The Parchment (32 page)

The abbot looked hard at the count. “Your Grace, the relics of St. James are the key to solving this dispute.”

“I will agree to your plan if the others do.”

The villagers from Lemeux howled with joy. “His Amplitude gets the relics, we get the water.”

The bishop of Autun heaved his body out of his chair. “I will not accept this! Autun has always produced wine. It will continue to do so as long as I am bishop.”

The villagers continued their chant. “His Amplitude gets the relics, we get the water.”

Furious at their slur, the bishop's face turned cardinal red, and he hurled his chair at the jeering villagers. It fell short and broke into pieces.

“Lord Bishop, please hear me through on this. This solution will make you a wealthy man.”

“How is that?”

“The pilgrims who come to your cathedral will need wine to drink. For every liter of Lemeux wine sold in Autun, Your Excellency would receive a ten percent commission.”

“Ten percent is not enough. These thieves should pay me more.”

“Think like a merchant, Your Excellency. You can increase your profits by as much as fivefold.”

“How is that?”

“Call the wine ‘The Blood of St. James’ and sell it in the Cathedral of Autun. Pilgrims will confuse their devotion to the saint with their love of wine. Word of a holy wine will spread throughout France.”

The bishop of Autun warmed to the idea. “With the increased profits, we can build inns for the pilgrims, places for them to eat, places to wash....”

A villager stood up and gleefully shouted: “Perhaps even a new bordello or two for His Amplitude!”

The bishop glared at the villager but quickly turned to Abbot Ricard and smiled. “I agree with your proposal.”

The abbot bowed to the Count of Provence. “My Liege, the bones of St. James have settled this matter.”

When the parties had left, the abbot asked that Etienne be brought to his room. “I understand you have come from the camerlengo.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I am Etienne de Soane.”

“Ah! The cardinal's nephew.”

“Your Grace should be congratulated. The dispute seems to have been settled to everyone's satisfaction.”

“To everyone's satisfaction but mine.”

The abbot's answer startled Etienne. “I do not understand.”

“This was Templar land taken in blood. Instead of rejoicing in what they received, the bishop and the townspeople covet more. They act like maggots feeding on the dead flesh of the Templars.” Ricard paused. “For the last weeks, my diary is full of entries about vines, rivers, and soil composition. Someday I am sure I will look back on this and laugh, but not now—but enough of this. Word has come that Pope Clement is dead. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

The abbot made the sign of the cross. “May his soul rest in peace. It will be difficult for the Church until a new pope is chosen.”

“King Philip will have much to say about that.”

“Yes, too much I am afraid. But tell me, why did the camerlengo send you to Valmagne ?”

“I must bring you to Avignon as soon as possible. You are his confessor.”

“I will come immediately.”

“A barge leaves Dupais for Avignon tomorrow afternoon.”

“Good. I will ask Father Matteo for some peasant shirts and hose. Eyebrows would be raised if the camerlengo's nephew and the Abbot of Valmagne were seen traveling together to Avignon at a time like this.”

The following morning, a young postulant from the abbey drove an oxcart along the forest path to Dupais. Disguised as farm hands, the abbot and Etienne sat in the rear of the cart. The morning air was thick with pollen and Etienne dozed off to sleep. The abbot read his breviary, occasionally looking up at the sky. A large hawk followed the cart. The abbot shook Etienne to wake him.

“Is that Philip's spy?”

Etienne smiled. “I would like to think instead that it is the Holy Ghost watching over us.”

When they reached the outskirts of Dupais, the abbot and Etienne got out of the cart. There would be less suspicion if they walked into the village. The postulant kissed the abbot's hand and drove the cart back to the monastery.

Late in the afternoon, the barge docked at the village. The captain of the barge greeted Etienne with a skeptical look.

“I see you have changed professions overnight — from monk to farmhand. I hope you still have a good vintage to pay for your return passage?”

“Yes, from the abbot of Valmagne's own stock.”

The captain smiled in anticipation. “Good, we will drink well tonight.”

The shadows along the river were already lengthening as the barge left Dupais. Etienne and the abbot found a comfortable spot on the deck for the overnight journey. After the captain steered the barge into the center channel, he joined the others to claim his share of the abbot's wine. After several cups, Etienne and Ricard were lulled to sleep by the comforting rhythm of the oars.

At about two in the morning, Etienne heard a voice from the water hail the captain. “We wish to board.”

Etienne knew it had to be a French skiff patrolling the river. He pulled out his dagger.

The captain called back. “You are welcome to search the barge. We carry Flemish wool to Avignon.”

Etienne woke the abbot. “French soldiers are coming aboard. Take this dagger and use it if you have to.”

Ricard shook his head vehemently. “I am a priest. I will not use it.”

“Take the knife, Your Grace. Worry about your religious scruples later.”

Etienne turned to the captain. “When the soldiers board, I will offer them some wine. If they ask, I am your cousin. I go to Avignon for the women.”

“And your friend?” asked the captain.

“Tell them I am a mute. You took pity on me and gave me passage to Avignon.”

Three French soldiers stepped onto the barge. They looked quickly around the deck and then returned to the captain.

“We are looking for a French knight, Etienne de Saone. He is wanted for questioning. Who is this man?” The leader of the boarding party pointed at Etienne.

“My cousin. He goes to spend the night in a brothel as usual. I am amazed he has not caught the pox.”

“And this one?” the French officer pointed to Ricard. “He looks a little too well bred to be a farmer.”

“He does not speak. The people in Dupais say he has not uttered a word since his wife died ten years ago.”

The officer in charge laughed. “A few more like him and the streets of Avignon will be less noisy.”

Etienne appeared with a jug of wine.

“Ah, look at what my cousin has brought us. In honor of King Philip, share some refreshment with us. It is cold on the river tonight.”

Etienne poured wine into earthenware cups and handed them to the soldiers.

The leader of the French patrol savored the taste of the wine. “You are right. It is cold on the river tonight. Wine warms the blood and fortifies the soul.”

After several cups, the soldiers left the barge and returned to their skiff.

As dawn began to break, Abbot Ricard awoke and prayed silently. The sun edged over the horizon, and the towers of Avignon appeared in the far distance.

“The center of Christendom!” Abbot Ricard murmured sarcastically. “But not the city chosen by St. Peter and not the city that has seen 1300 years of popes.”

Etienne worried about the forthrightness of his companion. “My Lord, you must keep such thoughts to yourself. French soldiers patrol everywhere in Avignon.”

“Do not worry, my friend. An abbot spends most of his day in silence. I know how to be careful.”

Etienne looked down river. “The barge will reach Avignon by noon. Before we go to the Palais des Papes, we must stop at an inn.”

“No, Etienne, we can eat later. Your uncle is waiting for us.”

“It is a dangerous time in Avignon, Your Grace. We go to the inn not to eat but to listen.”

The abbot put a hand on de Saone's shoulder. “But the French soldiers are looking for you.”

Etienne drew his sword. “I will be careful. After all, I am a French soldier myself. I know their habits.”

When they reached Avignon, the captain of the barge walked over to Etienne and gave him a farewell thump on the back.

“Goodbye, Etienne de Saone. Your disguise did not fool me. But for your sake, I hope it fools Philip's soldiers.”

Etienne and Ricard stopped at a small tavern near the road up to the Palais des Papes. They learned that Philip had effectively sealed off Avignon and vowed to keep it that way until the cardinals elected a new French pope. They also learned that Philip had decided to remain on the outskirts of Avignon until the election had taken place. He was leaving nothing to chance.

When Etienne and the abbot left the inn, a French soldier followed them into the street. The soldier stared hard at Etienne with a puzzled look.

“Etienne de Saone?” the soldier asked.

“You are mistaken, soldier. I am a farmer from Dupais.”

The soldier continued to follow the two men.

“You do not have the demeanor of one who tills the soil. You are Etienne de Saone — I am sure of it. Come with me peaceably; you are wanted for questioning.”

“Leave me alone, soldier. I am not this Etienne de Saone.”

The soldier drew a knife and held it to Etienne's throat. “I said ‘Come with me!”’

The soldier suddenly gasped for breath. A dagger protruded from his belly. At first, Etienne thought it was the soldier's own weapon until he saw blood on Ricard's hands.

Etienne was incredulous. “Abbot, you killed that soldier with the knife I gave you on the barge!”

“He threatened your life. I stabbed him to save you, not to kill the soldier. It is permitted for a monk to act in such a way.”

Etienne dragged the soldier's body into the alleyway and concealed it behind several empty wine barrels. “It will look like a random killing. Dozens occur in Avignon every month. We must go quickly.”

“Wait!” The abbot knelt on the ground and drew the sign of the cross on the soldier's forehead.

“Requiescat in pace.” Whispering the age-old farewell to the dead, the abbot pulled a discarded gunnysack over the soldier's face.

A cold mistral wind blew through Avignon as Ricard and Etienne climbed the hill to the Palais des Papes. When they reached the gate to the palace, French soldiers stopped them.

“What business do you have in the Palace?” The soldier's voice was brusque.

Ricard answered. “Cardinal de Saone ordered us to bring his gold pectoral cross.”

“Let me see it,” one of the soldiers demanded.

Ricard took the gold cross from under his cloak and handed it to the soldier. The soldier weighed the cross in his hand. “The cardinal must trust the two of you very much if he allows you to carry something as valuable as this. Pass on.”

Ricard and Etienne found Cardinal de Saone's apartment, and when they were certain that they had not been followed, Ricard knocked softly on the door. Père Beneton opened it slowly as if he feared what might be on the other side. “Ah, thank God it is you, Abbot Ricard. A hundred times, his Eminence has asked when you are coming. He has not slept in two nights.”

Père Beneton led Ricard and Etienne to the cardinal's study.

Although he was wrapped in a fur-lined robe, the camerlengo was shivering. The fingers that grasped the edge of the heavy robe appeared gray in the afternoon light.

“Ricard, thank God you are here. You must hear my sins before it is too late.”

“Of course, Your Eminence. Etienne, please leave us alone for a while.”

When they were alone, the Abbot knelt and kissed the cardinal's ring. The camerlengo's hand felt cold and clammy.

“Your Eminence, are you ill?”

Cardinal de Saone looked at Ricard. “Yes, in my heart.”

“What do you mean?”

“The nightmares ... the Templar taunted Clement with the parchment. He was at Clement's bedside, to take his soul.”

The camerlengo grabbed Abbot Ricard's arm and pulled him close, as though he feared someone would overhear. “De Molay cursed me, too. He said he would come for my soul within the year. At night, I have heard him breathing in my room, waiting for the time.”

“What does de Molay have to do with all of this? And what is this ‘parchment’ he has? I do not understand.”

“The parchment is blasphemous. It says that Jesus and the Magdalene were husband and wife and bore two children. The Templars hid it from us.” As he spoke, de Saone grew increasingly agitated. His body trembled.

“Ricard, terrible things have happened these last months. I thought it was for the good of the Church. But God is angry. He will not forgive the torture and the killing of innocent men.”

“Your Eminence, this is not true.” The abbot spoke in a reassuring voice. “God did not forbid all killing. It is his law that one can kill in self-defense.”

“Ricard, please grant me forgiveness for my sins. These cardinal's robes will not shield me from God's vengeance.”

“God forgives the sodomite and the blasphemer. He will forgive you too as long as you sincerely repent.”

“But so many innocent Templars have died.”

“Forgiveness requires that we experience the full sinfulness of our acts. If we do that, God will forgive us.”

“But will God's forgiveness protect me from de Molay's curse?”

Ricard paused for a moment. “To do that, you must forgive yourself also. Only then will de Molay's curse be gone.”

“But there has been so much blood.”

Barbo put down the diary. He wondered about de Saone; was he a large or thin man, tall or short? A small piece of parchment fell from the book. Barbo could see that it appeared to be written by Abbot Ricard.

“Two days ago the body of Cardinal de Saone was found floating in the Rhône River near Saint-Bénézet Bridge. I fear that he died from remorse for what he had done to the Templars. And this morning there is news that King Philip has been killed in a hunting accident. The people say that Jacques de Molay has finally been avenged.”

Barbo stood up from his desk and walked to the window. It was one of those magical late afternoons in Rome, when the mere use of one's eyes brings serenity and peace. In the distance, Barbo could see Trinita dei Monti standing regally above the Spanish Steps. Off to the east was the elaborate monument to Vittorio Emmanuele II, dubbed the wedding cake because of its decoration and brilliant white color. When he was a young seminarian, Barbo remembered taking his family to experience the grand scale of the memorial. For weeks his mother could speak of nothing else. Immediately below him was the magnificence of St. Peter's. Bernini's columns encircled the square like a mother's arms embracing the crowds of the faithful who walked within them. Standing guard over the square like a benevolent sentry was the massive stone facade of the basilica.