The Priests' Code

by B. B. Balthis

  A long loaf of the local bread lay on the top of one of the kitchen cupboards and, beside it, a bowl of apricots and cherries. I opened the fridge to find it well stocked with basic foods: cheese, butter, eggs, preserves, coffee, and water. Mathilde, Arnaud’s wife, always did this if she knew I was coming, and my stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten since the sandwich at the airport, and the large wall clock told me that it was now nearly seven.

  On the table was a small vase of flowers, probably picked from my terrace, and the scent of bougainvillea wafted in through the open doors. Underneath the vase was the bill from Matilde. I noticed that she hadn’t charged for the eggs, which were probably from her own chickens, and I reminded myself to add a few extra euros when I put the money through her door tomorrow.

  I washed my hands and had soon prepared a meal of bread, butter, cheese, and honey. The simple food tasted wonderful, especially when accompanied by a glass of my favourite Valpolicella ripasso. I pushed the empty plate onto the low table in front of me and lay back on the sofa, a second glass of wine now in my hand. Picking up the phone, I dialled Caro’s number. She answered straight away and I told her that I was home but too exhausted to talk. I would call her again in the morning when I could string a sentence together.

  As I lay there, the silence of the house began to take over and soon I could hear nothing, save for the slow, deep ticking of the clock, the leaves rustling in the breeze outside, and the river far below, winding its way down to the sea. Finally, I allowed myself to think back over the events of the past few weeks that had culminated in my being here now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As a priest, I had worked in many places around the world, including Israel, Lithuania, and Italy, as well as various parts of France and the UK. I can speak several languages, including Latin. My parents insisted on it, and what had seemed unnecessary as a child had proved to be a huge advantage in my chosen work. On leaving school, I had studied languages at the Sorbonne before moving on to theology and the priesthood. My most recent post had brought me to Gloucestershire in England, where I was a temporary priest at several small, rural parishes.

  I had been doing this for almost two years now, and didn’t mind it at all. For one thing, it gave me time to do my translation work of ancient texts and manuscripts, both religious and otherwise, including poetry, which I really enjoyed. I also enjoyed visiting and researching the local churches wherever I was. There were some very old and beautiful ones in these parts, many with Templar links, which I found particularly interesting. I enjoyed the frequent changes in my work life and liked to move around, see new things, and meet new people. My home would always be in Antugnac and so I had no need to establish myself elsewhere, or to root myself in any other place. This fact had given me a certain freedom, which was a definite bonus as far as I was concerned.

  * * *

  A few weeks ago, at a local church jumble sale, I had come across a pile of old newspapers, music scores, postcards, and letters in a torn brown box. These job lots were often little more than boxes of old rubbish, but on the odd occasion I did find a few things of interest and I enjoyed the anticipation of a possible good find. On that day, I put my hand in my pocket and handed over the five-pound note that was being asked, tucked the box under my arm, and put it in the boot of the car. I had given it little thought until finally, today, I carried it into the small, church-owned cottage that had become my temporary home.

  The weather had turned cold, and a sharp wind whistled around the small courtyard garden that belonged to the cottage. Gusts pushed the slanting rain hard against the windows, and one might easily be mistaken for thinking that it was January, not late May. It was almost dark when I put a match to the already-laid wood burner, and the flames were soon roaring away and quickly began to heat the room.

  The smell of wood smoke always brought France to mind, and in particular, my grandmother. An image of her sweet face came into my head at the exact same time as the strong and unmistakable aroma of roasting chestnuts. This had happened many times before but, curiously, mostly when I was either very tired, unwell, worried, or in some sort of danger. On the two occasions when my life had been seriously threatened, I had smelt the aroma of roasting chestnuts a few minutes before.

  The first time was when a car hit me as I was crossing the road in central London. It had seemed to come out of nowhere and didn’t stop. I was lucky to not be killed, and escaped with cracked ribs and a broken leg. The second was in Paris. It was the rush hour and a sharp shove in the back nearly pushed me into the path of an incoming metro train. The platform was so crowded that it was impossible to know where the push had come from, but I was pulled back from a certain death by a strong Parisian man, to whom I was extremely grateful.

  I was sure a psychiatrist would find some logical explanation for the chestnut smell, some childhood trigger or similar, but I preferred my own theory on the matter, which was that she felt the need to show her presence as either a support or a warning.

  ‘Still roasting chestnuts, Grandmother?’ I asked aloud, in French. There was no answer, of course, and I carried my coffee to the table and started to go through the box.

  I pulled out the entire lot, and began to put it in piles: one for rubbish, one for reading later, and one for anything that might be of special interest to me. After an hour, the table and my clothes were covered in dust and my hands were filthy. About a third of the papers were still left. The rubbish pile was the largest and I put these in the log basket to use to light the next fire. The pile of immediate interest to me so far only contained some parish records, letters and cards from unknown persons, and several yellowed newspaper cuttings about the village church. I was nearing the bottom when I came across a small, tatty, leather-bound notebook. I decided to wash my hands before I looked at it, and clean up the dirt and dust on the table. This done, the phone rang and I found myself talking to the relative of a sick parishioner who might not make it through the night. I quickly pulled on my coat and drove off to attend to my priestly duties.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight when I got back: cold, wet, and tired. I heated a glass of milk and sprinkled it with freshly grated nutmeg. As I passed the table, I picked up the notebook and climbed the stairs to bed. Propped up on my pillows I opened the book, its musty, though not unpleasant, odour quickly permeating the air. At first glance, it appeared to be a journal or diary of some age, and each entry had a date at the top left-hand corner of the yellowed page. The words were faint and written in a steeply slanting copperplate script, made more difficult with elaborate swirls here and there, and I sat up further to make it easier to study.

  I opened the bedside table drawer to pull out a small magnifying glass, put there just for times like these. I could now read the first entry date quite clearly, and my eyes travelled to the next line.

  January 10th 1789

  C sent word of his arrival home from France. I am to meet with him tomorrow at C. Much relief at his return. Danger abounds and there is not one of us safe, not even in our own beds. I can only hope that we continue to be spared, and that the secret can be held in perpetuity.

  I paused here to yawn and look at the clock. It was 1.30am and, although intrigued, I had a lot to do tomorrow. Like most people, I enjoyed a mystery, and it was one of the things that made my translation work so important to me. It was never a simple thing since words rarely translated literally, and the meanings could be so easily misconstrued or even missed altogether. I took the pad of paper that always lay ready by my bedside and began to write:

  Who is C?

  Where is C?

  What secret?

  My eyes returned to the book. I couldn’t read the next sentence in full because some of the words were faded and smudged. There was also a dark stain of some sort splashed across the page. I could make out some of it though, and I wrote this down on the notepad.

  I
cannot sleep … … fears … … devastation that … come … … enemies … … … our knowledge … … free with it.

  With some reluctance, I closed the old book and put it on the side table. After tomorrow, I had a few days off, and would be able to study it in much more detail, and when I was less tired. I quickly fell asleep, leaving the wind, rain, and mysterious words of the journal to themselves for the rest of the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was bright and sunny when I woke the following morning. The rain from last night sparkled in the tiny courtyard at the back of the cottage. Everything looked fresh and clean, and the wallflowers that a previous occupant had planted smelt glorious as the heat of the sun began to evaporate the moisture from their petals. Back in the kitchen, I made my breakfast of poached eggs on toast followed by strong, black coffee. I refused to believe that the butter would eventually induce a heart attack, and anyway, as a priest, I knew that the possibilities of an early death were endless and varied, so I would enjoy it whilst I could.

  I looked at the list of visits to make this morning. Afterwards, I had a meeting with the bishop to discuss the diocese, my part in it, and various other church matters, and I was looking forward to this. He was a keen historian and we always found plenty to talk about when work was finished; I had also been invited to stay for dinner. Driving down the street, I waved to several people I knew, but pulled over when I saw the local Anglican vicar, Peter Lacy, come out from the lane that lead to the vicarage and church.

  ‘Fine morning, Ben,’ he greeted me, and put his hand in through the car window to shake mine.

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ I replied. ‘I was going to give you a call over the next day or two. I’m really interested in a guided tour of the church, including any local historical knowledge you have. It’s a fascinating building, and the relics are so unusual! I’ve been in quite a few times but would appreciate being accompanied by someone who knows it well. Could you spare the time?’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like more. It is a fascinating building, that’s true. I’m no expert, but I’ll certainly tell you what I know. When suits?’

  We arranged to meet at two the following afternoon, in the churchyard. The weather was supposed to stay fine for the rest of the week, and I looked forward to the tour. Peter was a tall, fair-haired man with piercing blue eyes that seemed to look right through you. They would certainly be intimidating if you got on the wrong side of him, but his handshake was firm and he smelt faintly of fresh juniper and pine.

  I found smell to be the most evocative of senses, and was instantly taken back to my time in Italy, particularly Naples, where many of the locals wore a similar cologne, called ‘Pino Silvestre.’ It was sold in most of the tobacconists and pharmacies, and its forest fragrance, mixed with that of strong tobacco was, for me, one of the essential essences of the area, and reminded me of the wonderful people I had met there. He cut a striking figure, with his black cassock flying out behind him in the breeze, and I watched for a moment as he strode off down the street.

  * * *

  In the next four hours, I visited the post office, a parish sacristan, and a local nursing home to give communion to two residents. I then made a quick call on a local couple that I had become very fond of. They had just had a baby and I handed over bunches of freesias that I had bought in the local shop. Ian and Gen greeted me warmly and proudly showed me their beautiful baby.

  ‘Do stay for a coffee. We’ve got cake too and the baby is due a nap.’

  ‘I’d love to, but I’ve got another visit to make, and then I’m driving up to Oxford. What about next week? I’ll give you a ring when I’m about.’

  They agreed, and I was soon on my way to a rather beautiful cottage on the outskirts of the town, to visit a man called Adrian Harcourt. The last time I had seen him he had spoken about a particularly nasty divorce and, from what I could make out, his involvement with the Church had increased after a very close brush with death a few years back. He was in his mid-fifties: was witty, sharp, and highly intelligent, and I found him to be good company.

  He had sold his national property renovation company for a considerable sum after an accident had left him with a broken back. He had fallen from collapsing scaffolding and, three years on, seemed to have made a good recovery, just occasionally using a walking stick. He came from the area, had an aunt in a nearby village, and provided me with a wealth of local knowledge, as well as an excellent glass of wine from time to time. Overall, he was an interesting character, was well read, belonged to various charitable organisations, and frequently made trips to London to attend to other business affairs which I knew nothing about. His last attribute was that he painted beautiful religious icons, which were much in demand.

  As an architect and surveyor, he helped in the diocese as an unofficial advisor in these matters, which was why I had called in that morning. His expertise was invaluable and saved us a considerable amount of money. When I arrived, I found him in his painting studio in the garden, and we sat for a few minutes on a bench in the sun as I handed over papers and letters that needed attention.

  ‘How are things, Padre?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty good,’ I answered. ‘I’m off to Oxford now to meet the bishop, and then I’ve got a few days off.’

  ‘Are you going away?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got a few things planned. I’m having a guided tour of the local church tomorrow, and I’m behind with some translation work. Oh, and I found an old journal in a box of rubbish that I bought at the last jumble sale. I’m hoping it might be from the locality, but the few bits I’ve read mention France, too. Anyway, I’ll try to have a good look at it.’

  At hearing this, he became much more alert, and shifted his position to face straight at me.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a look at that some time.’

  I found myself feeling a little uneasy, and, although not entirely sure why, I wished that I hadn’t mentioned the journal. I liked Adrian and, from what I knew, he was a decent enough man, but I made no response to his request, pretending that I hadn’t heard it. I got up, thanked him for his help, and made my way back to the car.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Driving out onto the Bibury Road, I decided to stop at the Organic Farm Shop and Café for a bowl of soup. It would be at least seven hours before dinner, and breakfast already seemed like a very long time ago. I ordered the soup and quickly made my way around the store, filling a basket with my favourite type of food: fresh and local. I paid for my shopping, ate quickly, and was soon back in the car.

  It took about an hour to make my way to Oxford, and I arrived outside the bishop’s office with ten minutes to spare. Like me, he hated lateness, and I made my way through the formal garden that was at the front of his house. Before I had a chance to knock, he flung open the door.

  ‘Benoît, so glad to see you. Did you have a good journey?’

  ‘Yes, I did, thank you. The traffic wasn’t too bad, and I parked easily, so no problems at all.’

  ‘Can I get you tea? Water? Any refreshment at all? Have you eaten lunch?’

  I assured him of this and asked for water. He beckoned me into his study and told me to make myself comfortable, which I did, in a lovely leather chair on the far side of his huge desk. He was back in a couple of minutes with tall, ice filled glasses and a large bottle of water.

  ‘So, how are things?’ he asked.

  I talked him through the events and happenings in the area that I was covering: the accounts, problems with the buildings, and generally brought him up to date with all that I thought he needed to know.

  ‘I can’t tell you how grateful I am for your standing in like this. Few priests these days want to do it. Most of them want their own parish, and that’s understandable, I suppose. Are you OK out there in the sticks on your own?’

  ‘I’m fine… I enjoy it.’


  ‘Well, it’s yet to be finalised but it looks like there will be a permanent amalgamation of the few small parishes that you’ve been covering. We would consider you for the job if you would like it? Lord knows, you’ve moved around so much, perhaps it’s time for you to settle?’

  I paused for a moment before responding to his question. At times, I had thought about what it would be like to settle down in one place and be a permanent fixture. I’d also wondered if I might be running from something, unable to stay in one place because of some sort of repressed fear or anxiety. If I were to be honest, I did sometimes feel like I was searching for something… maybe the things that were missing from my life as a priest, like a partner, or children, or something unresolved within myself? The bishop interrupted my thoughts.

  ‘Benoît? Are you alright? Is there something you want to talk to me about? You know you can tell me anything; in the strictest confidence, of course.’ I looked at his handsome face, seeing concern in his eyes. I wanted to be honest with him, and, yet, be honest about what? I barely had the words to describe my odd moments of unease. On the many occasions that we had met over the years, we had got to know each other well. He was aware of my upbringing and the area that I came from; indeed, we had discussed the region in some depth, especially Rennes-le-Château, which had been an area of intense religious and historical debate for many years.

  ‘Thanks for the concern, but I’m fine, bishop, really I am. I suppose like all priests I find myself having a mini crisis of faith at odd times, you know, when things happen that are beyond my understanding. That was especially strong when my parents died.’