A look of guilt passed over François’s face. “My sickness has caused everyone a lot of trouble, especially you,” he said.
The monsignor shrugged. “It is my duty to serve God readily and without consciousness of merit. It was He who desired to save you. Your recovery shows that the Lord has reserved some holy purpose for you. In this matter I am just a simple priest, chosen to carry out His divine plan.”
“What is His purpose for sparing my life?”
“Monsieur Gervaise, as a child, I once prayed to God for a personal request. I asked Him to save the lives of two people I held dear in my heart: my mother and my brother Joseph. At the time, both of them were fatally ill. My prayer, however, was answered only in part. It was my brother’s life that God chose to spare. There is no need to ask why the everyday miracles in our lives happen the way they do. When it is time, the Lord will reveal to you the purpose of His action.”
The monsignor sucked his teeth and then continued. “It is now my obligation to offer you a position in my missionary work. You once sought me out to express what I believe to be the most beautiful of Christian virtues: your sublime devotion to God. I have decided to accept your offer of service.”
François grabbed his bedcover and pulled it closer to his chest. “Thank you for your praise,” he said. “But I am not as noble as you have asserted. I only wished to partake in the most exciting adventure one could hope for. However, sir, in our last conversation, you demanded a confession of my past . . . I must admit, my view on the issue has not been changed.”
The monsignor sounded almost scornful. “When a person is gravely ill, he is forced to meet with his own conscience, to listen to his own heart. Monsieur Gervaise, if you insist on protecting your past from confession, then I will respect your wish. I will not ask you to discuss it again. When you choose to do so by your own free will—and believe me, that day will come—I shall be willing to listen. Now, are you well enough to walk?”
“May I ask where we are going?”
“To Avignon. The Tower of Saint John.”
F
rançois drew back the curtains and surveyed the infirmary in which he had lain for three days, delirious with fever. Having washed and dressed himself, he was eager to get his bearings. He saw that his bed was near an entrance. To his right, a large marble basin containing holy water projected from a pillar. Patrons’ fingers, through time, had eroded the rim of the stone receptacle, forming a smooth indentation. A white stone staircase rose at the far end of the great hall. These were the clues that had led him to believe that he was in the charterhouse’s main chapel. The floor was bare dirt, warmed slightly by the thin rays of sunlight that crept through a series of small windows near the ceiling. The earthy scent failed to mask the stench of illness that surrounded him.
He saw lines of wooden beds, row upon row, covered with grass-filled mattresses. Four or five bodies occupied each bed. Unlike his, most beds had no sheets or blankets, probably to avoid the expense of laundering them, but the crowded conditions helped keep the patients warm. Priests and monks hovered over them, their voices creating a wordless murmur. The faces of the ill were like naked skulls, absorbing the shadows, and he wondered if his face looked any better. Locks of long hair no longer brushed his shoulders, and he realized that his head had been shaved.
The stench of burned fat permeated the hall. It took him a few minutes to realize the odor came from the cremation of the dead. He wondered if these unfortunate souls would be allowed to enter heaven’s gates without a proper burial.
He could still feel the shadow of death reaching for him, like a tree root seeking water. All he had been before, all the memories he had carried with him and all the past that had created him, was no longer significant. Although weak, he was aware of his five senses. Thoughts and sensations flooded him until he was left trembling with the sheer joy of being alive.
The monsignor stood leaning against a wall, rubbing his nails with a vinegar-soaked cloth. He observed François with the patience of a hunter.
François gathered his belongings, a routine that had become habit in his life as a drifter. As soon as he untied his bundle, he saw that his clothes were folded more neatly than he’d ever left them.
He felt a pang of panic. How much could someone learn about his past by looking through his meager possessions? He glanced up. The monsignor calmly kneaded his fingers against the cloth. Only his faint smile acknowledged François’s questioning gaze.
Searching under the layers of fabric, François felt rough leather against his fingertips. Without looking, he caressed the first of the items he had sought: his private sketchbook. This was not the same collection of illustrations de Béhaine had seen; those depicted people, nature, sleepy villages, and the architecture of cathedrals. Instead, the contents leaped to his mind’s eye: the private pictures of Helene, her graceful nude poses, her face, her gestures, the swell of her breasts and her derriere, all of which had once consumed his every thought.
Turning his back to obscure his movements, he untied the strings that bound the cover and took a peek at the pages. Her eyes painted on paper, blue and detached, stared into his. Every sketch seemed to be intact. The images stirred his feelings with an intense mixture of relief and pain, for he was happy to have retained the sketchbook, but also felt that he would never again love anyone or anything as completely as he had loved her.
Trying to keep his mind in focus, he rifled through the rest of his things. Again, he searched for an item of importance.
Someone in the next corner was gasping. Two male nurses mounted a wooden device over the patient’s mouth to pry it open while the third poured in a thick, black liquid, forcing him to swallow. He could hear a priest intoning a prayer in Latin over the sputtering sound of struggling lungs. The stone walls of the tower echoed the moans of unseen patients, the rattle of tin jars and basins, the squeak of heavy litters carrying still bodies. Like the others, he had been brought to this place of quarantine to die. Although he did not understand why he had been spared, he knew clearly that his destiny was not to be one of them.
His fingers grazed a leather pouch, and he felt relieved—until he opened it and found it empty. It lay at the bottom of his knapsack, gaping open, as if leering at him.
Who could have stolen that cursed dagger? A thief? A priest or monk? Or could it possibly be the monsignor himself?
The dagger’s absence shook him with a mix of feelings—terror, rage, excitement. The image of the knife hung foremost in his mind, its shape, the keen double edges, and the handsomely engraved family crest on its handle. For as long as he could remember, it was always sharp and shiny, ominous, valuable, and ready to strike. He had never held it for any purpose other than honing the blade or staring raptly at the handle, which resembled an Egyptian ankh. The family crest was outlined in emeralds and a ruby, along with two carved columns, one made from black ebony with the initial
E
on it, and the other of white ivory with the initial
C
.
To hide his preoccupation, he asked, “How did I get here? How did you find me?”
“After you left, I went to search for you,” replied the monsignor as he smiled down at him. “For a few coins, a whore led me to you. She was your neighbor in the forest shelter. I’m sorry to say she died yesterday afternoon. You are fortunate to have survived.”
François stared into his sack. Without looking, he could list every article inside it. The linen shirts and woolen breeches—the finest of his clothing—took up the most room. Next to them were a few pairs of knitted stockings, some towels, a tin cup to hold water, writing paper, paintbrushes, and some vials of colored powders that he mixed with linseed oil to make paint. There was no sign of his dagger. But to ask about it would invite the very questions that he had been trying to avoid.
“That poor woman,” François said. “May God have mercy on her soul.”
“Shouldn’t we go?” asked de Béhaine.
“Yes, I am ready,” said François, swinging the bag over one shoulder to mask his reluctance.
A blast of wind blew out the candle in de Béhaine’s hand. The hallway that led to the side exit of the infirmary was gray and chilly. The monsignor took a monstrous key and inserted it into the keyhole. Inch by inch, the two men lifted the oak bar that hooked through paired brackets. When they cracked open the heavy door, the outside air assaulted them. François shrank back. The sun pummeled him with a thousand fists, shocking him as they mounted the steps to ground level.
Two pairs of guards, dressed in the abbot’s bright yellow livery, jumped to attention at their appearance. They drew their muskets and held them in shaky hands.
“Halt! By whose permission do you leave the house of the plague?” the tallest guard near the entrance barked at them.
“Do you know who I am?” said the priest, removing his hat.
The guard lowered his musket. “Monsignor de Béhaine, I didn’t recognize you. Who is your companion?”
“Never fear, my good sir,” said the priest. “I assure you that none of you will catch any contagion from this gentleman. He has been blessed by God and is being released with the permission of Abbot Beaufort. Let us pass!”
His confidence reassured the guards, who fell back.
François took a few steps. He felt as feeble as an infant.
At the end of a gravel path, a hooded carriage drawn by a pair of chestnut horses waited. Its door swung open. The horses tossed their heads and neighed. François blinked away a sunbeam that bounced off the carriage’s window.
The same gray-haired monk who had brought François to the monsignor’s room stepped out of the coach. His cheeks were pink from the cold. He and the monsignor acknowledged each other with slight bows.
“This is Brother Angus,” de Béhaine said. “He will take you back to my cell in Avignon.”
“What about you, Father?” François asked. “Are you not coming with us?”
The priest shook his head. “I have a few matters I need to attend to. When I return in a few days, we shall meet again. In the meantime, Brother Angus will look after your needs.”
Still light-headed, François accepted Brother Angus’s hand. He crawled into the carriage and sat next to the window. The springs swayed, and he had the sensation of floating in time.
The old Benedictine monk crept in next to him.
The rocking motion of the trip lulled his senses.
Resting his head against the window, François watched the trees that slid past him. The wet grass, crushed under the iron-rimmed wooden wheels, gave off a fresh odor. He was silent, conscious only of his breathing. Except for a small tremor where the side of his face bumped against the door frame, his body was barely aware of the journey. A monotonous rhythm caressed his limbs, making him drowsy.
He wondered about de Béhaine. The monsignor’s guarded nature prevented him from displaying any hint of friendliness. His black tunic and the broad rim of his hat concealed all his thoughts. François had sought more than once to make eye contact during their conversations, but all he encountered was a vague, undefined smile.
Why had the priest left him so abruptly after putting so much time and care into nursing him back to health? They were both strangers in Avignon; François a drifter and the priest on a mission to recruit new disciples. There seemed to be no reason for de Béhaine to take a new journey at this time unless it pertained to his search for more priests. But if that were the reason, why should he leave the papal palace, where most of the Christian activities were centered? Or could it be that he had rejected François and moved on?
“Is it wrong of me to ask you the whereabouts of Monsignor de Béhaine?” he asked Brother Angus.
“No, why should it be? On the contrary . . . But why do you ask me? Hasn’t the monsignor told you his itinerary?”
“I didn’t think of asking him,” replied François. “He appears so preoccupied with his missionary work that I was reluctant to bother him. Where did he go? Will he soon be coming back to Avignon?”
The monk adjusted the cushion he was sitting on. “I believe . . . ,” he said, “the monsignor mentioned that he is taking a two-day trip to Villaume.”
François gasped. The missing dagger. His village. The priest’s self-satisfied smile. Suddenly everything made sense. Villaume would be the best place for de Béhaine to gather information about his past.
If I were in his position, I would have done the very same.
François’s nails dug into the palms of his hands.
“I need to find him!” he cried.
A chill made him shudder. His ears were ringing. The throbbing inside his head threatened to return in full force.
“Monsieur Gervaise, are you well?” came the monk’s voice. His hand reached for François’s shoulder.
“No!” François sprang out of his seat. “I must stop him from going to Villaume. That is the way!”
The monk stuttered, “W-what do you m-mean?”
“Halt! Halt!” He jutted his head out the window and shouted at the coachman. The driver hauled at the reins, and the wagon came to a halt.
“Get down!” he barked at the stunned man. And to the monk, he ordered, kicking the door open, “You, too, get out!”
At the first touch of the whip, the horses bolted forward, charging in unison on the hard-packed dirt. The main road to Nîmes was simple, and he had traveled it once before. The trip to Villaume would take almost an hour. Far on the horizon, across a large field where the sun was looming in a haze, he could see the village’s outline. Nature’s cool breath was on him: the odor of fresh air. The path beneath him was a melting gray that reminded him of a river, flowing in the opposite direction.
The road became more rutted, and the wagon swayed on its wheels. The horses galloped at a steady speed. François held tight to the reins. His muscles were taut, as if he were flying instead of riding. He watched every group of passersby and studied their faces as he overtook them. Some of the women glared at him, annoyed at his recklessness. His mind was frozen on one thought: he must prevent Monsignor de Béhaine from entering Saint Magdalene Priory.
He saw a dark shape on the side of the road. Even from a distance he recognized the familiar black-robed figure riding on the mare. The animal was moving at a slow canter. With a shout he charged closer, pulling alongside and then advancing past the rider before he made a sharp turn to block the road a few paces ahead. His carriage skidded as the wheels locked. He fell back in his seat, gasping. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the monsignor, looking on with his usual knowing expression. It was as though he had been expecting him all along.
“So, Monsieur Gervaise, you decided to find me,” said the priest. “Are you ready to deliver a confession? Or should I hear about your past from your guardian, Father Dominique, the superior of Saint Magdalene Priory?”
“Father, you leave me no choice in this matter,” replied François bitterly.
“I must know what kind of man you are, and understand your nature, before I can employ you.” The monsignor reached inside his robe and retrieved the bejeweled dagger. The sharp blade quivered with the reprimanding tone in his voice. “The crest of this stiletto belongs to a noble family. How can a vagabond like you possess this valuable weapon? Is thievery one of your sins?”
François cringed at the priest’s accusation. “I’m sorry,” he said, sobbing.
“Did you steal this dagger?”
He gasped, “Worse than that, Father. But before I tell you, please answer me this: would you employ a murderer to carry out God’s sacred work?”
His question tugged a furrow across de Béhaine’s forehead. “It is not the law of man that I am concerned about,” said the priest. “It is the wrath of God and the eternal damnation of our immortal souls that terrify me. Whatever of God’s commandments you have broken, whatever grave mortal sins you have committed, even though you may think you are beyond redemption, our Lord is a just and forgiving God. Confess to me, and I shall give you absolution.”
François remained silent, his eyes shut. Another sob broke from his lips—a wounded cry of pain and regret. “Please do not enter Villaume,” he begged.