The Cardinal's Man

by M. G. Sinclair

  Undeterred, he next tried cobbling and tailoring, only to find his misshapen hands too clumsy for needles or nails. And after equally unsuccessful attempts at smithing and carpentry, it soon it became apparent that ambition could not always make a substitute for size. Journeys lasted longer, loads were heavier and bulkier, tools were cumbersome, carts were higher, tables out of reach – every object seemingly designed to frustrate and impede, making even simple tasks a challenge.

  Consequently, Sebastian was only fit for occasional work, such as scattering grain or picking berries. Instead he spent most of his days alone in the house, observing his brothers become ever more remote as they joined the world above. Every evening they would come home and recount the day’s events, each time a little more foreign. And each time he would sense himself becoming a little more removed, the world around continuing to rise as he remained submerged below – a barrier that lifted ever higher, obscuring him from view and forcing him to bellow to be noticed. His brothers were still polite, of course, but Sebastian found no comfort in that. And when they spoke to him, he could see the pity in their faces as they looked down, grimaces twisting their otherwise perfect features. They were listening to him out of duty, nothing more, and he would play along, wanting to be part of things, while always being aware of the distance between them. They shared the same surname, nothing more.

  * * *

  Now completely alone, Sebastian was confronted by his own insignificance, a life that seemed to grow smaller with every passing year. In desperation he took to sitting beneath the solitary cleft yew that marked the end of the village. Bent double by the wind, it provided some shelter from the elements, deep-rooted and ancient enough to draw life from the stone and the grit. A thin crust of salt had accumulated in the ridges of its bark and the various initials graffitied around its trunk. There he would wait in hope of a rich passer-by who might spot his potential, or a merchant in need of an apprentice. But it soon became apparent that he lived in a village that was close to nowhere of significance, too parochial to interest anyone rich or powerful, too small even for a market or church. The only people he ever saw were farmers, most of whom reacted with either laughter or abuse, though he did manage to talk a few of them into taking him to nearby towns, on the condition that he agreed to help unload the cart and not cause any trouble.

  In the first week he travelled to Créances and Lessay; a fortnight later, Geffosses; and soon after Anneville-sur-Mer. Over the next few months, he managed to visit everywhere of any interest within a twenty-mile radius, a few twice or three times. Despite his initial enthusiasm, it became dispiriting as the weeks passed by. Each village or town seemed no different to his own. The people’s reaction was always the same: curious, they would point and mock, and every enquiry for employment would be met by polite refusal or rank contempt. And no matter how far he went or whom he spoke to, he always seemed to find himself back in the same place, sat under the same time-riddled tree, staring at the same muddy track and sodden fields.

  Alone with his thoughts, Sebastian began to question his existence. He had no work, no friends, and no hope of change. And every day it became harder to withstand the jeers of passers-by. The truth was that they were right. He was no more than half a man, an insult to God and a mockery of nature.

  Until one day the inevitable. After a particularly miserable day of intermittent rejection and abuse, Sebastian simply stood up and began the slow plod down the road in front of him, determined never to come back. Following it mindlessly, he walked like a wind-up doll running down the last of its spring, each step barely carrying to the next. Nevertheless, he jolted forward, staring at the horizon as the bare ground gave way to trees and fields, the wind at his back fading as he travelled inland. Afternoon became dusk and dusk became night until, unable to ignore his growing thirst, he was distracted by the glitter of a nearby lake.

  After scrambling down the bank, he drank his fill, then stood up, sated. Looking down at the dark water, he could see his reflection staring back. Wavering in the ripples, it seemed more a child’s drawing than a real person – a ridiculous creature, short-backed and barrel-chested with too many teeth for its mouth and no jaw to speak of. It appeared perplexed, unable to comprehend what it was, neither man nor animal but something in between, something not meant to live. He could feel the image pulling him towards it and sensed his weight pitching forwards. For a moment he remained on the brink, in perfect equilibrium, weightless. And then the lake enveloped him.

  Barely thawed from winter, the water froze him on contact, his muscles drawing tight and expelling the air from his lungs. He clenched himself tight into a ball as the pain subsided from a bite to an ache. Then slow descent and thickening darkness until he reached the soft, cloying mud of lake-bottom. Prone in the silence, he choked back the urge to breathe and waited out the black and the cold. The gloom began to redden and he could sense blood; first a metallic taste at the back of his throat, but soon everywhere, throbbing in his nose and eyes, his ears beating to the ragged thump of his accelerating heart as the need for air became desperate and overpowering. His body began to rattle as he entered the final spasms and he could feel himself losing consciousness, the red deepening as the mud sucked him down. At that moment he knew he was going to die. Fear took hold. Suddenly death didn’t seem comforting, instead painful and lonely. He wanted to live and not knowing up from down, he kicked wildly, sucking at empty lungs. Everything was slewing in different directions and his legs had become limp, as if already dead. The blackness began to pulsate, followed by a stab behind his eyeballs, unbearable, as though his head was about to crack open. Certain it was the end, he managed a final thrust for escape.

  Abruptly the silence broke and Sebastian felt the chill of the world on his face then sucked in a backward scream of air. He continued to paddle and catch his breath before recovering enough to make his way to the rushes and haul himself onto the bank where he lay, too exhausted to care whether he was alive or not.

  * * *

  Arriving home, near blue with cold, Sebastian was confronted by his mother. As she caught sight of him, a look of horror crossed her features and for a moment he couldn’t recognise her. Then her everyday face returned and she rushed him inside. After stripping and drying him, she wrapped him in a blanket then laid him by the fire with a caudle of wine, eggs and honey. She barely spoke the whole while, but he could see she was in fragments, and all night he lay awake, terrified at what the morning would bring.

  He expected rage, tears and tantrums but it turned out to be nothing of the sort. In truth she had no idea what to do and simply responded in the manner of any other church-going, law-abiding woman of her time. She marched him straight to the local priest.

  The church was in the next village, a mile-and-a-half by foot, but the whole way she didn’t slow her pace or turn her head, except to occasionally check Sebastian was still behind her. He shambled along in tow, struggling to keep up. Forced into a jog, he made a ludicrous sight: a collection of mismatched pieces loosely sewn together and trying to move as one. But he said nothing, aware that any complaint would be met by a sharper reply.

  * * *

  Before Sebastian’s mother appeared, Père Jean was cogitating as he lazed in a quilted armchair overlooking the sun-dappled greens and greys of the churchyard. It had taken twenty years’ hard work to gain the respect of both bishop and flock. Now was the time to enjoy what he had earned. Having already written his sermon, he was debating with himself which reading best complemented his theme of love: Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians or Luke, chapter VI. Eventually deciding on Corinthians, he was about to pay a visit to the abbey for a glass of calvados when she arrived, her eyes wide with animal panic. Realising it would not be a short visit, he pursed a smile before welcoming her inside. Then, after the briefest of thank yous, she emptied herself in a torrent of words, begging him to look after her son, to take him on as a student and help him make something of himself.

  P
ère Jean had no intention of educating Sebastian. Aside from his deformity, the boy was a peasant and doubtless a halfwit too. All he wanted was to silence the woman and get her out of his vestry. His plan was simply to glance at the child, pronounce him too old, then buy her off with a few sous, while of course offering to pray on his behalf. However, looking down at the misshapen creature, he found it staring directly back at him. It seemed to have registered the importance of the situation and its eyes glittered, hard and unsettling. The pupils were varnish-black and he could sense himself in their reflection, smiling uneasily. Below, its mouth was crinkled in disgust and he had the feeling it knew exactly what he was planning to do. Embarrassed, he opened his lips to speak but the words were so inadequate and hypocritical that he couldn’t bring himself to say them. Besides, the child appeared intelligent, or at least extremely resilient – either way the making of an interesting mind. On top of which, perhaps the woman was right. He was the boy’s last hope, and he did seem to have potential, however raw.

  It wouldn’t be difficult adding him to the class. He had taken a new group of pupils only three months before. All he needed to do was keep the child well out of sight. Textbooks he could provide, and the boy could complete his exercises once the lesson was over. The only extra work would be a few minutes’ marking each week. So, with a stiff nod to both mother and Sebastian, Père Jean invited him to return at ten o’clock the following day.

  * * *

  The church was a small Norman affair with a square tower of rough-hewn, grey stone. Classes took place between ten and three each day, with the exception of the Sabbath. Due to his low birth and general appearance, Sebastian was required to sit behind a curtain and remain invisible throughout, never speaking or moving when others were present. Instead he would observe proceedings through the slit between the material and the wall, asking questions during the few minutes after each lesson, once the other boys had left. He didn’t mind. For the first time in his life, his size was irrelevant. Instead all that mattered was his memory, spelling and diction – and he approached his studies with the deranged enthusiasm of an infant, repeating each lesson like a mantra, trying to remember everything he could.

  Despite starting behind the rest of the class, he accelerated past them within the year. It wasn’t hard. He shared none of their distractions: no friends or toys or pets to amuse himself with. Besides, he was fascinated to finally be able to put a name to things, to tell a coot from a moorhen at a glance, or see a leaf and instantly know which tree it came from. Within eighteen months, he had learned enough to read and write basic Latin, and within two years he was proficient, even when presented with the demotic. After that, intent on taking his vows, he began to work his way through the ecclesiastical texts from Augustine and Jerome to Anselm and Aquinas. He found inspiration in their stories, most of all Augustine’s, of people overcoming adversity and finding strength in their faith. In idler moments, he even dreamed of joining their ranks as a doctor of the Church.

  Père Jean assisted as he could, letting him take home old pamphlets and circulars to read, though it was all the same fare – the rise of Cardinal Richelieu to principal minister and the alliance of the perfidious English with the Huguenots at La Rochelle. And the day his mother presented him with a copy of Gargantua and Pantagruel by Rabelais, he knew it could only be Père Jean’s suggestion. The paper was cheap and without illustrations, but knowing the sacrifice she made to buy it, and despite being given far more expensive gifts in later life, he always treasured it above all his other possessions. Years later he could still quote large sections by heart, which he would often recite in times of distress.

  * * *

  The students were granted one break from their studies each day, at lunchtime when they were permitted a meal and half an hour to release their energy in the churchyard. Most often they went tousling for birds or else played tag amongst the gravestones. Consequently, they didn’t pay a great deal of attention to their surroundings and some days passed before they became aware of the small figure observing them from a nearby stump. To begin with they assumed it was one of the local boys, come to eat his lunch or simply curious, perhaps. It was only later, during a game of hide and seek, that one of them came rushing back, reporting that it wasn’t a boy but a goblin. Naturally the others mocked him, telling him such things belonged to fairy tales, but he would not be dissuaded. So another pupil was despatched to prove him wrong, only to come back swearing that if it wasn’t a goblin, then it was certainly the strangest child he had seen in his life. The figure now became a source of immense interest, doubly so when it was spotted hiding behind a curtain during one of their classes. Intrigued, they developed theories – that it was Père Jean’s secret love child or some form of homunculus or even a changeling, switched at birth.

  Nevertheless, it was a full two weeks before they dared make their approach. Whatever it was, the creature kept out of sight for a reason, and none of them were keen to find it out. However, curiosity eventually got the better of them and lots were drawn. The loser – a gangly and pockmarked boy by the name of Olivier – was sent to speak to the creature and discover what he could. Forced onward by the eyes at his back, he advanced slowly towards where it was watching him, crouched on its usual stump. As he drew closer, he hoped it might become alarmed and flee. However, it seemed unconcerned by his presence and inspected him thoroughly, all the while consuming an apple with an oversized hand.

  Up close, it was a strange beast, inspiring more pity than fear. Not so much one body as two fused together. The head, hands and chest seemed of normal size, while the back, arms and legs were those of an infant. Its face seemed perfectly normal, albeit small-chinned, and was looking at him with a curious squint.

  ‘Do you speak?’ He pronounced the words slowly and distinctly to ensure it could comprehend.

  The creature appeared confused by the question.

  ‘Of course I do,’ it replied in flawless French.

  ‘Sorry for asking. It’s just that I didn’t know if you were one of . . . you know . . . them.’

  The query seemed simple enough, but again gave the creature considerable pause for thought, and it took a final bite of its apple before tossing it aside. ‘I don’t know what you mean by them.’

  ‘You know . . . one of the forest folk.’ It seemed a kinder word than goblin.

  The creature sighed with an air that implied it was not the first time it had been asked this question. ‘I’m studying to be a priest. Just like you.’

  ‘But you’re a . . .’ The sentence trailed off. He didn’t have to finish it. It wasn’t just height that separated them. The dwarf, and it clearly was a dwarf, was dressed in peasant clothes, a hooded jerkin of coarse cloth – patched on the elbows and knees – his hair as unkempt as broken thatch.

  ‘Serf?’

  ‘I meant to say you’re a commoner.’ Olivier realised this didn’t sound a great deal better and hastily redirected the conversation. ‘My friend was wondering if he might touch your hump.’

  ‘What? He thinks it’ll bring him luck?’ The dwarf snorted contempt.

  Olivier looked at the ground, unsure of what to say. Every word that fell from his mouth seemed to cause offence. Better to keep silent. Observing his unease, the dwarf appeared to warm to him, venturing a smile.

  ‘Very well then. But don’t expect much. If it’s good fortune he wants, I’d advise he try elsewhere.’

  After being introduced to Olivier’s peers, Sebastian was soon allowed to join in their games – principally interminable rounds of tag and pig-in-the-middle, during which he proved to be both a terrible runner and near unable to catch a ball. Consequently, he resorted to all manner of ruses and deceits – most often distracting his rivals or else losing apparent interest in the game before making a dash the moment his opponent’s back was turned. It made for entertaining company and they came to be acquaintances of sorts. He learned their names: Julien de Monville, Charles de Rigal, Olivier Letournier,
Alain Veuville. Over time they even came to entrust him with their secrets, above all Olivier, who suffered a dreadful fear of a life of celibacy, and Julien, who was consumed by his desire to become pope. He couldn’t help noticing how at ease they were in his company, perhaps even more than with their own friends, and how his appearance – for all its drawbacks – made them lower their guard. Slowly the class came to seem a less solitary place and often one of his fellow students would notice him behind the curtain and they would acknowledge each other with a smile or nod of the head. Not, of course, that there was ever any suggestion that he might join them.

  * * *

  It had never occurred to Sebastian that he wouldn’t take his vows. All the boys entered a seminary upon completing their studies. The only difference was the vocation: most became pastors, some monks, a few Jesuits. Every summer, the eldest class would be called on by God, each member receiving a sign from the Almighty, an exhortation to serve His will. Drawn to the silence and seclusion, Sebastian desperately wanted to be a monk, safe from the intrusive eyes of the outside world. Determined to make up for lost time, he finished the required texts and then kept on reading. Rather than going home, he would often sit in a corner of the nave and study, forgetting himself in the empty space as he watched the stained-glass splinter across the floor and inhaled the incense, its smell an old world perfume – a musty spice redolent of Etruscans and Phoenicians, of trading ships and faraway places. Only with the coming of dusk would he remember the time, as he saw the shadows arch across the floor and the candles pricking out of the gloom like the first evening stars. Then, stowing away his books and pen, he would put on his cloak and cross himself at the door before making the two-mile walk back to Camoches and a plate of cold crab.