The Brotherhood of Book Hunters (16 page)

“Never mind. I still owe you reparation.”

In the gathering darkness, François's narrow grin widened just slightly. Was he forgiving him, or rejoicing at the nasty trick he was preparing? With that enigma, the two men separated. Colin was sorry no blood had flowed. As for Aisha, she was disturbed to discover the brutal strength smoldering beneath François's amiable features. Given that she was under his protection, such strength should have reassured her, but she couldn't help dreading his obstinate ferocity, which would not easily be tamed. What would she do if François was too stubborn to follow her where she wanted to take him, the place where she could finally show him the way he had so long been seeking?

Médard waved his bronze key, like a baby shaking a little bell, already scampering toward the chapel, pulling the prior by the sleeve. Brother Paul let the dwarf scold him. He just had time to instruct the others to follow him. A wicked smile lit up his round face. He too had missed nothing of the spectacle. That joust had not been fortuitous, he was sure of it. The Italian had been counting on it. It was as if he had wanted to make sure of something.

 

Reaching the far end of the nave, Médard nimbly opened the door that led to the cellars. At the foot of the steps, he lit the torches in the wall one by one. A gentle odor of sawdust and camphor came in through a window. The air was surprisingly dry here, the temperature pleasant. At the entrance to the main room, a slight breeze caressed the visitors' cheeks. This slight coolness, combined with the smiling white of the walls, made them feel strangely at ease. The place was neither solemn nor austere. A kind of gaiety emanated from the brightly-colored bindings that stood close together on the shelves. On the floor, tall thin vases, containing scrolls of papyrus, rubbed shoulders with heavy nailed chests. There were no benches, no tables. This was the kingdom of books. Mingled thus in a kind of mute, meaningless dance, they did not seem like the works of man, or even for man, but endowed with their own life, freed from the very texts they contained.

François spotted a splendid binding stamped with animal motifs. Monsters and wild beasts frolicked on it, oblivious of their leather yoke. Aisha followed the direction of François's gaze. There was something physical, sensual even, in the way he eyed the book and caressed its cover. She noticed the same gleam of greed in Federico's eyes as, with a quick glance, he established a rapid inventory. There was so much here, it was worth a fortune.

Colin stopped in front of a clay statuette painted in several colors, with black lines that outlined the parts of the human body. The skull was covered with numbers drawn in ink. Beside it, a baboon's fetus was swimming in a jar filled with a foul-looking yellowish liquid. Further on, Colin stumbled over an assembly of iron hoops intertwined around an axis. Each of the hoops bore a brass ball. Colin tapped one of the balls with his finger, and to his surprise set the thing in motion. The hoops started turning slowly around each other, Roman numerals paraded to the rhythm of this meticulous ballet of arcs and balls, while, on a blue dial dotted with stars, a mother-of-pearl half-moon pursued a little brass sun, without ever catching it.

Brother Paul smiled with more than a hint of pride at his guests' dazzled reactions. But Médard was still in a foul mood. Upset at having introduced these intruders into his domain, he indicated the copies chosen for the mission with a casual gesture of the arm. They were marked with little crosses hastily drawn in chalk.

François wondered about the motives that led these monks to lend their hand to Jews from “the invisible Jerusalem.” The book hunters were clearly trying to help a wind of apostasy blow through the Christian world. And yet there was no doubting the religious fervor of the Medicis, the Sforzas, Médard, or even Guillaume Chartier.

Noticing François's confusion, Brother Paul disappeared for a moment, then came back with a bundle of manuscript sheets. The parchment was blackened with serried lines, filled with crossings out, encumbered with feverish penciled notes that gave the whole a tormented appearance. A feeling of panic emanated from it, as if the author had feared he might not be able to finish his task in time. The jerky strokes and absence of punctuation revealed either a deranged soul or the anxiety of a visionary afraid of seeing some vision escape him before he had been able to describe it. François recognized the heavy characters of the Gothic, even though he was unable to decipher them. He looked up at the prior, who simply declared that a Christian was not obliged to speak to God in Latin.

In England, in Germany and in the lands of the North, the faithful found it hard to be inspired by a language whose sounds, so pleasant to the ears of a Spaniard or a Frenchman, were in no way melodious to Teutons and Saxons. These barbarian converts in the Rhineland or Scotland felt no affinity with Rome. After all, it wasn't the Italians or the Castilians whom the Lord had chosen to ensure the coming of His kingdom. And it was not in the language of the sacristy that Jesus and his apostles had spread the good word. From there to questioning the precepts of papal dogma, there was only one step.

Having always lived in the Holy Land, Paul and Médard also felt less and less need for Papal intercession with the Savior. They rubbed shoulders with Him every day in this very place, on the roads of Galilee, amid the dry ravines of Judea, in the fields of Samaria. Not that they fully grasped the significance of the text that François held in his hands. The heads of the Brotherhood, though, being better informed, had seen in it a mystic ardor capable of fanning a raging fire, even a war of religion. Written by an obscure priest in the Black Forest, it was merely a first, faltering step. It proclaimed a new kind of Christianity that repudiated Catholic doctrine. By chance, it was precisely the cities on the banks of the Rhine that counted the most printers and booksellers indispensable to its distribution.

Colin was the only one present to scent the danger. Those heavy Germanic letters, almost chiseled into the skin of the parchment, made him ill at ease. He was no great reader but he was familiar with the handwriting of his good friend François, so light, so playful, laying down the stokes so nimbly, gliding over the paper. The sturdy characters of this German script hardly lent themselves to the madrigal and the rondeau. On the other hand, they perfectly suited the heated exhortations of a preacher. Repelled by the impetuousness of the upstrokes, the brutality of the downstrokes, the stiffness of the lines, Colin instinctively perceived their intransigent fanaticism.

 

Driven by more down-to-earth considerations, Federico was wondering if he had allowed for enough cases. He judged that he would have room in the false bottoms of the wagons, the inner pockets of the provision sacks, the cavities hollowed in the lids of the barrels, to hide the most compromising works. Not to mention his own rich wardrobe. The astronomical maps could be sewed between the flaps of his winter cape, the marine charts of the Aegeans in the sleeves of his hunting doublet, the pamphlets of Aesop in the rim of his hat. Cotton balls, sawdust, and several dozen cheap books would absorb the damp in the hold of the ship. Camphor, acids, and traps would protect against rats.

Federico went to a package tied with red ribbon for which he had not yet chosen a place within his cargo. Brother Médard tried to hold him back but the Italian, holding the package firmly, made an abrupt about-face and walked up to François. He set aside the crumpled paper, revealing the contents with theatrical slowness.

It was Colin who gave a start first, immediately recognizing the familiar handwriting he had just been thinking about. Speechless, François looked at the first page without daring to touch it. The last time he had seen that sheet, the constabulary had just burst into his garret and grabbed him by the elbows, ready to haul him off to prison. Although they had searched his lodgings from top to bottom, they had not found the knife that Master Ferrebouc, a respectable notary, had accused François of using on him during a nocturnal brawl with the Coquillards. Having been unable to identify his assailants in the darkness, the accursed notary had quite simply denounced the most famous member of the band. Counting on the clemency of his protectors, Louis XI, Charles of Orléans and Marie of Clèves, François had offered little resistance. Risking nevertheless the death penalty, he had thrown a last desperate glance at the scattered and trampled sheets of paper, resigned to the idea that they were his only testament. And now here were his last rhymes in the hands of the Brotherhood, just like the last words of Jesus as recorded by Annas. Were they also hidden here, in this very cellar?

François gently passed his hand over the pages he had composed, remembering every line, every crossed-out word. Colin demanded an explanation, and Federico obliged him. Whenever they learned of the arrest of a tendentious author, a renowned scholar, or a humanist, the book hunters hastened to intervene, hoping to get their hands on the manuscripts hidden by the suspects. Most left them with a person they trusted, and it was sufficient to track that person down. In Villon's case, the task had been much easier. Since he was being pursued for a common crime rather than for his writings, the men-at-arms had come to his dwelling, not to seize his ballads, but to search for a weapon. The pages had simply had to be collected and taken away.

 

François handled his work with tender care. Suddenly, he noticed that his fingers were white with chalk powder, and he tuned red with anger. His manuscript had also been marked with a cross! It, too, was to be shipped off!

Médard was visibly embarrassed, Federico frankly amused. Brother Paul hastened to specify that it was up to Gamliel to explain to François the reasons for this choice. François was outraged. The prior painted in glowing colors the possibility of a successful edition printed by Fust, with the royal seal of approval. All to no avail. François demanded that his property be restored to him immediately. Deeply offended, he grunted and gesticulated. He was puzzled, too. This reunion with his own poetry, after all this time, and so far from Paris, could not decently be put down to chance. His manuscript had preceded him here to the Holy Land. It had even arrived well before him, since the action brought by Ferrebouc dated from that damned Christmas of 1462, more than a year ago. These pages had therefore been in the hands of the book hunters before Chartier had visited him in prison. Had Gamliel read them? Whether he had or not, he had certainly known who François Villon was before he set foot in Safed.

Federico smiled. “My late master Cosimo was delighted to read your rhymes.”

François's whole body stiffened. Yes, his poems had not only preceded him to the Holy Land, they had passed through Florence first, even before Fust had opened his shop on Rue Saint-Jacques or Chartier, knowing nothing of the existence of a clandestine Jerusalem, had condescended to send two obscure Coquillards to Palestine. François had to face the truth. Nothing had been negotiated here that could not have been concluded without his intervention, and in the highest circles too. He had never been the official emissary of the kingdom. All these arrangements with Fust and Schoeffer, and with the Bishop of Paris, had come later, after the arrival of his ballads in the Holy Land! And after his arrest! That time in Paris, it had not been his own cunning that had helped him to avoid the gallows, nor Colin's intercession. It had been the book hunters.

From the start, it was him they had wanted, François de Montcorbier, known as Villon. François tried to regain his composure and think. Dozens of questions were going through his head. Why had the Brotherhood hidden the presence of his manuscript from him for so long? Why was Federico showing it to him now? What did Jerusalem want of him?

With an authoritative clap of his hands, Paul announced that it was time for vespers. Federico offered his arm to Aisha. Colin, starving after that afternoon's long walk, nimbly got in ahead of them. François resigned himself to following behind them. There was one question that kept going around and around in his head, tormenting him more than any other. What was the king's role in all this?

 

Alone now, Médard extinguished the torches one by one, plunging the cellar into darkness. He hopped up the steps that led to the nave. Out of breath, he turned one last time, like a lord inspecting his fiefdom, then closed the door behind him, returning the books to their deep slumber.

L
arge brass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but it was dark. Two big oak logs blazed in the central hearth, but it was cold. Seen from the entrance, the huge hall seemed almost deserted. At the other end, though, several rows of officers and dignitaries pressed in front of the throne. Their words were lost in the din of the rain hammering the stained-glass window. The king listened, stroking his dogs with a distracted hand. He was dressed simply, in a brown tunic. His rough hair bore a small crenellated crown of matte gold, without stones or engravings. A long knife hung from his belt, clearly visible.

A lackey pointed to a bench against the side wall, and Fust took his seat, taking care not to make the slightest noise. He looked around at the damp walls, devoid of ornament, the rough flagstones, scrubbed with water, the dust-covered beams. He remembered the polished marble of the palaces of Mayence, the tapestries evoking the luxuries of the court and the pleasures of the heart, the glittering draperies, the walls laden with trophies: the shields of vanquished enemies, the heads of bears and stags and boars, stuffed falcons on silver perches. But Fust did not regret his choice. Paris glowed with quite another fire than did the cities of Germany or Italy, which were devoted to glory and beauty in too flagrant a manner. A concern for good taste reigned on the banks of the Seine just as it did elsewhere, but with a natural, somewhat nonchalant elegance, which, instead of always bowing down before genius, was also able to let itself be won over by subtler, more mischievous talents.