~ The Fox And The Chalice ~

by

A. Dee Carey

Prologue

This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad. Psalm 118 Verse 23

Damn him. I will not permit that letch ruin this day, Tempestia said to herself as she saw the approaching Roland. Absentmindedly, she blessed herself for her transgression of thought. She smiled ruefully, knowing she was directed to love her neighbor, but God had never lived beside Gilber Roland. This was her private time when she reflected on the word of the Lord. She would not allow the fool to rob her of this solitary time. Roland daily tempted her novices trying to extract the secret of the wine. He was a charming snake, and the girls were innocents.

Shaking her head in consternation, Mother Tempestia let the soothing rich loam pour between her fingers. This was her comfort, to work the Lord’s earth and bring forth the fruit of the vine. She’d been given a higher charge. The cup was hers to preserve. The smell of the full rich grapes permeated the air. Forcing the pig Roland from her mind, she watched the sun rise over the distant hill, a crescent of crimson cutting through the curtain of dawn. Wiping her hands on her habit, she moved along the row of grapevines on her knees. She would allow no one else to dress the vines. It was fulfilling work, one of the few pleasures she allowed herself. Strange, she thought, how legend and myth intertwine like faith and truth. The grapes were still heavy with the morning dew. Dawn was barely broken; near the motherhouse a cock was stirring from his roost.

The rooster’s crow was not the only sound that pierced the early quiet. A robust cry of a healthy infant jarred the convent tranquility.

Again, the child let out a lusty cry. Startled, she looked down the long rows of vines. There, three rows over, a package lay at the base of the rose bushes planted between the grape arbors. Crawling on her hands and knees, not daring to take her eyes from the bundle, she reached the baby. Tempestia turned, brushed her hands free of the loose dirt then gathered the child to her breast. Firm in her conviction to be a Carmelite, motherhood was not a vocation she sought, yet, she was compelled to protect this child. Tenderly, she patted the baby against her shoulder. Slowly she rose, looked around and, seeing no one, went to the motherhouse.

Once inside away from prying eyes, she unbundled the infant. It was a girl, tiny but perfectly formed; a daughter to give pride to any woman. Why would a mother abandon such a flawless child in a convent vineyard? It was apparent she was well cared for, her full round cheeks were rosy. Someone loved this little girl. What had caused them to stop? Furthermore, why had they chosen Tempestia to take up the care of the child? Within the child’s blanket was a silken pouch containing a small blue stone of no apparent significance. Was this infant, and the stone, part of the secret? Whatever the reason, she would discharge this duty to nurture the lass.

“Hush little one, I’ll find you milk.” Tempestia settled the child and went to the kitchen. It wasn’t mother’s milk, but it would suffice. Though the goat would welcome the early milking, Sister Françoise would wonder where her daily ration of milk had disappeared. No matter, sister will have to do without this morning.