Grégoire nodded.
Brian broke the seal, revealing several pages of Latin. “This may have to wait. We have your spectacles—we were allowed to take your spectacles and portraits of your family.”
“Can someone read it to me?” Grégoire asked. “If it is not too much trouble.”
“I haven’t used my Latin since Cambridge,” Darcy said.
“I didn’t go to Cambridge,” Brian added. “I’ll get Daniel.”
They summoned Dr. Maddox, who was, of course, obliging. “My pronunciation will probably be terrible, but I think I can read it aloud.”
Grégoire begged for him to do so. Darcy and Brian excused themselves, shutting the door behind them. Whatever was between the abbot and the monk whose life he had destroyed was certainly private, even if it was in a foreign tongue.
Dr. Maddox cleared his throat. “My apologies for any horrible mispronunciations.”
“That is fine,” Grégoire said. “I am a most willing listener.”
The doctor nodded and began, not entirely understanding the lines he was saying, but getting the general sense of it as he went along. If Grégoire did not understand anything, he gave no indication.
Dear Grégoire Bellamont-Darcy,
I can imagine what you are going through, though I am old and I may be entirely incorrect in my assumptions, and you may find yourself already well and happily settled in England. If this is true, then you will find no comfort in these words, but they may not be upsetting either. My intent for this missive is twofold: to explain fully my actions, so that you know how and why you came to be where you are now, and to confess to you my sins, for I cannot be forgiven otherwise.You have no obligation to feel any tenderness toward me, for I deserve none, but I cannot find any solace until I have at least begun my confession. If you do not wish to hear it, toss it in the fire. But I wish to write it.
I must begin in Cesena, where I was born and raised with my younger brother, Barnaba Niccolò Maria Luigi Chiaramonti, now the vicar of Christ, Pope Pius VII. To the subject at hand, my brother went into the church, as was our family’s tradition for younger sons, or even older sons if they aspired to power. He became a Benedictine and wrote home about his life in the monastery of Santa Maria del Monte of Cesena. I was never much one for politics, which are the bread and butter of an Italian family of wealth and power, and the quiet life was an attraction to me for the same reason it is to many people—an escape from the requirements of a normal life. My father did not oppose me becoming a novice even at a very young age, as he already had one secular son and two daughters, and the church could be a secular occupation as well as a religious one, should I ever incline in that direction. It was decided, however, that I would not join the same monastery as my brother, lest it be thought that I was merely following in his footsteps. I went instead to San Gregorio (coincidentally, this was the name my brother took for himself upon taking his vows—your name, Gregorio) and I took the cowl at fifteen. I confess that though I enjoyed the community to which I had vowed my life, I longed for other experiences—I confess to you now, not all were good, especially when I was a man of eighteen. My abbot sent me abroad, thinking I would either abandon my order quietly and respectfully outside the Roman sphere, or I would work out my feelings there and return satiated. I traveled first to the Holy Land, and was blessed to see the site of our Lord’s crucifixion. There was no doubt in my mind that I would never leave the church, though I might think about straying from it or feel frustrations, as does any human being.
I was sent north to the Turkish empire’s capital, and failed in my mission to convert the Turks to Christianity. They remain Muslims to this day.
That summer, I continued my journey to Bucharest, where I was charged with delivering messages to the brothers and bishops there, who were in conflict with the Orthodox church. I lodged in an apartment, and every morning, a young Slavic woman brought me fresh milk. Needless to say, I was as tempted as any man my age, and proved that summer that I was no saint. At the time I regretted it, but put no stop to it; that was brought on by the order for my return to my monastery, which precipitated a great depression. This seemed to surprise my lover, who said she had known many a priest (though, she said, none so handsome as myself) who unmade himself as easily as any married man who promised never to stray from his wife, broke his vow, and then, of course, returned home for supper, so to speak. At this, I dropped to my knees and began to pray for God’s forgiveness, and she said something to me that has stayed with me. “You think you are so pious—the apostles all sinned and you cannot?”
Our parting was tender, and I learned a good deal more humility from her than I ever learned from the Discipline. When I returned, much to my surprise, the abbot asked me to perform penance for my sins (which I most dutifully did) but was not impressed by my tale of sinful woe. “I do not know anyone in the church who has not done the same thing at one point, except those who have never left the doors of the monastery since their entrance—and they are often guilty of much greater crimes of the flesh.” He was as forgiving as was permitted within the Rule, for which I am forever grateful.
I had now been ten years in the Brotherhood of St. Benedict and my brother fifteen, and our father was growing impatient. My esteemed brother seemed interested in nothing but his daily labors of copying manuscripts, and my father desired that at least one of us aspire to a cardinalship. I was feeling particularly eager to please someone, and so against my instincts I accepted a small bishopric near the papal lands, which required me to often be in Rome, and there I lingered for the most miserable years of my life. His Holiness Pope Pius VI was a good man, but very political, and concerned with Jesuit policies and agricultural reforms, and throwing off the yoke of France. None of this interested me, and all of the other things the city offered me were not to my taste, besides the usual pilgrimage sites and prayer. Rome, as you no doubt saw while you were there, was a city like any other city; it proposed to be something different, but there was sin there. It was nothing like the horrible tales from the days before the Reformation, of which there remained daily reminders, but it was still not what I sought. I do hear that His Holiness appeared rather unfavorably in some fiction by the Marquis de Sade, which is unfortunate. I would never read such literature, but I would assume, based on the barest of things I have heard, that he was not given credit as a vicar of Christ.
It was upon my father’s death that I, when finished grieving, was free to request a transfer. I accepted a bishopric near Oviedo, and as you know, eventually became archbishop of the region. At the same time, my brother emerged from monastic hiding. As he rose through the ranks of Rome, apparently without being tainted by anything there, I wrote to him of my own despair even at the politics of Spain, and he encouraged me to do as I pleased with my life. Eventually, I gathered the courage to request the position of abbot at what is now my abbey. I had dined there on many occasions and spent time with the monks, and knew the former abbot, and was there at his death. It was an easy transition, and I was happy again, and marveled at how I had ever fully served God while in a state of misery, for is this world not created to be loved as a work of the Lord?
My life from then was as you know it, until your arrival, though that did not at first bring a great change. Over the years, many monasteries had been dissolved for one reason or another, and I had seen many monks come looking for lodgings, Benedictine and others.You I saw as another child of the world, of mixed parentage, heritage, and culture. How little I understood, to think there was not something greater in you, though you were in the first year a delight in the earnestness with which you took to your chores.
You will perhaps recall the conversation we had some months ago concerning your work with the people. As to the rumors being spread about you working miracles on the sick populace, I had my doubts for the same reason that you denied them being miracles—people are easier to take to superstition than scientific fact. How strange for a man of faith to say that, but
it is nonetheless true. And we both know that some, perhaps all, of the miracles you worked were mere coincidence, or your wonderful herb garden, which I fear will wither away in your absence. I was not surprised when you turned down the job of prior, but I was saddened that I would see less of you, as you were so often out with the people, doing your work there and not within the monastery walls.
I do not know how the talk of miracles reached beyond the abbey gates, but it could have been any brother passing on information he had heard. There were those who spoke against you, saying that you were proclaiming yourself a miracle worker. These claims were easily dismissed. The townspeople denied you made such claims, instead assigning it all to God and medicine, so no fault could be found. I thought then, Lord, if you would see fit to continue Brother Grégoire on this path, he would do much good for the poor of the coast.
It was in innocence that the matter of your yearly inheritance and its use as charity was uncovered. A certain person along the chain of people in the banker’s employ (whose name I will leave out) happened to mention it in a conversation with his priest, and that priest told the bishop, and the bishop wrote to me
I confess that I understand your motives completely.Your brother’s advice is sound; handle your own money and give it as you see fit, rather than put it in the pockets of the church, where it might disappear. (Your brother and I see with the same eyes here.) However that is not the Rule, and I must and do take the Rule seriously, so I knew you could not escape punishment, but I hoped that it would simply be a matter of confession, punishment, repentance, and absolution, and some change in the agreement with your brother in England. I told the bishop that he would never see your entire fortune, which he did seek, for I knew enough of the world to know that your brother would simply freeze the funds, and be right to do so. I thought that would temper the bishop’s thirst. I shall never know if it would have; the events that followed took us on another path entirely.
The revelation of the cilicium—the hairshirt—was devastating to me. It was very noble and pious of you, and done only with the best intentions, and to some extent brought out the best in us, but the worst of us as well. I have no doubt that had you died from your injuries, you would have been taken to Rome and canonized as quickly as possible. And had you lived and stayed here, you would have been hounded by church hierarchs to go to Rome. I could not see a life so young ruined by a simple misunderstanding of what a miracle is. Excommunicating you from the order was the only way I had to protect you from Rome, be you alive or dead, without indicating that your soul was damned.
You are not damned. There is no stain on your soul, and you should go forth and live a pious life without fear because of what I wrote on a document. I did not mean half the words on them; it was a protective measure. I bless you in thoughts and prayers every day and will continue to do so, and I doubt anyone touched by your presence here at the abbey would do otherwise.
I will tell you one final thing, which I cannot properly account for. On the day the infection was discovered, a week after the punishment, the doctor reopened his own stitches and you bled terribly, so much that we had to collect it in a basin beneath your bed. Feeling ill myself, and knowing you were close to death, I wandered to the herbarium, looking for a little ginger for my beer. There was a monk there I did not recognize. Oddly, I did not become alarmed at seeing an unfamiliar person in the abbey, though I did question him. He said he was a friend of yours, a fellow Englishman. He had a beard and spoke Latin in a strange accent, if that is any significance to you. I asked him if he would pray with us, as the bell had just rung for Vespers, and he said he would pray for you, but that he was sure that by God’s grace you would live. We walked to the chapel together, but somehow I lost him along the way, and never saw him again. I am not overly inclined to question this event, for I was so overjoyed with the news that I felt I had good reason to believe, and lo, even now I do not entirely question whether you survived the journey.
Go and do as you will. If you ever see fit to forgive me for my sins in my treatment of you, I would be most honored. Go with God, Brother Grégoire.You will always be my brother in Christ.
Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti
When the doctor was finished, he saw, to his surprise, that Grégoire’s eyes were still open and aware. “That is it,” Dr. Maddox said.
Grégoire nodded. “My mind…cannot fully comprehend.”
“You’ve been ill for a long time, Grégoire. You need to rest and recover.”
“I have a request, but it is an imposition on your time, Dr. Maddox.”
Maddox smiled. “I’m partially retired, Grégoire. Go ahead.”
“Will you come tomorrow, and read it again?”
Dr. Maddox smiled. “Of course.”
CHAPTER 16
Demons in the Night
THE STORM CONTINUED into the night. Darcy watched Grégoire fall asleep after his evening dose of opium. He did not head to his room, even though he was tired. He saw no reason to get into his bed without Elizabeth, when he needed her so badly. Instead, he nodded off in the chair in Grégoire’s room, sleeping uncomfortably for some time before he heard glass smashing. Instantly, he was awake, his eyes turning to the hazy source.
The glass on the table beside the bed had been knocked over and shattered on the floor. Grégoire, in a shirt and bedclothes, had attempted to stand up, and failed, hitting the ground and taking his sheets with him.
“Grégoire!” Darcy grabbed him by both arms and hoisted him back up. “You’re not supposed to be—”
Grégoire spat in his face and tried to break free. His eyes were bloodshot and wild, and with his beard and unkempt hair, he looked unwell. “Let me go!” He said something else in what was probably Latin. “Please, let me go!” he repeated.
“Grégoire, I would gladly let you—”
“You can’t do this to me!” his brother shouted, pounding his fists into Darcy’s chest. “Amitte me!”
“You’re not well,” Darcy said with a quiet forcefulness. “You have to sit back down.”
“Noli me tangere, fili meretricis! He left me! Everyone has left me!”
“I am here,” Darcy said. “I will stay here. The others—”
“You did this to me! You bastard, I was happy!” Grégoire cried. “I was so happy…” There was madness in his watery eyes. “So happy.”
Darcy was getting a little desperate, and hoped someone had heard them. He could hardly leave his brother in this condition in order to find a servant to wake Maddox. “You were killing yourself!”
“How do you know what it is, pain? It brings us closer to God—” He went almost limp for a moment, and Darcy succeeded in lifting him back up on the bed so he was at least sitting. “Even when…there’s so much of it—”
“You need to lie back down!”
“Subsisto is! Stop telling me what I need! I didn’t need Father’s money. I didn’t need it from you. I told you to stop it, and now you’re going to kill me, just as you killed George—”
Darcy swallowed his first reaction, and instead said, “Grégoire, listen to me.You’re sick—”
“I’m not sick! Just because I want to be a pious person, that makes me sick?” He grabbed Darcy’s face. “I can see into your eyes. You’re just hiding—you’re afraid. Ego sum non! I am not afraid!” He pulled back, and swung what was meant to be a punch, but it was slow and weak and Darcy easily caught it.
He saw the red staining the shirt. “You’re popping your stitches. Do you want to kill yourself?”
“Yes! Would that make you happy?” Grégoire said, struggling under Darcy’s increasingly firm grip. “Napoleon’s soldiers couldn’t kill me, the church couldn’t kill me; do you want to try?”
Darcy did the only thing he could think of, which was to kick over the table with all of the metal instruments, which clattered in a noise loud enough to be noticed by anyone nearby. “No one wants you dead.” He pushed him down again, and Grégoire cried out. Maybe
he really was killing him.
“Mr. Darcy,” said a voice from behind him. “What is—oh, goodness.”
“Wake up the doctor. Now,” he said without looking back at the servant. “And send someone to help me in the meantime.” He turned back to Grégoire, who was still managing to struggle. “I will save you from yourself.”
“The abbot said that. Right before he cast me out. Grégoire, the rich bastard, can’t be seen in the house of God!” He was weakening, having exerted himself more in the past few minutes than in many days. “I saw him. I saw the abbot, I saw the abbot in Munich, there was a terrible fire—he said something about a forge—I am not to be hammered!” He cried, “God forgive me, what good does God’s forgiveness do? Am I to live or die?”
“Live!” he said as two servants burst into the room, where a bleeding madman was screaming at Mr. Darcy. Sizing up the situation, they quickly helped Mr. Darcy subdue the patient.
“Demons! Oh, God, please—I am to be forgotten and now damned?”
“You are not damned,” Darcy said. “You are just delirious—”
“Vos es totus everto ex abyssus!” he screamed. “Diabolus genitus! Where is my cross? Where is the merciful God?”
To that, Darcy did not know the answer. Fortunately, Dr. Maddox rushed into the room and he didn’t have to. The doctor was still tying his bathrobe. “Oh, dear. Give me a moment.” He looked at the instruments spilled everywhere. “Give me two.”
“He’s bleeding, Maddox!”
“I know! I know!” Dr. Maddox knelt on the ground and collected his things. “Candle!” One of the servants brought him a candle, which he held under a spoon, but Darcy was too distracted to observe the procedure. He smelled something burning. Then Dr. Maddox produced a cloth and put it over Grégoire’s screaming mouth.
“Breathe,” he said, which was not an order that even his patient could disobey. In fact, Grégoire was gasping, and breathed very deeply. He collapsed quickly onto the bed, which was stained with his own blood. Maddox removed the cloth and put a hand on Grégoire’s forehead. “He has no fever, at least. Turn him over.”
The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy Page 15