t noticed the small figure pressed behind one of the pillars beside the schoolroom door. Clément paused, ashamed at having hidden instinctively. He was disconcerted by the Abbess’s behaviour. Why such caution, such furtiveness in her own convent?
Back in her study Éleusie de Beaufort sat down behind her heavy oak table. She touched the letter with the tip of her finger. It still bore the two crease marks where it had been folded, and looked inoffensive lying there among the registers to whose pages the Abbess carefully consigned the details of their daily lives: the donations, the harvests, the number and quality of wine barrels in the cellar, the amount of timber felled, received or donated, the births and deaths in the pigeon-house, plus the weight of droppings, which were used as fertiliser, the visits to the sick, the deaths, the levies imposed, the ingredients of the nuns’ meals or their new linen. Half an hour ago, the task had bored her; she had baulked at it and wondered what possible use the endless lists, over which she nevertheless took great care, might one day have. Half an hour ago, she was still unaware how much she would soon mourn the thankless task. In the insignificant space of that half-hour, her world had collapsed, and she had not even sensed the approaching cataclysm that would silently ravage the calm of her study.
She was choked by a terrible grief. She stood by helplessly as the sanctuary that had been her home for five years was devastated. All those images she had managed to suppress, or rather to eradicate. All those hideous waking nightmares. Would they come back to haunt her now? The incomprehensible, bloody, violent and terrifying scenes she was powerless to stop that pulsed through her imagination. At one point, she had thought she was losing her mind, or that a demon was tormenting her with visions of hell. She never knew when she might be visited by the terrifying hallucinations. For nights on end she had prayed to the Holy Virgin for some reprieve. Her prayer had been answered the moment she arrived at the convent. She had almost managed to rid herself even of the memory of them. Were they going to come back? She would rather die than endure them again.
A woman lay face down on the rack, the blood from the gashes on her back oozing to the floor. The woman was moaning. Her long fair hair was sticky with sweat and blood. A hand brushed against her martyred flesh, pouring a grey powder onto her wounds. The woman arched her back and went limp, fainting. Suddenly Éleusie could make out the pale face. It was she. Éleusie.
*
This vision in particular had haunted her all those years ago, night after night for months on end. Éleusie had decided to take her religious vows.
She had to keep telling herself that it was only a horrible memory, nothing more. She could feel her heart pounding against her chest. Reluctantly she picked up the letter and forced herself to calm down. She proceeded to read it for the tenth time:
Hoc quicumque stolam sanguine proluit, absergit maculas; et roseum decus, quo fiat similis protinus Angelis.
The thing she had been dreading for years had caught up with her that day.
How should she reply to this demand? Could she pretend not to know, not to understand? What foolishness! What did her own blood matter compared to the divine blood that cleansed all sins? Little or nothing.
She began to trace the curved letters of her reply, which she knew by heart. She had repeated them for hours on end like an exorcism, thinking, hoping she would never need to write them:
Amen. Miserere nostri. Dies illa, solvet saeclum in favilla.20
A cold sweat drenched the hem of her veil, making her shiver suddenly and drop her quill.
She picked it up again and continued writing:
Statim autem post tribulationem dierum illorum sol obscurabitur et luna non dabit lumen suum et stellae cadent de caelo et virtutes caelorum commovebuntur.21
Amen.
He was blinking from exhaustion. The filthy rags he wore made him feel nauseated. And yet the messenger was accustomed to this endless journeying, these arduous missions under various guises. Occasionally, he would sleep for leagues at a time face down on his horse’s neck, allowing the animal’s legs to decide his fate and his path. However, this time he had been obliged to travel incognito and in this impoverished countryside a horse would have been too conspicuous.
A surge of joy lifted his spirits. He was the go-between, the necessary tool, the link between the powerful of this earth, those who shaped the world for future generations. Without him their decisions would remain as mere wishes, mere hopes. He gave them life, shape and substance. He was the humble artisan of the future.
He was only a hundred yards outside the abbey enclosure when the soft sound of racing feet made him swing round. A figure in a white tunic was running towards him, a wicker basket joggling back and forth on one arm.
‘Oh dear God!’ she gasped. ‘I should not be here, but you are a brother monk. Our Abbess … Well, I came here on my own initiative. You are so exhausted. Why did you not spend the night in our guest house? We often receive visitors. Oh here I am chattering away like a jackdaw … You see, I feel so ashamed. Take these …’
She handed him the provisions she had prepared and, blushing, explained:
‘I thought to myself, if our Reverend Mother received you, it was because she trusted you and you were a friend. I know her well. She has much work and many responsibilities. I knew she would have thought to feed you, but not to supply you with food for your journey.’
He smiled. She had been right. She looked rather frail and yet a remarkable strength radiated from her every gesture. The kindly sister gazing up at him had broken the rule of the cloister for his sake, and she was glowing