Chapter 21 Friar Lukas
Friar Lukas
Heat lightning illuminates the evening sky.
Friar Lukas senses a tension in the begijnhof, a tremor among the steady congregation.
He’s administered the sacraments to this community for nearly a decade, since Sophia took over and invited him to be their pastor.
He knows them so well. He knows how Ida mouths her prayers and Katrijn barks her amen.
That Sophia, who once knelt so fluidly, now lowers first one knee, then the other.
He’s never seen them so on edge. Instead of laughter as they take their usual places, there are whispers.
Even Cecilia, boisterous Cecilia, is muted.
The air feels charged, like the lightning is inside the church walls.
Lukas raises the wafer: “Take this, all of you, and eat of it, for this is my Body, which will be given up for you.” He forces himself to concentrate on the miracle of communion.
He sees Sophia clutch Katrijn’s hand. A chill runs across Lukas’s shoulders as he raises the cup.
“Take this, all of you, and drink from it, for this is the chalice of my Blood.”
Afterward, Sophia, Katrijn, and Ida approach him as he is wrapping the cup in the altar cloth. Katrijn scowls. Ida has her chin tilted high.
Sophia speaks. “Father, we think you should know. We’re being watched.”
“Watched? By whom?”
“Several times now, when we go out—the fleece stalls, the Markt, the Lakenhalle—the bishop’s man has followed us.”
“I very much doubt that.”
They stare at him. These aren’t fanciful women, he reminds himself. “But why?”
“Lukas, you take our confessions. I think you know. He follows Katrijn often. Sometimes he trails Ida to the hospital.”
He does know. He’s warned Katrijn to stop translating.
Many times. She always returns with the same confession.
He’s given Ida Aves in penance for smuggling contraband text.
But he’s been half-hearted in his admonishments.
Part of him rejoices at the thought of the gospel flooding the Low Countries.
He’s parsed it finely for himself. Strictly speaking, Rome has forbidden only certain unauthorized translations.
The pope hasn’t yet forbidden a Dutch translation.
Not per se. If it’s an accurate translation—and he has told himself he trusts Katrijn not to distort the Dutch—then there’s virtue in allowing the people to read it for themselves.
How can he deny them the word? Lukas knows what these women do, and he thinks them brave.
Sophia interrupts his thoughts. “Lukas, are we in danger? How far does the bishop intend to go?”
When he leaves the church, the rain is just starting.
The beguines hurry into their homes. Except one.
He has a glimpse of Aleys in the middle of the courtyard, her head tipped back, tasting raindrops.
He pauses to watch. He senses there is something there for him, some message, an insight.
He doesn’t know what it is. She looks like she would swallow summer lightning.
Lukas storms into his brother’s dining chamber. “Why are you following the beguines?”
Jan dismisses the servants with the back of his hand.
The table is laden with the remains of dinner, threads of mutton hanging from a half-eaten bone.
A loaf of fine white bread lies untouched.
His brother’s leftovers would be enough to feed a small household.
Jan pulls over a goblet, pours wine for Lukas, motions him to the seat at his right.
“To what do I owe this pleasant visit?”
“You’ve set your man to harassing them. I protest.” Lukas pushes the wine away.
Jan rolls his eyes. “I thought you might be glad to see me.” He stretches his fingers before him.
“Perhaps not. I will say your timing is excellent, if your manners are lacking. You see, I find myself in a . . .” He searches for the right word as if choosing among fragrances.
“A position. A position that inclines me to meet your needs.”
“You’ve always been in a position to meet our needs.”
“If,” continues Jan, “it advances the work of the Church.”
“How could housing faithful women do anything but advance the Church?” It tires him, always having to justify his decisions, his order, his faith. It’s been three months since Aleys joined them. This has gone on long enough.
“I think it would, Brother, as long as your women truly answer to you. The Church has many needs. Other needs.”
When they were boys, Jan didn’t have this silky tone in his voice. When they wrestled in the yard, their elbows and words were sharp and unoiled. The bishop’s crown has changed him into a politician.
“Be plain,” says Lukas. “I’m a simple servant of God.”
Jan looks to the ceiling, rolls his neck to crack it, then brings his eyes back to Lukas. “You know I’ve been visited by the papal envoy.”
“Of course I know. I was there.” He stood in the back with his friars.
“He delivered a disturbing message. It’s come to the notice of the Holy See that there are cells of unorthodoxy in Flanders. A tract, written in Dutch, purporting to be gospel, has reached the pope’s hands. He is asking how Brugge could harbor such activity.”
“You know the answer. People want to understand the scripture.”
“They have their priests for that.”
“Your priests barely read Latin!”
“You criticize the Church.”
“You should welcome the Dutch gospel.” Lukas rubs his hands on his thighs. The coarse wool reminds him who he is. He must not let Jan get under his skin.
“God’s word is subtle,” says Jan. “Translations are easily corrupted.”
“We could supervise them.”
“No. Once the tracts get out, people will copy them, they will get into every household, in the hands of shoemakers and bakers. The sacramental mysteries aren’t meant for scullery maids.”
“But the people yearn for their God.”
“Whose God? The people’s God?” snaps Jan. “Or the pope’s God?”
Lukas shuts his eyes, gathering himself. “Worshippers deserve the truth.”
“They have no idea what that is.”
“They do, brother, better than you think.”
“Better than Rome?” Jan slams his fist on the table. The dishes rattle. “You contradict the pope? Sometimes, Brother, you sail perilously close to the wind.” A servant looks in. The bishop, annoyed, brushes him away. He spreads his hands on the table as if calming unruly waters.
“Look. You need a house. I can give you that house.”
“You want something in return.”
“Don’t look so offended. We’re sons of the same banker. I require only one.”
“One what?”
“One heretic. I propose a trade. A heretic for a house.”
“What?” Lukas stands abruptly, pushing back the chair. Not here. Not in this town. “Jan, no. These are good people in Flanders.”
“Good people reading the Bible? Where do you think the heresies of the south came from? The Waldensians? The Cathars?”
“It’s not the same.”
“It is exactly the same. My priests complain that people are asking why they can’t speak directly with God.
Parishioners have become scornful. The value of indulgences has fallen.
People are starting to claim they understand the scriptures better than their own clergy.
It’s certainly not my priests giving them these ideas. ” He gives Lukas a pointed stare.
“You’re saying we are.”
“I’m saying that you and your brothers need to stop whipping people up.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.” He drums his fingers on the table. “I won’t touch any friars. Though I could.”
“Then who are you talking about?”
“Listen, we won’t be excessive. An arrest or two should suffice. A short trial. I’ll let them recant any heresy, and then release them. It’s their own fault for resisting supervision. You need to govern those women.”
Lukas feels a pit in his stomach. “You want me to name a beguine.”
“Why not? The people already distrust them. Plenty will come forward to witness. There are many who would be happy to see their wings clipped.” Jan puts his palms up. “Though I can’t touch their draper. The guild protects her.”
“But the beguines are faithful! They’re more devout than your merchants.”
“Precisely. They’re pious fools. They err in their excess. I know they’re writing tracts.”
Lukas stands. “Jan, I’m their shepherd.”
“Then be a shepherd. Cull the diseased to save your flock. I promise it will be quick and easy. No one will come to harm. Bring me a translator, just not the Janssens widow.”
“You want me to betray them.”
Jan snorts through his nose. “Don’t be deliberately na?ve. It doesn’t suit you.”
“I won’t betray my own.”
“Either you will or I will. And I’ll be less generous.
I understand there are two lettered women in the begijnhof besides the draper.
The magistra and your girl. I’m letting you select who will serve as an example.
Or I could take them both. We require, the pope requires, that we teach the people a lesson.
They need to stop seeking that which is too high for them. ”