The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (15 page)

ABBOT FRANCESCO CHIARAMONTI was guardian of thirty-two souls in the ancient monastery overlooking the Spanish coast. This particular afternoon, his concerns focused on one of them. Turning away from the window, he looked at the ancient mosaics of the saints—Benedict, Gregory, and Peter—as the bishop sat in his chair, perusing the documents the abbot had now nearly memorized. St. Benedict looked heavenward, a book in his hand, believed to be the Rule he had written for his monks. Peter had his hands outstretched and his head bent down, with the keys to heaven in golden illumination hanging from his belt. Only Gregory looked straight ahead, his eyes facing the window, his halo seeming especially brilliant because it was in the right position for the sun to hit it just right. All of them were serene in expression—and yet, how they all had suffered. Beneath the altar in their very sanctuary was a reliquary with a tooth from Peter's head, which, by history's count, was resting in four different places. How were they, in death, so unaffected by their experiences in life?

“Where is he now?”

He was pulled from his reverie. “What,Your Excellency?”

“Where is the monk?”

“He is at the threshold of the oratory, of course.”

Bishop FernandoValerano of Oviedo removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “Does he know all of the charges laid before him?”

“I was not aware of the extent of them when he was excommunicated. The details should be fully explained and he should answer for them.”

“Do you think he will answer truthfully?”

“He will,Your Excellency. I have no doubt of that.”

“You have great faith in this monk who has disobeyed the Rule and lied to his elders in two different monasteries now.”

“This I will not deny,” he said. “Nonetheless, if we ask him, he will not lie. Especially now that he has been given time to meditate on his sins.”

The bishop did not look impressed, but the abbot had no way to impress him. Bishop Valerano did not know Brother Grégoire, and probably never would have known him, if not for this.

“Your Excellency,” the abbot said, “I do not think this situation will become any less untangled without the aid of the soul in question. I will not rely on stories on the wind.”

“Fine.” The bishop rose from the abbot's chair, and though he was a much younger man than the abbot, who was a former archbishop himself, he moved as if he were exhausted. “Then let us hear what your monk has to say for himself.”

As the bishop walked through the monastery, wearing his cap and miter, the monks bowed in reverence and hurried out of his way. The bishop and the abbot found Brother Grégoire where he was supposed to be, on the stone floor before the oratory, in silent prayer.

“Brother Grégoire,” the abbot said as they stood over him. “The charges laid against you should be heard again before your penance is decided.”

Because the abbot was old and hard of hearing, he had a bench brought for himself and the archbishop.

“As you know, we have information that a certain noblewoman was given 200 ducados for the distribution among the poor of this diocese. How we came upon this information is not relevant,” the bishop said, and the abbot resisted the urge to cross himself.
That poor noblewoman, thinking she was doing only good, had happened to mention it in conversation to her priest, who had then reported it to the bishop. “We now also have the confession of the man who delivered the money, a courier who had been hired before for similar purposes by a banker in Madrid. This, we have come to understand, was done at your command. Is this true, Brother Grégoire?”

“Yes,” Grégoire said, his first word in a day, since he had been sent into temporary excommunication.

“And you are in contact with this banker in Madrid? He is in your employ?”

“He is not in my employ,Your Excellency. He is in the employ of my brother, but he does carry out my requests as part of his employment.”

“Are you the owner of the money in this account?”

“I am.”

“And how much is it?”

Grégoire stopped to reflect. “I d-do not know, precisely. It should be—maybe f-four or five thousand English pounds.”

The abbot looked at the bishop, very aware of how his eyes reacted. His mouth must have been watering as he continued, “And this is your savings in Madrid?”

“No,Your Excellency. It is my yearly income.”

“For how many years?”

“This year alone,Your Excellency.”

“How is that possible?”

“My father, God rest his soul, left me a great deal of money in hopes that I would become a gentleman. When I told him before his death that it was my ambition to enter the church, he insisted that I have savings of my own.When I refused, he closed my access to them. They are sent to me every year, whether I want them or not.” Grégoire swallowed and continued. “The controller of this account is now my brother, his legitimate son. The account is in London, and every year he sends some of the interest to Madrid.”

“Did you have similar situations in your previous monasteries?”

“Yes.”

“Were the abbots aware of them?”

“In Mon-Claire, where I was only a novice, yes. When I took the cowl in Bavaria, no.”

“Why not?”

“My b-brother appealed to me not to.”

“Your brother is an Englishman?”

“Yes. Anglican.”

“Is he religious?”

Grégoire seemed to weigh his answer. “To the extent within his sphere that he can be, he is,Your Excellency.”

“Brother Grégoire,” the bishop continued, “are you aware of how much money is in your account in London?”

Grégoire flinched. “Roughly, Your Excellency.”

The abbot did not think this was relevant, but he would not raise this issue here. He wanted to see how it affected the bishop.

“How much is it?” the bishop asked.

“It is—fifty thousand pounds,Your Excellency.”

The abbot sighed for all of them, giving Bishop Valerano time to drool. Even to Valerno, a bishop from a noble Spanish family, and Chiaramonti, an abbot from a well-off Roman family, this was an extensive fortune. When he finally recovered, the bishop said, “Father Abbot, do you have the brother's petition?”

“I do.”The only reason he had it ready was because it was necessary to perjure Grégoire; otherwise it remained locked in a box beneath the altar with the rest of the brothers' petitions. He unrolled it. “Brother Grégoire, you do not need to be reminded that this is your petition to join the Brotherhood of St. Benedict, and your promise to obey the Rule to all of its extent. This includes the chapter about giving all of your worldly possessions to charity upon taking the cowl, or presenting them to the church to do such. In this case, I feel we may consider your said ‘income' to be a gift from your brother to you because you have no legal control over it.
However, you seem to have forgotten what you wrote here, which is that you would present all gifts to myself for approval and any money would be dispersed by the church, and not by you.”

“Yes, Father. I know, Father.”

“Your wealth is not your own, and so you testified in Bavaria and again here in Spain, and both times it was not true. Did you fail to understand the Rule, Brother Grégoire?”

“No, Father. I was in error. I should not have done so.”

“The Rule is not to be taken lightly, Brother,” he said, more insistently.

“I know, Father.”

“Did you not trust the church to manage its own wealth and give it appropriately to charity?” the bishop interrupted. “Do you believe the words of a heretic over the Vicar of Christ?”

Each sentence seemed to fall like a blow on the monk before them. “Your Excellency, my brother—he is not a heretic.”

“You said yourself he is a member of the Church of England, which denies the supremacy of Rome.”

“That is true, and in our eyes, he is. But he does not believe he is, and he is my brother. I will not slander him.”

“But by protecting him, you—”

“Your Excellency,” Abbot Francesco interrupted. “This—Señor Darcy is not on trial here. His soul is not our concern. I will not ask Brother Grégoire to speak ill of his own family.”

Grégoire glanced up with red eyes only briefly before bowing his head again.

“You will write the banker in Madrid,” the bishop said, “and tell him to send the five thousand pounds to the abbot, who will distribute it himself.Then we will discuss the rest of your ‘inheritance.'”

“Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I promised my brother I wouldn't.”

“You promised him you would not give your money to the church?”

Grégoire could not seem to bring himself to speak. Instead, he only nodded.

“You did not swear an oath,” the abbot said, hoping it was not true.

“I did, Father. I am sorry, Father.”

“Brother Grégoire, you cannot swear contradictory oaths!”

Grégoire fell on his face. “Please,Your Excellency, Father Abbot, do not make me choose between my father's wishes and the Holy Father's! Please, have mercy on this sinner!”

The bishop was going to say something, but Brother Grégoire was the abbot's charge. “Brother Grégoire,” the abbot said, standing up to tower over his monk, “you have sworn falsely, you have deceived the church, and you have disobeyed the Rule in writing and in action, knowing full well what you were doing. However, you told me previously that you wished to repent fully. However, I must punish you, so that you may see your error, as St. Benedict prescribed. Today, you will return to your cell, and take bread after the rest of your brothers. Your excommunication stands and you will remain in silence until tomorrow, when you will submit to the discipline of the Rule. Then you will write to your brother, explaining the situation, and beg to be relieved of your oath. From there, we will go forward with the financial matters that remain.” He put his hand on Grégoire's head. “Have faith in Christ, who has forgiven greater sins.You may go.”

“Thank you, Father. Your Excellency.” He bowed again and, holding his rosary tightly, hurried off to his cell, passing other brothers, who were forbidden to look at him.

The heaviness that had descended upon Abbot Francesco did not lift as they returned to his office, the bishop once again taking the abbot's chair and leaving the abbot to stand. “I will call for a doctor. I want him on hand tomorrow.”

“What about the funds?”

“You had best forget about them, beyond the five thousand in Madrid. And even there, you are chasing a ghost,” the abbot said. “His brother will freeze his assets as soon as he hears of this, if he has not already.The banker in Madrid is an Englishman.”

“Who is his brother?”

“Aristocracy, I believe. He owns land in the north of England.” He paced, hoping it would relieve the pain in his heart. It did not. “I have allowed Brother Grégoire to visit him twice since taking the cowl here. He is attached to his English family.”

“Even though he is a Frenchman.”

“Yes. It seems Grégoire is the child of the elder Señor Darcy—his father—and a French maid. She was sent home to have the child, who was named after someone else in the family, presumably. Despite his illegitimacy, Grégoire was acknowledged by both his blood father and his half-brother, the heir to the fortune. He also has a half-sister he is very fond of, now married to a Scottish earl,” he said. “Grégoire has admitted to me that his brother and sister tried to persuade him from a life in the church many times, before he took his final vows and after the monastery in Bavaria was dissolved. They begged him to enter the Church of England, but he refused. He wanted the contemplative life and would settle for nothing else. He has been a pious monk and perhaps the greatest apothecary our monastery has ever seen. He has saved any number of lives with medical knowledge he picked up in England. And he is all humility.”

“He is also quite wealthy.”

“Yes.” The abbot put his hand on his head. “There is that. We will not ask him to choose between the church and his family. Some deal will be reached with the brother and this will all pass.”

But something told him it wouldn't.

“Darcy, you're kicking me.”

That brought him out of his sleep. Or at least, it brought him to more awareness, for he had not been asleep for some time. He had woken in the middle of the night and had not been able to return to sleep, and tossed and turned to the point of accidentally kicking his wife. “I am sorry,” he mumbled, kissing her nearest available limb. It turned out to be her shoulder.