The Garden of Unearthly Delights (4 page)

‘’s-Hertogenbosch. The same city Hieronymus Bosch came from. Apparently he
was commissioned to create paintings for the Chapel of Our Lady there.’ Nicholas
continued, ‘Bosch’s father managed to get most of his family employed by the
Brotherhood. Hieronymus was the most talented, the most famous of all of them, but his
grandfather, father and brothers were painters too. They must have been quite a force to
reckon with. You knew that Bosch’s father, Antonius van Aken, was artistic advisor to
the Brotherhood?’

‘You’ve obviously read up on it, so why are you asking me for
information?’

‘You’re the expert; I’m just learning as I go along.’

Abruptly, Father Michael rose to his feet. ‘I don’t want trouble!’

‘I’m asking about a religious organisation and a painter. What trouble
could come from that?’ Nicholas asked. ‘I’ve found out some facts, but you know a lot
about Hieronymus Bosch, the artist. You’ve always been interested in him. So tell me
what you know.’

The priest hesitated, then sat down again.

‘Bosch lived and died in his hometown. There’s no documentary evidence
that he ever left the place where he was born. But then again, there are very few
details about his life. Sometime between 1479 and 1481, he married Aleyt Goyaerts van
den Meerveen. She was older than him, a wealthy woman in her own right. After they
married, the couple moved to the nearby town of Oirschot because she’d inherited a house
and land from her family.’

‘Did they have children?’

‘Apparently not.’

The elderly priest was regarding his visitor with caution. Perhaps if he
gave Nicholas Laverne the information he wanted, he would leave – and stay away. He
brought with him too many memories, too many reminders of scandal. Once he had been a
friend, a colleague, but that was a long time ago.

‘The final entry in the accounts of the Brotherhood of Our Lady notes that
Bosch died in 1516.’

‘Are his paintings valuable?’

The old priest nodded. ‘Of course! And rare. He’s highly collectable.
Sought after by connoisseurs and galleries everywhere.’

‘So the art world would be interested in anything to do with Hieronymus
Bosch?’

‘Naturally. Who wouldn’t be?’

Nicholas stared at the old man. ‘You were always a fan of his.’

‘I studied History of Art before I entered the Church. You know that, and
that’s why you’re picking my brains now. Hieronymus Bosch has always fascinated me. He
was a great religious painter.’

‘You preached his vision of Hell often enough—’

‘It was important in the Middle Ages for people to be scared away from
sin,’ the priest retorted. ‘Bosch served a purpose. He warned the congregation of what
would happen if they turned from God. He painted images that everyone could understand.
He was a visionary.’

Nicholas toyed with the heavy chain in his hands, as the priest watched
him.

‘I shouldn’t have let you in,’ Father Michael said at last. ‘You never
brought anything but trouble. We were glad to be rid of you. Things have been quiet for
the last ten years. Until …’ He paused and Nicholas picked up on his hesitation.

‘Until what?’

The priest thought of the homeless man who had been burned alive outside
the church only days before.

‘Nothing of any interest to you. There was an incident, that’s all.’

The priest was unsettled, suspicious. Was the re-emergence of Nicholas
Laverne connected with the murder? Was the man sitting across the kitchen table, only
feet away from him, somehow involved in the death of the homeless man? The victim no one
could place. The man without identification, or history. Burned to death in the porch of
the church. His church. The church where Nicholas Laverne had once listened to
confession and given absolution of sins. From where the Church had exiled him as a
traitor, a liar, the Devil’s recruit. Excommunicated because of his exposing of a
scandal, his complete rejection of the Christian faith and, worse, his abuse of the Host
at Mass …

Father Michael remembered it as though he were watching it take place
before his eyes. Nicholas had been hounded for going to the press, but although barred
from the Church, he had entered their neighbour church, St Barnabas’s, one day and made
his way to the altar rail. Father Luke had been giving Mass and had looked at Nicholas
in horrified disbelief as he knocked the wine and wafers out of his hands, the red wine
spotting his white and gold vestments as the congregants fled to the back of the
church.

It had been an unholy sin.

The old priest closed his eyes against the image. Nicholas had then left,
shouting at the top of his lungs, whiteskinned with fury. A madman. No, not a madman …
But now he was back, a decade later, and what had he become in the meantime? the priest
thought uneasily. A murderer?

‘What is it?’

His mouth dried as Nicholas stared at him, unblinking. ‘What are you
afraid of?’

‘You, Nicholas,’ the old priest replied. ‘I’m afraid of you.’

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