The Ballad of Gregoire Darcy (64 page)

“I am.”

He bowed. “I am Father Michael O'Banon, from Belfast. Please pardon my intrusion.”

The abbot gestured for him to sit. “What brings you to Spain, Father O'Banon?”

The priest opened his sack and nervously removed a tiny bound book, which he held reverently in his hands. “On behalf of the archbishop of Belfast—and myself, I admit—I've been making inquiries into the author of a series of anonymous editorial columns of an inspirational nature that have been published in the
local papers for two years now. They've become so popular that the first set were recently compiled into a book, which is now a best seller.” He set it on the abbot's desk. The abbot opened it, but it was in English. “The author calls himself A Poor Sinner. His real name is Grégoire Bellamont.”

That name had never been far from the abbot's mind, so he recognized it, even mispronounced with an Irish brogue. He flipped through the book, but his English reading was far worse than the little English he could speak, and it solved no mysteries for him. “Have you met him?”

“I have, in fact. He lives south of Dublin, and despite the fact that he wishes no attention for himself, he did greet me quite warmly.” He swallowed. “I understand he was once a brother here.”

The abbot closed the book. “He is excommunicated from this order. It is forbidden to speak of the monk who was dismissed from this abbey.”

“So he said. I thought I would try anyway.”

The abbot leaned back in his chair. “It is
not
forbidden to speak of this layman, assuming he has not taken holy orders in secrecy.”

“He has not.”

“Then how is—Mr. Bellamont?”

Relieved, the priest continued, “He is quite well. He is married and has an infant son, who is named after St. Patrick. As I said, he is not known as a literary celebrity, but locally, he is known as an extremely charitable man. He teaches at an orphanage. Besides writing, that is his primary occupation.” He added, “There is something…unusual about him. He never says an ill word, and he is all reverence and joy, but also humble, despite what is clearly his vast scholarship in religion.”

“So Grégoire is still as he was, in many ways,” the abbot said with a smile. “You cannot fathom what it means to me to hear that he is well. But—he is under investigation for his writings?”

“No.Technically, yes, but it is a matter of curiosity. His writings are extremely popular, as I have said. Priests and preachers alike are
known to use the material for their sermons. He writes of the joy of daily living, the ways to see how Christ and his saints influence our lives—all very positive, which is quite different from the hellfire sort of speeches more common in Britain. But he has written nothing controversial about any church doctrine.”

“And he writes—in English?”

“Yes.There was actually a question as to some of his quotes from Latin and Greek texts, as we did not recognize the precise wording. Then we realized that he was not quoting from direct translations, but using the original text and translating the work himself. Except for the Good Book, where he uses the Douay-Rheims because it's an
acceptable
English translation. When I asked him about it, he said he knew it would be blasphemy to do otherwise, and he knows better than to write something that upsets the church.”

The abbot nodded. “Then he has learned well.” He pushed the book back to the priest. “I cannot read English, unfortunately.”

“The publisher said there would be a Latin edition next year. He is doing it himself.”

“Very good. I would be eager to read such a thing,” the abbot said. “So Father—how can I help you, given that you seem to know more about this layman than I do?”

The priest paused. “Though he discouraged me from doing so, I cannot help but wonder about the circumstances surrounding his excommunication from the Benedictines. He will not deny it, but he will not otherwise speak of it.”

“Then he has a great deal of tact,” he replied. “Grégoire was misused by the church and nearly killed by it—literally. Despite much penance, I have never forgiven myself for the events that led to his excommunication from the order—though, in all truth, it sounds as though it was the right path for him.” He stood up and went to his shelves, where he found the scroll he needed, and returned to the desk, unrolling it. “This is my condemnation of his actions and announcement of his excommunication from the order of St. Benedict. My principal goal upon signing it was not to damn
him or encourage penance, but to save him from Rome, which was ready to unofficially label him a living saint and use him for its own ends. Although I have never regretted my actions, they have always weighed heavily on me.” He rolled it back up. “The precise circumstances of the excommunication do not speak well of anyone involved—myself, the bishop, or the archbishop of Oviedo. However, now that he is delivered into safety, there may not be a need to have a document condemning him. If I am to tear it up, I would like his opinion on it first.You say he lives south of Dublin?”

“Yes,” said the priest. “Are you in need of transportation?”

One last journey for one old abbot.

“We should stop here,” the priest said, and pulled the horses to a stop in front of a large building not far from the last town on the dirt road, deep in the forests of untamed Ireland. “He may be at work.”

The abbot nodded and took the priest's hand to help him off the gig. He needed a staff to walk, especially on such a long journey, as they approached the building, which looked a bit—but not entirely—like a church. Made of wood and with a thatched roof, it lacked any signs, but it was evident enough from the chorus of children's voices that it was an orphanage. The abbot was helped to a bench as Father O'Banon spoke to the local priest in quick English, too quick for the abbot. At last, O'Banon returned to him. “The lesson is almost finished, if we would wait.”

Abbot Francesco nodded. “We will wait.”

They were offered beer, and accepted it to parch their thirst. Sitting in silence, they could make out some of the speech that was behind the closed door.

“And what letter is this?”

“Jaaaaaaaaaaaay!”

“And what does it stands for?” The children answered him in their thick brogue, “Jesus Christ, our Lord an' Savior!”

“Very good,” said the teacher, who did not have the same accent. “Now I see it is time.You are all dismissed.”

There were some cheers and the children came rushing out, but some of them stopped. “Mr. Gregory, candy!”

“Candy is for saint's days and Sundays, you know that.You'll ruin your teeth if you eat it every day.” After some resistance, the last of the children emerged, to be herded by the head of the orphanage to the meal room. It was only then that their teacher emerged, and the two guests rose to greet him.

Grégoire Bellamont was not as the abbot had expected, but he had not been sure what to expect. The former monk was not dressed like an English gentleman, nor like a priest or a local worker. His brown tunic and belt made him look more like a beggar and the cross around his neck like a pilgrim, and there was a bald spot where his tonsure had been, but besides that, he was unchanged. He looked healthy but shocked, and after a moment, dropped to his knees. “Father.”

The abbot offered his hand so Grégoire could kiss the ring. “Grégoire. It is good to see you.”

“But we are forbidden—”

The abbot had already removed from his satchel the scroll, and held it before Grégoire, not waiting for him to recognize it (if he would at all) before tearing it in half. “I would do so not only to try to undo some of the damage that was done to you, but so that I could speak to you once more before I die.”

Father O'Banon, who spoke little Spanish and therefore could not understand their conversation, sensed the mood perfectly as Grégoire and the old abbot eagerly embraced.

“My son,” the abbot said, kissing Grégoire on the cheek. “It is good to see you well.”

“I have you to thank for that,” Grégoire responded. “Please, let me invite you to my home. Father O'Banon has told you of my situation?”

“Yes. I am pleased.”

It was not far to Grégoire's house, and the abbot insisted on walking there. “I will catch up with you.” The priest nodded and took the gig on the road.

“Come, Father, it is time for Sext. I end my class when I do so I can make it back on time.”

Abbot Francesco and Grégoire Bellamont prayed together in the chapel that the latter had added to his manor house, a structure of Gothic stone. The abbot was surprised that Grégoire seemed to be keeping the monastic cycle, even though, as a layman, he was not expected to do so. Grégoire did not have stained glass, but someone had painted on the windows, and the paint was thin enough so that light could still come through, giving much the same effect.

“My wife,” Grégoire said. “She likes to paint.” He pointed to the different windows, all of which had paintings of men with halos. “St. Patrick, St. Bede, St. Benedict, and St. Sebald.”

“Ah, yes, your old patron,” the abbot said, referring to Sebald. He did not know another monk so dedicated to the Bavarian saint. He had not even heard the name until Grégoire joined his monastery.

“Dinner should be ready,” Grégoire said, “and you have not met my wife—or my son.”

“Yes, of course.”

They made their way through the side door into the house, where the smells of food filled the room leading to the kitchen. At the sound of the door shutting, a woman emerged, wearing an apron over her dress and a scarf over her head. In one well-practiced arm she carried a boy, looking to be about a year old, with brown hair like his father. “I didn' know we 'ad company.”

Grégoire kissed his wife with no shame, and took his son from her before turning back to the abbot. “Father, this is my wife, Mrs. Bellamont. Caitlin, this is Father Francesco Chiaramonti, the abbot who saved my life in Spain by ordering me away.”

She curtsied to the abbot, who bowed a little nervously. He had never met a former brother's wife before.

“And this, of course, is Patrick,” Grégoire said of his son, who was currently pulling at his hair and babbling. “Named after the saint who brought me to Caitlin.”

“'E believes all t'is stuff, about saints guiding 'im, as t'hough they'ave nothin' else ta do wit t'ere time,” she said, her local accent quite distinct. It took all of the abbot's English vocabulary to understand her. “And honestly, I'm startin' ta believe him.”

She excused herself to get their meal, and Grégoire guided the abbot to the best chair at the table, grabbing a pillow for his old back.

“God bless you,” the abbot said.

“Do you wish to hold him?” Grégoire said in Spanish.

He had not expected this. “Yes.” How could he say no? Why would he say no? When he was safely seated and comfortable, little Patrick was set carefully on his lap, and he stared up, wide-eyed, at the mysterious old man. “Hello, Patrick.You are a sight I never expected to see.” His only memories of children came flooding back to him—of the occasional child he had christened, but mainly of holding his younger brother, now the vicar of Christ, as a newborn. Had his brother been so precious? Had his own father exhibited the same glow of pride that was so clear on Grégoire's face? For a monk, pride was a sin. For a father, surely there was no sin in that. “He is wonderful, Grégoire.”

“He is a blessing from God.”

“Blessin' from God what keeps stickin' t'ings in his mout'h,” Mrs. Bellamont said. Patrick had just grabbed a wooden spoon from the table and shoved it in his mouth, and she moved swiftly to remove it, at which point, he began to cry. “'Scuse me, Faither.”