And They Danced Under The Bridge E-Book

John Bentley

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When a deadly plague seizes the walled town of Avignon, young Marius is determined to save his townsfolk from the raging pestilence.

While leading the effort to combat the Black Death, Marius is distracted by a liaison with the mysterious Alice. Meanwhile, Pope Clément harbors a burning desire for vengeance on the boy's father.

As death sweeps through the city, can Marius reconcile his passion with a duty to his wife, and his responsibility to the townsfolk?

Leseprobe

And They Danced Under The Bridge

John Bentley

Copyright (C) 2018 John Bentley

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated to my children, Alex and Sophie.

Special thanks go to my dear friend John Broughton for his moral, literary and technical assistance. Without him, 'And they danced under the bridge' would not have been written.

CHAPTER ONE

THE POPE'S PALACEAVIGNONearly May, 1348 AD

Elysium angels looked down on the sad, afflicted, desperate town of Avignon. Saints Jean, Laurent, Martial and the rest had witnessed wise counsel bestowed from the commanding towers of the Palace go unheeded. Patience tested, consumed. This was their day of atonement. Nemesis in her moment, the Furies' boundless punishment, Hera's loathing of Zeus: all paled set against the apocalyptic pestilence that had devoured the wicked place.

The people with houses not yet shut up stood in line since dawn before the carved stone portal of the Grand Audience. Restless, they awaited the ceremonial opening of its colossal iron-bound doors. In the beginning, the emergency law resulted in congregations increasing tenfold. But the clergy, too, were smitten without mercy and the churches closed, the Audience and the cathedral being the only seats of worship still ministering. Religion played no great part in the citizens' lives but despair had driven them to clutch at any comfort, to hope against hope, to pray for survival. Old and young, men and women, sound and infirm, babes-in-arms composed the ominous procession. They wore neither festive clothes nor fine sandals. Talk, for what it was worth, was barely audible. They had little to say. The most pernicious event that had or would ever bedevil their lives had rendered them incapable of expressing feelings. Pain in every household, Death personified round every corner, they had become callous, cynical, cold-hearted. They scorned human kindness as a weakness, self-preservation demanded strength not sympathy, but to what end pleasantries? Each knew the lot of the other and the demise of any child ravaged one family as it did a neighbour's.

“You…you're from Rue d'Annanelle…” one thought “…the cart fetched out six last night…” It was not said loud. The man from Annanelle looked at the next. “You be the wine merchant…Place Trois Pilats…your wife and three babes only today…” He, neither, voiced what he knew. Communal grief silenced everyone.

The prime bell tolled and they filed with leaden, nervous step into the building constructed of immense, fawn-coloured, sandstone blocks. Draughts of cool air refreshed them, a relief from the balmy, oppressive heat of the streets. From front to rear the floor was paved with smooth, granite slabs. They marvelled at frescoed walls one verge thick. These were interrupted by tall, narrow windows admitting sunlight into the otherwise gloomy hall. A soaring, vaulted, wooden ceiling decorated with fine, vibrantly coloured carvings shrouded the cavernous space above the nave. From the entrance Marius' eye was drawn to the east stone altar draped with pure damask. He admired the heavy brass candlesticks either side of a crucifix, a simplicity that belittled a mystical symbolism so powerful that it turned heads. Peoples' jaws dropped in disbelief at such opulence, the like of which was foreign to their ungodly lives. They looked heavenward where, suspended on a chain attached to a roof member, a pierced brass censer swayed to and fro above the assemblage: the pendulum of a clock of destiny counting down the days. No choice but to inhale the cloying, pungent perfume, tart and acrid to some, ambrosial and intoxicating to others. For many, this was their first experience of attending church, the discovery of an unknown world of the dark, the sensuous, the surreal; of men in strange robes speaking in unfathomable tongues. Moved – awed, but through fear and desperation - they turned to the Lord. They believed on a whim, yearning clarity for this capricious sphere that was their profound wilderness. As the nights grew darker, an intrinsic optimism for a lighter day rose, but it was hidden under the bushel of seeds they had planted. There was no solace, no abatement. Without salve or physic for cure, their vital flames extinguished and putrefying around them, they were drowning in hellish burial pits like unblessed food for worms.

Marius Nerval ushered his wife, Dominique and their young son Fabien, asleep in her arms, to find a vacant place. One of the rough wooden benches lined in rows towards the back of the Audience served. More of their neighbours appeared. The cushioned pews to the front were reserved for the great and good. But, soon, all the seats were taken.

A tall, blond-haired, invincible man of some twenty-four summers, Marius worked hard to provide for his wife and child. There was honest employ unloading trading boats and in the warehouses of the port downstream of the Dominique gate and he joked his wife was responsible for its name. Wages could be supplemented mixing mortar and carting stone blocks for the masons building the new town walls. Marius and his young family moved south to Avignon from Carpentras when the grape harvest failed there and pickers on the vineyards were not required. His understanding of the reasons for his own father leaving the native Limoges was not clear. Whenever the boy had asked the question there was avoidance or, at most, a vague allusion to a feud. He knew no more than this. Both father and mother passed on before he had further explanation. Dominique inched closer to her husband, heedful of the stranger sitting on their other side. He sensed her unease and, putting an arm around her shoulder, said, reassuringly,

“No need to fear him, woman, if he was infected he would be dead like the rest.”

Then he realised,

“I know him though, he works at the port” and he leaned across,

“Hail, Charles! How are you?”

The man looked up but they did not shake hands as was the custom. The reply came,

“Marius, I am sick of heart, if not yet of body, but it won't be thus much longer…”

“How do your wife…and daughter?”

“Taken! Taken…both…these seven days. I would be with them…why…why should I be spared!”

Marius offered no answer. The man continued,

“A priest came to the house but…no use to man nor beast…priests, witches, devils, conjurors…the same! All useless! My family were one day healthy, the next…taken! The watchman said I could wash off the cross from my door now they be gone and it be after these fourteen days with no marks on me…but why not me! Why!”

The man shed tears of misery. The plague was indiscriminate: it purged the good, it slaughtered the bad. Nobody was immune.

Still the censer swung, giving forth its bitter scent. A man on the bench behind touched Marius' shoulder, who turned round,

“Guy! The carter! My neighbour, what is it has you come here? Tell.”

“Nothing to lose, Marius…cannot make anything worse…”

“You mean…?”

“Aye! All my household…wife, children, father, e'en the lodger…but me left breathing. Used my own cart to carry bodies to churchyard,” The wretched man paused to collect his thoughts, 'it's been a devil of a time, Marius…and the burier made off with the bedding to fire…didn't have windings for 'em and…” It was too painful for the man to continue. He bowed his head in tortured silence.

Marius looked further along the row. There was his friend, Luc, with wife, Marianne; Lacroix and Breton, fellow workers on the New Palace; Marcel the innkeeper; Martin the farrier. So many ordinary folk assembled through a shared calamity. In the front pews he saw the Magistrate and his runner boy. A strong man, broad of shoulder and girth, sitting back straight with chin thrust forward, determined to be recognised for the greatness of his title. He wore a green velour cap, his badge of office. It was customary when entering hallowed premises for men to doff their headwear, the women remove scarves, but he, the Magistrate, kept on his cap until the last moment before the minister's appearance. He believed only the Holy Father exercised more power. Occupying a position of prominence, this was the only ranked personage Marius registered apart from two wool merchants, the Pagnol brothers. They ran a lucrative business, since Avignon had become a significant river trading port. They resided in a large dwelling in the town, if Marius recalled correctly.

“I know none of these people”, Dominique whispered to her husband, so as not to wake the child who still slept. “Maybe not”, Marius answered, “but, rest assured, they will know you. The women gossip and the men listen. I've a name since I work within the palace, then on the walls and at the port it's hard not to be known”. She was not sure whether Marius was boasting but she accepted his word and regained her quiet, as was a wife's obligation.

Some moments passed while they watched the congregation grow when Marius nudged his wife.

“Dominique…over there…in the corner…well, I'll be…that fellow, head buried into his coat collar, trying his best not to be spotted…”

She strained her eyes then spoke up,

“Yes! How could I not know that one! Carel Rostand! He is the last man I'd have thought to find in here…he begs at the Saint-Roch gate, doesn't he?” Dominique was adept at assessing personalities but Marius just scoffed,

“He does that! And the Magnanen and the La Ligne gates and…and all the others! He scrounges like another man does an honourable job! The sergeant moves him on so he waits a half hour before choosing his next corner to start again. He thinks nobody notices him in that dark spot, well I do, for one! What's he doing, then?”

“Marius, the same as us all, praying for a blessing from the good Lord above, a light to guide us out of this misery, safety and healing for our children. He's here as we are.”

“Umm! You could be right”, Marius said, “but I don't trust him, never have done.”

Yet deeper, in a shadowy recess of the Audience, sat a man Marius could not identify. A figure whose keen regard locked on them through the service, he made mental notes, squinting in the gloom. When someone blocked his line of sight he moved his head sharply so as to not lose them. His attire was more tasteful and less threadbare than the rest. He remained unnoticed, so carefully had he chosen his vantage point. Marius would later know this mysterious character as one of Clément's spies: the Pontiff's eyes and ears to inform him of the coming and going of the townsfolk he viewed with persistent distrust.

As the cantors in the choir rose and their incantations grew louder, the front pews stood, the benches copied. Their chants soared to meet the void above, the censer exuded yet stranger scents - camphor, sandalwood, honeysuckle and lavender – while all but obscuring the altar, screen and vestry. A bell tolled, slow, hard, menacing, then faster and more strident. All eyes strained through the half-light, gazes fixed on the door. The cacophony of noise ceased, then a shocking silence. Clément's silhouette appeared, at first featureless in the doorway. Would deliverance enter by this door they had not realised was open to them? The congregation held its breath.

CHAPTER TWO

LIMOGES1304 AD

Pierre Roger and Edmond were inseparable, childhood friends. With parentages of contrasting wealth and standing, they were equal in their puerile games, pranks and mischief. They stole apples from orchards, played hide and seek, dared each other for bold but harmless challenges, and teased the girls. They shared a passion for hunting and fishing, taking any opportunity to accompany adults on their trips, observing and learning the skills to become proficient in the sport. Years before their less adventurous peers, Edmond and Pierre Roger were adept at setting rabbit traps and following wild boar tracks. The former wore a woollen tunic, coarse to the skin and tied at the waist with a cord, while the latter's costume was worsted, finer and of superior quality. He had a leather belt with brass buckle.

Pierre Roger's father was a lord, enjoying a modest estate in the woodland north of Limoges. His hunting parties often took refreshment in the tavern kept by Edmond's family. While the innkeeper's ambitions for his son were little greater than to take over running the inn, the lord wished his offspring to enter the priesthood. He held influence over the monks of the Bénédictine abbey Saint Martial of Limoges, due to financial donations, so the boy was reserved a place as a scholar.

“I dare you to bring down an egg from the nest atop that tree, and unbroken,” Edmond said to his friend.

“Are you serious?” Pierre Roger's expression darkened. The oak was fifteen verges high and while its lower boughs were sturdy, the upper branches were flimsy and liable to snap under any weight.

“Sure I'm serious! A dare's a dare, you should know that! So, are you a coward? It's up to you.”

“Have I ever refused a challenge…have I?”

“You have not, that's true, not yet anyway! This is a real challenge for you, though.” And Edmond's voice trailed off as he waited for a decision, aware that one game above all others frightened his friend, climbing. He was prone to severe vertigo.

“I accept, then!” Pierre Roger blurted, trying hard to sound confident.

“And you'll not back down? No changing your mind…”

“I said, I will! But I have to…”

“Hey!' Edmond interrupted, 'no excuses! You'll do it this instant!”

His heart sank as his gaze moved up to the bird's-nest, but a speck in the heavens. Edmond was right, a mother bird's head protruded out of the nest, so she would be hatching eggs.

“Go on! What are you waiting for?” Edmond asked, in a sardonic tone. Their bond was strong but as they grew, so did a distinct element of rivalry.

Pierre Roger stood at the base of the tree and tightened the cord around his waist. He reached tentatively for the first branch, then the next. After four verges he hesitated. Panic surged through his veins. 'Will I get back down safely? The vertigo will spin my head, I know, and my legs will turn numb and leaden. I won't look down! Anything but that! But will I lose control of my arms…until I get to the ground again…then I will breathe and my mind will clear…and…'

The climb took time until he was within touching distance of the nest. Holding on tight with one hand, he removed an egg with the other. The mother flew away noisily with fright, feathers fluttering through the air. He held the egg gently between his lips and made his descent, slowly.

Back on terra firma he swallowed hard then handed his trophy to Edmond, who was amazed but disappointed by the event.

“Well done! I doubted you'd do that dare.”

“You should not underestimate me, my friend.” Pierre Roger retorted, satisfied with his achievement, “but now I must return to the house, father has chores for me. Meet you here tomorrow? I've got a good challenge in mind for you!”

“Yes, till then.” Walking back down the track to the tavern, Edmond was preoccupied, wondering what awaited him.

Early the next day, the boys met as arranged.

“Hey, Edmond!” the other greeted, slapping him on his shoulder, “are you ready?”

Edmond feigned incomprehension. “For what?”

“Stupid! Your dare! It's your turn today and I've been thinking on it for a while and…but no, follow me.” And he led Edmond towards the river. They came to a still ox-bow lake, familiar through their fishing of pike and perch, but Pierre Roger walked them on further downstream. Round a bend and enormous weeping willows protected both banks where the channel narrowed and descended to surge violently over a span of boulders worn to a silken sheen. Between the run and the cascade a maelstrom of white water relentlessly beat the stones.

Pierre Roger halted to watch the normally ruddy complexion of his friend turn sombre. There was no need to explain the dare. Edmond had a deep-rooted fear of water. Fishing from the safety of the bank did not pose a problem, but immersed in it was another matter. He could not swim.

“Your dare…” and the challenger paused, taking evident pleasure in the boy's increasing unease, “is to cross the river there and back. You must use the rocks. So, do you accept?”

Edmond, silent, mortified, stared at the rapids but he had no choice. To refuse was cowardice, and his disgraced name would be around the town. He could not live with the shame.

“I'll do it!” Edmond replied without hesitation. He undid his sandals, shed his robe and, naked, placed a first step into the raging torrent. The vicious, icy cataracts lashed his bare limbs and he struggled to retain balance. His hands could not grip the velvet-smooth boulders but, bent double, he lurched from one stone to another. Finally, and exhausted, he reached the far bank, gulping air and shaking his arms in an attempt to restore lost circulation the cold had induced.

Looking back to Pierre Roger, he felt a burst of pride for what he had achieved. The return crossing would be easier and, although he came close again to losing his footing, he had overcome the ordeal. The boys had met each other's spiteful trials and both were content. But, as time passed, their wrangles progressed to quarrels, with a jealousy fired by anger.

LIMOGES1305 AD

On his fourteenth birthday, Pierre Roger entered the Bénédictine abbey Saint Martial, as was planned. His father, the lord, had not given his son any say: he would be trained in Latin, mathematics and science, all disciplines essential to the priesthood. He would board with the monks, returning home infrequently. Learning how to manage a tavern occupied Edmond and so they drifted apart, which rendered a message he received all the more surprising.

“I seek one Edmond Nerval,” announced the messenger, knocking on the hostelry door.

“That is I. Show then,” Edmond instructed.

“Sire, there is no scroll. Pierre Roger told me to listen closely so I can now relate the word to you.”

“That is unusual, but tell me what the…the novice wants of me.”

“Pierre Roger will be calling on the lord, his father, fourteen days hence. He requests you join him then for hunting. The last part is…umm…ah, yes, he said it would be for 'old time's sake, and I must take your answer back with me.”

“And so you will, fellow, but first may we offer you ale, bread and cheese? You will have a hunger after your journey.”

“That, sire, I will not refuse, my thanks.”

While the messenger supped and ate, Edmond paced to and fro, uncertain of his friend's motives. There had been no contact for a year and more but, he supposed, it could do no harm. He leaned over the runner.

“On your return, tell him I look forward to renewing our friendship. I will have knives honed and arrows feathered. Can you remember that?”

Surely, sire. Now I must depart.”

The day for their reunion dawned fine with clear blue skies, a gentle breeze and moderately warm. Ideal conditions for hunting. Edmond walked towards the tree where they always met, the same his friend had climbed for a dare and Pierre Roger was already waiting. They embraced but exchanged few pleasantries. Edmond handed over a quiver filled with arrows, a longbow and a short sword in its scabbard. Along a familiar trail he led the way deep into the forest where herds of wild boar rutted. As they moved furtively in an awkward silence the creatures, amorously occupied would be least aware of their presence. Shortly, they reached the spot.

“Get down!” Edmond hissed “if they hear or scent us they'll be off. Haven't those monks taught you common sense, if nothing else!”

“There's no call to speak thus, and don't ever dishonour the Brothers…”

Before them in a clearing a single family of boar grazed on berries and leaves. A hog, its sow and four piglets, were oblivious to their pending doom. Both men advanced, then crouched, concealed by thick undergrowth.

“I'll take the boar first” Pierre Roger pronounced under his breath.

“No! We need the sow…fatter…she'll carve into a better joint…sells for more,” insisted Edmond, trying to give orders while keeping his voice low. Yet, his friend pushed him aside in defiance and drew an arrow from his quiver. Slipping the bowstring into the arrow's notch, he rose and took aim.

“Did you hear me? I said go for the sow…we'll deal with the boar after…”

But, at this point, the hunt was lost. Their voices had startled the beasts that scattered in all directions, escaping, letting out horrendous squeals.

“A pox on you! Damn it! Look what you've done? I don't know what Jesus has been telling you at yonder abbey but it's not how to use your brain!” Edmond shouted.

“What are you saying? I receive wisdom and blessings from Our Lord! I pray, I give thanks, I…but you, cur, blaspheme! You take His name in vain! May He punish you and cast you into the bowels of Hell! And be sure, you will answer to Him come the Day of Retribution! May He…” Edmond could stand no more of this hostile tirade. He flung down his bow and quiver. In an instant, all became a red mist. A blur of anger, hatred, offence, enmity, a clarion call compelled him to strike Pierre Roger full in the face with clenched fists. He met with no resistance and the man slumped to the ground. Just the start, Edmond decided as he rained blow after blow. Not content with the damage thus far inflicted, he kicked and stamped on the man's chest.' Let that be a lesson for you and your pious kind! You've had it coming to you!' His countenance was no longer human but hideously swollen, contorted, ruined, bleeding profusely. Edmond finally ceased the attack on the motionless body, gathered himself and calmly left the clearing.

A group of Bénédictine monks, sent out to search for Pierre Roger, chanced upon their apprentice, barely alive, days later. He was nursed back to health by their kind attention. The body was scarred and would heal, his soul was indelibly embittered.

Edmond warmed with wicked satisfaction. 'So, it's done and finished. I'll hear no more of it.' He was, though, deluded in his assessment of the affair. He left confident he had meted out the punishment Pierre Roger merited: he had settled a score for the pomposity and jibes. What he ignored was the power of recrimination. Whether in his own lifetime or that of his offspring, vengeance would come.

CHAPTER THREE

AVIGNON1347 AD

Pope Clément passed without a sound along the corridors joining his private rooms to the outside world. Tightening the cord around the waist of a monk's brown habit and, ensuring the hood fully covered his face, he left to greet the morning spring sunlight. The disguise served him well. It was not unusual to see all manner of pilgrims and worshippers dressed in a similar fashion, according to their orders.

Past the papal cathedral lay the wooded Rocher des Doms area marking the northern edge of Avignon. Tall chestnut and strong cork oak trees, planted many centuries before by Roman settlers, protected the town from the destructive mistral wind. Avenie ventosa, sine vento venenosa, cumvento fastidiosa – Windy Avignon, pest-ridden when there is no wind, wind-pestered when there is. Folklore tells the mistral has the force to send a man to madness.

Sitting on a fallen bough, alone, profound meditation consumed Clément. 'Deo gratias – Thanks be to God. The world is at peace, our cup overflows with His bounty, we are blessed, but we are not worthy – Non sumus digni. The See of Rome lives in fair Avignon and we want for nothing. Deo gratias. I am still in my middle age and I trust my passion and my faith to be resolute, to answer the Lord's bidding, come what may. To study His writing and feel His love flow through my body is the greatest of His gifts. I live a frugal life and I would give rather than receive, but I am not perfect, no mortal is so. It is Thy command to drive out evil thoughts and bear no malice. We must love out neighbour. Lord, I conduct myself and my papacy with humility.' Clément's thoughts were delusional. His life-style was lavish, his heart consumed by a burning desire for revenge.

Approaching voices interrupted his veneration, two men taking the air. As they neared, he recognised them as priests from the Saint Denis church. They walked by, nodding in taciturn acknowledgment. On several occasions past there had been reason to dispense discipline on the same two for unacceptable behaviour while serving the Lord. 'My excursions, when time permits, inform us on the peoples' behaviour. My colleague, the Magistrate, is efficient in this regard, but my clerics require a particular surveillance. Their comportment needs to be impeccable. They know the standards I demand. But, I set store on Julien, my Cardinal Priest, to report peccadillos among my Curia. Ah…now I remember, those two men were suspected of entertaining whores! They convinced me, however, it was false accusation. I issued only a warning. Further instances and I would be compelled to take more serious action.' He theorised, sermon-like but quietly, within his thoughts.

'What can you preach to us? If on humility, you yourselves are the proudest of the world, puffed up, pompous and sumptuous in luxuries. If on poverty, you are so covetous that all the benefices of the world are not enough for you. If on charity…but…we will be silent, for only God knows what each man does and how many satisfy lust!' Clément was devout, yet immoderate. The priests carried on their way. Under this masquerade the Pope began a regular early morning walk. His papal duty was to understand, sympathise, counsel, punish, and praise the common folk constituting his flock - and this, whether within the walls surrounding his Avignon see or beyond, in his wider Church. 'I will know them by their toil. I will overhear their gossip and feel their concerns for it is now infrequent they number my congregation. I spread the Word through my personal audiences but this is not sufficient. I must appreciate their lot and admire their efforts, for they are hard-working and honest.' He faced the direction of his palace to intone Timothy 2:15. 'Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a worker who has no need to be ashamed.'

Aromatic scents from purple lavender and pale blue rosemary pervaded the weather. Flowering jacanda and magnolia swayed gently, lending colour to the dense shrubbery bordering the woodland.

'You are indeed beautiful, my Avignon. Laudate Dominum – Praise the Lord. I will go through the Roch gate to watch the traders on Saint Bénézet bridge that marries our fair abode with the Kingdom of France. Ah…I see them, and at such an hour…carts laden with sacks of flour, salted sides of beef, vegetables and fruit, logs and vats of wine. What would we become without Bénézet's crossing?'

Regaining the town and turning into Rue Rempart du Rhône, he peered from under the cowl…'the baker's shop…shutters already open…such variety of breads… Rue Crillon…the smithy, forge white hot…sparks flying from under his hammer…he has much metal to temper…hunting swords and snares, woodchoppers' axes, steel hoops for the cooper…we are in your debt. Every blow on your anvil is a prayer. Rue Rempart de l'Oulle…the Exchange…money dealers and tax collectors…all making a healthy profit, I'll wager…we give thanks for their offices.'

A young woman, of no more than twenty-three summers, dressed in a woad-blue tunic and woollen shawl, came in his direction. Alice did not realise the identity of the monk ahead and they passed without a word. Clément knew her, though, as she did him. Rue Saint Dominique…'I have seen this beggar many times…such a sad man in tatters and unwashed…pity him…' He dropped a livre coin into the mendicant's bowl. 'Take this, my son and be part of our family. Commit to the Lord whatever you do and your plans will succeed.' Carel Rostand mumbled words of thanks. Saint Charles gate… the docks where vast warehouses lined the banks of the river. Square-rigged barges thirty verges long kept the middle channels to catch favourable winds. Fifteen, even twenty, horses moving along the towpath hauled boats joined in trains. Farther downstream, six moored boats, one lashed alongside the next, provided accommodation for those of greater means wishing to escape the warm stench of the intra muros. Such condition was rampant during the hot summer months. Clément entered a tavern, placed money on the counter and muttered an order for ale. He sat in a niche of the gloomy place, head always bowed and covered. Tobacco and other herbal fumes floated in dense clouds, rendering the clientele but a dim ghostly outline.

'…I hear strange voices…I would believe them Pentecostal brothers speaking in tongues, but…no, they make vulgar noises like those from the north provinces…I know of a fishmonger who carries cod…does a good business and I've heard say the smell on his person is as putrid as his merchandise…I am sure, there are fellows singing in a tone even of Rome and beyond! Some quarrel in accents of Arab tribes but all bring trade and wealth, so they are welcome here. Laudate Dominum.'

He drained the tankard, rose and made for the door, gesturing a valediction politely to those men, occupied with drinking, back-slapping and cursing, who noticed his presence. Outside, fresh but malodorous air was in stark contrast with that of the tavern. At the archway he paused before a wooden hut attached to one of the warehouses. The sign above the door announced 'Douanes' – 'Customs'. Within, the Magistrate assiduously pored over lists of goods in and out, one of his sundry functions being the collection of taxes due to the lord of Avignon, Charles II of Naples. 'The Magistrate labours for our communal benefit. I am truly fortunate to number him among my servants and friends.' Returning to the Rocher des Doms he passed street vendors, wine merchants, leather beaters, potters, soothsayers, flower sellers, fruiterers, drinking houses, cheesemakers, lenders, physics, jugglers – merchants and professions of every description, all prospering and profiting adequately. 'You, the common inhabitants and passers-by, may not be overly rich, but you are content and that is a gift from on high. You are clothed as should be: capes to protect from the rain, tunics woollen and, for some, worsted. Your children smile, you assist the crippled elderly to cross the street. I pray the Spirit of the Lord enters your lives, as hard work merits.'

Clément returned to his chambers as he had departed, in secret. The monk's habit replaced by everyday white cassock, he summoned a prelate to bring wine.

“See I am not disturbed this morning. I shall be in prayer” he instructed.

“Of course, Holiness” the prelate understood and retreated.

He must kneel before the Sacrament and thank the Lord for the ordinary, for the normal, the small discounted joys from which true happiness flows. His flock might take them for granted but he, the Pope, may not. On behalf of the dwellers of Avignon, his intercession sought to ensure continued favour from the Almighty. Enveloped in deep thoughts, but not dark, rather hopeful, confident, grateful, pride welled in his heart. Five years had elapsed since the crowning as Pope, a time he viewed with satisfaction. The new palace and chapel buildings progressed well, congregations had increased to a degree. Paying his clergy their don gratuit salary posed no difficulty since finances were plenteous and as regarded money he admitted to being 'a sinner among sinners.' He commissioned artists to paint hunting and fishing scenes – recalling childhood memories – on the chapel walls, and fabulous tapestries adorned the cold stone expanses. He recruited the best musicians from Northern France. Performing for Clément was an enviable honour. He often recited from Psalms 'My cup overflows”, and so it is, O Lord, praise be! Thy largesse is boundless and we are not worthy. Throughout my life I have been blessed with Thy Grace and without Thy Bounty I am nought. Yet, there are many of this earth who have enabled my acquisitions and high repute, if so they be. I owe much to many and I am minded to reward them. Thy gifts, Holy Father, we cannot measure but I would place a consideration on those persons, abbeys and churches that have assisted me, without whom my present glory…no! Forgive me, Father! I mean to say 'Thy Glory'. My life calling is to celebrate Thy name. The good people have, this day, moved me to give thanks, to respect the value of the simple and virtuous. Thus, I will make donations from my own coffers. But, to what amount? I understand not the mystery of money, I have not had need to deal with such lesser matters.'

“Guard! Enter!”

“Holiness?”

“Send for Julien, tell him to come within the hour.”

Julien, Cardinal Priest in the Curia, was almoner among other duties, distributing charity on the Pope's behalf.

“Julien, I would ask your…umm…advice.”

“Of course, if it be within my knowledge.”

“How much does a lord, whosoever, receive as an annual income?”

“A strange question, for certain…” and he paused before answering, “I would say five hundred gold écus, or thereabouts.”

“Good. That is all, Julien.”

The priest left and Clément sat at his desk and arranged inkwell and fine calfskin parchment scrolls. Dipping pen into ink he began the first missive, concentrating on the past that had affected the present:

“CHAISE-DEI, in oblationem venerabili de abbatia– To the Abbot of Chaise-Dieu abbey – DONUM FACIMUS 1000 écus – our gift – IN GRATIAS CANTANTES – with gratitude – PRUDENTER UTI PECUNIA – use this money wisely”

'The monks of Chaise-Dieu took me in, anno Domini 1301, as a mere boy. It was in that House of God I first knew the wonder of the Lord. I learned the Scriptures. I was shown abstinence and the power of prayer. There, my vocation to spread the Word began.'

He trimmed the quill anew to a fine point and, taking a fresh vellum sheet, scribed similar messages.

“TO THE COLLEGE OF SORBONNE, PARIS –DONUM FACIMUS 1000 écus – our gift”

'I ministered as Prior at this place, anno Domini 1307. Their library is the envy of the world and only mine now surpasses it. I became a true scholar there, with their guidance and patience. As provisor they consulted me on ecclesiastic and theological affairs. With my doctorate I spent rewarding time teaching the Bible and debating its verses.'

“TO THE PRIORY OF SAINT BAUDIL –DONUM FACIMUS 500 écus”

'My master, Pope John XX11 summoned me to be Prior. The place was close to Chaise-Dieu, it was anno Domini 1324. Such pleasant, honest souls. Their kindness I shall not forget.'

“TO THE ABBOT OF FECAMP– DONUM FACIMUS 500 écus”

'Anno Domini 1326. As Abbot of this fine abbey my mind was opened to Thy truth, O Lord. The Bénédictines also distil a magnificent liqueur, and I confess to partaking, but in moderation.'

“AD EPISCOPUS ATREBAS– To the Bishop of Arras – DONUM FACIMUS 500 écus”

'I served as Bishop and royal councillor. A challenging time if I recall correctly. I charged Edward, king of England, to pay homage to our Philip, anno Domini 1328. I received no reply and returned to our country, my mission unaccomplished.'

“AD ARCHIEPISCOPUM SENONENSEM–To the Archbishop of Sens – DONUM FACIMUS 500 écus”

'This is a peaceful place and though my time, anno Domini 1329, was short, I prospered from their generous devotion.'

“ITAQUE DE ARCHIEPISCOPO ROEN– To the Archbishop of Rouen – DONUM FACIMUS – 1000 écus”

'Anno Domini 1330. I am thankful to them all in this city. The Word has entered their hearts and homes. Bless them.'

ANNO DOMINI 1342. 'I am crowned Most Holy Pope Clément V1 with no preliminary politicking, only divine inspiration. Praise be to Heaven.'

To each scroll was sewn a pendent tag bearing the impression in wax of his signet ring. They were signed “Clémentine V1. Et Sigillum Suum” – “Pope Clément V1 and His Seal”. Without this authentication the gift could not be accepted. 'Dear Lord, I perform my labours with love and compassion, and the all-seeing God knows my reasons for making gifts to the deserving. Even so, I implore Thy succour for there is evil within me, a bitterness and resentment I cannot lose. Jesus teaches an unforgiving heart will consume the spirit in the end, and I believe. Vengeance is the Lord's and He will repay. So, I must leave it to His wrath and not be overcome by evil, but good. That is the way, I know. Dear Lord, extinguish the burning in my being. Deo gratias.'

Papal envoys delivered the vellum letters, each accompanied by a leather pouch containing his benefit.