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Chapter Seven
1242A.D.
Troyes, France
Nicholas

The Bishop of Metz came a week after Rosemonde’s crisis, and although he was not there to see her shame, he was told of it. Some other priest in the order, one probably fond of gossip, told him. He said it served the greater good of the order to inform the Bishop of the prostitute who fainted before our steps then cried my name as she was carried into the holy church. I turned a bitter cheek to the man, who confessed he told, but I forced myself to be logical. He told because of concern; that reason can never be deemed unworthy, selfish, or prideful.

After the Bishop of Metz was fed humbly and rested from his journey, he called for me. Unsurprisingly, my heart fluttered like a wayward drum when I peered into his private cell, which was no larger than any of ours.

The Bishop of Metz stooped over two beautiful texts, but when he saw me, he straightened his aging back. Guilt. Shame. I wanted so desperately to look away, but he was a powerful man. He mesmerized me. I could hardly help it.

“Ah, Nicholas,” he said gently. This part was the worst. A secular father would lay harsh words upon you or beat you, but this holy man was above that. There was no quick punishment for this man. He wanted you to feel your sin deep.

“Good evening, Bishop,” I said with words thin and weak.

I noted his hair was graying remarkable since I had seen him last. He was meticulously clean down to his fingers, which shut one of his bound texts, sending dust swirling above the beeswax candles. Like all priests, he was expected to be cleanly. And he certainly boasted of cleanliness, but his face drooped with wrinkles and his bones shook as he stood to greet me. I wondered of his health.

“It is good to lay eyes upon you after so many months,” he said. What I loved best in him was his cradling voice and that he never used Christian phrases for the purpose of making him appear godlier. None of the counterfeit “Praise be to God” or “Thank the Lord.”

“It is good to see you as well,” I said, and then sat upon a three-legged stool. The cot had been moved out of the room--thankfully--so there was more room in which to settle. “I hope and anticipate your journey went well.”

“Very much, thank you,” he said with a lean smile. I waited for it. I nearly perched on the edge of the stool, as if I was going to lurch up at his first breath. I dreaded it with my entire heart. “You know, Nicholas, you can speak with me of anything. I, of course, am not the best of men, but I want to help you. We live in a dreary, earthly world.”

I nodded in agreement, watching as his eyes turned from me. I yearned for their approval, his approval.

“But our reward is in Heaven,” he said. “I had hoped this topic could be avoided, but we both know it cannot lurk behind us any longer. I want to help you. I want to help your soul.”

“I know,” I said in a whisper.

He owned a curious habit of cracking his knuckles. It unnerved me, but I was still anticipating his sermon for me, his punishment. He cracked his thumb and looked at me squarely. “We’ve talked of this before. You are familiar with Augustine of Hippo, who is blessed.” I nodded. Of course I was. “We know he had a concubine for over fifteen years, chose to sin freely among the pagans in Africa, and yet he sought redemption.”

Da mihi castitatem et continentiam, sed noli modo.

Grant me chastity and continence, but not yet. Saint Augustine said that, and it was my favorite quote, though it should not have been. It was a gateway into that honeyed wilderness. Those words prompted me to continue sinning. Not yet…not yet…

“I know, lord Bishop,” I said.

“Was she one of yours?”

I said gravely, “No, I have not…had her.”

“Then how did she know your name? It is unwise to lie, Nicholas.”

“We’ve spoken,” I said. “But only that. I swear those words to you.”

“Swear them to our Lord,” he said with much gravity and force.

I said, “I have not sinned with her. I shall not. The Lord knows my truthfulness. Although I’ve erred, I have confessed all.”

“Good,” he said, softening his tone. I breathed some relief; his words were not as hurtful as I had expected. “Do not lie with this woman. Do not allow her to use trickery against you, as Ruth did with the landholder Boaz. Be chaste in your words and actions. God will reward you.”

I wanted to remind him that I knew all of this. For how could I be so dim-witted, so lackluster and foolish to not know these things? A small rebellion surged in my grating head. He had little idea.

“I think,” he said slowly, “what would benefit you most would be to instead concentrate on this woman’s salvation.”

“I do not wish to see her,” I lied.

“By being with her, but not sinning with her, you will learn to control your thoughts. In the stead of courtly words, you will speak the words of God, and prompt this fallen woman to see the church as the first step towards Heaven.” His eyes fell gentle again. “Women are most susceptible to Satan’s lies. Let her see His light. Let her see His glory. That is your penance and yet your most urgent goal.”

“I want to be good,” was all I said.

The Bishop smiled sadly. The lines around his mouth seemed much more pronounced, much more grievous, than they had before. Even his eyes looked on me with pure wariness, like he had lived too much of his life, and wanted to retire to hermitage but could not, as he was duty-bound. My spirit ached for him. I felt for the Bishop. “We all want to be good, Nicholas. We all must try to be pious.”

I bowed my head without knowing why. The candles granted the room a quiet, orange light that made me feel safe and loved. I wanted to impress the Bishop, but there was no greater fear than disappointing him again. I decided I would remember his exhausted, kind eyes when I thought of Rosemonde, in order to combat my thoughts. The Bishop, as a secular figure, would always await me. And God was above all my greatest lord. They required greatness of my essence, so I decided I would be great.

I left the Bishop’s chamber after we spoke of many things, mostly related to the church. Contentedly, he told me of his travels across France and to Canterbury. He showed me a manuscript he encountered in Lyon that depicted a fanciful bird, blue and gallant with outstretched feathers. I asked about the King dutifully, although I bore no true interest in the life of royalty unless they affected Tours in some way. King Louis did not, but the Bishop conversed of him anyway. I sat and listened, good and proper.

Midweek, I found myself sweltering beneath the sun, on my way to Le Petit Chat. It was nearing sunset; a beautiful mix of orange and pink swathed the sky, making the street look ancient and mystical if you squinted the right way. As if some fanciful priestess would march through the streets with her idols or a Greek hero like Bellerophon would awe everyone with his steed.

I knew I should have journeyed earlier, when Le Chat Rose was not so busy, but there were things that had to be done. They took longer than I guessed, and so my travels were entirely my fault.

I witnessed a knight, mounted, armed with the company of several foot soldiers. As he passed, I looked up at him with awe, jealousy, and bitterness. That could have been me. I could have been the righteous knight player in our Tours landscape. Everyone would have loved me. I would have excelled in tournaments and won the love of courtly maidens and royal higher ups. I would travel.

But I was just this.

My spirit waned a little as the clip-clop of the horse disappeared. Some villeins, perhaps escaping from the country or on an errand, quieted when I passed them. They were laughing boisterously earlier, but then they caught sight of me in my fine, dark robes, and were silenced. It was an interesting power, but it didn’t save any souls. It didn’t make anyone good. Not on the inside at least.

Le Chat Rose. I had seen it before, though I had never been inside. It was a half-timbered building with two stories, though it would never be considered as neat or impressive as a manor. The swinging, wooden sign above it creaked as I stepped beneath it, as though it was mocking my entrance. I looked around; none were around, thank God, even though I knew their judgment would never better that of the Lord’s.

What I had conjured in my head was no worse than what I saw inside. There was a suitable hearth, which was unlit in the stifling summer. Two men crowded around it, and then tipped back their tankards at nearly the same instance. It smelled of ale in there, but what captured me was the cheap perfume and the way it mixed ingloriously with the smell of men and women. It was an interesting thing, at once enticing and repulsive. My body swayed until I thought I would dizzy enough to fall, but I heard someone call out to me.

He was an ugly fellow, but he wore a handsome tunic and smiled at me warmly. I gave him my attention.

“I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “Are you looking for something special or did you wander in here on your way to Jerusalem?”

I lurched.

Some of the other men laughed at this. Suddenly, I felt like I wanted to disappear. I willed myself stronger and said quietly, “I’m looking for Rosemonde. I know she works here.”

The man smiled, but it felt sullied. “She’s with someone right now, but if you’re inclined to wait…”

I nodded. “Very well,” I answered.

“I’m Denis,” he said as an afterthought, “if you need anything.”

I waited for nearly an hour. I was forced to listen to horribly degrading, bawdy stories that wouldn’t be fit anywhere but Hell. The other men talked about the women’s parts, their skills, their looks, how tight they were. It made my stomach revolt.

“You did well picking Rosemonde,” said one of them. I pretended not to hear him, but then he tapped my shoulder roughly. “I said that you did well picking Rosemonde.”

Finally, I turned to him. He was a fat man with bright, pockmarked cheeks and smelled of cheese.

“But she doesn’t take it in the rear, sorry to say.”

One chuckled. It was enough to pierce my belly. “That’s why you have Marie.”

He nodded. “I know you priests like that business. Well, I don’t blame you. But that’s the one thing Rosemonde will not do, not by any force of persuasion. One time I tried to shove it up there, but she called for that bastard Denis. Denis is a good man, and I didn’t want to upset him, so I haven’t had her since.”

“But you did well picking her.”

“You did,” echoed another, as if they were truly helping me.

I was numbed, offended, and delirious with anger; I suppressed it. How dare they assume things? It might befit Rosemonde’s profession to be spoken of like that, but I was a man of God. Sodomy was clearly a crime, a sin of catastrophe and consequence. He will judge them.

A man hobbled downstairs, a big brute of a man who glared at me with a satisfied, reddened face. He gave something to Denis. This man was finely dressed and more handsome than anyone else in the room, so I found myself muted with envy like I had on the street earlier. He was bigger than me, broader in the shoulders and as tall as a horse, and possessed true masculinity in every sense of the word.

“Give her a few moments to collect herself.” I realized Denis was speaking to me. “Then you can go up. The third room to the right, the one marked with a red splotch. It’s supposed to be a rose, but our painter was a fool.” He laughed to himself as my heart sank deep.

The man leaving, the man I blanched upon with covet, had been with Rosemonde before. I know not why, but I was disgusted with her and with myself at the same time. I waned to leave, but I had an undertaking from the Bishop, so I resolved to wait a few minutes (I did not want to see her disheveled) and then made my way, carefully, up the wooden steps.