Andelot smiled. “I could hardly be a heretic. I may enter the training of the Church once I graduate from the company of Monsieur Thauvet.
And I assure you, I do not even know what the Huguenots read in their forbidden literature — ”
Romier interrupted quickly, as though he thought Andelot was not sufficiently repentant. “Monseigneur, I assure you the lad,” he said of Andelot as though he himself were twice his senior, “is, as I explained, anxious to fill his studious mind with acts of chivalry. May his transgression be pardoned with an indulgence from the Church.”
The cleric rubbed his chin thoughtfully. His eyes took in the golden bay stallion. Andelot tensed.
“The horse is not mine,” he said swiftly.
Romier seemed to grow exuberant at the apparent success of his intercession. “Let him pay twice the indulgence.”
“Twice!” Andelot turned to him indignantly. “With what do I pay twice? When but once is beyond my allowance?”
“Silence,” the cleric demanded with such awesome thunder that Andelot felt the lightning of doom crackle over his head. For the first time he measured the weight of his error.
What if I have to explain all this to Cardinal de Lorraine?
In the silence that followed, nothing moved but the wind rustling dead leaves overhead, and drops of rain on his hat and back. The golden bay snorted unhappily and pawed the mossy, sodden earth.
“Messire Andelot,” the Dominican said. “See that you are at Saint Catherine’s in the morning. The price of your indulgence shall then be determined.”
Andelot sighed within. “I shall be there at dawn, Monseigneur.”
“Then you may take your leave.”
Andelot lowered his head in deference, turned his horse, glared at Romier, and rode off, Romier swiftly behind him. Some distance away at the stream bank, Andelot held his mount.
Romier’s face was flushed with exasperation. “You ox! You have blundered us both into this. You had better pray this incident does not reach the cardinal. For if he hears of this venture and calls us to account . . . every move I make for the Huguenot duchesse will bring me under suspicion. And you had no authority to call yourself a Guise as yet.”
Andelot gave him a dour look, then turned his horse in the direction they had just left. He stood in his stirrups to peer back into the shadows.
He could see nothing.
“Now what do you think you are doing?” Romier asked.
“I wonder if all the Huguenots escaped?”
“You would do well to concern yourself with our escape. Do you not know the Dominican may return?”
“The old preacher left his book under the logs.”
“Let it mold! I ride to Fontainebleau to appeal to madame for safety. Perchance I can foil the Dominican with a worthy gift for Saint Catherine’s from the duchesse. She is most generous in these matters when it comes to safeguarding her own.”
“Go then,” Andelot said. “I will see the book for myself.”
Romier looked at him with incredulity. “If the writing is found on you, Andelot, not even the duchesse will be able to save you — especially after the Dominican suspected you of deliberately aiding their escape. You may call yourself a Guise all you wish to no avail. And your call to meet him at the church is anything but a trivial matter, I assure you.”
“Have you no curiosity to know what these Huguenots are reading behind locked doors and in the shadows of the woods? I have often wondered how the Scriptures would sound in our own French tongue.”
“I have heard them before. The duchesse has a French Bible, but she is wise enough not to bring it to Fontainebleau under the nose of the cardinal and the Queen Mother. Come, Andelot, ami, do not meddle. Let the viper remain asleep and you will not be bitten.”
“What harm can one glimpse do? Since I am to be a scholar, I would see for myself what they are studying.”
Romier shook his head, and turning his stallion, rode off.
Andelot watched him disappear among the birches, then turned his horse in toward the meadow where the Huguenots had been meeting. He tied the horse a short distance from the spot and walked to the fallen trees, now more in shadow as the sun drew to the west.
The Dominican appeared to be gone, and Andelot listened carefully.
The rain had mostly ceased, except for a few last drops dripping from the branches.
The campfire still smoldered in the dampness, and the smell of smoke lingered.
It was a mistake for them to have made the fire, and they should have gathered deeper into the woods.
The horse snorted, shaking its mane as though bidding him not to stray any farther, yet Andelot felt an inner tug-of-war. Why this curiosity? A stronger prodding urged him forward to see for himself, to understand what was driving men and women to risk their lives in order to read the unauthorized Bible in French. What held such compelling power over them? What manner of souls were Calvin, Luther, and Beza to encourage men, women, and even children to risk their lives?
Moving from the shadows to the cluster of decaying logs, Andelot removed his glove and ran his hand into the place where he had seen the old preacher hide the book.
Despite the chill wind, he felt the sweat on his brow. His hand touched the book. He lifted it free and slid it inside his tunic. He looked about. He could not stay here in the open, but there was a place near a stream that he had seen previously along this path. There were boulders, overhanging tree branches, and a rocky cleft where he would be safe for a time as he read.
He mounted his horse and rode, reaching the location as the rain started up again.
With the bay tied under a sheltering tree, Andelot walked through shrubs growing close to the rocks until he climbed a short distance into the boulders. There, under an overhang, he spread a saddle blanket on the rock. His gaze skimmed the slope through which he had ridden. He sat watching for a while until reassured he had not been followed by a lackey serving the Dominican. He removed the forbidden book from under his tunic.
He opened it. His eyes fell to the writing, and he stared with excitement.
“It is the Bible . . . It is in French,” he murmured in awe. The preface declared the translation to come from the original Hebrew and Greek, not in Latin, and put painstakingly into his own language.
Beware, Andelot, you know the penalty for studying any portion of the Bible in what is considered the vulgar tongue, whether it be English, Dutch, or French. It is heresy to translate the Scripture into the vernacular, and no less a crime to possess it, or to read it.
Andelot had seen the cardinal order the burning of many hundreds of Bibles on the streets of Paris, calling the translation into French, “black arts.” The poor chevalier who owned the bookshop was arrested and put to the screw because he had refused to name those individuals who had brought the Bibles from Geneva or his neighbors who had purchased one from his shop.
Andelot knew that in 1408 the Church decreed no one, on pain of being burned, could translate Scripture into French, nor even speak it, but only in the sacred tongue of Latin. Why Rome had declared Latin sacred Andelot had not attempted to ascertain in order to avoid the appearance of doubting the glorious decree.
He supposed the Church had the law against translation in order to protect the Holy Scripture from apostates. In making such a law, however, they had placed the Bible under the lock and key of Latin clerics, so that very few could gain access.
Andelot turned the pages carefully, his fingers trembling. As his gaze fell upon the words, a sense of awe crept over him.
I feel as if I am walking into a holy place.
A blast of chill wind struck against him and stirred the pages. He drew back against the boulder looking cautiously at the sky. Afar off in the mountains, he saw lightning flash, followed by a rumble of thunder.
He looked down at the Bible. The wind blew the pages back, and he saw that it had been printed in Geneva.
He heard the rain pelting.
Nevertheless, he would read the words for himself.
The Gospel of Saint Matthew.
His gaze dropped farther down the page.
“Now the birth of Jesus Christ was on this wise . . .”
As he read through the gospel of Matthew, the midday sun behind the clouds crept lower in the sky. During a lull in the rain, a squirrel scampered across the leaves into the forest.
“Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock . . . And the rain descended, and floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: And the rain descended and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.”
The afternoon wore on, but in his mind he was journeying back to the hills of Judea, sitting on a grassy plain listening to the majestic voice of Jesus echoing in his ears. For the first time, he had read the gospel of Matthew in his own language. There was so much more here about Christ that he had never heard.
I never knew His words were so wonderful. His heart burned within as he read in detail about His miracles, His teaching, His crucifixion and resurrection.
“Then the eleven disciples went away to Galilee, into the mountain where Jesus had appointed them. When they saw him, they worshipped him . . .
“Then Jesus came and spake to them, All power is given unto me in heaven and on earth. Go ye therefore and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always even unto the end of the world.”
Andelot sat, unable to stir from the wonder that enveloped him.
The sun was low in the west, and he would not get back to his quarters at Fontainebleau until dark. Sebastien would wonder where he had been. One look at his face as he walked into the chamber and he would know something had happened to him. Andelot now possessed a new tenderness in his soul for the person of Jesus Christ. A passion to know more burned within. The very thought of being able to read the remainder of the New Testament made his heart beat faster.
“Lord Jesus, You are more wonderful than I thought You to be!” he said aloud. He looked up at the darkening sky again, but this time he felt only love and joy. His fear was replaced with gratitude, for now he understood that when the Savior suffered and died on the cross, He paid Andelot’s debt of sin. He bowed his head, giving thanks and surrendering all that he was and ever hoped to be to Jesus, the Son of God, who said, “And lo I am with you alway.”
He closed the Bible and stuffed it inside his tunic. The old preacher would miss this prize worth more than gold. But Andelot could not think of parting with it until he had at least read it through once. The preacher would likely come back for it when he believed it safe, but find it gone.
I could write him a note and tell him I have it. I might arrange a secret meeting with him. No doubt he could teach me much. But I must return to Fontainebleau to write the lettre. Oui, that is what I will do. I will meet this preacher for myself.
ASANDELOT RODE BACK through the black woods toward the glimmer of light at Fontainebleau, he remembered he must appear before the cleric early in the morning at Saint Catherine’s. How could he pay for his indulgence?
I shall go to him and say, “Paid in full, Monseigneur priest, with the blood of Jesus, and guaranteed by His bodily resurrection from the tomb!”
Andelot laughed with joy and began to hum, though he had no hymn to sing, for there were none, except the chants he knew. There was the hymn that Martin Luther wrote, he had heard Rachelle and Idelette singing it at Lyon, but he knew not the words. Something about a mighty fortress . . . a bulwark never failing? He shrugged and began making up his own hymn. The melody did not bring a shower of light bursting in the dark, but his heart was full of joie de vivre and the words came naturally —
“Jesus, you have set me free,
Opened my eyes so I shall see.
Your words will I cherish until I die!
What a wonderful day when I found Your book
Hidden in the nook.
Just one look, and now I know . . .
You will never let me go . . . Your words have told me so!”
AT DAWN THE NEXT day, the morning being soggy after all the rain, and as mist floated below a still-darkened sky, Andelot rode to the monastery located far from houses and farms. He carried a small bag of coins and wondered what the cleric might say if he knew some of the money he would bring for the indulgence had come from Marquis Fabien. And Romier had pitched in some coins after Andelot had complained, “If you had not so charitably told him I should pay for an indulgence, and even twice, I might not have this irksome debt at all.”
“Saints! See how you make excuses for your blundering? It was you, mon ami, who transgressed into the Huguenot gathering. Did I not warn you against it?”
“You did, but since you are serving the dedicated Huguenot duch-esse, you should realize that it was not a transgression. Listen, Romier, one day soon I will trust you with a secret that will change your entire life.”
“Ha! That, I must see. And what is this merveilleux secret?”
“You must wait for the appropriate time, then I will show you.”
Romier tipped his golden head and looked at him askance. “You bluff, but I shall wait, and see. Here — some more coins. I shall make amends for tolerating you — you are reaping what you well deserve.”
When Andelot arrived at Saint Catherine’s, the Dominican cleric was working behind his desk, a candle burning. The rain had started again, beating gently against the window. Andelot noted how weary he looked, as though he had been up all night in a vigil of sorts. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and his brow was furrowed. Andelot felt a wave of compassion for him.
The cash box sat on the desk before him with a list of standard fees for indulgences.
Why is it a transgression to help the Huguenots escape, when the words they had met to read are but Scripture?
Andelot laid the bag of coins on the desk.
The cleric raised the bag from the desk. “It is sufficient; you may go in peace.”
Andelot looked at him for a puzzling moment, remembering something he had heard once about the Reformer Luther from Germany. Was it not this, paying of money for transgressions, that had troubled him to search the Scriptures? Go in peace. Was acceptance with a holy God obtained through paying money?
Andelot wrinkled his brow. He was about to question the cleric, then thought better of it. If he wished to rouse more suspicion, this was the way to go about it. He bowed and quickly departed.
For days afterward he thought about the Dominican and felt sympathy for him as he recalled the dark circles beneath his eyes and his worried brow. Could the Dominican, so religious, ever obtain the peace he claimed he could give to other transgressors?
THE ROYALPALAIS OF Fontainebleau had long been a favorite residence of French kings. The older Fontainebleau had been a hunting seat from the twelfth to the sixteenth centuries when King Francis I assembled the finest Italian artists and sculptors of the Renaissance to restore the palais. Now it was one of the most treasured of royal châteaus.
Though Andelot’s days were mainly spent in long hours studying Greek, Latin, and the works of Erasmus, he still felt privileged to be here at Court with Comte Sebastien. Andelot relished the beauty of the palais-château and the large evergreen forest, for Fontainebleau was situated in the heart of the forest.
The wind was fresh and clean, and he was pleased to be away from the stench of Paris that sometimes grew unbearable. He mentioned this to Comte Sebastien on their arrival, and Sebastien agreed, but then grew most sober.
“With the palais situated in the forest, flourishi
ng with game, there is grand prospect for the court to indulge in all their favorite pursuits:hunting, riding, shooting, eating, and drinking too sumptuously, and of course — ” his voice dripped with disgust — “intriguing one against another. Do not set your heart on vain pursuits, Andelot. Pasteur Bertrand would tell you the same. And favor with the king is like a mist on a hot summer morn. So soon it vanishes and none remember.”
Andelot thought this a strange admonition from Sebastien; he had recanted all that he claimed he had once held to be solemn truth to save his life and return to Court. All he had lost had been again showered upon him: power and glory amid luxury, sprinkled with religion — but it was now accompanied by Sebastien’s apparent scorn. It was not lost on Andelot that his oncle now went to Mass each day and sat in the conclave near the royal family while Cardinal de Lorraine officiated. Andelot also went, and though he had a growing understanding of Protestantism, for him the Mass had never been a problem as it was to the Huguenots. Even so, Andelot had to admit that since Sebastien’s release from the Bastille, the things he had once esteemed now appeared to weigh on him like chains around his ankle. Andelot loved his oncle, and his worries for him grew. He sometimes acted suspiciously. Andelot had seen him with a map of England, going over every inch of it with a strong eyeglass. Was he thinking of Marquis Fabien and his travels, or something else?
One night after Andelot had been at Fontainebleau for two weeks, a blustery wind brought an unseasonably strong storm crooning eerily about the château cornices on the side of the palais where Sebastien had his chambers. Andelot was seated in the outer antechamber used by the pages. The large candles on his desk burned with clear, unwavering light as he read.
Scholar Thauvet had assigned Andelot’s reading and thesis before returning to Paris for some weeks to lecture at the Paris university.
Andelot placed the book to one side of the desk, which was piled with other leather-bound manuscripts and papers. He glanced over his shoulder into the sitting chamber to make certain unfriendly eyes were not watching. He found the chamber empty; all was quiet except the wind.
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