The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (43 page)

Following the River Boyne, Grégoire slowly made his way to Brú na Bóinne, called Quarters of the Boyne in English. It had no Christian significance, but he knew that there was God's glory in any beautiful sight.

There was no guide. So he wandered alone among the stone tombs, with their intricate carvings of spirals and knots.

He had once had a theological discussion with the abbot in Bavaria. “What about all the souls that came before Christ? Was it only the Israelites who were saved, or all people?”

“Our Lord God spoke to other people before he sent his son to earth. Even before Abraham, he gave Noah laws. If people followed them, they went to heaven.”

“What if they had never heard of Noah? Did God speak to other people we don't know about?”

The abbot answered, “Everyone knew Noah. He was the only one to survive the Flood!”

“Of course! Thank you, Father!”

Grégoire smiled at the memory as he sat on the grass before a burial mound. It had all been so simple, the answers all waiting for him.
I should have asked about the people who came before the Flood!
he thought, and slapped his leg in amusement.

He wandered south, chasing ruin after ruin of worlds that had passed on. There was Boyle Abbey, the monastery of Clonmacnoise, and finally he went east again to see the Jerpoint Abbey, another Cistercian abbey founded after the Norman invasion.The structure still stood in stone, without windows and with a new floor of grass. He was hardly the only tourist there. He silently said the words along with the guide as the man laid out the
Carta Caritatis
(Charter of Love)'s basic principles—obedience, poverty, chastity, silence, prayer, and work.With disappointment, Grégoire noted that he fulfilled only one or two of those principles, prayer and perhaps work. He nevertheless felt calmed by the beautiful structure, covered in moss and ivy.

Upon leaving the grounds, he felt a certain despair—he had seen many relics and ruins, but had he learned anything? Had his time been well spent?

He wandered north, unconsciously heading back to Dublin, stopping at inns as he went, occasionally staying with a family or out in the open. He had been traveling for more than a month when he stopped at a house in a small farming community and asked if there were any religious sites around. He would offer to do chores for a meal. He would chop wood and milk cows, and sometimes he would stay the night.

At this particular house, he inquired after any churches around, or places of interest, as he had already missed High Mass. The small structure housed a working family—a husband and wife and several children running around behind them. The father introduced himself as Mr. O'Muldoon.

“There's ruins out back,” he said, pointing. “In de woods. Yeh can't miss de wee stone tower.”

He thanked them and left, wandering into the forest. This was the place where legends had it that fairies roamed, but he did not believe in such nonsense. It was starting to rain, so he was nearly in despair as he spotted the little enclosure that might have once been
a church tower. It was no more than what had probably been the nave of a church, but some of the stone arch was preserved even if the back was not, so that he could sit beneath it and be dry. There were, he noticed now, lumps of fallen stones elsewhere in the grass, with dirt over them. This site had been long abandoned, but tonight, it would be his home.

As the rain came down, he lit his only candle and set it carefully in the corner, on the stone floor. There was something there. Taking the candle in one hand, he began to wipe away the grime and dirt to find a tiny mosaic portraiture of some saint, not clearly defined but recognizable for his traditional tonsure and golden halo. He had a staff in one hand and his other hand pointed with one finger in some direction. Was it Patrick? It was probably Patrick. He crossed himself. “It is just you and me tonight,” he said to the saint, and began Vespers. Afterward, he ate a little black bread. After Compline, he extinguished the candle and drifted off to sleep. The rain had let up, but he was hardly going wandering through the wet woods at night, so he rested his head on his sack and slept.

When he woke for Vigils it was sudden, and the candle was lit again. Had he not put it out? It was thick enough to not be burned down. In a haze he sat up, and stared at the saint.
He's pointing.

Grégoire barely remembered saying prayers or going back to sleep. He woke for Lauds and it was light out. The candle was out, and had not burned down, and it was dry and sunny, but the saint was still pointing. “Thank you,” he said, crossing himself, and projected the exact angle of the finger in the mosaic set in stone. It led to a path—not the one he had used to get there, but one going in a similar direction.

He left the woods hungry. He was out of food, having not thought to acquire it from the O'Muldoons. When he stepped onto the dirt path, he tried to point himself according to the saint's direction.

His stomach was growling terribly when an hour had passed and he came upon a small, isolated house with smoke coming from the chimney. There were also some chickens running around, and
he heard the bell of a cow from behind the wooden building.There was some attempt at a vegetable garden on the right side, but the crops were not doing well.

Grégoire readjusted his satchel, which hung over his shoulder and by his side instead of on his back, and stepped up the stairs to the porch and front door. “Hello?” His hand was still on the door from the knock when it pulled back to reveal a woman with strawberry blonde hair, long and straight, standing there as if she had been expecting him. Clearly, she had seen his approach.

“'Ill yeh be 'avin' sumt'in'?” she said, arms crossed.

“I am terribly sorry,” he said, bowing, “but I will gladly perform some labor for you if you would feed this hungry pilgrim.”

She looked him over—he could not be anything
but
a strange Christian pilgrim in his odd dress. “We don't 'av any grub.”

“You—you have a cow. I could milk it for you.”

“Dat coy 'asn't given me milk in days,” she said. She stood mainly in darkness, her house unlit, but he could tell she was thin. “We don' even have any fuel for de fire ta cook yer food.”

“I could chop wood,” he said. “If you have an axe.”

“For what? For free? I told yeh—we don' have any food!”

He stepped back. “I'm sorry.” He lowered his eyes, looking down at her bare feet. “I'm doing penance. Let me cut some wood for you and I'll be on my way.” She needed it more than he did. He had a sack of coins in a pouch under his shirt.

“Yeh're doin' things for free now?”

“St. Benedict said that work was a form of prayer,” he said, trying to give her whatever answer she needed to accept his offer.

That one seemed to work. “There's 'n axe in de back, in de shed, I t'ink.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

There was plenty of wood—trees had fallen down everywhere and had been left uncut. He didn't know who else was living in that house, but they were clearly incapable of manual labor. He worked until his back began to ache, which coincided nicely with
Sext, when he took a break and surveyed his work. He had cut enough firewood for several weeks. Perhaps that was why he was so exhausted. He leaned back and closed his eyes. If he nodded off, at least there was an axe by him.

“I got sum milk,” the woman announced, and he opened his eyes to her standing over him, blocking the sun. “Guess de coy jist needed rest.”

He nodded and stood up, but he needed his staff to do it. “I'm sorry,” he said, as she looked surprised by his apparent exhaustion. “I refuse to accept my own limitations.” He limped back with her to the house, where he was finally permitted entrance.

It seemed to have only two rooms—a bedroom and the main room, which was much larger. “Does anyone else live here?”

“No,” she said. “But I 'av ter say dat when fierce quare men cum ter me door.”

“Common sense,” he said, taking a seat at the half-broken table. One leg was missing and a stump held it up. “I'm sorry. My name is Grégoire Bellamont.”

“Yeh expect me ta pronounce dat?”

He smiled. “I can't pronounce Irish, so we're even.You can call me Gregory.” He took the offered cup of milk and drank it hungrily.

“I loike it. It's exotic. Gray
ware
.”

He chuckled. “Your accuracy is stunning, Miss—”

“Caitlin. MacKenna.”

“Miss MacKenna.”

“Yeh sound so proper—but yer not English, yer French.”

“Born in France. My father's English. He…had an affair with his maid.” The last made her chuckle and spit out her milk, which made him laugh.

“So wha yeh live?”

“Raised in France, went to England, and then Bavaria, and then Spain, and then went home to England…and now here. Why? I just try to walk in God's path.”

“Yeh soun' loike a priest.”

“I used to be a monk.”

“You left de church?”

“The church left me.”

She did not inquire after that. It was too loaded a question. “Well, dere's nuthin' special out here.”

“There are some ruins in the woods about a mile back.”

“Really? I don'—I don' wander around.” She took his empty cup from him and refilled it. “Suppose you'll want ter know wha' me family is.”

“I met the O'Muldoons,” he said, “but they didn't mention you.”

“Noice couple. Laddies are screamers, but not really brutal.”

He nodded.

“Jaysus, yer polite.”

“Do you want me to be otherwise?”

“It makes me unaisy.”

He looked down at his cup and then up at her again. “How far along are you?”

The question did not strike her as hard as he had thought it would, but she did look as though something had hit her. “T'ree months.”

He nodded.

“Am I showin'?” She wore a shapeless, ratty blue gown.

“No, but you keep putting your hand over your stomach.”

She laughed. It was nice to hear. “Yer a smart bugger.” She poured the last of the milk into her cup and sat down across from him. “Me ma and pa didn't approve whaen we said we wud git married. Wanted nothing ta do wit' me. And he didn' want nothing to do wit' me, either.” She put a hand over her forehead, blocking eye contact. “He bought me some medicine ta get rid of it. I said no.”

He crossed himself, but only gestured for her to continue.

“So he kicked me out. But he gave me a wee nicker for de road, an' I bought dis gaff wi' it.” She looked down. “An' 'ere I am.”

“Is there a town around here? Somewhere to buy food?”

“'S about foive miles down de road.”

“Is the market still open?”

“'Til dusk.”

He stood up. “Then I had better get going. Thank you for your hospitality, Miss MacKenna. I will return, with God's help, in a few hours.”

“I can't pay yeh.”

“Money means nothing to me,” he said. “Too many years as a monk, I suppose.” And with that, he abruptly left her presence and set off to town.

When he returned, it was getting dark, and his back ached again from being laden with packages. She looked shocked—almost horrified—to see him politely enter and then set the packages down on her kitchen table. “There's bread—and grain, for the cow and chickens—and some mead, and some whiskey, and sugar—”

“
Sugar!
”

“And I don't know, some other things.” He collapsed into a seat, the day's events wearing on him, and it was almost time for Vespers. “Excuse me. It's time for prayer.” Without another word, he walked out the door and to the side of the house, where he recited the entire service by heart to the setting sun. She had opened all the packages and the contents were scattered, but she was standing there, quite uncomfortable in her own house. “I'm sorry. Have I done something wrong?”