“Brother? I am so truly sorry to disturb you…” The sharp rap on the door jamb was followed by a creak as the cell door opened. “Brother? I am so truly sorry to disturb you…” The sharp rap on the door jamb was followed by a creak as the cell door opened.
Agonistes could hear fear in the abbot’s wavering voice and decided to ignore it. Prayer would take him away from the earthly concerns of this corrupted world and all its servants. He bent his head lower, clasped his joined hands tighter, and raised his voice.
“Holy Lady Mary, stainless and uncorrupted Mother of our Savior, look down on your sinful servant this day. Help me, I beseech you—”
“Brother!” A hand descended on his shoulder. The hand was heavy and the shoulder frail. When had he last eaten? Agonistes slumped beneath that mortal weight. He was tired, so very tired. He ceased to pray. Slowly, he opened his eyes, though it took some time to focus on the anxious face looming over his.
“I would not disturb you but there are matters we must discuss. Urgent matters.” The abbot could not help himself; his breathing was shallow and his tone at least an octave higher than it might normally be.
Agonistes understood. Years as a courtier had taught him much, even if he avoided remembering. He, in the grip of doing the Lord’s work, had slandered a good friend of the duchess and she, the former Lady Margaret of England, was powerful. The monk smiled. “Brother, why fear for the future of the mortal body when the eternal soul is all that matters?”
Was it that lipless smile or the fatalistic tone that ramped the abbot’s nervous state to panic? He breathed deeply through his nose, a curious whistling sound. He hoped he sounded firm. “However, dearest Brother, I must speak plainly. You are our guest, our cherished brother in the sight of the Lord.” The abbot swallowed; this was a little flowery, even for him. “And I must care for your mortal state, even if you do not.”
Agonistes heaved himself up from his knees and stood, swaying, beside the narrow plank cot. His interest in playing this game was nonexistent. “By which you mean, Brother Abbot, you fear for the mortal future of your house if I remain beneath its roof?”
The abbot was offended and, yes, resentful. Their lady duchess had always been a most generous patron—witness the new painted window paid for by Margaret and dedicated to Saint George, the premier saint of England—but he very much hoped the close relationship between his order and the court of Burgundy was of lesser importance than his duty. “Brother, I have prayed most ardently through this last night and God has brought me his precious guidance on this… matter. He has told me that I must think of the welfare of all in this house. Souls and bodies, both. But my care begins with you.”
Fine and gilded lies. Agonistes shrugged. “I am ready to return to Paris, Brother, if that is what you are trying to ask of me. Do not distress yourself. We all have our duty.” In truth, the monk would be relieved to leave Brugge, especially as during his earlier prayers he’d heard the tumult surrounding the triumphant entry of Edward Plantagenet into the city. Agonistes closed his eyes and ears at even the memory of that sound. And his heart. He would not willingly allow that adulterer, the cause of so much suffering in his life, into his mind in any form.
Surreptitiously the abbot wiped the sweat from his upper lip. It was now a little before tierce, the third canonical hour of the day, and, if he moved fast, he could have this “dear brother in Christ” out of the priory by the time the bell tolled for prayers. “Since you have chosen your path, Brother, I support your decision. Here. These are for your journey to Paris, to help you on your way.” Like a magician, the abbot presented the monk with a saddlebag. “Food, coin money—not much, of course. Ours is a poor house.” He coughed. It had not been easy to decide how much to give—too much, and Agonistes might see the money as a bribe and, being mad, refuse to leave. Only a madman would have said what he did at the feast yesterday. “And there is a donkey also. Come with me, Brother, you must meet him, your new friend and faithful companion-to-be. He is a charming animal. And sturdy also.”
Relief made the abbot chatter, giddy as a society lady, as he swept the monk from his cell, yet Brother Agonistes strove not to judge the man’s venality. Perhaps, after all, it was on behalf of his brothers that the abbot cast his own “very dear brother, through our Savior” onto the pitiless road. The monk also knew that if he declined to leave, if he remained in Brugge, he would be forced to explain his accusations to the duchess. Agonistes yearned for peace, but his head ached and his vision clouded when he tried to understand what God truly wanted from him now. Surely, his usefulness to his brother, the king of France, would cease if Duchess Margaret recognized in him the wizened remains of the sinful Dr. Moss. That could not be within God’s plan, could it? Louis de Valois was a holy spear within the hand of the Lord, but perhaps he, sinner that he was, formed the tip of that spear—however unworthy his metal might be. No, on balance, it felt right to leave this pestilential city, this haunt of vice and sin, behind him. He had accomplished the task he’d been given; the monks here had told him that Anne de Bohun was even now in the hands of the Church’s justice. And though he was puzzled by the enthusiastic welcome the ex–king of England had received, at least he was now named and shamed as an adulterer. Yes, he had done his work.
Thus, even though the Feast of Saint Stephen had turned bitter with dark sleet and a cutting wind, Brother Agonistes set out patiently enough just as the midday bell chimed out from the belfry above the cloth hall in the Markt Square. Despite the cold, he was dressed in nothing but his own filthy robes and a patched winter cloak wound tight around his emaciated body. He had refused the last-minute offer of a fur-lined mantle from the abbot. His feet were blue-white in the same holed sandals he had made for himself, long ago. Because of his manifold sins, he was certain that new boots could not be in God’s plan for him, now or ever. Therefore, he would rejoice in the certainty that the journey to Paris would take many weary days and, during that time, be grateful for the opportunity to consider, and reconsider, all his faults and failings. Perhaps his current sufferings could be offered up to God in further expiation of all that he’d done in that other, worldly time at Westminster.
Almost immediately on setting out there was evidence that his surrender to the will of God was pleasing to the Savior: the donkey between his knees seemed suddenly certain of its mission in life. Where before it had ambled through the streets of Brugge, now it trotted busily out from beneath the battlements of the Kruispoort and onto the echoing wooden drawbridge that linked the city gate to the riverbank of the Zwijn, though Agonistes had not given the animal a direction of any kind. Reverently, the monk crossed himself. Surely God was good. He had sent him a donkey that knew the way to Paris.
Once free of the city, Brother Agonistes closed his eyes with confidence; prayer might warm his freezing fingers as he told off the beads on his rosary. As if to reassure him, the little donkey moved tirelessly ahead, along the road beside the river, its neat hooves clicking on the last stretch of cobbled roadway before the path reverted to winter-frozen mud.
They had a long, long way to go together.
At last they could see the battlements and towers in the distance and each man in the cold and hungry party allowed anticipation to create the mirage of a good meal and a warm bed. Perhaps there was even a willing woman in that bed as well. They picked up pace as fresh energy flowed into weary, freezing feet.
“So, Brugge it is for all of us, master mariner. Perhaps you’ll find news there of your wife.”
Leif paused for a moment, leaning on his long staff. Could he face this? What if there was no news of Anne? “I hope so, de Plassy. My wife has many friends in the city. As do I.”
The Frenchman turned to his companions and winked. “My friend, I am certain you do, married or not. And now, my boys, if we hurry, we’ll be within those walls long before last light. Plenty of time to find new friends and playmates. Brugge has always been kind to such as us.”
It was the best thing the men had heard since the scrape of the key in their prison-cell door, and they were all for it. Whoops and cheering swept the group in around a long bend in the road, and they saw the great gate of the Kruispoort in the distance.
Leif let them stride ahead for a moment as he pulled his hood down over his eyes. The mercenaries had become his friends and companions and were chattering happily as girls, despite the sleet driving into their faces. He trudged on to catch the party up, falling in beside Julian de Plassy. The Frenchman pointed into the distance.
“Here’s an encouraging prospect to put a little coin money in our pockets, captain. Just what we need.”
Coming toward them on the path was a skinny monk riding a donkey. He was wrapped to the eyes in a stained cloak and his head nodded in time with the short gait of his little mount.
Leif laughed. “Ever the optimist, de Plassy. Why would you bother to rob a monk?”
The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. “Ah well, they all lie, you know, clergy. They’re rich, every single one of them. They pretend to be the opposite just to fool us. See, this one has a saddlebag. A nice, fat new one.” At that moment, distantly, the noise of drums banged out from the city, and many voices rose together, cheering.
De Plassy raised his eyebrows at the Dane. “So… a little conversation starter for our new friend.”
The Frenchman strode ahead of the group and planted himself in the path of the donkey. Haltingly, he spoke with the little Flemish he had. “Your blessing, Brother. Today’s festivities—what do they honor?”
The donkey balked and stopped. The monk’s eyes opened as he stopped telling his beads. He scowled at the sight of the men crowding the path in front of him. “I do not speak your language, sir.” Unwittingly, he replied in English. Brother Agonistes’s frown deepened; it was an odd thing to do after speaking and thinking in French for so many years.
Leif was also perplexed that this emaciated and filthy man—no doubt extra holy because of such privations—spoke English. He called out, “I speak English, Father. Can you tell us what festival is taking place today in Brugge?”
The monk crossed himself before hawking phlegm and spitting. He just missed the seaman’s boots. “No honest celebration, certainly, though it is Saint Stephen’s day. The former king of the English has come to Brugge to see the duke. That is all I know. Let me pass.”
Julian de Plassy smiled. “Edward Plantagenet? Is that who you mean?” He exchanged a delighted glance with Leif.
The monk sniffed. “Yes. His evil deeds are his undoing, as all men will now soon see.”
The Frenchman signaled for his men to back away from around the donkey. Brugge was suddenly as precious as Jerusalem for what it contained, and far, far nearer. He would free the monk who had given them this good news.
Agonistes spoke up angrily, to mask fear. “Yes! Clear my path. I am about God’s work. For the salvation of your blackened souls, do not think to delay me.”
Julian bowed. “Do not be fearful, honored Father. We respect men of the cloth as we do our own mothers.”
He uttered the airy lie without shame and Leif coughed to avoid laughing. De Plassy’s men stepped back smartly from the crown of the road to allow the monk on his way. Agonistes kicked the donkey in its flanks and the bony little animal lurched into its customary trot. Leif Molnar and Julian de Plassy wasted few moments watching the monk on his way. They strode out together toward the distant city, setting a brisk pace for their followers.
“Our luck is turning, my friend, I am certain of it. I must remind the English king of the service my men performed for him. He will be grateful—if one can ever count on the gratitude of kings.” He glanced at Leif. The Dane was gazing at the city also, but his face was somber. “Do not despair, Leif. Have courage. I feel your wife waits for you, somewhere very close. Believe me, when these feelings come to me, they are never wrong.”
Leif smiled but said nothing, and swung on down the road at a steady pace. His “wife.” If Edward was in the city, was she with him… or was she dead?