Read Online Mistress of the Sun by Sandra Gulland - Free Book Online
Authors: Sandra Gulland
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searched for a White.
Had her father’s soul ridden Diablo to Heaven? she wondered as she paced, scuffing up snow with each step. Or had the Devil taken him, ridden him backward into Hell?
There was a great deal to learn and that helped. There was the Angelus, the litanies of Our Lady, the Pater and Ave to memorize. There were prayers for getting up and for every hour of the day, prayers for keeping away evil spirits, for undressing at night and for going to sleep, prayers for her mother and brother, and—especially—ardent prayers for the soul of her father. It tormented her to think that he died suddenly, without Confession.
Did I kill him? A choking feeling rose in her.
Back at her study table, the wood fire blazing, she wrote out questions on slate with chalk-stone: Is Heaven really up in the sky? What does the Holy Ghost look like? What is it like in Hell?
Sister Angélique closed her eyes before answering: “Heaven is far above the clouds, the Holy Ghost speaks through dreams and Hell is a place without love.” She opened her eyes and watched as Petite wrote out her next question, the letters round and even: What does the Devil look like?
“That is not an easy question,” Sister Angélique said, stroking the cover of her gold-tooled missal. “It seems that he takes on many shapes and forms, whatever suits his purposes. He might be a woman, a man, a child even. Saint Paul warned that he might even appear as an angel of light. Indeed, it is possible for him not to have a form at all, but to manifest himself as a dream, or simply a thought.”
Petite frowned. It had never occurred to her that the Devil might not be flesh. She’d had a disturbing dream the night before about trying to speak—trying to scream, in fact. Had that been the Devil’s doing? Had he taken her voice?
“Some believe that the Devil looks and acts like a goat, but he is rarely so playful. His heart is full of jealous suspicion, and the best way to recognize him, if he is in human form, is to look into his eyes, which are cold, without love or scruple.”
Petite wiped the slate clean and wrote, crumbling the end of the chalk-stone: Could the Devil ride a horse away?
Sister Angélique took the slateboard from Petite and examined the words her niece had written. “Did something happen to you, my little angel?” she asked finally, setting the stone slab down carefully, as if it were fragile.
Petite shook her head.
“Are you sure? You can trust me.”
Petite nudged the slate toward her aunt, her eyes imploring.
“Well…” Sister Angélique pressed the palms of her hands together. “You mean the way a witch will ride a night-mare?”
Petite nodded, tearing.
“Well, then, yes, I suppose he could. There’s nothing the Devil can’t do—but love, of course. He can’t do that, even if he wants to.”
F RANÇOISE DE LA V ALLIÈRE promised her daughter that she would come to visit every year on the sixth of August, the anniversary of Petite’s birth. And she did, in spite of considerable hardship. The first year, the year her daughter turned eight, it was humid and hot, so scorching that the horse could barely pull the wagon. The second year, the year Petite turned nine, Françoise arrived in spite of a violent thunderstorm. But the third year she didn’t arrive until the early days of September—a full month late.
“I’ve been to Blois,” Françoise explained, examining her daughter, who had grown but was still small for her age. “You’re too thin. Are they feeding you?” she demanded, as Sister Angélique and the Prioress appeared behind the grille. “My daughter has been here three years,” she informed the two nuns, “yet she’s still not speaking.” She intentionally made her tone accusing. If there was fault, it would best be theirs.
“We’ve had your daughter examined, as you know, Madame,” the Prioress said. “The problem is not with her throat or her tongue.”
“She’s far too quiet for a
Had her father’s soul ridden Diablo to Heaven? she wondered as she paced, scuffing up snow with each step. Or had the Devil taken him, ridden him backward into Hell?
There was a great deal to learn and that helped. There was the Angelus, the litanies of Our Lady, the Pater and Ave to memorize. There were prayers for getting up and for every hour of the day, prayers for keeping away evil spirits, for undressing at night and for going to sleep, prayers for her mother and brother, and—especially—ardent prayers for the soul of her father. It tormented her to think that he died suddenly, without Confession.
Did I kill him? A choking feeling rose in her.
Back at her study table, the wood fire blazing, she wrote out questions on slate with chalk-stone: Is Heaven really up in the sky? What does the Holy Ghost look like? What is it like in Hell?
Sister Angélique closed her eyes before answering: “Heaven is far above the clouds, the Holy Ghost speaks through dreams and Hell is a place without love.” She opened her eyes and watched as Petite wrote out her next question, the letters round and even: What does the Devil look like?
“That is not an easy question,” Sister Angélique said, stroking the cover of her gold-tooled missal. “It seems that he takes on many shapes and forms, whatever suits his purposes. He might be a woman, a man, a child even. Saint Paul warned that he might even appear as an angel of light. Indeed, it is possible for him not to have a form at all, but to manifest himself as a dream, or simply a thought.”
Petite frowned. It had never occurred to her that the Devil might not be flesh. She’d had a disturbing dream the night before about trying to speak—trying to scream, in fact. Had that been the Devil’s doing? Had he taken her voice?
“Some believe that the Devil looks and acts like a goat, but he is rarely so playful. His heart is full of jealous suspicion, and the best way to recognize him, if he is in human form, is to look into his eyes, which are cold, without love or scruple.”
Petite wiped the slate clean and wrote, crumbling the end of the chalk-stone: Could the Devil ride a horse away?
Sister Angélique took the slateboard from Petite and examined the words her niece had written. “Did something happen to you, my little angel?” she asked finally, setting the stone slab down carefully, as if it were fragile.
Petite shook her head.
“Are you sure? You can trust me.”
Petite nudged the slate toward her aunt, her eyes imploring.
“Well…” Sister Angélique pressed the palms of her hands together. “You mean the way a witch will ride a night-mare?”
Petite nodded, tearing.
“Well, then, yes, I suppose he could. There’s nothing the Devil can’t do—but love, of course. He can’t do that, even if he wants to.”
F RANÇOISE DE LA V ALLIÈRE promised her daughter that she would come to visit every year on the sixth of August, the anniversary of Petite’s birth. And she did, in spite of considerable hardship. The first year, the year her daughter turned eight, it was humid and hot, so scorching that the horse could barely pull the wagon. The second year, the year Petite turned nine, Françoise arrived in spite of a violent thunderstorm. But the third year she didn’t arrive until the early days of September—a full month late.
“I’ve been to Blois,” Françoise explained, examining her daughter, who had grown but was still small for her age. “You’re too thin. Are they feeding you?” she demanded, as Sister Angélique and the Prioress appeared behind the grille. “My daughter has been here three years,” she informed the two nuns, “yet she’s still not speaking.” She intentionally made her tone accusing. If there was fault, it would best be theirs.
“We’ve had your daughter examined, as you know, Madame,” the Prioress said. “The problem is not with her throat or her tongue.”
“She’s far too quiet for a
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