by Judith Rock
“No, no, it’s only me. Don’t twist like that and your wound will be better pleased.” Frère Brunet stood over him, nodding cautiously. “Your fever’s much less, thank Our Lady for that grace. How do you feel?”
“Better. What day is it?”
“Hmmm?” Brunet was stirring something at the small table between Charles’s bed and the next one. “Oh. It’s Saturday. Saint Eata.”
“Who?”
“He was English,” Brunet said dismissively. “Years ago. I don’t know why we bother with him.”
“A martyr?”
“You might say so. Died of dysentery, so they say.”
Charles grunted. “That’s a horrible fate, even for an Englishman. Most martyrdoms are a lot quicker.”
“Ah, had it yourself, have you?”
“I nearly died of it my first year in the army.”
“Then that’s three times—no, four times—you haven’t died, maître. The dysentery, your army wound, that gunshot wound you got your first summer here, and now this stabbing. Not so much the wound itself this time, but the festering of it. I wouldn’t push my luck any more, if I were you. God might be tired of saving you from yourself.”
“What do you mean, from myself?”
“I don’t mean what happened Wednesday night. But you joined the army yourself, didn’t you? I mean, you’re noble, so I hear, and you didn’t join like so many do—because they’ve no money and nothing to eat. You just wanted to fight.”
Charles said nothing, and Brunet advanced on him with the cup.
“This will help keep the fever away. The wound’s festering is calming down nicely, but I want to make sure it doesn’t come back. And you’re going nowhere till I am sure.”
Charles sipped at the bitter drink. “When can I get up?”
“When I say so. When your fever stays gone. I’ll bring you something to eat shortly. Meanwhile, you finish that and say your prayers.” He bustled away.
Torn between exasperation and affection, Charles watched the lay brother’s broad back disappear down the room and out the door. Brunet was wrong, though, about the army; Charles hadn’t gone into the army because he’d wanted to fight. He’d wanted to die, and not just any death. He’d wanted to die heroically in battle, a noble martyr to his family’s refusal to let him marry his Protestant cousin Pernelle. His mouth quirked in a sad half smile. Of course, he’d been eighteen at the time, exactly the age for dramatic self-sacrifice. Well, if punishment was deserved for that, the terrible memory he shared with Amaury de Corbet had been ample penance.
Whatever he’d imagined he wanted at eighteen, he definitely did not want to die now. He wondered if La Reynie had found out anything more about Wednesday night’s attack. He remembered Le Picart telling him something about the lieutenant-général, but now he couldn’t remember what. He was still trying to remember when Brunet came back with bread, a steaming bowl, and watered wine. He put the tray down on the little table and helped Charles sit up.
“Here you are, maître.” He put the bowl on Charles’s lap and gave him a spoon. “Eat all of this; you’ve hardly eaten anything these last days.”
Charles looked dubiously at the grayish mess in the bowl. “What is it?”
“Mutton broth with barley.”
“It looks like baby pap.”
“Babies have sense. Now eat.”
“Oui, maman,” Charles murmured, and ate.
The soup was hot and thick and filling. By the time he finished it, he wanted to curl up and sleep again. Brunet said grace after eating with him, made him wash his face and hands as though he were six years old, and helped him lie down again on his side to take the pressure off his wound. Charles was sliding into sleep when Père Le Picart appeared beside his bed.
“Maître,” the rector said, almost whispering. “Are you awake? Your cousin has come to see you.”
Charles’s eyes flew open and he looked up in dismay.
Le Picart tilted his head very slightly back toward the door. “He says he’s on the point of leaving Paris. He also says he went to the Novice House and—as we expected—was refused permission to see Amaury de Corbet. He asked me if you’d seen de Corbet, and I said you had. He knows that you are not well, but I didn’t tell him you were attacked. Let that remain unsaid.” His voice rose. “And so, maître, I’ve reminded your cousin that he must speak quietly here and leave promptly. Will you see him?”
Charles sighed. “If you’ll help me sit up again. When I look up from this angle, I feel as though my eyes are going to fall out.”
Le Picart raised him against the pillows and frowned anxiously as Charles grimaced with pain. “Can you do this?”
“Shhh!” Charles glanced toward the infirmarian’s chamber beyond the altar. “If you make a fuss about me, I think Frère Brunet might sit on me like a hen with an ailing chick.”
“Uncomfortable for the chick.” Le Picart grinned at him and looked toward the outer door. “You may come,” he called, and went into the little chamber where Brunet mixed his medicines.
Charles watched Charles-François de Vintimille du Luc march down the room, the long wig bouncing on his shoulders. “Bonjour, Charlot.”
His cousin made him a stiff bow. “I am sorry you’re unwell.”
“It’s no great matter. I understand you’re leaving Paris.”
Charles-François’s stare was cold. “Your rector says you’ve seen Amaury. I, of course, was turned away. What did Amaury say to you?”
“Nothing you don’t already know. That he’s wanted to join the Society for a long time and is glad to be where he is.”
“Balls. And who was watching him and listening when he said so?”
“Only he and I were in the room.”
Charles-François glanced in the direction Le Picart had gone and lowered his voice. “So they know you’ve become base enough to report to his superiors. You turn my stomach, all of you!”
Charles squinted against the light, as though if he could see his cousin better he could make sense of what he said. “What are you imagining, Charlot? That the Society is so desperate for men that we hold them prisoner? Far from it, I assure you.”
“Amaury is a nobleman. You’re always looking for nobles, everyone knows that’s why you have colleges. You—”
“We have colleges, you idiot, because we teach! Most of our students are not noble, and many are poor.”
“Oh, yes, that’s your public face. But I know more.” He slapped at one of the big, braid-trimmed pockets on the front of his coat and glared triumphantly at Charles. “Much more.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.” The little man’s black eyes glittered as he leaned over the bed. “Did Amaury tell you that besides abandoning his military honor, he also abandoned his betrothed wife?” His voice rose with every question. “Or is he already too corrupted to care?”
“Betrothal is not marriage.”
“If his father had been alive, he’d never have done it!”
“His father sounds like something of a tyrant.”
“Tyrant! But of course you think so. Jesuits are always undermining true authority. And why? Because you want to be the only authorities!”
Charles sighed and let his eyes close. And suddenly remembered how he’d put an end to a shouting match with his cousin when he was ten years old. “Charlot,” he said sweetly, eyes still shut, “go soak your head in the ox trough.”
The swish of a cassock and the soft sound of footsteps on the rush matting came toward the bed. “I fear we don’t have an ox trough,” the rector’s voice said. “But no matter, since you are leaving now, Monsieur de Vintimille du Luc. You can see that your cousin is tired and must rest.”
Charles opened one eye enough to watch the confrontation.
Charles-François turned to stare a
t him. “Oh, yes, I’ll leave you to your lies and secrets. But your time is short. Remember that.” He strode down the row of beds, the rector on his heels.
Charles drifted into restless sleep. But he kept startling himself awake, thinking that his cousin was still talking at him. Your time is short, you can’t hide in your nest of lies and secrets. Remember that, remember . . . The peasant woman pressed the musket’s barrel hard into his back and the gathered soldiers egged her on. Shoot, woman, he’s a coward Jesuit . . . Then Père Dainville was behind her, gazing sadly at him. There was a body at his feet, and Charles saw that it was the English scholastic Henry Wing. How can I absolve you, Dainville said, until you stop the killing?
“No,” Charles cried, “he only fainted, he can’t be dead!”
“Hush, lie still, you’re dreaming.”
Charles blinked up at Brunet, whose face was dim in the evening light as he slipped an arm under Charles’s shoulders and lifted him enough to let him drink from the cup he held. “No, don’t turn away, drink every drop. There, that’s right.”
Charles felt himself laid gently down again and then felt something blessedly cool on his forehead. Then the rector was there, shimmering in brilliant daylight.
“Why is he worse again?” Charles heard him say.
“The wound’s more tainted than I’d thought. I’ve cleaned it again, and what I gave him will make him sleep. Sleep will help.”
Charles dropped through the sound of murmured prayer back into blackness. He slept through the coming and going of light, woven inexplicably with dreams, voices, and people bending over him. Père Thomas Damiot came, and Père Jouvancy. At one point, he opened his eyes to find the English scholastic peering anxiously at him.
“You’re not dead,” Charles croaked, his mouth so dry he could hardly make words. “I told him so.”
“Dead?” The pale blue eyes widened and the young man crossed himself. Then he looked over his shoulder and whispered in Charles’s ear, “She said to tell you she’s praying for you.”
Charles turned his head from side to side on the pillow. “No. She wouldn’t.”
He fell back into sleep, where the woman who wouldn’t pray for him, the woman with the musket, was waiting to curse him and the rest of the soldiers into the depths of hell. The next time he woke, the infirmary was dark except for the small sanctuary light on the altar. He lay staring at it, afraid to move in case the dream phantoms came at him again out of the night. Slowly he realized that the stab wound wasn’t aching and that the air felt cool around him. He turned his head as light shone in the doorway of the infirmarian’s small chamber.
“Frère Brunet?”
“Ah, you’re better, maître!” He put a hand on Charles’s forehead and nodded.“Thanks be to God, your fever broke near midnight, and your skin’s still cool.” Brunet put his candle down, lifted Charles on his arm, and held a cup to his lips. “Drink, you’ve sweated enough for a team of horses.”
Charles drank gratefully and lay back again. “What day is it?”
“Monday morning. The clock just rang four.”
“How long have I been here now?”
“Since Wednesday night.”
Slowly, Charles pieced the days together. “My cousin was here.”
Brunet nodded. “On Saturday. But then you grew worse again, so you probably don’t remember much since then.”
“Père Dainville? Is he buried?”
“He is. In Saint Louis, as near the altar as we could get him. With enough big white candles for the ceremony to chase away every shadow in the church.”
“I wish I’d been there.”
“I know. But he was greatly loved and he’s gone where we all hope to go.” Brunet sighed. “No need to worry for him, at least.”
Charles look sharply at the infirmarian. “Are you worrying for someone else?”
Brunet frowned and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I don’t know that I should tell you.”
“Mon frère! You can’t say so much and not tell me. Do you want me to lie here and worry and be on your hands longer than I might?”
“I’m thinking maybe you should stay here.” Brunet’s face was oddly grave. “But yes, fretting’s bad for you, so I’ll tell you. It’s that scholastic.”
“Wing?” Charles grabbed Brunet’s sleeve. “The Englishman? What’s happened to him?”
“No, no.” Brunet tsked and patted his patient’s hand. “Not him. Oh, what’s the man’s name? That one who’s sour as a Spanish lemon.”
Sour as a lemon? “Maître Richaud?” Charles said.
“That’s him. He’s disappeared. No one’s seen him since Friday.”
CHAPTER 10
THE FEAST OF ST. NARCISSE, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1687
Charles was still in the infirmary, but better than Frère Brunet had expected him to be so soon. The afternoon was mild, windless and sunny, and Brunet had let him out into the garden to sit on a sheltered bench. Charles leaned contentedly against the garden wall, listening to the sounds of the boarding students’ after-dinner recreation coming from the Cour d’honneur. Though it was the day’s quiet recreation hour, bursts of laughter and occasional shouts rose in the still air.
Then the sound of someone coming made him lean carefully forward to look along the side of the infirmary building. The Englishman, Maître Henry Wing, hurried through the garden and stopped in front of him, holding out a book.
“Are you better, Maître du Luc? I’ve brought your Saint Augustine. Someone came from the infirmary during dinner to say you needed it, and I was sent to bring it to you.”
“Thank you, maître.” Charles took the copy of extracts from The Confessions and laid it on the bench. Brunet had finally given him permission to read and he’d decided on St. Augustine, that saint’s thought being less eye-crossing to follow than St. Thomas’s. “Yes, I’m much better.”
Without waiting to be invited, Wing plumped himself down on the bench beside the book. “I’ve been wondering where you come from? Your accent is strange.”
Not stranger than yours, Charles thought, smiling at the Englishman. “I come from Languedoc. That’s the south of France,” he added, seeing that Wing was about to ask.
“Oh. I’m English, you know.”
“Yes,” Charles said, straight-faced. “I do know. From Saint Omer, I understand.” He smiled ruefully. “I’ve been to Saint Omer.”
“To the Jesuit college?”
“No. I fought in the Netherlands war. I was in the battle of Saint Omer in seventy-seven.”
Openmouthed, Wing examined Charles from head to foot. “You fought?”
Charles nodded patiently.
The Englishman shook his head in astonishment. “So you were a soldier?”
Charles eyed Wing, wondering if he was slightly simple-minded. “Yes.”
“I could never do that.”
“You should thank God you’ve never had to.”
“Oh, but He knows I couldn’t. Everyone knows that. That’s why I fainted after that man attacked you. I thought he was going to kill me, and I was too afraid even to run.” Wing shrugged, and his smile returned. “My sisters are the brave ones in the family. I’ve always been a coward. I don’t mind, but my father does.”
It was Charles’s turn to study his companion in astonishment. Wing had said he was a coward exactly as he’d said he was English, simply offering information. But of course, his Latin was heavily accented. Perhaps he hadn’t said what Charles thought he’d heard.
“What did you say?”
Wing laughed merrily. “My Latin accent’s as bad as yours, isn’t it? I said I’m a coward.” He looked up at the last yellow leaves on the chestnut tree towering over them. “What a beautiful day. I’d heard it rains all the time in Paris. Like in Saint Omer. And in Yorkshire, that’s where my family lives.
He sobered. “I miss them, but I was glad to leave England. Too many people hate Catholics there; it’s very frightening. I thought that when we got King James, him being Catholic, it would all be better. It’s not, but God must have a reason, don’t you think? Maybe I’ll understand more about it from studying theology. Did you know I’ll be going with you to the Novice House on Wednesdays and Fridays for the Saint Augustine class? I went this past Friday with poor Maître Richaud.” Wing leaned toward him. “Have you heard he’s disappeared?”
“The infirmarian told me no one’s seen him since Friday. So he disappeared after the two of you came back from the Novice House?”
“Yes. He left after dinner and never returned.” Wing shuddered and looked around the garden. “I wonder if that man who attacked you got him. Do you suppose he’s going around killing Jesuits?”
“If he is, he’s going to be a very busy murderer.” Wing missed the sarcasm, and his round face grew even more alarmed. Charles hurried to reassure him, “That was only my joke, maître. There’s no reason to think that Maître Richaud’s disappearance has anything to do with the man who attacked me.” But there was equally no reason to assume it didn’t, Charles thought. It was hard to imagine that Richaud, a stickler for the letter of every law, would have just walked away on his own. If someone else had lured or forced him away, that boded very ill for Richaud, indeed.
“Well,” Wing said dubiously, “I hope you’re right.” He gave Charles a guilty look. “I shouldn’t say this, since Maître Richaud may be dead, but I’m not at all sorry he won’t be going with us to the Novice House.”
“Why?”
“He made it clear that he doesn’t approve of me. I think it was because of the girl.”
Charles turned toward him on the bench and grimaced as his wound protested. “What girl?”