Work Text:
The winters in Claire Vallée were cold and damp, a cold that seeped into the bones of old men. When Bernard felt the heat he at first thought someone, one of the young monks, had brought a brazier into his cell, which was forbidden. It was then he saw the woman of brass and steam, her face as mild as the Holy Mother's, her fingers tipped with nails of steel. Bernard stumbled up from his knees, knowing her for what she was, a creature of the Adversary.
Long and hard they fought all that night, the woman of brass trying to come close to him, the heat from the steam that escaped her at the joints of arms and legs enveloping him in its moist warmth. Bernard fought her off with prayers and the sign of the most blessed and holy Cross.
"Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum," he said in fierce anger, and the woman hissed and came at him again, her face still most awful in its mild, metal aspect.
She bore him over and down, seizing him with one clawed hand by the manly parts, and Bernard cried out, thinking this fiend had been sent to hunt down all those who had worked against the heresies of Abelard, to inflict on their bodies the shame that once had been worked on his. The metal fingers, warm with the steam that leaked from out the finger joints caressed and then tightened, and Bernard swooned as unto death, hearing the woman speak at last, in tones like the long drawn-out whistle of an indifferently-played flute.
" - et benedictus fructus ventris tui . . ."
When he awoke, he was alone, lying upon his own narrow bed. The cell was undisturbed and neat as ever, and the room was cold as if no source of heat had ever entered. He shivered, wondering if it were more damp than usual, and, in sudden quivering fear, passed a hand beneath his clothes. He was whole and unblemished, his contest with the woman surely but a dream. Still he stared into the darkness of the night, fearing what might await its hour to emerge from the womb of hell.