by Patty Jansen
It was warm in here, with a fire blazing in the hearth.
“Take your coat off, sit down,” Shepherd Adrianus said.
He went to the cabinet against the wall and busied himself pouring tea. A moment later, he placed a cup in front of her, steam rising from the surface.
“It’s become a lot busier in the church,” Nellie began.
“Indeed.”
“Did anything happen that sent people running to the church?”
“Food is getting scarce and expensive. Many families have been hanging on, waiting for harvest to bring better times, but the countryside is unsafe and farmers don’t come to the markets from as far as they used to. Heaven knows rogues and bandits may have destroyed some small farming villages. There is not much food. The landlords are pushing up the rents and men are losing their jobs. It’s coming to a crunch at this time of the year. Likely, it will get worse in the next months.”
He was right about that, too.
“You’re running out of room in the church,” Nellie said.
“Yes, and there is not that much extra food you can bring.”
Nellie wasn’t even feeding a significant number of outcasts—some were in the poor house, some begged, some stole and others lived off the charity of others—but she understood their plight. As winter progressed, there would be more of these people and less food for them.
She said, “Bert was really getting into it today.”
He sighed. “I should tell that man to respect the church and to stop spreading untruths, but then he would sleep in the street, and I don’t want that either. But he is getting rather troublesome.”
“If he couldn’t stay in the church, he would steal things, because how else would he survive? He could beg, but few people have much to share.” In fact most of the poor peddlers had vanished from the streets because there was nowhere for them to work.
“We’ll just have to keep feeding them, because, no matter how far these people have strayed off the right path, they can always be brought back when we show them the goodness of our hearts. If there ever comes a time that we stop caring about our fellow human beings, that is truly the end of humanity.”
“You’re a good man,” Nellie said.
“We do the best we can,” the shepherd said.
Then he rose from his seat. “Do you want more tea?”
“I wouldn’t say no to that.” It had been cold in the church, even with the doors closed, and Nellie hadn’t realised how chilled she had felt. And although it had seemed so when she came in, it wasn’t actually very warm in this room at all.
The shepherd brought over the teapot.
The light from the hearth lit him side-on, highlighting all the unevenness in his skin. He was still young, but his face had turned much older in recent months.
It bothered him, Nellie knew, to have all these people in his church. She imagined that he didn’t like the children running around the altar, and he didn’t like the way the smell of poverty hung in the sacred space. He definitely didn’t like Bert making statements that amounted to sacrilege.
But the shepherd was a peaceful man. He never argued and never shouted.
The Holy Triune was good, and forgiving, and He did not turn people into beggars.
He poured and gave Nellie her cup. While he set the teapot back onto the tea light, she warmed her hands on the porcelain.
“Bert says some odd things,” Nellie began, because she needed to bring the conversation around to her father’s book and the dragon box, but it was as if the whole room and the shepherd’s demeanour screamed against her mentioning it.
“That, he does. He is full of strange tales; we all know that.”
“His stories have often turned out to be true.”
“Oh, there may be some truth in it, but a lot of what he says is dangerous speculation. It gives people ideas. They easily believe things and sometimes spread rumours just so they can get the attention of their neighbours and friends.”
Nellie took a deep breath. “I heard something else and was wondering if it’s true. I hope you don’t mind if I ask.”
“Asking is always good. It shows that you have the intelligence to think for yourself and not blindly follow the opinions of others. But if it’s about Bert’s statements, I wouldn’t be the best person to answer your questions. I am never up to date with the latest gossip.”
“It’s about the church.”
He raised his eyebrows.
Nellie took another deep breath. “And it’s about my visit to my father’s solicitor. He gave me a box that contained my father’s diary, and while I was looking through it, I found some disturbing comments.”
He folded his hands on the table as he often did when listening to her.
“My father said that at the time he worked for the church, the shepherd would buy secret artefacts and instruments of evil to research them. Is that true?”
The shepherd paused before replying. Nellie didn’t like that pause. Then he said, “I know the church has a large library that includes books one wouldn’t expect to be in a church. The Guentherite monks will send their brightest students to read those texts and see the evil within.”
“Have you read those books?”
“I have. I know you’re curious, but I have read them so that my congregation doesn’t have to.”
“What about other things that are not books?”
“There are some of those, too, but to be honest, most of them become worthless if you separate them from the belief that makes them evil. They serve as obscene reminders of what the human mind is capable of and excesses we have to stamp out.”
And, of course, this was the problem, because the church refused to acknowledge that magic existed.
“My father worried that some of those items would fall into the hands of those who wanted to do ill with them.”
“Oh, I understand, but your father was close to the Shepherd Wilfridus, and would not have grasped the reality that the items are inaccessible for most people. Even I would have to ask permission to go down in the locked section of the crypts and, to be honest, it’s a very musty and dark place, and not as interesting as it sounds.” He chuckled, but with little conviction. “Your father was a fantastic bookkeeper, but should have kept to keeping books.”
Nellie nodded. That sounded like her father. But the shepherd’s reply insinuated that her father hadn’t kept to keeping the books. “Just to make sure, there is no dragon?”
He gave her a sharp look. “A dragon?”
“My father said—”
“Your father didn’t know everything.” Wow, that reply came too quick.
“He said there was a box that contains a dragon. I’ve seen those boxes. The queen used to have one given to her by the eastern traders. Her magic was wood, so a tree grew in it when she opened it. My father said the church acquired a box with a dragon in it and people had been killed and parts of the crypts burned down while trying to open it.”
“I have never seen such a thing.” Much too quick.
“Did parts of the crypt burn down?”
“They did, but that was because of a neglected candle.”
“Did two church deacons almost get killed?”
“They did, but that was because they were reading in the next room. The only exit was past the fire. There were a lot of rumours concerning this event, because the deacons had been reading books they shouldn’t have, but between you and me, they were not the type of books that your father was thinking about.”
“Does the church have a little box, the size of my hand, with eight sides and a pretty lid?”
“I honestly don’t know. It might be in the crypt, but if it were important, I’d be aware of it. Why the concern about this box?”
“Because . . .” Nellie spread her hands. She didn’t know anymore. Because her father had thought it was important. Because he would never lie, and if he had seen a dragon box and knew the church had bought a dragon box, then there wa
s a dragon box.
But six years was a long time, and so much could have happened.
Maybe someone had taken the box and . . .
No, that thought didn’t fill her with hope either. She had much rather that the box was in the crypt. “Maybe it’s still there but people forgot about it.”
He smiled, weakly. “That could well be, and, honestly, I wouldn’t worry. There are a lot of things down there. And there are many who will tell any kind of lie to cover up their own misdeeds even if they concern mere acts of the flesh. Unfortunately, this does happen more often than I would like to admit. I’m much more inclined to believe that the two deacons in question were involved in an indecent act, knocked over an oil lamp and then blamed a dragon for the resulting fire.”
When he said it like this, yes, Nellie could definitely see how that could happen.
“I try my best to keep the church honest and its servants acting honourably, and to me, that is a greater priority than ancient relics that may or may not exist, and that, if they exist, have no power beyond the minds of the people who believe in that power. This is why it’s important not to repeat those rumours, because repeating gives them power. And many people want power over us. We in Saardam have a lot of things that the barons and kings of surrounding nations want. We have a vibrant port city that allows our merchants to access the low countries and the lands across the sea. We have a city that is free of those who seek to rule through evil magic. We have—only just—a Regent who fosters peace and is not embroiled in endless feuds with surrounding royal houses. We have the blessing of a peaceful Triune who respects all people and does not seek revenge. We are lucky. We’ve had bad times, but we are extremely lucky. Think of the poor people in Florisheim who have to bow to the Red Baron, the evil Baroness Viktoriya and her haughty daughter. They have no church to visit except the Belaman Church, where the priests wear gold-rimmed robes and demand that people donate a tenth of their meagre wealth in return for a blessing by someone drunk on the wine that the monasteries are forced to give to the church. If they protest against the rich and fat men in their opulent buildings, they may be whipped, or the church will send their magicians to mete out terrible punishment. Those poor people would love a church like ours, but the Triune cannot go where evil exists. The Belaman God is a vengeful god and does not approve of forgiveness. Their god holds the poor common people of those places in a powerful grip, and the more the Triune looks kindly upon them, and the more the people want to come to share our freedom, the harder the Belaman Church squeezes. Those people are locked inside the stone walls of their cities, because they are made to believe their church protects them, and are made to believe that evil men have evil magical relics that have the power to destroy. But who unleashes the fear of the ghosts that supposedly roam the countryside? The priests of the Belaman Church. Who punishes a wayward priest who fathers a child with an innocent maiden with such vengeance that the poor fallen priest murders the maiden, cuts the babe from her womb and hangs the head out to dry as ‘proof’ that evil magic made him do it?”
He now referred to the ruby-studded dried infant’s head that was the relic that had prompted the unrest—started by the girl’s peasant family—that had been the origin of the Church of the Triune.
“The Belaman Church priests are afraid of us, because we give the people hope, we give them a decent life, and we ask for nothing to enrich ourselves or the church.”
He sipped from his tea before continuing.
“Regent Bernard may not be the most-loved man, but he has a nose for how to run a country, and people will come around to appreciating him and his family. He is not an unkind man. He will be good for the city.”
“Does that mean he will finally be crowned king?” Nellie dreaded that day. The regent was not an evil man, but with his nightly banquets and his disregard for less fortunate people in the city, he was a long way from good.
“That’s not for me to say. Shepherd Wilfridus has several monks dedicated to finding the best course to take with that issue.”
When she asked previously, he had told her a complicated story about having to check the protocol to make sure that there was no other claimant to the throne. When King Roald was suddenly killed, and his successor Princess Celine died with him, a merry search had started for who had the most right to the throne.
“Is the delay because the church needs to check rumours that Prince Bruno is still alive?”
He chuckled. “These rumours have been around for a long time, and they’re just that: rumours. If he were still alive, he’d be fourteen by now, on his way to becoming a strapping young man. He would not keep quiet. And even if he were still alive, he is not the king’s son, so the church might not allow his claim on the throne anyway.”
But the people of the city might think differently. Although she wasn’t sure, because with his glossy dark hair and strange eyes, he was a foreigner.
“We live in a hard time,” Nellie said.
“We had it too good for too many years,” the shepherd said.
Nellie said no more. It was not up to her to question the shepherd’s judgement, for he was a man much wiser than her. She knew, however, that whenever there had been good times, it had been because the Triune had inspired people to make it so. It had never happened because people waited to be saved. She knew that after the Fire Wizard had destroyed the city, the Triune had inspired her Mistress Johanna to return with Prince Roald, who could not have done this by himself. Heavens no, he would have preferred to hide in the garden or a monastery.
She knew the Triune had inspired Mistress Johanna to accept the eastern traders and stave off attacks by the Red Baron because he feared their eastern magic and wanted to get his hands on their iron ships. She knew it had been the Triune who had inspired Mistress Johanna to make the deals with the surrounding rulers that the city became the hub of trade, and not contested by any of the surrounding nations.
The Triune inspired people. But the people did the things. And if there had been bad times in the city, it was because people were not doing things and not caring as much as they should. Maybe it was because they were not listening to the Triune.
But no, she didn’t think good times needed to be punished. People who strayed off the path caused bad times.
She sipped from her tea.
Well, this had been a most unsatisfactory discussion.
She was wondering how she could bring the discussion back to her father, but then came the sound of footsteps from outside, and someone came into the front door of the house without knocking.
The shepherd looked at the door. He did not look alarmed because he probably recognised the visitor.
He got up to put his empty cup away.
The Shepherd Wilfridus came in.
“Oh!” Nellie got up from her seat and gestured to it. “You sit here. I was just about to go.”
“Be at ease, child,” the Shepherd Wilfred said. “I’ve come for a chat with my friend. I’m not in the habit of chasing away faithful citizens.”
He met her eyes.
Shepherd Wilfridus was a man who seemed too tall and strong for his position. He was at least a head taller than Shepherd Adrianus and was wide in the shoulders as well as his waist. His hair had only recently started to go grey, and most, at least the part above his ears that formed a half circle around the bald top of his head—was still rust brown. He had to have southern blood because his eyes were brown.
The penetrating look in those eyes always made Nellie uncomfortable, as if he knew the inappropriate thoughts and the questions she had.
Speaking of questions—Shepherd Adrianus wouldn’t tell Shepherd Wilfridus what she had asked, would he? That would be too horrific for words.
Nellie rose, her legs trembling. “I was about to leave. I have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”
Shepherd Wilfridus gave her melancholy smile. “Yes, and you work very hard.”
He must have seen her serving at the Regent’s ba
nquets, because he often attended those feasts, where Nellie would rush up and down the stairs from the kitchen with dishes and plates and other items. It always disturbed her to see the shepherd at the main table with the Regent. She wished he wouldn’t come because those banquets put on by the Regent should not have church approval. Not while people in the city went hungry.
Nellie bowed to Shepherd Wilfridus and then Shepherd Adrianus, who stood by the hearth, his hands clasped before him, the knuckles white.
The silence in the room was thick as Nellie picked up her coat and her satchel with the box and the book from the stand near the door and left the room.
She was still in the dark hallway, doing up her coat, when the men started to talk. At first their voices were soft, but then Shepherd Adrianus burst out, “I don’t know! You’ve asked me this many times already. If I knew, or if anything had changed, I would tell you.”
Shepherd Wilfridus said something else that Nellie couldn’t hear.
“They are not thieves,” Shepherd Adrianus said. “If they were, they wouldn’t need to come to the church for help. Heaven knows, they might live in stately houses.”
Thud.
“You play with fire!” Shepherd Wilfridus said, his voice like a clap of thunder. “It’s like you fail to understand our delicate situation.”
“Oh, I understand it well enough, but these people are not thieves. They are poor, that’s true. They may smell, that’s also true. They may even have snatched an occasional apple from a market stall, but they have no interest or use for those items you are talking about. They wouldn’t even recognise their value. Go into the church and ask them yourself, and you will get the same answer I’m giving you: these people are poor, but they are not thieves.”
Nellie retreated from the door. The two men would probably come out soon, and she had no business being here, eavesdropping on the shepherd. And she hadn’t even found the courage to show the shepherd her father’s book.
Chapter 8
