#
Memories flooded her. First came those of lying face down on the ground with dust and blood filling her nostrils. Her face ached from a beating. Whimpers filled her ears from the other two women on the ground with her. She wished they would meet their end with more dignity, for none of them had done anything wrong. They had only danced with men other than their husbands. Nothing else involved or intended. Just danced.
Even though Lilliana knew she would survive the impending stoning, even if she had to pretend death, she knew her crying companions were the lucky ones. Their pain would end.
The excitement of the growing crowd reached new heights as the first stones flew. One struck Mary next to Lilliana. When the sickening thud cut off her cries, Lilliana at first thought it had knocked the pretty girl unconscious, but when she glanced over she saw a steely look on Mary’s face even as blood ran down her forehead. Martha continued to wail.
Good, Mary, be strong.
The crowd suddenly went quiet.
When they dared to look up they saw the visiting holy man, the Nazarene. He wrote in the dust at the feet of the mob of angry men. He wrote women’s names; the names of the men’s mistresses.
“Let he who is without sin, cast the next stone,” he said, voice quiet but cutting clearly across the square.
When the angry men finally left in disgust, the Nazarene left flowers before the three women on the ground.
The next memories flooding Lilliana replaced the smells of blood and dust with expensive perfume.
“Don’t be a fool,” she lectured Mary, tugging on the alabaster jar of ointment. “Don’t waste your life savings on gifts for this man. He cares only for children and the birds!”
Mary pulled the jar back, her serene face momentarily agitated. “You only say that because he won’t marry you and give you children of your own. His concerns are not of this world.”
“Exactly!” Lilliana retorted. “First he says he loves you, then ignores you!”
“You’re just jealous.” Mary shook her head sadly, and stalked away through the market crowd.
Lilliana stood still, eyes following Mary, as she pondered how such a strong woman could be so naive.
“Tired, aren’t you?” an icy voice said from a nearby darkened alley.
Lilliana looked to the shadows where a pale man was hunched over.
“What business is it of yours?” she said angrily, approaching the stranger, ready to cast a few stones of her own.
The man raised his head to reveal a beautiful face, but she froze when he opened his mouth to speak again, displaying a rotten ruin in the place of teeth. She covered her nose and mouth when the smell of death engulfed her.
“You’ve been ignored or pushed around for a long time now.” His voice rattled like an icy breeze scattering bones littered on the ground. “How would you like to have the power to push back?”
#
Excitement filled the basilica, accompanying the tolling bells and the harmonized chanting of the clergy. It swirled above the heads of the growing crowd like a circulating flock of doves.
Katherina drank in the music with her ears, savoring the sounds she loved. She especially loved High Mass—this morning’s special occasion—when all the prayers were songs.
When the children had proven difficult to rouse that morning, Katherina worried they would miss the chance for a good spot to hear the choir and view the knighting ceremony. Sure enough, they entered the church almost last, but Cardinal Teodorico’s generous offer lifted her spirits.
She had no idea, however, just how generous the offer until Victor led them directly to the front of the congregation, right to the communion rail—a place normally reserved for the most important benefactors. Patrick already waited for them there. He exchanged greetings as she, the candidati, Aimeé, and Sister Abigail all pressed around him.
He and Aimeé kept their distance, though he did glance at her long enough to send her a pained look. When he looked away, Aimeé did the same. Katherina felt a twinge of sadness for them both.
They stood so close to the sanctuary she could see the trails of sweat pouring down the faces of the poor squires who had been kneeling since last night. The altar loomed impressively, and every item on the long marble table stood out larger than life, especially the shimmering vessel that had caused so much controversy. It sat out of place, askew from the conventional objects of the Mass; candles, flowers, the Bible, a crucifix, wine, and bread wafers on an ornate platter.
Her eyes lingered on the cup. How odd that others could almost disregard this miraculous object—this assumed true Cup of the Last Supper—while a worldly imitation took its place underneath a cloth at the center of the marble.
Patrick glanced at Aimeé again, sadness darkening his face.
Katherina tugged on his surcoat. “I’m told you have an understanding of Latin and the Mass.”
“Oh really,” Patrick replied quietly, cocking an eyebrow. “Now how would you know that?”
“A little bird told me,” Katherina said, smiling as she cast a glance at Aimeé.
Patrick’s eyelids fluttered as if he struggled to keep from rolling his eyes, but he smiled. “I have some idea, yes.”
“Can you explain to me all that happens?” she implored. “Though my language has improved this last year, I still feel I’m missing much. I want to understand all the differences between the Orthodox liturgy and Catholic Mass.”
Again Patrick’s eyelids fluttered. “I can do my best.”
She smiled her thanks just as the bells stopped ringing and the choir quieted.
A hush fell over the murmuring crowd and people bunched up against them, signaling the entrance procession at the back of the church had begun.
The choir began anew as Father Hugh led the column, parting the crowd with a swinging thurible, sending up fragrant white smoke that chased away the musky odor of the pressed bodies. Fathers Herewinus and Wulfric followed, walking side-by-side carrying candles on tall holders. Lastly came Cardinal Teodorico, poised and erect, with the crowd closing behind him like the wake of a boat passing through water.
They arrived at the altar and Mass progressed normally. Katherina watched with a new fascination as Patrick whispered explanations and translated the Latin prayers though it garnered them the occasional hushing and disapproving looks from their neighbors. The beautifully complex ritual played out like a performance, with the cardinal at the center and the attending priests coming and going as needed like actors performing their parts. Periodically, the congregation played their parts as well, as if in a dance, by frequently standing, crossing themselves, and kneeling again. Katherina especially enjoyed it when they sang with the choir.
When the time came for the day’s Bible readings, Teodorico stood before Greensprings’s massive Bible on its lectern. Father Hugh turned the heavy pages for him as he read. Though he spoke in the common French used at Greensprings, his thick Italian accent, and occasional stutter, made it difficult for Katherina to understand. She nudged Patrick one more time and asked him to summarize.
“He’s reading from the Book of Samuel,” he explained, “about how King David coveted Bathsheba, the wife of one of his men and got her with child...” His brow crinkled and his description trailed off as he seemed to turn introspective. She nudged him again and he snapped back to attention “The baby became ill and died. The prophet Nathan told David it was because sin still has its price, even though David had repented...” Patrick trailed off again with a far away look in his eyes, muttering, “The baby died...”
Teodorico went into a long, animated sermon. An occasional grumble came from the crowd, making Katherina curious.
“Patrick!” she hissed. “What’s he saying now?”
Patrick shook himself, listened, then frowned, this time a bit angrily. “I think he’s making a connection between today’s Bible reading and the council business with the cup—something about coveting that which belongs to God.”
&
nbsp; When finished, Teodorico moved to the altar and began the consecration portion of Mass, changing bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus through prayer.
He faced east toward the rising sun, with his back to the crowd, as priests did in all churches. From behind, his frequent signing of the Holy Cross in the air above the altar and instruments of consecration gave the impression of a baker kneading dough. Ultimately, he held a piece of bread high, announcing, “Hoc est enim corpus meum.”
“For this is my body...” Patrick translated, but Katherina cut him off with an elbow to the ribs.
“I know this part,” she said, leaning forward to have a better look at the transformed bread.
Teodorico held the body high for a long while. Though no one uttered a word at this moment, a rustle rippled through the basilica as one thousand people likewise leaned forward.
Teodorico set it down and reached for the miracle cup. His hand passed through it, and without so much as a pause, he moved to the imitator cup, picked it up with both hands, then went through the ritual again with the wine, converting it to the blood of Jesus.
Katherina tugged on Patrick’s surcoat.
“Now I have a question,” she whispered.
“Of course you do.”
“Why did he try grabbing the miracle cup first?”
“Because in addition to being a revisitation of the sacrifice on the Cross, the Mass is a revisitation of the Last Supper, and ideally you’d want to use the cup from that event.”
“Certainly, but if a priest can make any old wine in any old cup into the blood of Jesus,” Katherina continued, chewing her lower lip, “then what is the fuss with the miracle cup?”
“Because even though Jesus’ blood works miracles on our souls from inside us, the Cup of the Last Supper works miracles for all the world to see, which is a very powerful thing—especially for men with political ambitions.”
He shook his head, whether at her exasperating questions or at the troubling reality of what he had just said, she did not know.
“Why can’t the cardinal grab the miracle cup?” Katherina asked.
Patrick leaned in closer than usual to respond. “For the same reason none of us can.”
“Which is?”
“That is the question many people would pay a wagon full of gold to find out. Perhaps God simply has a sense of humor.”
When ready, Teodorico ate and drank a portion of the transformed bread and wine and shared it with the attending priests and the squires in the act of communion. Next, he cleansed the cup and platter with water and returned them to the altar underneath a cloth.
“Squires, if you would?” Teodorico said, and gestured to the floor at the foot of the dais.
The boys came forward and knelt again as Teodorico motioned for Patrick.
The choir went silent.
“Charles,” Patrick said, approaching the tallest of the boys. Whether by accident or design, the lads had arranged themselves from tallest to shortest: Charles, Jakob, and Josef. Patrick spoke loud enough to reach the far reaches of the church. “Do you accept the responsibilities I’m about to administer?”
“I do,” Charles said loudly, yet solemnly.
“Very well,” Patrick replied. “Do you promise to live without fear of your enemies? To be brave and upright so that God may love thee? To speak always the truth, even though it may lead to your death? To safeguard the weak and helpless and to do no wrong? To defend all women? To be loyal to your lord? And above all, be devoted to the Church?”
Charles nodded curtly, stating, “I do!”
“That is your oath,” Patrick said, and suddenly and violently slapped Charles across the face. His head snapped to one side, but otherwise he stood stock-still. “And that is so you do not forget it.”
Patrick drew his sword, extending the blade to Charles’ head.
“In the name of God, Saint Michael, and Saint George I give you the right to bear arms and to mete out justice,” he said, touching the blade to each of Charles’ shoulders every time he invoked one of the holy names. “I dub thee Sir Charles. Rise a knight.”
Charles rose with a smile and a light in his eyes. Patrick moved to Jakob.
In rapid succession, he performed the same ritual on him and Josef. As the serving priests assisted the young men in donning surcoats with their family heraldry, Patrick affixed riding spurs to their heels.
When finished, the new knights turned to the people and a roar of approval filled the basilica. Patrick shook hands with the beaming men and returned to his spot. The knights returned to their former places as well. When the clamor had died down, all expected Cardinal Teodorico to start closing prayers.
Instead, he stated, “On this special occasion, I invite any who feel worthy to try and grasp the Cup of the Last Supper, starting with those most loved by God, the young afflicted by infirmities.”
He gestured to Sister Abigail, who escorted the candidati.
“Did you know about this?” Patrick asked Katherina.
She shook her head, as surprised as anyone.
A murmur rose from the crowd and Fathers Hugh, Wulfric, and Herewinus scowled. Wulfric leaned towards Teodorico and muttered something, only to have the cardinal wave him off.
The nun aligned the children in single file and led them up the dais stairs to the altar. Teodorico greeted them and urged them to grasp the cup.
First Candace tried and failed, her hand passing through it. She shrugged. Next came Martin, who also failed and happily returned to his face-waving. Only Emilie and Stuart seemed disappointed at their subsequent failures, sulking near the altar.
“Teodorico!” a voice boomed from the balcony. Count Fulk, glowering among the Merchant’s Guild members, leaned against the rail. “It’s very obvious what you are attempting and I must say it’s in poor taste!”
“Hear, hear!” another merchant said.
“Candidati, indeed!” another man cried scornfully. “We see now why you call them that. Candidates to hold the cup for you, because you cannot. Manipulating innocents! Poor taste indeed!”
“Gentlemen, hold thy tongues. You are disrupting the Holy Mass!” Teodorico called back to the balcony, taking several angry steps toward them.
“Except this is not a part of the Mass!” Fulk countered.
“I have not dismissed the congregation.” Teodorico sniffed.
“A small detail that—” Fulk’s voice caught in his throat and his gaze turned in shock toward the altar as a collective gasp went through the church.
Teodorico turned.
Chansonne held the cup, looking at it as if not sure what to do now.
“Don’t let go!” the cardinal cried, lurching forward.
Chansonne balked at the sudden command and staggered back in a panic, trying to determine what she had done wrong. She looked again at the cup and quickly replaced it on the altar.
“No!” Teodorico shouted, hovering over her. “Take it back up!”
Chansonne backed away, more frightened than ever.
The cardinal railed at her violently. “I said take it again!”
Sister Abigail inserted herself between them, crying, “Stop it! You’re frightening her!”
An outraged uproar came from the congregation. Katherina tensed and felt Patrick quivering with anger next to her. He crouched as if ready to pounce over the rail.
Seething, Teodorico collected his composure and addressed the crowd. Throughout the Mass his stutter had been almost non-existent, but now his voice shook as he said, “T-t-t-this Mass is ended, g-g-go in peace.”
#
“How dare you question my authority like that, hmm?” Cardinal Teodorico shouted.
His peculiar speech impediment did not diminish the anger in his voice. His dark eyes bulged, his neck strained into cords, and spittle flew from his mouth.
“You frightened the child,” Sister Abigail protested, wringing her hands. “You know what she is capable of when panicked. I just couldn't
risk it with all those people present.”
They were in the Fairy Room. Teodorico had wanted to sequester the children in general, and Chansonne in particular, from the other board members as soon as possible. He found the children's current residence—the Hall for Lady Guests—near and easily guarded, and therefore a convenient place to regroup. Not to mention vent his anger.
“It is not your place to make that judgment, hmm?” the cardinal shouted, making a chopping gesture with his hand. “I had things well under control, hmm, yes?”
“So much so the girl set the cup aside and wouldn't touch it again!”
“S-s-silence!” Teodorico's rage reached a new height. “You forget yourself, Woman, hmm? I-I-I have accomplished precisely what I hoped and I-I-I could have been on my way back to Rome right now with the girl holding the cup if you hadn't interfered, hmm, yes?”
Sister Abigail cowed away from the tall man, shrinking away as if he might strike her. Despite her terror, she still dared to ask, “Do you really think when it comes time you will be able to control her?”
Unexpectedly, Teodorico drew a calming breath as he drew himself to his full height, becoming the very image of composure and control.
“Yes, I do,” he replied without stutter. “She is no longer the feral child I brought to this island. Look at the transformation.”
“Thanks to the compassionate touch of a woman,” she acknowledged, “but I doubt she will respond now to an angry old man. Especially if she were to find out just how much that angry old man had manipulated her.”
Teodorico leaned into the nun with a calm that disconcerted her as much as his rage had. “Then it would serve everyone well she not ever find that out. Especially from you. I imagine her anger would be far greater toward someone who has given the impression of caring deeply for her this whole time.”
The cardinal turned and retrieved his crozier leaning against a pillar. By the time he straightened out his cape, Sister Abigail was trying to hide the tears that sprang to her eyes.
“Now, if you will excuse me, hmm?” he said. “I have matters to attend. Make no mistake, Sister Abigail. The cup will be mine and I will do whatever I must to make that girl carry it out of this place for me, hmm? If you won't help with that, then the least you can do is stay out of the way.”
Ripples in the Chalice: A Tale of Avalon (Tales of Avalon Book 2) Page 31