disparaged the rules and rituals of the monastery. When they wanted him awake, he wanted to sleep. When they wanted him asleep, he wanted to be awake. He didn’t want to copy old texts, he wanted to read them, to study them. The old pagans fascinated him. The theologians and church fathers, rather less.
For the most part he managed to suppress these feelings until he traveled north with the Inquisition. His first trial, of a Venetian burgher under cross-examination for the man’s rude public statements about the bishop of San Pietro, had seemed too trivial for prosecution. There was no denying the man’s crime—more than fifty people heard his oaths and blasphemies—but the punishment seemed rather harsh. Thirty lashes, five hundred Venetian lira to the bishop, and two days in the stocks?
Lorenzo dismissed the statements as a poor attempt at humor. To the bishop’s rage and his prior’s grudging acceptance, he convinced the tribunal to reduce the fine to fifty lira, four hours in the stocks, and no public lashing.
It wasn’t until Genoa when he ran afoul of the Inquisition himself. A Franciscan monk had been caught with the wrong pagan texts, marked by the church prohibito libro —a forbidden book. A noble might have escaped judgment, but not a monk. Before the trial, Lorenzo found himself in possession of the forbidden manuscript. He locked himself in his cell at the monastery and read the texts, then commenced to copy the pages. When caught with the forbidden work, he sent it off to a friend in the curia in the Vatican rather than surrender it to the fire.
And just like that he became a target of the Inquisition and not one of its enforcers.
Lorenzo was no stoic. The first time he saw the red-hot pincers taken from the fire, he babbled an immediate confession and retraction. Everything since had been the unfortunate consequence of his initial pride.
“What I am asking,” Montguillon said, “is why you came to Paris, not why you have presented yourself to the monastery for penance, as commanded by the Inquisition.”
“We have lost one of our agents. My father sent us to investigate, and to hire a replacement if it turns out the man fell ill and died.”
“Ah yes, your man Giuseppe Veronese, last seen on the road to Troyes.”
“You’ve heard of this?”
Montguillon smiled. He rose and took a piece of cloth from the younger friar, which he used to dab at the cuts on his arm. The stones at his feet lay colored with blood, drying and freezing now into a speckled burgundy, like paint flicked across a filthy canvass.
“Thank you, Simon,” Montguillon said to the friar. He turned to Lorenzo. “The world is filled with evil. Witches celebrate midnight mass with the flesh and blood of innocents. Men become wolves at night. Even in the crypts below Notre Dame you will find demons.”
He held out his arms and Simon slipped the hair shirt onto him. Montguillon’s jaw tightened momentarily, but he didn’t wince. Soon, he was dressed in his robe and cloak, with his cowl over his head. The younger friar kept his gaze deferentially on the prior in a way that began to grate on Lorenzo. An inquisitor in training.
Lorenzo spoke more carefully. “Have you heard anything about Giuseppe? What happened to him? Is he dead?”
“Your agent fell on the road to Troyes, that much is true. Whether he is dead is another story. Come, let us take this discussion to more sacred ground.”
Montguillon walked beneath the arcade and Lorenzo and the young friar followed him around the courtyard toward the chapel. They passed two friars headed in the other direction. The others didn’t speak, but stepped to the side to wait for the prior to pass.
They passed through the scriptorium, where friars sat at desks copying psalters through the light of two plain windows made of several dozen individual panes of glass, leaded together. One could not copy with numb hands, so the fire was roaring in the hearth, turning the room
For the most part he managed to suppress these feelings until he traveled north with the Inquisition. His first trial, of a Venetian burgher under cross-examination for the man’s rude public statements about the bishop of San Pietro, had seemed too trivial for prosecution. There was no denying the man’s crime—more than fifty people heard his oaths and blasphemies—but the punishment seemed rather harsh. Thirty lashes, five hundred Venetian lira to the bishop, and two days in the stocks?
Lorenzo dismissed the statements as a poor attempt at humor. To the bishop’s rage and his prior’s grudging acceptance, he convinced the tribunal to reduce the fine to fifty lira, four hours in the stocks, and no public lashing.
It wasn’t until Genoa when he ran afoul of the Inquisition himself. A Franciscan monk had been caught with the wrong pagan texts, marked by the church prohibito libro —a forbidden book. A noble might have escaped judgment, but not a monk. Before the trial, Lorenzo found himself in possession of the forbidden manuscript. He locked himself in his cell at the monastery and read the texts, then commenced to copy the pages. When caught with the forbidden work, he sent it off to a friend in the curia in the Vatican rather than surrender it to the fire.
And just like that he became a target of the Inquisition and not one of its enforcers.
Lorenzo was no stoic. The first time he saw the red-hot pincers taken from the fire, he babbled an immediate confession and retraction. Everything since had been the unfortunate consequence of his initial pride.
“What I am asking,” Montguillon said, “is why you came to Paris, not why you have presented yourself to the monastery for penance, as commanded by the Inquisition.”
“We have lost one of our agents. My father sent us to investigate, and to hire a replacement if it turns out the man fell ill and died.”
“Ah yes, your man Giuseppe Veronese, last seen on the road to Troyes.”
“You’ve heard of this?”
Montguillon smiled. He rose and took a piece of cloth from the younger friar, which he used to dab at the cuts on his arm. The stones at his feet lay colored with blood, drying and freezing now into a speckled burgundy, like paint flicked across a filthy canvass.
“Thank you, Simon,” Montguillon said to the friar. He turned to Lorenzo. “The world is filled with evil. Witches celebrate midnight mass with the flesh and blood of innocents. Men become wolves at night. Even in the crypts below Notre Dame you will find demons.”
He held out his arms and Simon slipped the hair shirt onto him. Montguillon’s jaw tightened momentarily, but he didn’t wince. Soon, he was dressed in his robe and cloak, with his cowl over his head. The younger friar kept his gaze deferentially on the prior in a way that began to grate on Lorenzo. An inquisitor in training.
Lorenzo spoke more carefully. “Have you heard anything about Giuseppe? What happened to him? Is he dead?”
“Your agent fell on the road to Troyes, that much is true. Whether he is dead is another story. Come, let us take this discussion to more sacred ground.”
Montguillon walked beneath the arcade and Lorenzo and the young friar followed him around the courtyard toward the chapel. They passed two friars headed in the other direction. The others didn’t speak, but stepped to the side to wait for the prior to pass.
They passed through the scriptorium, where friars sat at desks copying psalters through the light of two plain windows made of several dozen individual panes of glass, leaded together. One could not copy with numb hands, so the fire was roaring in the hearth, turning the room
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