Authors: Gael Baudino
Albrecht's hand burned. His arm felt ready to rip free at the shoulder. “Siegfried! Listen to me! Save yourself!”
But Siegfried, hanging only by a single torn sleeve, was still staring. “I . . . I see,” he whispered. “I see.”
“Siegfried!”
And then, suddenly, the sleeve gave way, and Siegfried was gone. His eyes shut tight, Albrecht put his head on the stone floor, heard the pounding of his heartbeats in the terrible silence: one, two, three . . . He counted up to ten before the silence was broken.
Shaking then, nearly sick, he crawled away from the drop, each breath a new stab of pain. He had put his hands to his face before he realized that he was still clutching Siegfried's sleeve.
He started to cast it aside, but something rustled in it, and, still in shock, he fumbled into the cloth and withdrew a rolled parchment. The black writing, dark as Siegfried's eyes, stared up at him in the bright sunlight.
In nomine Domini amen. Hec est quedam conedmnatio corporalis et sententia condemnationis
. . .
His eyes flickered down to the bottom of the sheet.
Idcirco, dictum Jacobem vocatum Aldernactem hereticum et scismaticum quod ducator ad locum iustitie consuetum, et ibidem igne et flammis
. . .
It was all in order. There was no date.
Albrecht bent his head, crumpled the parchment. “Boom,” he murmured softly. “Boom.” And then, ignoring the pain in his chest, he wept like a child who had been beaten.
Albrecht was right: things eventually settled down.
Jacob stayed on in Furze as assistant and advisor, for not even the experienced and cosmopolitan Mattias knew much about managing such huge sums as were now controlled by the bishop. Then, too, someone had to contend with Jacob's family, for Francis and Claire, childless and grieving though they were, were nonetheless not at all inclined to let Jacob sign away the family fortune without a shred of protest.
But it was all numbers and words to Jacob, for as he had ceased to feel any connection, real or remembered, between himself and his money, so the complaints and threats of the nerveless couple in Ypris did not move him. Alternately laughing and snorting, he read Francis's letters aloud as Albrecht wrung his hands and paced the floor, but—perhaps fittingly—he replied to his son with the businesslike objectivity of a stranger. To be sure, Bishop Etienne was eventually trotted out with letters and documents attesting to Jacob's mental instability, but after Francis had thusly played his highest card, Albrecht put an end to the game with a solemn declaration that the Aldernacht patriarch was, and had always been, perfectly sane. And Albrecht's word was good and true: after all, Albrecht had money.
By far, though, the largest part of Jacob's efforts went into the Furze economy, which was by now reeling like a drunkard under the influence of an excess of gold. He made sure that the remainder of the hundred thousand florins was distributed equitably and reasonably among the men and women of the city, and his personal letters to northern merchants ensured that, within a week, there were goods to be bought in the marketplace—checking thereby the rapid rise in prices caused by too much money and not enough to spend it on. The people of Furze, for the most part, were a cautious lot—if poverty had not taught them prudence, the Inquisition certainly had—and after an initial burst of overindulgence, they resumed an appropriate degree of thrift.
Albrecht was adamant: the wool cooperative would be taken care of before he would even think of starting any work on the cathedral. And so, with a sour sounding “It's your money” accompanied by a secret smile of approval, Jacob countersigned a draft on the Aldernacht accounts that quickly produced everything necessary to equip a nascent wool industry. Seed money, flocks, machinery: it was all there.
The cooperative being sound then, Albrecht gave his approval for laborers to begin construction, and by September, the bishop and the benefactor were watching from a safe distance as the big windlass took the first of the heavy roof beams up into the air. It lifted off, swung for a moment, then straightened; and at a shout from the master architect—a student of the great Alberti, no less!—it ascended without mishap and was pegged into place.
“They'll be working right up to the first snows,” said Jacob. “But you'll have a roof on the apse for the winter.”
Albrecht was nodding, obviously pleased. “We'll have Christmas mass in that part of the cathedral,” he said. “It will be cold, but it will be wonderful. And the glassmakers showed me their designs yesterday. Beautiful.” But as he looked up toward the triforium gallery, he frowned suddenly, and his eyes turned pained.
“Excellency?”
“It's nothing. Just . . .”
“Siegfried.”
“Yes.” The bishop passed a hand over his face. “I can't help but think that if I'd tried a little harder—just a little harder—I might have saved him.”
Jacob still wished that he had been able to slam the Inquisitor's face into the desk once or twice more. “I think he got what he deserved.”
Albrecht shook his head. “Nobody deserves that.”
“You're right, Excellency.” Jacob shoved his spectacles up with a scowl. “Nobody deserves that.”
Albrecht did not reply.
The rope from the windlass came down. Another beam went up.
Albrecht shook his head bemusedly. “Alexander sent a message the other day. He's heard about Siegfried's death and want to know if we need another Inquisitor.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“I'm going to tell him no.”
Jacob scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Think that'll be the end of it?”
Albrecht smiled. “I've learned quite a lot from you, Jacob. I intend also to tell His Holiness that I'll be making a contribution to his building fund. He's thinking about restoring Rome, you know.”
“Oh . . .” Jacob nodded, keeping his eyes on the ascending beam. “Yes, I'd heard about that. A large contribution?”
“Yes. Very.”
“I think that'll be the end of it, then.”
“I think so, too.”
More beams. The nave was walled in nothing but daylight, but the apse was closing up nicely, as though to foretell the beauty of the completed structure. Like Furze, the cathedral was pulling itself together, taking shape. The future looked promising . . . because of money.
“It'll be a nice church,” said Jacob.
“We have you to thank for that,” said Albrecht.
Jacob waved the thanks away. “If you hadn't kept the idea of the cathedral alive, Excellency, it wouldn't be here to finish.” He folded his arms. “What are you going to call it, anyway?”
“Well,” said Albrecht, “I'd always thought it would be the Cathedral of Our Lady of Furze, but . . .” He fell silent. “But it's not just Furze anymore, is it? I mean . . . oh, dear God, I've been talking with David a'Freux too much. He's been going on about nations and all. Our Lady of Adria sounds good, I guess, but that still isn't right. After all, money is coming in from all over Europe.”
“All over the world, Excellency,” said Jacob. “There's Turk gold and Tatar gold and African gold in your coffers along with everything else.”
“Yes.” Albrecht was still rather dazed by the strangeness of wealth. “Well, you see my point.”
“Master!” came a clear voice. “Your Excellency!”
Jacob smiled broadly, for a slender woman was coming toward them along the length of what would someday be the nave. Her cloak was a strange patchwork of fabric adorned with beads and feathers, and an eagle feather fluttered from a single braid in her dark hair. She waved with her one free hand, for in the other she carried a small harp.
Like Jacob, Natil had stayed on in Furze. But where her former master had worked with money and words, the harper had labored among the casualties of the Inquisition, supplementing the efforts of the physicians with harp and song. And, true, she did indeed appear to have some uncanny abilities, for those who listened to her seemed to recover from their wounds more quickly than might be expected. And there was at least one instance of a completely useless limb suddenly regaining feeling after a particularly long immersion in her melodies.
She greeted the men as friends: with a hand and a smile. “It is a lovely day,” she said, and Jacob heard, as always, music in her voice. A lovely day, and a lovely woman. That was Natil. That was just the way she was.
They had never again mentioned Edvard and Norman.
“A lovely day,” said Albrecht. “It is indeed.”
Jacob looked up. Autumn, he suspected, was going to be wet and cold, and there were dark cloudsoff to the west. “It won't be for long.”
“How are the patients, child?” said Albrecht.
“By the grace of the Lady,” she said, “they are well. The last is going home today. He still has no legs . . .” And a look crossed her face that told Jacob—and he had no idea why he was so sure of it—that she was absolutely convinced that she
should
have been able to do something about those legs, that the fact that she had not was a personal and all but unforgivable failing. “. . . but he has a family, and he has hands that can still work leather . . .” She smiled sadly. “. . . and he no longer dreams so much of the dungeon and the rats and the water.”
Another beam was going up. The architect, standing on the ground, pointed. The supervisor, up in the gallery, shrugged. The architect shook his fist and ran for the stairs.
“That's the last of the Inquisition, then,” said Jacob.
Natil nodded. But then she stood silently, holding her harp, fidgeting.
Jacob was suddenly uneasy. “You didn't just come to tell us about the patients, did you, Natil?”
“I did not.” She dropped her eyes. “I have come to take my leave.”
As he had feared. For an instant, Jacob felt deserted, and angry. But those emotions faded quickly, for they belonged to someone who had bought and sold people as though they were wool or houses or furniture. Nonetheless, as dismayed as any man by the immanent loss of someone he loved, he reached out to her. “Natil!”
“My work in Furze is finished.” She took his hand. “There is nothing left for me to do here.”
“But . . . we'd all assumed that you'd be staying, Natil. With as much gold as is going to be coming into town, you'll be paid well for your harping.”
“But it is not to be paid well that I harp,” she said simply.
Albrecht spoke, his voice grieved. “We would like you to stay, child. I think everyone in Furze would like you to stay.”
Natil nodded. “I know. And a part of me shares their feelings. But . . . I have tasks . . .”
“What kind of tasks?”
She shook her head softly. The eagle feather fluttered. “I will know them when I find them.”
Albrecht nodded slowly, unwillingly, and then he opened his arms and—a little stiffly, because his ribs still pained him—embraced her. “Well, if you must go, you must. I won't argue. But you have our thanks, Natil. Wherever you go, you have our deepest thanks.”
Natil kissed his gray cheek. But: “I would have one other thing of you, Excellency,” she said. And when she stepped back, she went down on one knee. “I would have your blessing.”
Albrecht looked rather as though he thought it more fitting that Natil give blessings rather than receive them. “But—”
“Please, Excellency. After all that has happened . . .” And something in her tone told Jacob that she was referring to much more than the Inquisition of Furze. “. . . it is important that our peoples be reconciled in some way. For at least this hour, or even this moment.”
“Our peoples?” The bishop was bewildered. “But I don't understand.”
“Please,” said Natil. “I have give you my music. Will you now . . .” She looked sad. “Please.”
Still obviously puzzled, Albrecht lifted his hands. “May the blessing of Almighty God—the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—descend upon you, Natil, and remain with you forever.”
She bent her head. “My thanks.”
But as though unwilling to really allow her to depart, Albrecht dropped his hands to cradle her head while he bent to kiss her crown . . .
. . . and then he froze, staring.
Natil looked up at him. “Be at peace, Albrecht.”
The bishop's face had gone white. “Then . . .” He could not seem to find words. “. . . what Wenceslas said . . .”
“Was true, beloved. More true than you thought.”
Pale, almost shaking, Albrecht released her and bowed low. “Our thanks, Natil. Our deepest, deepest thanks.”
“Blessings.” She stood up in the sunlight. “I will make a few good-byes to friends in the city, and then I will leave. I will be gone by evening.”
Jacob felt bereft. “Not even another night?”
“Not even that.”
Albrecht was still, unaccountably, shaken. “We'll . . . miss you. I'd hoped that you'd see the cathedral finished.”
Natil was calm. “I do not know if I will see it,” she admitted. “But I have seen you.” She smiled wistfully. “And therefore am I satisfied.”
Albrecht spoke quickly, then, as though afraid that she would turn away and vanish. “Just one thing more, Natil. Just one thing more. I . . . I was wondering—that is, Jacob and I were wondering—what to call the cathedral. It was going to be Our Lady of Furze.”
“A good name,” said the harper.
“But it's not quite . . . right. What's your suggestion?”
“Oh, my dear bishop, it's not my place to—”
“Natil, I ask one who may well know best. What would the old delMaris have called it? What would Blessed Wenceslas have called it?”
And to Jacob's surprise, Natil smiled without a trace of sadness. “I cannot say for certain,” she said, “but if you called it Our Lady of the Stars, I do not think that the dead—or the living—would think it uncomely.”
Albrecht looked at her for the better part of a minute. Finally: “A wise choice . . . harper.” He nodded. “So it shall be.”
Natil bowed, offered a hand to Jacob. He took it, but he shook his head. “You come back after you say your good-byes, girl,” he said. “I want to escort you out of town.” He peered at her in mock suspicion. “You ran off without permission once before: I'm giving you a chance to make up for it.”