For such a dangerous man, Dubois was not prepossessing in appearance. He was short and pudgy with a round face that bore a mild, pleasant expression. Dressed in nondescript clothes, Dubois was often mistaken for a clerk, a misapprehension he relished, according to Father Jacob. Dubois’s clerklike demeanor kept the unwary from noticing the dangerous glitter in the intelligent eyes.
The archbishop was scowling, his cheeks tinged with spots of red, in contrast to Dubois’s bland expression. The conversation had apparently been heated, at least on the part of the archbishop.
“Sir Ander, thank you for coming,” said the archbishop coldly. “Please be seated.”
The archbishop indicated a grouping of chairs placed near his desk. He did not introduce Dubois, nor did he invite the bishop’s agent to sit down.
Dubois wandered over to the window, where he affected to be absorbed in watching laborers hard at work outside. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked a little on the balls of his feet. Every so often, he would cast an oblique glance over his shoulder.
The presence of Dubois made Sir Ander uncomfortable and he had the distinct impression the archbishop felt the same.
“How is Father Jacob this morning, Sir Ander?” the archbishop asked, settling himself in his chair.
“I believe Your Reverence receives the reports of the healers on a daily basis,” Sir Ander replied evenly.
“I do, of course,” said the archbishop. “But I would like to hear your assessment of Father Jacob’s condition.”
“Considering the serious nature of the injury he sustained, he has made remarkable progress.”
The archbishop drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and gazed at Sir Ander. Dubois cast a sharp glance at the knight. Sir Ander understood that something was afoot, something he was not going to like. He braced himself as he might have braced himself to endure an enemy bombardment.
“Father Jacob is recovering in body,” said Archbishop Lovaasen. “The injury to the brain is quite another matter. Father Jacob is deranged. He talks to a dead saint.”
“He does talk to Saint Marie,” said Sir Ander. He raised his hand when the archbishop would have spoken. “That does not mean he is mad. May I tell Your Reverence a story?”
The archbishop frowned, but indicated with a gesture that Sir Ander should continue.
“We had in our service a young monk, Brother Barnaby,” said Sir Ander, his voice softening. “He was a healer, extraordinarily gifted. He was asked to treat a young woman, who had been on a boat when it came under attack from these same foes who attacked Westfirth. The young woman was so badly frightened that she reverted back to being a child. This woman, Gythe, had no knowledge of what was going on around her. She sang nonsense songs, she played cat’s cradle. She was no longer a lovely young woman of twenty. She was a child of six.”
The archbishop stirred as though he might ask where this was going. Sir Ander ignored him and continued.
“Brother Barnaby sang with her. He played cat’s cradle. He used his healing arts to enter her mind and found Gythe in the darkness where she was hiding. He took her hand and he led her back to us. The last time I saw her, she was once more herself.”
“A touching story of the healing power of God,” said the archbishop, “but I fail to see—”
“If you will permit me,” said Sir Ander. “I believe Saint Marie is doing the same with Father Jacob. I believe that the saint found him in his darkness and she is leading him back to health. After all, the church proclaims that saints can have direct intervention in our lives.”
Dubois turned from the window to regard Sir Ander with interest. The archbishop stirred again in his chair, this time with impatience.
“You claim that Father Jacob’s madness is a miracle, Sir Ander,” said the archbishop, sniffling in disdain. “I was warned you might be difficult.”
“I believe my view to be eminently sensible, Your Reverence,” said Sir Ander. “We see the healing power of God and His saints, as you yourself just said.”
The archbishop picked up a letter. Sir Ander saw Dubois once again rock back on his heels and turn to gaze out the window.
“I have received orders from the grand bishop. His Eminence has made a decision. Father Jacob is to be committed to a lunatic asylum.”
Sir Ander was struck dumb. His jaw sagged. He could do nothing for a moment except stare in shock at the archbishop, who affected not to notice.
“You will, of course, be permitted to accompany Father Jacob. His Eminence has sent a carriage to convey the priest to the Asylum of Charenton.”
Sir Ander had once visited a lunatic asylum. A brother officer had been confined to one after he’d attacked a group of workmen under the mistaken impression they were Freyan spies. Sir Ander had been appalled at the conditions in the asylum. The inmates were locked up in cells, tied to their beds, babbling and raving. He had left thinking that hell could hardly be any worse and might possibly be better.
And those who were sent to an asylum rarely came out.
“His Eminence is the one who should be locked up,” Sir Ander said bitingly. “Father Jacob is not insane.”
“Given that you are in the grip of strong emotion, Sir Knight, I will overlook such a disrespectful remark,” said the archbishop. “His Eminence has read the reports of the healers. Please be ready to depart this afternoon. The healers will prepare Father Jacob for the journey.”
“Meaning they will bind him hand and foot, truss him up like a Michaelmas goose, and feed him opium to keep him silent,” Sir Ander said angrily. “I won’t allow it!”
“You are a Knight Protector, Sir Ander,” said the archbishop. “You are sworn to obey orders. You have no say in this matter.”
Dubois turned from the window. His expression was mild, as was his tone. “Before we act precipitously, Archbishop, I feel it incumbent upon me to remind Your Reverence of the article in canon law that states that all the healers attendant upon the patient must be in agreement before the patient can be committed. I believe one of the healers is opposed.”
The archbishop cast Dubois a startled glance, clearly surprised that he had come to Father Jacob’s defense.
“And then there is the matter of obtaining the agreement of the members of the family. I believe that Father Jacob has a brother still living—”
“A brother living in Freya!” the archbishop snapped, laying heavy emphasis upon the word. “A brother who is a notorious pirate!”
“Nonetheless, I am certain you will not want to do anything that might precipitate possible legal action against the church,” Dubois said mildly. “Do nothing in haste, Archbishop. I think you should allow the provost to handle this matter.”
“I have orders from His Eminence,” said the archbishop, almost shouting. “You yourself brought them!”
“I was not aware what was in the letter. At least let me speak to His Eminence before you decide,” said Dubois in a soothing tone.
Sir Ander was astonished to receive help from the agent of the grand bishop. Dubois was undoubtedly lying when he said he didn’t know about the orders. Dubois knew everything. Sir Ander was quick to accept Dubois’s aid, though he couldn’t help but wonder why the man had switched sides.
“Monsieur has said all the healers must be in agreement, Reverence,” said Sir Ander. “He has indicated that one is opposed. Therefore you must not proceed.”
Archbishop Lovaasen shot Dubois a furious glance. The red spots appeared once more on Lovaasen’s pale cheeks.
“Four of the healers are,” said the archbishop sourly. “Sister Elizabeth is opposed. I plan to speak to her again. I am certain she will soon be convinced that confining Father Jacob until he can recover his senses is in the best interest of her patient.”
Sir Ander wondered how long Sister Elizabeth would be able to withstand the pressure the archbishop would apply. Given the fact that this was a woman who could drill a hole into a man’s skull with a steady hand, he guessed that s
he would not yield easily.
“You are dismissed, Sir Knight. I plan to report your uncooperative attitude to the head of your order.”
Sir Ander made a stiff bow to the archbishop, and cast a grateful if puzzled glance at Dubois, and departed.
Returning to the antechamber, Sir Ander saw Brother Paul was still standing with his satchel, waiting for his audience with the archbishop. Sir Ander walked past the monk without speaking.
He was too upset to return to Father Jacob. The knight went to the palace garden where he proceded to walk off his anger. He strolled about in the shade of the spreading trees, inhaling the scent of summer roses, and eventually calmed down enough to think rationally.
If not for Dubois, Father Jacob might well have been in a straitjacket by now. Sir Ander wondered again why Dubois had come to Father Jacob’s defense. The knight was trying to figure this out when he rounded a corner of the path to find Dubois standing beside an ornamental pond, throwing crumbs to the ducks. Dubois immediately caught sight of Sir Ander. He tossed in the last of the crumbs and beckoned the knight to join him.
“Ah, Sir Ander,” said Dubois in his mild voice. “I am pleased to have stumbled upon you. I was hoping we would have a chance for a confidential talk.”
Sir Ander guessed that Dubois had not “stumbled” upon him, but had come to this very place hoping to meet him. This notion was borne out by the fact that the pond was in a clearing, surrounded by a brick patio. The trees and clipped hedgerows were some distance away, too far for someone to be able to lurk there, eavesdropping.
“Thank you for your help regarding Father Jacob, monsieur,” said Sir Ander. “I must confess I had not expected it, considering that you are the grand bishop’s agent.”
Dubois gave an enigmatic smile and cast Sir Ander a keen glance.
“We first met at the abbey following that tragic massacre of the nuns. I read Father Jacob’s report in which he mentioned green fire, and the destruction of the constructs on the columns and walls of the cathedral. I was reminded of another report Father Jacob had submitted many years ago. It was a report of the destruction of the naval cutter Defiant. Green fire was mentioned in that report, as well.”
Sir Ander was astonished. “Monsieur has an excellent memory. Not to mention that the report was placed under Seal, buried. No one was permitted to see it.”
Dubois gave a self-deprecating smile. “I am someone who is no one, Sir Knight. One question I need to ask you: You do not believe these attackers are either demons or Freyans, do you, Sir Ander?”
Sir Ander frowned and made no reply. The two had been walking slowly around the pond. Dubois came to a stop in front of Sir Ander.
“Father Jacob discovered something about this foe. I knew he could not let the matter of the green fire rest. I also know he was attacked in the streets of Westfirth prior to the attack on the city. Do not look so surprised, Sir Knight. I make it my business to know these things. Now I want to know what he found out about these people. I need to know, Sir Ander. Father Jacob would most certainly have confided in you. You may safely confide in me.”
“You must be aware, Monsieur Dubois, that I have taken an oath of secrecy regarding Father Jacob and his work.”
Dubois made an impatient gesture. “You should consider bending your oath, Sir Ander. The fate of your nation may depend on it.”
“I swore my oath before God, monsieur,” said Sir Ander.
Dubois lowered his gaze. He was a short man whose head came to Sir Ander’s chest. Dubois stared fixedly at a button on the knight’s uniform coat for a couple of moments, then shrugged.
“In that case, I bid you good day, Sir Ander.”
“Wait, monsieur,” said Sir Ander. He owed Dubois something for his intervention with the archbishop. “I promise that when Father Jacob is fully restored to health, I will tell him that you are interested in learning about what he has discovered.”
“You are very certain he will recover,” said Dubois.
“I am, monsieur,” said Sir Ander.
Dubois regarded him thoughtfully. “I warn you, Sir Ander, you do not have much time. The archbishop is undoubtedly writing to the grand bishop and the provost as we speak. I venture to suggest that the surgeon, Sister Elizabeth, will receive a summons to return to the Arcanum. Without her here to intercede for Father Jacob…”
Dubois shrugged and left the sentence hanging.
Sir Ander shook his head, frustrated. “I know the grand bishop and Father Jacob have butted heads in the past, but His Eminence chose Father Jacob to investigate the Defiant, and the murders at the abbey. Now Montagne is trying to silence Father Jacob by locking him up and telling the world he’s insane. Why, Dubois? What’s going on?”
“I have rooms at the Ivy. Send for me any time, day or night.” Dubois made a bobbing bow. “Your servant, Sir Ander. Oh, by the way, you would not happen to know how to contact Father Jacob’s brother in Freya, would you?”
“His brother is Captain Alan Northrop, the Freyan privateer. Captain Northrop tried to kill Father Jacob,” said Sir Ander. “Needless to say, the brothers do not communicate.”
“I seem to recall hearing as much,” said Dubois. “Good day to you, Sir Ander.”
Dubois bowed again, sauntered off, and was soon lost amid the shrubbery. Sir Ander gazed after the pudgy little man and thought how much he detested church politics and intrigue. Then he returned to sit with Father Jacob and express his grateful thanks to Sister Elizabeth for her warning.
* * *
After leaving the knight, Dubois walked for some time in the garden. He was not enjoying the roses or admiring the hedges that had been fancifully pruned to resemble chess pieces. He was sorting his thoughts and observations, studying them, considering them, classifying them, and—clerklike—tucking them neatly away in the pigeon holes in his mental rolltop desk.
Now in his forties, the only son of a clerk in an accounting firm, Dubois had been sent to a church-run boarding school for boys with the understanding that when he was fourteen, he would obtain a job as a clerk. He was determined not to spend his life as his father had spent it, his back stooped from bending over a desk, spectacles perched on his nose, his index finger permanently stained black with ink.
Even as a boy, Dubois had impressed people with his remarkable mental abilities. His memory was so accurate that he could quote the writings of the saints verbatim. He was observant and inquisitive, a quiet boy who spent his time listening.
The parish priest had considered it a shame that such talents would be wasted toting up numbers all day. He had persuaded an attorney friend to hire the young Dubois as a law clerk. The priest kept an eye on the young man, and when Dubois was in his twenties, brought him to the attention of the grand bishop. Dubois proved himself so useful to His Eminence that before long he had become his most trusted agent.
Dubois kept His Eminence informed about the doings of the king, the intrigues of the Countess de Marjolaine, the plots and schemes of Sir Henry Wallace, and the actions, overt and covert, of other kings and queens, princes, and prelates the world over. Dubois had agents of his own in every royal court. He had agents spying on his agents and spies spying on the spies. Dubois had, in short, become essential to His Eminence, which meant he wielded power over the grand bishop.
Dubois did not abuse his power. A devout man, he was loyal to his master, believing the grand bishop was God’s representative here below. Dubois saw himself as God’s agent, protector of the church and protector of the grand bishop, which meant, as Dubois saw it, that he needed to know the grand bishop’s secrets. Ferdinand de Montagne trusted Dubois implicitly and, up until now, had been glad to share his secrets with his confidential agent.
Lately, Dubois had become aware that Montagne had a secret he was not willing to share; a secret so deep and so dark that it was literally eating the man up inside. The grand bishop was dyspeptic; he had visibly lost weight; he was awake at all hours of the night; and he was in a foul mood.<
br />
Granted, the grand bishop was heavily involved in the worsening situation of the disputed city-state of Braffa, having sided with Estara against King Alaric, for he was allies with Travia in their claim on the refineries in Braffa that produced the liquid form of the Breath used to power the ships of the royal navy. Yet Braffa was not the problem. Even as Montagne was studying reports on Braffa, he would toss them aside to read the account of some low-level healer regarding Father Jacob Northrop.
“Saint Marie,” the grand bishop had muttered once in Dubois’s hearing. “What the devil is the man doing talking to Saint Marie?”
Afterward, the grand bishop had fallen into a dark and brooding silence and a day later had decided that Father Jacob was a threat to himself and others and that he should be sent to a lunatic asylum.
“Is the provost in agreement with this decision?” Dubois had asked, startled.
“He will be when I have explained the circumstances,” the grand bishop had said. “Make the arrangements.”
“But, Your Eminence—”
“You have your orders, Dubois!” the grand bishop had said, scowling.
Dubois had read up on canon law and secular law—just in case—and he had then traveled from the grand bishop’s seat at Evreux to Westfirth, ostensibly to carry out his orders, but in reality to assess the situation firsthand. As Dubois had traveled, he had asked himself the same question Sir Ander had asked him.
Montagne is trying to silence Father Jacob by locking him up and telling the world he’s insane. Why? What’s going on?
Whatever the dread secret was, Dubois thought, not for the first time, it had something to do with those who attacked the abbey and Westfirth.
He glanced at his pocket watch and saw that the afternoon was wearing away. He had an appointment with his physician to examine a gunshot wound Dubois had suffered a month ago at the hands of Lord Captain Stephano de Guichen. The wound was healing nicely, though Dubois found that his shoulder ached when it rained.
On his way out of the palace, he saw Brother Paul leaving the office of the archbishop, undoubtedly the bearer of a furious letter from the archbishop regarding Dubois’s meddling.
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