The Inquisitor's Tale

by Adam Gidwitz

  • • •

  The ceilings were low and the walls were close inside the Palace of the City, and everything was made of stone. Tapestries clung to the walls, which were supposed to keep the corridors warm, but also made everything smell vaguely of damp silk. As Eric led the group through the warren-like halls, the children’s skin tingled, and their hair stood on end. Their senses were doubly sharp, noticing every detail. They were in the palace of the king of France. The palace. And why? To commit a crime. Jacob thought he might faint.

  They came to a wooden door. Eric lifted the iron latch and pushed the door open. “Come in,” he said.

  The children entered a room the size of Jeanne’s entire house. In the center stood an enormous bed, decked with brightly dyed blankets. Suspended from the ceiling was a cresset, and from the cresset hung curtains of silk around the bed. In the corner, five pallets—with thin mattresses and undyed blankets on each—stood in a tall stack.

  “There are enough beds for all of you,” Eric said. He was a young man with eager, bright blue eyes and an accent as correct as the king’s. His father must be someone very important—a bishop or a lord. No doubt one day this valet would be commanding an army or managing a prince’s domain somewhere, for only the most promising boys become valets for the king. “I’ll set them up for you in a moment. For now, make yourselves comfortable. I’ll be back with dry clothes. And firewood.” Indeed, built into one wall was an enormous fireplace, cold and blackened with soot. The valet bowed as he retreated from the room.

  The children gazed around them. Jacob started laughing. It was giddy, nervous laughter. William grinned and wiped the rain from his forehead—and it was replaced by sweat.

  “We’re in the palace . . . ,” Jacob murmured.

  “I cannot believe it,” Michelangelo marveled. “Never did I think . . .”

  Jeanne said, “Are we friends with the king?” She was laughing.

  William said, “Of course we are. A giant monk, a Saracen oblate, a Jew, and a peasant girl. Aren’t all the king’s friends like that?”

  They all started laughing now. But they were laughing like travelers crossing a great river on a tattered rope bridge, finding that the rotted boards beneath their feet were, for the moment, holding.

  “And a dog!” Jeanne added. “Don’t forget—GWENFORTE!”

  Everyone spun around. Gwenforte was pooping in the fireplace.

  • • •

  Eric had the fire going, which made the room fragrant and warm. He had also found Gwenforte’s turd and somehow managed to dispose of it gracefully. He would indeed be a talented administrator one day.

  “We must discuss our strategy,” Michelangelo said. He sat on the great bed, and the children sat on the pallets that Eric had spread over the floor. Michelangelo still wore his Benedictine robes, for Eric could find nothing large enough to fit him. He had offered Jeanne the kind of dress a lady’s daughter might wear, but Jeanne said it would make her feel stupid. Also, Eric had no idea how to help her put it on; he was relieved not to have to try. So the children, even William, wore red silk stockings and blue tunics, like royal squires. Once Eric had left again, they could not help but look at one another and laugh.

  “Our luck has been outstanding,” Michelangelo continued. “Never could I have predicted this.” He pulled at his red whiskers and ran a hand through his thinning hair, which made it stand up like flames rising behind his head. “But we have come to the crux of our campaign. Tonight, at dinner, we will be introduced to Blanche of Castile—the king’s mother.” Michelangelo ran an enormous hand down Gwenforte’s back, for she lay curled beside him on the great bed. “Blanche and Louis could not be closer. So this is our chance. Tonight, during the meal, I will bring up the burning of the Talmuds. I will pretend to have no opinion on the subject.”

  “And then?” said William.

  Michelangelo exhaled heavily through his nose. He turned to Jeanne. “I did not want to ask you this, my young friend. I have considered many alternatives. But after all that we have learned of the king today, I believe this is the best way. So, I must ask: Can you fake a fit? Can you pretend you are having a vision?”

  “Oh!” William exclaimed. “That’s a good idea!”

  But Jeanne was wrong-footed. “I don’t . . . I don’t know.”

  “If you could, and say that you saw the burning of the books, but the flames were the fires of Hell, and you saw that the Devil was laughing and all of France was burning, too—that might convince them to abandon their plans, don’t you think?”

  Jacob and William were now nodding enthusiastically. But Jeanne said, “I don’t know if I can.” She shifted on her mattress, and the pallet beneath her creaked. “I feel weird about it.”

  Michelangelo nodded slowly. “Why would that be?”

  “If my visions really are messages from God, I don’t want to pretend God is speaking to me when He isn’t.”

  Michelangelo sighed. “I understand. I would expect nothing less, my earnest and good young friend.” Jacob and William looked crestfallen. But Michelangelo went on. “Allow me, though, to make a counterargument. Do you believe that the books of the Jews should be burned?”

  “No. I think it’s awful.”

  “And this revulsion you feel—where does this come from?” Michelangelo had placed his enormous hands on his mountainous belly. Gwenforte raised her head to ascertain the reason that he had stopped stroking her back. She could find none and pushed his elbow with her black nose. He ignored her.

  “I’m . . . not sure. I just feel it. Like a sickness in my chest,” Jeanne said. “Destroying someone’s books, someone’s preserved wisdom, is . . . wrong. A sin.”

  “Yes,” said Michelangelo. “I agree. But how do you know that?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I know how,” said Jacob. “It is the voice of God that tells you.”

  “This is what I believe,” Michelangelo agreed. “When I see you and William and Jacob laughing together—a peasant girl, an oblate, and a Jewish boy—I think, This is good. When I see petals fall from a pear tree at the end of spring, spinning like dancers to the ground, I think, This, too, is good. But what have they in common? And when a Jew is struck by a Lombard in the street, I think, This is very bad. And when a book is destroyed, I think the same thing. But what have those in common? What does a Jew have in common with a book? Children with petals spinning to the earth?”

  A log cracked and fell in the fireplace. The smell of roasting wood wafted out into the room.

  “I don’t know,” Michelangelo said. “But I believe that it is the voice of God, telling me what to love and what to hate.”

  William saw the end of the argument and lunged for it. “So you wouldn’t be faking it, Jeanne. God has told you He hates the burning of the Talmuds. Just not with a vision. He’s told you with that sick feeling in your chest.”

  Slowly, imperceptibly at first, Jeanne began to nod. “Yes. I think that’s true.”

  But Jacob, suddenly, had doubts. “King Louis hates Jews,” he said. “He probably feels that in his gut as well. And peasants, too. Is that God, telling him to hate me and Jeanne?”

  Michelangelo sighed. “God is mysterious and works in mysterious ways. But Louis held Jeanne aloft and carried her around a room. He sat beside you both on our trip to Paris. I do not think he hates you. I think he has been taught to hate the idea of Jews and peasants. By his mother, by the church, by his lords—who benefit from exploiting their peasants and confiscating the Jews’ money on the flimsiest pretenses. Distinguishing the voice of God and the voices of those around us is no easy task. What makes you special, children, beyond your miracles, is that you hear God’s voice clearly, and when you hear it, you act upon it.” He fixed Jeanne with his beady red-brown eyes. “So, will you act now?”

  Jeanne sucked in her breath. She looked to William and
Jacob. They were watching her with a mix of hope and apprehension. She exhaled. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good.” Michelangelo smiled. “Very good. Now, listen carefully. Besides Jeanne’s performance, you will all be models of politeness. You will not express opinions about the burning or about Jews or, really, about anything. We do not want them to think we have come with an agenda. Give them no cause for suspicion. Yes?”

  “Yes,” William and Jacob said at once.

  After a moment, Jeanne said, “Yes,” too.

  Even Gwenforte barked, but it probably just meant Why is no one petting me?

  “Hopefully, Jeanne’s performance will convince the king of the wickedness of his plans. But if it does not, if we fail tonight,” Michelangelo concluded, “we must take . . . rasher action.”

  “What action?” Jacob asked.

  Michelangelo stared at the flames consuming the dry wood.

  All he said was, “For the safety of us all, let us hope we do not fail.”

  “Please forgive me,” Gerald says, rising to his feet.

  “You don’t want to hear this?” I shout.

  “I want to hear this very much. But I also have to pee really, really badly.”

  “Water break!” the innkeeper bellows. I rise to my feet. Aron and Marie stand up, too. We’ll all go find some bushes outside the inn.

  I look to the nun. “You don’t have to go?”

  She smiles at me. “Oh no, I’m fine.”

  “You’ve had quite a lot to drink.”

  She just smiles placidly at me. We get our water break over as fast we can, so we can return to the story.

  HAPTER 20

  The Eighth Part of the Nun’s Tale

  The torches sputtered and spoke in their sconces on the walls of the corridor. Eric led the way. Michelangelo walked behind him, and after him, the children padded along in single file, their leather soles scuffing against the stones. Gwenforte trotted beside Jeanne, her head erect and her nose working the air, taking in the scents of the coming feast.

  Jeanne was sweating. She was walking as in a dark dream. She was trying to remember what she did during her fits—or rather, trying to imagine—for during them she wasn’t conscious of herself or her body. She threw her mind back to what others had told her about them. Do I fall down first? Do I cry? Grit my teeth? Be still? Tremble? Mostly, she could not quiet the nagging voice that said, No one will believe you.

  Jacob, walking behind Jeanne, was lost in his own thoughts—about his parents and Lombards and fires—until William reached over him and put a hand on Jeanne’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” William whispered.

  “I don’t know.”

  Jacob let his other worries slide away. He said, “You’ll do great, Jeanne.”

  Jeanne shook her head as if she knew that he was wrong. Jacob hoped he wasn’t. For their sakes and for the sake of the Talmuds and all the Jews of France.

  They came to a T in the corridor and went left. Eric had explained that those dining at the high table, as the children and Michelangelo had been invited to do, waited in the corridor outside the great hall until the king was ready to enter. They would, for the evening, be part of his entourage. Even Gwenforte. William, peering past Michelangelo’s shoulder, could make out a single file of men, already waiting ahead of them. The one at the end of the queue turned. It was Joinville.

  “Ah!” He smiled, his teeth unnervingly white, his dimple unnervingly handsome. “Children! Come! Come! I want to introduce you to a friend.” Eric stepped out of the way, and Michelangelo pressed himself against the wall so the children could squeeze by.

  As they passed him, Jeanne felt Michelangelo’s hot breath. “Good luck,” he whispered. Her stomach felt like a dog making its bed—turning around in circles and then flopping onto its side.

  Joinville was holding the arm of one of the king’s other companions. The man had a heavy brow, with dark lines of hair like caterpillars above his eyes. “This is Robert de Sorbonne. Besides being a great man of the church, he has founded a college for poor scholars at the university.” Jeanne and Jacob nodded politely, their minds very much elsewhere. But William had suddenly forgotten their task for the evening. He straightened his long back and smiled at Robert de Sorbonne. “Robert, this rather large oblate was expressing interest in the university.”

  “Indeed?” Robert said, wrinkling his chin and sending his caterpillars crawling toward each other. It wasn’t clear whether he was more taken aback by William’s size or the unexpected hue of his skin.

  Joinville smiled slyly at William and then said to Sorbonne, “Maybe you would consider enrolling him in your college?”

  William’s mouth fell open. It literally fell, as if he’d lost the use of his lower jaw. Meanwhile, the caterpillars continued to crawl toward each other and upward on Robert de Sorbonne’s forehead.

  William saw where this was going. Here it comes, he thought. He’s going to ask if I’m a Saracen. Or maybe a demon. No, no, he’s learned. A Saracen.

  “It depends,” Robert de Sorbonne said at last, eyeing William skeptically, “on what he thinks of Master Albertus’s proof of the existence of God.”

  That was not what William was expecting.

  Jacob craned his neck to see the big boy’s face. To Jacob’s dismay, William looked utterly lost. They stood in silence, William’s mouth working, but no sound coming out. He was being given an entrance exam to the University of Paris. And he wasn’t saying a word.

  After a moment, Robert de Sorbonne murmured, “Not sure? That’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” He sounded slightly disappointed, but not surprised.

  At which point William said, “I’m sorry—”

  “It’s quite all right.”

  “—but which proof do you mean?”

  “What?” Sorbonne said, slightly taken aback. “Albertus Magnus, of the—”

  “Yes, Master Albertus, late of Cologne, now of the University of Paris. Of course. But he has two proofs of God, one in the Summa de Creaturis and the other in De Praedicabilibus. I’m not sure which you’re referring to.”

  It was Robert de Sorbonne’s turn to stammer. “Uh . . . either one.”

  “Well, if I have to choose between the two, the Summa proof is stronger. The other’s a bit slippery for my taste. Rather convenient.” William shrugged apologetically.

  Sorbonne threw back his head and laughed from deep down in his belly. “And I thought I’d stumped you!” He turned to Joinville. “I daresay we could find a place for him.”

  When he heard that, William tried not to smile so broadly that you could see straight down his throat.

  “Now, now! The revelry is supposed to happen over dinner! No fair starting without me!” It was a woman’s voice, reedy and low in the darkness of the corridor. It stilled Robert de Sorbonne at once. Joinville’s smile froze on his face. He stepped to one side. “My lady,” he said stiffly, “allow me to introduce—”

  “I know who they are,” said the Queen Mother, Blanche of Castile. “My son has told me all about them.”

  Standing in the dark corridor, illuminated by the torchlight dancing in the sconces, was a short woman in a simple white dress, which was fastened around her waist with a simple blue cord. Her hair was dark brown and worn in braids upon her head. Perched upon that nest of braids was a simple ring of gold, very much like the one Joinville had worn earlier that day. On her left hand she wore a ring that was as simple as it was ostentatious—a single sapphire, bright and blue and round like an egg. She smelled strange to Jeanne, Jacob, and William. Musky and sweet at the same time. They did not realize it, but she was the first person they’d ever met who wore perfume.

  “Greetings, my children,” she said. “Though some of you hardly look like children,” she added, nodding at William. “You are very welcome in my—”

  She stopped sp
eaking. Gwenforte had begun to growl. The growl had started so low in her throat that it had, at first, been inaudible. But it rose in volume and pitch. The hair on Gwenforte’s back stood up. “Gwenforte!” Jeanne hissed.

  “It’s all right,” Blanche of Castile assured them, edging away. “Just skittish around strangers, I’m sure.”

  Gwenforte barked. Viciously. The rasping, warning bark of an angry dog. She pulled her lips back from her teeth, which glowed yellow amid her gums in the dim light of the torch fires. She barked again.

  “Gwenforte!” Jeanne reprimanded her. But Gwenforte would not quiet. She growled and barked, growled and barked some more. Her intensity was frightening. She was no longer a greyhound. She looked like a wolf. Blanche of Castile recoiled. Everyone in the corridor had turned to look.

  “Jeanne!” Michelangelo whispered. “For God’s sake, get her out of here!”

  Jeanne tried to grab Gwenforte by the neck, but the greyhound shimmied away and barked again at Blanche.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Jeanne muttered.

  “The king!” William exclaimed. “He’s coming!”

  Indeed he was, striding down the dark corridor toward them, followed by his wife and her retinue. In one swift motion, William scooped Gwenforte off the ground and carried her down the hall toward their room. The greyhound barked and snarled over his shoulder.

  Jeanne and Jacob and Michelangelo watched them go, shaking, sweating, spent already. And dinner had not even begun.

  “What was that about?” King Louis asked, approaching the group.

  “Nothing to worry over, my dear,” his mother cooed, turning to her son and patting his face with a small, plump, perfumed hand. “Just a stupid animal. Shall we go in to dinner?” She took her son by the arm and led him away from the children.

  Michelangelo peeled himself from the wall and leaned down to Jeanne and Jacob.

  “So far, I think the plan is going beautifully.”