Iacobus Page 5

  “O.K., boy,” I said, after a few moments of silence. “There is something that you need to know. Although this knowledge requires the utmost secrecy on your part. If you are willing to swear that you will keep your silence forever, I will tell you. If not, you can return to the monastery right now.”

  I presume that, deep down, he never had the intention to leave me, even if it was just because he was scared of the long journey home. But that rascal was as cunning as me and he was learning from me how to play dangerously.

  “I knew there was something behind all this,” he said, satisfied. “You have my word.”

  “Good, but I won’t tell you anything yet. We are in the middle of the fire, do you understand?”

  “Of course, sire! We are doing something that has to do with the secret.”

  “Exactly. Now careful, the innkeeper is coming back.”

  The fat François came towards us holding an enormous steaming pot with the pleasant smell of fish escaping from it. He was wearing his best smile.

  “Here you go, sire, the best fish from the Rhone, prepared Provençe style, with herbs from the County of Venaissin!”

  “Splendid, innkeeper! And a little wine to go with it? If you serve wine in this inn, that is.”

  “The best!” he said, waving to the barrels on the other side of the room.

  “Well have some wine with us while we eat and you can keep us company.”

  I made him talk until we saw the bottom of the pot and we soaked up the broth with the loaf of bread. Meanwhile, Jonas filled up the innkeeper’s goblet as soon as he emptied it, and he emptied it various times throughout lunch. In the end, he had told me all about his life, that of his wife, of his children and much of the Apostolic Curia. I still haven’t found a better way of getting the information I need from someone than gaining their trust, making them talk about themselves, about their loved ones and about the things they feel proud of, accompanying attentive listening with gentle appreciative gestures. When we had finished the cheese and grapes, François was well in my power.

  “So, François,” I commented, cleaning my fingers on the fine silk of my clothes, “you are the man in whose house the Holy Father Clement died.”

  His pig-like shiny face suddenly paled. “What? How do you know that?”

  “Come, come, François! Do you mean to tell me that you hadn’t thought my presence in this house rather strange, exactly two months after the death of my cousin?”

  François opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out.

  “You really weren’t suspicious of such a curious coincidence? I can’t believe that from a man as intelligent as yourself!”

  He opened his mouth again but only a muffled sound came out.

  “Who are you?” he finally asked with a groan. “Are you a spy of the King or of the new Pope?”

  “I’ve already told you. I am Galceran of Born, cousin of the deceased Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valery, and that is the truth. I would never lie to you, you must believe me. The only thing I have done up until now was withhold the reason for my visit. I wanted to see what type of person you were and I am pleasantly pleased. Which is why I will now tell you why I have come to your home.”

  Two sets of eyes watched me closely; those of Jonas, with keen interest; and those of poor François, with a flash of agony.

  “My cousin Henry saw his death in a dream during which the Blessed Virgin appeared to him.” The poor innkeeper shivered under his apron as if he were naked in the snow. “So he wrote me a long letter begging me to go to his side to be with him in his last hours. Because of the old nao on which I traveled from Valencia to Rome, I arrived just in time to hold his hand and say goodbye. However, just before he died, Henry took my head in his hands and pulled my ear to his mouth to confess something he could not finish. Do you know what I am talking about, innkeeper?”

  François nodded, letting out a cry and buried his face in his hands.

  “The Cardinal told me: ‘I will go to hell, cousin, I will go to hell if you don’t find François, the innkeeper in Roquemaure, and get him to tell you the truth. The Virgin said that if we didn’t break the oath we made that day before we die, both François and I would burn in hell. Tell him this, cousin, tell him to save his soul.’ And then he died … A few days later,” I continued, “I found a letter addressed to me amongst my cousin’s papers. Since my boat had still not arrived and his end was nearing, Henry had left me a few lines in a sealed envelope, in which he asked me to find you, innkeeper, ‘the man in whose house the Holy Father Clement died.’ Can you explain yourself?”

  “Everything happened so fast!” François whimpered in fear. “Neither your cousin nor I were to blame for anything!”

  “Can you tell me, man of God, what the hell you are talking about?” I said, shocked.

  “Your servant cannot hear what I am about to say! Who is he to know secrets that only four people … three now, in the whole world know?”

  “Actually, François, this young man is not only my servant and my squire, he is also my son, my only son, and unfortunately, he is illegitimate, a bastard … which is why I have brought him with me as my footman, so you can see now that you can speak freely. He will say nothing.”

  “Are you sure that he will not speak, sire?”

  “Swear, Jonas!” I ordered my surprised apprentice, who had never been in such a crazy situation before.

  “I, Jonas …,” he murmured, giddily, “swear that I will never say a word.”

  “Begin, François.”

  François cleaned his tears and nose on the folds of his sticky apron and, more calmly, began his story.

  “If the Virgin wants me to break my oath, then so be it! I am breaking it today for the good of my soul,” and he crossed himself three times to ward of the devil’s presence. “The truth is that Our Lady is right, because you must know, good knight, that your cousin and I made an oath out of fear, for fear that we would be blamed for the death of the Holy Father.”

  “And why would you be blamed for that? Did you kill him?”

  “No!” he shouted in desperation. “We only wanted to save him!”

  “I think it would be best, my friend François, if you start at the beginning.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re right. Well you see, sire, that day the papal retinue stopped in front of my establishment and several servants helped the Holy Father down from the main carriage. I recognized him by his red tunic and the hat. He was about fifty years old, with a thick beard and looked ill of health. A soldier screamed at me to throw out all of my customers I had at that time and your cousin, who came in next, asked me to prepare a bed so that the Holy Father could rest for a while before continuing on his journey.

  My wife and children made an effort to tidy up the best room we have, the last one on the top floor, where they took Clement, who was pale and sweaty.”

  “Tell me,” I interrupted, “Did you notice the color of his lips? Were they gray or blue?”

  “Now that I think of it, I remember that I did look but it was their dark red color that caught my attention, as if they were painted.”

  “Aha, please continue.”

  “Hours passed and there was no news. The soldiers drank in silence at the same tables you can see now, as if they were frightened, and in that corner, at the big table, a group of cardinals from the Chamber and the Chancellery were talking quietly. Some I had known for a long time, customers of mine who entered by the stairs in the barn so as not to be seen. Anyway, I fed them all and then took some food up for the Pope and your cousin, who was taking care of him with the help of a young priest who had come downstairs earlier to have a drink. Clement was sitting up in bed, leaning against some pillows and breathing laboriously, you know, very quickly and very deeply, as if he were suffocating. In fact, it looked like he couldn’t get his breath.”

  “And what happened?”

  “His Holiness didn’t want to eat anything, he said that his stomach was closed an
d he only wanted a little wine but the servant, your cousin, said that he didn’t think it was a good idea as it would raise his fever, and the best thing would be to go back to Avignon to see his personal doctor. But the Pope refused. He actually jumped in the bed, you know, as if anger had pushed him, despite his weakness, and he shouted at your cousin that he had to reach Wilaudraut as soon as possible, that his doctor was a fool who hadn’t been able to cure him and that if he didn’t get to his house in Gascony, he would die very soon. Anyway, I was feeling very awkward, so I excused myself and left but I hadn’t even reached the corridor when your cousin came out looking for me and stopped me. He said that he knew it was impossible for there to be a doctor in Roquemaure but he wanted to know if it would be possible to find one in the nearby villages. ‘He doesn’t need to be good,’ he said, ‘just as long as he looks the part, that will be sufficient. I want somebody to calm His Holiness’ nerves with good words, someone to convince him that he is fine to continue his journey’.”

  “Is that exactly what Henry said?”

  “Yes, sire, those were his exact words. And you see, that’s where the problems began, because a few days beforehand two Arab doctors had come to my inn and requested lodgings for four or five nights. We don’t normally get Moors around here but it’s not uncommon for wealthy merchants, or even diplomats, to come through Roquemaure on their way to Spain or Italy, and they pay well, sire, with good ounces of gold. The doctors locked themselves in their room on the first day and only came out to eat or take a walk in the afternoon. One of my sons saw them one day spreading out their mats next to the river and kneeling down to pray as they do.”

  “So you told my cousin that, coincidentally, there were two Muslim doctors in one of the rooms, and that if he wanted, you could speak to them and ask for their help.”

  “It happened just as you say, sir. At first the Cardinal didn’t dare suggest to the Pope that he let two Moors examine him but given that there was no other solution, he asked him and the Pope agreed. It seems that Clement had already been cured on another occasion by an Arab doctor and was very satisfied with the results. So I knocked on their door and told them what was going on. They were willing to help and spoke for a long time with your cousin before entering the Holy Father’s room. I don’t know what they spoke about but your cousin must have given them many instructions because they nodded very politely. Then they went in, and I also entered to see whether they needed anything. I must add that the people downstairs didn’t know anything about this because even the young priest who was helping your cousin with the Pope had left the room to pray with the Cardinals for the health of His Holiness, and they were praying right here in this dining room while what I am telling you was happening. Well,” he continued, after taking a long swig of wine, “the doctors examined His Holiness very carefully. They looked at his eyes, mouth, they took his pulse and palpated his stomach and finally prescribed emerald powder dissolved in wine. They said that this potion would ease his stomach and lower his temperature in just a few minutes. It seemed to be a good remedy and the Pope was willing to grind down three beautiful emeralds he was carrying. He was convinced that it would cure him. The doctors asked me for a mortar and some wine, and ground the emeralds very carefully, slowly mixing them with the drink. They were beautiful, shiny, huge stones, with a transparent green color that mesmerized me. I know that precious stones have healing powers but it hurt my soul to see them disappear into the mouth of His Holiness, reduced to nothing.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “The Moors returned to their room and the Pope instantly felt much better. His breathing improved, his fever disappeared and he stopped sweating. Then, when he was just about to come downstairs to continue his journey, he shuddered, bent over and began to vomit blood. Your cousin and I were terrified. The first thing we thought of was to request help from the doctors, so I ran back to their room. However, in less than ten minutes they had disappeared. There was not a trace of their presence in the room; it was as if they had never been there. No clothes, no books, no indents in the bed, no signs of food. Nothing. You can imagine our anguish! The Pope continued vomiting blood and writhing in pain. Your cousin grabbed me by the neck and said ‘Listen, you rogue! I don’t know how much those assassins paid you to help them kill the Pope but I swear that the storms of the Inquisition await you if you don’t tell me right now what poison you gave him.’ I swore and swore again that I didn’t know what he was talking about, that I had also been tricked and that however good a Cardinal and a servant he was, he would also be put before the Inquisition for allowing two Moors to poison the Pope.”

  François gave an endless sigh and was quiet. He seemed to be reliving the agony of that day, the panic he had felt upon seeing His Holiness Clement V die in his house, which was pretty much his fault.

  “The Holy Father was also bleeding from … behind, you know what I mean. A river, sire, a river of blood flowed from above and from below.”

  “Red or black?”

  “What?”

  “The blood, damn it, the blood! Red or black?”

  “Black, sire, very black, dark,” he said.

  “And so, scared, my cousin, Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valerie and yourself swore not to say anything to anyone, and given that the doctors had vanished into thin air, you both promised to never mention this incident in the declarations following the death. Am I wrong?”

  “No, sire, you are not wrong, that is what happened.”

  “But God was not happy, my friend, and He sent the Holy Mother so as my cousin would repent that evil oath that has surely kept him in purgatory until today, until this very time when you have spoken.”

  “Yes, yes!” yelled the poor wretch with his eyes filled with tears. “And you can’t imagine how happy I am to have freed my soul and that of your cousin from the fires of hell!”

  “And I am glad to have been an instrument of Our Lord to perform such a marvelous task,” I declared with pride. “I will never forget you, dear François. You have made me very happy allowing me to fulfill this holy mission.”

  “I will always be indebted to you for saving my soul, sire, always!”

  “Just one more thing … By any chance, do you remember the names of those Arabs?”

  “And what good could that do?” he asked me, surprised.

  “Nothing, nothing,” I agreed. “I’m sure they are false names anyway. But if I ever come across an Arab doctor who answers to one of those names, you can be sure that he will pay with his life for the harm he caused to my cousin and to yourself.”

  François’ eyes rested on me with wet veneration, and I couldn’t help but feel a slight stab in my conscience.

  “I don’t remember very well but I think that one of them answered to the name of Fat something or other and the other ….” He frowned in an effort to remember. “The other was something like Ada-bal … Adabal, Adabal, Adabal …,” he said. “Adabal Ka, I think but I’m not sure. Wait! Wait a minute! I remember that that night, when everything had finished and the retinue had left with the body, I made a note of the names of those doctors in case I was interrogated.”

  “Well thought! Please find that note.”

  “I put it over here,” he said, standing up and going over to a corner of the dining room where, hanging from the beams of the roof, were pots and meats hung out to dry. With much effort, he climbed onto one of the chairs and removed a jar from its hook. But no, it wasn’t the right one. He got down again, puffing, dragged the bench a bit closer and got back up. The second jar did contain what he was looking for, because he smiled happily and removed a greasy piece of paper with his fingers.

  “Here it is!”

  I got up and went over to take the paper from his hand. Even though he was standing on a bench, the innkeeper only reached my neck.

  Written on the bit of paper, with the infamous writing of a merchant who had learned the essentials to run his business, was:

  ADAB AL-ACSA
>
  and

  FAT AL-YEDOM

  “Is that everything?” I asked. “Can I keep the paper?”

  “That is everything,” said the fat and sweaty innkeeper. “And yes, you may keep it.”

  “Good, well, let us pay for our food and my squire and I will be on our way, happy and appreciative for today.”

  “Good God, sir! Have you not paid enough by saving my soul from Satan? You owe me nothing. If anything, it is I who owes you.”

  “Fine. I will give the money for this meal to the priests at my church in Valencia, so they can pray for the soul of my cousin.”

  “God will reward you greatly for your noble heart. Wait a moment and I will bring your horses to the door.”

  I looked at Jonas, expecting to see deep reproach in his eyes but his cheeks were red from the excitement and his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  “I have a thousand questions to ask you,” he whispered.

  “As soon as we get out of here.”

  Three hours after leaving Roquemaure, we stopped our horses along a sheltered side of the road, a perfect place on the banks of the Rhone, whose course we followed northwards to its source, to light a good fire, have dinner and sleep, as we wouldn’t reach Vienne until the next day. I had spent those three hours telling Jonas about the mission entrusted to me by Pope John as well as the details of the story which due to his age and lifestyle he couldn’t have known, and which were directly related to the problem. While we lit the fire, he said, “I think that the Pope is so afraid of dying, frere, that if you tell him that it was the Templars who killed his predecessor, he will approve the request of King Don Denis so as not to live in fear, and if you tell him otherwise, that it wasn’t them, he will refuse the request, so as to get rid of the Templars forever.”