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Sharon Penman: Prince of Darkness

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Sharon Penman Prince of Darkness

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At first Brother Andrev had done his best to master his dislike of Brother Bernard. He was no saint, though, and his good intentions had frayed under constant exposure to the other monk’s surly disposition and sour outlook upon life. “Ahn-DRAY-oh,” he said coolly, “not Andre. It is a Breton name, not a French one. You’d like it not if I called you Bernez instead of Bernard.”

Brother Bernard ignored the rebuke, for he shared the common belief of his French countrymen that Bretons were uncivilized, ignorant rustics. “I came to tell you that you are wanted back at the church. That woman has come again.”

He invested the words “that woman” with such scorn that Brother Andrev knew at once the identity of their guest: Lady Arzhela de Dinan. His friendship with Lady Arzhela was one of the joys of his life, but he knew that in Brother Bernard’s eyes, her sins were manifold. She was Breton, proudly so. She was known to be bastard-born, yet she was also highborn. She was thrice wed, thrice widowed, and barren, for she’d never been with child. She was no stranger to controversy; her free and easy ways had often given rise to rumors and gossip. And although she was the kindest woman Brother Andrev had ever met, she was one for speaking her mind. On her last visit to Genets, she had scolded Brother Bernard for chasing beggars away from the church and then earned his undying enmity by laughing at his attempt at offended dignity.

“Lady Arzhela? That is indeed welcome news and it was good of you to let me know straightaway,” he said blandly, and started off across the sand. To his vexation, Brother Bernard fell into step beside him. It seemed the sermon was not yet over.

“She said that she wanted you to hear her confession.” Brother Bernard sounded out of breath, for he was laboring to keep pace with Brother Andrev’s longer strides. “Do you not think it odd that she keeps coming to you for the sacrament of penance?”

“No, I do not.”

“Well, I do. Genets is not her parish and you are not her priest.”

Brother Andrev understood the insinuation, that Lady Arzhela was parish-shopping, seeking a priest who’d be more indulgent of her sins, impose a lighter penance. He stopped abruptly and swung around to confront the older man angrily. “If you must know, Lady Arzhela has a fondness for our church. Abbot Robert consecrated it in God’s Year 1157, the year of her birth. She was baptized there, had one of her weddings there, and has always avowed that she wants to be buried in the choir, near to the high altar.”

Brother Bernard gasped. “That is outrageous,” he said indignantly. “A woman like that does not deserve to be buried inside the church! I do not care if she is the widow of a Breton lord, she is also a wanton and-”

“She is the widow of three Breton barons, but were she not, she’d still have the right to be buried here in our church of Notre Dame and Saint-Sebastien, in the abbey of Blessed St Michael, or even in Bishop Herbert’s great cathedral at Rennes. Do you not know-”

“What-that she is a count’s bastard?”

It had been years since Brother Andrev had lost his temper like this; his fists clenched at his sides as he fought back an alarming urge to take aim at the other monk’s sneer. “Yes, she is the Count of Nantes’s natural daughter,” he said tautly, “which makes her the aunt of our late lord, Duke Conan, and the cousin of our duchess, the Lady Constance. She is of the Royal House of Brittany, and not to be judged by the likes of you!”

Brother Bernard was not as impressed by Lady Arzhela’s illustrious pedigree as Brother Andrev had hoped. His was an easy face to read, and his disdain for the royal Breton bloodlines was all too evident. But if he did not respect Lady Arzhela’s heritage, he did understand the significance of her kinship to the duchess. She might well be the Whore of Babylon, but only a fool would make an enemy of a woman with such proximity to power. Swallowing his bile as best he could, he turned on his heel and marched off.

Brother Andrev watched him go, more bemused now than angry. Embarrassed by his own fervor, he could only marvel at Lady Arzhela’s ability to befuddle male minds and heat their blood. She was no longer young, was not even present, and yet she’d managed to bring two men of God almost to blows.


Women were confessed in open church, and a shriving stool had been set up for Lady Arzhela at the front of the chancel. The three parts of confession had been satisfied. Arzhela had expressed contrition, confessed her sins, and accepted the fasting penance imposed by Brother Andrev. Now it was for him to offer absolution, but he found himself hesitating. What if Brother Bernard were right? If Arzhela deliberately chose him, knowing he’d give out light penances? Was she truly contrite?

“Brother Andrev?” Arzhela was looking up at him, a quizzical smile parting her lips. She had captivating eyes, wide-set and long-lashed, a vivid shade of turquoise, like sunlight on seawater. At first glance, a man might not find her beautiful-the fairness of her skin was marred by a sprinkling of freckles and her hair was the color of fire, thought to be unlucky since the time of Judas-but then he’d look into those amazing eyes, and he’d be lost.

Brother Andrev blinked, came back to himself, and hastily said, “I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

Arzhela lowered her lashes, murmured a demure “Amen,” and then her grin broke free. “You had me worried that you were not going to give me absolution.”

“And if I did not?” Brother Andrev asked, and she wrinkled her nose and then grinned again.

“Well, if I eat a portion of cabbage and onions without complaint, I want my honey wafers and hippocras afterward!” When he did not join in her laughter, her eyebrows shot upward. “Surely that deserves a smile, even a small one? You cannot expect me to believe that my petty sins are too terrible to be forgiven. Why, I’ve done much worse and even told you so in shameful but provocative detail-”

She stopped suddenly, frowning. “Oh, no! Do not tell me that nasty little man talked to you, too, about my confessions?”

“What ‘nasty little man,’ my lady?”

“Brother Bertrand or Barnabus or whatever his name is. When I told him I wanted you to hear my confession, he mumbled something about that being ‘such a surprise.’ His sarcasm was thick enough to choke on, and when I challenged him, he said it was not fitting for me to do penance to a priest who was besotted with me. Well, I gave him a right sharp talking-to for that bit of impertinence, but obviously not sharp enough. I am right, am I not? He did mention this to you?”

Brother Andrev nodded reluctantly. “He did plant one of his poison seeds, and I was foolish enough to let it take root.”

“Indeed you were.” She held out her hand, let him help her to her feet. “Of course, he was not entirely wrong. We both know you are besotted with me, for what man is not?”

She had a low laugh, an infectious chuckle that had always been music to his ears… until now. He could feel the heat rising in his face and he lowered his head, hoping she’d not notice.

She did, and her attitude changed dramatically. “Oh, Andrev, I am so sorry! I ought not to have been teasing you. But you know me; I’ll be flirting with the Devil on my deathbed. You are very dear to me and there is nothing sinful or shameful about our friendship. I come to you for confession because you can see into my heart, because you know that my contrition is genuine, that I truly mean it when I vow not to sin again… even knowing that I will.”

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