The Whispering of Bones (11 page)

Le Picart raised him against the pillows and frowned anxiously as Charles grimaced with pain. “Can you do this?”

“Shhh!” Charles glanced toward the infirmarian's chamber beyond the altar. “If you make a fuss about me, I think Frère Brunet might sit on me like a hen with an ailing chick.”

“Uncomfortable for the chick.” Le Picart grinned at him and looked toward the outer door. “You may come,” he called, and went into the little chamber where Brunet mixed his medicines.

Charles watched Charles-François de Vintimille du Luc march down the room, the long wig bouncing on his shoulders. “
Bonjour
, Charlot.”

His cousin made him a stiff bow. “I am sorry you're unwell.”

“It's no great matter. I understand you're leaving Paris.”

Charles-François's stare was cold. “Your rector says you've seen Amaury. I, of course, was turned away. What did Amaury say to you?”

“Nothing you don't already know. That he's wanted to join the Society for a long time and is glad to be where he is.”

“Balls. And who was watching him and listening when he said so?”

“Only he and I were in the room.”

Charles-François glanced in the direction Le Picart had gone and lowered his voice. “So they know you've become base enough to report to his superiors. You turn my stomach, all of you!”

Charles squinted against the light, as though if he could see his cousin better he could make sense of what he said. “What are you imagining, Charlot? That the Society is so desperate for men that we hold them prisoner? Far from it, I assure you.”

“Amaury is a nobleman. You're always looking for nobles, everyone knows that's why you have colleges. You—”

“We have colleges, you idiot, because we teach! Most of our students are not noble, and many are poor.”

“Oh, yes, that's your public face. But I know more.” He slapped at one of the big, braid-trimmed pockets on the front of his coat and glared triumphantly at Charles. “Much more.”

“What do you mean?”

“You'll see.” The little man's black eyes glittered as he leaned over the bed. “Did Amaury tell you that besides abandoning his military honor, he also abandoned his betrothed wife?” His voice rose with every question. “Or is he already too corrupted to care?”

“Betrothal is not marriage.”

“If his father had been alive, he'd never have done it!”

“His father sounds like something of a tyrant.”

“Tyrant! But of course you think so. Jesuits are always undermining true authority. And why? Because you want to be the only authorities!”

Charles sighed and let his eyes close. And suddenly remembered how he'd put an end to a shouting match with his cousin when he was ten years old. “Charlot,” he said sweetly, eyes still shut, “go soak your head in the ox trough.”

The swish of a cassock and the soft sound of footsteps on the rush matting came toward the bed. “I fear we don't have an ox trough,” the rector's voice said. “But no matter, since you are leaving now, Monsieur de Vintimille du Luc. You can see that your cousin is tired and must rest.”

Charles opened one eye enough to watch the confrontation.

Charles-François turned to stare at him. “Oh, yes, I'll leave you to your lies and secrets. But your time is short. Remember that.” He strode down the row of beds, the rector on his heels.

Charles drifted into restless sleep. But he kept startling himself awake, thinking that his cousin was still talking at him.
Your time is short, you can't hide in your nest of lies and secrets. Remember that, remember . . .
The peasant woman pressed the musket's barrel hard into his back and the gathered soldiers egged her on.
Shoot, woman, he's a coward Jesuit . . .
Then Père Dainville was behind her, gazing sadly at him. There was a body at his feet, and Charles saw that it was the English scholastic Henry Wing.
How can I absolve you
, Dainville said,
until you stop the killing?

“No,” Charles cried, “he only fainted, he can't be dead!”

“Hush, lie still, you're dreaming.”

Charles blinked up at Brunet, whose face was dim in the evening light as he slipped an arm under Charles's shoulders and lifted him enough to let him drink from the cup he held. “No, don't turn away, drink every drop. There, that's right.”

Charles felt himself laid gently down again and then felt something blessedly cool on his forehead. Then the rector was there, shimmering in brilliant daylight.

“Why is he worse again?” Charles heard him say.

“The wound's more tainted than I'd thought. I've cleaned it again, and what I gave him will make him sleep. Sleep will help.”

Charles dropped through the sound of murmured prayer back into blackness. He slept through the coming and going of light, woven inexplicably with dreams, voices, and people bending over him. Père Thomas Damiot came, and Père Jouvancy. At one point, he opened his eyes to find the English scholastic peering anxiously at him.

“You're not dead,” Charles croaked, his mouth so dry he could hardly make words. “I told him so.”

“Dead?” The pale blue eyes widened and the young man crossed himself. Then he looked over his shoulder and whispered in Charles's ear, “She said to tell you she's praying for you.”

Charles turned his head from side to side on the pillow. “No. She wouldn't.”

He fell back into sleep, where the woman who wouldn't pray for him, the woman with the musket, was waiting to curse him and the rest of the soldiers into the depths of hell. The next time he woke, the infirmary was dark except for the small sanctuary light on the altar. He lay staring at it, afraid to move in case the dream phantoms came at him again out of the night. Slowly he realized that the stab wound wasn't aching and that the air felt cool around him. He turned his head as light shone in the doorway of the infirmarian's small chamber.

“Frère Brunet?”

“Ah, you're better,
maître
!” He put a hand on Charles's forehead and nodded.“Thanks be to God, your fever broke near midnight, and your skin's still cool.” Brunet put his candle down, lifted Charles on his arm, and held a cup to his lips. “Drink, you've sweated enough for a team of horses.”

Charles drank gratefully and lay back again. “What day is it?”

“Monday morning. The clock just rang four.”

“How long have I been here now?”

“Since Wednesday night.”

Slowly, Charles pieced the days together. “My cousin was here.”

Brunet nodded. “On Saturday. But then you grew worse again, so you probably don't remember much since then.”

“Père Dainville? Is he buried?”

“He is. In Saint Louis, as near the altar as we could get him. With enough big white candles for the ceremony to chase away every shadow in the church.”

“I wish I'd been there.”

“I know. But he was greatly loved and he's gone where we all hope to go.” Brunet sighed. “No need to worry for
him
, at least.”

Charles look sharply at the infirmarian. “Are you worrying for someone else?”

Brunet frowned and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I don't know that I should tell you.”

“
Mon frère!
You can't say so much and not tell me. Do you want me to lie here and worry and be on your hands longer than I might?”

“I'm thinking maybe you
should
stay here.” Brunet's face was oddly grave. “But yes, fretting's bad for you, so I'll tell you. It's that scholastic.”

“Wing?” Charles grabbed Brunet's sleeve. “The Englishman? What's happened to him?”

“No, no.” Brunet tsked and patted his patient's hand. “Not him. Oh, what's the man's name? That one who's sour as a Spanish lemon.”

Sour as a lemon? “Maître Richaud?” Charles said.

“That's him. He's disappeared. No one's seen him since Friday.”

C
HAPTER
10

THE FEAST OF ST. NARCISSE, WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 29, 1687

C
harles was still in the infirmary, but better than Frère Brunet had expected him to be so soon. The afternoon was mild, windless and sunny, and Brunet had let him out into the garden to sit on a sheltered bench. Charles leaned contentedly against the garden wall, listening to the sounds of the boarding students' after-dinner recreation coming from the Cour d'honneur. Though it was the day's quiet recreation hour, bursts of laughter and occasional shouts rose in the still air.

Then the sound of someone coming made him lean carefully forward to look along the side of the infirmary building. The Englishman, Maître Henry Wing, hurried through the garden and stopped in front of him, holding out a book.

“Are you better, Maître du Luc? I've brought your Saint Augustine. Someone came from the infirmary during dinner to say you needed it, and I was sent to bring it to you.”

“Thank you,
maître
.” Charles took the copy of extracts from
The Confessions
and laid it on the bench. Brunet had finally given him permission to read and he'd decided on St. Augustine, that saint's thought being less eye-crossing to follow than St. Thomas's. “Yes, I'm much better.”

Without waiting to be invited, Wing plumped himself down on the bench beside the book. “I've been wondering where you come from? Your accent is strange.”

Not stranger than yours
, Charles thought, smiling at the Englishman. “I come from Languedoc. That's the south of France,” he added, seeing that Wing was about to ask.

“Oh. I'm English, you know.”

“Yes,” Charles said, straight-faced. “I do know. From Saint Omer, I understand.” He smiled ruefully. “I've been to Saint Omer.”

“To the Jesuit college?”

“No. I fought in the Netherlands war. I was in the battle of Saint Omer in seventy-seven.”

Openmouthed, Wing examined Charles from head to foot. “You fought?”

Charles nodded patiently.

The Englishman shook his head in astonishment. “So you were a
soldier
?”

Charles eyed Wing, wondering if he was slightly simple-minded. “Yes.”

“I could never do that.”

“You should thank God you've never had to.”

“Oh, but He knows I couldn't. Everyone knows that. That's why I fainted after that man attacked you. I thought he was going to kill me, and I was too afraid even to run.” Wing shrugged, and his smile returned. “My sisters are the brave ones in the family. I've always been a coward. I don't mind, but my father does.”

It was Charles's turn to study his companion in astonishment. Wing had said he was a coward exactly as he'd said he was English, simply offering information. But of course, his Latin was heavily accented. Perhaps he hadn't said what Charles thought he'd heard.

“
What
did you say?”

Wing laughed merrily. “My Latin accent's as bad as yours, isn't it? I said I'm a coward.” He looked up at the last yellow leaves on the chestnut tree towering over them. “What a beautiful day. I'd heard it rains all the time in Paris. Like in Saint Omer. And in Yorkshire, that's where my family lives. He sobered. “I miss them, but I was glad to leave England. Too many people hate Catholics there; it's very frightening. I thought that when we got King James, him being Catholic, it would all be better. It's not, but God must have a reason, don't you think? Maybe I'll understand more about it from studying theology. Did you know I'll be going with you to the Novice House on Wednesdays and Fridays for the Saint Augustine class? I went this past Friday with poor Maître Richaud.” Wing leaned toward him. “Have you heard he's disappeared?”

“The infirmarian told me no one's seen him since Friday. So he disappeared after the two of you came back from the Novice House?”

“Yes. He left after dinner and never returned.” Wing shuddered and looked around the garden. “I wonder if that man who attacked you got him. Do you suppose he's going around killing Jesuits?”

“If he is, he's going to be a very busy murderer.” Wing missed the sarcasm, and his round face grew even more alarmed. Charles hurried to reassure him, “That was only my joke,
maître
. There's no reason to think that Maître Richaud's disappearance has anything to do with the man who attacked me.” But there was equally no reason to assume it didn't, Charles thought. It was hard to imagine that Richaud, a stickler for the letter of every law, would have just walked away on his own. If someone else had lured or forced him away, that boded very ill for Richaud, indeed.

“Well,” Wing said dubiously, “I hope you're right.” He gave Charles a guilty look. “I shouldn't say this, since Maître Richaud may be dead, but I'm not at all sorry he won't be going with us to the Novice House.”

“Why?”

“He made it clear that he doesn't approve of me. I think it was because of the girl.”

Charles turned toward him on the bench and grimaced as his wound protested. “What girl?”

Wing reddened. “On the way to the Novice House, she—the girl, or young woman, I should say—came out of the bookshop, that one with the sign of the saint playing with the dog. She'd heard what happened to you in the chapel and she wanted to know how you were.”

“She did?” Charles felt warmed and pleased. “A thin young woman with very dark blue eyes?”

“Almost blue-purple, yes. Aren't they pretty? She said she's been praying for you. But Maître Richaud was very angry with me because I stopped and answered her question. He went on and on about how wrong I was to let a young woman talk to me in the street. But I think it would have been very rude to ignore her,” Wing said indignantly.

“It would indeed have been rude. Maître Richaud does not like women. And you weren't talking to her alone, he was right there with you. You did nothing wrong.”

“No. I didn't really think I had. But being scolded always confuses me.” Wing rose from the bench. “So do you think you'll be allowed to go to the Novice House on Friday? I don't want to go all that way alone like I did this morning! We could walk very slowly and I'd carry your satchel for you.”

“That's kind. But it depends on Frère Brunet giving me leave.”

“I'll pray he does! God bless your recovery.”

The Englishman left and Charles went slowly back into the infirmary, his small store of energy gone. He put his book on the table beside his bed and was asleep almost before he was lying down. When he woke, bells were ringing for Vespers and the light was fading. As shadows gathered in the long room, he thought about Richaud and hoped that somewhere the crabbed scholastic was alive to watch the evening come.

Feet thumped down the stairs from the student infirmary, and Frère Brunet came in with a candle. “Evening's starting to rise so early now, I thought you'd like some light for your book,
maître
.”

Charles pushed his pillows against the white plaster wall and slowly and carefully sat up against them. Brunet put the candle in a wall sconce above the bed and laid a hand on Charles's forehead.

“How do you feel?”

“Much better,
mon frère
. I was lying here wondering if there's any news of Maître Richaud.”

“Not one little morsel. All anyone here knows is what Frère Martin's said a thousand times now, that Maître Richaud went out the postern door just after Friday's dinner—the boys were still playing in the courtyard. He told Frère Martin he had permission to go on an errand. But when the rector asked about that, no one had given him any permission.”

“Do you think he's dead?” Charles said bluntly.

Brunet crossed himself. “I don't see what else there is to think. You know how he was about breaking rules. Everybody in the college—especially us lay brothers—knows, since he was always telling everyone exactly
how
they were breaking them.” He gave Charles a sheepish look. “I shouldn't speak ill of him, since he might well be dead. But the man was a sore trial.”

“You're not the only one who thinks so,
mon frère
. But I hope he's not dead.” He grinned at Brunet. “Maybe God is just seeing to it that Maître Richaud has some—um—salutary experiences.”

Brunet returned the grin. “I hope so, if he's coming back!” He went into his herb room beyond the altar, and Charles opened his Augustine. But instead of reading, he stared at the soft, worn pages and thought about Richaud, and about Wednesday night's attack. A dead intended novice, a nearly dead scholastic, and now a disappeared scholastic. Was it possible that someone actually was after random Jesuits? Charles gave up all pretense of reading and skeptically examined that thought. Jesuits had been hated for one thing and another almost since the Society's founding. Charles had never really understood why, except that they were a young order created for a new time and the church's new needs. They didn't live like most of the older orders, safely behind cloister walls. Nor did they wander like the old friars. Jesuits lived in colleges and Professed Houses and Novice Houses, working in the world, including the social and political world. Their presence in the political world angered many people. Charles himself disliked political tangles, but political life was human life, and wherever human souls were, there Jesuits
had
to be, if their work was to help souls. It was only logical. If God was everywhere, shouldn't his servants be everywhere, also?

But for more than a few Frenchmen and others, the answer to that was a resounding no. The sternly critical Jansenists, fellow Catholics, found the Society of Jesus too tolerant and lax in its teaching. The Gallicans, who wanted France and its church to be free of all non-French influence, accused Jesuits of wanting to put both church and king under the pope's thumb, and of being in every way too international. Some Gallicans carried their thinking to such an extreme that they seemed to think God Himself was French. Charles sighed and picked up his book again.

But when the bell rang for supper, he was reading the same page for the third time. He suddenly remembered the sentences that Père Quellier, the St. Augustine teacher, had quoted on Wednesday.

“The mind commands the body and the body obeys instantly.”

Definitely true, because he'd told himself to pick up the book and open it, and he'd done exactly that.

“The mind commands itself and meets resistance.”

Even more true, because he'd read the page in front of him three times without gleaning any idea of what it said. Well, he told himself, he hadn't read much, but he'd gotten some thinking out of his effort at studying. He looked up with relief as Père Brunet came bustling in with his supper. Brunet plunked the tray down on Charles's lap and they said the table grace and crossed themselves. Then Brunet cleared his throat and put his hands on his wide hips.

“I don't suppose you've heard the news,” he said, obviously waiting for Charles to say no.

“What news?”

“Maître Richaud, God save him.”

Charles put down his spoon and stared at Brunet. “Dead?”

“Seems so. Somebody found his cassock. Blood-soaked. The other side of the river, somewhere between the old temple and Saint Martin's abbey.”

Looking in horror at each other, Charles and Brunet slowly crossed themselves.

“Why do they think it's his? There are plenty of Jesuits in Paris.”

“Stands to reason, doesn't it? It's a Jesuit cassock and, so far as anyone knows, there's no other Jesuit missing in Paris. A monk of Saint Martin's found it this afternoon and took it to the Professed House. The Professed House rector knew, of course, that Maître Richaud had disappeared, and he sent the monk on here. Père Le Picart says that little tin medal of Saint Jacques Richaud wore on his rosary was with the cassock, though the other medal he wore, the little silver one of the Virgin, wasn't there. But silver—no one would leave that, would they?” Brunet shook his head. “Well, he's in God's hands. Eat, now, or you'll be on
my
hands for who knows how long!”