Authors: Gael Baudino
Kneeling before the bishop, the picture of the repentant sinner, Jacob felt a gleam in his eye. A few minutes more, and Albrecht would be able to do a great deal about it. “You believe that Siegfried is wrong, Excellency?”
“I told you that I did. I've come to doubt the entire Inquisitorial process. After all . . .” The bishop looked glum. “. . . I've seen what it's done in Furze.”
“All right. Well, now Siegfried's accused me of heresy, too.”
“Oh . . . dear God, this is absurd!”
“I'm glad you think so.”
Albrecht had grown agitated, and, rising from his chair, he began to pace up and down the study, wavering each time his bad knee threatened to fail him. It was a shabby little room, for what little money ever came into Albrecht's hands was inevitably funneled either into the purses of the poor or the fabric fund for the cathedral. Worn furniture, worn carpet, worn books. Only the curtains were fine and thick, as though the good bishop had decided that dark, muffling shields against the avarice and duplicity of the world were a wise and justifiable investment.
“Oh . . . dear God,” he said again. “And there's nothing I can do. Even the popes haven't been able to stop the Inquisition. There was the whole thing over at Carcassonnne. And at Albi and Cordes. The Inquisitor simply ignored the papal order.”
He caught himself. “But I was hearing your confession, Jacob. I'm sorry.” He resumed his seat. “Heresy does not number among your sins. I believe that, but I am afraid that I can't protect you from Siegfried. Do you want absolution for your sins?”
“Absolution would be nice,” said Jacob, still on his knees. “But I'm not sorry for what I've done.”
Albrecht shrugged. “Most of us aren't, Jacob. We confess, and we have utterly no intention of changing anything at all about the way we behave. God, I think, understands.” He made the sign of the cross over the impenitent. “
Ego te absolvo
,” he said formally.
“But I'm not sorry.”
“Think of it as a second chance. We're human beings, after all. We need lots of second chances.”
A second chance. Well, though Jacob, why not? If he was indeed going to throw away a life of money and privilege and power, it was only fitting that his soul and heart should receive some kind of spiritual scrubbing. He feared, though, that the latter would more than likely burst under the unaccustomed strain, for a thick coating of sin was, doubtless, all that was holding it together. “All right,” he said, nodding. He bent his head, wondered why his eyes felt damp.
Albrecht took his hand, raised him to his feet. “But I'm not sure what penance to give you, Jacob.”
Jacob grinned, feeling again that wicked gleam in his eye. “That's all right, Excellency. I'll supply the penance. Or, rather, I'll supply the bargain.”
Albrecht looked puzzled. “Bargain?”
“A bargain. In good old Aldernacht style.” Jacob guided Albrecht to the table. Kneeling was for confession. Tables were for bargains. And he had a bargain indeed to strike with the bishop! “How would you like that cathedral of yours to be finished, Excellency?”
Albrecht stood, a little stunned. Jacob pushed him down into a chair, took a seat on the other side of the table. For the second time in a single day, he reflected wryly, he was sitting across from a church official. But this time the results were going to be considerably different.
“I . . . would like that very much,” said the bishop.
“Good.”
“But I'd want to help the wool cooperative first.”
Jacob stared. “You'd . . .”
Albrecht was unfazed. “They need it more than I. Furze needs it more than I. The cathedral is . . .” He shrugged sheepishly. “. . . my vanity, I'm afraid.”
“Uh . . . yes . . . of course.” Jacob felt almost dizzy in the presence of a man who was so undoubtedly good—or irredeemably mad. “Well, Paul and the others have probably been arrested by now. Siegfried wants the cooperative money as well as everything else.”
Albrecht paled, then turned red. “That . . . that bastard of a Teuton! That barbarian! We try to pull ourselves out of the mire, and all he can see is another chance to further the Inquisition! I . . . I mean, I'll . . .”
Jacob held up a hand, but, inwardly, he was pleased. So Albrecht was not quite the perfect saint after all. Well, that was just fine, because a man worked better with a little smolder of ire in him. “Hear me out, Excellency,” he said. “You'll be able to help the cooperative, take care of Furze . . .” He paused, smiled meaningfully. “. . .
and
get your cathedral.”
“Oh, come now, Jacob—”
“Hear me out.” Jacob shook off his last remaining doubts. Were he doing this out of piety, he would probably thereby ensure himself a place in Paradise. But piety had nothing to do with it, and so he was probably going to find himself in hell anyway. “I'm going to make you a wealthy man, Excellency. I'm going to make you the wealthiest man in Europe.”
Comprehension suddenly came to Albrecht, but it was a comprehension tinged with horror. “You . . . you can't mean that—”
“Be quiet,” Jacob snapped. “Listen. You'll be able to put Furze back on its feet—isn't that what you want?—and you'll be able to get your cathedral built, maybe even within your lifetime.”
“But—”
“Hush.” Jacob shoved his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. “This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to transfer ownership of my estate and my company—money, lands, factories, flocks, everything—to you.”
“But—”
“On two conditions.”
Albrecht stopped protesting, looked at Jacob carefully and (Jacob thought with a certain pleasure) shrewdly. “What conditions . . . my son?”
Jacob almost laughed. “You have to free Natil. And, I suppose, you have to clear me of heresy, otherwise, Siegfried gets everything by confiscation.”
Unexpected as they were, the conditions left Albrecht reeling. “Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose so,” he said distantly. “That would have to—” But he suddenly came to himself. “You're giving . . . everything?”
“Everything. You bring in Mattias, and I'll draw up the articles this afternoon.”
“But you can't do that, Jacob!”
Jacob was on his feet in an instant, feeling his frail heart laboring with excitement. His left arm ached again, but he fought down the pain. No, it was not time. He had things to do. He had to diddle his family, and then he had to diddle Siegfried of Madgeburg. And diddle them he would! “I certainly can,” he said. “I'm Jacob Aldernacht, and I'll do anything I damned well please!”
Albrecht stared at him for a time, stunned and mute. Then reason reasserted itself. “But I can't meet your conditions,” he said as though relieved. “I have no say in the workings of the Inquisition. Siegfried is beyond my control.”
Jacob smiled. “He's beyond mine, Excellency. But he's not beyond yours.”
“How am I supposed to do something that the popes themselves can't do?”
Jacob felt the gleam in his eye again. This was business. This was his life. Good shoes, a shrewd head, and money in your purse! In the name of God and profit!
He turned, strolled to the window, pulled open the heavy curtains. Sunlight spilled into the room, and the faint and rather half-hearted cries of the despondent street vendors came with it.
Furze. Impoverished Furze. Here, the wool cooperative toadied for gold, the Inquisition confiscated it, the people argued and fought and betrayed for it, the informers and guards and secretaries and officials and judges and jailers and torturers who inhabited the House of God all worked for their tiny allotment of it. And whatever they got was never enough.
“I'll show you how, Albrecht,” he said. “I'll show you how to do it. I'll draw up the papers, and Manarel and Mattias can witness them, and then I'll show you. All I ask after that is that you free Natil.”
“Free Natil!” cried the bishop. “God bless you, Jacob, I'll free everyone!”
“Whatever.” Jacob was looking down at the streets. In a few years, Furze would be a different city. Years? In an hour or two! “It's your money, after all.”
***
Dame Agnes, abbess of Shrinerock, was both distressed and bewildered by the sudden appearance at her gate of a band of armed men and a heavy wagon. The men, for that matter, seemed just as distressed and bewildered as the abbess, and looked like nothing so much as a troop of boys who had been caught smearing someone's door knocker with red paint.
Their leader attempted to make the best of it by assuming a manner that was, at once, both official and apologetic. “Sorry to disturb you, Abbess,” he said with a salute. “But we've got an order here to deliver this shipment to Shrinerock Abbey.” He jerked a thumb at the wagon, then squinted at the high wall and the tower of the abbey church. “This
is
Shrinerock Abbey, isn't it?”
“Yes, my good man, it is.” Agnes was breaking enclosure by talking to this burly soldier, but intuition told her that this was nothing that the old porter should handle, and in any case, breaking enclosure inevitably seemed to be a part of an abbess' job. Her nuns, however, every last one of them—with the exception of the new novice, Dinah—were leaning over the wall, gawking out of the windows, peering through lattices and cracks . . . and this really would not do. What would she say to Bishop Albrecht when next he came?”
“Well, then,” said the man. “Here we are.” He sat for a moment as though expecting instant comprehension on the part of the abbess. Comprehension, though, was not forthcoming. He sat a little longer, then fidgeted. “Aren't we?”
“What orders, sir? What shipment?”
“Well, Abbess, we were originally supposed to deliver it to Furze, but a messenger showed up on the road with a letter from our master, Jacob Aldernacht, saying to bring it here.” He dug into his pouch, brought out a letter cylinder. Its cut cords dangled and swung.
“Jacob Aldernacht? Here?” Agnes took the cylinder, unrolled and examined its contents. The name of Jacob Aldernacht was familiar to her, and the order did indeed specify Shrinerock Abbey. But it did nothing to clear up the mystery. “Why don't you . . .?”
She found herself staring up at the soldier. Having ridden up the mountain in the June sun, he was dusty and hot, but though his face was beaded with sweat, and though his mustache drooped, he was nonetheless a handsome fellow, and his arms were thick and strong and built, Agnes suddenly fancied, for encircling a maiden's waist.
She colored, swallowed, and . . .
Nichil est deterius tali vita,
Cum enim sim petulans et lasciva
. . . danced through her head. A handsome fellow indeed!
“Sir,” she said, pulling her wits together and making sure that she looked anywhere but at the soldier. “I don't doubt that your master has given you these orders, but I'm obliged to inform you that you simply can't—”
“Dame Agnes!” called a cheery voice from some distance down the road. “A moment, please! Dame Agnes! Oh, do not send them away! A moment, please!”
Agnes caught herself looking at the soldier again. “Ah . . . Mattias?”
Albrecht's head clerk came galloping up, clerical robes flying. “Oh, dear!” he said. “I had hoped to get here first. Everything is perfectly all right, Dame Agnes. Bishop Albrecht sends his blessings and his permission.”
“Permission?”
“To accept the shipment.” Mattias beamed down at her. If the soldiers had been painting the door knocker, then the head clerk had obviously been pilfering melons . . . and felt not a bit guilty about it.
Agnes stood before the gate as though to stem the advancing tide of masculinity that lapped at the cloisters. “Mattias,” she said, feeling not at all up to being a breakwater, “what exactly
is
this shipment.”
Mattias shrugged. “Ah . . . I am afraid—”
“
Mattias!
”
“Gold,” he said promptly.
Agnes was entirely awash. “Gold?”
The soldier spoke up. “One hundred thousand florins, ma'am.” He colored. “I mean, Abbess.”
“One hundred thou—”
“It is quite all right with the bishop,” said Mattias. “Really. He sent this . . .” And he thrust a sealed parchment at Agnes.
Mechanically, she broke the seals, forced her eyes to read. “One hundred thousand . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Florins, Dame Agnes.”
But it was all there in the letter, written in a hand that she recognized as Albrecht's own, sealed with the episcopal signet. Agnes and her nuns were to assume temporary guardianship of one hundred thousand gold florins. A certain sum was to be released immediately to Mattias, and the rest was to be dispensed as called for by either Albrecht himself or a properly credentialed deputy.
“One . . .” Agnes, used to counting out abbey finances in pennies and coppers, stumbled over the sum. “. . . hundred thousand florins.”
“In gold,” said Mattias brightly.
“What . . .” Agnes was becoming increasingly annoyed with herself. Could she not put on a more competent face for these men? “I mean, why . . .” Were nuns of the rule of Holy Benedict such nitwits that the appearance of a bunch of soldiers and a few chests of gold turned them into babbling hens? “I mean . . . by Our Lady . . .”
The soldier nodded to her. Yes, a handsome man . . . and (oh, God!) there it was again. “It's all right, Abbess,” he said. “The men will behave themselves. We'll just unload this wherever you want, and then we'll be off.”
“But . . .” Agnes gestured, speechless.
Mattias turned pointedly official. “Dame Agnes, do you have any particular objection to executing the orders of Bishop Albrecht?”
His tone and his words cleared Agnes's head in a moment. “Ah . . . thank you, Mattias. No, not at all.” She pretended to read both parchments over again, though she did not really see a word of either. “Well, everything appears to be in order here, sir,” she said without looking at the soldier. “I will, of course, accept the shipment. But I'm afraid that, despite your assurances, I'll have to ask you to unload the money outside. I'll have my nuns take it in. The abbey is not for men, and we are, after all . . .” She glanced up at the faces that were crowding forward at the windows and the lattices and atop the walls, spoke a little louder. “. . . enclosed.”