ARRIVAL IN A VILLAGE
The cart rolled on and on through the trees, its motion jolting Conn and setting him into an uneasy sleep.
“Welcome, son, to the village of Monte Bois.”
Conn blinked sleepily at the priest, who sat at the reins of the cart, talking in the same soothing monotone in which he had been talking all day. Conn shook his head, trying to force himself to wake up and stay focused on the holy man's words. “Monte Bois?” he asked. “We're here?”
“Yes,” the priest replied, smiling at him. “Since you've missed most of the journey, I shall have to explain. Following my delay at Annecy, I decided it would be prudent to take a detour through the hills to reach Cleremont faster. We will stop here for some repast, and then continue until nightfall. I will leave you at an inn on the road to Cleremont.”
“Thank you, Father,” Conn agreed. “And I'm sorry I was asleep.” He blinked, amazed at himself. The night out in the woodlands must have left him more exhausted than he thought.
The priest smiled. “Not at all, my son. I trust that, had brigands set upon us, you would have sprung into action. This road has become extremely dangerous. The Comte does not manage the woodlands as he should and there are many outlaws, alas. My fellow priest, here in Bois, does his best with them. We are almost at the abbey. You will meet him soon...”
Conn let himself be soothed by the priest's reassuring voice as the cart rattled and jolted down the roadway through the forest and into a small village. He barely noticed the village, before they were heading up the other side of the valley, climbing until they reached a great, low stone building with a church beside it.
“Here we are. This is a Franciscan abbey,” the priest explained. “My sister has taken orders with the Poor Clares, and the convent is adjacent to where the holy brothers stay.” He and Conn jumped down from the cart, handing the reins to a brown-clad monk who greeted the priest warmly. “Her name is Sister Marcia now. I will visit her later. If you follow me through to the refectory, we might be in time to dine.”
Conn nodded, and followed the priest into the low, crumbling brick building. The smell of baking bread assailed his senses as they moved down the winding corridors, making his mouth water. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying to restrain the urge to go straight to where the food was.
“Ah, Father Antoine!”
“Father Tobias.” Conn's companion greeted the shorter priest fondly, and then lapsed into rapid French, gesturing at Conn and then back to himself, his long, knotty fingers eloquent as they conversed together. At length he turned to Conn. “My brother in Christ greets you. He invites us to share the evening meal.”
“Thanks be to God,” Conn said feelingly.
The priests smiled at him beatifically and they all made their way through to the refectory. Father Antoine explained that he would go and visit his sister before the evening prayers, leaving Conn momentarily stranded. Left without his ability to converse, Conn smiled mutely at the monks who sat opposite him, who smiled uncertainly back.
He bit into the bread and smiled, a gesture which made the monks grin happily.
“Good,” Conn enthused.
“Est bien?”
“Good,” Conn enunciated. “Very good.” He patted his belly and the monks all laughed. Conn was just getting into an animated, if completely silent, discussion about farming turnips, when the priest returned.
“Ah, my young friend. My sister reports a miracle!”
“Oh?” Conn stared.
“Yes!” the priest said. He looked awed. “Just a few hours before our arrival, a farmer came to the convent. He had with him a woman, grievously injured. She was too injured to speak at first, but, when my sister inquired as to her story, it came to light that she was one of your countrymen. Could this be the cousin that you seek?”
Conn stared at the priest. Leona? Here? Was it possible? “Father?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes, my son?”
“Your sister...did she mention the name of the young woman?”
“No, my son,” the man shook his head. “It seemed the woman did not give her name. Forgive me this ill news, but my sister confided that the girl is much...affected. It seems her memory is gone. She has no knowledge of her identity or immediate past. My sister only knows she is of your kind because she spoke in Gaelic a little.”
Conn stared at the man. He felt like someone had bludgeoned him in the chest, breaking his heart. “What? Father! Is she hurt? Ill?”
“I don't know, son,” the priest said softly. His thin, bony hand covered Conn's. “Let us eat now. Then my sister will bring her to speak with you. You cannot enter the convent, but Marcia will bring her to the garden. It is warm enough to converse outside, praise God.”
“Amen,” Conn echoed dully. If this broken, confused woman was Leona, what had happened to her? Had the count harmed her?
If he has driven Leona mad, I'll kill him.
After what seemed an interminable time, the priest stood, thanked his brothers, and tapped Conn on the shoulder. “Come, my son. Mayhap you will help this woman. None of us speaks Gaelic. Hearing it may awaken her memory.”
“Mayhap,” Conn agreed quietly. He followed him through a door. They found themselves in a fragrant garden.
“Wait here, son.”
Conn stood under the apple trees, chafing at the delay. Then he heard a footfall on the grass.
A young woman stood before him. She wore a long white shift and her hair was hidden below a veil. She looked at the ground, hands clasped before her. Then she looked up at his face.
It was Leona.
Conn's heart flopped over. He smiled, elation firing his veins “Leona?” he breathed. “My dearest. It's me!”
Leona looked at him blankly. “Comment to t'appelles?” she said in French. She stepped back, fear in her blue eyes.
Conn stared at her. “Leona?”
Behind her, he heard a woman cough. Saw a nun, clad in a gray habit, look worriedly at him. She shook her head, closing her eyes sadly.
“Leona,” Conn whispered. “Do you not know me?”
“Pardon?” The woman, who was Leona, but not her, replied. “Je comprends pas.” Her voice was flat.
The nun shrugged despairingly. Stepped forward. Patted her shoulder. “Bien, bien.” She made small soothing noises, taking her hand.
Nodding a farewell, the holy sister turned away and led her, stiff-legged and reluctant, back into the abbey, cooing as if to a small baby.
Conn staggered back. Sat down heavily on a bench. Breathed in fragrant herbs and covered his face. “She does not know me.”
He sobbed. The woman he saw was as beautiful as porcelain. She was his Leona. However, she had frozen inside, the shock and terror robbing her of her wits. It had taken her away, leaving her a fragile vessel, empty of the soul that had made her who she was. She was in another world, beyond his reach.
Conn sat in the garden sobbing. When the priest came to find him he stared at him, cheeks wet with tears. “She doesn't know me,” he said, his voice small, uncomprehending. “It is her. My kinswoman; Leona. It is her. But she knew me not at all.”
The priest sat down beside Conn, taking his hands in his own. “I am sorry, my son,” he said softly. “But she is safe here, and well cared for. Perhaps it is for the best that she does not know you. Perhaps it is the will of God that she stay here and become a holy sister. His ways are mysterious, and He led her hear for a reason, of that I am quite sure. Come. Let us pray.”
Conn closed his eyes and let the soft, familiar Latin of the Lord's Prayer wash around him. He breathed in fragrant herbs, rich earth, and the dew of evening and wished that words could wash clean his soul.
He had found Leona. However, he was too late. She had already gone away from him.