The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (17 page)

“I am to report to the archbishop.”

“Please do not,” the abbot said. “I beg of you. Let Brother Grégoire speak for himself first.”

“He should at least hear.”

“There is too much to hear. It is all talk.”

“If Grégoire is a saint—”

“I don't want to hear that word!” the abbot shouted. “I have told people not to speak it—why don't they listen to me?”

“Do you believe it?”

He looked away. “It is not the point. If it goes beyond these walls, it will go straight to Rome, and Brother Grégoire will never hear the end of it. The church always needs another saint.”

“And you think that is a bad thing?”

“You forget, Your Excellency, that I was once archbishop of Oviedo and before that, a bishop outside Rome. I will not have him sent to the wolves. He is just a young monk who is overzealous in the mortification of the flesh. Besides, it is useless to even speak of sainthood before he's been dead for decades, except for political gain.” He eyed the bishop. “Do not report to the archbishop.”

“I must.”

“Then do not say anything of significance. The investigation is going on. That is not a lie.”

“I will say as I please, Father
Abbot
.”

He went to leave, but the abbot said to his departing back, “I will do everything to protect my charge, even if it means going against you.”

“You overstep yourself, Father.”

“Perhaps.You are a bishop and a friend of the new archbishop, who was once a bishop under me.You may do as you please,Your Excellency. And I will do everything I can to protect the soul I almost destroyed.”

The bishop did not respond as he left. The abbot put his head in his hands and wept, only to be interrupted by Brother Martin entering the room without knocking. “Father—he is awake.”

It took all of Abbot Francesco's strength to compose himself to kneel beside the bed of Brother Grégoire, who was being helped to finish off the last of his daily tonic.

“You may speak,” the abbot said. “The excommunication is lifted.Your penance is more than done, Brother Grégoire.”

“Then why do I feel otherwise, Father?”

“That blame lies with us, Brother. How long were you wearing the cilicium?”

Grégoire was not in the most alert of states, and it took him a moment to answer. “It must be—three years now, as much as I could stand it.”

“And for what sin were you repenting, Brother Grégoire?”

“Violating my oath of celibacy, Father.”

“You did this only once? The time you confessed to me in Munich?”

Grégoire nodded.

“You confessed and were forgiven.”The abbot sighed. “Brother, you have given yourself to God, body and soul. It is not for you to decide when you are forgiven. The only thing you are guilty of is not understanding the extent of God's grace. Not something many grapple with, but dangerous nonetheless.”

Grégoire closed his eyes and said nothing.

“You are to wear an undershirt until you are
fully
healed of your wounds. Everything else, we will leave to God until you recover. Now rest, Brother,” the abbot said, but Grégoire was already asleep.

When Grégoire was ready to stand and walk again, there was no lack of offers to help him to the chapel. The abbot and the bishop watched as he took his first shaky steps out of his cell in a week, one hand on the wall and the other arm being held up by Brother Martin. Whether the monks following behind him did so in brotherhood or in reverence was debatable, but he seemed unaware of it. He only gazed at the gifts, all of them new from this morning, lined up along the wall in confusion.

“From the villagers, Brother Grégoire,” Prior Pullo explained. “They miss you.”

He nodded, not completely comprehending.

The reading for the day was from the Letters to the Corinthians. The abbot wondered if there was anyone who could not help but be distracted. Grégoire himself was nodding off at various points, and did not break bread with them. The next day, he made it to two services, and it seemed as though he was on his way to finally mending. Still, he said little unless spoken to, either because he was distracted by pain or addled by his experiences.

“Do you remember anything between the time of your injury and when I spoke to you days later?” the abbot said in privacy.

“I remember… an anvil. And fire.”

“Brimstone?”

“No. Just fire.” He toyed with his rosary. “Am I still to write to my brother?”

“It will be sorted out in time,” the abbot assured him. “There is no need to worry of it now.”

“I would like to see the ocean. May I have leave to sit outside?”

“Of course, Brother Grégoire.”

The next day, the weather was fine, and the brothers helped him venture outside the abbey doors and sat him down in a chair overlooking the coast. He was on the other side of the abbey, and therefore did not hear the procession with the arrival of the archbishop of Oviedo.

The archbishop was a Spanish native and a Dominican, like Bishop Valerano. He had been bishop when the abbot was assigned to the post of archbishop, a requested transfer from his post outside Rome, and had been raised when the abbot requested another transfer, this one to a monastery. The archbishop still looked to the abbot with some reverence as he listened to the facts of the case, repeated to him, including all that had occurred since the bishop had written him a letter.

“If all you say is true,” he concluded,“then he must go to Rome.”

“No,” the abbot said. “Please,Your Excellency. He is my charge and I do not believe it best for him.”

“Surely a pilgrimage, at least,” the bishop suggested.

“He has already made a pilgrimage to Rome. It was some years ago,” the abbot said. “He still wears the cross purchased at St. Peter's Square.”

The archbishop rubbed his chin. “What does the brother think?”

“He is unaware of it. He is not in a condition to comprehend it, I think. His wounds are still great.” The abbot also knew that Grégoire would humbly bow to the authority of the archbishop.

“With respect, Father, I do not come rushing for every monk who disobeys your Rule,” the archbishop said. “Let him come and speak for himself.”

God protect him
, the abbot prayed.
I am throwing him to their den
. But still the hierarchy had to be respected, and he requested that Grégoire be retrieved. After some time, the monk entered, his shuffle lopsided.

“Please,” the archbishop said. “Be seated, Brother Grégoire.”

Uncertain at first, Grégoire took the wooden seat across from the abbot's chair, in which the archbishop sat while the others stood.

“Brother Grégoire,” the archbishop began, “upon reviewing your case, we believe it is in your best interest to make a pilgrimage to Rome as soon as you are able, and perhaps be transferred to a monastery in the papal lands.”

Grégoire automatically looked up at his abbot, who quietly shook his head. “Your…Your Excellency. I have—already been to Rome.”

“Not everyone makes the journey but once. Some people even live there. Like your father abbot, before his residency here.” The archbishop continued, “You should consider what is in the best interest of your soul, Brother Grégoire.Take as long as you need to decide. Do you understand?”

“I—” He was struggling to keep his eyes open. “I—Father?”

“Yes?”

Grégoire motioned for him to come over, and he whispered in his ear. Alarmed, the abbot put his hand against Grégoire's forehead. “Excuse us, your Excellencies. Brother Grégoire is not well.”

“What did he say?” the bishop insisted as the abbot raised Grégoire from his seat.

“He said he needed to be ill,
Your Excellency
,” the abbot said. “That is your answer for now.”

The doctor was called as the brothers tried to soothe Grégoire's raging fever with cold cloths. The abbot refused to leave his side, and said his prayers in the cell with Grégoire instead of with the choir. “I have failed you again, Brother.”

Finally, the doctor arrived, and this time the abbot did not leave the room, and saw the extent of the damage himself. The stitches had gone bad, and his wounds were infected, and had to be reopened and sewn all over again. The abbot silently questioned the competency of this local surgeon. But there was no one else in the area, and Grégoire could not be moved. When the doctor cut the old stitches, the wounds reopened and blood poured out with a foul stench. Grégoire, fortunately, was unconscious.

Lord, how much blood must your humble servant bleed?
the abbot prayed. He assisted the doctor with clean towels and water until he was finished.

“If the fever breaks, he will live,” the doctor said. “If it doesn't, he won't.” He deliberated for a few moments. “Father, you do not look well.”

I am a tormented man
. “I am an old man. Old men do not look well.”

“You should rest, Father.”

“I will rest when I can find some,” he answered.