The Blessed (24 page)

But her mother and her lover, the bishop, were both long dead. It had been some time since Josephine had been held by anyone, decades since anyone had shared the Word with her. It always flowed out of her, the truth, out upon deaf ears. So frustrating was her cause . . . what good, truth, if no one wished to recognize it as such? Her own life was edging toward the end, she thought, her hips and shoulders aching in the cold stillness of morn.

For years now, Josephine had made a living as a beggar, wondering how it was that the Lord on High had made her first, a woman; second, blind; and third, a prophetess. Prophets were never welcome in their own towns. The people of Avignon held her at arm's length, drawn by her insight, yet repulsed by her forthright honesty. They came to her as a diviner of sorts, but she never made the same money that the fortune-tellers did outside the city gates. The fortuners would tell their clients what they wished to hear. Josephine always told them the truth.

She knew the city by sound and touch. She could walk each block and know exactly where she was. The smell of the fishmonger's market guided her from three blocks distant, as did the tallow and beeswax of the chandler's. She knew the sound of each cardinal's horse, the steep slope of the hill that led to the Palais de le Pape. Beyond it she knew the feel of the wind off the Rhône in any season, the spray of her waters upon her face. Well she understood the sensation of flying when one stood on the edge of the Rocher des Doms, the massive cliff above the old river, beyond the growing, expanding palace. She enjoyed the relatively quiet Université district, rife with professors and students, deep in thoughtful conversation.

And yet she also enjoyed identifying the city's more boisterous characters—such as the shrill voice of the cotton merchant and the twin voice of the spice merchant's wife, women the people said must have been separated at birth, so alike was their tone and their talk.

Josephine moved down the creaking stairs from her third-story room, one hand to the crumbling plaster wall, a basket of woolens at her hip. She spent her days in the vast plaza below the palace, tolerated because of her blind, poor status by the churchmen. Some were kind enough to throw a minor coin in her basket each day. Cardinals Stefani and Morano; Bishops Corin, Barnabe, and Ferdinand. More minor priests and officials.

Although she earned enough for a loaf of bread each day from the coins, and a bit of cheese or meat every other day from her weavings, it was for the people she came. As each passed, Josephine would pray the Scriptures that sang from her heart, those she felt applied most to that person, at that moment, be he beggar or bishop, priest or professor. Here, along Rue de Mons, much of the city progressed each day, entering and exiting through the busiest gate of the city—le Porte du Rhône. Certainly anyone of import. Praying for the people here allowed her to make the biggest impact on the greatest number of people. From here, she had the clearest sense of her sisters and brothers—be they well or ill—and felt the thrumming life of her city.

Yet something was different in these last weeks, within her city's daily song. The cadence was the same, but it was as if another beat had been added, something almost imperceptible, different. And the Scriptures, those words whispered so long ago to her by her father, were no longer content to remain a silent whisper, singing through her mind and occasionally spoken to passersby. Instead, they formed in her mouth until she was desperate to release them—at times like a lump of clay, something she felt compelled to spit out; other times a welcoming kiss, like the finest of olive oils that could emerge as an anointing. She never knew what was to come until a person moved before her.

Josephine groaned, feeling the lump begin to form. He had returned. She had hoped he was a visitor passing through, soon gone. But he had passed by five times and now he neared again.

 
SHE rose ahead of them, trembling as if enraged. Abramo knew her immediately as
other
, as threat. She looked toward them with eyes opaque in blindness and yet it felt uncannily as if she stared straight into his soul. Why now? He groaned inwardly. He traveled with Cardinal DuPree and Bishop Corin, en route to another cardinal's mansion to dine.

Cardinal DuPree, seeing her distress, pulled his horse up short. “Be at peace, woman. The night is drawing near. Should you not gather your basket and head toward home?”

“Well I should, Eminence,” she said, with a slow nod. “But you travel with someone who is a danger to you.”

The cardinal laughed. “Not Bishop Corin? He's as harmless as a dove!” He cast a teasing glance at the bishop, but his eyes hesitated over Abramo.

“Nay, Eminence,” said the woman, her face still pointed toward Abramo. “I have a word for the third man who travels with you.”

“Lord Amidei?” Again, the cardinal chuckled. “Then by all means, tell him what you must. I shall enjoy listening.”

“Cardinal DuPree, should we not be on our way?” Abramo asked, barely concealing his agitation. “Might we not be late?”

“Nay. We have plenty of time. Cardinal Rocher's household hardly runs on any sort of schedule, due to his slovenly spirit. Go ahead, good woman. Tell Lord Amidei what you must. If it's worthy, I shall give you a gold florin this day instead of a silver gros.”

She paused, then poised her face toward Cardinal DuPree. “Forgive me, Eminence, but God himself has given me this word for your companion, now . . . ‘
Propter quod abiicientes omnem immunditiam . . .
Therefore, get rid of all moral filth and the evil that is so prevalent and humbly accept the word planted in you, which can save you.' ”

The cardinal, dumbfounded by the beggar's fluent use of Latin, pulled slightly on the reins. His gelding moved a step backward.

Amidei scoffed in irritation. “Surely you shall not let a beggar speak to us with such insolence—”

She turned to the cardinal and bishop. “ ‘Has not God chosen those who are poor in the eyes of the world to be rich in faith and to inherit the kingdom he promised those who love him? But you have insulted the poor.' ”

“If the poor have no manners then—” Amidei began.

“ ‘Is it not the rich who are exploiting you?' ” the woman cut in. “ ‘Are they not the ones who are dragging you to court? Are they not the ones who are slandering the noble name of him to whom you belong?' ”

 
JOSEPHINE knew she had slipped from Latin into her native Provençal at some point, but she could not stop herself. Never had the words come so fast and furious. It was as if they welled within her, surged and spewed, unaided. At one point, the Lord's words were for the cardinal, the next, for the bishop, the following, for the newcomer. All were for her, for anyone who would listen. Holy words of wisdom, from the pen of James, if she remembered that right. But she had to stop . . . she would be imprisoned . . . right after she said what was next . . . “ ‘If you really keep the royal law found in Scripture, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” you are doing right. But if you show favoritism, you sin and are convicted by the law as lawbreakers. For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles at just one point is guilty of breaking all of it. For he who said, “Do not commit adultery” ' ”—she paused and faced the newcomer—“ ‘also said, “Do not murder.” ' Josephine swallowed hard, knowing by the intensity of these words that the newcomer was both adulterer and murderer.

The newcomer, Amidei, sighed heavily. “Shall we be on our way now, Cardinal? Surely we need not subject ourselves to the wild rantings of a madwoman . . . I'm to meet Baron del Buco. I really must not tarry.”

“What is your rush, m'lord?” asked the cardinal. “Are you not the least bit curious? Here is a woman, aged and poor, who seems to know the Scriptures both in Latin and what they mean in Provençal.”

“A trick,” Amidei said. “Meant to garner larger coins for her basket in the company of holy men. She should be jailed for attempting to take advantage of your tender hearts.”

Danger! Danger!
her mind screamed. But she could not stop herself. She sank to her knees, clasping her hands before her. “ ‘Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment!' Mercy, m'lord Cardinal. I beg you. Mercy. Mercy.”

She had heard of people imprisoned within the dark dungeon of the Palais de le Pape, those who suffered the Court of the Rota. She had smelled the burning flesh of those heretics burned at the stake, right here in the plaza. What was she doing? What madness was this, this path her Lord forced her to take?
Mercy, mercy, mercy. Protect me, Lord God on High!
She sank to the ground, her nose to the cobblestones. Would they order her dragged from this spot? Place her in stocks? She prayed that they would simply leave, that her task was complete.

The cardinal cleared his throat. “Good woman, were you once a noble? How have you come to know the Scriptures?”

“My father taught them to me,” she said in misery, her face still pressed to the ground.

“What is that? I cannot make out your words. Come now, fear no longer. I am curious more than angry. Rise.”

“M'lord Cardinal—” Amidei began.

Apparently the cardinal urged him to hush with a gesture or look, for the newcomer fell silent. She could feel the waves of danger from the man, the hatred that pulled more words from her . . . As he had asked, Josephine rose, feeling the full misery of what undoubtedly would now transpire.

“Come now, you face a father of the Church, not an executioner,” the cardinal said. She could hear him dismount and step closer to her.

“
Oui
, Eminence.”

“Was your father a scholar? One who favored James?”

“He favored much of the New Testament.”

“I see. And he taught you both Latin and the Holy Scriptures? A worthy cause. But are you aware that it is not permissible to speak the Word in the common tongue? If we allowed such madness, the villeins would distort what is holy and none would remain pure.”

“I am aware, Eminence,” she said. “But does not the Word say, ‘Do not merely listen to the word and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.' ”

“Quite,” returned the cardinal. “I must—”

“ ‘Anyone who listens to the word,' ” she rushed on, “ ‘but does not do what it says is like a man who looks at his face in the mirror and after looking at himself, goes away and immediately forgets what he looks like. But the man who looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues to do this, not forgetting what he has heard, but doing it—he will be blessed in what he does.' ”

“Your father was a professor specializing in James, I take it,” the cardinal said.

“He was a student of many biblical books,” she returned. More words were rising in her throat, begging to be let out. She bit on her tongue until she tasted the copper essences of blood, forcing them back, clamping her lips shut. She could not say anything more. She could not!

“I see that you feel the full force of your contrition, and grant you absolution.” She could feel the breath of air about her face as he made the sign of the cross in front of her. “See that you sin no longer.”

He turned, and she could hear the creak of the leather as he mounted his horse again. She shook her head in frustration and angst. There would be no halting the words. “I shall do my best to sin no longer, but if it is sin to speak the Word of God, then so be it. Be aware that you ride with sin, m'lord. The snares are wide and vast ahead of you, already surround you—”

“Cardinal!” Amidei barked, knowing she was about to lay into him again. “You cannot allow such madness!”

“Woman!” the cardinal shouted. “You shall cease!”

“ ‘If you harbor bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast about it or deny the truth. Such “wisdom” does not come down from heaven, but is earthly, unspiritual, of the devil.' ” She spit those last words toward Amidei. “ ‘For where you have envy and selfish ambition, there you find disorder and every evil practice.' ” She leaned backward, aching as the words left her mouth, as if they had battered her while she pushed them down and left her bruised.

“We shall speak of this further on the morrow,” said the cardinal lowly. And with a snap of his fingers, Josephine was grabbed by two knights, her basket left behind, her feet barely touching the cobblestones en route to the dungeons beneath the Palais de le Pape.

LATER that night, Abramo Amidei and Baron Vincenzo del Buco rode back to the cardinal's residence, alone but for Ciro and another knight. Vincenzo seemed at odds, weak. It was good that he had arrived. Here, Amidei would refortify him. “I learned from the messenger that you were successful with our quest,” Abramo said.

“Indeed. We killed the short, dark-hairned knight, and his companion, the tall German.”

“Very good,” Abramo said with a nod. “They were formidable knights, a significant force together. De Capezzana was wise in choosing them. Fierce must his loss be, greater our gain.”

“We had hoped to take more of them, but Cardinal Boeri arrived with his knights de Vaticana. We were driven off.”

Abramo shrugged and pulled his cape a bit closer. “You did what you could. You did well.”

“You are not dismayed at such word of Cardinal Boeri? His aid to the Gifted?”

Abramo smiled. “If all the cardinals fell to us, it would hardly be fair, would it? And the messenger told me of Boeri, and how he reunited Hasani with the Gifted.” He sighed. “That is what dismays me.”