“Stay clear of strangers. Walk on the road only when necessary, otherwise, keep to the woods and fields.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Once you get there, ask Brother Gabriel about the box. You’re old enough to know, and he can better explain its contents than I can.”
Then my father kissed me on each side of my face, turned abruptly away, and with iron clamps, lifted the shield to the light. It was simple, perhaps belonging to the gatekeeper, and its corner was dented. He set it back on the coals.
I hesitated at the door, the box in my hands, and wondered at my father’s words. I looked out, left and right, then stepped back in for a moment, the box in my hands. “Papa?” I asked. “Did you see the caged men?”
He continued working. “Yes. Yes, I saw them.”
“Someone said they’re Huguenots—heretics. They’re evil, right Papa?”
My father looked up, his brown eyes somber with an intensity I had never seen before. “I only know one thing,” he said firmly. “They’re men.”
Again, from the embers he lifted the shield. Its edge glowed red, as if it were alive, then quickly began to fade.
“But aren’t they dangerous … aren’t they—”
“Go,” he said. “Now.”
“Yes, Papa.”
I stepped into the full light, my lute strapped on my back. Just for good measure, I shifted the wooden box to my left hand, then with my right made the sign of the cross. In times such as these, I needed all the protection I could get. I studied the streets for the caged men and the mercenary, who were nowhere in sight, then walked quickly toward the eastern gate, glad to finally leave my brother behind.
Still, strangely enough, something nameless nagged at me. For all the moments I had wished to be free of my responsibility, now that it was suddenly lifted, a tinge of worry seeped like rainwater into a well-worn path.
BROTHER GABRIEL
By midmorning, when the sun had driven cold from the air, I found myself in steady stride along the road. In the surrounding fields, grape vines were pruned, waiting for spring. Olive trees stood bare after the late November harvest; their meaty pulp had been pressed between sheets and turned into Venyre’s famous olive oil.
Midway over a wooden bridge, its boards rutted with wheel marks, I paused. Water rushed beneath me, gurgling, as if it had a mind of its own, racing from the mountains toward the Rhàne River and the Mediterranean. My mother once said “the sea sparkles like an endless jewel.” Unlike the other village women, she was born beyond Venyre, had lived near the sea, and had left behind a wealthier life to marry my father, bringing along only her lute and her nanny, Madame Troubène. Someday, perhaps my feet would carry me beyond Venyre. With the box tucked beneath my arm, I journeyed toward the monastery, lost in thought.
Ahead, the monastery steeple rose tall above the stone walls. As I neared the oak gates, I noticed the carving of a saint with a halo—St. Benedict himself, who left the city of Rome to dwell in a cave. The cave was still said to be able to heal those who visit it.
I thought again about the man at church. For weeks after Brother Gabriel had removed the man from mass, villagers spoke about “the miracle.” They said God had sent an angel in the form of a visiting monk to spare the village. I knew the monk was not an angel. “That was my uncle, Brother Gabriel,” I’d explained to one country peasant selling squash. “Oh, no,” she’d replied, crossing herself, “mark my words, it was an angel.” If villagers often jumped to such ridiculous conclusions, then surely not all of their notions could be true.
For a long time, I had wanted to ask my uncle about the man who had begun to turn into a loup garou, right there in the sanctuary. But I rarely saw my uncle, who traveled widely, and passed like a shadow in and out of my father’s shop once or twice a year. On my errands to the monastery, he was usually away. Surely Brother Gabriel must have special prayers, a special cross, something. I did not believe Jean-Pierre could be like that man, but still, was it not my job to watch over my brother? With the right thing, I might be able to protect him.
I pulled the bell rope, which hung above the gate, and the bell rang out, clear and loud. A small panel in the door slid open, and a young monk looked out, a boy about my age, but taller, with auburn hair and a generously freckled nose. I had seen him once before. “Welcome to the Lord’s house and to St. Benedict’s,” he said.
“Bonjour,” I said. “I am to deliver this”—I lifted the wooden box to the window—“to Brother Gabriel.”
“Please enter,” the young monk said. He eyed the lute on my back. “A musician?”
“I play … some,” I said.
The doors opened wide, and I stepped into the stone courtyard. Small trees and shrubs lined the inner walls. A dozen buildings filled the monastery, but the church took center stage. It towered on a foundation of massive stones; its spire rose nearly to heaven. To the left of the church ran a long row of arched columns. At the end of the row, a cluster of monks stood talking; each wore a hooded cowl and brown frock, sashed at the waist with a white rope, and a simple wooden cross.
“Wait here,” the boy said, then turned and stalked away like a crane, his skinny ankles protruding like stilts beneath the brown frock he must have recently outgrown. He disappeared beyond the white arched pillars, which framed a garden filled with evergreen shrubs.
My stomach growled. I had not eaten yet that day.
The monastery was quiet. My village was glaringly noisy compared to this holy place. I wondered if I was doing anything wrong. I shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the next, then tried to stand still.
The young monk returned. “You may call me Augustin,” he said.
“My name is Marius,” I said, with a slight nod. “Marius Poyet.”
“Brother Gabriel will be with you soon. Until then, I’m to keep you company.”
For a brief time, we were silent.
Augustin glanced beyond the walls of the monastery to the cloud-streaked sky beyond, as if searching for words. He cleared his throat, then spoke. “I like the lute,” he volunteered. “I’m told my voice, too, is an instrument.” His smile stretched wide, then faltered, then fell. “Abbot Joseph wants me to sing for the Sistine choir.”
“You’d sing for the pope?” I could only wish for such an opportunity. “That’s wonderful!” Other boys were moving on to apprenticeships, some moving on to sing in choirs for the pope. I felt left behind.
“Well, yes, for the pope, though I would first go to Avignon,” he said. “I have to decide soon, I’m told. Very soon.”
I shrugged my shoulders and laughed. “To use your voice for the pope himself? What is there to decide?”
Augustin clamped his perfect front teeth over his lower lip, exhaled hard, then whispered, “I would have to choose to become a … a castrat.”
My enthusiasm disappeared. A castrat. Some time ago my father had explained the word. A castrat was a boy whose maleness had been partly removed, cut off, in order to keep his high, clear voice for the Church choir. I shuddered. “Wh-what will you do?”
He wore the look of a prisoner destined to wear chains. “I’m told my singing is my greatest calling, that it would be a small sacrifice, but I’m not sure. And with the abbot … and his love for music”—he glanced around, as if to make sure no one was listening—“I’m not sure if it’s a choice or a command.”
Just then, another monk, closer to my father’s age, walked toward us. Beneath the cowl, his head—like the others—was shaved. He smiled, only one tooth missing, with dimples as deep as craters, and I recognized him. My mother, I suddenly remembered, had had the same dimples. A pang pierced me. I missed her.
Brother Gabriel met my eyes. “Bonjour,” he said. “Your father said he would soon send you.” He smiled again. “I haven’t seen you in two years or better. Your straight nose, your thick dark hair—you’re so much like her.” He paused, touched my shoulder lightly. “And I see you’re still playing the lute, Marius. Go
od, good.” He tilted his head wistfully and smiled. “It’s been in our family a long, long time.” Then he pulled himself from his thoughts and stood straight. He eyed the box, still in my hands. “Come, we’ll talk in my study.”
I walked silently beside my uncle.
“I see you met Augustin,” he said.
“He’s so young—my age.”
“He was given to the monastery when he was quite small. His mother dedicated him to God.”
“He’s a monk, then?”
“Not quite,” said Brother Gabriel. “But soon. When he is old enough to take his vows.”
Down one corridor, then another, I followed. I passed rooms with long benches, fireplaces, and tapestry-covered walls. In some hallways, monks sat at study tables, writing or reading. One older monk snored over an open scroll. I passed statues of the Virgin Mary, Joseph, Jesus, and saints I couldn’t name. I tried to take it all in, the grandness, the awesomeness of this place.
Brother Gabriel pushed open a wooden door to a small room. As many as fifteen books were securely chained on a shelf. Two were stacked on a table. A real table. Not a board laid on supports, but a table with carved legs.
Light filtered through a stained-glass window and shone blue on a quill and a parchment held wide with stones, one on each corner. Writing that I couldn’t read was on the parchment, drying.
“You’re a teacher?” I asked, remembering what my father had said of my uncle.
“Of sorts.” Brother Gabriel smiled. “A scholar. I travel from monastery to monastery, sometimes to Rome. I teach other monks and counsel with abbots and bishops. Mostly, I study the Holy Scriptures …” He shut the door quietly behind him and sat at the desk. “… As well as the works of learned thinkers.” He pointed to a small chest. “Sit, please,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”
I cleared my throat and sat down. It wasn’t the custom for an adult to speak so much with a younger person. What would I say? That I was my younger brother’s keeper, maid, and mother? That I desperately wanted to become an apprentice, to begin the journey to manhood? It would all sound foolish. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Brother Gabriel laughed warmly and his dimples deepened. “Pardon me. I’ve made you uncomfortable.” He sat in the chair. “Perhaps I’ve spent too many years behind monastery walls.”
I extended the small box to him. “My father wanted …”
He took it in his hands and rested it in the lap of his frock. Bluish veins etched his pale hands like marble. “Do you know the contents of the box?”
“No,” I said. My mind turned to another subject. My brother.
“Ah, I would like to show you, but”—Brother Gabriel held up his forefinger—“it could be risky. Some would not approve. Are you old enough to discuss such things? Your father must think so, or I doubt he would have sent you.”
“You can trust me,” I blurted. “He told me to ask you about it, that I’m old enough.”
Brother Gabriel nodded, then undid the leather straps tied fast around the box. He rested his hands on the lid and seemed to study me. I met his gaze and waited. Finally, he opened the box.
I watched. Nothing sparkled or gleamed. As the lid came off, I noted three books, leather-bound, inside. Books, I knew, were a rare possession. I certainly had never held one myself, but why would my father, a blacksmith, pass along this kind of thing to Brother Gabriel? As far as I knew, my father had no use for books, even though he possessed a keener mind than most villagers.
“Two books and a Bible,” said Brother Gabriel. “Written in French, printed on a press.” He opened the pages and I saw neat, small, clear letters in straight thin lines. “For you or your father or anyone in the village to have books would be suspect, but to have a Bible would be heresy.”
I nodded. “Yes, of course.”
“For some members of the clergy, it’s a threat to their power, especially if the Bible is read in a language other than Latin, something the people can understand,” Brother Gabriel said. “The Holy Church forbids interpreting the Word on one’s own. Guidance must come only through the Church. To others, reading the Bible is enlightenment.”
“But why did my father …” I faltered. My heart beat harder.
“Marius, he borrowed them from me,” Brother Gabriel said gently. “He finished reading them. Most likely he sent them with you—at some risk, I might add—so they wouldn’t be found.”
My eyes widened. “Reading them?” My head swam with new knowledge. I rubbed my hands together, palms sweaty. “Hardly anyone in the village can read,” I said, more to myself than to my uncle. “Only the monks and priests, the nobility, sometimes a traveler. I don’t believe … not my own father.”
“Your mother and I were born to a noble family,” said Brother Gabriel. “When Isabelle chose to marry your father, who worked then at our chateau, she was forced to leave her wealth and her family behind. But she took with her something of greater value. She could read. She taught your father to read and intended to teach you, as well, and would have, had she not died so young.”
I was stunned. Silence hovered in the air. “My mother could read?” I said. “Lived at a chateau?” I rose to my feet and began pacing. I knew she had come from a family of greater means. But nobility? And she had taught my father to read?
Suddenly I stopped and met the monk’s eyes. “If my father can read, if he can read Scripture, doesn’t that make my father …” I couldn’t speak the word, not out loud.
“A heretic?” offered the monk. “To some,” he said and shook his head with a sad smile. “Certainly not to me.”
Suddenly, I felt nearly dizzy with thoughts. Heretics, Huguenots, the loup garou. “My father,” I said, “must not have wanted the books, the Bible, to be found, that’s why he wanted them gone.”
Brother Gabriel studied me.
“But why would he break the rules, why would he put his life—and mine—in danger, just to read?”
“For love … for freedom,” my uncle said slowly, “a man will risk everything.” He paused. “Your father does not want to endanger you. He waited as long as possible to reveal these things.”
I closed my eyes, steadied myself. A numbing iciness rose up from the floor through my whole being. My vision became watery. Heavily, I sat down on the chest and buried my face in my hands.
THE ABBOT
Moments passed. Footsteps passed outside the door of Brother Gabriel’s study. Before long, I lifted my head.
“For now, enough talk of these things,” said Brother Gabriel, fingering the silver cross that hung over his chest. “The Benedictine way is to offer any guest a night’s lodging and a good meal. Of course you’ll want to return home soon, but are you hungry?”
I still needed to discuss Jean-Pierre with my uncle, but my stomach growled loudly in protest.
“There’s your answer,” my uncle said, holding the door ajar. “Here, let me take you to the kitchen.”
Before long, I was sitting on a bench at a long table. A monk placed a banquet before me on a wooden trencher: two chicken legs, a piece of herring, and two eggs. Beside this was a large bowl of sausage potage and a loaf of bread made from finely ground wheat flour.
“Is this food all for me?” I asked. It was more than I could have imagined.
“Of course.” My uncle smiled.
I dove in with both hands, ate the potage with a wooden spoon, finished everything except half the loaf of bread, then washed it all down with a mug of cider.
“Enough?” said Brother Gabriel, seated across from me.
I patted my belly. “More than enough.” I eyed the half loaf that remained.
“Take it for your walk home,” my uncle offered.
I tucked it into the square pocket of my jerkin. I’d never eaten bread so fine; our usual fare was coarse and gritty, as if the grain had been swept off the floor. “Merci!”
Before I left, I needed to ask a greater question, though I feared the answer. “Bro
ther Gabriel,” I began, “can … can a person born on Christmas Eve … can he not escape becoming a loup garou?”
“Your brother?” asked Brother Gabriel asked gravely.
At first I didn’t answer. A monk waited at the edge of the kitchen. Could I talk freely here about Jean-Pierre? I looked at my uncle, his eyes trustworthy.
“Yes,” I finally said, and sat still, hands folded at the edge of the table, as if in prayer. Despite being full, my stomach tightened. “That man that you helped at church, the one villagers said was turning into …”
“Oh yes, I tried.”
“What happened to him?” I pressed. “Did he change shape once he was removed from mass? Did you say a prayer, use holy water, or a blessed cross?”
Brother Gabriel puckered his chin and shook his head. “Nothing quite that dramatic,” he said. “He was ill, and seizures came upon him from time to time. It was best to keep him calm and let it pass.”
“Was he born on Christmas Eve, like Jean-Pierre?”
My uncle shook his head.
“Had he drunk from a wolf print when it filled with rainwater?”
Again, my uncle shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so,” he said calmly, steadily, as if these things didn’t cause him to tremble at all.
“We brought him here to our infirmary. He was fully human, but having violent seizures. We tried to help him, poor man, but nonetheless, he died. Died as all of us will do someday. And so we hang on to eternal hope, as we do for your mother, for the life beyond this one.”
The image of my mother—her braid falling over her shoulder as she strummed the lute, just for me—filled my mind. For a moment, my own fears suddenly melted away, then my mind returned to what Brother Gabriel had said.
The man at church hadn’t turned into a loup garou. He was sick, not cursed as so many villagers, including Madame Troubène, had insisted. Brother Gabriel’s ideas startled me, yet they made sense.
Brother Gabriel rose heavily and turned to one of the dining room windows. He rested his hands on the stone ledge. “Christ came to bring light in the darkness,” he said. “And that light continues spreading. The light shines through France’s own John Calvin—”
Curse of a Winter Moon Page 4