by Eric Flint
Johann Gerhard gestured his eagerness to speak. Urban nodded toward him and sat.
Gerhard’s gaze shifted sideways: to Larry. “Cardinal Mazzare, I have acquainted myself with the official records of your up-time Church, at least those you brought back with you. However, at no point do they refer to these apologies of John Paul II. I wonder if you could explain that discrepancy.”
Larry stood. “It’s no discrepancy at all, Reverend Gerhard. Pope John Paul II made most of them in addresses, often during his travel to many countries in which each of the offenses occurred. They were reported in magazines and papers, both those affiliated with the Roman Catholic Church and other faiths, to say nothing of the public press.”
Gerhard leaned his weight on the hands he had placed on the back of the bench in front of him. “I see. I gather then, that these, er, unofficial publications were not among those which you had copied and sent to Pope Urban?”
Larry nodded. “That is correct.” Where the hell are you going with this, Gerhard?
“Then I must conjecture that it is you who suggested their inclusion in the pope’s closing statement? It seems unlikely he could have come to awareness of them by any other means.”
Ah. Now I see. “That is also correct, Reverend: I brought them to His Holiness’ attention. He found them apt and so, incorporated them.”
Gerhard leaned forward again. “More than apt, it seems. And more than merely ‘incorporated’ them: they became the very core of his ecumenical message to us today. Tell me”—and as Johann Gerhard said it, Larry discerned that the inquiry was propelled not by a desire to challenge the earnestness of Urban’s appeal, but rather, a profound and puzzled curiosity—“what made you choose these words, these examples to show him? You certainly must have anticipated that it would make the senior clerics of your own faith…uncomfortable.”
Larry smiled. “Actually, that’s precisely why I brought these words to His Holiness’ attention. Because they would make Roman Catholics uncomfortable. And, if all the faiths of this time are disposed to look frankly in the mirrors of their own conscience, they will find their own sins reflected there, as well.”
The non-Catholic rows in the council chamber were the source of unsettled rustling of frocks and other religious garments, but there were no mutters or whispers. Yet, Larry reminded himself.
Gerhard looked thoughtful. “Do you mean to suggest that our many churches are all as guilty of the same transgressions?” Larry did not hear an inquisitorial twist in the Lutheran’s tone; rather, it sounded almost like just another step in an exercise in logic. As if he’s throwing me a slow pitch—
Larry suppressed a smile. “As our Savior said, and as His Holiness quoted, we are none of us without sin. We need not make comparisons of which sins or how many each of us have committed for us to resolve to recognize, repudiate, and make amends for those of which we are individually guilty.”
“And yet, if it was you who conveyed John Paul II’s words to your present pope, surely you had in mind what has occurred today: a specific recitation of the sins of your own Church.”
Larry lifted his chin. “That is an essential part of this process. Both that we may redeem ourselves in the eyes of God, and deserve credence in yours.”
Gerhard seemed genuinely unsure. “I do not know if I understand your logic, Cardinal Mazzare.”
Larry smiled. “Possibly that’s because I’m just a basic country priest and have a correspondingly simple view of the relationship between sin and redemption. Confession—whether to a priest, as part of a public ceremony, or in the privacy of our own room—is useless if it is not specific. We are not just vaguely guilty of wrongdoing. A sin is a specific act—or a slew of them—which must be recounted in all their ugly particulars. Anything else is not true repudiation; it’s just a way to excuse ourselves. To truly repent, we must recall to mind the deed, the sin. Otherwise, how do we learn to regret the deed and sin no more? Anything less is an empty ritual, one in which we exchange a few minutes of shame and discomfort for absolution. And when it comes to entire institutions—my church or yours; it doesn’t matter—John Paul II once shared a few crucial words on that subject, words that made me feel that the Roman Church had to own its transgressions openly, frankly, and fully, without any excuses.”
Gerhard was smiling slightly. “And what were those words?”
Larry almost smiled back. “‘An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie, for an excuse is a lie guarded.’” Larry realized that his arms were straight, almost rigid at his sides. “We must be done with excuses, if we also wish to be done with lies. That is the nature of accountability, of truly repudiating sins. Repentance for them cannot be complete—or convincing—any other way.”
The Lutheran nodded. “I thank you for clarifying this matter, Cardinal Mazzare—and for doing so with the same frankness that your words ask us all to adopt. ‘The way through the door of this new hope, this new ecumenical moment, is on our knees.’ That is well said.”
Larry smiled. “I wish I had said it, but I owe it to a priest named Yves Congar. In many ways, he was the architect of Vatican Two. It was he who gave that ecumenical gathering, and hopefully this one, its axiomatic image for action: ‘The way through the door of unity is on our knees.’ Prayer made in that spirit of humility is the kind that can change our innermost hearts, and if we are to save lives from further religious strife and walk in grace with God, then it is our innermost hearts that need to be changed.”
Johann Gerhard cocked his head sideways and smiled as he sat. “For a ‘basic country priest,’ you are most peculiarly eloquent, Cardinal Mazzare.”
Larry shook his head as he gathered his cassock to sit—and as his bottom hit his hard wooden chair, Urban was already back on his feet, making a gesture toward the closest entrance. Servants appeared, bringing in the first course of what Larry knew would be a rather elaborate lunch. “Now, let us break bread together, in the hope that, when next we meet, we may say that we are doing so as true brothers in faith.” He sat.
Larry leaned over. “If you plan on giving those Swiss fellows your approval and a benediction, you won’t get past the first course.”
“I won’t even get that far. Nor will you or the others who must attend me.”
Larry stopped, his mouth half full of a salted roll. “Me? Others?”
Urban shrugged. “How could it be otherwise? Vitelleschi will insist on coming. That means von Spee, too. I’ll need a secretary to record and duly post the Swiss fellows’ entry into papal service, so that means my nephew Antonio. And any time I go someplace inside this palace, two of our three paladins—today, that would be Achille and Giancarlo—will surely follow, spoiling for a fight which no one will give them. By the love of Our Savior, they have already left this chamber.”
“To go look for a fight?”
“No: to change back into their martial gear. They are about as priestlike as a pair of prowling tigers.”
Larry waited. “And why do I have to tag along?”
Urban turned and smiled. “Because, my good friend, it is you who shall keep me sane in the midst of this improbable circus.”
Larry finished his roll and speculated that, all other things being equal, Urban was probably right: that’s just what he would focus on doing.
Now, as always.
Chapter 36
As Sharon passed the Palais Granvelle, she shot an annoyed glance at its double doors.
Finan must have seen it. “Wantin’ to be in there today, Ambassador?”
“In there? Go—osh, no,” Sharon said awkwardly, just barely managing to turn her originally intended “God, no” into something acceptable to Finan’s devout Irish ears. As time went on, she had been informed how just about everything from the commonplace (and obvious) “jeez” to the archaic and obscure “zounds” ultimately traced their etymological roots back to a phrase that took the Lord’s name in vain.
Finan’s eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up at
the right corner. “Not feeling a wee bit left out of the great proceedings?”
Sharon laughed. “Finan, I am so happy to be spared all that formal talk about the why’s and wherefore’s of ecumenical progress that I could dance right here in the street.”
Finan’s eyes never left her face. “So why aren’t yeh, then?”
Sharon straightened her neck histrionically, sniffed slightly. “It’s beneath my dignity.”
Finan chortled. “’Scuse my laughing, ma’am.” His smile dimmed a bit. “It’s the radio, isn’t it?”
Sharon felt her brow lower. “You’re dam—darned right it is.” Another close call on the profanities front. “Hastings had no business going behind my back and getting Ru—Colonel Sanchez to release it back to his unit.”
Finan said nothing, perhaps because they were walking past a Hibernian checkpoint at that moment.
Sharon looked over at him. “You don’t agree with me?”
Finan glanced away. “Hardly my place to say, ma’am.”
“Unless I’m asking you. And I am, Finan. I trust you. And your judgment.”
Finan stopped in the shadow of St. Peter’s. “The fair truth of it is that there’s something to be said for either side o’ the coin. Having the portable radio made sure to put you where you were most needed, ma’am, and there’s much to be said for that. On t’other hand, Hastings has a point when he says that the cutthroats we set sideways yesterday were ready to go, there bein’ so little in their flat. So if there’s more of ’em set to strike, they won’t be long in coming out to play. Which means we want every radio in a bell tower, to send the word when they show themselves to our observers.”
Sharon frowned, mostly because she had to agree with Finan: there was merit to both sides of the debate. And, truth be told, probably more merit to Hastings’. Whatever might or might not happen in the days to come, it was unlikely that there was anything to be gained by having Sharon Nichols roving around the streets of Besançon, hoping to be in the right place at the right time to see something suspicious. The accumulated leads and clues had either paid out or died out, like Lamy’s killing. Everybody agreed that it remained suspicious, much in the same way that everyone agreed that there was still an enemy agent at large: the one who had killed de Requesens, the stonemason, and the guy who slipped out the window during the firefight. But even though the latter crimes were clearly connected with a plot to kill Urban, that did not mean there was anything to be done about them. In each case, what few uncertain leads they had ultimately led to nothing. So until and unless a new lead came to their attention, any further investigation was at a standstill.
All of which meant that Hastings was, regrettably, right: the radio that had been put at her disposal was no longer serving a crucial function. She was no longer notifying security and other staff of the arrivals of various dignitaries as they entered the city, nor was it needed to facilitate her timely contribution to various murder investigations. It was needed to put another observer—and sniper—in yet another overwatch position, thereby increasing the degree to which they could cover all the approaches to the Palais Granvelle.
Sharon resumed walking. “Are the radio logs we found in the flat decoded yet?”
Finan, short legs stretching to keep up with her longer ones, shook his head. “No. Your radio expert, Odo, is the only one who can do that work quickly, and he only got them after dinner last night. He says the codes have a nasty rub he hasn’t tinkered with before. It’s something he called a trapdoor cipher. It’s not in the code books themselves, either. And this trapdoor seems to be opened by something small in each transmission. So, as best I conned what he was saying, he has to find the bit that is triggering the trapdoor before he can decode the messages.” Finan frowned. “At least, I think that’s what he was telling me.” He swerved to follow Sharon as she began to cross the street. “Er…where would we be off to, ma’am?”
“We’re going to pay a visit to Prioress Thérèse.”
Finan looked wide-eyed at the door of the Carmelite convent, only ten yards away. “Shall I be waiting outside, then, Ambassador?”
“Outside? Nonsense: they have a room or two where they may receive lay men or women.”
Finan looked relieved. “And if I may make so bold to ask, what’s the purpose of your visit, ma’am?”
Sharon slowed as she approached the door. “To get a little more information.” And, if I’m being honest with myself, to see if Ruy and Owen might have missed anything that could become new leads into the murder of Baudet Lamy, and the disappearance of the mute stonemason who worked for Parsifal Funker. It was a slim chance, but then again the conversations to date had always been between the prioress and two senior military officers. Or, more pertinently, between two frank and inquisitive men and one woman who, it seemed, had reasons to be less than forthcoming in order to protect the reputation of her house and its past or present nuns. Sharon had wondered if she might have disclosed more to another woman, speaking one to one. Particularly since that conversation would have been framed by an implicit understanding between them: of the difficulties and even dangers involved with being a female leader in a world not merely dominated by, but designed according to the will of, men.
Sharon drew up before the door and raised her hand to knock upon its heavy timbers. Even the best and most caring of men—such as her Ruy—forgot that every nun remained a woman, too, and that there might be things a woman would confide in another woman that she would never reveal to a man. So, rather than make a direct inquiry, I’ll just start chatting and, before long, we—
The furious barking of dogs made Sharon start. The canine uproar was coming from behind the door of the two-story building that shared a common wall with the priory: a dilapidated flophouse. The baying of the dogs was punctuated by a few earnest snarls.
Finan put his hand to his holstered pistol. “What the divil—?”
The door to the flophouse flew open and, barking become whining yelps, two comically small dogs raced out, the proprietor of the place driving them with kicks and curses. “Chiens idiots! Shut up or I will kick your balls over your ears!” He came to a sudden halt when he noticed Sharon standing not ten feet away from him. “Pardon, madame! I apologize for my language, but these mongrels”—which even now were sidling back toward the door, eager to get inside—“are uncontrollable. And insane!”
Finan raised an eyebrow as the two dogs padded softly behind the proprietor and back into the house. “I’ve had a few pups in my time, monsieur, and I’m thinkin’ they’re soundin’ more than narky. They’re ready to set-to and draw blood. What set ’em off?”
“I cannot be sure,” said the fellow, not meeting Finan’s gaze.
Sharon stepped forward. “Oh? Maybe we should come in and have a look.”
Finan glanced at her. “Now, madame, I’m not sure a pair of dogs are worth yer time—”
“Oui! Vraiment!” the landlord exclaimed too quickly, too emphatically. “I will settle them quickly enough with my boot!”
As if disputing the likelihood of such an outcome, the two dogs began baying again. There were more snarls than before.
Sharon frowned at the hint of an echo behind each howl. “Where are they? In your cellar?” Without waiting for an answer, she pushed past the landlord.
Who commenced wringing his hands. “Madame! This matter is beneath your dignity! It is but a few mangy beasts gone mad.” His tone took on a theatrical tone of urgency as he followed her inside. “Mad…yes, mad! They could be dangerous, madame! You must not go down—”
Sharon was already ducking her head to follow the narrow staircase—if one could really call it that. The risers were more packed dirt than cobbles, now, and so worn and sloped that they were beginning to resemble a descending set of ridges. “Finan, we need your light down here. Hush, hush!” she shouted at the dogs. When that had no effect, she put a hand on one considerable hip and raised her voice—and she had quite a voice, in which she took n
o small amount of pride. “Shut your fool mouths this instant!”
The dogs cowered, whined, eyes rolling up toward her in the dim light, ears drooping in the classic position of canine contrition. One of them began pawing, then scratching at the crude door at the base of the stairs.
Sharon turned toward the landlord who had hastened down behind her, imploring hands reaching out toward, but not daring to touch, her. She fixed him with the same unblinking stare she had used on the dogs. “What’s going on here?”
The fellow sat down heavily on the stairs, looked like he might cry. “Madame—Ambassador—please: I am not a wealthy man. This building is all I have in the world. If people learn, I will be ruined. They will—”
Sharon waved a hand to push his entreaties into silence. “If people learn what?”
“Rats,” he groaned in response. “I can hear them behind the door. And if the tenants learn of this—”
“Stop.” Sharon made her voice loud, dispassionate. The man stopped, looked up at her. “If you have rats in the cellar, why not just open the door and let the dogs in? Looks like that’s what they’re bred for.”
“I would if I could, madame, but the door is jammed. I think the lock is broken.”
Finan had edged past them and held the light higher to inspect the keyhole. “Not broken, exactly. Looks like the key snapped off in the lock. And hello; hold on”—he leaned closer, squinting—“not just broken.” He straightened and met Sharon’s gaze soberly. “There’s another piece wedged in beside the tip of the key. Pushed over sideways, too. Jammed the mechanism.”