The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy

by Marsha Altman

  “I will say as I please, Father Abbot.”

  He went to leave, but the abbot said to his departing back, “I will do everything to protect my charge, even if it means going against you.”

  “You overstep yourself, Father.”

  “Perhaps.You are a bishop and a friend of the new archbishop, who was once a bishop under me.You may do as you please,Your Excellency. And I will do everything I can to protect the soul I almost destroyed.”

  The bishop did not respond as he left. The abbot put his head in his hands and wept, only to be interrupted by Brother Martin entering the room without knocking. “Father—he is awake.”

  It took all of Abbot Francesco’s strength to compose himself to kneel beside the bed of Brother Grégoire, who was being helped to finish off the last of his daily tonic.

  “You may speak,” the abbot said. “The excommunication is lifted.Your penance is more than done, Brother Grégoire.”

  “Then why do I feel otherwise, Father?”

  “That blame lies with us, Brother. How long were you wearing the cilicium?”

  Grégoire was not in the most alert of states, and it took him a moment to answer. “It must be—three years now, as much as I could stand it.”

  “And for what sin were you repenting, Brother Grégoire?”

  “Violating my oath of celibacy, Father.”

  “You did this only once? The time you confessed to me in Munich?”

  Grégoire nodded.

  “You confessed and were forgiven.”The abbot sighed. “Brother, you have given yourself to God, body and soul. It is not for you to decide when you are forgiven. The only thing you are guilty of is not understanding the extent of God’s grace. Not something many grapple with, but dangerous nonetheless.”

  Grégoire closed his eyes and said nothing.

  “You are to wear an undershirt until you are fully healed of your wounds. Everything else, we will leave to God until you recover. Now rest, Brother,” the abbot said, but Grégoire was already asleep.

  When Grégoire was ready to stand and walk again, there was no lack of offers to help him to the chapel. The abbot and the bishop watched as he took his first shaky steps out of his cell in a week, one hand on the wall and the other arm being held up by Brother Martin. Whether the monks following behind him did so in brotherhood or in reverence was debatable, but he seemed unaware of it. He only gazed at the gifts, all of them new from this morning, lined up along the wall in confusion.

  “From the villagers, Brother Grégoire,” Prior Pullo explained. “They miss you.”

  He nodded, not completely comprehending.

  The reading for the day was from the Letters to the Corinthians. The abbot wondered if there was anyone who could not help but be distracted. Grégoire himself was nodding off at various points, and did not break bread with them. The next day, he made it to two services, and it seemed as though he was on his way to finally mending. Still, he said little unless spoken to, either because he was distracted by pain or addled by his experiences.

  “Do you remember anything between the time of your injury and when I spoke to you days later?” the abbot said in privacy.

  “I remember… an anvil. And fire.”

  “Brimstone?”

  “No. Just fire.” He toyed with his rosary. “Am I still to write to my brother?”

  “It will be sorted out in time,” the abbot assured him. “There is no need to worry of it now.”

  “I would like to see the ocean. May I have leave to sit outside?”

  “Of course, Brother Grégoire.”

  The next day, the weather was fine, and the brothers helped him venture outside the abbey doors and sat him down in a chair overlooking the coast. He was on the other side of the abbey, and therefore did not hear the procession with the arrival of the archbishop of Oviedo.

  The archbishop was a Spanish native and a Dominican, like Bishop Valerano. He had been bishop when the abbot was assigned to the post of archbishop, a requested transfer from his post outside Rome, and had been raised when the abbot requested another transfer, this one to a monastery. The archbishop still looked to the abbot with some reverence as he listened to the facts of the case, repeated to him, including all that had occurred since the bishop had written him a letter.

  “If all you say is true,” he concluded,“then he must go to Rome.”

  “No,” the abbot said. “Please,Your Excellency. He is my charge and I do not believe it best for him.”

  “Surely a pilgrimage, at least,” the bishop suggested.

  “He has already made a pilgrimage to Rome. It was some years ago,” the abbot said. “He still wears the cross purchased at St. Peter’s Square.”

  The archbishop rubbed his chin. “What does the brother think?”

  “He is unaware of it. He is not in a condition to comprehend it, I think. His wounds are still great.” The abbot also knew that Grégoire would humbly bow to the authority of the archbishop.

  “With respect, Father, I do not come rushing for every monk who disobeys your Rule,” the archbishop said. “Let him come and speak for himself.”

  God protect him, the abbot prayed. I am throwing him to their den. But still the hierarchy had to be respected, and he requested that Grégoire be retrieved. After some time, the monk entered, his shuffle lopsided.

  “Please,” the archbishop said. “Be seated, Brother Grégoire.”

  Uncertain at first, Grégoire took the wooden seat across from the abbot’s chair, in which the archbishop sat while the others stood.

  “Brother Grégoire,” the archbishop began, “upon reviewing your case, we believe it is in your best interest to make a pilgrimage to Rome as soon as you are able, and perhaps be transferred to a monastery in the papal lands.”

  Grégoire automatically looked up at his abbot, who quietly shook his head. “Your…Your Excellency. I have—already been to Rome.”

  “Not everyone makes the journey but once. Some people even live there. Like your father abbot, before his residency here.” The archbishop continued, “You should consider what is in the best interest of your soul, Brother Grégoire.Take as long as you need to decide. Do you understand?”

  “I—” He was struggling to keep his eyes open. “I—Father?”

  “Yes?”

  Grégoire motioned for him to come over, and he whispered in his ear. Alarmed, the abbot put his hand against Grégoire’s forehead. “Excuse us, your Excellencies. Brother Grégoire is not well.”

  “What did he say?” the bishop insisted as the abbot raised Grégoire from his seat.

  “He said he needed to be ill, Your Excellency,” the abbot said. “That is your answer for now.”

  The doctor was called as the brothers tried to soothe Grégoire’s raging fever with cold cloths. The abbot refused to leave his side, and said his prayers in the cell with Grégoire instead of with the choir. “I have failed you again, Brother.”

  Finally, the doctor arrived, and this time the abbot did not leave the room, and saw the extent of the damage himself. The stitches had gone bad, and his wounds were infected, and had to be reopened and sewn all over again. The abbot silently questioned the competency of this local surgeon. But there was no one else in the area, and Grégoire could not be moved. When the doctor cut the old stitches, the wounds reopened and blood poured out with a foul stench. Grégoire, fortunately, was unconscious.

  Lord, how much blood must your humble servant bleed? the abbot prayed. He assisted the doctor with clean towels and water until he was finished.

  “If the fever breaks, he will live,” the doctor said. “If it doesn’t, he won’t.” He deliberated for a few moments. “Father, you do not look well.”

  I am a tormented man. “I am an old man. Old men do not look well.”

  “You should rest, Father.”

  “I will rest when I can find some,” he answered.

  Grégoire survived the night, and for that they were all grateful, but his fever did not bre
ak. It would occasionally go down and he would have moments of coherency, but otherwise, he was incapacitated.

  Abbot Francesco had not slept at all when he entered his own office to find Bishop Valerano and the archbishop poring over unfamiliar documents. “What is going on here?”

  “Good morning, Father. We require your signature.”

  He took a seat and the scroll was passed to him. He read the Latin in disbelief. “This is a transfer.You expect me to sign this? He is not well enough to stand! He might not live!”

  “There are arrangements for his body to be interred in Rome.”

  “His body will not be interred in Rome!” he shouted, and then he retreated from his own outburst. He was so tired. Softly, he said, “When he came to this monastery, he said that he wished his body to be returned to England to be buried with his family. Unless he is well enough to testify that he has changed his mind, I will honor his wishes. As for the transfer to Rome, it is hardly time to think about that.”

  “Do you intend to challenge this?”

  He knew a threat when he heard one, however quietly it was spoken. After all, the blood of Roman senators coursed through his veins. “I will challenge it, yes. Apparently, you have both forgotten that the broken monk in this monastery is not without his own alliances, church and family.” He looked up at the bishop. “Yes, I am from that Chiaramonti family.”

  Bishop Valerano turned to the archbishop, who nodded. “His brother is the Vicar of Christ.”

  “I will reassess the situation when Grégoire is well,” he said. “If he becomes well. If he dies, God help us all, because I am sure we are all damned for this.”

  With that, he excused himself, and returned to his vigil beside Brother Grégoire.The other monks had found excuses to abandon their chores and were camped outside the cell. The abbot knelt beside Grégoire and kissed his hand. “If you are going to work any more miracles, Brother Grégoire, work one for yourself.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Come.”

  It was the doorkeeper, Brother Pedro. “Father, there is a couple at the abbey gates.”

  “Villagers?”

  “No, Father.They speak only broken Spanish. It is a man and his wife. They are armed.”

  “Armed?!”

  “Yes,” he said. “They say they are Brother Grégoire’s relatives.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Grégoire’s Cousins

  “MY GOD, IT’S HOT,” Brian said, readjusting his gasa hat as they stood outside the closed gates of the abbey. “And I’m just back from the Orient.”

  “You were on the ocean. It was different,” Nadezhda said. She was wearing a gasa hat, too, and a summer kimono, instead of her heavy wool Romanian dress. “Have you ever been inside a monastery?”

  “Not an active one, no.” He looked up. The gates were at least four stories high. The entrance was actually a small door carved in one of them. “This building must be hundreds of years old and still used for the same purpose.” He glanced at the heavy doorknob again. “Do they keep all their guests waiting? Maybe they do when those guests show up armed. And one of them a woman, no less.”

  “A good Christian woman.”

  “If you don’t answer to Rome, you might as well be a heathen, and worship trees and statues, like Mugin.”

  “Mugin worships himself.”

  “Even better,” he said. “Your Highness.”

  Still nothing. The doorkeeper was taking his time. “Maybe we should have offered to give up our weapons,” the princess said.

  “You can do that, but I am about to take my wife into a castle of men who probably haven’t laid eyes on a woman in decades. I’ll be keeping my swords, thank you.” He heard a creaking sound on the other side. “Speak of the devils.”

  “Hush.”

  Brian smiled for the man who opened the door, and the older man who stepped out. “I am Brian Maddox. And this is Her Highness, Princess Nadezhda Maddox,” he said in his best Spanish.

  “Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti of the Benedictines,” said the man, bowing to them. It was not very hard, because he had a bit of a hunch from age. “I am the abbot here. I understand you wish to see one of my monks.”

  “Yes. Brother Grégoire.”

  “Yes.” He switched to French. “Is this better, monsieur?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “How are you related to Brother Grégoire?”

  “To be brief,” Brian said, “my sister-in-law is the sister of his brother-in-law. So we are distant cousins, but Her Highness and I were the ones most willing to travel.”

  “Have you come…for a particular reason?”

  Brian’s smile disappeared. “Should we have?” The abbot was clearly in distress. The doorkeeper was keeping an eye on him as if the old man were going to collapse at any moment. Brian glanced at his wife in silent understanding. “We wish to see Brother Grégoire,” he repeated.

  “We normally do not permit arms or women within the abbey walls, but…” he trailed off, as if his own spirit was failing him. “But I see you are tired and thirsty. Please come in.”

  Taking off their wide gasa hats, they ducked under the door frame, and entered the abbey courtyard. The place smelled of age—of old stones and ancient prayers. The monks milling about were curious about these strangely dressed visitors.

  “If you would, please,” the abbot said, “your weapons. This is sacred ground.”

  “I was given these blades and told not to relinquish them,” Brian said. “This is an abbey. I will have no cause to use them.”

  “I beg of you, please.”

  Brian turned to Nadezhda and said in Romanian, “What do you think?”

  “Don’t be a braggart. Give him your katana at least.”

  “Excuse me,” the abbot said in Romanian, to their surprise. “Please. Many people would feel more comfortable if you at least gave up the larger ones, and you will certainly not be attacked.”

  “You speak my tongue?” Nadezhda said.

  He bowed. “I was raised speaking Italian, Latin, and Spanish. It took only a brief summer in Bucharest to learn some scope of Romanian. But that was years ago.”

  Brian pulled the longer blade out of his sash and handed it over to the doorkeeper with both hands on the blade. “Will I have cause to be angry?”

  “It is good you are here,” the abbot whispered. “Please wait until you have the entire story to pass judgment.”

  Nadezhda handed over her wakizashi. “Show us to our cousin, Father.”

  The abbot nodded and led the way. Brian kept a hand on his tanto as they walked down the colonnade, past monks scurrying about and baskets of food lined up against the wall like offerings.

  “Father.”

  The abbot bowed to the man with the jeweled ring and church clothing, apparently a bishop. “Your Excellency,” he said in French, “these are relatives of Brother Grégoire.”

  “His Excellency” was about to say something, but he could not meet Brian’s cold stare, and moved out of the way without a word. The abbot turned at last to a small wooden door. Monks were sitting outside the door, whispering prayers. The abbot unlocked the door.

  “Father,” said a monk in Spanish, rising from his position next to the bedside, wet towel still in hand.

  “Leave us,” the abbot said, and the monk slipped past them, allowing them entrance to the cell, which had only a tiny window in the corner to allow light in. The abbot immediately knelt beside the bed, crossed himself, and took up the towel, dipping it in cold water and putting it on the head of what was recognizably Grégoire.

  Brother Grégoire was turned on his side, with his eyes closed and his breath heavy. Despite the light covers, his face was covered in sweat.

  Brian reached over the abbot and touched Grégoire’s forehead. “How long has he had this fever?”

  “Two days now.”

  “What is he sick with?”

  “He has wounds—they are infected.”

  “Show
them to me.”

  With trembling hands, the abbot removed the covers to reveal a torn mess of flesh that had once been the skin of his back, sewn every which way. Much of the flesh was green or a sickly yellow, or covered with dried blood. Nadezhda covered herself with her veil and even Brian had to look away. He took his wife’s arm to reassure her.

  When he could think straight again, he asked, “Did he do this to himself, or did you do it to him?”

  “Both, monsieur.”

  He could see why the abbot had insisted on disarming him. He grabbed the old man and picked him up by his cowl. “Why would you harm him? What could he possibly have done?”

  “Please—we did not know—we were in error!”

  Brian looked at his wife, who shrugged and voiced no objection to his behavior.

  He allowed himself a mean grin. “You are lucky that his brother did not come. He would have struck you so hard that you would have broken. Grégoire’s wounds are badly infected. Will he live?”

  “With God’s help, monsieur, and yours. Please, let me explain.”

  Brian figured he would have to do it eventually, so he let the abbot down. The old man did not retreat. He held his ground, bowing to him again. “I will tell you everything, from the beginning, if you promise to take him away from here.”

  “Of course we will take him! Grégoire Darcy will not die in a cell for any reason, and I have a feeling the infraction was minor— by any standards but your own. Now sit down, Father, and begin this explanation.”

  They prodded Grégoire, but he was not near consciousness, and if he woke, he would probably be in great pain. He needed better medical attention; that much was clear. If he could not survive the journey to England, they would have to take him to a major city and find a good surgeon. Nadezhda took up the duty of trying to cool him down with water on his brow and arms as Brian paced angrily.

  “Are you all right, Father?” called a monk through the door.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “We are not to be interrupted. Even for the archbishop, understand?”