But Sophia gently places two fingers across Aleys’s lips in a gesture that feels like a benediction. Sophia’s small smile is almost mournful. She waits. The muffled sounds of night canals—quiet oars in water, the bump of boats moored to landings—seep into the courtyard. A dog barks in the distance. Finally, Sophia speaks.
“Dear child,” she says, “only this. Try to be simple.”
Sophia peers into Aleys’s face, to see if she’s understood.
Aleys waits for more. There must be more.
“That’s all,” Sophia says. “God be with you.” She pulls back, and with her the light. As Sophia retreats across the courtyard, the lantern illuminates the length of her figure in the mist. Aleys is left alone in darkness, but for points of light from windows that feel distant as beacons from unreachable shores.
Simple. It’s like elders who tell you to be calm. So passionless. So uncommitted. As if you could find God at the bottom of your bowl. As if God would notice you if you were simple.
15
The Bishop
Jan Smet, Bishop of Tournai, waits for the pope’s emissary at the city gates, the gathered clergy of Brugge arrayed behind him like geese in flight. At his shoulder stand his archdeacons in their sumptuous vestments (though less sumptuous than his own), behind them the parish priests in white (if they own white) or green (if they don’t own that; he must see to it), the abbey monks still stinking of hogs and ale, and at the back, jostling for position as the most humble, the wandering friars, the Franciscans in their sandals and Dominicans in their black hoods. The friars form a nice backdrop to his own clergy. Only the nuns have been left at home. He just hopes the beguines won’t show up.
They wait under a June sun, shifting their feet, eyes trained on the road from the south, watching for the first puff of dirt that will announce the arrival of the papal legate. As the sun crests, scarlet banners appear above the fields of maize where the road leaves the woods. There are a half dozen in the party. The legate rides a handsome steed with a coat like polished chestnuts, the white reins of his office resting across its flank. As the hooves clatter to a halt, Jan sees that the legate is perhaps less magnificent than his mount, despite the scarlet cape and gilded shoes. The legate looks down on them with a pinched mouth and a stray eye. It’s most unsettling. How do you meet the gaze of a man like that?
Off his horse, the legate seems small for a prince of the Church. Jan kneels before the man, who blesses him with one eye. Jan is hoping to be doubly blessed by day’s end. Anunciohad ridden ahead to deliver the message this visit from Rome was alegati missi, no routine social call or tax collection, but a visit with a mission. Jan wonders if he might be called to Rome. To be a cardinal, perhaps? He imagines himself in full scarlet regalia, barrel chested and thick haired, more impressive than this legate who delivers a nasal prayer outside the city gates. From the back, the friars lean forward to hear. It’s difficult to imagine this as the voice of the pope for whom he speaks.
Jan hums to himself as the cortège enters the city, smiles beneficently at the people lining the way, who are bowing as if he himself has choreographed their movements. Which he has. He’s ordered the streets cleared, flushed the drainage ditches so that Brugge sparkles. The water of the canals sparkles. Everything sparkles. The architecture, he must admit, is impressive, especially his stately churches with their soaring towers. The guild halls with their statuary. Even the common architecture touches him today, the arched bridges over the canals and the half-timbered homes leaning into the streets. And the markets! It makes him almost sad, leaving this most cosmopolitan city of Europe, where Muscovites barter furs for barbarian ivory that is sold by Arabs. He’s seen amber rosaries traded for lustrous silks, pigments for paintings. He reminds himself that the Silk Road also leads to Rome. And in the burnished sunshine of the Roman hills there are raven-haired women trampling grapes. He’ll get over it.
He’ll dine with the legate at his manor after the cathedral service. Jan has ordered his household to prepare as if for a prince. He supposes it will be after the meal, flush with wine and goose, that the legate will announce his promotion. Jan feels like he’s getting a free pass. He won’t even have to make a show of burning illegal translations in the square. If the pope is promoting him to Rome, the heretics of Brugge are the problem of the next bishop of Tournai. No tithes to collect. He’ll be done selling relics and indulgences. No more of these petty city politics, just the weighty concerns of popes and kings. He’ll be well rid of Flanders.
The legate celebrates Mass in Our Lady, under soaring vaults, and Jan feels his spirits rise with the wafting incense, imagining the ceremonies he will witness in Rome. For a moment, he is so transported that tears spring to his eyes at the beauty of his own thoughts. To be at the side of the Holy Father, one of a handful of God’s most chosen. From the son of a banker to the elector of popes. It is more than his father even dreamed. His one hand squeezes the other in congratulation.
Back at the manor, Jan brushes away the servants, except for Willems, who blends into the shadow like a black cat. This will be good news for Willems, too. Jan rises to pour the legate’s wine himself.
“Not, perhaps, what you’re used to,” he says. “We had it brought up from the Rhineland. After dinner, I believe you’ll find the liqueurs produced by the monks of Flanders equal to any.”
The legate is a man of few words. He puts out his hand to stop Jan. “I take only the wine of communion.”
Jan almost jokes that, in that case, they should switch posts, but stops himself. The man is unsmiling. Jan sits, suddenly wary. Perhaps this visit isn’t what he thought. He glances nervously at Willems, who twists the corner of his mouth.
The legate hoists his leather pouch to the table and fishes inside. One eye seems fixed on the bag; the other rolls heavenward, as if God is guiding him through its innards. Finally, his eyes reconvene and he extracts a sheet of parchment. The legate slides it across the table with one finger, reluctant to touch it.
“This has come to our attention.”
Jan squints at the parchment. He knows immediately what it is. For a moment, he hopes he’s wrong, that perhaps it’s a bill of sale; maybe some rent on church lands is due. Has he failed to declare all the diocesan property to Rome? He looks up at the legate, who waits with pressed lips.
“Bring me light,” Jan bellows.
Willems opens the door and signals to the staff. A servant rushes in with a pair of candles, another lights a spill from the fire and touches it to the wicks. All the while the legate keeps his eye glued to Jan as if he might pull a conjuror’s trick. Jan draws one of the candles close to examine the parchment. His heart sinks. It’s the gospel of Saint Matthew, in Dutch.And he saith unto them, “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men.”
Jan can feel Willems tense in the shadow against the wall. Damn it, they should have moved faster. They should have been the ones to whip out the parchment and to drag forward the translator for questioning. If he admits now that he’s been aware of the translations but failed to act, he’ll appear weak. Uncommitted. He doesn’t want that to get back to the pope. Behind the legate, Willems gives a subtle shake of his head. Denial is their best strategy.
“I don’t know—” Jan starts.
“How this can exist?” interrupts the envoy. “We have given no dispensation for a Dutch translation.”
“It must be a mistake. It must be one of my parish priests.” He racks his mind for the least of them, the one he could sacrifice. “There are those whose Latin is wanting.” He falters. “Where did you get it?”
“It was purchased here, from a stall in the Markt.”
“You have spies in Brugge?” Willems should have told him.
“We have men who concern themselves with the health of the Church.”
