The intercom rang and Sister Miriam rose to answer it.
“Mother Benedicta is able to join us, but Mother Ann is resting.”
“Well, I’ll let you two visit with Mother Benedicta, and then Nora can take you to the archives. She’s quite familiar with them.”
“Thank you very much, Sister Miriam,” Ian said.
“I’ll let the sisters know you’re here,” and then added with smile, “and that you might return.” Then turning to Nora. “Show Professor Landers where the copy machine is. I suspect he’ll want to use it.”
She said to Landers, “You’re welcome to copy any of the Combier papers that might relate to your research.” Then, pleasantly but abruptly, the prioress said, “Now, please excuse me.”
When Mother Benedicta arrived they moved back to the parlor and more comfortable chairs.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” Ian said, “I hope this isn’t inconvenient for you.”
“You caught me at a good time. I was reading in my cell. Nora will probably tell you later that ‘reading in my cell’ is sometimes code for ‘napping in my cell.’”
Landers liked her immediately. She struck him as an archetypal grandmother—at home with herself, beyond judgment, exuding a quiet but unmistakable delight. It was, he thought, delight at seeing Nora and meeting a friend of hers, but even more a fundamental delight with life itself.
Mother Benedicta understood immediately why Landers was interested in Father Combier and his papers. All Nora had to say was that Ian was writing about the ambition and power dynamics of medieval clergymen.
“Well, I never knew Gilbert Combier, of course, but I feel like I did. When I came to the monastery in 1942, Mother Bernard was still with us. She was a novice when Father Combier arrived, and the two became dear friends. It’s clear they loved each other.” Then she added, “Their relationship was a striking example of honest celibate love and loyalty. She was his confidant, and over time she came to know a great deal of his life at the Vatican and his work in the archives there.”
“Do you have any idea,” Landers asked, “why Father Combier left the Vatican?”
“Mother Bernard believed he had been disturbed by the intrigue there. I remember she used the word ‘treachery,’ which I’ve never forgotten. It seems Father Combier’s faith had been shaken, not only by the mostly hidden scandals of the medieval church that he came across in the archives, but by the vices he came to see in the Roman clergy in his own time. Just why he left Rome, I can’t say. Some of the sisters thought his health was the main reason for his leaving.”
Nora could see Benedicta was tiring. “Thank you, Mother,” she said. “It was very kind of you to meet with us.”
“Mother, I am delighted to have met you,” Landers added, eager to get to the Combier papers. He helped the elderly woman out of her chair. The light in her eyes had dimmed, but she replied crisply, “Oh, I enjoyed our little visit very much.”
Nora placed the Combier papers in front of Ian and sat down next to him at the work table in the center of the second floor room that housed the monastery’s archives. At first glance, Landers could see there were perhaps a hundred pages of letters, reports, journal entries, financial ledgers, including a few papal declarations and condemnations. Scanning the papers at the top of the pile, Ian concluded that Combier had hand-copied most of them from original archival material. But not all. The priest had taken quite a few original documents with him when he left for America. That took nerve and cunning. Landers’ curiosity soared when he discovered, interspersed among the papers, Combier’s own notes, some lengthy, written in French.
“Mother Bernard was one of the few sisters fluent in Italian and French. And she could read Latin. So we think she was somewhat of an assistant to Combier as he worked on his papers. We believe he was writing something, whether for publication or not, we don’t know. Whatever it was, it’s been lost.”
Nora reached over, her elbow brushing against Ian’s chest, and thumbed through the documents.
“I know you’re searching for anything about the Fideli d’ Amore, but there’s a letter in here I want you to see.” She pulled a page from a manila folder and handed it to Landers. Getting up from the chair next to Ian’s, she walked around the table and sat across from him. Nora saw him look up, puzzled by her abrupt move. She tried to hold his gaze, but he quickly returned to the page in front of him. She wanted to see Ian’s reaction as he read the letter written in 1477 from the bishop of Orvieto to the cardinal archbishop of Genoa. Ian furrowed his brow as he put the letter down. He was feeling the familiar rush of energy that accompanied the discovery of fresh evidence. “Nora, would you turn on the copy machine, please?”
9
Dan Barrett and Paul Kline spoke quietly into their cell phones, not wanting to be overheard by their wives or children.
“Mark called you, too?” Barrett asked.
“For Christ’s sake, he’s bought a condominium at the Harbor. Do you have any idea how much those condos cost?”
“He has his army pension and he probably saved a lot over the last twenty years.”
“Still, those things are out of sight,” Kline said. “I think you’re thinking what I’m thinking…that he got a load of cash from Gunnison.”
“I don’t like this, Paul. I suggested the three of us get together and he said ‘not for a while,’ that he had some things to take care of. I should’ve asked him ‘what things?’ but I didn’t. I can’t forget what he said when we were leaving the bar, that he was gonna really scare Gunnison, make him shit in his pants. And maybe bring him down. Whatever that means.”
“I know. I know. I don’t know about Gunnison, but I think Mark is scaring the hell out of both of us,” Kline said. “What do you think we should do?”
“I don’t know,” Barrett answered. “What can we do? Call Gunnison and say ‘watch out, somebody plans to really scare you?’ Or say, ‘be careful, someone has threatened you?’ I keep telling myself Mark hasn’t hurt anyone.”
“Yet,” Kline added. “Maybe we should call him and say we have to get together whether he wants to or not…that it’s really important.”
Barrett thought about this. All he could muster was, “I wish he was still living with his Aunt Margaret.”
“Father, in your loving plan,” Aidan Kempe prayed in a soft monotone, “Christ your Son became the price of our salvation. May we be united with him in his suffering so that we may experience the power of his resurrection in the kingdom where he lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.”
“Amen,” answered the priests of the Brotherhood to the closing prayer of vespers.
“The Lord be with you,” Kempe continued without raising his eyes from his breviary.
“And also with you,” each responded.
“May Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Kempe intoned, making the sign of the cross over the Brothers of the Sacred Purple.
The five priests sat in the rectory study of Father Thomas Fenton. Kempe and Fenton sat in two leather wing chairs on either side of the gas fire that was the centerpiece of the book-lined room. The others, veteran priest Herman Volker, a personal friend of Wilfred Gunnison, and two of the archdiocese’s younger pastors, Eric St. John and Paul Carafa, sat in Chippendale chairs arranged in front of the fireplace. The younger men were recruited because in Kempe’s mind they had the potential to be players in the internal battle to keep the church orthodox. St. John held a master’s degree in Liturgy from the University of Notre Dame and was perhaps a future master of ceremonies to the archbishop. Carafa, who did his seminary studies at the North American College in Rome, maintained good contacts at the Vatican.
The Brotherhood met monthly on a Sunday evening. Without fail, they began their meeting with vespers, the evening prayer of the breviary. Kempe then presided at a sort of business meeting which mostly came down to discussing tactics for promoting the appointment of o
rthodox priests to the episcopacy or, on the local scene, to positions of influence in the archdiocese. But the Brotherhood had an even loftier purpose—to save their archdiocese and the Catholic Church itself from the moral chaos and doctrinal unraveling fostered by the Second Vatican Council. By any means necessary.
On more than one Sunday evening, St. John and Carafa were made to listen to some of the Brotherhood’s more memorable triumphs. “During the eighties and nineties,” Kempe would begin with the precision of an academic, “perhaps even earlier, but we don’t have the evidence to be sure, a group of maybe forty liberal bishops tried to take over the U.S. Conference of Bishops. I like to refer to them as the Brotherhood of Luther. They were really more Protestant than Catholic. They met two or three days before the U.S. bishops meetings in the spring and fall of every year, plotting various strategies and tactics to further the misguided policies and vision of Vatican II.”
Kempe would pause here to see if Fenton or Volker wanted to add something about the demonic plot.
“Here’s an example of how they operated. As you know, a little more than ten years ago the pope released an Apostolic Letter, Ordinatio Sacerdotalis, stating definitively that women could not be ordained to the priesthood. The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith said emphatically that the Apostolic Letter was to be considered to belong to the Deposit of Faith—to the supreme center of Catholic dogma. That wasn’t good enough for the Brotherhood of Luther. These liberal bishops drew up a confidential paper for the bishops of the Conference titled “An Expression of Pastoral Concern” criticizing the theological and biblical foundations of the Congregation of the Faith’s teaching that the Apostolic Letter was to be considered a matter of faith. Thank God the rogue bishops’ statement didn’t have any impact on the majority of the bishops, but it is a good example of how the Brotherhood of Luther tried to undermine the teaching office of Rome.”
Fenton added, “It’s fair to say that if it weren’t for the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple, the Brotherhood of Luther’s statement of dissent may have gotten to the media. That would have caused all kinds of confusion and scandal.”
“We can take some credit for the demise of the Brotherhood of Luther,” Volker said confidently. “Maybe a lot of credit.”
“Herm’s right,” Kempe said, “we have helped to ensure that the American bishops are unquestionably loyal and faithful to Rome, to the supreme center. Thanks to our work, the number of liberal bishops has dropped significantly. But we can’t let down our guard. There are countless priests, religious, laity, and God knows still how many bishops we haven’t yet identified who continue to believe the church can change, and should change, her timeless teachings.”
The reminiscing was over.
“Perhaps you’re wondering where Archbishop Gunnison is this evening,” Kempe said, looking at St. John and Carafa.
“I’m afraid the Brotherhood may be faced with some danger,” Kempe continued. “A man has approached the archbishop claiming he was sexually abused by him decades ago.
“The accusation is false,” Kempe assured them. “The accuser is misinterpreting an innocent back-rub—most likely to achieve a financial windfall. For a number of reasons, not the least of which is the archbishop’s approaching fiftieth ordination anniversary, we have made a sizable payment to him from the Brotherhood’s purse. It appears he hasn’t gone to the police and we believe he hasn’t hired an attorney. The archbishop hopes, of course, that the money will mollify him and dissuade him from taking his accusation to the authorities or to the media. But we just don’t know.
“It’s best, I…we…thought, that the archbishop not attend our meeting this evening. Nor will he be coming to our meetings for the foreseeable future. He’s thinking of what is best for the Brotherhood, even though, at least for now, the danger seems minimal. Obviously, we need to keep this situation in our prayers.”
St. John and Carafa exchanged a nervous glance.
“There are a few priests who know we meet regularly and that the archbishop is part of our group,” St. John said.
“Yes,” Fenton responded. “But they think we’re just another priest support group…a very orthodox and faithful group, to be sure, but nothing out of the ordinary. Our brother priests must never discover—they wouldn’t understand—that we are committed to protecting the supreme center and working discreetly to assure that only faithful priests are named bishops.”
“Don’t be troubled, Fathers,” Kempe said to the two junior priests, “the Holy Spirit is with us.”
But Kempe himself was troubled, very troubled. There were signs that Gunnison was weakening under the pressure of Anderlee’s threats. A public accusation against a member of the Brotherhood and Gunnison’s fragile psyche could seriously threaten the mission, and secrecy, of the Brotherhood of the Sacred Purple.
“Please tell the archbishop we are praying for him,” Carafa said sincerely to Kempe.
The Brotherhood sat quietly for a few minutes gazing at the fire.
“Well,” Kempe said breaking the mood, “it’s time for drinks.” After half an hour of drinks, shrimp, goat cheese and crackers, and a generous serving of clerical gossip, each of the priests approached Kempe and placed an envelope in his hand containing a bank check for one thousand dollars.
“Your support of the purse is more important than ever,” Kempe said seriously. “The archbishop’s accuser has, quite regrettably, weakened it.”
Fenton and Volker had coached the new pastors on ways to circumvent the parish finance council’s oversight function. Your parish is your benefice, they instructed St. John and Carafa. As such, you have discretionary control over your parish finances. “Don’t hesitate to exercise that power for the good of the Brotherhood,” they had been told repeatedly.
Both young pastors respected Gunnison, Fenton and Volker, but they were in awe of Monsignor Aidan Kempe. He was a true defender of the church, and in their eyes he towered over Archbishop Gunnison. He spoke Italian and, more importantly, knew better than most how the Vatican bureaucracies worked. And it was Monsignor Kempe, not the archbishop, who was the Brotherhood’s link to their Vatican protector, a bishop known only as M, whose identity was secret save to Kempe.
It was just a matter of time, both felt sure, until Kempe would be named a bishop. They had been deeply disappointed, even angered, when he had been passed over in favor of Bryn Martin.
And once Kempe was a bishop, who knew what the future might hold for their own careers?
10
In the early summer of 1477,” Ian Landers said to his seminar students, “during the reign of Pope Nicholas V, a young nobleman in service to the bishop of Orvieto delivered a letter to the cardinal archbishop of Genoa. Along with the letter, the tonsured messenger carried a monetary gift for the cardinal, and a personal gift—himself.
“I have a translation of the letter here for each of you. Take a minute to read it.”
Alfonso Cardinal Colonna
Archbishop of Genoa
Your most esteemed Eminence,
Grace and peace to you as you celebrate the fifth anniversary of your elevation as Prince of the Church. May God sustain you in health and prosperity in your faithful service to Jesus Christ and in your governance of His Holy Church.
The bearer of this letter, Ascanio Sforsa, my personal secretary for the past year, brings into your exalted presence my humble gift of one thousand ducats. May it please your Eminence to use this expression of my respect for the works of mercy and charity for which you are rightly renowned or for any other purpose that may please you.
Ascanio desires a life of service to the Church and has the blessing of his family, the ruling family of the Duchy of Milan. He is a pious, pleasing, and comely young man. His Latin and Greek are superior and he is fluent in both French and Spanish. In spite of his youth and inexperience, Ascanio has assisted me with prudence and discretion in the governance of my humble diocese. Moreover, he oversees the ordering of my househo
ld, and his daily presence has proven to be a source of comfort and solace to me.
May I humbly propose that your Eminence admit Ascanio to service in your household if this be pleasing to you. You will find that he is indefatigable in his desire to please. And I assure you of his total discretion in ecclesiastical and personal affairs.
Should you find Ascanio worthy of a place in your household, the Sforsa family would be eager to express their gratitude to you and I would be deeply honored.
I remain ever ready to be of service to you, your Eminence, and to your family. May Almighty God fortify you and the house of Colonna with His strength and protection.
Kissing the sacred purple, I remain
Your humble servant,
+Francesco Barbiano
Bishop of Orvieto
June 30, 1477
The graduate students in Landers’ seminar looked up as they finished reading. There were a few cynical smiles but most were waiting to see how their professor would respond.
Landers hesitated. The two students from St. Mary’s Seminary seemed on edge.
“Well, what do you think?”
“Bishop Barbiano was a shrewd, calculating climber,” began John Pointer, one of two doctoral students who regularly intimidated his masters-level classmates. “I give him credit for knowing how to play the game.”
Ellen Stark, the other doctoral student, was less generous. “This is pandering at its worst. Do you think Machiavelli could have been a nephew or relative of Barbiano?” she asked. Landers raised his eyebrows—a sure sign he was pleased with the allusion to the cunning master of political strategy and tactics. Stark continued, “It’s too bad we don’t have any idea how Ascanio Sforsa felt about this arrangement. Was he, too, making his way in the church circles of his day? Or was he being exploited by Barbiano?”
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