The Inquisitor's Key: A Body Farm Novel Page 15

  “You can call me Father Mike. Or just plain Mike. Or anything else, except Father Halloran.”

  “I’ll go with Father Mike,” I said. “Friendly, but respectful.”

  “Once I’ve had a drop or two, you can drop the ‘Father,’ if you’re wanting to respect me a bit less.”

  I laughed. I was surprised to feel so relaxed with a priest; ever since my wife’s death, I’d had little use for organized religion or its foot soldiers. “I suspect you’re good at your work, Father Mike.”

  “Devilishly.”

  He held the exit door for me and we emerged, blinking, into the building’s courtyard. “Oh, you never answered. Do you serve a parish here in Avignon?”

  “No, but it might not be such a bad posting,” he said. “I’m just here on holliers.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Holliers. Holiday. Seeing how the other half lived, seven hundred years ago.”

  “Half? More like the other one-millionth of one percent.”

  “Arithmetic was never me strong suit, lad. Is there something I can call you besides ‘lad’?”

  “Oh, sorry. Of course. I’m Bill. Bill Brockton.”

  “A fine, honest-sounding name. And what brings you to Avignon, Bill Brockton?” He nodded at the impressive façade of the former cardinal’s palace. “And to this humble little parson’s cottage? Are you on holliers, too?”

  “Not exactly. I’m an anthropologist. I’m here to look at some bones.”

  “Bones? What sort of bones?”

  “Just some old bones found at the Palace of the Popes.”

  “A pope’s bones?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “A papal mistress, perhaps. Clement the Sixth had a niece he was mighty fond of—that’s what he called her in public, at least. Or possibly a pope’s bastard son.”

  “You do look on the bright side, don’t you, Father Mike?” He laughed. “I don’t know who it is. Realistically, probably never will. All I know for sure is that the bones are very old, and the guy died a very painful death.”

  “Must’ve had his finger in the till, then. The popes didn’t take kindly to that.” He pointed up the street. “So, Bill Brockton, I just happen to know that there’s a pub two blocks yonder way. Shall we wend our way thither, for my heavenly nectar and your hellish excuse for a beverage?”

  “AH, ME, THAT’S A SHAME,” HE SAID, WHEN I TOLD him about Rocky.

  “I feel at least partly responsible,” I added, explaining my involvement in Rocky’s case. “I need to figure out some way to help his wife and kids.”

  “Heavens, can it be? Are you an honorable man, Bill Brockton? I don’t see many of your ilk these days. My parish has seven honorable men in it.” He frowned. “No, make that six.”

  “It’s a small parish?”

  “Oh, goodness no. We have two hundred people at Sunday-morning Mass. But only a handful of those are honorable men. One in fifteen or twenty: It’s the universal wheat-to-chaff ratio for men, I’m sorry to say. In women, it’s higher. I’d say as many as one woman in three is honorable.”

  “For such a cheerful fellow, you’re mighty cynical, Father Mike.”

  “Call me crazy. Call me observant. Call me whenever there’s beer on tap.” He hoisted his mug and took an appreciative swig of Guinness.

  “So, you seem like a down-to-earth priest, Father Mike. Can I ask you something?” He nodded, licking froth off his upper lip. “When you look around Avignon at all the signs of wealth and excess and greed—the popes filling their coffers with gold, the cardinals building grand palaces like the library—how do you account for it? How do you reconcile it with the teachings of Jesus, who preached the virtues of poverty and humility?”

  “I don’t reconcile it. I can’t. It’s not reconcilable; it just is. Or was. Things are better now, I think. Not perfect, but better. I think the clergy’s less obsessed with money and power and more interested in spirituality. I hope so, anyhow. The medieval Church was a product of its times, just as the early Church was, and just as the modern church is. You know, we like to call the Church ‘the bride of Christ.’ Well, she’s like any other bride: Sometimes she’s an angel, and sometimes she’s a bitch.” His words drew a shocked laugh from me. “The church is just people, Bill Brockton. Capable of beauty and nobility, but also capable of duplicity and depravity. The bravest, noblest church work I’ve ever seen—work that raised up villagers and brought down a dictator in Latin America—was led by a priest I knew. After he was killed, I learned he was also a pedophile. Sometimes the Church enables us to do our worst; more often, I hope, it ennobles us to be our best.”

  His openness was refreshing. So was his willingness to hang on to the church’s ideals despite its failings.

  “You seem to have a bit more air in your tires now, Bill Brockton. Is that true?”

  I smiled. “Actually, it is.”

  “Then I’ll be leaving now. I’ve got a sacred mission to attend to.”

  “A mission? I thought you were on—what’s the word?—holliers?”

  “And so I am. But Dublin is playing Manchester on the telly in ten minutes. It’d be a sin to miss the start of the match.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out a pen. “I happen to know you’ve got a mobile.” He smiled. “If you’ll give me your number, I’ll call you before I leave town. I’d enjoy another chat, Bill Brockton.”

  To my surprise, I realized I would, too. Perhaps, I thought, I’ve been underestimating men of the cloth.

  CHAPTER 17

  AVIGNON

  1328

  “YOUR HOLINESS?”

  “Come in, Jacques. I have not seen you these past three days. Where have you been?”

  “I’ve been dealing with Eckhart. Your Holiness, I…There is a problem. With Eckhart.”

  “I am well aware of it,” the pope says drily. “We discuss it often, do we not? The papal crown is not so heavy, and I am not so feeble, that I have already forgotten how diligently you strive to show him the errors of his teachings.”

  The White Cardinal—heretic hound Fournier—reaches a plump hand into his robe and retrieves a handkerchief to mop his brow. Despite the autumn chill already settling into the stones of the building, his forehead glistens with beads of sudden sweat.

  “There is, Holy Father, a new problem.”

  “What is it? Have you allowed him to escape, as you did the Franciscan devil Michael, after I dragged Michael here for you to break? How could Eckhart escape, too? You told me Eckhart could no longer walk.”

  Fournier folds the handkerchief, makes another pass. “Eckhart has not escaped. Eckhart has died.”

  The pope’s ancient eyes look sharply at the man who is his protégé and doctrinal enforcer. “This preacher was already too popular with the people, Jacques. Have you now made a martyr of him?”

  The handkerchief is hopelessly inadequate to soak up the rivulets of sweat coursing down the cardinal’s face. “He was old and frail, Holiness. In his sixties.”

  “I’m eighty-five,” the pope croaks. “Do not insult me, insolent boy.” Fournier is nearing fifty—hasn’t been a boy for more than thirty years—but he’s old enough and wise enough not to quibble over terminology, especially in the midst of a scolding that makes him feel like a slow-witted pupil. “Eckhart walked here from Cologne—five hundred miles on foot—to answer the charges against him. He was not a frail man. Not when he arrived.”

  Fournier slides his tongue over his lips, back and forth, a nervous habit that looks vaguely obscene. “Perhaps the rigors of the journey took a delayed toll on him.”

  “Perhaps the rigors of your questioning proved too much for mortal flesh,” the old man replies. “Your zeal is commendable, but your measures can be excessive.”

  “How can one go too far to protect the purity of the faith, Your Holiness?”

  “By mistaking anger for righteousness, and rigidity for strength. I remember a woman you burned in Montaillou, two years after I made you bish
op. Do you?” How could Fournier forget her, that stubborn, stupid shrew who refused to break for him? But he simply nods slightly, hoping to deflect the conversation. “Remind me why you burned her?”

  “She refused to take the oath, Your Holiness. I begged her, again and again. I gave her many chances.”

  “You burned her because she would not swear to tell the truth?”

  “She would not.” Irked now, Fournier can’t resist the urge to justify himself. “And as you know, the oath is required of all who are called before the Inquisition.”

  “Was anyone else burned for refusing to take it?”

  “No one else refused, Holiness.”

  “Then perhaps no one else knew the teachings of our Lord as well as she did. Jesus said, ‘Do not swear, either by heaven or by earth or even by your own head, but simply say yes or no.’ Did he not?” Fournier inclines his head ever so slightly. “Tell me, Jacques, why was this a burning offense, this peasant woman’s refusal to swear an oath?”

  Why were half a hundred Templars burned in Paris, Fournier thinks, and four Franciscan monks in Marseilles? But he dares not voice those questions. Instead, he responds, “She defied the holy office of the Inquisition.”

  “She defied you, Jacques, and it enraged you.” The old man studies the clenched jaw and flashing eyes of his middle-aged protégé. “Cardinal Fournier, I speak now as your spiritual father. Make confession, admit to the sin of pride, and do whatever penance your confessor requires.”

  Fournier kneels, his face livid. “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “So Eckhart is dead. Died on the rack, I suppose.” Fournier does not correct the supposition; does not admit that he has broken one of the Inquisitor’s fundamental rules: Shed no blood. Instead, he makes a show of rising from his knees. The old man shakes a clawlike hand, dismissing his own question. “No matter. But we must not allow our foes to use his death against us.”

  Fournier nods. “Your Holiness is wise, as always. I will see to it.” Bowing once more, he turns to leave the audience chamber, the hem of his white cassock gliding an inch above the gritty floor, remaining—as ever—unsullied.

  “Jacques?”

  He stops, looks over his shoulder. “Yes, Holiness?”

  “Did Eckhart die in a state of grace?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. At the end—the very end—he confessed his sins, renounced his erroneous teachings, and prayed for forgiveness. It was inspiring to see him saved.” The papal head nods, or perhaps it simply dodders. Either way, Fournier chooses to interpret the gesture as a benediction, and he leaves before the pontiff can call him back.

  Descending the narrow staircase to the cells where prisoners are chained, the cardinal replays the scene once more in his mind. Only a few hours have passed, but already he has seen the scene a hundred times, exactly as he sees it again now:

  Eckhart is no longer fit for the rack—his arms and legs too badly damaged by months of torture. Despite obvious agony, the man has refused to yield; has remained stubbornly, damnably unrepentant. “Perhaps my thoughts are mistaken,” he groans, “but my heart is pure. My heart loves God completely. I cannot be a heretic.”

  “Are you so perfect?” Fournier demands. “Unblemished? The very lamb of God? So be it.” He sends the jailer to summon a carpenter, and he orders the startled carpenter to fashion a wooden cross in the cell, and to fetch rope, spikes, and a hammer. The carpenter complies, quaking in fear, then flees. Reluctantly, the jailer ties the heretic to the cross and helps wrestle it upright, leaning against the wall, but then he, too, retreats from the cell.

  Eckhart’s breathing is scarcely more than a whisper now, scarcely enough to keep him alive. Minute by minute, as he hangs from his arms and his chest sinks, he is inexorably suffocating. “I can still save you,” Fournier tells him, pressing the tip of a spike against the soft flesh of Eckhart’s left wrist. “Confess your sins, renounce your heresies, and beg forgiveness.”

  “I have no sins,” Eckhart gasps. “I have no heresies. I am at one with God.”

  The iron spike rings as the hammer smashes into it—once, twice, three times.

  The three-part sequence—demand, refusal, the ring of hammer upon spike—is repeated at the other wrist, and then at the feet.

  Incredibly, Eckhart continues to breathe, if a rasping death rattle can be called breath.

  “You have only a moment left,” Fournier tells him. “Repent, and reconcile with God.”

  “How can we be reconciled?” the old man murmurs, sparking a flame of hope in Fournier. “How can we be reconciled, when we are already one? God and I are one.”

  “Arrogant liar.” Reaching into a sleeve of his robe, Fournier takes out a dagger. “Die and be damned.” He thrusts the blade beneath the ribs of the man who, just a year earlier—just before he walked five hundred miles to defend himself at the court of the Holy Father—had been Europe’s most prominent preacher.

  CHAPTER 18

  Avignon

  The Present

  STEFAN WAS LEANING AGAINST THE WALL AT THE southwest corner of the palace, waiting beside the door where he’d made his midnight exit a few nights before. As we approached, he dropped a cigarette to the cobblestones and ground it out, then took the lanyard from around his neck and unlocked the door. The key to the palace fascinated me: It was made of silver, or perhaps steel; its head was cut with an elaborate pattern of filigreed scrollwork; branching symmetrically from two sides of the cylindrical shaft were stubby bars of varying lengths—bars that resembled ribs jutting from a spine. Never had the term “skeleton key” seemed so descriptive.

  “So. You wish to see frescoes by Giovanetti?”

  “Please,” I said. “Giotto has an alibi, so Giovanetti’s our new prime suspect.”

  Stefan rolled his eyes. “Now you think Giovanetti made the snuff movie?” Miranda had filled him in on the trip to Turin, the short-lived Giotto theory, and my conviction that the bones of Avignon were linked to the Shroud of Turin. Was there a hint of scorn in Stefan’s voice when he asked about Giovanetti?

  “He’s worth a look,” I said, trying to keep my irritation under control. “Giotto never left Italy. The bones were in France—and the Shroud first surfaced in France. So geographically, at least, Giovanetti fits the facts.” Stefan looked annoyed but took us inside.

  He led us through a labyrinth of passages and stairways I’d not seen before—how long had it taken him to learn his way around the sprawling, soaring maze of the palace?—and stopped before a locked door near the top of one of the towers. This door, too, answered to the master key, and Stefan ushered us into a room that took my breath away. Every square inch of the plastered walls and ceiling vaults was covered with vivid images: people and landscapes and buildings, scene upon scene, all set against a background of deep blue.

  “Oh, my,” breathed Miranda.

  “Beautiful,” I said.

  “Oui, not bad. This is the chapel of Saint Martial. In the third century, the pope sent him to France. They say he converted many people and made many miracles.” He pointed to specific panels, one by one. “Healing the sick. Raising the dead. Casting out devils.” The last of the ceiling panels showed an old man kneeling before a handsome, haloed saint; flapping overhead, on batlike wings, was a scaly brown demon that two angels were shooing away. “One legend,” Stefan went on, “is that Saint Valérie of Limoges—a martyr, beheaded for her faith—walked to Saint Martial carrying her head in her hands, so he could perform the last rites for her.”

  Miranda scanned the walls and ceiling. “I don’t see a headless woman on the hoof. I guess she’s offscreen, digging her own grave.”

  “You’re twisted,” I said. “You know that?” She nodded happily.

  My eye was drawn to an area where the fresco was badly damaged. The bright, vivid images were absent altogether or were reduced to faint outlines. Looking closer, I saw that a layer of plaster a half inch or so thick was missing in these areas. “What caused all the damage? Water?”


  “Non. Soldiers. During the nineteenth century, the palace was used as a military barracks. The soldiers chiseled out the faces and sold them.”

  I scanned the frescoes, and sure enough, virtually all the missing images were faces. One panel showed Jesus flanked by four followers. The four followers’ faces were gone, but Jesus remained unscathed. Pious vandals, I wondered, or just superstitious?

  I walked closer to inspect the damaged figures. Faintly traced on the base coat of plaster—the layer exposed when the surface had been pried off—was the black outline of a woman’s face: a face that fit perfectly with the undamaged body. I turned to Stefan. “Why is the outline of her face still visible? Did that bleed through the layer of wet plaster?”

  “Ah, non. That’s a charcoal sketch. A study. The artist draws the scene on the rough wall, then puts on a layer of smooth plaster. He paints the scene while the plaster is still fresh—that’s why it’s called ‘fresco.’ The paint soaks in, and voilà, it becomes part of the plaster. Over time the colors can fade, but the paint cannot peel off. Except with a chisel.”

  “How did the artist remember all the details, after the sketch was covered with wet plaster?”

  Stefan looked at the ceiling, or beyond, lifting the palms of his hands. “A miracle.”

  “So, Boss, what’s the verdict?” Miranda finally asked. “You think Giovanetti’s our guy? Did he do the Shroud?”

  I took another look at Jesus, then rescanned the entire room, floor to ceiling. “This is beautiful,” I said. “Giovanetti was a great painter.” Finally I shook my head. “But the style’s not right. His people are…I don’t know…too pretty. Too delicate. They don’t have the heft, the fleshiness, the power that the figure on the Shroud does.” I sighed. “That’s my two cents’ worth, anyhow.”

  “Agreed,” said Miranda. “Too bad, though. Seemed like a great theory. Stefan, what do you think?”