The noise from hundreds of people suddenly fell to a hush. LGc inched closer, hiding behind François’s shoulders. Ignoring the boy, he looked around. In the silence, the sea of bodies parted, starting from the outer rim of the square and splitting inward until a path was formed.
Through this passage he could see a road, which ran alongside a marketplace. Rows of bamboo trees on either side formed a canopy of vivid green. In the distance, a structure resembling a marquee atop a platform glided forward. Its parallel columns supported an open roof of wooden rafters draped with white transparent silk panels. The onlookers fell on their knees and elbows.
As the float came into full view, he saw two lines of porters dragging the miniature palace on wooden wheels. The columns at its corners had been painted white and gold, and they glistened in the sun. Silver bells hanging from the eaves chimed softly to the swaying of the structure. To François, in his weakened state, the vision seemed to shimmer like a mirage.
He heard whispers: “The queen, the queen.”
Inside the float was a woman in her early thirties, dressed in royal costume. It was the wife of King Due Tong. Like a porcelain chess piece, she sat under a saucer-shaped rooftop, and around her, the sheer hanging fabric sighed under the touch of the wind. Her skin was concealed beneath a thick layer of white powder. A large silver headdress framed her forehead, hiding her hair. Strands of pearls decorated the crown, making her face seem small and flat.
Peeking through the blank whiteness of her face were two dark eyes, glinting like black agate. A vertical furrow between her brows intensified her expression. Even when her eyes were closed, the wrinkle stayed, hollowed out like a deep scar. François stared at her broad nose and thick upturned lips, reddened by the constant use of betel leaves and areca nuts. The features were far from the European ideal of beauty, but impressive nonetheless.
On the left side of her throne sat a boy of about twelve, dressed in gold, the color of Asian royalty. His appearance was austere, and he acted much older than his years. He straightened his back against a silk cushion, his legs crossed, a hand on each knee. François knew the boy was too young to be the present king. But judging from his outfit, the features he seemed to have in common with the queen, and the air of authority in his gestures, François realized the child must be some important member of the royal family, perhaps the king’s cousin or younger sibling. Behind the palanquin walked a row of mandarins and their wives.
At the entrance of the square, the floating palace came to a stop. The porters dispersed in two directions, giving the royals full view of the execution ground. A figure stepped from among the mandarins and approached the queen. He wore an Annamite robe, but his eyes were light in color compared to the others. To François’s amazement, he recognized the face of Bishop de Béhaine, barely exposed under an official cap.
The chimes stirred as the Jesuit said something to the queen. A breath of wind from the river tossed the curtains aside, and the bishop looked straight at François.
I am safe,
he thought with joy. It was the miracle that he needed to see from God, and the bishop was His messenger. God had not deserted him. He was going to be saved. Next to him, Henri uttered a loud sob. The novice had also recognized the severe gentleman beside the queen.
Tall among the Annamites, de Béhaine gazed at the condemned priest. François beamed, unable to stop a flood of joyous tears. He waited for a sign of recognition from his sponsor. But the bishop looked through him. The bright sun made his sunken eyes appear as gray as bones. Then de Béhaine turned his attention back to the queen.
François felt abandoned. His next thoughts came with a more objective scrutiny as he tried to understand the bishop’s behavior. By acknowledging the convicts, de Béhaine might have put himself in danger. But why would he be here, among the very rulers of a society that denounced Christianity? Was the bishop here to save him with some hidden plan or simply to witness his execution? François was more confused than ever.
Then he noticed Henri on the ground. One of the guards had his foot on the boy’s head, pushing his face into the dirt.
“What happened?” François asked when the soldier turned away.
The novice spit mud from his mouth and said, “I tried to call for the monsignor’s attention, but these men hit me.”
“Be patient, my son,” François whispered. “God has a plan.” And then he muttered to himself, “It has to be. I just can’t die like this.”
De Béhaine retreated until he was no longer in view. The queen whispered in the prince’s ear and raised a finger to the crowd, which roared in response. Like ink spilled into a basin of water, the excitement spread through the masses. François saw the terror that shook the other captives’ bodies, as though they all knew something that he was unaware of.
“Prepare for the execution,” shouted the official who had transported the prisoners.
It was all he could do to keep from falling. His hands gripped the restraining ropes. Bishop de Béhaine did not seem likely to interfere with his destiny today.
Drumbeats rumbled against the sky, and the birds scattered from the bamboo shrubs, screeching. Their scarlet bodies fluttered above him like little balls of flame.
From the left side of the queen’s pergola, three men, clad in black linen, marched toward the prisoners. Bristly beards and mustaches concealed their mouths. Each of them carried a sword across his shoulder, the long blades wrapped in black cloth so that they became a part of his uniform. He knew beyond any doubt that these men were going to be his executioners.
He closed his eyes. Someone seized the cord around his neck, and he felt it dangle for an instant before it jerked him forward. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.
Helpless cries were all around him. He was dragged through the dirt until his head collided with a wooden stake. An odor of dried blood forced him to reopen his eyes. There were dark stains on the posts, and he could almost hear the screams of the past prisoners who had died there.
“Please, our Father in heaven,” he shouted, unthinkingly reverting to French. “Deliver these people from evil. And save my soul, for my life is now and will forever be in your hands.”
Someone took hold of his collar, lifted him to his knees, and settled him with his heels pressed against his tailbone. His back arched until he leaned against the post. His head tilted backward to rest on it. A few feet away, Henri struggled vainly to untie himself, his face white.
Turning to François, he said in a calm voice, “Father, you are a good teacher and an excellent friend. Do you remember the first time we met, in a dark street, a month before we left Marseille together?”
François did not answer. Instead he prayed louder and continued to search the sky above. His face was wet with tears. “Dear Lord, how long will You let your children suffer? Take my soul now and purify it with your eternal love. Help me bear the pain of what is to come. Do not leave me, for I am frightened.”
Henri spoke again. “I never regretted following you to this land. Never, Father. Every time I think of that day, I am happy. Thank you for saving me.”
François realized that except for his own faltering enunciation and Henri’s whisper, no one else spoke. All was hushed in the square, and he could hear the wind rustling through the leaves. The young prince stepped down from his cushion and walked toward the prisoners. His long golden tunic, edged with embroidery and silk fringe, dragged across the mud. The three executioners knelt and bowed their heads. In the mounting tension, people seemed to have stopped breathing—they had never seen a royal so close. The prince walked straight up to François.
On his knees and wilting, the priest was face to face with the boy-prince. Although the boy’s skin was smooth and the rest of his features seemed childlike, an ancient spirit peered through his round, birdlike eyes. The prince tilted his head back slightly and, from that position, was able to look down at the priest.
“Who are you praying to, foreign monk?” he asked.
“My God, Lord Jesus Christ, Your Highness,” François answered.
“If your Jesus is a god, can he save you from death?”
François licked his lips. “I have accepted my fate. It is whatever God wills.”
The pagan boy-prince asked, “Will you renounce your God in exchange for your life?”
François swallowed hard to suppress the loud resounding
yes
that struggled to burst from his mouth. He was quickly overcome by shame at his surprising and unbidden thought.
“Dear Lord, help me,” he moaned.
“Well?” The boy-prince pressed. “What is your answer?”
“No,” he whispered.
“Will you then renounce your God in exchange for your life and the lives of your fellow missionaries?”
François looked at Henri and his disciples. He saw his own fright reflected on their faces. They pleaded with him silently. He shut his eyes and nodded.
The prince turned to the mandarin-in-charge and gave an order. “Release this man and his followers. Kill the others.” To François, he said, “Remember this day, priest. Your god, Lord Jesus, did not save you. I, Prince Ánh, spared your life. Now make sure that you never preach the words of your false cult in my country again. If we meet once more in a similar circumstance, I will not be so compassionate.”
He made a swift turn and walked away.
François slumped against the post, defeated. He had been saved from the claws of Death, but his soul was shattered. He could no longer feel the presence of God or, worse, believe in Him.
H
enri could not grasp that he had been set free by a boy who could not have been older than twelve. For the past year living in Annam he had been happy. Unlike the older missionaries, he had had no trouble easing into the new culture. It was as though he had been born in this land. But in prison, all his comfort had been shattered. He had prepared himself to die. Now that he’d been given a second chance, his most fervent desire was simply to live.
He knew that at any moment the queen of Cochin China might override the prince’s ruling with a simple hand gesture. His heart lurched. He could see the impatience on the faces of the executioners and of the queen’s guards, eighty to a hundred men. The metallic glint of their drawn swords mimicked the sun. They were all eager for the sight of blood.
The instant his ropes were undone, he dragged himself away from the post. The prisoners who were not pardoned remained kneeling. No one made a sound, but the site was tense with anticipation.
He realized that he must get away before the crowd demanded a greater spectacle. He did not want to witness the executions of the others. He ran to François, who was lying on the ground in the fetal position with his hands clasped over his head.
“On your knees,” a guard shouted.
Henri ignored him. “Come! Help Father François,” he yelled to LGc.
At the center of the square, the executioners were advancing on the prisoners. His voice was drowned by the pounding drums that seemed to rise up from within the crowd. LGc walked away as though he did not hear him.
He had to get himself and Father François out of this city.
“Kneel down,” repeated the guard, standing behind Henri. His drooping mustache curved across his face like an exaggerated black frown.
He did not have time to comply. He felt a violent pain at the back of his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw LGc fending off a pack of sentries. The sky seemed to become brighter, and the sun hovered above him with the menace of a fireball. It wasn’t long before the sun smashed into him, and the earth caught fire.
He collapsed next to François and hugged the ground with his outstretched arms.
The smell of blood brought Henri back to consciousness. He could hear the buzz of horseflies. He had been turned over on his back and was looking upward. The evening was approaching. In the soft, red dusk, the sky was closing in like a coffin’s lid.
He sprang up, gasping for air. Then he felt the iron manacle wrapped around his neck. It was a crude collar, rough in design, making it hard for him to breathe. A blacksmith must have forged it on him during the time he had passed out from the guard’s blow.
He was still in the courtyard, but the floating pagoda, the crowd, the sentries, the executioners, and the royal family had all vanished. Before him, six decapitated corpses hunched over, tied to the poles. Flies were feasting on their severed necks, where pools of blood had coagulated. The view and its stench were so gruesome that he wondered if he had entered hell. But his headache reminded him that he was still earthbound.
His stomach gave a painful squeeze at the overwhelming aroma of death. Coughing, he staggered across the square.
With each gust of wind the sunlight faded. He heard a moan, and a voice called his name. A dark figure huddled close to the wall. It was his teacher.
François staggered from his refuge. He, too, wore an iron collar, welded around his neck. Written on it was a series of characters in red paint that Henri could not read. François appeared drained. Still, the sight of him flooded Henri with relief. He threw his arms around his teacher. The priest’s body felt as though it would collapse.
“Where is LGc and everybody else?”
When there was no answer, he grabbed François’s head and examined it for wounds. There were none.
“Gone,” sighed the priest.
“Are they dead?”
François shook his head. The look in his eyes was vacant.
“Thank God we are still alive,” Henri said. “Come with me. It is getting dark. We must leave before the gate is locked.”
To his surprise, the priest stood motionless. Henri took his teacher’s arm and guided him forward.
They chose the main road, heading east. If they hurried, Henri thought they could reach the Perfume River in less than two hours. He was eager to leave the citadel. Finding refuge among the peasants would be their only hope. In some remote village he and François might have a chance. Once they were safe, the priest would be able to decide what to do next.
When they came to the east entrance of the fortress, the gates had already been shut. Fifteen or twenty imperial guards stopped the two travelers from advancing farther. François retreated behind the boy. The guards talked among themselves, pointed to the iron collars, and burst into laughter. The priest covered his ears with his hands.
“May we pass?” Henri said, half pleading.
One of the sentries replied, “Criminals are not allowed to walk the same path as the king’s citizens. If you want to leave the citadel, crawl like an animal.”
He pointed his sword at a small opening beneath the wall; it had probably been dug by a dog. From above, a yellow moon sprayed its thin glow on the slope that led to the hole.
Henri swallowed, reminding himself to control his temper. If he wanted to leave this place alive, he had no choice but to do what they ordered.
He turned to François. “Father, we must do as they say. Please go first. I will be behind you.”
The priest obeyed, his eyes fixed on the dark opening. Another burly guard aimed a kick at him and pushed him forward. With a cry, François fell face-first into the pit. Henri was trembling with rage. Still he said nothing.
A voice boomed like thunder over the soldiers. “Stop your harassment at once!”
They all turned, and Henri saw the high forehead of de Béhaine above the light of an oil lantern. He was escorted by a group of soldiers in red uniforms. The two sides stared at each other, and the novice called out in excitement, “Monsignor!”
Standing beside him, the guard who had kicked François repeated like an anxious parrot, “Monsignor!”
De Béhaine halted. His face was devoid of all expression as he removed one of his black silk gloves, taking his time. Then he looked at the guard, gesturing with his bare hand. “You! Come closer.”
The frightened man approached.
“What did you just call me?” de Béhaine asked him, ignoring Henri and his teacher.
The guard, sensing hostility, shifted his eyes back to Henri as if searching for an answer. When he received nothing, he whispered, “I called you
Monsignor,
sir.”
The priest’s eyes flared in indignation. His glove swung in the dark, and he slapped the man’s cheek.
“I am not a monsignor,” he said in a soft, conversational voice. “I have been Bishop of Madras for almost two years now. How long have I been the private tutor of His Majesty? Haven’t you learned anything, fool? You must address me as Your Excellency. Do not forget this title. Ever!”
He glared at Henri, and the boy flinched, wondering if he should have known about de Béhaine’s promotion. The bishop turned to the guards.
“What are you waiting for?” he barked. “Get out of my sight.”
The Annamite soldiers faded into the darkness. The bishop’s men also retreated, taking the lantern with them.
The bishop’s face blended into the night, masking his expression. To hide his nervousness, Henri moved to his teacher’s side, helping François to rise. The priest trembled, unsteady on his feet. The bishop studied the two of them.
“What is wrong with Father François?” he asked.
As if you didn’t know, you pompous priest,
Henri thought. But he swallowed his resentment and replied, “I think the near escape from the execution has affected his mind.” He threw a furious glance at de Béhaine, and added, “Your Excellency.”
The bishop came closer. A frown creased his forehead.
“You think what happened to you and Father François is my fault,” he said. “You think that I should have interceded with the queen to spare your lives. What makes you think that I didn’t try to?”
Henri continued his reproving frown until his rage incited the bishop.
“How dare you?” de Béhaine roared. “A novice is accusing me of his misfortune with such a look? The rice of your last meal is still wedged between your teeth. Who do you think arranged it for you?” Drops of spittle flew from his mouth. “What do you know about God’s will, or about the politics and diplomacy between nations? Do you think my mission in this land was only to rescue failed missionaries? Or do you believe that your lives are worth more than the importance of the Church, which I have worked so diligently to establish over all these years?”
Henri blanched. His anger turned to fear.
The bishop’s voice became rueful. “Or are you convinced I am heartless and so cowardly that my fear of death overpowers any desire I might have to save you?”
Those had been Henri’s thoughts. He needed to stop the bishop from talking so he could have time to think. “Why are you here?” he asked. “In our last meeting you told us that you were going to return with Captain Petijean in a year with supplies.”
The bishop unhooked his stiff collar and caressed his neck. When he spoke, his eyes were closed, and the pale moonlight bathed his austere face in its glow. “You might have met death this afternoon, but I live with it every day. Life is cheap in this land. I came to the Far East ten years ago, when I was only twenty-four. Like you, I was pursued by misfortune. I have repeatedly been subjected to imprisonment, torture, and death threats. But I never accepted defeat. I have sworn an oath to God.
“The main test of my faith came five years ago, when the governor of Hatien Province ordered his men to burn down my mission. My entire life up to that point, all of my hard work and effort, was destroyed. The native students I recruited either are dead or have renounced their faith. I alone survived that catastrophe. I had to flee Annam and seek refuge in India, where I was appointed Bishop of Madras. My heart and soul still belong to Cochin China. I am now the private tutor for the royal family in Hue Palace. I do not preach Christianity to them. I only give them some knowledge of the Western world. As they learn more about me, I learn more about them. Prince Ánh is one of my students. You must know who he is. He spared your life this afternoon.”
He opened his eyes and looked at François, who returned a blank stare. The bishop stepped closer and said in his ear, “Father, I know who you were before you came to Avignon. And I know more about your past than you think. None of that matters now. In Kim Lai I warned you about the difficulties you would encounter, from the destruction of your mission to the test of your faith. You didn’t listen. Neither God nor I has abandoned you. It is you who abandoned God. I was there when you renounced our Lord to save your life. When forced to choose between survival and faith, many of my missionaries have preferred to be martyrs, but not you. You decided to save your skin, not your soul. You are not fit to be a missionary.”
He turned to Henri and moved his hand to expose his neck. The scar was visible under the moonlight. “So you see, novice, I too am familiar with humiliation and fear. And I know what it is to wear the collar of denouncement.”
Henri touched his own iron brace.
The bishop continued. “Yes, that iron ring will tell the citizens that you are a religious outcast. The writing says that you don’t believe in their traditions and values, or their gods; therefore, they are making you renounce your own God as punishment. You cannot remove it. Any attempt to do so will be punished by death. It will scratch and gnaw at your neck for as long as you wear it. It will remind you and others that your faith is not as strong as your urge to live. As for me, I knew I had to wear the collar in order to continue the Lord’s work. But look at your teacher—he is dazed and unable to speak. His ordeal has broken his spirit, and he is wearing that collar for a different reason than I did. Therefore, take him to Quinion and find Captain Petijean. He will take you both back to France. I hereby release you from your vows.”
François gasped.
Henri reddened. “But —”
The bishop overrode him. “I am the Bishop of Madras. This title was granted to me by His Holiness, Pope Clement XIV. You must do as I say.”
“Will our sins be forgiven?” Henri asked, mainly for François’s sake.
The bishop’s serenity was more severe than any anger Henri might have had.
“There is only one who can answer that question,” he said. “Ask God.”