“Oui, I have seen the results of it all day.”
“Are you angry?” he asked.
“Non. You possess a clarity of purpose I envy. You seem to know what you wish. I am still floundering with that. I only know I want you. But… Well, I envy your calling to medicine.”
“Ah,” he said with a nod. “You have gifts too. Surely you know that.”
“Oui, but one of them has always been for killing.” I was minded of a conversation I had once had with Pete about this very subject. “Another is for healing the heart, perhaps; but that is not a vocation unless one is a priest.”
“Perhaps it should be,” he said quite seriously.
“I think it should be practiced by someone other than priests with all their talk of guilt and sin.”
“And you are a philosopher,” he added.
I chuckled. I could not gainsay him.
“Will, I think we can be happy,” he said earnestly. “And every time I do not, you find a way of making it so we can.”
“Gods willing.”
“Non, Will, it does not rely on the Gods, but on us.”
Ninety-Two
Wherein We Prepare for a Siege
Several leagues of dark road and mosquitoes later, we came to Cayonne again. I was wondering where Gaston’s medicine chest—that had been aboard the Queen—was now, and with it, the ointment he used for bug stings: and barring our locating it in a timely manner this eve, if we could find similar ointment in Doucette’s supplies.
We were hailed by the monk caring for the hospital’s few patients as we entered the ward. “Lord Montren, Monsieur Williams, Father Pierre wishes to speak with you,” the young man said diffidently, with a proper bow.
“Now?” I queried. It was quite late.
The priest nodded.
There was still conversation in the moonlit atrium, so tantalizingly close through the next door. I heard Cudro’s basso rumble and knew our cabal had stayed on instead of retiring to a tavern.
I looked to Gaston and found him considering the matter. He looked to me with apology in his eyes; and I sighed my acquiescence. He turned to the priest and told him to wait a moment. Then he fetched ointment from the surgery after only a minute of searching and cursing.
I left the wine bottle in the hospital and applied the ointment to the swollen bites on my arms and neck as we followed the young man into the church. I expected him to lead us deep into the bowels of the monastery, but he stopped at the end of the aisle and pointed to a candle-lit figure kneeling at the altar rail. We padded down the otherwise empty chapel in silence born of something other than reverence.
As we approached, Gaston genuflected and then joined Father Pierre at the rail to kneel with his hands clasped and his head bowed in sincere prayer. I stifled a sigh and genuflected before easing my tired body onto the first pew. Father Pierre did not acknowledge our arrival. I did not move such that I could see if his eyes were closed or his lips mumbled. I did not hear him.
The chapel was a simple affair: polished and well-crafted unadorned wood was everywhere except the exposed great stone blocks of the walls. There was no stained glass, and no tapestries: they would surely molder in the humidity; and glass is fragile and expensive to bring to the New World. The cross was a great and simple thing of teak and not a crucifix. It was a place of God being found in grain and craftsmanship, not art. I found it honest and lacking in pretension.
I wondered at my matelot’s seeming piousness. Was this yet another thing he had thought on while I frolicked, or was he playing the part? But to what benefit if he was? He had already told this priest he would not pretend in order to impress the Church or inherit.
I was not sure I should pretend in order to shield myself from charges of heresy. But was it possible to become civilized men and take a place in society and not befriend the Church through money or piety? Conversely, was it possible to maintain peace with the Gods and the Church at the same time?
Father Pierre finally moved. He crossed himself, and—after a curious glance at Gaston—came to join me on the pew.
“Father,” I said quietly with a polite nod.
He studied me with open curiosity before asking, “Are you truly an atheist?”
“Are you a pious man, or a political one?” I countered. “Either way, I have never found it safe to discuss my faith or lack thereof with men of the cloth.”
He made a knowing sound and nodded with a languid smile as he turned to regard the cross. “I do not often see clever or intelligent men in this church—or any other. It is a sad statement about our faith. Yet Our Lord moves in mysterious ways. I feel He saw to the establishment of the Church to tend men and women blessed with uncomplicated thoughts, and tasked those with brilliant minds to find their own course to Him. Intelligent men are often cursed with the inability to see His Works behind the Church. They are not plagued and tempted by the Devil, but hamstrung by self-knowledge. They see the hubris and all-too-human error of those who attempt to dedicate their lives to God, and they feel God is flawed in accepting men such as that to represent Him, and so they turn from God. Yet they are seldom the Devil’s playthings, either. They exist in a faithless limbo.”
He returned his gaze to me. “I was once one of them.”
I did not wince at being so skewered; though it surely pricked my pride. I sat humbled. “What happened? To you?” I added.
He smiled anew and motioned me to stay as he stood and walked about the altar and nave, peering toward doorways and around corners.
I looked to Gaston as Father Pierre looked for eavesdroppers, and found him watching the priest with as much surprise as I felt. He sensed my gaze and looked to me, and we smirked with self-deprecation in unison. I vowed to never again assume another man was an enemy until I had spoken with him in private.
When Father Pierre was apparently assured we were alone, he returned to sit on the altar steps where he could see us both. Gaston glanced at the cross and crossed himself before turning to face us.
“I was a worldly yet troubled man,” Father Pierre said. “I felt compelled to make amends for my sins, and so I joined the Church. I have fought more battles within its confines than I ever did without. Yet they were subtle, clandestine wars of politics. Let us say I was not sent here to this pestilent and war-torn outpost as a reward. But it would be hubris to say that in the end, God did not know exactly where He wanted me and I could do the most good as I am. Yet He continues to allow the Church to send me overzealous and dogmatic boys who take years to teach that their true allegiance is to Him and not their aspirations within the ranks.”
I snorted with amusement. “So, we should trust you, but not your priests?”
He shrugged. “If I earn your trust.”
I nodded and considered my words carefully. “God… has shown a surprising and admirable tendency of placing people in my path who will aid me or teach me things I must learn.”
He smiled. “Ah, so you are not an atheist.”
“Non, I suppose not; but I feel I am more heretic than Christian.”
“Heresy…” he sighed. “The Church needs dogma. Without it you would have a Babylon of thousands of voices, many at odds with God, and others swayed by the Devil, deciding what is best for all. I feel until we can teach all men to reason and listen to God’s intent for themselves, we will be plagued by the necessity for dogma; because however flawed Church doctrine might be, it is preferable to the confusion that will result without it. Most men cannot be trusted to know God on their own, as the Protestants claim. And even in their number, they have those who feel they know more than the rest and who dictate dogma.”
He looked to us and smiled wanly. “And that sentiment, gentlemen, would lead to my demise at the stake.”
“They will not hear it from me.” I said with a smile.
Father Pierre chuckled. “They would not hear it from you. It would be your word against mine.”
I laughed. When it passed, I sobered and asked,
“So you do not believe God would condemn you for your lack of adherence to dogma?”
“Non, I do not,” he said seriously. “I feel God has great love and tolerance for the frailties and flaws of his creations: whether that be the creation of dogma, or the failure to adhere to it.”
I glanced at my matelot and found him thoughtful, but his posture was relaxed and amiable.
“I do not believe God condemns me for being a sodomite,” I said. “I believe there are far greater sins I will be held accountable for in His judgment.”
“Ah,” Father Pierre said knowingly. “I agree with you. And I feel that if God in his infinite wisdom despised sodomy as thoroughly as so many say, He would have seen fit to arrange to have more mention of it in the Bible. But it is not a Commandment, and he never spoke of it to anyone blessed with His presence, nor did His Son address the matter; and all mention of it is relegated to books involving men speaking to other men about their interpretation of His will and their knowledge of right and wrong. And though God did say He wished for his creations to be fruitful and multiply, I do not feel he meant every single man or woman—I feel he meant mankind as a whole. I feel sodomy is an abomination in the eyes of man, not God.”
“That is as I have ever thought,” I said with surprise. “So you do not disapprove?”
He grimaced. “Oui, and non. I disapprove of men or women engaging in carnal sin. That serves no purpose but the Devil’s.”
I frowned. “But…”
“Do you feel—as many of the Brethren once did—that matelotage constitutes marriage?” he asked. “Do you hold only to one another?”
Gaston let out a small woof of surprise.
I nodded dumbly.
“I felt I sinned when I lay with either of the women who are somewhat my wife,” Gaston said. “In law or public opinion,” he amended quickly. “It was wrong: even to the way of it with one, and the reason for it with the other. It has caused nothing but trouble. I am married to Will; and though it does not please the Church, or the needs of my lineage, I feel God favors it. If the Devil placed Will in my life, and the love and goodness that Will has brought is not a thing of God, but a thing I must turn from to please God, then I do not understand God at all, nor do I wish to please Him.”
The father smiled. “I do not think the love I feel you two share—based upon what I saw when last you were here, or what I have seen now—is a thing of the Devil. Because, as you say, if God wishes us to turn from that, then I cannot comprehend what He wishes of us, either.”
Gaston nodded with evident relief. “I also feel regret that I did as I did because I wished for children, and perhaps that was hubris. Perhaps God never intended for me to have children.”
“My love,” I breathed with surprise at his confession.
He looked to me with a reassuring shake of his head.
“How many times did you lie with either woman?” Father Pierre asked him kindly.
“Twice with Agnes, and once with Christine,” Gaston admitted.
Father Pierre smiled with more amusement than reassurance. “Then, my son, I feel you were visited by the hand of God in that. Many men try for most of their lives to produce offspring. Perhaps God was testing your conviction on the matter of your choice with a man.”
Gaston nodded with a thoughtful frown. “I have been thinking that.”
Father Pierre nodded solemnly. “Then you have learned what perhaps He wished to instruct; and you have brought two children into the world that He surely wanted.”
He looked to me. “That kind of discussion—the matter of matelotage as marriage—is not one I dared engage in with your Monsieur Theodore.”
“Ah,” I said. “Oui, I do not know how he would accept it.”
“Dominic was my closest friend until…” Father Pierre sighed. “He could not accept it. Not for religious reasons: non, he is an atheist, and I fear for his soul because he is surely beyond the ability to embrace God now. I can only hope God will forgive him. But non, he simply hates sodomy. He views it as an abomination. I know not why.”
He looked to Gaston with curiosity.
My matelot met his gaze with a shaking head. “The reason for his disapproval was not a thing he ever told me.”
“I think he loved you,” I said.
Father Pierre gave a sharp intake of breath and my matelot sighed; seeming to release the same breath back into the world.
“I have heard that from others,” Father Pierre said. “It is said that Dominic wished to control Lord Montren, and that he wished to keep the money from the Marquis. I do not believe the part about the money so much, but Dominic was quite set upon Lord Montren following in his footsteps.”
I managed, by sheer dint of will, to keep the grimace at hearing the lie I had concocted from my face. “We have heard that as well,” I said carefully. “I also do not think it was about the money.”
Gaston was looking toward the cross. Thankfully the good father had not been looking at him, as my matelot had been less successful in schooling his features than I felt I had been.
“I wish to apologize to you both for my part in those events,” Father Pierre said.
Gaston turned back to him and said quickly. “I do not blame you.”
“Thank you, but I should have realized…” Father Pierre sighed. “I thought Dominic knew best. I still feel he meant no harm. He truly thought the method he would employ was in your best interests.”
“Did you know what he would do?” I asked.
Father Pierre shook his head. “I only learned the details of his cure after all was said and done.” He looked to Gaston. “I am truly sorry.”
My matelot nodded and looked away.
“So,” Father Pierre said into the awkward silence, “You wish to do right by these children God saw fit to deliver to you.” His brow furrowed and he turned a little to regard the cross over his shoulder. He turned back to us. “I am in a quandary. I view your intention as admirable and proper, but your method as disagreeable and unfortunate. I do not blame either of you, per se. I am saddened by the hypocrisy and dogma that prevents the Church from acknowledging your marriage, and thus making the other necessary; and that without marriage, those two children are bastards and not awarded the protection of law and Church. Thus there must be a lie under the circumstances.”
“My goal is not to lie to God about it,” I said quickly. “All others be hanged.”
He chuckled. “Spoken like a true heretic.”
“He does that often,” Gaston said with subtle amusement.
“So you intend to accept this woman Vines’ claim of marriage?” the father asked. “Do you intend to lie with her ever again?”
“Non,” Gaston assured him emphatically.
“And what of the other girl: the mother of your son?” he shook his head sadly. “It is a poor thing that you cannot adopt him for your family’s sake; but no member of the Church in his right mind would accede to that request if they knew how you live—or learned of it.”
“Oui,” Gaston said. “I feel my family name dies with me. That is if my father does not disown me—again. As for Agnes, we would have Will marry her so that my son has a name.”
Father Pierre snorted. I was not sure if it was elicited by Gaston talking of his father, or Agnes.
He looked to me. “You are a lord, are you not? Or were. Monsieur Theodore told me some of that.” His gaze turned curious.
I took a deep breath and told him succinctly of Shane, my father’s hatred of sodomy, and my recent travails.
He listened in sympathetic silence. When I finished, he said, “I am sorry, my son. I see why you turned from God. But I see all the more why you must struggle to return to Him.”
I sighed. “If He is the God of heretics like ourselves, then I do not see that as a matter of difficulty. But…” I gestured at the church around us. “I cannot abase myself before the Church. I cannot abandon truth and love in the name of dogma and misguided law.”
&n
bsp; “Lying to another man is a little thing compared to lying to God,” he said with a quirked smile. “I do not suggest you lie to your fellow men; but I have found peace in it, in that it allows me to continue to live and do good work in this world—and I do not believe God hates me for it.”
I shook my head sadly. “I was willing to do that very thing in order to assist my man in gaining his inheritance—until those weeks on that ship. Now, I do not think I can. Not in good faith—with God.”
Yet, here I was, feeling I was lying to this man every time I uttered the name of the divine in the singular. It did not sit well with me, but we needed this man.
“Then I commend you,” he said sincerely. “You are a braver man than I.”
I sighed. “But I do not feel I am a better man. Perhaps I am as selfish as some have accused. You, at least, leave yourself free to offer aid where you can—for years to come. I will likely die fighting dragons.”
“Sometimes God needs dragon fighters,” he said carefully.
I smiled. “You have given me much to think on. I thank you for your trust and candor.”
“As I do you,” he said with a warm smile. “I agree to perform the marriage between you and Mademoiselle Agnes.”
“Thank you, that will be a great relief for all involved.”
“Oui, thank you,” Gaston said, and then his tone sobered. “I would make formal confession tomorrow. To you—alone.”
I fought the urge to frown: I did not like the sound of that. It was as troubling as his kneeling and praying.
Father Pierre nodded. “If you wish, I will be happy to accept it. I will let you know if the timing of your arrival is… difficult.”
We stood, and I felt moved to embrace him in parting. He returned it with reassuring warmth and solidity.
Gaston and I soon stumbled back into the hot and humid night.
“Will you confess everything—since your last confession?” I asked in whispered English.
He shook his head and replied in kind. “Nay, I will confess sins that pertain to me. I will trust that man with my sins, but not those that might harm my father or family.”
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