The Bergamese Sect (57 page)

To be honest, he felt a strong attachment to Bergamo, to
Santo Stefano
, though his spiritual home was many days journey to the West. He’d enjoyed his time observing the breviary, something he hadn’t done with such passion or obedience since his days as a novice. He’d felt serene in the presence of the friars, closer to the Holy Trinity than he had for many years.

But there was still a tickle of nervousness in Alfonso’s mind. He wondered if he was doing the right thing, choosing the hermit’s life, doing the Lord’s work in such a sublime and underhand way. Yet, the years of study, of debate, of devising methods, of experimenting had convinced him. The plan would work, he was sure, and God’s Kingdom would be seen on Earth before the Day of Atonement. He was going to give Mankind a nightmare, but it was the Hand of God that would mop the waking brow.

He stepped up onto the sill of one of the large windows. He peered out through a thick spun pane that warped the world outside. The world was there, waiting for him. It had to be stopped in its relentless course. The changes needed to be quelled.

Recently, he’d learnt that Torquemada’s guiding light had passed away into the Lord’s bosom. And that news had sparked a strong desire in Alfonso, a desire to demonstrate a more succinct method of saving souls. It was time for the new order of devotion. It was time to bring the message to the misguided children. Alfonso was ready to teach.

He jumped down from the window and stepped up onto the dais. With a swift semi-circular walk, he blew out the candles. The ribbons of white smoke snaked up through the dying rays of sunshine. The hall was subdued and dark.

Stepping down from the dais, he grabbed a large sack that lay at the base of a column. Pulling out a thick woollen cloak, he span it onto his shoulders, fastening it at the neck with a shiny silver brooch. Then he took out a pair of leather shoes with wooden soles and slipped them over his silk slippers. Bending, he laced up the bag then heaved it onto his shoulder, steadying its weight with an elbow.

At the door, he took another glance around the hall, up at the image of Moses, which was now dimmed by the deep twilight. Closing the door behind him, he walked slowly down the broad stairs and stepped out into the courtyard.

It was getting colder by the minute. With his free hand, Alfonso clasped the cloak around his neck and walked through the soft mud that lay in ruts all the way to the outer wall. Coming down the side of the chapel, he saw the warm orange glow of candles reflecting off the high buttresses. The friars were at Vespers within and suddenly a faint voice, reciting an antiphon, floated through the chilled air. Immediately, the order of preachers rose up in inspired harmony, singing in dulcet tones a psalm of thanksgiving.

Laudate Dominum omnes gentes conlaudate eum universi populi
.

The interweaving chanting washed over Alfonso as he stepped through the gate in the outer wall, closed it tightly and turned up the narrow street. He hummed the soprano gently to himself as he walked beside the tall monastery wall.

Quia confortata est super nos misericordia eius et veritas Domini in aeternum.

When he reached the top of the hill and turned into the main road, the pure sound of rejoice was lost in the calm of the dark twilight.

Before the gatehouse at the end of the road, a cart was waiting. Gaetano jumped down at Alfonso’s approach. Two other monks nestled among a pile of sacks on the cart, but they remained seated.

‘
Gaetano,’ Alfonso whispered. ‘Open the gates.’

Alfonso climbed into the cart as Gaetano conversed with the gatekeeper. A moment later, the huge wooden doors swung open, Gaetano jumped into the seat and shooed the horse along. They turned to the left and began jolting down the steep cobbled road that led down to the plain below.

On the back of the cart, Alfonso hugged his knees to warm himself, and saw the stout gatekeeper pull the city gates shut. The clunk of the wooden plank securing the gate echoed down the embankment.

To his right, the tree-covered hill dropped away abruptly and he could see out across the plain toward Brescia. Low in the east, the full moon was rising, yellow and huge, mottled and crisp.

He looked back up at the city, bathed in the pearly moonlight. The people within its walls, thought Alfonso, were like children. They cowered away from the terror of the night, adrift without guidance. They needed to hear the Word of God.

‘
And how shall they hear without one who preaches?
’ Alfonso whispered under his breath.