The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (2 page)

Grégoire hadn't even seen Prior Pullo's approach. He had been consumed by his gardening, and his wide straw sun hat blocked most of his vision of the world above the soil. “I am at the abbot's disposal,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and setting his tools aside. The patch was coming along nicely, despite the heat; the fauna seemed to have more of a resistance to the Spanish summer than he did.

Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy had worn the cowl eight years now as a Benedictine, with the past four spent in the ancient monastery on the hilltop in Vila de Bares on the Iberian coast. He had thought he might feel lost in his new surroundings. But he had been born in France and had already lived in England and Bavaria, so he knew how to make himself at home. At home was the Rule and the daily rhythms of monastic life, which had been in place for centuries. Some came to run from the world, but he had come to give his life to God. That his accent was different, that he was used to colder climates, or that he was the bastard mix of an English gentleman and his French maid could not stand between Grégoire and the contemplative life in this place

He went happily to the abbot, a kindly old monk who had been appointed by Rome and who would keep his seat until his death
or reassignment. Beneath him was Prior Pullo, who did not have the same smile for Grégoire that the others had, despite what he owed him. Grégoire had been offered the position as brother prior the year before, and turned it down. He was not a political animal, and he had the sense to see that path for what it was and avoid it.

It was a long walk up the steep hill to the abbey gates, where he deposited his laughably wide hat and followed the brother prior, taking on a more serious air. Behind the door he sought was a man of great stature and spiritual insight, and he wanted to look at least as though he had not had his robes trailing in the soil. It was not to be. The abbot would take no note of such material concerns, no? How foolish of him to think otherwise.

Grégoire was still chastising himself as he entered. The abbot's office was not particularly grand, but the twelfth-century fresco of saints never failed to astound him in their medieval beauty.

“Father.”

“Brother Grégoire,” he replied, nodding for the brother to take a seat. The abbot had a busy schedule and this was not the confessional, so he was politely to the point. “There is a rumor on the wind.”

“I am not much for rumors, Father.You must enlighten me.”

The abbot smiled in a sad sort of way. “It is concerning your conduct with the Valencia house visit.”

“I am at a loss, Father.” His mind was truly blank. “Is Pablo all right? Has something happened?”

“No, the child is doing quite well, or so I am told.”

“Blessed be the Lord,” Grégoire said, and crossed himself. This left him to guess, and he did not like to guess. “If this is about the christening, the father was so very insistent that his son would relapse and be damned—” but the abbot raised his hand. This was not the problem.

“You were authorized to perform that christening, and it was overdue.” From the day of his birth, Pablo was so ill and covered with sores that the priest was afraid to go near him, much less christen
him. It was only during Grégoire's third visit and increasing insistence that the child had recovered enough for the ceremony had the priest been convinced, and Grégoire had been honored to hold the baby for the ceremony so that it could be performed that very night, so late it was almost morning, and save the child from the fires of hell. “The question on some people's minds is how the child was restored to health so quickly.”

Still not understanding the situation, Grégoire said,“On the first visit I bathed the child with soap, which had not been done before. He was still very yellow, so I put him in the sun for several hours, as I heard that the sun's rays have restorative effects on a child. On the second visit, he was less so, but he still had the blotches, and I happened to inquire as to where his blanket had been made. His mother said it had been made for her previous child, a girl who had died within days of her birth. I thought it best that they discard the blanket, and they agreed. I bathed him again. The next day, he was restored.”

“So I have heard.”

“Is…there something wrong with that, Father?”

“Please close the door, Brother Grégoire.”

Increasingly uneasy, Grégoire did so, and returned to his seat.

The abbot sat up. “There are people who are calling the child's recovery a miracle. I am seeking the source of these rumors.”

This is the first I've heard of them,” he said. “Yes, it was a wondrous act of God to return the infant to health. But I believe it was merely a matter of a blanket giving a newborn a rash. I would not call it a miracle, Father.”

“Neither would I, though the Good Lord's help is needed in every act, even the most simple.” The abbot rubbed his chin. “However, this is not the first case of a quick recovery under your care.”

Grégoire swallowed. “Father, I cannot apologize for something that I was sent to do. Nor do I understand why I must.”

“You are wiser in the ways of God than in the ways of the world. Although this is generally beneficial, I do not think it aids you
here,” the abbot said.“Grégoire, the people are willing to believe in miracles—but the word is a precarious one when constantly mentioned concerning one person.”

“Father, I did not mean—”

“I know very well what you meant and what you didn't. However, the people may not see it with the same eyes. I wish to protect you from what you will bring upon yourself—or at least make you aware of it. The choice is before you then—whether to continue your visits with the potential of gaining a reputation, for good or ill.”

He did not hesitate. “Father, if I am the most qualified to work with the ill and infirm, then it would be most beneficial for everyone involved for me to do so.”

“And you are willing to face the consequences?”

“There cannot be bad consequences for doing good work.”

The abbot smiled. “It is not for us to know what the consequences of our actions will be.”

Grégoire colored, humbly lowering his head. “Forgive me. I do not presume to imagine myself in such a position—”

“Of course not. I will give you time to contemplate your decision. Do not presume lions to be lambs before you throw yourself to them.”

Walking always settled Grégoire's mind, and unsettled it was. As simply spoken as the abbot had been, the subtlety had not been missed. To be a good monk was one thing. To be a miracle worker was another. “Lord in Heaven,” he said, “let me not lead the people toward idolatry.”

After Vespers, the air began to cool, but it was not dark yet, and would not be so for a few hours. He set out immediately after supper. He liked the abbey grounds very much. Some fields were sown and some were untouched wilderness. There was a point, not far away, where one could see the coast, and smell the salt in the air.

Little houses populated the area near the cliffs.The residents had lived there for generations, perhaps believing the air to be beneficial, and they worked the abbey lands beyond what the monks themselves could do for a good wage, often in kind. He had been in almost every home and knew almost every family. It was impossible not to.

“Brother Gregory!” someone called out. He turned to see the approach of Señor Diaz, a carpenter responsible for most of the new wooden construction in the abbey. He spoke nothing but Spanish, like most of the people in the area. “Why are you out so late?”

“There is light yet,” he said, bowing.“Señor Diaz, how are you?”

“I am well, thank God.”

“And your wife?Your daughters?” Diaz had three daughters.

“They are all well.” Diaz slapped him on the shoulder, and Grégoire was good at hiding his wince. “Brother, will you carry a message to the abbot? I will tell you first that it is not good news.”

“The abbot is an understanding man,” Grégoire said. “What is the matter?”

“I am supposed to build the new pews for the chapel, to replace the ones that were eaten by mites last winter. But I do not know how I can do it. The price of the wood the abbey requires is so high—”

“I am sure the abbey will reimburse you for the expense, Señor.”

“It is not just that. I will have to travel all the way to Oviedo for the wood, and I do not have the time or the money.You know the storm we had at the beginning of the spring? The very beginning? Right before the days of rain?”

“Yes.”

Señor Diaz seemed to be pleading with him. “They destroyed so many houses—I am so busy rebuilding them.”

“Business is good for you, then. I am sure the pews can wait. It is only a few that were damaged. Helping the people is more important.”

“Yes, but the people have no money to pay me, and I cannot work for free. I am the only carpenter here—I am exhausted. I do not know what I am going to do.”

“You say the families are in financial distress?” Grégoire said

“Yes—not for food but for stable roofs. Just yesterday, Señora Alvarado's kitchen roof caved in. She was fortunate to be in the other room, or she might have been killed.”

“Why did you not inform the abbot? It is not fair for good people to be without shelter while we live in a castle.”

Diaz looked relieved. “I am glad you see it that way, but the abbey already feeds us—we cannot ask for more. I am sorry, but we have our pride.”

Grégoire nodded. “I see.” He put a hand gently on Diaz's shoulder. “Trust in God, Señor. I assure you that you need not worry about the pews or acquiring the wood.”

“Thank you, Brother Grégoire.”

He bowed. “I have done little to earn your thanks. But now I must return for Compline. Go with God, Señor Diaz.”

“Go with God, Brother Gregory.”

He smiled and was on his way.Already a plan was forming in his mind, distracting him from his earlier conversation with the abbot. The families on the coast were in financial distress, but if the abbey gave them the money to rebuild, their pride would be injured. (And Grégoire knew enough about pride from his brother.)

But then there was his ten thousand pounds, most of which lay at his disposal for the year. The English pound was strong, and only a tiny fraction would cover all of their expenses in rebuilding their homes. The abbey did not know about it; Darcy had advised Grégoire to tell the abbey when he was in Bavaria and again before he had left for Spain. Grégoire had seen the wisdom in that. Besides, Benedictines, unlike his previous order, were not averse to dealing with wealth. The only matter was to contact his banker in Madrid and figure out a way to distribute the money anonymously, but by
the time he returned to the abbey, he already had some idea of how to go about that.

Feeling considerably more settled, he sang with his brothers at Compline and was dismissed. It was eight, and in seven hours he would be woken for morning prayers and another day. He was hot and tired from the day's work and the walk, and in the privacy of his cell, he removed his cowl and robe, and then painfully removed the vest beneath it. He cleaned away the blood—caked in some areas and wet in others—and then rubbed a lotion over his chest, where the damage from the cilicium—the hairshirt—was most severe. His back was too scarred from previous injuries to be much affected. After the soothing balm set in, he found an easy sleep. He was at peace with the world around him.

CHAPTER 2

“YOU SEE?” MAHMUD SAID as his servant fired the rifle, which emitted only a large sound and smoke but no bullet. “I cannot make it work. This it does, every time. I am afraid to do it myself. Nizam has burned his hands several times.”