Chapter Seven

 

Blessed Cardinal Odo de Lagery

 

 

Peter the Hermit and Innocenzo were quite content to abandon Duxia de Falaise at the spring despite Tristan’s hesitancy to leave her there alone. The old woman’s tale had perturbed him, yet he pitied her also, wondering how she had managed to survive so long in a world that had rejected her. Then too, his mind was a-swirl with refutations to the things she had said about him. She is insane, he thought at first. No, far too coherent to be mad, he then decided. But the look in her eyes, and the insistence of her voice.

And so with each step forward of his horse he wrestled with himself until finally the Hermit, observing that Tristan was greatly distracted, spoke up. “Aha,” he snorted smugly, “she has fired her poison straight to your brain, eh, lad? Ha! I tried to warn you, but oh no, you never listen to old Peter, huh? She has a dead spirit and everywhere she goes she stirs the muck of misery. By the thorns upon Christ’s own bristling crown of thorns, did you not hear the earth whisper beneath her very feet? She is the Dark Prince’s witch, that one!”

Tristan nodded though he was barely listening. His mind was beginning to slip into the backwaters of dread, where men conceal their unspoken fears in black, scum-covered pools of uncertainty and doubt. And even as he ventured there, unwillingly, gray threatening clouds arose ahead, heavy with ominous rain and thunder. Then from the north he felt a restless wind arise, lifting at his hair, raising it in errant tufts. A storm is coming, he thought. This disturbed him even more. Though he knew it to be foolish, he could not help but attribute the darkening skies to the old hag left at the spring.

It has always been common for the powerful and the educated to convey dread to the weak and the ignorant. But when this trick is reversed, which is rare, the powerful and educated often begin to unravel, and this is exactly what was transpiring in Tristan’s brain as his horse ambled south toward Cluny. Tristan began to summarize the events of his life and began to draw connections he had never before considered. This is when it began to dawn on him that there had, indeed, been a wake of misfortune amongst many whose existence had touched his.

To begin, his father had been denounced and executed. Soon afterwards, his mother had been forced into a miserable marriage for twelve years to the malicious Lord DuLac, and his brother had been forced into the Cluny Monastery at age four along with Tristan. Then, too, he thought back on the merciless ravaging of the Roman populace he had witnessed just a year before by Duke Robert Guiscard’s violent troops. Thousands had been slaughtered, women and children had been raped, and much of the city had been reduced to ash. Is it possible that I brought this upon the innocent people of Rome, Tristan wondered, recalling that he had prayed within the Vatican itself for three days and nights that Duke Robert Guiscard’s Norman army would come to the rescue of Pope Gregory who was besieged in Rome by the Germans. Indeed, Duke Guiscard’s forces had arrived at the final hour just as Tristan had prayed, but then the volatile Guiscard unexpec-tedly unleashed his forces upon the civilian population of the city, and they set the city to waste, mercilessly butchering and mutilating the innocent by the thousands.

And more recently, Brother Domingo had been killed in Rome as was Brother LeDoux of Dijon, as was the Byzantine nun, as was the innocent Byzantine nobleman who unluckily appeared at the nun’s door as Tristan and Handel had ended her life. Even though each incident in Tristan’s recalled litany of horrors distinctly involved outlying factors and individuals, Tristan began to imagine a common thread within the sum of these misfortunes, himself.

“She’ll have you blaming yourself for Adam’s loss of Eden, lad,” laughed the Hermit, amused by Tristan’s glum demeanor, “as well as for the fall of the Roman Empire and the great barbarian invasions that ensued! She knows nothing but misery, and therefore spreads it everywhere she may go. Forget the old bitch, I say, or you’ll devour yourself from within! Were I not a monk, I’d happily end her vile poisoning of the human spirit with a hammer blow to the head, but God forbids such things. In any case, she’ll encounter justice when God rewards her with His final punishment, the fires of Hell.”

 

***

 

Finally arriving at Cluny, Tristan immediately inquired about Cardinal Odo de Lagery.

“Ay,” said the gatekeeper, “he arrived from Ostia with a small entourage just yesterday. You’ll find him in Abbot Hugh’s quarters. And good news he bears. It’s said that la Gran Contessa Mathilda is holding against the German onslaught in northern Italy.”

“Eh?” said the Hermit. “Oh, what glorious tidings Odo brings then! If only Mathilda could put them on the run and then move south and take Rome back from the false pope. Then we could reclaim the Vatican and set Cardinal Odo upon the Pope’s throne! Oh, what good would it do for we true Catholics to see that archbishop’s head lopped off and tossed into a picking basket!”

“Take Rome back from Guibert of Ravenna?” said the guard. “Have you not heard? The citizens of Rome have themselves chased the anti-pope from the city.”

“What?” cried the Hermit. “Oh, God be praised!”

Tristan was pleased to hear this news, but something else was pulling at him so he left the Hermit and quickly made his way to the priory where Benedictine couriers picked up and delivered correspondence to the monastery. “Has anything arrived for Tristan de Saint-Germain?” he asked.

The young monk seated at the work table looked up at Tristan with interest. “Indeed,” he said. “Three messages. One from Paris, one from Avignon, and…”

“Yes, yes,” Tristan said, trying not to sound impatient.

The monk reached beneath the table to a hidden compartment and withdrew the letters, each stamped with a black wax seal indicating that it was of the highest confidential order, not to be discussed, never to be left in the open.

“Thank you,” said Tristan, slipping the letters down into the front of his trousers. Then he made his way to Abbot Hugh’s chambers and soon located Cardinal Odo. Seeing him, Tristan dropped to a knee and bowed reverently.

The Cardinal immediately pulled him to his feet and wrapped his arms about him in a hearty embrace. “Ho, Tristan, lad,” he laughed, “off your knees! You embarrass me with such formality!”

Standing, Tristan returned the hug, then stepped back, his face aglow being in the company of the great Cardinal once more. He loved this tall, commanding man who had been his de facto father since the age of seven when he and Guillaume had first arrived at the Cluny monastery. “I have worried about you in Ostia, Cardinal Odo,” Tristan said. “Being just an arm’s reach from the anti-pope, I have always feared that he might turn on you at any moment. I just heard that he has been run out of Rome by the citizenry, so I’ll worry less now.”

“Yes, but he will be back, for serpents never retreat for long. Even when he ruled Rome he could do little more than keep an eye to me. The balance there is so fragile, so delicate, that it would take just a spark to ignite a bloodbath. The Imperial Prefect and half of the population supports Heinrich and have never forgiven Duke Guiscard’s rape of the city when he rescued Pope Gregory, but the Roman consuls and the other half of the city support our cause. Therefore, any act of retribution by him against me would have stirred an uprising of our faithful, and the anti-pope could ill afford that, especially with King Heinrich back in Germany and Mathilda still on the loose in Tuscany.”

“Yes, I have already heard that my aunt continues to harry the Germans in north central Italy.”

“She is pushing back against Heinrich’s occupation militia there, and you’ll be proud to hear that your brother carries his own banner for her. They say Guillaume presses the attack with unparalleled courage. But then, you and I know what he’s made of, eh?”

“Guillaume has been fearless since birth, and blessed in physical skills and panache. Yet, I fear for him at times, Cardinal. His courage invites peril.”

“Your old friends, the Danish Guard, now serve in Guillaume’s cavalry contingent though he is slightly past seventeen, and they remain as ferocious as ever I am told.”

Mention of the Danish Guard precipitated a sudden flood of memories in Tristan as the faces of Orla the Ox, Ivar Crowbones and Guthroth the Quiet came to mind. These men had been like family to him prior to his being sent to the monastery, and had been by his mother’s side since her birth. These men had remained at Asta’s side after taking Tristan and Guillaume to Cluny, and stayed with her even when she moved to England to marry the loathsome Lord DuLac. Then, after nearly twelve years of misery, the Danish Guard turned on DuLac’s French forces and helped Asta escape England in a daring gambit that nearly brought all of them to annihilation. But the Danes had prevailed, and had established a new life in Italy in the military service of Countess Mathilda of Tuscany.

“Yes, they are masters of the ax and hammer,” said Tristan. Then he paused and looked to the floor.

“Well, what is it, Tristan?” said Odo. “I know that look.”

“It… well, you need to know that Peter the Hermit has accompanied me to Cluny.”

“He’s here? Now?”

“Yes, he heard you were coming from Italy and has made his way here to meet you.”

Odo clapped an open palm to his forehead and closed his eyes. “Of all men, KuKu Peter,” he muttered, dropping his head and crossing himself. “Lord in Heaven,” he whispered, “please help me remain calm.”

Tristan was about to explain how he had found the Hermit. Before he could utter the first word, the door burst open and the Hermit entered the room, both hands raised, flagging about in jubilation. “Aha! Our next Pope!!” he cried with that revelatory boisterousness that startled others, but only served to agitate the Cardinal. He approached Odo, then began pacing in circles around him for no apparent reason other than to gawk blankly at Odo’s feet, his back, and his face. “Oh, I foretold this development,” he exclaimed between his pacing, “and you did nothing but berate me, Odo! And though my timing might have been a bit pre-mature, the truth is the truth, I say!”

“Pre-mature?” said Odo with derision. “Really, Peter? Ha, that was nearly ten years ago when you began this silliness about me becoming Pope! I told you then to stop it, and I tell you now the same. I had no plans to be Pope then, nor do I now… and respectfully request that you not start up such talk again.”

“Oh, you may respectfully request anything you like, Odo,” the Hermit proclaimed, his eyes widening to impossible dimensions, “but God’s will shall not be silenced! Nor shall his messenger!” Then he stopped moving about and plopped his arms across his chest. “Uh, and God’s messenger,” he added, lowering his voice, “that would be me, of course, Odo.”

“Of course, but has God not informed you, Peter, that Pope Gregory announced the faithful Cardinal Desiderius as his choice of successor on his deathbed?”

“Details, details! Of course He did! God also mentioned to me that Pope Gregory was an old and broken man, feeble of mind at the time. Gregory simply misspoke! Yes, he said Desiderius, but he actually meant to say Odo de Lagery!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Odo replied. “Once you get something in your head, Peter, you surpass the obstinacy of your own donkey! Cease this talk. I want no more of it. Furthermore I have communicated my support of Desiderius to both Countess Mathilda and Duke Robert Borsa of Lower Italy. We all three stand together in pressing Desiderius to accept the Pope’s tiara just as Pope Gregory requested.”

“Aha! He balks! He refuses the position, we hear in France. He understands God’s will, I say. Besides, he’s tepid and soft. In these dire times we need a strong leader to reclaim the Vatican and restore the true Church, and there’s none stronger than you, Odo!”

Tristan and the Cardinal exchanged a glance. Tristan could see that Odo had not made even the tiniest impression on the Hermit, and he also began to see that lines of strain were beginning to crease Odo’s face. “Peter,” he interjected, “the Cardinal has spoken. Out of respect for his position, perhaps you should for once heed his counsel, eh?”

“Heed his counsel” you say? What? The Church is crumbling at the foundation, King Heinrich of Germany and his lapdog Guibert of Ravenna control the Vatican, and the entirety of Christendom hangs by a thread, and you say heed Odo’s counsel? Ho, this is not the time to wither! Indeed, tis time to blast the trumpets and hail our new and legitimate Pope, Odo de Lagery!”

Seeing that he had only further inflamed the Hermit, Tristan shrugged and looked helplessly at Odo, who had by now raised both hands to his face in exasperation. “Have you already begun spreading your prophecy, Peter?” said Odo, already certain of the answer.

“Indeed, from Paris east to Dijon! And I would have spread the word from Dijon south to Cluny were we not fleeing from Satan’s grip in the form of a French lord named Truffault who tried to have me hanged, but I raised the angry mob up against him in the nick of time.”

“Hanged?” said Odo. “Yet again? Must you always embroil yourself in the impossible? Must you always create an uproar and inflame the masses? Could you not just once, Peter, behave like a normal monk?”

At this a look of indignation flooded the Hermit’s face. Then he threw both hands to his hips and his voice elevated even higher than its normal, permanently boisterous timbre. “What, you say? And deny my calling? Disobey my Lord and Savior? I am what I am, Odo, because I faithfully do God’s bidding. Nay, nay, never will I hold my tongue when God orders me to wag it! Not even for you!”

“Very well then, Peter, but know this: I shall do everything possible to see that Cardinal Desiderius becomes Pope. Now, if you please, I have endured all the haranguing that I can bear in a single session. Go to the stables and make arrangements to stay the night.”

“The stables?” said the Hermit.

“Indeed, Peter. You are still banned from the Cluny Guest Hall due to your last stunt.”

“Stunt? Oh, sir, I was merely preaching the word and...”

“No, you claimed that half the noblemen within the Hall were going straight to Hell upon their final judgment, which resulted in an armed riot and the destruction of half the refectory.”

“But they are going to Hell, Odo. God told me.”

“Peter, go to the stable! And do not leave those premises until the morning or I shall have you booted by the Burgundian Guard. Do you understand? And furthermore, do not even speak to the horses or the oxen for I have neither the time nor the energy to quell an uprising of the livestock!”

At this Tristan burst into laughter. In detecting that Cardinal Odo’s expression was devoid of humor, he quickly stifled it. “Oh, Peter,” Tristan then added, “do not terrorize the stable boys as you did me years ago. I still carry the burden of your frightful words in my dreams.”

It was not Peter the Hermit who was on Tristan’s mind, but the old hag, Duxia de Falaise, whom they had abandoned at the spring. Just as the Hermit closed the door behind himself, Tristan envisioned the ancient woman trying to hold his head beneath the water to drown him as a baby, and as this dark image unveiled itself in his imagination, this time she succeeded.