“Brother Duke, hear me on the anniversary of Christ’s birth-day. Hear the word of God, of which I am the humble conduit.” His voice shook but Agonistes had power now; the words carried well throughout the huge space beneath his feet. “Brother Duke, hear me on the anniversary of Christ’s birth-day. Hear the word of God, of which I am the humble conduit.” His voice shook but Agonistes had power now; the words carried well throughout the huge space beneath his feet.
The great hall of the Prinsenhof was a restless mass of moving color as Duke Charles, Duchess Margaret, and their court settled before boards bending under chargers, dishes, and great bowls of rapidly cooling food. The duke’s stomach rumbled; the monk would need to be quick in his homily, or all heat would depart entirely from the feast.
“If you fail to destroy the abomination and embodiment of sin and earthly lust that walks among you, even on this most Holy Day, all your works will turn to ash and dust as God strikes you down in your pride.”
Charles was not concentrating on what the monk was saying; he had so much to do that sitting here, at the feast, was to be racked on the bed of lost time. Around him, however, the fidgeting court slowly settled and grew still, listening. The monk’s intensity was compelling.
“I am here, wretched, unworthy sinner that I am, to guide you to the truths offered by Our Lord and Savior, and to give you, Duke Charles, the courage to act so that your soul and the souls of all here present in this great hall today may be saved.”
Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, was immune to the heightened rhetoric of Brother Agonistes. Having been brought up in the courts of England, she was a connoisseur of sermons. She gazed with detachment at the filthy, emaciated monk in his temporary pulpit, the gallery above their heads, but she was beginning to be irked by the direction his words were taking. He was altogether too grim, too fervent, for the season. The duchess frowned as she thought back to the meeting earlier today with Philippe de Commynes. In the end, Charles had agreed that the monk would be permitted to deliver the homily since Philippe had assured them he was a most holy mystic and seer, well known in Paris. There was the added interest, too, that Agonistes had lately been the personally appointed healer to the body of the king of France. The duke had decided he would speak with the man after the feast; in war, too much information was never enough.
The duchess, however, did not favor smelly mystics, whatever their credentials. Her nose wrinkled—the aroma of the monk’s unwashed flesh, even at this distance, competed powerfully with the food in front of them. Perhaps the man was merely mad? In her experience, such ascetics often were and this one bore all the signs: ranting, spitting, skinny arms flailing as he mouthed dire warnings and promises of damnation—of what, and against what, it was hard to grasp—into the air above their heads.
“…you must know that the Whore of Babylon exists in your midst and pollutes this place with her lusts and her sorcery, for she is a witch! And does not the Bible say, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’? Seek her out, brother duke, burn her! Cleanse this place of her evil or you shall be lost and all your people with you.”
Margaret grimaced. Homily or no, the monk was stepping over the line in accusing the duke of personally harboring a witch. How ridiculous. How primitive!
“Husband, perhaps we have heard enough? The food grows cold.”
Charles shot Margaret a glance and raised his eyebrows as if to say, And what would you have me do? He patted her hand and whispered back, “It will be over soon.”
This time, the duchess distinctly heard her husband’s stomach growl and suppressed the urge to giggle. She returned her attention to the monk. Something about him—was it the voice?—tweaked a distant memory, which unsettled her. She had seen this man before. Where? Margaret scanned the hall for Philippe de Commynes; she wanted more information, for the monk’s accent was decidedly odd for a Frenchman. Was that an English cast she heard in his rantings? How could that be?
As she glanced around, Margaret saw that the courtiers were riveted; the reference to sorcery had sent a buzz around the hall. It was said that sinners were easy prey for devils and witches, for they could see your sin, just as if you wore a bright red dress. More than one guilty conscience in the hall listened with mounting dread.
“Hear me!” the monk ranted. “Absorb my words most carefully! You are all damned and these end-times prove it. Hear also the precious words of John, the Divine. God is coming, arrayed for battle, and this mighty city will be cast down—cast down!—because you, you who are all alike in this great hall, are smeared by the sins of lust and pride. Only repentance, today, here and now on the anniversary of our Savior’s birth, will snatch you—yes, you pretty lady, and you, handsome sir—from Satan’s terrible jaws.”
One of Margaret’s youngest waiting women, taking it all to heart, burst into tears. The monk swept on.
“But there is one here today who is worse than any of you. It is she, in all her loathsomeness, she who has brought war to your door. Yes! And I will name her, I will name this witch, for, oh, she is cunning, and oh, she is powerful. She has corrupted you with a false glamour so that you cannot see her scaly claws, her bloody fangs. She is Satan’s lure and of the many men she has ruined, how many more will she yet destroy if you do not hear my words.”
Neighbor was peering fearfully at neighbor, and a rising babble of sound grew so that the monk had to shout, his spittle flying through the light of the torches.
“Act to root her out from her rancid bed of destruction, her bed of infamy, so that you may be saved in doing God’s work, here, today! Adulteress, whore of kings, chalice of evil, to drink from that cup is to drink Hell’s fire and think it the most sweet wine…”
The duchess had had enough. In the last weeks, fear had unsettled Brugge as constant rumors of destruction and war swept the city. At times such as these, people would believe anything and here, at this feast, it was as if this fool was speaking of a real person, a real woman, as a Jonah, the cause of all their problems.
Unwillingly, Margaret fastened her eyes on those of the monk—he was scanning the hall like a hawk seeking prey; he was searching for someone. Then he paused, theatrically. And smiled, exposing rotted teeth.
Raising a sticklike arm, he pointed.
The hall was instantly, breathlessly, silent.
Brother Agonistes leaned forward, eyes burning, and spoke again, in a reedy whisper. “I see you, woman. I know you. God knows you. But I am his instrument and your days of power are ended. Ended now!” His words finished in a scream.
There was a horrified buzz and, one by one, the courtiers swiveled their heads toward where the monk was pointing. His bony finger stabbed the air like a dagger, beckoning all to look, to see.
“There! There she sits in all her scarlet, loathsome pride. Witch! Adulterous whore of Edward Plantagenet! Succubus! Anne de Bohun, Anne de Bohun. Anne de Bohun!”
The monk locked his gaze on Anne’s as she rose from her bench to face him. And the entire hall saw that she wore red velvet.
“No! This is nonsense.” Margaret, duchess of Burgundy, spoke in a clear voice as she stood to defend her friend.
There was a collective gasp. Then utter silence.
Frowning, the duke stood also and waved his hand. The monk was to be removed.
Brother Agonistes smiled as he saw the guards approach him, pikes held ready should they be challenged. Calmly gazing down from his perch, the monk made the sign of the cross in two great sweeping movements and, bowing his head, made no resistance as the duke’s servants shepherded him away. His work was done.