Tales from the Vatican Vaults: 28 extraordinary stories by Kristine Kathryn Rusch, Garry Kilworth, Mary Gentle, KJ Parker, Storm Constantine and many more

by David V. Barrett

  The Beguines (mentioned in this account) were self-governing communities of women who, unlike nuns of the time, did not live apart from the world but lived and worked in towns, caring for the sick and working as craftswomen. The Beghards were their male equivalent. Many of them held heterodox beliefs; some of them were linked to the Brethren of the Free Spirit, who believed that all would be saved, that Hell was not real, that the Sacraments were worthless, and the radical antinomian belief that as they were filled with the Spirit, all actions were not just permitted but sanctified.

  All these, and other groups, met with strong opposition from the Church.

  This account, found in the Vaults, was written by an old woman named Seraphine Duplexis. She was a member of a heterodox movement, Homines Intelligentiae or the Men of Understanding, who shared similar beliefs to the Brethren of the Free Spirit. From her own testimony she also aided and abetted uprisings of workers and artisans in the late fourteenth century, then migrated to Bohemia to take part in the Hussite troubles with other members of her sect.

  But if Seraphine’s account is to be believed – and the Church was concerned enough to suppress it – she and her group may also have developed ideas way beyond heterodox interpretations of Christianity.

  Bells of the Harelle

  Rosanne Rabinowitz

  When King Charles’s troops entered Rouen to put down the rebellion, the Harelle, the first thing they did was strip tongues from the city’s bells. I listened as they did it, hidden in the belfry tower with my two lovers, Christophe and Adrian.

  The troops entered the building. They were heading straight to the top, to the bells. To us.

  Christophe put his finger to his lips and pointed to the wall and the faint outline of a door. He opened it; the three of us squeezed in among the pots of polish and cleaning fluids. Their scent went to my head and filled my lungs. Perhaps it had an intoxicating effect like liquor, and influenced Christophe’s later behaviour.

  I was sure the soldiers would open the door and find us. But they passed by many times. I saw shadows moving in the crack below the door and the floor, the soles of soldiers’ boots.

  A creak of something heavy being moved . . . ascending steps, up to the bells themselves. Much cursing came from above, a clanging and wrenching. A great cheer and round of applause.

  Slow steps coming down, a heavy object hit the floor. ‘We will melt this down and make the damned rebels drink it, as they did in Aragon.’

  ‘The only good idea to come from the Spanish!’

  We crouched there, well after the last soldierly steps and a slam of the door.

  Finally, we emerged from our hidey-hole. Shading our eyes from the winter sun funnelling down from the belfry, we saw that the bells were still there. But the soldiers had taken away the tongues.

  ‘Damn!’ Christophe clenched his fists, trembling. ‘They take the voice from our city, steal the voice from the people. Damn them! I will ring those bells anyway.’

  He went to the bell ropes. ‘We have no tongues, but we still have a voice!’

  Do we? I wondered.

  But Christophe had no doubt. He pulled on the ropes and the bells swung, with only a creaking. But something rang out. A vibration started in my core, and set off a ringing in my ears. It was a protest, a lamentation, a cry of warning and defiance. The silent but powerful noise shouted out our hopes, the delirium and joy and the fear of the past days.

  Adrian and I went to help, pulling on the ropes with Christophe, lending our combined strength and fervour to his efforts.

  When we stopped ringing the tongueless bells, the three of us embraced.

  I decided then I will always raise my voice and write things down so people will know about them. I will never be like a bell without a tongue.

  *

  That is why I’ve been writing these accounts and I continue to write them, here in Bohemia. I am now in bed, doing my best to wake up, with the help of Hans and Josef and Jehanne . . . fine young people who would help an old woman and listen to her stories.

  Did I dream of those blasted bells again? I must have dreamed of Christophe’s wild carillons, or Adrian’s account of a cloth workers’ meeting where they plotted to put the world to rights.

  Josef gives me a piece of bread. I nibble at it.

  Meanwhile, my young friends look at me with some expectation, so I feel I should make a point.

  I hold up the bread. ‘This is sustenance for the body! This is not a symbol consecrated by a priest to become the body of a man who is long dead. This bread sustains the physical body that we celebrate life with.’ I return to the subject that has set Prague alight for a good few years. ‘Communion of both kinds . . . pah! We seek communion of all kinds!’

  ‘Seraphine, you must eat before you preach,’ says Hans, speaking to me in Flemish. The son of a Flemish bricklayer who built some of Prague’s great structures, he knows how I prefer the sounds of French or Flemish in the morning.

  ‘And you should have a drink,’ he adds, ‘Someone’s gone to get water.’

  ‘Water? Who knows what’s been swimming in the water here! Someone get beer from Vaclav. That should be clean. Would do me good too.’

  ‘You want to hear some preaching,’ Hans says. ‘Go to Our Lady of the Snows and listen to Zelivsky. They’ll be marching from there for the prisoners.’

  Processions have been forbidden in Prague, but people continue to defy the ban.

  ‘I don’t like that man Zelivsky.’ I tear off another chunk of bread and offer the rest. ‘He wants power as much as any petty inquisitor, and there are enough fools who will give it to him. But take me to the Snows. If there’s trouble, that’s where I’ll go.’

  My strength tends to wax and wane. In the mornings I find it hard to move. But once the day gets underway, I revive. What I feel in mind is not always what I feel in body, but on such days I can certainly progress at a good clip with my cane.

  We share more bread, but I’m finding it hard to eat. I’m on edge. In Prague heretics preach from pulpits, market squares and taverns. Processions and clashes in the street happen daily. Is today any different?

  Why were the bells of the Harelle ringing in my dreams? Do I hear their echo now?

  ‘Let’s go,’ I urge, as I get out of bed.

  *

  So I won’t be a bell without a tongue. But I must also remember that the bells that Christophe rang were the voice of a commune. Therefore, I don’t only write for myself. I must relate the dreams of those who shouldn’t be silenced . . . A young man suggesting that our universe started with an explosion, who disappeared forever. Young women trying to make lives for themselves without husbands. Artisans and paupers calling for the end of a tax and an end to oppression.

  And what of those sensual and far-working bonds that form between us, extending over distances? That is still a mystery to me.

  *

  When I was a young woman towards the end of the last century, the uprisings of cloth workers broke out in Ghent. The rebellion spread to other cities in Flanders. My family, French woollen merchants, naturally viewed these events with alarm.

  But I only wanted to find out more. Fortunately, my old nurse had taught me Flemish when I was growing up, along with empathy for those whose lives were different from mine. She came to visit and told me that the people rioted over taxes, tithes and poor wages.

  Despite my comfortable background, I sympathised with those on the streets. I was unhappy, and their agitation seemed to address a cause of my own discontent. I’d been sold off in marriage to an older man, a nobleman with not much left but his title. My father could offer a tidy dowry. So it was a marriage made in heaven, or hell as far as I was concerned.

  My husband was not overtly cruel. He didn’t beat me. But he was indifferent, and grumbled when I couldn’t give him a child. He never let me forget that he owned me. His idea of pleasure in the bed was a quick thrust and grunt and then he rolled over. I submitted.

  I was
sure he had mistresses or visited prostitutes, yet he insisted on this ordeal for reasons of procreation.

  In my mind, I went elsewhere. A boat trip with my nurse along the canals where trees arched overhead, letting loose flowers that spotted my cloak with pink and white. A hidden garden, the comforting trickle of a fountain.

  *

  During the troubles of 1381 I was told not to go out on my own. Instead, I should send a servant out to conduct my business.

  I couldn’t take this confinement for long. Finally, I put on my plainest garments and snuck out. When I heard the noise of an angry procession, I went straight there. I was scared, though. Maybe I’d be spotted as one of the enemy, a pampered rich brat, and set upon immediately. I’d heard many times that the ‘Jakes’ and the ‘merdaille’ were wild beasts who would attack a well-bred lady.

  But no one paid any attention to me. They had other things on their minds.

  Standing on a crate was a hunched, thin man who appeared blind in one eye. He must have been more than sixty. He spoke in Flemish about unfair laws, burdensome taxes and the impositions of privilege. He was, he declared, a weaver of cloth who could barely afford to clothe himself.

  ‘Perhaps next time I speak to you I will be naked, while the cloth I’ve woven will cover the backs of burghers, knights and lords.’

  Everyone laughed, but it was a bitter laughter. Though my own father was a merchant of cloth to those burghers and knights, this man spoke for me. His words were angry and sweet and made me see, for the first time, something much bigger than myself. I later learned this man was called Nicolas, and he was famed throughout Europe as an orator of the streets.

  Then another speaker mounted the improvised platform. He spoke in Flemish, and then in French. He was a patrician like myself, yet he also spoke of injustice and rebellion. Though he denounced the French king’s oppression of Flanders, he cautioned us to remember that people in the French towns were also restless, and shouted ‘vive Gand’ when they took to the streets. He bore the common English people no ill will either. ‘The poor of England have risen up, and we will do the same.’

  Again, his speech inspired the crowd. They responded with cheers and took their first steps towards the Town Hall. And I went with them.

  As we marched, I spoke with the second man. He seemed approachable because he’d spoken in French. And though he had the bearing of someone who came from comfort, he had already set out on the course I wanted to take.

  I just blurted out everything that was on my mind.

  ‘If you believe in justice, there are ways you can help,’ he said. He explained I could raise funds for the rebels. I could also communicate their goals to those who only speak French. And if I could read and write, I could work with an order of beguines to teach these skills to others.

  I nodded, taking the advice to heart, already planning my escape.

  *

  My husband quickly became angered by my new activities and associates. I argued with him constantly; I argued with the owners I came across, urging them to pay their workers more. Meanwhile, I stashed coins, notes, jewellery and anything I could sell once I struck out on my own.

  It didn’t take long before my husband petitioned for an annulment.

  Though I had little religious vocation, I joined a small group of beguines who devoted themselves more to worldly good deeds and less to holy devotions. Beguine houses were not tightly controlled by the Church or an order of monks. They were also open to women from humble backgrounds, who didn’t offer the dowries required by established religious orders.

  These sisters did foreswear marriage, but I was happy with that. I had no desire to marry again. They shared a small house in the city, supporting their work with spinning, tapestry production, needlework and scribing. I became a scribe, which I still do from time to time. It is a better trade than selling fish, which is what I did when I first came to Bohemia.

  *

  About a year later, we received news of agitation in Rouen. King Charles VI the Mad had levied a tax on staples, a gabelle, to finance his unending war. I volunteered to travel to Rouen to bring funds and support from Ghent, accompanied by a beguine who wanted to visit some sisters nearby.

  I arranged to meet with a cloth worker called Adrian in the market. He arrived with another young man, Christophe.

  Adrian had straight fair hair, Christophe had dark curly hair. Their eyes were the same deep brown and they appeared to be good friends. I met both pairs of brown eyes with a sense of recognition. The moment stopped, and everything in that market became almost too vivid. The scents of horse dung and roasting nuts, fish sizzling on grills, sweetened bread fried and dusted with sugar.

  And there was the noise . . .

  ‘Haro! Haro!’ The streets of Rouen rang with this cry, an appeal for help and a demand for justice.

  ‘Haro! We need more people to secure the Town Hall. Help!’

  ‘Haro! Seize the city’s gates and close them.’

  Christophe nodded at us both and hurried away.

  ‘Haro! We’ll end this tax. We work too hard, and eat too little.’

  The bells of the city’s commune began tolling. It was nothing like the measured sounds of an ordinary day, or the peels of the church bells. Its cadence called: Haro! Haro!

  Adrian pointed towards the bell tower. ‘That’s Christophe’s work!’ He beamed with a pride that warmed me too.

  More people poured into the city centre, answering the call.

  A man emerged from a draper’s shop to urge the crowd. ‘Destroy records of rents, lawsuits, debts and privileges! A good ripping or a few fires, and we’re free of those things!’

  All afternoon we rampaged through the streets, building bonfires of transactions and demands. We vented our fury on the churches, whose prelates lived in luxury while tithing the hard-pressed people.

  I was surfacing after a life spent half-asleep, awake at last. Haro, haro! I rubbed my eyes, as if ridding them of sleep’s last residue. Then without thinking, I reached for Adrian’s hand as we turned a corner.

  We found people breaking into the houses of nobles. Some emerged with arms full of food and drink, which they shared among the crowds. Adrian passed something to me that tasted of aniseed and clove.

  Faces glowed with the light of stained-glass saints as people ate forbidden cheese and fruit, even when their mouths were smeared with sauce and jam.

  I didn’t see anyone killed – the rage was vented against the property of our rulers, against the bonds made of parchment. There was smoke and flame, and laughter too, as we set them alight.

  *

  As night set in, Christophe left his bell-ringing post and rejoined us. We stepped into one of the noble houses, and heard the noise of revelry coming from the wine cellar. The owners had deserted the house in fear of the crowd.

  In the house where I grew up, we had a wine cellar like this.

  I went downstairs where people were sampling the delights. I held up a bottle, one of my husband’s favourite vintages. ‘This is excellent wine. Will you join me?’

  ‘Of course, Seraphine,’ said Christophe. ‘With a bottle of wine and a name like that, you must be an angel!’

  ‘Or perhaps a devil,’ added Adrian.

  ‘I am none of those things. I’m only me.’

  Fingers brushed as we passed the bottle. Shall we sit down?Yes, here’s a place. Thigh to thigh in an alcove, sweet grape fumes and damp earth.

  Since I left my husband, I’d been happy to spend time with female companions from the beguinage. Sometimes I admired suitable men from afar, but stayed aloof.

  But I didn’t feel aloof then. I liked both of these men, and they made it clear that they liked me. I didn’t consider choosing one over the other. They didn’t compete. To this day I still don’t understand quite how it happened. Invisible strings grew taut between us, pulling us closer into an inevitable embrace.

  I just couldn’t bear not to touch them, not to exchange breath wi
th them. Anything else was unthinkable. Ordinary worries and caution fled.

  We found a room upstairs. It was not overly ornate. But the carpets, the bed and the blankets had the feel and scent of comfort. Laughter rose up through the floorboards. Glass still shattered outside. People still called for help at their tasks, others shouted greetings and threats. Someone played a fiddle, raucous voices joined in an unfamiliar tune.

  ‘I’ve only been with my husband,’ I said suddenly.

  ‘And who is your husband?’ Adrian asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I decided. ‘We’re finished with all that.’ Finished with all that. I was thinking of much more than my marriage.

  Adrian’s lips tasted of aniseed, Christophe’s only of wine. Each touch showed me something new. I felt Adrian’s wonder as he learned to read, taught by a beguine. Christophe when he hummed during the lesson, and got sent outside.

  But the hum stayed with me, deepening as he stroked my back and I kissed Adrian again, searching for the flavours of more spice. I stretched out between my lovers, our thoughts and limbs entwining.

  If I closed my eyes, I saw colours. Adrian: midnight blue and dawn grey. Christophe: blazing yellow. Their colours filled me and I showed them a hidden garden where lilies floated in a fountain and the purple glimmer of violets drew me into dark corners. I invited them in with me.

  Later, we talked more. I didn’t question how we had shared thoughts. It was too new and strange. But I now welcomed the simplicity of talking, the vibration of a voice under my fingers.