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Authors: Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
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to take the sting out of the words she repeated, “He told me he wanted you."
Aungelique was too young and too pleased to keep from asking, “But when?"
"Last night,” Orienne admitted. “When he lay with me.” Suddenly she could not bring herself to remain in the same room with Aungelique; with nothing more than a quick, cutting glance for farewell, she left her young guest alone.
* * * *
Three more hours and the first night of her penance would be over. Seur Aungelique felt the cold stones under her, pressing her naked body, the welts from her scourging felt like fire in the cold. If only she were not alone in the hospice chapel, far from her Sisters. The isolation Mère Léonie had imposed on her had been welcome at first, but it was turning to be a greater trial than lying stripped and prostrate before the altar throughout the night. The hospice was empty; no travelers were abroad yet, with the spring so new and the officers of the Roman Church taxing every merchant seeking to enter France. Seur Aungelique moaned and dutifully resumed the prayers she had been told to recite.
"Votis vocemus et patrem
patrem perennis gloriae,
Pater portentis gratiae culpam releget lubricam.
Informet actus strenuos, dentem retundat invidi:
casus secundet asperos,
donet gerendi gratiam."
She said the words distinctly but without thought or understanding. The prayer Seur Aungelique wished to have answered would not be received well in Heaven, for she wanted longings satisfied that her novice vows required she put behind her. How much more to her liking would be silken cushions under her instead of the stone floor. How much more welcome would be the sound of sweet instruments playing soft tunes than the muttered prayers she must say through the night. She wanted to conjure up again the luxuries that had surrounded her at Un Noveautie, the hangings and cushions and carpets, the trays of fruit and sweetmeats, the servants to do her bidding, the spiced wines and little cakes and fresh-baked meats, all the joys that made life more than bearable. And people; oh, people. She almost interjected that into her prayers, but feared that someone might overhear. Servants to bring her all that she desired, Seur Aungelique thought. That would be a beginning. All that she desired, yes, and that would mean not simply cooks and musicians, but lovers, men who desired her to madness. She squirmed against the flagging.
It would begin slowly. Slowly, so that the desire would build in them both.
"Laetus dies hic transeat:
pudor sit ut diluculum,
fides velut meridies..."
They would recline in the solar, on the silken cushions and her lover—let it be Thibault Col, she decided—would bring her a goblet of hot wine mixed with honey and nutmeg and pepper, and they would drink from the same goblet, letting their fingers touch as they held it between them. It did not matter so much what he would say, but that there would be the same desire in his eyes that Seur Aungelique had seen when she had inadvertently watched the Chevalier make love to Comtesse Orienne. La Comtesse had cried out that she was caught in the talons of love, and Thibault Col had tightened his hold upon her, his hand on her breast sinking into the soft flesh in a way that Seur Aungelique had thought should be painful, but, if Orienne's gasp had meant anything, was not. Would he use her so? Not at first, not while she preferred to be wooed. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel a warm hand laid across her aching buttocks, a lean, sensitive hand that stroked and then probed, so that the pain of her thrashing was submerged in pleasure. That hand—if she would wish it into palpability—would know precisely where and how to touch her, and she would writhe with rapture at its ministrations.
There was a sound in the chapel, like a low chuckle, then the rear door groaned open and Mère Léonie approached.
"You are sweating,” she said to Seur Aungelique. “Are you ill?"
Seur
Aungelique was too young and too pleased to keep from asking, “But when?"
"Last night,” Orienne admitted. “When he lay with me.” Suddenly she could not bring herself to remain in the same room with Aungelique; with nothing more than a quick, cutting glance for farewell, she left her young guest alone.
* * * *
Three more hours and the first night of her penance would be over. Seur Aungelique felt the cold stones under her, pressing her naked body, the welts from her scourging felt like fire in the cold. If only she were not alone in the hospice chapel, far from her Sisters. The isolation Mère Léonie had imposed on her had been welcome at first, but it was turning to be a greater trial than lying stripped and prostrate before the altar throughout the night. The hospice was empty; no travelers were abroad yet, with the spring so new and the officers of the Roman Church taxing every merchant seeking to enter France. Seur Aungelique moaned and dutifully resumed the prayers she had been told to recite.
"Votis vocemus et patrem
patrem perennis gloriae,
Pater portentis gratiae culpam releget lubricam.
Informet actus strenuos, dentem retundat invidi:
casus secundet asperos,
donet gerendi gratiam."
She said the words distinctly but without thought or understanding. The prayer Seur Aungelique wished to have answered would not be received well in Heaven, for she wanted longings satisfied that her novice vows required she put behind her. How much more to her liking would be silken cushions under her instead of the stone floor. How much more welcome would be the sound of sweet instruments playing soft tunes than the muttered prayers she must say through the night. She wanted to conjure up again the luxuries that had surrounded her at Un Noveautie, the hangings and cushions and carpets, the trays of fruit and sweetmeats, the servants to do her bidding, the spiced wines and little cakes and fresh-baked meats, all the joys that made life more than bearable. And people; oh, people. She almost interjected that into her prayers, but feared that someone might overhear. Servants to bring her all that she desired, Seur Aungelique thought. That would be a beginning. All that she desired, yes, and that would mean not simply cooks and musicians, but lovers, men who desired her to madness. She squirmed against the flagging.
It would begin slowly. Slowly, so that the desire would build in them both.
"Laetus dies hic transeat:
pudor sit ut diluculum,
fides velut meridies..."
They would recline in the solar, on the silken cushions and her lover—let it be Thibault Col, she decided—would bring her a goblet of hot wine mixed with honey and nutmeg and pepper, and they would drink from the same goblet, letting their fingers touch as they held it between them. It did not matter so much what he would say, but that there would be the same desire in his eyes that Seur Aungelique had seen when she had inadvertently watched the Chevalier make love to Comtesse Orienne. La Comtesse had cried out that she was caught in the talons of love, and Thibault Col had tightened his hold upon her, his hand on her breast sinking into the soft flesh in a way that Seur Aungelique had thought should be painful, but, if Orienne's gasp had meant anything, was not. Would he use her so? Not at first, not while she preferred to be wooed. If she tried hard enough, she could almost feel a warm hand laid across her aching buttocks, a lean, sensitive hand that stroked and then probed, so that the pain of her thrashing was submerged in pleasure. That hand—if she would wish it into palpability—would know precisely where and how to touch her, and she would writhe with rapture at its ministrations.
There was a sound in the chapel, like a low chuckle, then the rear door groaned open and Mère Léonie approached.
"You are sweating,” she said to Seur Aungelique. “Are you ill?"
Seur
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