The Monastery

The work courtyard was alive with men atop huge beasts.  They wheeled and snorted in a state of high excitement, further incited by the shouts of their riders.  Confused by their sudden confinement in a tight space, the lathered giants jostled for position and pawed at the ground, churning up funnel clouds of whirling dust.  The Bishop, armed like his men, barked orders, which were swiftly obeyed. 

They had arrived without warning, thundering into the compound while most of the residents of St. Fiacre’s were still in the fields, making the most of the last days of a gentle Indian summer.  Cecilia and the babies had been in the kitchen when the commotion began.  Paul now whisked them quickly toward the guesthouse.  Luis, who had been a bit under the weather for several days, scurried to remove all evidence of Cecilia and the children from her room.  The Bishop, though not a recent visitor, had stayed within St. Fiacre’s walls, and knew the location of his quarters. 

Striding toward the Abbot’s empty house, the Bishop pulled off his heavy gloves.  When he saw Cecilia, one child under each arm and another clearly swelling beneath her breasts, he stopped abruptly.  “Madam?” he scowled.

Cecilia curtseyed awkwardly.  “Your Grace,” she replied, dropping her eyes to his feet.

Brother Paul intervened without being asked.  “Your Grace, may I present the Lady Cecilia, wife of Bartholomew de Carlisle?”

The Bishop nodded curtly, offering Cecilia his ring to kiss.  He watched with amused malice as she struggled, encumbered as she was, to kiss it.  “Sin is its own burden, is it not, Madame?” he sneered.

Cecilia made no response but waited meekly for him to go on his way.  Enjoying her discomfort, he waited until her arms ached from the weight of the children before tiring of his game and leaving her.  Hurriedly she disappeared into the guest quarters where she placed her tiny burdens on the rough straw of the bed.  She nursed each child in turn to keep them silent and waited for someone to come to her.

Brother Paul caught the Abbot as he entered the gate.  He was running and out of breath.  “He saw Cecilia,” he rasped.  “I told him that she was a visiting lady, wife of Bartholomew de Carlisle.”

When the Abbot made a face, Paul hurriedly made his explanation.  “I could think of no other name.  Who else among us is truly someone and,” he added, “someone from far away.  Someone the Bishop does not know.”

“You did well,” the Abbot answered.  “Bartholomew is in his shirtsleeves and has abandoned the tonsure.  We will introduce him as my nephew, traveling with his family--headed home to England.”  He gave Paul a grim smile as the lie took shape.  “Tell the others.  Offer nothing.  Follow my lead.”  With that he headed for his house to make his guest welcome.  Nearly across the cloister garth, he stopped.  “What of her things?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Paul made a dismissive gesture.  Taken care of.

Bishop Antonio Giardina was a man of the age.  The son of a rich and important family from Padua, he had come to the Church a callous youth, lacking faith and goodness but with an abundance of what its hierarchy sought, money and ambition.  Added to the prestige of his current office, the absence of the Papal court, now in residence in Avignon, had allowed him to amass far more power than was good for his immortal soul.  Essentially a godless man, he enjoyed life to its fullest. 

He traveled the countryside in the company of his own small army, hunting, drinking and generally marauding for sport.  His sexual proclivities were known to be eclectic and while honorable men felt it necessary to hide their wives and daughters, he also traveled with a young cleric who was rumored to warm his bed in the absence of suitable female companionship.  Although personally wealthy, he never hesitated to take what he wanted where he found it in the name of Mother Church, reasoning that there was no need to draw upon his own resources, if those of another might be expended.

This man now stood in the midst of William Devon’s humble house, beating the dust from his clothing with his leather riding gloves and watching with disinterest as it settled onto the scant furnishings around him.