Clément studied Franco as a hawk might study its prey. "Your confession states you were paid a handsome sum to hire the crew of The Indiana to steal the Holy Miter. Is this the woman you hired?" Clément asked from his throne.
Franco turned and bowed low, smirking as if this were merely a theatrical production. "Yes, Your Grace. She accepted payment and promised to deliver the relic some days hence."
“And did she in fact deliver the relic to you?” Clément pressed.
Franco hesitated. “No, your grace. She did not show up at the agreed upon rendezvous in Palermo.”
“And having made the initial bargain with her, your fee paid, and the contract in place, you are now betraying her trust, providing witness against her.”
Franco hesitated again. “Yes, your grace.”
Clément shook his head. “I believe the traditional rate is thirty pieces of silver. Captain, you will find a pouch on my desk. Please give it to this gentleman and have the guards escort him to the cells below. We will determine his punishment later.”
Franco looked confused. “But…we agreed upon…”
“Now.” Clément said sternly.
Charles looked unsettled but gave a crisp bow.
"Charles, as this woman is a noble, she has the right to a private confession. I would ask that once you escort Franco out and hand him to the guards that, you wait in the antechamber.”
Charles rested his eyes on me briefly. "Holy father, that is not wise. She is clever and can be dangerous."
"Nevertheless, you will leave us." A hint of steel crept into the old man's voice. Charles, with a moment’s hesitation gave a salute, his spine stiff. “I will be close by, should you need me Holy Father. Signor Franco, this way please.”
As he walked past, he paused, and looked at me with steely eyes. I could feel the heat of his regard. Returning his gaze coolly I nodded.
I remained impassive, looking up at the man on the throne. When I heard the door click behind me, I said, "You have gone to some lengths to bring me here… for a reason that does not actually involve my confession." My good arm cradled my still healing forearm.
"Very perceptive of you, my dear. But as there are no witnesses, none shall be the wiser that you did not actually confess. Though since we both know you did it, your confession hardly matters." He smiled a cruel smile from his throne.
"So, what happens now? You tell the world I confessed, though I haven’t, and won’t. You let Madame Guillotine have my head, and move on knowing you have rid the world of one more supposed pirate?" I paced deliberately, coming to rest in front of one of the magnificent pieces of artwork on the walls, hugging my arms to my body to still their trembling.
"Or perhaps you wish to make a deal. You want your property back, or you need something stolen, and you would like one of the best thieves in the world to do the job for you. After all, according to you I have successfully managed to rob the Vatican. Purportedly one of the most well-guarded, secure palaces in Europe." I looked back at the Pope over my shoulder to see if that had hit the mark.
It did make him chuckle. "You are so young, and such an easy pawn. Entertaining, too. I suppose it is true that after our meeting I might say you had confessed and give you to Madame Guillotine. Easy enough to have one of my scribes write your confession and then forge your signature." He seemed genuinely amused by this scenario and continued to chuckle unnervingly. "But that would still leave me without my property. And I do want it back. I expect, by the end of this meeting you will have a strong desire to return it."
I raised an eyebrow. "Do you plan on torturing me yourself?"
"Don't be foolish. Violence is lazy and lacks imagination. I have no need to torture you. You will be dead soon anyway, and it is short-sighted to have blood on one's hands, when there are other alternatives. You see, Contessa, when you have lived as long as I you find there is more than one way to hang a sinner.”
I pondered this while I looked around the room, still puzzled about the wigs. The audience chamber walls were filled with paintings by famous Masters. There was a large mahogany desk off to one side that appeared well used. On the desk were a variety of small carvings, paperweights and ornate boxes.
"So, if you have no plans of killing me, then why do you claim I'll be dead soon?" He enjoyed my confusion, and it made me angry.
With a rictus of a grin he said, "Obviously you had to be offered bait of a sufficiently rich nature to entice you to take such a high-profile job, and it needed to sound sufficiently difficult to pique your interest. What thief wouldn't take thirty thousand gold to rob the Vatican." He shook his head condescendingly.
This confirmed my growing suspicion of who our mysterious employer was.
"A sensible one," I muttered under my breath chastising myself. "So, you're the mysterious buyer. Why would you set me up? I am nothing to you." I looked up, genuinely curious.
He ignored my question and continued. "Of course, I must congratulate you on stealing the real Miter and bypassing the copy left on the altar for you. That was unexpected and somewhat problematic. The fact that you have kept it hidden for as long as you have is decidedly impressive. But that brings us to the current circumstances which are most assuredly in my favor."
Why doesn’t Father Michael want it returned? I thought to myself. What is going on here? Aloud I said, "I do not see what you mean. You don't have your relic, and you don't know where it is. It seems to me I have some bargaining power." I stared up at him from behind his desk.
“I will have it back, with or without your cooperation,” he replied with an unnerving grin.
Standing up straight and putting on my most regal air I gambled. “You and what army? You know who I am. Though I don’t use my title or family connections often, I am the beloved niece of the king. With one word from my uncle I would have the entire nation of France behind me.”
Clément scoffed. “Child, I own the French court, and you overestimate your influence, uncle or no. You might have some bargaining power, but for one piece of information you lack. I have no need to kill you or silence you because you are already dead. Or as good as. The relic, you see, has its own protections and has for centuries. I will get it back eventually, one way or the other. When you stole it, you unleashed abominations unto the Lord; fallen Angels. Your fate is no longer in my hands. They will be coming for you. And they will kill you." His matter-of-fact voice sent chills down my spine, as my mind pulled the individual threads of what he was saying. Who does he own at the French Court? What does he gain by using fairy tales to scare me?
"You expect to scare me with some fairytale about fallen Angels? You're the Pope. That seems rather beneath you." The words were out of my mouth before I had time to think about them.
"You may not believe me now, but you will. Of course, if you return the relic then I can call them off and send them back to hell where they belong. Assuming you live that long. This is not the first time they have appeared. They will not stop until their mandate is complete."
He was insane. That was the only explanation I could come up with for this crazy tale of fallen Angels. Abraham told me many things about the Miter, including the story of the existence of the Sins, but it had to be pure fantasy. Nevertheless, the Pope’s matter of fact attitude bothered me. This was one of the most powerful men in Europe. He had no need of fairy tales.
"So, you're saying essentially devils from hell are coming to get me unless I return your property?" I asked putting as much skepticism into my voice as possible.
"You don't have to believe me now, but you will. Regardless I will have accomplished my goal. Furthering my power in Europe." He smiled, his cold eyes surveying me like a cog under a magnifier. "Such lovely hair you have. I understand that's how you transported the weapon that allowed you to escape from Charles."
The sudden change in topic confused me. I reached up and touched my hair, glancing at the display of wigs a finger of foreboding sliding down my spine. I loved my hair; it was one o
f my few vanities. "Hardly a weapon. It merely made him sleep for a time. A last defense, if you will."
"Sensible for a noble such as yourself. Though you flout it now, you would prefer to forget that you are the niece of the King of France. For now." He steepled his fingers and stared over them at me. My mind raced. Was my uncle in danger? Who did Clément ‘own’ close to the French throne? I wrenched my mind back to my own situation. My uncle had guards protecting him. Better to focus on my own problems at the moment.
"Tomorrow, after a long night spent in prayer and meditation, I will publicly announce you have confessed, and even though you refuse to return the sacred relic, I his Holiness the Pope, out of the goodness of my heart, forgive you. Your identity as both the notorious captain of The Indiana and as a noblewoman, niece of the King, will be released to the public. The King of France will publicly owe me a favor for not executing one of his family members and a second favor for forgiving her of a high crime. My power there will be solidified. You, though you don't believe me yet, will do all that is in your power to find the relic and return it to me." He paused as another small earthquake rattled the building. When it subsided, he smiled.
"Your influences as an agitator in Europe will be considerably diminished with the public knowing that you are a noble. As an embarrassment to the royal family, it is unlikely any of the nobility will receive you. There will be very few places in Europe where you will be welcome. You have in fact backed yourself into a room with no doors, my dear."
My mouth gaped open in astonishment. "I admit Sir, it seems you have outmaneuvered me." As I stood behind the desk I fidgeted with the various knickknacks, picking them up setting them down again in different configurations.
"Now, as I said before, if you return the relic, I will banish the abominations you have summoned. Call it incentive. If you don't, they will kill you, everyone you care about, and anyone who happens to get in the way. And they do not kill quickly." He seemed very confident, and I felt my own certainty slipping away.
"For my own curiosity, is there no way of defeating them? What if one of them should come upon me before I have a chance to retrieve the relic? Are they invincible?" It seemed a fair question to ask, though I doubted his sanity.
"Thinking ahead, I see. They will of course vanish when they have completed their mandate and returned the Miter. They can be killed, but the person who kills them then takes their place. Not a pleasant fate, I assure you."
No witty response came to me, so I remained silent.
"I can see that you doubt me. You may believe as you choose. And if you die in the interim, well, the Miter will show up again. We will find it." The sheer, matter of fact manner that he said these things rattled me to my core.
"Enjoy your last night as my guest. Beginning tomorrow you will be a shamed, outed, hunted woman. Tomorrow I shall send couriers to every airfield in Europe, as well as a message to the King of France."
"Something puzzles me. The charade you played out with Franco while Charles was here. What was that about?"
Clément chuckled. "Oh, that's a little side project of mine. Eventually Charles will do everything I say unquestioningly. Tomorrow I will make my announcement concerning you. You would be wise to immediately seek out my property and return it. Now go. Father Michael will see you to a room as befits your station, and the guards will see you do not leave it. Unless of course you prefer to return to the dungeon?" He smiled mockingly as he gestured to the door.
My thoughts were in turmoil as Father Michael showed me to a small suite with a bed, sitting room and bathing chamber. A dress of good quality, though not ostentatious, was laid out on the bed. "For your audience tomorrow, my child. Also, you must wear your hair loose and without adornment as befits a petitioner. Tonight, you must rest, pray, and thank God for His Holiness's mercy." Father Michael’s hands were folded in the sleeves of his robe, and his face was serene.
“Father Michael, why did you help me before? Why did you betray me to bring me here?” I asked as he turned to go.
Looking back over his shoulder and smiling serenely he replied, “I helped you before to bring about this day. Helping you now does not suit my plans.” He shut the door firmly and a welter of emotions boiled within me— fear, betrayal, but above all, anger. Anger at Clément for so casually destroying lives for political power, anger at myself for allowing greed to override my judgement, anger at Charles for failing to see the type of man he was working for, and anger at this mysterious Father Michael who had an unknown agenda.
While I had never been a fan of the Catholic Church, I had also never thought of it truly as evil. My research had shown that there had been good Popes throughout history – men who genuinely cared and tried to better the lives of their flock, and history had also shown a share of bad Popes. Clément was definitely the latter – not merely bad, but evil.
I bathed in a proper tub, taking time to wash out my hair, the luxury of hot water for once ignored in favor of my grim thoughts. Sitting in front of the small fire in my chambers I let my hair dry, running my fingers through to pull out the tangles of weeks.
Trying to set aside my anger and focus on what must be done was hard – there were too many loose threads in this tapestry that the Pope and I had woven. Though he revealed a great deal of information during our interview, he still held a great many cards. Clément struck me as the sort of man who, for his own amusement, would give his pawns just enough information to hang themselves with, while playing a much deeper game. I still held a few cards of my own – the Miter, Abraham’s work on translating the scripture, my crew. I feared what I would be taking them into and what I might ask of them. There was a traitor in the French Court, and I needed to find out who. Politics and intrigue change people, and not in pleasant ways. What I faced on the morrow intimidated me, but not nearly so much as what was coming.
The next morning two guards led me to a dais in the middle of the square. A contingent of guardsmen circled the platform to keep crowds back. This was a familiar spectacle in Rome. A crowd had gathered, hissing and booing as I took my place. Clément, in full papal regalia, with Charles behind him came out to his balcony, and the crowd cheered.
“People of Rome! The woman who stands before you today has committed grave sins against the Church. She is Contessa Jacqueline de Valois of France. Also knows as the notorious Pirate, Captain Jac. She has confessed to theft of holy relics, deceit, bearing false witness, and behavior unbefitting a woman.” He paused and the crowd roared.
He raised his hand, quieting them. “People of Rome. She has stolen from the very house of God. I have spent many days in prayer, asking God if punishment or forgiveness was the better course of action. After much contemplation, he has guided me to forgiveness.”
Looking out over the sea of faces, I blinked. For a brief moment I thought I had seen Niccolò in the crowd. I scanned, looking for other members of the crew, no longer listening to Clément. There! Standing up on the base of a statue I saw Niccolò. He was trying to signal me. My crew was near. Fear gripped me. God help them, if they tried to rescue me in this, they would be slaughtered. Better to play it out.
"Jacqueline de Valois, Contessa, it is customary for those seeking forgiveness from Rome to offer up penance for their sins. Something of personal value. Something that will then mark the petitioner at penitent." I listened with half an ear as Clément droned on.
I could feel the crowd around the platform turn their attention to me as I tried to signal Niccolò to stand down. The crowd was wavering on the border of maddened hostility. Whatever Clément had come up with, I would have to agree, or the crowd would tear me apart. The guards on the dais could feel it too and looked at each other nervously. This was more of a crowd than usual then.
"Such sacrifice must be made willingly and by the petitioner’s own hands." One of the guards stepped forward with a pair of shears. I looked at him in confusion, dragging my attention back as Clément continued speaking. “As one of your crimes is
behavior unbecoming a woman, and your hair is the most visible symbol of that status, you will be made to look less like a noblewoman. You must cut off all of your hair. This will also serve as a visible reminder of your penance to both yourself and to those around you.”
"Your hair, my lady. You must cut it off. All of it." The guard held out the shears. "It will be collected and made into a wig."
I looked at him in anger and indignation, my hands moving up to my long flowing hair, worn loose today, as I had been instructed. Clément stood on his balcony, looking pleased with himself. Glancing at the crowd, I noticed many of those present had, themselves, closely cropped hair. The poor frequently sold their hair for pennies so that the rich could make their fantastical wigs.
The crowd was starting to get ugly and restless. "Look at the pretty noble, too afraid to cut her own hair!" a faceless voice yelled.
A piece of rotten fruit came sailing up onto the dais, missing me by a few inches.
"We'll strip her of her hair! And everything else, too!" another voice yelled, and I felt the crowd start to surge.
Anger smoldering in my eyes, I took the shears from the guard and turned to face the Clément. Grabbing a handful of hair close to my head I began cutting, watching the locks fall at my feet. A guard collected every strand that fell, gathering it in a purple velvet bag. Remembering the wigs along the wall in his receiving room I knew; this trophy was going in Clément’s private collection. Refusing to let tears spill over I doggedly hacked at my thick hair while the crowd cheered. When I was finished I turned to the guard, my voice trembling. “Is it sufficient?"
"There is one more step my lady. Please stand still while we finish." Moving behind me and gesturing for me to kneel, he took out a long razor and began shaving off the last short vestiges of hair. He was done in a few moments, tipping my head this way and that to get the back of my neck and behind my ears.
My scalp was bleeding from a few places where he had nicked me, and the air felt strange and cold against my scalp. When he was done, he gathered a handful of hair from the bag and held it up as a banner above his head. “Penance has been served!” he announced loudly to the crowd, and they cheered. Damn them all.
The First Sin Page 24
