The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (9 page)

BOOK: The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)
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Benedict had followed him
outside. “What do you mean, ‘see’ them?”

The bishop’s eyes glowed. “I see
that clan, the lot of them, living down in the
barrio
negrito
. The women in their
scandalous clothing, children running like wild creatures. Heathens!”

He held the box out before him
and began walking, as if following a compass. Benedict trailed along.

The two men wound their way
through twisting streets and narrow alleys, the neighborhoods changing as they
left the church properties, then the upper-class merchants’ homes, then the
small
tiendas
of the working class, finally passing through a low gateway to what had
previously been the Jewish quarter before that group had been driven out and
the itinerant sorts had moved in.

Four women with long, wild hair
were sitting on short stools beside a stone wall, peeling oranges into a bowl.
Nearby, several children ran and whooped. Benedict recognized one dark-haired
boy as the one who had been healed by the old woman. As if a silent whistle had
sounded through the group, they all looked up at the two clergymen. One woman
shouted a single word.

The fruit bowl went flying—a
flash of skirts, mothers grabbing at the hands of their children—and the
gypsies scattered.

Andreas shoved the wooden box
into Benedict’s hands and gave chase. Only one little boy was not quite so
quick—the others got away. Andreas closed his fingers around the child’s arm
and yanked him to a halt.

“Where are your parents?” he
demanded.

The boy’s eyes were as wide as
the full moon.

“Where! You must tell me!”

In a flash, the child’s fear
switched to defiance. His small mouth hardened.

The bishop spun the boy around,
grabbing both arms and lifting the lad from the ground. “Tell me! Where are
they?”

The boy’s bladder let go and a
yellow stream hit the cobbles, splashing the bishop’s soft leather shoes. He
let out an invective and threw the child against the stone wall. The little one
was stunned for only a moment before he scrambled to his feet and ducked into a
tiny passageway, dragging one leg.

“Andreas! Did you need to injure
him? Our Lord said—”

“Shut up!” The bishop stared at
his ruined shoes, then spun and stomped back toward the cathedral.

Benedict trailed at a distance, a
rushing sound in his ears, a sick feeling in his stomach. Had it really come to
this? The effort to bring all citizens into the Church—and now people were
being chased in the streets, forced to hide and to lie. Children being harmed
by a man of God. He halted and stared down at the box in his hands. This was
not right.

He began to formulate a plan.
There were two boxes. He felt a new resolve as he resumed walking.

At the monastery, several people
were gathered outside the bishop’s office. Among them, Benedict recognized
Rodrigo Garcia, a successful merchant who had been most generous in his gifts
to the Church. The man was shouting, his face livid. It took only a moment to
realize that Rodrigo and his wife had been nearby when the incident happened
with the child. An archbishop was listening intently. Benedict veered toward
the sleeping quarters, seeking the sanctuary of his own small room.

Inside, he dropped the box on his
thin mattress and fell to his knees.
Help
me
, he prayed.
Help me to right these
wrongs.
When he opened his eyes his gaze fell to the box. He took it
between his hands and thumbed the lid open. A scene appeared, a moving tableau
that showed the barrio where he and the bishop had been a short time ago. A
door, once painted blue but now faded and chipped ... a narrow set of stone
steps inside ... a room with primitive cooking facilities and a single loaf of
bread ... another wooden box. The one with the stones attached to it. The box
sat on a shelf. He knew somehow that it was the one the gypsy woman had used to
heal.

Could it be that one box bestowed
powers for good, the other for evil? Benedict had witnessed the bishop perform
an evil act after staring into this box, the one he held now, and yet he felt
no malice in his heart as he looked at it. Perhaps each box took on the
personality and intentions of the holder. The one thing he did know—they held
too much power to be out there in the hands of people who could wield it
unthinkingly. He needed to obtain the other box and then he needed to destroy
them both.

Someone tapped at his door.
Hastily, he threw a blanket over the box.

“I am leaving for Rome in the
morning,” Andreas said without preamble. He closed the door behind him and
lowered his voice. “We will not speak of today’s events, you and I. Where is
that carved box?”

“I do not know.” He shifted so
that his robes blocked a view of the bed.
God
forgive me for the lie
.

“What? Do you mean that you left
it behind?”

“I suppose so. I do not
remember.”
And for the second one.

The bishop seemed agitated but he
went away. Benedict remained in his cell-like room through supper and evening
prayers, into the dark hours of the night when the monastery and cathedral
became silent. Then he made his way quietly through the streets.

 

*
* *

 

Sophia stood in darkness at the
top of the stairs, listening to the soft voices below. A caller had arrived
minutes earlier and Miguel stood talking with him. It was Rodrigo Garcia, a
friend whose family socialized with the Boregas. Without revealing her
presence, she caught only scattered words. Enough to know that the danger was
closer than ever to this home. Apparently Garcia had done something today which
now had the Inquisitioners looking into his business contacts and friends.
Miguel said something about planning a holiday with the family.

“Do not tell me where you are
going,” said the other man. “Go very quietly.”

It was the first Sophia had heard
of a vacation. The portraits were not finished. Everyone, it seemed, was
running scared. She tiptoed back to the third floor.

“Papá, we must go,” she whispered
when they were alone in his bedroom. She explained the overheard conversation
but did not mention her certainty that the priest had taken the carved box the
previous day. The less said about the artifact, the better.

“I believe evidence is being
gathered against us and against the Boregas. They will be unable to protect
us.”

“But we have no money,” he
protested. “I’ve not been paid for my work. How will we travel? Where will we
live?”

“It will be all right. I am not
sure how, but it will.”

He nodded. An artist’s livelihood
was uncertain in the best of times.

“We can go back to Toledo,” he
suggested.

She shook her head. “Not yet. The
Inquisition is as active there, if not more so. It may be some time before we
can return to our home.”

He seemed befuddled.

“Papá, let us go quietly to your
studio. On the pretense that we are cleaning and organizing your materials,
choose only those things you must have. We can probably walk out with my shopping
bag, but it cannot appear that we are moving away.”

His eyes darted back and forth as
he considered this, his forehead wrinkling and his chin quivering.

“Papá, be strong for me.” Yet, somehow,
she knew that it was she who would need to be strong for both of them. Wherever
they stopped, perhaps in France, perhaps across the sea somewhere, she could
find a midwife to apprentice herself to. She could learn the healing arts and
find a way to support them.

The cathedral bells chimed
midnight as they left the Borega house, keeping to the shadows as they made
their way toward the edge of the city.

 

*
* *

 

Father Benedict felt breathless
as he closed his door and leaned against it. Two of the gypsy men had spotted
him leaving their neighborhood. Attempting to outrun or outwit them in the maze
of unfamiliar alleyways where they lived would have been foolhardy. He’d relied
on his robes—both to conceal the stolen box and to bluster his way through with
the voice of religious authority. They had trailed him nearly all the way to
the cathedral.

He shoved the box with the
colored stones on it under his bed, next to the other one, and moved his small
trunk of possessions in front of them. Now, to find an implement he could use.

A team of builders had been
working for months on a new porch for the rectory. Surely there would be a
heavy stone at the site. He wound his way through the cloisters, into the nave
and out a side door near the narthex. As expected, a pile of cut stones waited
for the crew to arrive at daylight. He bent to pick up one, only to discover
that the blocks weighed far too much. He looked for a smaller one.

At last he found one he could
lift—and it would certainly do a fine job of smashing the wooden boxes—but if
anyone were to see him struggling with the burden or to hear him carrying out
the task in his room, there would be no sensible explanation. He should have
brought the boxes to this location.

Retracing his steps, he retrieved
the boxes and returned. Side by side on the ground, they looked benign enough.
One could never guess the power that came from them. He picked up his chosen
chunk of stone and managed to raise it to the height of his chest.

“What are you doing?”

The shout made his heart thud.

Bishop Andreas rushed across the
moonlit work area, his white robe making him appear like a frantic bird. He
stubbed his toe and let out an oath.

“Where did you get those boxes?”
he demanded as he came within a few yards.

Benedict’s instinct was to set
his stone down and answer politely, with proper deference. But the bishop’s
earlier action against the little dark-haired child came back to him, flashing
in an ugly scene before him. He held the stone high, maintaining eye contact
with the bishop.

“Do not do this!” Andreas was no
more than three feet away now.

It was a direct order and yet
Benedict knew in his heart that he could not obey it. He dropped the stone.

One wood splinter zipped by his
cheek, opening a small gash. Andreas made an undignified dive at the boxes, one
of which had apparently only been grazed along one edge by the heavy stone. The
bishop scooped the object into his arms and rolled aside while Benedict stared
in mute dismay.

The second box had survived
intact. The priest reached for the stone once more. It was imperative that he
strike another blow, that he destroy at least one of these repugnant objects.

Before his fingers touched the
rough rock, something slammed into him. Andreas had cast aside the rescued box
and was now out to save the second one. In a moment of clarity Benedict
wondered what an observer would think; two holy men tussling on the ground like
children fighting over a toy.

His head struck something hard on
the ground. An incredible stab of pain went through him. His teeth ground
together and his vision went black.

 

*
* *

 

Beneath the solid walls of St.
Peter’s Basilica, winding under the various buildings of the Vatican, run a
series of catacombs and tunnels. The man in white robes carried his parcel with
the reverence he had been told it deserved. Velvet wrappings cushioned the item
and cords were tied in such a manner as to prevent tampering—sealed with wax in
each place they came together, a holy seal pressed into the wax.

As explained to him, the unseen
object had made its way across the south of Spain, through the waters of the
Mediterranean, and into Rome under holy edict from Bishop Andreas himself. Two
men had died in the course of its journey. This man did not want to become the
third.

He and his two-person entourage
located the designated storage place, set the rectangular object inside, and
moved a stone in front of it, as prescribed. With a stick of charcoal he made a
small symbolic mark on the stone. Only one more step, then his duty would be complete.

 
 

Chapter
3

OSM

 

The man in the brown robe paused
at the corner of Via
dei
Corridori
.
Ahead lay the shapes of the clustered buildings of the
Basilica di San Pietro, marked by the distinctive obelisk
rising above them into the evening sky. A chill wind fluttered his robes and
moved scraps of ragged cloud across the face of the waning gibbous moon.

He paused, looked around and, not seeing anyone, turned the corner quickly
and entered a narrow stone building beside the piazza. Down a short set of
steps he came to a small chamber lit by three candles. Four men waited there—a
monsignor, two archbishops and a cardinal. No names were exchanged; all were
familiar to each other by reputation and position.

In front of the cardinal, at the head of the table, sat a cloth-wrapped
parcel tied with cords which were sealed with wax. When Father Benedict took
his seat their leader broke the wax seals, pulled back the velvet wrapping and
revealed a carved wooden box with a dull brown finish and small colored stones
mounted on it.

“I retrieved this from its hiding place. It is time for us to decide what
to do.”

“Only the one box?”

“It is all that remains.”

“But I saw two—” The priest paused, the truth dawning. Andreas took this
one, apparently making good on his oath to see that it came to a secure place.
But the second box? God alone could know where it was now. Andreas may have
kept it for himself. Benedict had never forgotten the glitter of raw greed in
the older man’s eyes.

For the benefit of the three younger men, the leader asked Father Benedict
to repeat the story of the events of more than ten years ago.

“It was in Spain, Sevilla to be exact. A band of gypsies was seen
practicing unholy acts of magic and witchcraft using this box. At the same
time, I discovered another of very similar design. I feared that both boxes
might be used in service of the devil’s power. I meant to destroy both boxes
but our Bishop Andreas convinced me otherwise.”
By knocking me to the ground.
“This box survived a blow from a
heavy stone building block.”

The men around the table exchanged furtive glances.

“In hindsight, I believe his decision was correct. If shattered, small
scraps of wood from these artifacts might have been used as talismen by those
with evil in their hearts.” He touched his cheek where the splinter that struck
him had festered and left a scar. “It was best that the box come here to be
locked away and protected by holy men of knowledge and purity.”

“And the second box?” asked one of the archbishops.

Benedict shrugged. “I fell, losing consciousness. When I awoke it was
gone.”

More shuffling in their seats. Benedict briefly wondered who in this room,
other than himself, knew more than he was saying.

The cardinal spoke up: “It is the opinion of those in high places within
the Church that no good can come from the use of such artifacts. It is our
mandate to gather and destroy them.”

Benedict took a risk in speaking. “We must be cautious of the powers of the
box. This one should have been smashed into a thousand pieces by the stone that
I cast upon it, yet no harm came to it.”

A rustle of robes, a flicker of the candles.

“Perhaps the boxes are linked in some way. The power of one cannot be
destroyed because it is receiving help from the other?” suggested another of
the men.

“That idea sounds dangerously pagan in itself,” cautioned the leader.

“I only meant, Holiness, that somehow with
God’s
help the boxes are linked. As twins, as two halves of a
whole.”

The leader pushed back the sleeves of his cloak, his expression thoughtful.
“Perhaps.”

“We must place this one back into its hiding place until we locate the
other,” suggested the monsignor at the opposite end of the table. “When we have
both, we can bring them out and place a holy edict upon them declaring that
their destruction is, in itself, the divine will of God.”

The leader nodded. “A wise idea.”

The man beside Benedict shifted in his chair. So far, he had not spoken.
“And how are we to locate the others?”

“The
one
other,” Benedict
corrected.

“There are stories of a third box,” the man insisted.

Startled silence. Even the leader had nothing to say. After a few moments’
quiet the men became
restive
.

Their leader sensed he would lose control unless he proposed an idea. “We
will begin with the mission of locating Bishop Andreas. Even though he has left
Rome, Vatican records will show where he went. We shall locate the box which he
last possessed. Andreas may have knowledge of the third.”

“Andreas is dead. Whereabouts of the other two boxes are unknown,” stated
the
quiet
one.

“How do you know this?” Benedict demanded.

The quiet man fixed him with a hard stare that caused the priest’s skin to
itch. “Accept it as fact.”

The leader cleared his throat. “In that case, we shall begin at the
beginning. It is imperative that we control the power of these artifacts of
mystery, that they not be allowed into the hands of the populace. Great
destruction would ensue.”

Devastation to the Church itself, Benedict thought. He kept his mouth shut.

“Begin at the beginning?” the man on the cardinal’s left scoffed. “When
there was only the heaven and the earth?”

The leader saw the meeting quickly spiraling out of his control. He slapped
his hand against the table’s polished top. “I mean—we must go about this with a
plan. We shall, this night, form an organization with the sole purpose of
locating and confiscating any article of a mystical nature, any item that might
be used for the proliferation of ideas outside the beliefs of the one and true
Church, as decreed by the Holy Father.”

Heads nodded. This mission fell well within the undertaking of the
Inquisition. There would be no question that their motives were the purest,
their objective of the highest calling.

Their leader saw his advantage increase. “We shall call the organization
the
Officii Studendi potest Mystici
,
although we will not in fact
study
mystical objects but will keep them out of the hands of those who would
practice any method of healing, conjuring, or seeing which does not conform to
our teachings. We are saving these souls from condemnation,” he added.

The outspoken monsignor brought up a point. “These artifacts are small—they
could have been easily transported—perhaps out of the country, to some other
nation.”

“The reach of the Church knows no national boundaries. It is God’s will
that we pursue these abominations wherever they are. I would commission each of
you to establish offices of our organization elsewhere. We must be capable of
exerting a long reach.”

“Since the time when Ferdinand and Isabella combined their two nations,
there has been talk of Spain sending explorers to establish new trade routes. A
man named Columbus is working to secure funding for such a voyage. We must
accept the fact that Europe will no longer be the only place for God’s work.”

“Yes. I am aware of this,” said the cardinal with an impatient wave of his
hand. “Already, the Church is making great plans to spread the word of God to
new lands. If—Lord help us—these boxes should be carried outside of Europe,
then our offices must also extend to every corner of the world.”

The holy man’s words resonated, the mood lightened, and excited chatter
erupted as ideas flowed. Bells from the nearby basilica began to chime,
reminding them that the hour was very late.

As they rose from their chairs the leader cautioned, “Go one by one. It is
best that no one, even in this holy part of the city, realize that we are
meeting. I myself, shall secure the artifact in a new, safer locatiaon. Secrecy
must be our watchword.”

Benedict walked up the steps, the last to leave. At the end of the street
he watched their leader turn a corner. On impulse he hurried forward and
followed the one man who would know where the carved box was to be hidden.

 

BOOK: The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)
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