The Dream Maker

by Jean-Christophe Rufin

  And indeed, the next morning, men-at-arms came to inquire about my presence. I was safe, but locked up once again. From the window of my cell I could see the river and, so near, the shore of Provence, where I could have lived in freedom. Who knew whether I would be able to reach it one day? The king, in his unbending vengefulness, had just invented a new torture for me.

  *

  The atmosphere quickly became strange in the monastery of the Cordeliers in Beaucaire. Now that my pursuers had tracked me down, they need no longer cast their net wide, and they could concentrate their efforts on my hideout. The town was watched with the greatest vigilance. At every gate the ordinary guard was seconded by men-at-arms specially warned against my person. Spies were lurking in the streets and at the markets. But before long it was within the very monastery that I began to perceive the danger. Father Anselme was a very old man, and I soon had to face facts: he was no longer in charge of his house. The monks were grouped in secret coteries, no doubt already plotting to prepare his succession. I felt that most of them were hostile toward me and viewed my presence as a grave error, even a betrayal. A number of these monks came from that part of the Languedoc where I had long been charged with collecting the royal tax. That thankless task had been compensated for by the positive benefits I had procured for the region. But by moving our activities to Marseille and Provence over recent years, I had angered the people of Montpellier and many others in the region, so that at the time of my trial many of my accusers were from the Languedoc. Some of these monks would be related to my enemies, or, at least, would regard them with sympathy.

  During that southern winter the cold settled under the vaulted ceilings of the monastery, exacerbated by the north wind, which blew for days on end. Not many of the friars would talk to me. I could see their shadows hurrying away down the icy corridors. I had great difficulty communicating even with three or four of the humblest friars, let alone procuring their friendship: a kitchen boy, a lay brother who was terribly cross-eyed, a gardener. This hardly filled my days, but at least these acquaintances were useful to me to keep me informed of what was going on in the monastery, and they enabled me to communicate with the outside world.

  The atmosphere was stifling, I could not ignore the fact. Everything seemed mysterious and opaque. Thanks to what I have since learned, I can now piece together what happened inside as well as outside the monastery at Beaucaire, but at the time I knew only fragments.

  Inside, though I was not aware of it, my enemies had formed a tight bond. Indeed, unbeknownst to the abbot, who did not keep watch over his flock, two new friars had come to swell the already serried ranks of the monastery. I found out later that they had been presented to the friar at the gate as brothers who were on a simple visit, on their way to Rome where they had been summoned by the pope. Since Macé’s death, I had been considered clericus solutus and as such I joined in the worship with the monks. It took me a while to identify the two newcomers. It was by chance that one evening at compline I met the gaze of one of them. It was rare, exceptional even, for any of the friars to pay me any notice. The general tendency, rather, was to ignore me conspicuously. But this monk seemed to be watching me. Sitting next to him was another friar: though he was wearing a homespun chasuble, he intrigued me by his build and his demeanor. He looked more like a sturdy soldier, used to life in the outdoors, confined by his homespun trappings. Both of them were incapable of chanting the psalms, even though they moved their lips to pretend otherwise.

  Once I had questioned the cook about these individuals, I no longer had any doubts. They were no more monks than I was, and they had found their way here for the sole purpose of spying on me. At the time I thought they must be agents of the king, and only much later would I learn their true identity.

  The purpose of their presence, in the beginning, seemed to be solely to keep an eye on me. My pursuers must have feared that in spite of the armed men on guard at every gate I would manage to escape. The two fake monks made sure, therefore, that I showed up for every service, and at the refectory. Gradually, however, I got the distinct feeling that they were trying to get closer to me. Perhaps they were planning to abduct me, but I didn’t actually believe they could, because the protection of the Cordeliers of Beaucaire still stood for something, and any attack would have aroused the anger of the entire Church, right up to the pope himself. However, I did not exclude the possibility that they might try to assassinate me, by poisoning me, for example, or by arranging a blow that would look like an accident, or that could be blamed on a prowler.

  Where poisoning was concerned, my friend the cook was keeping an eye out. I was careful to eat only from the platters that were used to serve everyone, and I let the others begin before me. To avoid any attack, I always stayed in the middle of a group whenever I moved around the monastery. Once I woke up late, and to reach the chapel to hear matins I had to make my way alone down the corridors. A shadow behind a pillar betrayed a suspicious presence. I began running the opposite direction and sought refuge in the common room, sliding the bolt home behind me. I could hear two people breathing heavily on the other side, and someone tried to force open the door. Then the footsteps receded. I remained alone until the end of the service and only opened the door again when the librarian brother sought to come in. The abbot was informed of the incident and sent for me. I gave him some trivial explanation of my behavior. For a moment I considered informing him of the threat hanging over me, but he would surely not have believed me, and as I was well aware of his elderly pride, I was afraid he might take my remarks as an insult to his hospitality. While he might not be able to protect me, at least he had offered me asylum, and I did not want to jeopardize his kindly disposition toward me.

  While I was busy in the silence of the monastery, trying to evade these insidious threats, beyond its walls, unbeknownst to me, great preparations were being made.

  Shortly after my arrival at Beaucaire I managed to convince Hugo, the gardener, to deliver a message on my behalf to one of my agents in Arles, where he had to go to buy some rare seeds. He came back and told me he had not been able to find the man. He had merely given my letter to an illiterate farm worker he knew, who from time to time went to my agent’s workroom. Obviously I had no way of knowing whether my message ever reached its destination.

  In fact, the agent did receive it, and very quickly. The man had immediately informed Jean de Villages and Guillaume de Varye of my presence in Beaucaire. They already knew that I had escaped from Poitiers, because the news had caused a great stir in the realm. But as they did not know what had become of me since then, they had been extremely worried.

  Later I found out that once they knew I was in Beaucaire, they had some lively discussions. Guillaume, in keeping with his temperament, was for using persuasive means rather than force. Among the soldiers watching the town there must be some, perhaps even their leader, who could be financially persuaded to behave in a negligent manner. This was basically the same method Marc had employed, but there was less likelihood it would succeed, because neither Guillaume nor anyone else knew these soldiers in person. In any case, it would require time.

  Jean may have aged considerably and put on some weight due to his prosperity, but he was every bit as impetuous as during his youth. Knowing that I was nearby, barred from freedom by a simple river, locked up in a city he knew well because he had often been there, all caused him to seethe with rage. For him there could be no negotiating, dealing, or waiting. The only solution could be an operation using force. Guillaume and several others pointed out to him, quite rightly, that they were only merchants. While they may have disposed of a few men-at-arms to escort their convoys, they could not put together a true army, which was what would be needed to deal with the garrison at Beaucaire.

  They came to a compromise. Jean prevailed, and they decided to mount an expedition. But it would be prepared patiently and methodically, according to Guillaume’s recommendations
. Jean called on two galley captains, each of whom provided a dozen men for the operation.

  I had no knowledge of their plans and, lacking news from the outside, I set about organizing my own defense. My pursuers had become bolder and, judging from the sounds I heard at night, I became convinced they were going to try something against me during my sleep. To please me, the abbot had given me a private cell. Now I asked him to move me to the dormitory, under the pretext that he would certainly need my room for other guests. He thought he would please me further by energetically refusing. As a result, I was spending my nights alone in that room I could not bolt shut, and where it would be easy to attack me. I resorted to a subterfuge to protect myself: although there was little space, I began sleeping on the floor beneath the bed, and I put a blanket in my place to make it seem as if I were in the bed. Hugo the gardener had provided me with a tool that could serve as a weapon, a lead mallet that he used for driving stakes. I had cause to use it the very next day. In the middle of the night I was woken by a presence in my room. From under the bed I could see the hem of a monk’s habit. Someone was drawing near, noiselessly. No doubt the intruder was waiting to be closer to strike more accurately. I did not leave him the time, and thumped him with the mallet. The man let out a cry and hobbled away, limping.

  The incident caused great alarm in the monastery. All the monks were talking about it the next day. I noticed that one of my pursuers had disappeared. He came back a week later, having tended the wounds caused by the mallet, but he was still limping slightly.

  *

  After their initial failure, the false monks procured the assistance of several of the brothers. It was becoming more difficult for me to protect myself, because now the danger was no longer limited to two people but involved others whom I did not know. Fortunately, my handful of friends were well-informed and gave me warnings. Ten days or so after the episode with the mallet, the good friar cook came to warn me that they were going to try to poison me with a glass of wine. I do not know how he knew this, but the fact remains that the next day I noticed that the monk who filled our goblets from the demijohn was behaving oddly. He grabbed my goblet, turned away from me for a long while, then handed the goblet back to me as if he had just filled it. In fact, he had exchanged it for another that had been prepared in advance and brought to him by one of his confederates.

  The meal began. The day’s lesson was devoted to the encounter between Jesus and the Samaritan by the well. We ate in deep silence broken only by the words of the Gospel as read by one of the friars. Discreet gazes between friars revealed the perpetrators of my poisoning. Although they paid no particular notice to my gestures, all those who were in on the plot were observing me to see whether I was going to pick up my goblet and drink or not. Toward the middle of the meal, very calmly but very slowly so that everyone would have time to see, I took a long swallow of wine. A shiver of relief went through the group of conspirators. I was dead.

  The cook, who most definitely was well informed, had warned me that the brew would kill me within a week. The murderers wanted to make it look like an illness, so they had avoided using any potent poisons that would have killed me almost immediately.

  Therefore I showed no immediate signs of sickness, and finished eating normally. The end of the meal was always a relatively agitated time, after the silence and immobility imposed by the lesson. Each of us stood up and cleared the table. I took the opportunity to empty the remains of the poisoned goblet into a pitcher of water: in fact, I had only pretended to drink, and had not actually let the wine touch my lips.

  The next day I pretended to feel unwell. The cook had described the effects of the poison to me and I imitated them scrupulously. I was taken to the infirmary. My enemies waited patiently for my end. This would mean I’d be safe for one week, at least.

  During this time, the expedition organized for my rescue was on the verge of departing, but a few details delayed them. Jean, Guillaume, and their entire team were struggling as best they could to resolve the last remaining problems. As luck had it, they were ready exactly eight days after my so-called poisoning.

  I had left the infirmary that very morning and I went to the church for the first service, to the great astonishment of my poisoners. Judging from their furious gazes, I could tell they would not delay in preparing another attack and that this one would leave me no chance. One clue, however, showed me how I might obtain help from the outside, and this prospect restored some hope.

  Brother Hugo had been stopped at the market the day before by an acquaintance who asked for news of me. The man clearly knew that the gardener-monk was on my side; he implied that he had heard about the letter I had sent thanks to Hugo. I later learned that this stranger was none other than Guillaume Gimart, a former galley captain whom Jean had enrolled in his expedition, and who had come to Beaucaire posing as a merchant. In the same conversation, he asked Brother Hugo whether he knew of any weaknesses in the city walls. The monk grew wary, and deferred his answer until the next day, until he had had time to consult with me. I urged him to give all the information he had to this man. We had nothing to fear and everything to hope for, if he was one of us.

  Because of his work as a gardener, Hugo was able to go all over the town. He was in charge of keeping a few sheep belonging to the monastery. He led them to graze beneath the walls, which had the advantage of both feeding the sheep and keeping the immediate vicinity of the ramparts tidy. As he was curious about plants, Brother Hugo liked to study the little clumps of simples that grew in the cracks in the walls. He had often noticed the places where the wall’s foundations in the silty ground were uneven, and the cracks were growing wider. He pointed them out to the bailiff, who did what was needed to repair the cracks. One month earlier, as he chased after a ewe who had strayed, Hugo had come upon a fairly wide breach, caused by the spring storms. The entrance was hidden by a hawthorn bush. Water had formed a channel beneath the wall and flowed through to the other side. Hugo had not yet had time to inform the town authorities of his discovery. He confessed to me that, without knowing exactly why, it had already occurred to him that this breach, though it was still too narrow for a man to squeeze through, might one day be useful to me. He described it to Gimart, who seemed very pleased to hear the news.

  Now that I was aware that something was going on outside, I grew impatient for my release. I was afraid that my enemies might not leave my rescuers enough time. To further stave off any danger, I decided to sleep with the lay brothers, something that no doubt would be relayed to the abbot and arouse his anger. However, by the time he found out, I would have gained more time.

  What I did not know was that someone even more impatient than I—Jean—would no longer tolerate any delay. As soon as they learned that there was a breach in the wall, Guillaume called for a scout to be sent to determine its exact location. Jean refused, arguing that they could find out on the spot. Guillaume objected that the moon was still too full; he advised waiting for a dark night, in order not to be seen. Jean completely lost his temper. There was a violent quarrel between them, and I owe my life to it. Because Jean was more stubborn, that very evening a boat carrying the twenty men of the expedition slipped through the reeds on the Provence shore and set out to cross the river.

  To avoid attracting the attention of any patrols that might be posted on the king’s shore, the boat was made to look like an ordinary barge. The men were hidden under canvas, like a simple load of merchandise. Fortunately, there were no soldiers about when they landed in a cove slightly to the north of the town. They left two men behind to guard the boat, and all the others set off behind Jean, walking quickly to the ramparts. They made for the breach that Hugo had described. They found it fairly easily, because a heavy rain had fallen the night before and there was a stream of water springing up under the wall. They had brought picks and shovels to enlarge the gap and, apart from a large stone they had difficulty removing, the rest of the hole was
fairly easy to enlarge. They shored up the wall in a rough manner with a board and four poles. Once the way out had been cleared, they exchanged their picks for swords and squeezed one after the other through the tiny tunnel.

  The night was nearly over. The feeble chapel bell rang matins. I left the dormitory closely surrounded by those brothers I could trust, Hugo in particular. The two fake monks arrived somewhat late and I wondered if it was not because they had been plotting something against me in my cell.

  The gold on the altar shone in the candlelight. The monks stood in a circle at the edge of the darkness, and those who were in the last rows could hardly be seen. One of them stood up, went to the lectern and began to chant the psalm “Lord, I come unto thee.” The male voices took up the refrain, and the chant, which was supposed to vibrate with joy, echoed limply in the damp air. Who could have imagined that beneath the gentle harmonies of this drowsy orison there lurked dreadful plots and murderous passion, and that, far from transfiguring those men who claimed to find inspiration in God, the chant served as a screen for crime and vengeance?

  Suddenly, as if the Lord to whom we were calling so plaintively had decided to appear before us, the door to the chapel swung open. A dozen or more men hurried down the nave, brandishing their swords. The candlelight flickered, but almost at once, taking the flame from a lantern, the intruders lit two torches. The monks recoiled and cried out with more conviction than they had shown mumbling their psalms.

  In the red light of the flames, a man stepped forward and called out to me. I recognized Jean de Villages. I took two steps toward him and was about to embrace him when a shadow leapt forward and I felt a blow on my shoulder. Seeing that I was on the verge of being freed, one of the false monks had hurled himself at me with a dagger. Fortunately, Brother Hugo had had the presence of mind to step in his way, so the killer missed his target. The tip of his blade tore my habit and scraped my skin. Jean and his men, surprised by the attack, quickly regained their wits and surrounded the assassin as he tried to escape. His associate, who was right by his side, was captured at the same time. There was a brief scuffle, and both men were killed.