The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (18 page)

Grégoire survived the night, and for that they were all grateful, but his fever did not break. It would occasionally go down and he would have moments of coherency, but otherwise, he was incapacitated.

Abbot Francesco had not slept at all when he entered his own office to find Bishop Valerano and the archbishop poring over unfamiliar documents. “What is going on here?”

“Good morning, Father. We require your signature.”

He took a seat and the scroll was passed to him. He read the Latin in disbelief. “This is a transfer.You expect me to sign this? He is not well enough to stand! He might not live!”

“There are arrangements for his body to be interred in Rome.”

“His body will
not
be interred in Rome!” he shouted, and then he retreated from his own outburst. He was so tired. Softly, he said, “When he came to this monastery, he said that he wished his body to be returned to England to be buried with his family. Unless he is well enough to testify that he has changed his mind, I will honor his wishes. As for the transfer to Rome, it is hardly time to think about that.”

“Do you intend to challenge this?”

He knew a threat when he heard one, however quietly it was spoken. After all, the blood of Roman senators coursed through his veins. “I will challenge it, yes. Apparently, you have both forgotten that the broken monk in this monastery is not without his own alliances, church
and
family.” He looked up at the bishop. “Yes, I am from
that
Chiaramonti family.”

Bishop Valerano turned to the archbishop, who nodded. “His brother is the Vicar of Christ.”

“I will reassess the situation when Grégoire is well,” he said. “If he becomes well. If he dies, God help us all, because I am sure we are all damned for this.”

With that, he excused himself, and returned to his vigil beside Brother Grégoire.The other monks had found excuses to abandon their chores and were camped outside the cell. The abbot knelt beside Grégoire and kissed his hand. “If you are going to work any more miracles, Brother Grégoire, work one for yourself.”

There was a knock on the door. “Come.”

It was the doorkeeper, Brother Pedro. “Father, there is a couple at the abbey gates.”

“Villagers?”

“No, Father.They speak only broken Spanish. It is a man and his wife. They are armed.”

“Armed?!”

“Yes,” he said. “They say they are Brother Grégoire's relatives.”

CHAPTER 12

“MY GOD, IT'S HOT,” Brian said, readjusting his gasa hat as they stood outside the closed gates of the abbey. “And I'm just back from the Orient.”

“You were on the ocean. It was different,” Nadezhda said. She was wearing a gasa hat, too, and a summer kimono, instead of her heavy wool Romanian dress. “Have you ever been inside a monastery?”

“Not an active one, no.” He looked up. The gates were at least four stories high. The entrance was actually a small door carved in one of them. “This building must be hundreds of years old and still used for the same purpose.” He glanced at the heavy doorknob again. “Do they keep all their guests waiting? Maybe they do when those guests show up armed. And one of them a woman, no less.”

“A good Christian woman.”

“If you don't answer to Rome, you might as well be a heathen, and worship trees and statues, like Mugin.”

“Mugin worships himself.”

“Even better,” he said. “
Your Highness
.”

Still nothing. The doorkeeper was taking his time. “Maybe we should have offered to give up our weapons,” the princess said.

“You can do that, but I am about to take my wife into a castle of men who probably haven't laid eyes on a woman in decades. I'll be keeping my swords, thank you.” He heard a creaking sound on the other side. “Speak of the devils.”

“Hush.”

Brian smiled for the man who opened the door, and the older man who stepped out. “I am Brian Maddox. And this is Her Highness, Princess Nadezhda Maddox,” he said in his best Spanish.

“Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti of the Benedictines,” said the man, bowing to them. It was not very hard, because he had a bit of a hunch from age. “I am the abbot here. I understand you wish to see one of my monks.”

“Yes. Brother Grégoire.”

“Yes.” He switched to French. “Is this better, monsieur?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“How are you related to Brother Grégoire?”

“To be brief,” Brian said, “my sister-in-law is the sister of his brother-in-law. So we are distant cousins, but Her Highness and I were the ones most willing to travel.”

“Have you come…for a particular reason?”

Brian's smile disappeared. “Should we have?” The abbot was clearly in distress. The doorkeeper was keeping an eye on him as if the old man were going to collapse at any moment. Brian glanced at his wife in silent understanding. “We wish to see Brother Grégoire,” he repeated.

“We normally do not permit arms or women within the abbey walls, but…” he trailed off, as if his own spirit was failing him. “But I see you are tired and thirsty. Please come in.”

Taking off their wide gasa hats, they ducked under the door frame, and entered the abbey courtyard. The place smelled of age—of old stones and ancient prayers. The monks milling about were curious about these strangely dressed visitors.

“If you would, please,” the abbot said, “your weapons. This is sacred ground.”

“I was given these blades and told not to relinquish them,” Brian said. “This is an abbey. I will have no cause to use them.”

“I beg of you, please.”

Brian turned to Nadezhda and said in Romanian, “What do you think?”

“Don't be a braggart. Give him your
katana
at least.”

“Excuse me,” the abbot said in Romanian, to their surprise. “Please. Many people would feel more comfortable if you at least gave up the larger ones, and you will certainly not be attacked.”

“You speak my tongue?” Nadezhda said.

He bowed. “I was raised speaking Italian, Latin, and Spanish. It took only a brief summer in Bucharest to learn some scope of Romanian. But that was years ago.”

Brian pulled the longer blade out of his sash and handed it over to the doorkeeper with both hands on the blade. “Will I have cause to be angry?”

“It is good you are here,” the abbot whispered. “Please wait until you have the entire story to pass judgment.”

Nadezhda handed over her
wakizashi.
“Show us to our cousin, Father.”

The abbot nodded and led the way. Brian kept a hand on his tanto as they walked down the colonnade, past monks scurrying about and baskets of food lined up against the wall like offerings.

“Father.”

The abbot bowed to the man with the jeweled ring and church clothing, apparently a bishop. “Your Excellency,” he said in French, “these are relatives of Brother Grégoire.”

“His Excellency” was about to say something, but he could not meet Brian's cold stare, and moved out of the way without a word. The abbot turned at last to a small wooden door. Monks were sitting outside the door, whispering prayers. The abbot unlocked the door.

“Father,” said a monk in Spanish, rising from his position next to the bedside, wet towel still in hand.

“Leave us,” the abbot said, and the monk slipped past them, allowing them entrance to the cell, which had only a tiny window in the corner to allow light in. The abbot immediately knelt beside the bed, crossed himself, and took up the towel, dipping it in cold water and putting it on the head of what was recognizably Grégoire.

Brother Grégoire was turned on his side, with his eyes closed and his breath heavy. Despite the light covers, his face was covered in sweat.

Brian reached over the abbot and touched Grégoire's forehead. “How long has he had this fever?”

“Two days now.”

“What is he sick with?”

“He has wounds—they are infected.”

“Show them to me.”

With trembling hands, the abbot removed the covers to reveal a torn mess of flesh that had once been the skin of his back, sewn every which way. Much of the flesh was green or a sickly yellow, or covered with dried blood. Nadezhda covered herself with her veil and even Brian had to look away. He took his wife's arm to reassure her.

When he could think straight again, he asked, “Did he do this to himself, or did you do it to him?”

“Both, monsieur.”

He could see why the abbot had insisted on disarming him. He grabbed the old man and picked him up by his cowl. “
Why would you harm him?
What could he
possibly
have done?”

“Please—we did not know—we were in error!”

Brian looked at his wife, who shrugged and voiced no objection to his behavior.

He allowed himself a mean grin. “You are lucky that his brother did not come. He would have struck you so hard that you would have broken. Grégoire's wounds are badly infected. Will he live?”

“With God's help, monsieur, and yours. Please, let me explain.”

Brian figured he would have to do it eventually, so he let the abbot down. The old man did not retreat. He held his ground, bowing to him again. “I will tell you everything, from the beginning, if you promise to take him away from here.”

“Of course we will take him! Grégoire Darcy will not die in a cell for any reason, and I have a feeling the infraction was minor—
by any standards but your own. Now sit down, Father, and begin this
explanation
.”

They prodded Grégoire, but he was not near consciousness, and if he woke, he would probably be in great pain. He needed better medical attention; that much was clear. If he could not survive the journey to England, they would have to take him to a major city and find a good surgeon. Nadezhda took up the duty of trying to cool him down with water on his brow and arms as Brian paced angrily.

“Are you all right, Father?” called a monk through the door.

“Yes, yes,” he said. “We are not to be interrupted. Even for the archbishop, understand?”

“Yes, Father.”

As the old man sighed, the years seemed to weigh down on him, pushing the air out of his lungs as he fiddled with his rosary. “Sadly, it all began with an act of charity. How odd, now that I think of it....”

The tale he told was incredible in its intricacies. He held nothing back, even private conversations. He was terrified of them both, but also of himself, and his own actions—he said as much. “I pray that I am not damned, but I will settle with the Holy Spirit when Grégoire is safe or safely from this world, whichever it shall be.” He crossed himself again. He had no good words for himself, or the bishop, or the archbishop, explaining how the bishop and archbishop had first sought Grégoire's money while the abbot remained more concerned with Grégoire's adherence to the Rule (which, in all fairness, had been violated). The discovery of the hairshirt changed everything—after all, the same thing had been found on the English saint Thomas Becket after his murder by the knights of King Henry. Now they were after Grégoire, a shining example of piety, to be paraded around in some horrible political arena beyond his understanding.

“If we take him,” Brian said, “will they pursue us? Our ship is not very far, but we may have to stop in France if Grégoire is too ill to continue.”

“They might. Or they might seek claim on his body, if he should die—which is a very real possibility. And they may get it, if they reach him before you reach English soil, or they could sue the Anglican church. If he dies now, surely, they will go for beatification within the next few decades, and they will want his remains for that. An English Catholic saint—it would be a triumph for Rome.You must understand, I was a bishop outside Rome—I know how they think.” He stopped to think. “There is one way I can make sure they cannot pursue, but it is terrible.”