“Yes, Father.”
As the old man sighed, the years seemed to weigh down on him, pushing the air out of his lungs as he fiddled with his rosary. “Sadly, it all began with an act of charity. How odd, now that I think of it....”
The tale he told was incredible in its intricacies. He held nothing back, even private conversations. He was terrified of them both, but also of himself, and his own actions—he said as much. “I pray that I am not damned, but I will settle with the Holy Spirit when Grégoire is safe or safely from this world, whichever it shall be.” He crossed himself again. He had no good words for himself, or the bishop, or the archbishop, explaining how the bishop and archbishop had first sought Grégoire’s money while the abbot remained more concerned with Grégoire’s adherence to the Rule (which, in all fairness, had been violated). The discovery of the hairshirt changed everything—after all, the same thing had been found on the English saint Thomas Becket after his murder by the knights of King Henry. Now they were after Grégoire, a shining example of piety, to be paraded around in some horrible political arena beyond his understanding.
“If we take him,” Brian said, “will they pursue us? Our ship is not very far, but we may have to stop in France if Grégoire is too ill to continue.”
“They might. Or they might seek claim on his body, if he should die—which is a very real possibility. And they may get it, if they reach him before you reach English soil, or they could sue the Anglican church. If he dies now, surely, they will go for beatification within the next few decades, and they will want his remains for that. An English Catholic saint—it would be a triumph for Rome.You must understand, I was a bishop outside Rome—I know how they think.” He stopped to think. “There is one way I can make sure they cannot pursue, but it is terrible.”
Brian said immediately, “What do you want done?”
“No, there is nothing you can do. Brother Grégoire’s soul has been my charge since his entrance to this order. I have the power to excommunicate him. The bishops will not touch him then.”
“Excommunicate? Doesn’t that involve a papal bull? And damning his soul to eternal hellfire and all that?”
“No, this is excommunication from his order. He is removed from the order of St. Benedict, and all other monastic orders. He can seek re-entrance at a later date, but only with my permission. His soul is not imperiled—he is not damned. I am casting him out to save his life.”
Brian did not know what to think. It was Nadezhda who spoke up. “It will break his heart. He loves the church.”
“The church does not love him back,” the abbot said. “If he stays, it will kill him—body or soul, I know not which.Yes, it will be hard on him. For a while, it will be impossible for him to understand. He may join the Anglican church if he wishes, but I doubt he will. He may attend Mass and he may have his confession heard. He can have a life—and, more important, he can live.” He was near tears. “I will write a letter to him—apologizing and explaining all of this. I hope it will be some consolation.”
Brian sighed. It seemed the only way. Grégoire’s life or his spirit. If he stayed, one would be broken. “What about you?”
“I will face my demons on my own. I made a vow to protect Grégoire from everyone, and I will endure whatever I must to do so. At most, they will remove me from my position, but they cannot excommunicate me. Not with my brother on the throne of St. Peter.” He was not surprised by their looks. “Yes, my brother is pope. But he is not the only person in Rome, and I have not contacted him about this.This is my doing and I will attempt to mend it as best I can. And maybe someday, even if God will not forgive me, Grégoire will.”
“I would say that we should wait for Grégoire to agree to it,” Brian said, “but I do not believe we have that time, do we?”
The abbot shook his head.
“Write the order of excommunication, and the letter, but don’t sign until we’re ready to leave. If Grégoire wakes in that time, we will tell him.”
The abbot nodded.
“Hang on, Grégoire,” Brian said, taking his hand. “Your brother will kill me if you don’t.”
As the light receded from the Spanish coast, Abbot Francesco was so consumed with his writing that at first he did not hear the knock on his door. “Come.”
Not unexpectedly, it was the archbishop and the bishop. “There are rumors, Father.”
“There are always rumors,” he said calmly, looking at them over his spectacles. “This is a monastery. We have little else to do.”
“Brother Grégoire’s relatives intend to take him with them. Did you explain that they could not do that without your permission?”
“I imagine they could do that without anyone’s permission—physically, at least.And because they do not answer to me or Rome, they will do as they please.” He added, “If and when they go, they will have my permission.” He held up the finished parchment. “All it needs is my signature.”
The archbishop read it quickly. “You cannot be serious. You would condemn him for what?”
“It does not matter. I am abbot and it is my judgment that one of the monks here is not suitable to this monastery. I must let him go, lest one wolf consume the sheep. I am not required to state my reasons, though you are welcome to speculate as to what they are.”
“If you do this,” the archbishop said, “we will challenge it.”
“And be involved in a long and fruitless political battle with an old monk. Who knows? In the end, you might succeed in having me removed from my post and reduced to the status of a humble brother. And by then, Grégoire will be long gone, to a country where his money and his family can protect him. So you may try. I give you permission, my son. Or you could let this end gracefully.” He did not waver. “Now, if you do not mind, I am busy with an important missive and would like privacy.”
Neither of them dared to challenge that. They turned and left him in peace.
Brian and Nadezhda’s watch continued through the night.Through the door they could hear the monks singing Compline, the final service of the night. He paced anxiously. “How is he?”
“The same.”
“Do you think he would survive the trip to England?”
“Do we have any other choice? If we stopped in France, how long would it take us to find a decent surgeon?”
He smiled. “Logical as always.” He turned at the knock on the door, one hand on his small blade. “Come.”
It was a young monk. He did not know either of their names. “Sir—Madam—we understand you are leaving soon and taking Brother Grégoire.”
“It depends on his health.”
“We would like to say good-bye to him.”
“He’s not conscious.You understand that?”
The monk nodded. “Please, sir.”
Thus began the procession, nearly silent, as each monk came in, young and old, to kneel before Grégoire’s bed and kiss his hand and whisper in his ear. Brian and Nadezhda watched from a corner in amazement. Some of the monks were crying, but it was all done in a dignified and orderly fashion. Grégoire had brief moments of consciousness but not coherency. He was mumbling nonsense and they listened to every word. For the last few visitors, his eyes seemed to be half open, and when the abbot entered, they opened entirely.
The abbot turned first to Brian and handed him a sealed envelope. “Will you give this to him when he is returning to health? It may bring him comfort.”
“Of course.”
The abbot nodded sadly and turned to Grégoire. Sitting on the stool beside him and holding forth the parchment in Latin, he said, “Brother Grégoire, can you hear me?”
To all of their surprise, he nodded, ever so slightly.
“You will not understand this,” the abbot said. “You have been so good to the church, but the church has not been good to you. When I sign this document, you will no longer be part of it.”
Grégoire had no response. It was doubtful that he understood.
“My son,
” the abbot said, “remember that you serve God, not the church, and you can do so by leading a pious life. I have no doubt you will.You are not damned. I absolve you of all your sins, real and perceived. Someday, you may see fit to forgive me for mine.” He kissed Grégoire’s hand in reverence. He stood and set the parchment down on the stool, and took up his quill pen. “God forgive me.” He crossed himself and signed. The abbot turned to Brian and Nadezhda. It seemed as though he had aged years in those few moments. “There is a stretcher waiting. My monks will assist you. Please take him.”
“He will forgive you,” Nadezhda said. “He is not capable of anything less.”
“I hope so.” He made the sign of the cross over them. “Go with God.”
CHAPTER 13
Broken Floor, Broken Man
DARCY HAD A PISTOL WITH HIM as he descended, following the trail of smoke coming from the chimney of the house at the bottom of the hill. He hadn’t always gone about Derbyshire armed, but in the days since the war, he had decided it was a good precaution. He had heard stories of ex-soldiers without jobs roaming the woods in bands. He was not a man to panic, but he would protect his family, and on this particular mission, his son was with him.
Geoffrey Darcy followed a few steps behind him. He was at an age where he was unsure of his own limbs, which seemed to be growing beyond what he was comfortable with, and his voice would occasionally drop and then squeak, much to the delight of his three younger sisters, who tortured him over it.
Darcy remembered that age as well as any man did—he remembered the competition with his companion. Wickham had always been the taller one, even though he was more than six months younger, but that had changed in Darcy’s thirteenth year. Suddenly, he had started winning their brawls, and Wickham worked to best him in other areas. Now he could look back and wonder if their father had watched their unconsciously brotherly rivalry with amusement or concern. It had probably been both.
He said little, other than to assure his son that the awkward age would pass. He did not mention growing up with Wickham, not willing to accidentally tamper with the friendship of Geoffrey and George, who had the fortune of knowing full well they were cousins. George was taller and older, but he took no delight in it, and there was no real rivalry there. Geoffrey was easier with other people, and had his mother’s good nature.
But then again, people change. Darcy could remember thinking that Wickham was his best friend. He remembered fishing with him. He remembered learning to ride from the same instructor. How much of the blame was his that it had all gone sour? He had to remind himself that he would never really know.
“Father.”
His attention turned back to his son, who was pointing at a dip that Darcy had been about to stumble into. “Thank you.” Perhaps I am getting older. He was not a vain man—he did not dye his hair as the gray came in—but he liked to think he still had his senses about him. “My mind was elsewhere.”
“Are we almost there?”
“You can see the house, can’t you?”
“That’s where they live? The—“
“The Jenkinses, Geoffrey. Yes, that is their house.”
He had spent the previous morning speaking with Mr. Jenkins, who had petitioned against the raise in his rent. It was a fair raise—land was worth more and all of the rents went up according to inflation—but several people had complained. Darcy’s steward had explained all of the cases of complaint, which Darcy had listened to with care. Only one had seemed legitimate, and the next day he had invited Mr. Jenkins, an elderly tenant farmer, for tea at Pemberley.The man had pleaded with him—his wife was sick and their heating costs were always going up. They could not afford the new rent. Darcy had said he would think on it and return with an answer.
“Why are we going to their house?”
“Because I already made Mr. Jenkins travel all the way up to Pemberley. Now I will meet him on his ground.”
Eventually, they made it down to the road, and the little house that overlooked a wheat field. Mr. Jenkins was sitting on the porch, and rose in surprise. “Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Jenkins.” He offered his hand, and Jenkins took it, but also removed his hat. “This is my son, Geoffrey Darcy.”
Jenkins bowed. “Hello, Mr. Geoffrey.”
“Hello, Mr. Jenkins,” Geoffrey said.
“You’ve come about the rent.”
“We will get to that. First, I understand your wife is ill. May we visit?”
“Of course, Mr. Darcy.We don’t have much to offer you—”
“It’s not necessary,” Darcy said as they entered the house, which only had a few rooms. Jenkins hurried to get them something to drink; they were offered two glasses of watery beer, which they accepted gratefully. Darcy did not impose on Mrs. Jenkins, an old woman in a rocking chair in her bedroom, exchanging greetings with her as she coughed and sniffled and apologized profusely for not being able to better receive them.
“It’s no trouble, I assure you,” Mr. Darcy said.
“And this is the young master?” Mrs. Jenkins said with a smile at Geoffrey. Not only was the heir to Pemberley always a subject of speculation among the locals, but the Jenkinses had a son. That young man had died at Waterloo. “Hello, Mr. Geoffrey.”
“Mrs. Jenkins,” he said, bowing.
That duty finished, Darcy looked around the building as he talked with the husband. “So is it just a cough or is it a cold?”
“It’s a cold that comes and goes. She can never seem to be fully rid of it.”
“There’s an apothecary by the name of Ashworth in Lambton. He sells mainly tonics, but he has a particular brew for the cough that contains lemon. Ask him for it and tell him I sent you. It costs barely more than a bottle of gin and it does wonders. I use it myself sometimes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy. About the rent—“
Darcy held up his hand.“I have a question for you, if you would.”
“Of course, sir.”
Darcy walked to the end of the hallway, which led to the kitchen with its little stove. Several bottles of different cold remedies sat in the middle of the kitchen table. The logs of wood that were the walls were held together with plaster, and the floor was beaten wood, probably hollow, above a stone foundation. “How long has it been since work was done on this house?”
“I—I don’t know, sir. We bought it after we were married, and I used to have a man come by to fix the plaster when there were holes. But he left to find work in London.”
Darcy glanced at his son, and then crouched down and pushed down on the floorboard. The other end went up a little. “Your house must be freezing in the winter.”
“There’s always a draft, even in the summer. In the winter, it’s terrible, but who doesn’t freeze in the winter? This isn’t the south.”
Darcy nodded, pacing for a moment before halting over a floorboard that rattled when he stepped on it. “Well, I can explain your increased coal use, and probably your wife’s continual cold. The cold air comes up through the floorboards from underneath the house.You need to have your floors done.”
Jenkins laughed quietly. “I can’t afford something like that.”
“I happen to have a very good carpenter who owes me a favor. If I sent him over to redo your floors and tighten the plaster, would you agree to the new rent?”
“I don’t—yes.” He nodded, as if assuring himself. “But if it’s still cold—”
“Then we’ll discuss it again, but I don’t think it will be. He’s a very good carpenter. He redid all the shooting boxes at Pemberley and you could sleep in them.” He offered his hand, this time for business purposes.
Jenkins shook on it. “I agree. May I have an extra week to gather the new rent?”
“You may. My solicitor will be around.” He nodded for his son. “And remember—Mr. Ashworth. If he charges you more than five farthings, tell him I sent you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Darcy.”
They said their good-byes and walk
ed out into the sunlight. They took the long path on the way back, on the road that sloped up gently instead of the steep incline of the grassy hill.
“Do you really have a carpenter who owes you a favor?”
“I don’t,” he said to his son. “And it’ll be at least twenty pounds to fix that house. Far more than Jenkins could dream of affording.”
Geoffrey knew what he was being asked, and counted on his fingers. “You’ll lose money! The increase won’t cover it for years.”
“You’re discounting the fact that the rent will rise again eventually, most likely, but yes, I have just lost money. Why do you think I did it?”
His son grappled with the idea. “Was it charity?”
“It was, in a sense, but it was not the same as giving money to a beggar. Besides, if I had just offered up money because he was poor and his wife was suffering, why didn’t I just give him free lodging? Or hand him coin to pay for his own repairs?” He answered for Geoffrey.“Because it would have insulted him. He’s a working man, my boy. He doesn’t want to be treated like a beggar. Besides, I had another reason.”
Geoffrey was given ample time to think as they strolled up the path at their leisure. Finally, he said, “I give up.”
“There were two reasons to do it, beyond charity for his sick wife. First, the rents are going up everywhere, equally, and it is bad to show favoritism. If I made an exception for someone because I felt bad for him, word would get around and I would have everyone at our door, telling me their sad stories, true or not. People talk—they compare notes, especially about the rich and what they do. So the rent had to go up, but I brought down his cost of living—he was buying his wife those expensive miracle cures. You noticed there were a few of them in the kitchen? And, of course, there is the matter of the cost of coal to heat the house.”
“But you still lost money.”
“But I bought something important—respect. Landlords are despised because people have to pay them money to live in their homes. A landlord who is liked is a hard thing to find. When Mr. Jenkins works out the real price of the renovations, he’ll know I did right by him, and if someone raises objections to the way I treat my tenants in some tavern in Lambton, he might say something against it.” He put a hand on his son’s back. “It is very important to be liked by the people who owe you money. I would not do this for every tenant, but not every tenant has such an easy problem to solve. So the larger picture is more important in this case. The master of Pemberley must be regarded as a respectable man and even-handed landlord and employer, sometimes even at his own expense.”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 12