Chapter 20 The Bishop
The Bishop
From his barge, the bishop admires the mayor’s glass windows set into his three-story timbered mansion on the main canal.
The upper panes capture the image of the harbor crane, never at rest. Jan would like to outfit his own windows with glass, imagines them reflecting the shiny weathercock atop the steeple of Sint-Salvator.
He’d need more funds for that. Besides, he hopes to be long gone before glaziers could finish the project.
He’s one heretic shy of Rome. With Willems’s new information, he’s getting closer.
He need consider only the optica of the angles, how his choices bounce off city, guild, church.
Willems bangs the oars against the gunnels.
He’s no boatman, though he plays one well enough to mingle in the mayor’s kitchen and sample the scullery gossip.
The bishop regrets that his barge isn’t more kingly, but it’s long enough that he can recline under the canopy that bears his sapphire and gold crest. As they approach the landing, the mayor’s men open the boathouse doors and Willems manages to slide the boat into the open bay.
Willems makes a joke with the servants and saunters off to the kitchen.
Jan mounts the curving stairway. At the top, the mayor greets him with open arms. His round chin and polished cheeks are topped by a peaked hat that makes him look like a jovial acorn.
Bite that nut, though, and you’ll break a tooth.
“Come in, come in! We’ll walk in my garden. The cherries are ripe.”
It’s a tidy city garden, with herbs outside the kitchen and fruit trees lining the back wall. A child’s swing hangs in the apples. The mayor has many children, six from his wife alone. Willems says there are three younger ones hidden around the city.
The mayor slaps the bishop’s shoulder, then winces and cradles his elbow. “Ouf. Gout.”
“The disease of kings,” says Jan. “It’s all that French wine you import. You should drink less and sell more, my friend.”
“You sound like my apothecary. He says Bordeaux taxes the joints. I tell him it’s what fills the city coffers with levies.
” He chuckles at his own joke. “No matter. He says brandewijn will cure it.” The mayor nods down the central path, between ornamental shrubs.
“Jan, how did we get to be so old? I’d swear that yesterday we were playing knucklebones. ”
Jan chuckles. “You always cheated.”
“No more than you! Your brother was the only one who played it straight. I could never figure out how he won.”
“Yes. Well. Lukas has strange luck, I suppose.”
“Listen,” says the mayor, “I have a small favor to ask.” He rubs his fingers together briskly, then laces them in a gesture of prayer. On him, the gesture speaks more of retail than reverence.
The bishop bows. “As always, I am at your service.”
“My daughter, Mechtelt, the one with the, ah, large eyes?”
Yes, he knows the girl. On the street, they call her the frog. Children are known to hop in her wake.
“Mechtelt would very much like to join the Benedictines.” He puts out one hand. “Now I know the convent is full, but I wondered if there is any way to make room for one more nun. Might you speak to the abbess?”
Jan nods. “I am sure the abbey would welcome any daughter of the mayor.” He gives a subtle emphasis to the any. Willems reports that there is at least one girl among his bastards.
“Very good. Very good.”
Jan feels the scales tip. It can be profitable when the city owes the Church a favor. “I was hoping I might ask you about a troublesome matter.”
“My advice is free.”
Better be, if you expect me to pull strings for your bug-eyed daughter.
“You are aware that Dutch scripture has been circulating in the Markt?”
The mayor purses his lips. “Illegal scripture? In Brugge? I know nothing of it.”
Old fox. He’s lying. “Yes. Pope Boniface has charged me with finding the translators.”
The mayor’s head jerks. “You’re not going to make a Strasbourg of us?”
“Most assuredly not. We merely seek to keep the city in the good graces of the Holy See.”
“I don’t want any executions in this town, Jan. It’s bad for business.”
“No more do I.” Jan uses his most soothing note. “That’s why we must nip this in the bud. The Church doesn’t burn people for translations. Just bad translations. We need to stop them before they make any unfortunate mistakes. Heretical mistakes.”
A squirrel chatters from the trees. They’ve reached the intersection of the groomed paths.
“There’s reason to believe that the beguines are the source,” says Jan.
The mayor stops. “I have a niece in the begijnhof. I am very fond of that niece.”
“No, no, no. You misunderstand. We needn’t disturb them all. I need identify only one.”
“I know who you’re going to name.”
Does he? “Lord Mayor, you are always one step ahead of me.”
“My niece won’t say who, but you can read that girl like an illustrated alphabet.” So he does know about the translations. “You’re talking about the Janssens widow. Katrijn Janssens.”
As Willems told him. “The draper.”
“But you can’t touch her, Jan. Have you considered how much of your income comes from the guild?”
“But aren’t the beguines a thorn in their side? Mertens has been slapping new regulations all over them. I don’t know why they didn’t reclaim the stall when old Janssens died.”
The mayor chuckles. “They tried. Katrijn told them she was a widow, not a half-wit.”
“But she’s a woman.”
“A guildmember is still a guildmember.” The mayor removes his hat and rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist. “You know what they say: Blood ties, but wool binds. Besides, her fabric is among the best, what keeps the Genovese in port. You know our generosity to the Church depends on the city revenues. No wool, no tariff, no tithes. You’ll lose a quarter of your income from the city and all your income from the guild if you harm Katrijn Janssens. ”
The bishop is so tired of walking the tightrope between city and church, between mayor and pope. He struggles to keep the exasperation from his voice. “Boniface insists.” He swallows and corrects himself. “If the translations continue unchecked, I will be forced to act.”
“Jan, the pope is fighting a losing battle on the translations. You know that.”
“Maybe. I hear your advice. I’ll leave the widow Janssens to her wool.” They stop at the back of the garden. “Perhaps someone else in the begijnhof is doing the translating.”
“Do you care for cherries?” asks the mayor. “These sour ones are the best. Now, let’s discuss Mechtelt’s dowry.”