Chapter 33 The Bishop
The Bishop
Jan swirls the burgundy in his goblet, admiring how it glints like dark gems. He’d been too exultant to sleep when he returned from the Markt, had called for his finest vintage to savor with his victory.
Might as well drink it all. He’ll be heading to Rome after this triumph.
Willems has dispatched couriers to carry the news of the miracle to Rome posthaste.
The actors were superb. That boy with the crutches, genius.
After the demonstration, notables—abbots and counts and the mayor—gathered around to congratulate him, as if it were his own merit that caused God to grant a miracle worker in his diocese.
The only one who stinted on praise was a squint-eyed Dominican from the university in Paris.
“The pope’s men will want to test her,” he said. “Independently.”
Well, that’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, he celebrates.
But his ruminations are interrupted by a pounding on the door.
His staff are asleep, so he goes down and finds Lukas outside with the girl limp in his arms. Her hair is uncovered, indecent, with small patches torn out.
Her robe is in shreds; she has gouges down her exposed legs.
What happened? She belongs in the hospital.
Why bring her here? He doesn’t want her.
But he can’t have his brother holding a woman on his doorstep. He admits them.
“What’s this? It looks like your girl’s been brawling. Put her on the bench.”
Lukas pushes past him, lowers the girl carefully. “The crowd attacked her outside the begijnhof. They’ve kicked her out.”
That makes no sense. Not after he staged her healings. “Why?”
“Aleys tried to save Sophia Vermeulen.”
“Ah, that’s who died.” He heard the bell. It only confirms his opinion that the girl’s just an actor.
Lukas is shaking his arm. “Jan, we need shelter. The town will destroy her with their fervor.”
“What?” There’s something in his brother’s voice. Jan peers closer. “Look at you. You’re jealous!”
“I am not.”
“No, it’s there. You would love them to tear you asunder. Oh, poor Lukas.”
“Just give me the funds, Jan.” Lukas sounds weary. “We must have a house now. We’ll be turning applicants away.”
More Franciscans? That’s the last thing he needs.
He takes stock of the girl. Even unconscious, even with hair like a hedgehog, she is strangely alluring.
Lukas has dropped to one knee, cradling her hand in his.
Jan has the impression that he’s watching a hapless knight who plights a hapless love.
His lady is distant, pledged to another. He should get Lukas away from her.
The inspiration comes to him out of nowhere. He should have thought of it before. It’s so obvious, he laughs.
“I have the solution.” He claps his hands. It’s elegant. Simple.
“What?”
Oh, he’s brilliant. In one stroke, he will get her away from Lukas and under his own control. “We’ll put her in the anchorhold.”
“No.” Lukas stands abruptly, dropping her arm. “You can’t mean—”
“Just listen. The cell on Sint-Salvator’s been empty for years, since we carried out old Gunther. It needs to be swept, and the chimney cleaned, but it’s perfectly adequate. Hear me out. I’ll fund her keep.”
“For life?”
“Of course. You think I’d seal her in and leave her to starve?”
“She’d be entirely alone.”
“Lukas, you know better than that. She’ll be walled in with God. Exactly where she wants to be.” Exactly where I want her to be. “The town could still access her counsel through the window.”
Hold the horses, he wants to tell Willems. In the same letter declaring miracles, they’ll announce that the holy woman has dedicated herself to the life of a recluse.
In his own cathedral. Whatever miracles, prophecies, or showings she comes up with will be credited to him.
He couldn’t bring the girl to Rome—he’d have to excommunicate her if she left the anchorhold—but he doesn’t want her in Rome, anyway.
Too risky. Willems doesn’t know the actors there.
All he has to do is make a hermit of his saint.
There are anchoresses all over Britain, why not Flanders?
It’s simple: You build a cell onto your church, conduct a funeral rite, give everyone a last look, lock her in, and throw away the key.
She lives a life of constant prayer, and you have a holy woman literally attached to your cathedral, like a sanctified barnacle on a whale.
He likes the idea. Popes like anchorites, towns like anchorites.
Why shouldn’t he, Bishop of Tournai, have an anchorite?
And a famous one, at that. It’s perfect.
Lukas is shaking his head. “She’s not yours,” he says. His meaning, its obverse, hangs in the air like a philosopher’s puzzle: She’s mine. Ah, the truth will rise. He watches Lukas scramble to correct himself. “She’s pledged to our order. Her place is with the Franciscans.”
“You would hoard a saint to yourself, Friar Lukas? I shudder to think what his Holiness would think of that.” This Franciscan order has papal approval, but barely. If the pope wants the Church to take credit for the saint, the Church will win. It always wins.
No, this is perfect. He’ll get Willems to hire some minstrels and compose them a ballad. “The Song of a Hundred Miracles.” He rubs his palms together. “Of the Anchoress of Brugge.” They’ll send rumors south on fast horses.
“You can still be her confessor.” Jan throws his brother a bone, though he knows he doesn’t need to. What else is Lukas going to do with his supposed saint?