The Inquisitor's Tale

by Adam Gidwitz

  Jacob laughed. “That did not happen.”

  William raised his eyebrows. Jeanne exclaimed, “Jacob, that’s heresy!” Even Gwenforte barked.

  Jacob looked to Yehuda. The old rabbi merely said, “After all the miraculous things you have seen and done, this you cannot believe?”

  Jacob didn’t know what to say to that.

  “Tell him about Lawrence,” said Michelangelo.

  “Who’s he?” Jacob asked.

  “He’s one of my favorites,” said William eagerly. “He was the deacon of a church in Rome, also under the Roman Empire. His church served only the poor and had no funds, until one day a rich woman died and left the church a great deal of money. When the Roman emperor heard this, he sent his soldiers to get the treasure to add to the empire’s coffers. But before they arrived, Lawrence distributed it all to the poor. Then he brought beggars and lepers and orphans into his church. When the Roman soldiers arrived to collect the money, Lawrence brought them all before the poor people and said, ‘Here it is! For the downtrodden are our greatest treasure!’”

  “So what happened?” Jacob asked.

  “What do you think happened? He’s a saint. He got martyred.”

  “They took a gridiron,” said Jeanne, “and they placed it over hot coals until it started to glow. Then they put Lawrence on the gridiron and roasted him, until his flesh sizzled and blackened and peeled from his bones. After a while, he turned to his tormentors and said, ‘This side’s cooked. Flip me over.’”

  Jacob began to laugh—and then did not. Jeanne, when she realized that she’d just described someone burning to death, covered her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t think . . .”

  Jacob looked at the floorboards. After a moment, he said, “So will we be martyred, too?”

  “That depends,” Michelangelo replied. “You may flee your fate. Ignore your gifts. Maybe stay alive. Jeanne, you could go back to your village with that lovely dog of yours. William, we could find a new monastery for you, I am sure. And Jacob . . .” He hesitated.

  “We’re staying together,” Jeanne cut in. She looked at the two boys. “Right?”

  William grinned. “Right.”

  Jacob looked up at them. His face was pale. But he managed to smile. “Right.”

  Michelangelo’s eyes met Yehuda’s. Something silent passed between them. “In that case,” said the big monk, “there is something that I am trying to do. I could use your . . . your special skills.” Michelangelo paused. “There is to be a burning. A great conflagration. Of books. They are to be stacked like logs, or thrown on a pyre, in the center of Paris,” Michelangelo explained. “And they will be burned.”

  “What are they?” Jeanne asked. “Which books?”

  “What does it matter? They’re books!” William said. “Do you know how much work it takes to make a book? Years and years of a monk’s life, to make just one! How many books are they burning?”

  “Dozens and dozens, I hear,” Michelangelo replied.

  “Dozens and dozens of volumes of Talmud,” added Yehuda. “Though, really, they’ll burn anything written in Hebrew. For how should they know Talmud from Bible from the commentary of Rashi?”

  William said, “Wait—just Jewish books?”

  Michelangelo raised his eyebrows at the young monk. “What does it matter, William?”

  Everyone in the small room turned to the oblate.

  William’s face flushed with shame. “It doesn’t,” he said. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Why would they do that?” Jeanne asked.

  “The bitter fruit of a poisoned tree,” Yehuda murmured. “Once, we Jews were seen as the People of the Book. Useful to Christian society as an example of the Old Way. Augustine himself described us like this. But then, Jews who converted to Christianity, and were looking to climb in the ranks of power, went to the pope and told him that we actually have two books: the Bible and the Talmud. The Talmud is the collected wisdom of the rabbis—a discussion of the Bible. But apparently, since we are the People of the Book, we only get one. The Bible. The rest are to be consigned to the flames.”

  William’s disgust had returned to its original proportions. “But your writings, great sage? Will they burn the books of Yehuda, too?”

  “Of course,” the rabbi replied. “Mine and those far greater than mine.”

  Jacob’s eyes shone. Another burning. Again, aimed at his people and what they treasure. “But what can we do?” he asked.

  Yehuda, almost imperceptibly, smiled.

  “Well,” said Michelangelo, “you could come with me as I try to stop the book burning. In so doing, you would face enemies. Persecution. Maybe death. But you would be fighting for goodness, wisdom, and what is right. You would walk boldly into your fate, whatever it is. Or, you could go back to your old lives—what is left of them.”

  The children found one another’s eyes. There was, really, nothing to discuss.

  Jeanne sat up a little straighter on her wooden stool. “We will walk boldly. We will be saints.”

  “You can’t just decide to be a saint!” I cry, unable to control myself any longer.

  “They haven’t just decided!” Jerome retorts. “They are! Look at their acts! Their miracles!”

  “Yes, a miracle can be performed by a saint,” I say. “But it can also be performed by a charlatan! A trickster! I bet that jongleur sleeping out in the barn could dazzle our eyes if we let him.”

  Aron the butcher stands up and leans across the table. “Could he have saved my life? Healed my wounds with yarrow and a prayer?”

  “Demons have magic, too, do they not?” I go on. “Magic alone does not a saint make. A saint must do God’s work. A saint must be the embodiment of God’s goodness on earth. Saint Lawrence gave great wealth to the poor. Besides healing your head, what have these children done?”

  The innkeeper counts on his fingers, “Rescue a dog, kill a dozen fiends, heal Aron’s head, rescue each other from bloodthirsty knights—”

  “And then,” I interrupt, “they befriended those same bloodthirsty knights!”

  “They also defeated a dragon, like Saint George.”

  “Saint George killed the dragon. They just made it puke.” The folks around the table are glaring at me. I throw up my hands. “Why are you all so committed to these children being saints?”

  “Why are you so dead set against it, I wonder?” Jerome replies.

  I do not answer.

  The handsome man leans forward. His voice is quiet and rich, his French perfectly exact. “When I first met them, I also doubted their sanctity. And now, I am more conflicted than ever.”

  “You’ve met them, too?” I ask. “What is this? A we-met-the-kids reunion?”

  The handsome man sits back on his stool. “Do you doubt me?”

  “No,” I say. “I suppose I don’t. Go ahead. Tell us your story.”

  HAPTER 16

  The Companion’s Tale

  Jeanne, Jacob, William, and Gwenforte left the town of Saint-Denis, following the famous prior Michelangelo di Bologna.

  “So,” William said, once they had left the town. “Where are those books?” The wind was cool and fresh on their faces. Others traveled down the road, but none close enough to overhear them. At least, so they all thought. After these children became outlaws, I pieced together their conversation from snatches gathered by those who remembered seeing this strange band.

  “I do not know,” Michelangelo replied. “But we do know that the Talmuds have been collected by the various abbeys and then sent to Paris. So our first stop is an abbey just to the west of Paris, in the wood of Vincennes. The abbot there is a friend of mine. I will ask him what he knows of this conflagration: where it is to be and when. And also, of course, if he knows where the books are. He may. He is, after all, a con
fidant of the king.”

  “Why would the king know?” asked Jacob.

  “It is the king who is burning the books, is it not? Well, his mother, Blanche of Castile, is the prime mover, I am sure. But I gather that the king is collaborating enthusiastically.”

  The blood drained from the faces of all three children. “The king?” said Jeanne.

  “I thought we were going to steal some books from an abbey or something,” said William.

  “You would rather steal from the church than from the king?” Michelangelo replied.

  William hesitated, and then he said, emphatically, “Yes!” He added, as if Michelangelo should know better, “Stealing from the king is treason!”

  “Lower your voice!” Michelangelo whispered. And then he added, “I told you it would be dangerous.” And then, as if that had ended the conversation, he strode out ahead of the children. Gwenforte trotted along beside him.

  William, Jeanne, and Jacob looked at one another. William pointed at Jeanne. “You volunteered for this.”

  Jeanne said, almost to herself, “We’re going to steal from the king?”

  “And die,” Jacob added. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to die, too.”

  • • •

  The wood of Vincennes is a deep wood, full of grand old trees and runs of sparkling water. The sunlight shone through the bare branches in slanting golden rays as they approached the abbey. The monks there—Grandmontines, they are called—are silent. Always. Only the abbot may speak, and then only to distinguished guests.

  The abbey door was small and modest. Just a rounded wooden affair set into porous, honeyed stone. A black bell hung beside the door, with a leather thong dangling from its center. Michelangelo whipped the leather thong against the metal, and the bell hummed quietly in reply. Michelangelo turned to the children and put a finger against his lips.

  The wooden door opened, and a thin man in a gray monk’s habit appeared. When he saw Michelangelo, he bowed, and the great red monk inclined his head in response. Then the Grandmontine looked at the rest of them. His eyes went wider and wider as they passed from Jacob, who was dressed like a peasant, to William, who looked like no monk the Grandmontine had ever seen, to Jeanne, who was not just a peasant, but a girl, and finally to Gwenforte, who was, it will be remembered, a dog. But the small gray monk sighed and looked to Heaven, as if to say, What else would I expect from Michelangelo di Bologna? And he waved them inside.

  He led them up a stony path to an orchard. Pear trees stood in rows. A robin sang from a nearby branch into the disapproving silence of the abbey. Jeanne had the urge to shush it. That’s how quiet the place was.

  While Michelangelo walked with the monk to the low-slung buildings of the abbey, the children were set to wander—silently—through the orchard.

  William put his arm around Jacob’s shoulder. Jacob leaned his head against William’s ribs. The big boy’s warmth was calming. He sighed. Jeanne led Gwenforte by the scruff of her neck to prevent her from chasing the robin.

  At the far end of the orchard, a group of monks were tending to one of the abbey’s exterior walls. Sprawling vines of ivy had grown across it. The vines were beautiful, deep green against the glowing sun-kissed stone, like the illuminated marginalia in a manuscript. But these marginalia contradicted the text, because the ivy was silently eating away at the mortar between the stones and would one day bring the walls down. So the monks were tearing the beautiful lines of ivy away.

  But were they monks? As the children came closer, they heard whispering and—could it be?—laughing. Jacob was prepared to turn away, but Jeanne was drawn to the group.

  The whispering and chuckling grew louder. These young monks hadn’t noticed the children and were laughing about whatever young men laugh about when they think they are alone.

  Suddenly, one of them shushed the others, and they became silent. They looked chastened. They went back to ripping the ivy from the walls.

  While the other monks tore ivy from stone, one busied himself collecting the fallen vines and heaping them in a pile. Like all the monks, his head was covered with the gray cowl of the order. He was doubled over and grunting when he noticed the children. He stood up, and as he did, his cowl fell back from his face.

  He was a handsome man. Clean-shaven, with a square jaw, dark ringlets for hair, and smiling eyes. The children gasped. But not for his physical beauty, striking though it was. They gasped at the thin golden crown that settled in his black curls like eggs in a thrush’s nest.

  William was the first on one knee. It was shocking, really, how quickly the big boy got there. His head was bowed and with his hands he steadied himself against the cool, wet grass of the orchard.

  Jacob was just a moment behind him. He, too, fell to one knee and bowed his head.

  “God protect His Majesty!” William said, entirely forgetting the vow of silence. Meeting a king tends to induce a temporary but powerful amnesia. Trust me. I know.

  William’s voice made the other young monks spin around. It was clear, though, that they were not monks. Their gray robes hung like cloaks from their shoulders, and under the robes shone the richest, finest garments the children had ever seen. Not festive clothes, mind you. No furs or silks. Just the finest traveling clothes in the kingdom of France. Each of the king’s men had the bearing of someone who expects to be respected and accepts that respect gracefully. But none was so regal, so striking, nor so handsome as the man who wore the crown.

  Which is why William was nearly frantic when he whispered, “Jeanne! Bow!”

  But Jeanne did not appear to hear him, for she did not move at all. Terror roared like a tiger in William’s chest. She’s having a fit, he thought. In front of the king. How in God’s name will we explain that to him? Will he have her killed? Drawn and quartered? Decapitated, with her head on a stake? All of these flashes of future miseries occurred to William in the time it took him to turn his head to see what Jeanne was doing.

  When he finally clapped his eyes on her, his heart sank even further. She was not having a fit. She was just not bowing to the king. The punishment for refusing to bow to the king was worse than the punishment for witchcraft. William didn’t know what it was, but he was sure that it was much, much worse.

  Jeanne took a step toward the king. And then another.

  Jacob turned to William and hissed, “What is she doing?” William shook his head in despair. Jacob whispered, “Should we tackle her before she reaches him?” William shrugged as if to say, Maybe.

  By this point, Jeanne had crossed the distance between the boys and the king. She had turned, just a few degrees, as she approached the lord of all France. And then, at last, she knelt and bowed her head. But, to the utter horror of William and Jacob, she was not bowing to the king. And then, as if the situation was not horrifying enough, Gwenforte trotted up and sat down beside Jeanne, as if she, too, were refusing to pay obeisance to King Louis IX of France.

  Little Jeanne was bowing to one of the king’s companions. A young man, about the king’s age, with a thin, pale face, a nose like an eagle’s beak, lank, dark hair, and a weak chin. If anyone was more obviously not the king, he was not present in the group.

  Jeanne said, “Bless me, Your Majesty.”

  The pale young man replied, “Bless you, my child.”

  The king’s men, including the one wearing the crown—that is, me—looked on with mild wonder.

  William and Jacob, on the other hand, stared with their mouths as wide-open as cathedral doors on Easter Sunday.

  “And that is how we met the children. And their dog,” the handsome man concludes.

  “Wait, you were wearing the crown?” Marie the brewster says.

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re not the king.”

  “How astute of you. I am Jean de Joinville, one of the king’s companions. When the king goes out,
one of us often dons an imitation crown, for the king’s protection.”

  Marie sweeps us all with her eyes and then says to the king’s companion, “You ain’t all that humble about your appearance, are you?”

  Jean de Joinville smiles. “False humility is no humility at all.”

  “And you don’t seem to think King Louis is all that good-looking either.”

  “King Louis is the most beautiful man I have ever seen, but his beauty radiates from his wisdom, his piety, and his kindness. Not the dust and flesh that cling to his bones.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I sit quietly, examining the courtier. “You are really Jean de Joinville? Companion of the king? Seneschal of Champagne?”

  The handsome man smiles. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

  “And do you,” I ask, “know more of this tale? How did these children, who seem to have done no harm to anyone, become the most wanted people in all of France? Why has the king declared war on them?”

  He arches his black eyebrows and smiles. “That is an excellent question, my friend. And I am just the man to answer it.”

  HAPTER 17

  The Second Part of the Companion’s Tale

  The refectory of a Grandmontine abbey is as spare as the monks’ lives. In the Abbey Vincennes, wooden tables and wooden benches stood in rows. No tapestries hung on the honey-stone walls. The few windows were glassless, and the air blew in like the chilly breath of a silent and distant God. There was not even a dais for the abbot and his distinguished guests, as there would have been at a Benedictine abbey, for the Grandmontines don’t hold with the pride of status. I think that’s why the king visits them so often.

  The children sat opposite the king, staring at his milky face and weak chin and lank, wet-looking hair. In stark contrast to the darkness of his hair, though, his eyes are limpid and blue.