“Tacit has begun his assessment,” He spoke the words like an obscenity.
“He has.”
“I heard that Adansoni questioned the decision to assess the Inquisitor.”
The venerable Cardinal turned his attention to Basquez, surprised at the Bishop’s line of conversation. “Cardinal Adansoni looks on Tacit like a son, although he denies it. He is bound to resist an assessment which might result in the imprisonment, even the death, of the Inquisitor.”
“Perhaps he has something to hide?” Basquez asked, his voice like the hiss of a serpent. The question surprised Cardinal Bishop Casado, watching the dark-haired man closely as he stepped away, leaning back and breathing deeply on the midday Vatican air. “I raise the question only as a matter of principle.” He looked back, an eyebrow raised. “If the student has been accused of falling, perhaps the master has as well?”
“What are you suggesting?” Casado replied incredulously. “Surely not that Cardinal Adansoni himself be assessed?”
“Absolutely not,” Basquez assured him, a cold smile coming to his face. “But there is always the Sodalitium Pianum?” His eyes narrowed.
Cardinal Bishop Casado knew of the Sodalitium Pianum well, a small group of agents, set up in recent years by Pope Pius X before his death and headed up by the unflinching Monsignor Benigni, working independently of the Inquisition to investigate rumours of early signs of heresy and combat the growth of Modernism within the Vatican’s own walls. Whilst less feared than the Inquisition, their name still brought consternation to the hearts of many.
“I know that Monsignor Benigni has been busy rooting out possible weakness and the beginnings of nonconformity within the Vatican,” Basquez continued, his tone now lighter, “passing any details on to the Inquisition. Perhaps he could be asked to scrutinise Adansoni’s affairs? Just gently, of course.”
Casado threw his eyes to the far end of the atrium, as if greatly troubled with the suggestion. His mind churned in rhythm with the flicker of his eyes darting blindly between the pillars of the square before him.
The Bishop raised a hand and inspected his nails, flicking his thumb absently against his fingers. “During these troubling times, as you call them, we should be doubly vigilant. Doubt leads to arrogance, arrogance to insubordination, insubordination to nonconformity, nonconformity leads to taking one’s actions into one’s own hands. Such as I hear they are doing in Paris with this Mass for Peace.” Basquez spat the words from his tongue, as if they were filth.
“You do not like what Cardinal Bishop Monteria is trying to achieve then, Bishop Basquez?”
“No,” he replied coldly. “It has not been sanctioned by the Holy See. Such behaviour suggests the Catholic Church is divided, something our enemies will be keen to use against us.”
“Very well,” Casado said, as if convinced by Basquez’s final argument, turning with a resigned look on his face. “Ask Monsignor Benigni to investigate Cardinal Adansoni. But gently,” he added, raising a finger to press home his insistence.
Basquez bowed curtly in agreement.
“Such treacherous times,” lamented the Cardinal, closing his eyes and letting his head sag. But Basquez was quick with his retort.
“The times would be less treacherous if we had a Pope upon whom we could rely to share our vision and guide us with an unflinching hand. Like Pope Pius, God rest his soul. He was a true leader, not like Benedict!” The younger man’s voice had risen to a crescendo, his eyes suddenly fierce.
But Casado shook his head, looking up into the far end of the atrium. “No,” he replied softly, as he played the ruffles from his cassock, “Pius was unflinching in his vision, as you rightly say, but that meant he could not be led, could not be influenced. His vision, firm though it was, was his and his alone. Though many agreed with it, there were many who did not, and others who wanted him to go further with his plans. You talk of division? He caused division and disharmony in many quarters with his austere ambitions. And how can the Holy See guide its Pope if its Pope refuses to listen? No, Pius was a true leader but not a good Pope. Whereas Benedict ...”
“Is weak, talking of peace with our slavic neighbours,” spat Basquez quickly.
“... is someone we can influence, command, set to do our bidding. In these treacherous times, we need someone without arrogance or conceit, whom we can control and who will carry our message out to the masses with benevolence and clarity.”
Casado’s voice had fallen to a whisper, as if the words he spoke were of great perfidy.
“I still prefer the brand of fire and brimstone,” retorted Basquez, the corner of his thin mouth rising in contempt.
“You would not think that were the same brand to be set against your tongue by the Inquisition for treason, Bishop Basquez!”
The Bishop’s cold eyes narrowed and he seemed to shrink back, as if fearing arrest. But Casado’s tone remained calm and measured.
“No,” he said, running his palm slowly across his face, “the Holy See has chosen its Pope wisely this time. It now falls to us within the Holy See to adopt a wise and enlightened policy to place upon his lips.”
TWENTY-THREE
24 AUGUST 1914. PARIS. FRANCE.
In the dark of the southern transept, beneath the purple-coloured moonlight cast from the south rose window of Notre Dame, two figures met, one bent with age, the other tall and gaunt beneath his robes.
“Cardinal Bishop Monteria?” the tall gaunt man asked in a hushed whisper, stepping closer to catch sight of the man’s face.
“Cardinal Poré,” Monteria replied, with a courteous bow of his head. “We meet at last. I have heard much about you.”
“And I of you,” Poré replied, “of your quiet resolution to the path you have chosen to follow, of your dedication to Francis of Assisi.”
A light seemed to catch within Monteria’s face at the mention of his favoured saint. “And how your conviction drives you,” he countered, watching for any sign of the anger Poré was reputed to carry.
“Such things do not need to concern you, or our alliance,” he replied calmly, his unmoving eyes holding Monteria’s. He bowed his head, as if in subservience to the older man “We come together for one thing.”
“Indeed, our shared purpose. I thought I was alone in feeling such things.”
“Not alone. Many share our beliefs. Just lack the conviction to act. They are weak. Like our new Pope.”
“Such talk is treason.”
“Then let me be found guilty.”
Monteria chuckled gently. “No. Not yet,” he said, the trace of a determined smile on his lips. “Let me share my plan with you for this Mass for Peace and let us see then if we be found guilty before God.”
Poré craned his neck upwards to peer at the line of sixteen tall stained-glass windows beneath the large magnificence of the south rose window. “Perhaps we should see if we are guilty before them first?” he asked, indicating the painted figures held within each of the windows.
“Ah! The heavenly court of the sixteen prophets,” Monteria replied and he turned his eyes heavenwards towards the windows and spoke in a louder, clear voice, quoting Bertrand, the Bishop of Chartres from the thirteenth century, “We are all dwarves standing on the shoulders of giants. We see more than they do, not because our vision is clearer there or because we are taller, but because we are lifted up due to their giant scale.”
“Well said,” replied Poré, his dark eyes glistening. “So, let us hear this plan and let us pray to God that we be not found guilty until it has been put into action.”
TWENTY-FOUR
1893. THE VATICAN. VATICAN CITY
Tacit was running, running through the winding streets and courtyards of Vatican City, rushing before an almighty storm, Father Adansoni’s hand on his shoulder, driving him forward, out of the rain. He was running and he was laughing as he ran, bathing in the joy of belonging, of feeling safe under his master’s counsel despite the downpour, laughing, and the Father laughing t
oo, at their folly, at getting caught in the storm.
They were drenched and it cheered Tacit’s heart to see how the Father didn’t care that his robes and cassock were drenched either. And in that moment, Tacit wondered perhaps if that was why he was put on earth, to bring joy and good cheer to all whom he met. He thought it a good life then, to bring hilarity and joy wherever he went.
That was seconds before the old man fell. Or was he pushed? Tacit didn’t know, or couldn’t recall. All he remembered was turning and seeing faces, men with torches, drenched heavy coats, resentful sneers, enemies of the Church, bearing down on them from the shadows. From where they had come, he didn’t know, but he recognised their look from somewhere far off, long ago.
He remembered a club being lifted and brought down on the old man as he lay scrambling on the cobbles of the path, the wicked chuckle of voices, voices the like of which he remembered from … from …
He drew back from his memories as he felt the sharp jar in his elbow of his fist connecting with bone. He heard the crack of a jaw and a cruel voice swearing. A club, like a truncheon, a bobbing member, was being waved in front of him. Red rage tore out of him, followed by a sickening guttural choking, the sudden sound of liquid gushing onto the floor, a stickiness between his fingers.
He was aware of his hands moving before he had time to even consider where they should go, as if guided by another greater power. Wherever they went there followed a weeping and a pleading from voices quite unlike his, the splintering of limbs, the falling of bodies, then a tight intake of breath and then a slow release as death came.
And lights. Everywhere about him were lights, hanging in the air around him, embracing him, nourishing him with their rays.
And then, as quickly as the brawl had begun, it was over. Tacit picked the Father up off the floor and ushered him away from the lifeless bodies strewn about the courtyard.
Adansoni threw his eyes onto the boy and stared, a look speared somewhere between fear, disbelief and wonder at what his young pupil had done.
“You are, Poldek,” Adansoni muttered, his eyes wide on the young man. “You are,” he repeated.
“I am what, Father?”
But Adansoni could, or would, say no more.
TWENTY-FIVE
12:53. TUESDAY, 13 OCTOBER 1914. ARRAS. FRANCE.
The proprietor of the hotel had insisted on showing Sister Isabella personally to Tacit’s room. He said the little act of goodness for a servant of the Lord would serve him well when he came to meet his maker, although this didn’t stop him staring longingly at her cleavage as she enquired as to the whereabouts of Tacit’s lodgings as they climbed the dark and winding stairwell, as decrepit and filthy as the bar downstairs. Every few steps, he stopped and looked back to examine the gently bouncing breasts, checking they were still safely secured beneath her tightly drawn top. She made no attempt to cover herself from his prying eyes but glared at him unremittingly outside the door to Tacit’s room when he tried to make small talk, until he slipped away awkwardly like a scolded dog caught stealing food.
She turned to look at the cracked and blackened door. She wasn’t surprised Tacit had chosen to stay here. Its decor matched Tacit’s charm. She knocked and the Inquisitor growled, “Open”, from the other side.
She turned the handle of the door and stepped into the dirty, pokey little room. There was a smell of stale sweat in the air. A single filthy unmade bed ran alongside one wall, its one measly sheet ruffled and marked. To the right of it was a casement window, bent and broken lattice across the glass. A sideboard stood on the wall opposite the bed, a jug and bowl set alongside a number of bottles, all showing different heights of brown-coloured spirit inside, glasses set beside them.
A circular table, far too big for the room, stood in the centre of it. There was no chair. The only place to sit was the bed. Tacit stood by the window peering out into the early afternoon light.
She pulled a face and curled her fingers into her palms, as if to avoid dirtying them on any of the surfaces. She looked again at the bed and the stained sheet. She chose to stand.
“Just got up?” she asked with a smirk, looking again at the bed, and then folded her arms, resting back against the wall.
Tacit ignored her. He pulled a large leather-bound case out from beneath the bed and thumped it down onto the table. He unbuckled the strap holding it shut and thrust it open, taking a moment to examine its contents.
He didn’t look up. He stared hard into the case, as if reacquainting himself with an old face.
Isabella stifled a yawn. “Cardinal Poré’s on his way,” she said. “He’s bringing the chorister with him. Says the chorister’s lost his tongue.”
Tacit looked up.
“Not literally,” the Sister assured him. She leaned forward and untied her cape, looking around the room for a hook upon which to hang it. Despite the state of the room, it was at least warm. Too warm.
“Is there somewhere I can hang this?” she asked.
Tacit’s eyes rose to the curvaceous form of the Sister, emphasised by the clinging cotton of her gown. They rested on her breasts, her shoulders, the curve of her back, the round turn of her buttocks. He wrenched his eyes away and whispered something under his breath, forcing his attention back to the case and its contents.
Isabella caught a sense of the Inquisitor’s embarrassment and felt the draw of a smile on her face. She pursed her lips and held up the cape. “No hooks, no?” she asked, breathing in deeply so that her chest was even more pronounced.
Tacit, his eyes still locked on his belongings, pointed to the end of the bed. Isabella stepped over and laid the cape down upon it, whilst Tacit began to unpack the contents of the trunk: two silver crucifixes, one grey revolver, two vial racks, each with a row of vials tied securely within, three round-bellied bottles containing unknown potions, three silver-tipped crossbow bolts and a hand crossbow, a collection of wooden stakes, a mallet, one silver mirror, a bag containing a fine powdery dust, a heavy weighted tome, a short length of fine rope, a net bag containing herbs, bulbs and other flowery assortments. He huffed gruffly when the case was empty and its belongings covered the table.
“You really should learn to travel lighter,” Isabella suggested, stepping to the sideboard. “Must take you an age to get through customs. Do you have anything to drink other than …” She let her words trail off, as she looked along the bottles of liquor. “What’s with the booze?” she asked suddenly.
“What’s with the questions?” Tacit shot back, picking up the crossbow and feeling its weight.
Isabella leant back against the sideboard. She stared around the walls of the grubby room, taking in its shabby gloom.
“You’ve not put the symbol of our Lord up.”
“Meaning?”
“Where’s the crucifix? Standard protocol for travelling Priests. To hang up a crucifix so—”
“I’m not a Priest,” Tacit scowled, slamming shut the lid of the case and placing the crossbow upon it.
Isabella looked at the weapon and then the Inquisitor, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “So why do you drink?”
She watched as Tacit raised his head, staring straight ahead to the empty wall with his cold dark eyes. “So why do you dress like a prostitute?” he shot back.
“I dress how I like. It doesn’t affect my work.”
“You’re a Sister. You should dress accordingly.”
“Meaning?”
“All those eyes on you.”
“Like yours?” Isabella retorted, raising an eyebrow and the edge of her mouth.
The air around Tacit darkened. “You should remember your vows of celibacy,” he warned.
“I never took them.”
With how he was standing, she couldn’t see Tacit’s face. He was relieved.
A knock on the door drew them both away from the rising tension.
“It’s open,” they called together. The door was pushed open, Cardinal Poré standing in its doorway, a s
mall and terrified looking boy in front of him. The Cardinal’s hand was on his shoulder and he gave the boy a gentle nudge to encourage him inside.
“Cardinal Poré,” Isabella called, stepping around the table to welcome them. “I didn’t expect you to have accompanied the boy. You could have sent him alone.”
“As feared, the boy is terrified. His tongue is lame,” the Cardinal replied. “I thought it wiser to accompany him, especially as there are ill tidings abroad.”
Isabella crouched down so she was level with the boy’s eyes.
“Hello,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Sister Isabella. What’s your name?”
The chorister looked at her with wide terrified eyes and turned his head to the Cardinal.
“I am afraid you’ll find the child will not speak,” Cardinal Poré announced, closing the door behind him gently. He drew his hands into the cuffs of his sleeves. “He has been … shocked into silence by events,” the Cardinal continued, looking over to the hunched figure of the Inquisitor staring hard and suspiciously at the child. He then looked about the room with disdain. “Are the surroundings adequate, Inquisitor Tacit? I could reserve you a room at the Cathedral residences which would perhaps suit you better?” he suggested, looking dismissively around the shoddily cleaned and decorated room. Tacit ignored him.
“Did he ever speak?” he growled, his cold unmoving eyes on the boy.
“Who, the boy? Yes, of course,” replied Poré, placing an arm across the child’s shoulder. “He has a beautiful voice, both in speech and song. But these terrible events, they have choked it from him, the poor boy.”
Tacit grunted, making the child turn to look. Isabella cupped the child’s face in her hands and drew his gaze back to hers. He had a beautiful face, pale skin like china.
“Has the voice got lost somewhere inside you, little man?” she asked, kindly, her French fluent, as if she was a local of Arras.
The boy nodded cautiously in reply, before looking up at the Cardinal for guidance.
The Darkest Hand Trilogy Box Set Page 11
