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Category:
Mystery/Suspense
ISBN-10: 1606191187
Type: Fiction
Pages: 293
Copyright: November 2011
ISBN-13: 9781606191187
Father Ignaz (Ygnacio) Pfefferkorn, ex-S.J., released after 10 years in Spanish prison, begs his way across France to his home in the Rhineland. He arrives in Unkel-on-the-Rhineto find factional strife and murder in his hoped-for paradise. He is recruited to solve the crime, placing himself in mortal danger.
Excerpt
Part One: Seeking Eden
Chapter I
Fog and Cold
I skidded on hidden ice and went sprawling. Passing coaches had cut deep tracks that last night's freeze had congealed into sharp edges. Jagged, frozen mud bit into my leg, but there was no blood, only a lump that would soon become a bruise. I lay still for the first time since I'd begun walking around ten that morning. Fog crawled landward in snaky tendrils, enveloping me, blotting out reality. The roar of Atlantic breakers on my left told me I was still facing north. An icy wind stirred the fog, shredding it into ragged wisps. Frigid rain numbed my face. Trees alongside the road heaved their branches in protest, clawing the sky like frantic prisoners of the cold. I scrambled to my feet, picked up my battered valise and shook my robe, then limped to the side of the road where coaches had not churned the surface into a thousand more traps.
Would I find shelter and a little food before nightfall? I must move quickly, else I might freeze. I wrapped my blanket tighter around me, smiling at the memory of Dom Gregorio's face as he gave it to me on my departure. Gregorio, the abbot of La Caridad Monastery near Salamanca, had befriended me, and his gift now protected my upper body, although my legs and feet were as numb as my face. His monks had packed food, but that was long gone—eaten in the coach on the first leg of the long road from Ciudad Rodrigo to Irún on the French border. Dom Gregorio had also given the coachman, Brother Porfirio, enough money to pay for lodging in the humblest inns in the cities along our route—Salamanca, Valladolid, Burgos, Vitoria—and for an overnight stay in Irún. Porfirio turned back there, leaving me to make my way as best I could across France to my home in the Rhineland.
My home: I spent my childhood in Mannheim, although my father's native city was Siegburg, where the Pfefferkorn family had distinguished itself and had deep roots. But my second and preferred home was my mother's birthplace, Unkel, a village downriver near Bonn, where I had spent most of my summers. My wealthy great uncle, Gottfried Eschenbrender, had been pastor of the church in Unkel for over thirty years. His father had built a villa with a spacious garden where my sister Isabella and I played, watched butterflies sip nectar from the flowers, curled up with our books under the lindens in the dappled sunshine, or waved at the river boats that passed within hailing distance. Those warm summers, painted in the rainbow colors of my memory, were carefree until my father's sudden death. Then hardships began for my mother, Gudula, and for us, her two youngest children. Mother only survived for three more years. I shivered, the recollection of her death bringing more cold than the weather around me. That and the strange, dark dreams I'd been having about Unkel lately.
Hardships continued now. At the French border at Hendaye, all I had to show the officials in the guardhouse was a note from the abbot, stating I was a prisoner released by His Majesty King Carlos III, asking that I be allowed to cross into France. They knew I was a priest, dressed in my black robe, black shoes and the silver crucifix my mother gave me thirty-six years ago as she lay on her death bed. My valise contained a spare robe, undergarments, my shaving equipment, my breviary and my notes for a book I hoped to write about Sonora Province in New Spain, where I'd served eleven years before being expelled and imprisoned for over ten.
The officials, barely literate, made out the Spanish, inspected the valise, and allowed me to pass. Brother Porfirio had told me they normally expect a bribe, but after their search, they knew I had nothing. And now, I must beg my way with no idea whether my status as an ex-Jesuit priest and missionary would help or harm me.
The steady rain soaked me through, and the sky darkening into charcoal gray told me the day was over. My teeth chattered, and try as I might I couldn't stop that or my uncontrollable shaking. I rubbed my eyes. Was that a huddle of houses and a church spire ahead? It seemed an hour before I knocked at the first hovel.
A middle-aged housewife answered, her thin body half hidden by a shapeless, faded blue smock, her face framed in abundant gray hair. She stared with red-rimmed eyes, noting my dripping face and clothing, and nodded to indicate that she understood my Spanish, even though my delivery was hampered by stiff lips and violent tremors. I'd learned French as a child and had used it at times during my seminary years in Trier, but it was submerged by long disuse.
She shook her head. "Un prêtre sur la route par un temps si atroce? Et vous n'êtes pas espagnol. A priest on the road in such bad weather? And you're not Spanish." Seeing how my entire frame shook, she motioned me in, and blessed heat enfolded me.
"Gracias, mil gracias, Señora!"
The woman looked past me and called, "Jacob! Come see what wandered in from across the border!"
I unwrapped my blanket, my knotted muscles relaxing slowly. In the combination kitchen and dining room, a few sooty pots and pans adorned the mantle; a trestle made of two raw planks provided a work space; a fireplace open on both sides served as stove and oven on one side and heater on the other. The table in the center of the room had only one chair.
A chair creaked in the next room and an uneven tread approached. The husband was tall but stooped, one leg twisted outward. His narrow, weathered face with a beak of a nose showed no hint of a smile, but did not seem hostile.
"And what might you want on a day like this one, mon père?"
A few—very few—French words began to float up from my childhood memory. "Merci, monsieur," I began, then continued in Spanish, "for opening your door so I can warm myself a little. My name is Ygnacio Pfefferkorn and I'm a long way from home. I need to find shelter and food. I won't give you any trouble; I'll be on my way again tomorrow."
Jacob cocked his head and examined me, noticing my soaked clothing and pitiful shoes, making a puddle on his floor.
"I'm Jacob Saintange and that's my wife Judith. Take off those shoes. Your feet must be frozen, if you've walked all the way from Hendaye. Come dry yourself by the fire. We have very little food in the house but we know someone who might have more."
"Where am I?"
"Don't you know? This is Saint-Jean-de-Luz."
I nodded and slipped out of the shoes, my bare feet blue and numb.
Jacob picked up the shoes, took my elbow, and led me into the other room, the foot on his bad leg pointing outward with each step. A narrow bed without a frame or curtains occupied one corner. The small fireplace warmed the entire house. He gestured to one of the two wooden chairs, and I sat with a relieved groan while he placed the shoes on the hearth.
"Judith! Fetch that kitchen chair for yourself and give the man something hot, even it's only water."
Warming cold-numbed feet can be extremely painful. It took half an hour for circulation to begin again, and meanwhile, I suppressed my groans and rubbed my feet, hoping to increase circulation. They watched me, two pairs of large, dark eyes, full of compassion. When I at last gave a shuddering sigh and let the foot I was rubbing fall to the floor, Judith handed me a clay mug.
"Voici du bouillon, mon père. Here's some bouillon."
I raised my eyes to hers. "Mille mercis, Madame Judith!" I sipped cautiously, since the soup, just dipped out of the small black pot suspended over the fire, was scalding hot. It was thin, the essence from several meager meals. Chicken, maybe a bit of beef, made from bones that were cleaned as only the poor can clean them. I nodded in gratitude as the warmth inside my body restored me to life more than the fire at my face. They must have only enough food for two—if that.
Jacob spoke first. "Where did you come from?"
"I was a missionary in New Spain. I'm an ex-Jesuit, and all of us, all over the New World, were arrested and expelled by order of King Carlos III, years ago now. Those of us who had worked in a region called Sonora were kept prisoners indefinitely because there were gold mines there, and we were suspected of stealing or hoarding it. They interrogated us for months."
Judith's eyes had been on my face. "Is that where you got those scars, Father?"
"Yes, I was beaten many times, and the lash occasionally missed its mark."
"How terrible! Did you tell them where the gold was?"
"I'm sure if we'd known, we would have, but we had nothing to do with those mines. I was in that first prison for six years, then they transferred us singly to isolated monasteries and convents. I was sent to Nuestra Señora de la Caridad Monastery near Ciudad Rodrigo."
"Where's that?" Judith asked.
"Maybe thirty leagues west of Salamanca."
"A long way from here," Jacob said. "Surely, you didn't walk from there."
"No, only from Hendaye. In this cold, that was almost more than I could manage."
Jacob stood. "I'm sorry to seem inhospitable, but we go to bed early to conserve firewood and candles. I must get you to Saul Espinosa's house before they finish their dinner, or you may find nothing to eat there, either." He handed me my soggy shoes, steaming but still soaked.
I stood and took my hostess' hand. "I understand. Thank you for your hospitality. You restored me to life!"
Judith gave my hand a brief squeeze, then withdrew hers. She hadn't smiled once. I followed Jacob to the door, where he donned a coat and a ragged muffler, and I wrapped my damp blanket around my torso again.
The temperature had dropped as night came on, but the rain had stopped. The wind threatened to snatch away the warmth I'd accumulated in the little house. Despite his limp, Jacob's rapid march nearly left me behind. We entered the main street where the houses, built side-by-side, blocked most of the wind. He stopped before one of the larger houses and rapped with the brass knocker. Upon the third knock, the door opened a crack and an elderly man appeared.
"What do— Oh! It's you, Jacob! Out this time of night? Ah, I see, you've brought someone." He motioned us inside the vestibule. "Come in, out of that icy wind!"
"Thanks, Saul, Yes, he's an ex-Jesuit priest, just released from Spanish imprisonment near Salamanca. He walked from Hendaye and needs food and a place to lay his head tonight. We gave him a cup of bouillon—what we could spare—but he needs more. He was near frozen when he knocked on our door."
"And you, Jacob? You look as if you could use a cup of hot soup yourself."
He shook his head. "No thanks, Saul, I'll get along to my Judith. Kind of you. I'll see you on the Sabbath." He stepped back into the street and walked away with a wave.
I called after him, "Mille mercis, Jacob!" Saul closed the door against the cold. He stared at me, eyebrows raised as he took my blanket and hung it on a peg. "An ex-Jesuit priest!" He thrust out a hand. "Saul Espinosa."
"Ygnacio Pfefferkorn."
"A funny name, ‘peppercorn.' I recall that one of your ancestors was a nasty Dominican inquisitor. Not funny at all. Jewish convert, actually. I hope you're not closely related."
I understood him, but answered half in Spanish, half in French. "Possibly related, but thank God, I'm not responsible for distant relatives. Anyway, ‘Saul Thorny' isn't much better."
He lifted a shoulder, grinning. "Come, we were just finishing dinner." He led the way down a short hall and into a dining room furnished with a heavy mahogany table and matching chairs. Several tureens steamed on a sideboard. Two women sat at the table, one Saul's age, the other, a plain youngish person around thirty, her dark hair pulled back into a bun. "Father Ygnacio Pfefferkorn, my wife, Naomi, and my spinster daughter Ruth. Father Ygnacio speaks mainly Spanish."
I paused and bowed. "I'm honored to meet you Mesdames."
They nodded, observing me with a mixture of amusement and compassion, while Saul crossed the room to shout toward the kitchen. "Sarah! We have a guest! Bring a plate and serve him some food before it gets cold!"
Naomi, still handsome, her lively round face framed by white hair, gestured to a chair next to hers. She wore a black gown with a white lace ruffle around the neck and down the front of the bodice; her hair was gathered into a lacy snood. "Please sit down, mon père! Where are you from? And why are you out on such a brutal night?"
The room, like Jacob and Judith's, was warmed by a fireplace. On the mantle stood a seven-branched candlestick and near it lay a vellum-bound book with a Star of David on the spine. However, over the mantle hung a handsome wooden crucifix.
"I'll answer your questions if you'll answer mine, madame. I'm originally from the Rhineland, born in Mannheim. Like all of us non-Spanish Jesuits who served in Sonora Province in the New World, I was kept a prisoner of the king of Spain, in my case for over ten years, on a trumped-up charge of treason. The Royal Council's letter releasing me was written a few days ago, on Christmas Eve. I'm on my way home. I traveled by coach as far as Hendaye, from there on foot. I thank God I've found compassionate people now that I've reached St. Jean de Luz."
"You only raise more questions, mon père. But what are yours?"
"I'd guess from your names that I've stumbled into the homes of Jewish burghers. But I see a crucifix over your mantelpiece. How is that?"
"Quite right. We're a small colony of Spanish and Portuguese Jews expelled after 1492. We didn't go far, just across the border, as you see. There are several more families here in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, and many more to the north in Bayonne. Shortly after our ancestors arrived, they were baptized. In Spanish, they were called conversos or marranos if they were suspected of practicing Judaism secretly. You may have heard the terms. They practiced both religions for something over two hundred years, one openly, the other secretly. But lately we've become tolerated enough to profess our Judaism without fear of persecution. Some of us still go to Mass." She gave a gentle laugh. "After all, Christian morals—when they're observed—come from us Jews."
I nodded. "Yes, including the two greatest commandments: Love God with all your heart, mind, and soul, and love your neighbor as yourself."
Sarah bustled in with a plate, a bowl, and cutlery. From one of the tureens, she quickly filled the bowl with a hearty soup of beef broth, turnips and carrots, and set it before me. I picked up the spoon, my hand shaking.
"Please excuse me… I'm famished."
Saul and Naomi chorused, "Eat, mon père, eat!"
Ruth glanced at the serving girl with annoyance. "Sarah, you should have heated that soup; surely it must be cold by now."
I waved away the comment. "Thank you for the thought, mademoiselle, but it's warm enough to taste delicious!" I thanked God for my hosts and their soup and wolfed it, and Sarah, standing by the sideboard, filled my plate with boiled beef, a ladle of gravy, leeks, and a large chunk of crusty white bread. This, too, disappeared in seconds.
"Wonderful food! I feel my strength returning already." I smiled at my three hosts. "You're observing those two commandments we just spoke of."
Naomi leaned forward, her face eager. "We try. Now, tell us your story. Why on earth were you a prisoner of the Spanish king?"
I repeated what I'd told Jacob and Judith, but mid-story, I yawned.
Naomi called the maid. "Sarah! Light the fire in the spare bedroom and fill a pitcher with warm water. Put some coals in the bed-warmer and warm that bed—it's been months since anyone slept in there and it might be musty as well as ice-cold." She turned to me. "We'll have that room ready in a few minutes, mon père."
* * *
I left the next morning with a bundle of food, wearing a pair of Saul's woolen socks and old boots that actually fit. He'd applied a handful of grease to keep out moisture. The next leg of my journey would be much easier.
I reached Bayonne at sundown, and found the largest church in town. A Mass was in progress, so I sat through it, then followed the priest into the sacristy. A small man, slight, with a narrow face, he would have been handsome but for the close-set, black eyes. I surprised him as he hung up his vestments with rapid, jerky movements.
"Mon père, may I speak to you for a moment?"
He half-turned, sweeping me with those beady eyes. "What do you want? Not confession, I hope!" His tone hesitated between impatience and exasperation. "Who are you, anyhow? A beggar priest? Spanish?"
"No, Father: a priest but not Spanish. I'm on my way north. I need advice—help of some sort—about transportation from here to Bordeaux."
"I can't stop now. I'm on my way to dinner with His Grace, Bishop Ithurri. I'll be assisting him on the trip to Bordeaux for a convocation. We leave tomorrow and… and I'm leaving now."
"Do you mind if I walk with you, at least as far as the Episcopal palace?"
He made an exasperated click of his tongue as he thrust his arms into the sleeves of a warm black coat. "Come along, if you can keep up with me."
I wrapped my blanket around me as we stepped out the back entrance into the twilight. He locked the door, every gesture impatient. "If you're not a poor Spanish country priest, who are you, then? Why Bordeaux?"
"I'm an ex-Jesuit missionary from the New World, detained in Spain for ten years, and now finally released, but without a sou to my name. I'm begging my way across France."
"Then that accounts for your run-down appearance." Crusts of ice crunched with each footstep. "A Jesuit, eh? I thought non-Spanish Jesuits were released long ago. A bunch did come through here years ago, and a sorry-looking lot they were. King Louis didn't want them in France, so I suppose they went on to northern countries. Later, after your Society was suppressed, no one feared you any more."
"Feared us?"
"Yes, there were all sorts of rumors about you. They died down, of course. You're not news any more."
"That's a great blessing. Since I'm begging, do you think I might hitch a ride on one of the coaches heading to Bordeaux?"
"I have no idea. I doubt it, but you can ask; you seem good at that."
We paused before an imposing residence, silhouetted against the moonrise, set back from other buildings behind geometrical plantings surrounding a fountain, its water frozen in mid-flow into fantastic shapes. I gazed while my companion opened a gate in the black iron fence.
"Go around to the servants' entrance and tell them Father Ángeru said you are to be fed and allowed to sleep somewhere warm. Maybe His Grace will let you come with us to Bordeaux."
"A thousand thanks, Father Ángeru. You're most gracious." I succeeded in keeping the irony out of my voice. The trampled, icy path led to a rear door. I knocked several times before a chubby woman flung it open.
"What is it? We're trying to serve dinner for His Grace!"
"Forgive me, but Father Ángeru asks that you give me food and a place to sleep tonight—a warm place, he said. I'm sorry to interrupt."
"Oh, botheration! Well, don't just stand there. Get inside!" She took hold of my blanket and tugged me through the door, closing it firmly behind me. I pulled the blanket off my shoulders and crumpled it to my chest. Like everyone else on this trip, she looked me up and down. "A beggar priest. You'll have to wait till we're done with the serving. You can eat from whatever leftovers we have." She pointed. "Sit by the fireplace and keep out of our way."
"Merci, Madame."
She shook a large spoon in my face. "I'm no ‘Madame'! My name is Lucienne. Go sit!"
I obeyed, curious to know what would be served and how, and from my place by the fire watched three servants ladle steaming bouillon. Three boiled fowl, a chicken, a duck and a guinea were lined up on a platter surrounded by boiled carrots and onions. Another servant carved the birds, severing legs and wings, slicing the breasts. Relays of servants carried away the bouillon on trays. My stomach growled; the food from the Espinosa household had sustained me all day, but exertion and cold had brought a return of hunger.
Platters heaped with oysters, cockles, crabs, and shrimp trailed the soup, and then the came the fowl. The main course, roast beef and pork, followed, accompanied by boiled greens, and finally, individual fancy puddings. Lucienne ignored me until the servants began to stream back with cold leftovers.
"Anything that's still edible is on the side table over there. The rest is slop for the hogs. Here's a plate and cutlery for you, so go and choose what you wish."
"Thank you, Lucienne. Father Ángeru said I was to sleep somewhere warm and go with the bishop and his entourage tomorrow. I'm on my way to Bordeaux, you see." By now, I was speaking more French, as the language slowly returned.
"Then you'd better sleep with the stable hands. They hitch the horses to the coaches, so they'll wake you in plenty of time. Eat, and I'll take you to the coach house."
Bittor, the head groom, scowled when Lucienne presented me, but Father Ángeru's name got me inside the door. A stable hand was home caring for his sick mother, so I was assigned his empty bed. The straw mattress and blankets were none too clean, but I wrapped myself in my own blanket and piled the others on top. The bunkhouse, directly over the stables, was heated by the rising warmth of the horses below, keeping the room above freezing. Physical exhaustion is the best sleeping potion, and my fantasies of Unkel on the Rhine soon blended into profound sleep. No nightmares plagued me that night.
Bittor shook my shoulder. "There's a pitcher of cold water and a basin over there. Wash if you wish. We'll harness the horses."
I was instantly awake. "Is there room on the coachman's bench for me?"
"Two coaches are going, and we have only one spare coachman, so I'd say yes. Can you drive a coach?"
"I drove wagons in New Spain, so I could manage."
"Good. You'll relieve the driver of the second coach, then."
He clattered down the stairs with the others. I shaved as best I could and descended the stairs. I mounted beside the second coachman without his permission. He drove into the courtyard to await the prelates and priests who would travel that day.
Bittor handed up a ragged but heavy quilted jacket. "Put this on. You can't manage the horses with that blanket wrapped around you. Keep the jacket. It's worn out anyway."
"Mille mercis, Bittor!" It was shiny with dirt and the elbows were out, the cuffs frayed, but I felt warmer, especially once I wrapped the blanket around my legs and feet.
* * *
I relieved the coach driver, Imanol, on both days of our trip, but as we approached Bordeaux, he took the reins from me. The city astounded me with the imposing architecture of vast new buildings and the bustle of its trade. I was doubly thankful not to be controlling the team, since I could enjoy the sights without worry. We entered through a medieval gate surmounted by towers and found ourselves in dark, cobbled streets between tall buildings. We circled the magnificent thirteenth-century Cathedral of St. Andrew that raked the sky with soaring spires above intricately carved entrances. A free-standing bell-tower was topped with a statue of the Blessed Virgin holding the baby Jesus, and a couple of smaller structures were joined to the main building by stone foot-bridges suspended high in the air. We halted behind the church, at the entrance to the archiepiscopal palace.
The archiepiscopal party welcomed the bishop and his entourage with due ceremony as they descended from the coaches. After all were safely inside, we drove to the stables, where we parked the coaches, unhitched, fed, watered and stabled the horses. I led the last horse to his stable, then retrieved my blanket from the drivers' seat and stuffed it into my valise. Before leaving, I thanked Imanol and said goodbye to the drivers and footmen, who wished me God speed. By evening, I was well away from the city.
* * *
The soles of Saul's boots were worn through by the time I arrived in Périgueux. The tower clock struck one as I limped toward the domed cathedral of St. Front, hoping to find help among my fellow clergy. So far, I had found more compassion among the poor, who willingly shared what little they had, while the well-to-do, including my brother priests, often begrudged me even a few left-overs.
I was near the center of town, following a narrow cobbled street, when a burly young man, almost running, collided with me and spun me half-way around. He mumbled something I took for apology and hurried past. I'd seen that his canvas trousers were spattered with red, one hand holding a blood-soaked rag wrapped around the other. I could smell the blood. There was no way I could help; he had already disappeared. I continued until the street widened into a plaza, where the church and its courtyard stood on one side, a row of houses on the other. Two carpenters stood outside a large stone house not far from the church, part of it fire-gutted, beside a pile of half-charred timbers. The taller of the two men held a chisel and a maul and stared up the street where the injured worker had passed me. The other, short with a mop of tow-colored hair, crowbar in hand, faced his companion. I was close enough to hear the tall man's words.
"Pierre, we can't possibly finish the job today. Alex cut his hand to the bone. He won't be able to work for a week or more. Monsieur Le Maistre insists that we have the new timbers in place by sundown."
"There's no one to replace him, Jacques. All the carpenters in town are working on other projects today. We'll just have to explain the accident to Monsieur Le Maistre."
"You know how he is. He'll fire us."
I'd done rough carpentry at my missions in New Spain. Perhaps their need would be great enough to accept me, and I could earn enough to pay for new boot soles. My French had been improving along the way—heavily accented, Germanic French with some Spanish words thrown in, but obviously intelligible.
"Excuse me, Monsieur Jacques, but I couldn't help but overhear what you said. I have carpentry experience and could remove burned timbers so you can get on with replacing them."
They turned with a jerk, their eyes wide—one pair hazel, the other gray. Pierre spoke first.
"But… but you're a priest!"
"True, a priest with practical skills. I was a missionary in the New World. I ran three missions there, and today I need my boots resoled."
Jacques spoke first. "Wait here." He took Pierre's sleeve and drew him several paces away. The two discussed my offer, pointing in my direction, gesturing toward the house, and when Pierre shrugged and raised his hands in the air, they beckoned me over.
Jacques issued a second order. "Show us your hands."
I knew they would reject anyone with smooth palms. Fortunately, I'd been gardening at La Caridad Monastery, and my hands were hard and callused. I stretched out my arms, palms upward. "I work with my hands, and I can work for you. You need me."
"We'll give you a try. Here's a crowbar and a maul. See what you can do."
I entered the shell of the house, where two other workers paused to stare in obvious disbelief. One had been prying and hammering at a charred timber; the other waiting with its replacement. I set to work at once on the timber nearest the one they were working on, inserted the crowbar and attempted to separate the timber from the wall. It gave half an inch, but the crowbar embedded itself in the charred wood. I gave the timber a blow with my maul, and it loosened still more. When the timber lay on the floor, I continued to the next one. By that time, the team behind me had finished placing the new beam and was fixing another in the place where my timber had fallen.
I worked hard enough to keep the cold at bay, and had time to contemplate the exotic beauty of the domed cathedral, perhaps inspired by Turkish churches. At sundown, Jacques approached me and counted out seven sous into my soot-blackened hand.
"This should buy you supper and new soles for your boots. You saved us today: without you, we'd surely have been fired."
"I'm happy to have been of service." I picked up the shabby quilted jacket and crossed to the cathedral, circling it until I found an open door. A sacristan was trimming and straightening candles. He turned and stared.
"Monsieur, I need a place to sleep. Is there a warm corner somewhere in the church or the rectory where I could spend the night?"
His gaze was not friendly. "And, I suppose, food for tonight and tomorrow as well?"
"No, I can pay for food. I have a blanket and this jacket, so shelter is all I need."
"If you leave when the first bells ring for early Mass, you can sleep in the vestry. There's no heat, of course."
"But a roof and walls will help. How long is the church open? I must eat supper before I retire for the night."
"I lock the doors at midnight. I'll check to see if you're in the vestry, then lock up. I open again before six in the morning."
I nodded. "God bless you!"
In the labyrinth of streets, a fountain still trickled water amid fantastic floes of ice. I scrubbed my hands until I could see the color of my skin and dried them on my robe where black wouldn't show. Cooking smells drew me to a street with several smoky taverns, disgorging boisterous and belligerent groups of men. I was famished, but unwilling to risk a physical confrontation. L'Aigle volant seemed comparatively clean and quiet. I crossed the sawdust-covered floor and sat on a bench at one of the long tables, my stomach growling loud enough to cause two customers, hunched over food or wine, to raise their heads. The short verses carved into the pine table were—most of them—obscene. The bartender came my way.
"How much for an andouillette, bread and a glass of red wine?"
"Three sous, Monsieur l'abbé."
"And the andouillette will be sautéed and hot?"
"Straight from the pan, Monsieur. And the bread was fresh this morning."
"And the wine?"
"A good Bordeaux vintage, Monsieur l'abbé."
I laid out the coins to reassure him. He nodded and returned to the kitchen, where I could hear the clatter of pans. I waited, my mouth watering. The bread was fresh enough, soft inside with a crunchy crust. The andouillette, hot as promised, was crisp and brown on the outside, succulent within, its juices soaking into the bread with every bite. The hearty red wine was a perfect complement. I could have eaten twice as much, but contented myself with that morsel, making it last.
I found it almost impossible to sleep in the icy vestry that night. My jacket and blanket were inadequate to keep me warm, and the vestments that I could have wrapped myself in had been locked away. When I finally drifted off to sleep, a vivid dream assaulted me.
Unkel lies bleak in grays and blacks under cloudy night skies. Dark figures hurry through the streets. In the intermittent glimmer of sinister moonlight, a knife flashes; the dark shapes scatter. I creep forward, my back against the stone wall, making noise in spite of myself. I lean forward and catch a glimpse of a vague form lying on the ground, shrouded in shadow. I cover my mouth to keep from crying out. I can almost see the victim clearly, now.
My heart gave a powerful leap and I sat bolt upright, gasping for breath. Who was it? Could it be Isabella? Why should I have such dreams when I had never experienced anything unpleasant in the village?
The sacristan unlocked the door at six, and I stepped out into the frigid dawn. I left Périgueux with new boot soles but a raw throat.
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