The First Sin

by Jessica Brawner

  A priest met us at the top. "Contessa Jacqueline de Valois you are expected and bid welcome. You are encouraged to spend this day in contemplation of your sins. A private chapel will be provided for you. If you have questions about your faith, please send your page and one of the priests will attend you. The Holy Father will hear your confession immediately after the noon hour."

  I curtsied, as was appropriate for a petitioner, and followed him into the building.

  "Monseigneur," I asked, using the higher tones of the Contessa, "Is there a garden where we might walk in quiet contemplation?"

  He slowed his pace through the marble-frescoed halls, where cherubim flitted over scenes of Christ’s life, from his birth to his crucifixion, "Yes Contessa, I will show you the chapel and then the gardens."

  "Thank you, Monseigneur." I gave a small curtsey and purposely stumbled, catching my heel in the hem of my dress. Better if they thought me clumsy, and unused as I was to wearing fancy dresses, it wasn’t far from the truth. I never had been able to wear dresses successfully, always prone to torn hems, split seams, and awkward moments. Flying pants were considerably more comfortable. Counting to five in my head, I could feel a blush creep up my face.

  He held out an arm to steady me. “Are you quite well?”

  “Oui, Monsieur,” I said demurely. “I apologize, I am unused to society, and spend most of my time sequestered on my estate. This has left me clumsy in public I am afraid. It is my abiding curse.” I lied.

  He nodded, his mouth twitching as he suppressed a smile.

  The chapel was a small, plain room with a padded prie dieu for kneeling at prayer facing a silver cross, and the eternal flame in a lamp on the wall. A window on the opposite wall let in stained glass-colored rays of sunlight. I crossed myself and genuflected before the crucifix. Turning, I nodded to the Monseigneur, "And the gardens please?"

  He bowed low before the cross and led us off into an an immense, sunlit corridor with large open windows, and doors along one side leading out to the gardens. Frescos adorned the walls, and at regular intervals, alcoves holding delicately carved white marble statues. The Papal palace bustled with quiet, efficient activity. Priests and Cardinals hurried by; their heads bent in conversation. The occasional nobleman or woman, marked by their elaborate, colorful outfits, and followed by pages, walked sedately in contemplation, or spoke in low tones with their companions.

  The gardens, it seemed, could be accessed from several points along the main corridor, and the Monseigneur led us through one such outlet. Several other penitents milled about outside, sitting or walking meditatively alone.

  “The contemplation gardens, Contessa,” he gestured to a small section of a larger complex of gardens. Rising above the garden walls, the dome of the cathedral gleamed brilliantly in the morning light. I gasped at its splendor. The Monseigneur smiled. “It is quite impressive. It will be open to the public after the midday meal today, with several holy relics on display for those who wish to petition the saints for a miracle.”

  “I imagine there are a great many relics here Monseigneur – which ones will be on display for prayers today?”

  “Today is the Feast of St. Peter, and so his bones and reliquary will be on the altar, as well as his Miter, and a section of his staff.” Bells tolled the quarter hour, and the Monseigneur looked back toward the Papal offices. "I will leave you now, Contessa. If you need anything, please send your page to the office at the end of the hall. The one with the blue door. I or one of my assistants will be happy to see to your needs." He gestured back the way we had come, inclined his head and turned to go.

  I attempted a demure look, and said, "Thank you, Monseigneur, I will."

  As soon as he was out of sight I turned to Niccolò. "Okay, change of plans. See if you can locate a way into the Cathedral without being seen, or alternately an entrance to the tunnels and learn what you can of the layout of the palace. This is still a reconnaissance mission, but if the opportunity presents itself… We need to see if the Miter is on the altar yet, or if it has yet to be placed. We have about three hours before my audience, if you get caught, tell them I needed assistance. I will see if I can locate the Holy Father's apartments in this building. I saw several pages in different house colors, so a lone page wandering around shouldn’t draw attention."

  "Sí, signora. I will meet you back here in the garden in a few hours." He bowed, as if I had given him an order, and ran off.

  I moved sedately over to one of the benches facing the palace and sat, as if in contemplation. This side of the palace did not appear to be heavily guarded. Those guards that I saw stood out in their blue and gold uniforms, but they were sparse. From where I sat, I counted four on the main level, and perhaps four more visible through the windows of the upper floor.

  The flow of foot traffic emanated from a very busy office at one end of the hallway. Clerks moved in and out regularly, carrying letters and papers.

  I could not see the other end of the hallway from where I sat. Moving to the edge of the garden, I buried my nose in one of the roses. Looking toward the palace from this angle I could see more of the hallway, though not quite all the way down.

  Trying to get a better view I moved towards the palace and up the stairway leading away from the chapel. The dress, fashionable as it was, weighed more than I was used to and made it difficult to move. I missed the last step and went sprawling across the fresco tiles. Merde! I am not supposed to be here. I will be discovered for certain!

  My heart beat faster as guards began running my direction. I reached for my boot knife but realized there were too many of them. There was no way I could fight or escape, hindered as I was by my court clothing. When the guards came running at me, I did the one thing I loathe. Using what I would call my ‘womanly deceptions’, I feigned a swoon and prayed that it would be enough.

  Charles

  Charles heard the disturbance before he saw it – Priests shouting and running for the garden door halfway down the corridor. How did an assailant get this far into the Palace? He thought, instantly alert. Heart pounding, he drew his sword and ran towards the commotion shouting, “Protect the Holy Father! Surround the intruder, men!”

  The guards formed a circle around the disturbance. Charles arrived, sword drawn, to find a noblewoman prostrate on the steps, her rose colored gown billowing out around her. A monsignor was fanning her face, trying to wake her. Scanning the area for a threat he curtly asked, “What has happened, signore?”

  “She has fainted, I think. Perhaps the heat? I do not think your sword will be required Captain, but we must get her inside.”

  Charles studied the woman but saw no threat. “Men, as you were. I’ll handle this.”

  To the Monsignor he said. “I think I can manage her.” He reached down and placing an arm under the woman’s shoulders he lifted until he could get an arm behind her knees. She weighed practically nothing, but yards of dress spilled over his arms, threatening to trip him on the stairs. He thought he saw her eyelids flutter, but they remained closed. “Can you manage the doors signore?” Charles asked.

  “Yes, of course Captain. I think the Rose room is open at this hour. You can set her in there while I call for a physician. This way.”

  The young woman was light in his arms, and a faint, exotic scent wafted off her. He glanced down as he was negotiating the stairway and turned bright red when he realized he had an excellent view of her gently rising and falling cleavage. While he certainly had appreciated the charms of more than one woman during his career in the guard, he tried always to make sure she was willing, and had not, as other guards had, peeped on noble ladies, or even the maids in their bath. She woke as he was setting her down on a couch in the Rose receiving room. He was instantly captured by her bright green eyes.

  “Qu'est qui s'passe?” she asked in a high, breathy voice.

  Charles, who spoke French passably well, found that language had deserted him when he gazed into those eyes.

  The Monsignor
replied in kind, shaking Charles out of his daze. The young woman tried to sit up, and Charles, concerned that she might faint again, gently held her shoulders in place, indicating that she should remain lying down. Her hair disheveled by her fall, curled in charming wisps around her face. Charles found he wanted to stroke it gently back. The monsignor was still speaking to the young woman. Shocked by his own thoughts, he stood abruptly, just as the Monsignor suggested he assign a guard.

  Charles bowed, face flaming. “If it please you signora, to make up for my lack of manners, I shall stand guard myself.”

  Scandalized by Charles’s suggestion, the Monsignor said, “That would not be appropriate Captain, you have duties to attend to.”

  Switching to Italian with apparent ease the young woman said, “I would be honored, Messier, to be guarded by the same blade that guards his holiness. But it hardly seems necessary, it was merely a lightheadedness that overcame me. If it please you, I shall remain here, and you needn’t trouble yourself over me.”

  Charles replied, “I must insist. I would feel remiss if I did not make sure you were properly taken care of.”

  The Monsignor hmphed, but said politely enough, “If you need anything signora, just let the good Captain know.”

  Charles smiled down at the contessa with concern. “I shall be right outside the door if you need anything signora. My name is Charles, you need but call.”

  Charles and the Monsignor turned to go. Speaking to Charles quietly he said, "Are you sure this is wise, after what happened? Don’t you need to be in attendance?

  Charles shook his head. “They’ve gone into recess for the next hour. I won’t be needed for a bit.”

  The Monsignor nodded. “I’m sure you know best. Keep her here. The Holy Father doesn't need silly nobles disturbing his plans today."

  Charles glanced back at the young woman lying on the couch as he closed the door. “Who is she?” he asked.

  “That is the Contessa Jacqueline de Valois. She inherited the title at a young age if I recall the rumors correctly. Shockingly unmarried for a woman her age. Rumor has it that she rarely leaves her estate in France - probably why she fainted on our doorstep. Court is not for the likes of her.”

  Charles digested the information. His list had only noted the fact that she was here to make her confession, not that she was young, unmarried and beautiful. He wondered what a sheltered young woman would have to confess.

  “I’ll stand guard until the audience goes back into session and then assign a replacement. Her audience is shortly after lunch,” Charles said. The monsignor nodded.

  “Thank you, Captain. I find the backcountry nobles far more trying than those trying to kill one another,” he said with a wry smile, closing the door.

  Jacqueline

  The lushly appointed drawing room had couches and chairs scattered about for visitors. Muted rose and gold colors predominated - a surprising match to my own outfit. The thick carpets would muffle any sound, as would the heavy, red brocade draperies, making it hard to hear what was going on outside the room. There were two additional doors in the room one to the east and one to the west. Lovely, but being surrounded by such opulence made me itch.

  I wonder if my erstwhile savior is still standing guard. Probably loyal and fantastic at following orders, so I would bet he is. Although… he is the Captain of the Guard, and that isn’t usually a title given to imbeciles so he probably has some skills behind those nicely formed muscles. These thoughts ran through my head as I waited a moment to see if Charles or the priest was going to return. When no one appeared I sat up on the couch and quietly made my way to the door on the eastern wall.

  Pressing my ear against the wood and could make out muffled voices. At the door on the western wall, silence greeted me. I turned the handle, and it stuck. Locked. Damn.

  Bending down I peered at the lock. It was a simple construction. I pulled out one of my hairpins and bent the tip with my teeth, sliding it into the mechanism. Carefully moving the makeshift lock-pick in the mechanism I felt it catch the tumbler and pulled it into place. It clicked, and the lock opened.

  The room adjacent was much like the one I left, a lavishly appointed sitting room done in blue and silver. The tapestry on the far wall depicted all the hosts of heaven surrounding the newborn Christ.

  A faint sound, loud in the stillness of the room, startled me. I slipped behind the curtains just in time to see a panel in the corner of the far wall open.

  Two cardinals, their red robes resplendent in the filtered sunlight, stepped into the room, chatting softly in Italian. “Does the Holy Father seem unduly distracted to you, Pierre?” the one following behind said.

  Why would the Vatican be honeycombed with secret passages? I thought, holding my breath. Well… it’s the Vatican – Of course it is.

  “I have noticed something seems amiss, but who am I to ask him what troubles his soul?” The portly man wheezed slightly and paused for a moment on the settee, breathing heavily.

  “I don’t see why Father Michael called a meeting down in the catacombs, it hardly seems worth the trip, and nothing he said warranted that kind of secrecy.” The large man pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his red face.

  The shorter man continued to the door and opened it a fraction. “The guards are about.” He said quietly. “Double the usual number. Best not to talk here.” Pausing he said, “Father Michael will do what he will, pay him no mind. He has his own webs to weave.”

  “Come, I have confessions to hear today.”

  When I was sure they were gone, I raced over to the wall where they had emerged and searched for the panel. Faintly, ever so faintly I could make out the seam where the panels joined. I pushed and prodded the wall trying to find the lever. Taking a deep breath, I focused my thoughts and stood quietly in front of the panel studying its design. Tiny, inset roses patterned the wainscot on the wall, carved into the darker wood at regular intervals. One of the roses looked slightly worn, unnoticeable unless you were studying the wall closely. I ran my fingers across the textured panel and pressed. A satisfying click sounded faintly, and the panel slid open and into the wall.

  Seizing the moment, I stuck my head through to investigate. The long, surprisingly dust-free corridor lead downward. I set off hurriedly into the darkness, concerned that I might be discovered at any moment.

  Dimly lit by the gap in the doorway the tunnel wound down into darkness. After several minutes, my eyes began to adjust. I could make out faint outlines and thought I could see pinpoints of light.

  My eyes did not deceive me. Peepholes into several rooms, visible with light streaming through them, and several doors, faintly illuminated around the edges. Undoubtedly the doors were concealed from the outside, but from within the tunnel the mechanisms were easy to make out. Pressing my eyes to the tiny openings, I could hear faint voices. This peephole looked into a personal apartment. Two Cardinals came into view.

  Apparently they travel in pairs. I wonder if it's to keep each other honest, or keep each other safe? I mused. I quickly left the peephole and moved further down the corridor. I wonder how many people know about these passageways. Probably not known or used by everyone, but more a question of who knows and who uses them. I set the thought aside to ponder on later when I had the luxury of time.

  Glancing through a different peephole revealed a similar looking apartment. My internal clock was starting to set off alarm bells in my head. I had been gone from the sitting room for too long.

  The next peephole was higher up, and I was forced to stand on tiptoe to see through it. This too was an apartment, only larger and more lavishly appointed, and this door, unlike the others, was locked with a deadbolt mechanism controlled from the other side.

  An older man, thin with grey hair surrounding his tonsure moved around within, muttering to himself. He was alone and wearing robes similar to those the Cardinals had worn, only of the purest white, with a matching skullcap. That gave me pause. The only man I knew that wore wh
ite robes in Vatican City was the Holy Father, Pope Clément. This man seemed almost frail; more so than I expected for one of the most powerful men in Europe.

  I studied the locking mechanism. There was a keyslot to a very complicated Berger Veritol lock. This was the best lock that money could buy, and ninety-nine out of every hundred thieves couldn’t defeat it. Eighty percent wouldn’t even know what it was. I smiled. I was one of the few who knew how to open this lock. That thought gave me pause. There was no plan. If I got caught it would be a total disaster, and I had almost been caught once today already. Things seemed to be falling into place very conveniently.

  Through the peephole I took a more careful look at the apartment. Though it was lavish, and slightly ostentatious, it looked lived in. The peephole looked in on a small sitting room, with more rooms off to either side. There were several wig stands in the room, holding ornate wigs in the style of the court. This struck me as odd – they seemed to be on display, more like trophies than useable items. Dishes from a recently finished meal sat on a side table, and a cloak lay carelessly thrown across a small couch. The old man was moving back-and-forth between the sitting room and the room on the east wall.

  This might be the best opportunity we had, or it might get me killed, and I wasn’t sure which.

  Taking a deep breath, I went to work on the lock, feeling the tumblers slide into place one by one, each click loud in the darkness. My hand touched the mechanism that would open the secret panel, and there was a soft click. I jerked my hand away and glanced back through the peephole. I saw Clément pause and look around, then continue into the next chamber. Gulping, I heard a door on the far side of the apartment open and close, and then all was silent.

  Waiting a moment to see if he would return, I pressed the mechanism to open the door. My heart fluttered in my chest as it swung open and I stepped into the apartment. I slipped off my shoes and propped the door open, racing to look around the rooms. The sitting room held some unusual objects, a small book in a glass case, artwork, a pair of sandals left by the door, but not what I was looking for. Opening a door on the east side of the room I entered a small office. It was as richly appointed as the other rooms, with thick carpets and artwork by Rubens and Rembrandt on the walls. The small desk was bare except for an ornately carved wooden box. The box opened easily, but contained nothing more than a coiled up, supple looking linen rope, grey with age and handling. I shrugged to myself and closed the box, racing to the door. There was one more room I could check, but I could feel the seconds ticking away.