Читать книгу Lady Agnes Mystery Vol.2 - Андреа Жапп - Страница 24

The camerlingo Honorius Benedetti studied the earnest expression on the shiny face of the French prelate sitting opposite him. Archbishop Foulques de Marzin was waiting for his advice. It was not long in coming:

‘My dear brother … my friend, what can I say? Naturally the King of France and the other European monarchs will use all their political might to influence the outcome of the forthcoming papal election, but ultimately the decision rests with the conclave. You will receive the vote of all the French prelates who do not wish to see an Italian elected to the Holy See – at any rate those humble enough to recognise that they themselves would not make good popes or those who refuse to cast their votes in return for … compensation.’

‘And how many of them do you suppose there are, Your Eminence? I mean who cannot be bought – that monstrous word – or are not driven by ambition?’

Marzin amused Benedetti – in an unpleasant sort of way, he had to confess. This bishop, who would stop at nothing to snatch the Holy See from his rivals, frowned and puckered his lips in distaste when he spoke of their greed for power and glory. A disturbing thought occurred to the camerlingo, which he attempted to brush aside. In the end, did he not have more in common with those ‘others’, his hidden enemies who were fighting for the coming of what they called the Infinite Light? They, too, believed that their lives were of no importance. That only the future mattered. Of course, they had chosen the wrong side, for men were men and no miracle, no sacrifice by the son of God who died on the cross would make them change in any enduring way. They sobbed, prayed, implored until the memory of the martyr’s purity began to fade, and then they continued their scheming, wicked ways.

Benedetti looked again at the man whose face reminded him of jellied fruit dipped in rancid syrup. He could not resist taunting him, although his good political sense told him simply to dupe the man.

‘Do you want the truth?’

‘I would expect nothing less from you, with respect.’

‘Very few.’

The syrupy expression faded, and Foulques de Marzin’s face, tumid and purple in colour from an overindulgence in rich food, became visibly distraught. How amusing he was indeed, this flabby lump who preached abstinence in a booming voice. Monseigneur de Marzin’s pressing need for money was common knowledge – money that allowed him to keep his voracious family, as well as a few exceedingly pretty and exceedingly young mistresses. Did he really imagine that he would be able to install them like a harem at the Vatican Palace? And why not? It wouldn’t be the first time. Marzin had come to him for support, for his vote, in exchange for which he was willing to make a great many concessions.

Suddenly this scene, which previously would have delighted the camerlingo to the point of making him draw it out as long as possible, ceased to amuse him.

He wanted this whining maggot out of his sight this instant. His presence suffocated the camerlingo.

‘My dear friend, you know how much I respect you. You are one of the lights of our church. Rest assured that you have my vote.’

The flabby face quivered with emotion, contentment most of all.

‘If it pleases God to make me His next representative on earth, believe me, Your Eminence, I will not forget your good deeds and your innumerable virtues. I will need men of faith by my side whom I can trust. I thank you most graciously.’

‘No, it is I who must thank you, dear Marzin, for being that candidate for whom I can cast my vote without fear of making the wrong choice.’

Honorius stood up to signal that the meeting was over. Believing he had achieved what he came there for – the vote which the camerlingo had already promised to a dozen or more French and Italian prelates – Foulques de Marzin hurriedly kissed the hand that was being held out to him.

Rid of the loathsome schemer at last, Benedetti was able to engage in one of his silent monologues. These were infinitely precious to him. In whom had he confided for so long if not the son of God?

What did you imagine? That the blood that flowed from Your hands and feet would save the world? It was a beautiful dream. But nobody is able to save the world. All we are able to do is to postpone its destruction. There are so few righteous people in Your kingdom, Sublime Lamb of God. Your flock is reduced to a tribe of individuals who are being killed, who are suffering because others prefer to revel in sin, which they maximise and which makes them rich and happy. Sin can be so enjoyable, so easy, while virtue is harsh and arid. Whom can it tempt? What is that You say? That my hidden enemies are also part of Your little tribe? You are right. And yet You know that I am too, and that I would die a thousand deaths for my love of You. However, I do not entertain the foolish hope of changing men. The day men stop fearing the consequences of their actions, nothing will stop them. Their madness, their barbarism will become law. The weak will have their throats cut or be turned into slaves. Only the cruel and bloodthirsty will remain. The future will become a terrible nightmare if we let them have their way. I aim to keep their fear alive. I aim to strengthen the leash that restrains them. I will be hated. What of it? My life is pure torment since Benoît’s murder. Do You know what I sometimes think? That this world is in fact hell. That there is no other.

Honorius Benedetti despised them all, or nearly all. They disgusted him. Why had he loved Benoît so, despite the deceased Pope being his most stubborn adversary? Why did he feel like such an outsider, so different from his innumerable allies – willing or not? Was it his punishment only to feel akin to, like a fellow soul of those whom he must crush, eliminate?

The arrival of an usher interrupted his train of thoughts.

‘Show him in at once.’

The diminutive young man bowed before him. And yet nothing in his demeanour suggested servility.

‘Pray, take a seat, Clair.’

Clair Gresson, Guillaume de Plaisians’s private secretary sat down. His long journey from Paris had left him with dark shadows under his eyes. His coat was covered in the whitish dust of the roads.

‘I came as soon as I could, Your Eminence. Please excuse my dishevelled appearance.’

‘You are excused, Clair. Do you bring important news?’

‘Indeed. Far too important to entrust to any messenger. I must leave again without delay. My absence might arouse suspicion and alarm my master, Monsieur de Plaisians.’

‘Have you some names at last?’

‘Oh, I have better than that! A single name.’

‘Quick!’ cried Honorius, unable to contain his excitement.

‘Monseigneur de Troyes.’

‘Renaud de Cherlieu?’

‘Yes. After much hesitation between Monsieur de Got,* Archbishop of Bordeaux, and Monsieur de Cherlieu, Cardinal of Troyes, Guillaume de Nogaret and my master have decided in favour of the latter. From a purely mercenary point of view, I am not sure that they have chosen wisely, for de Got would have brought the Gascon vote with him. However, Monsieur de Got seemed ill disposed to the idea of a posthumous trial of Boniface VIII, who was his friend, although he proved more amenable over the matter of the order of the Knights Templar.’

Clair Gresson confirmed what the camerlingo’s spies had told him about a list containing two names. Even so, considering the support he would receive from the Gascon prelates, Honorius would have backed Monsieur de Got’s candidature as the winning one. However, his political intelligence notwithstanding, if the archbishop had refused the King’s demands in exchange for his covert support, he had de facto lost the Holy See.

The camerlingo felt a sense of relief that was almost unsettling because it was so unusual. At last he knew whom he must fight. He had no lack of means at his disposal. Spreading rumours at the right moment of Nicolaism, dealings with the devil, heresy or tolerance of religious deviance would defeat Cardinal de Troyes’s candidature. Honorius would be elected. Not that the papal crown held any attraction for him, but he was prepared to resign himself to it if necessary in order to further his mission. In addition, Renaud de Cherlieu’s influence was not far-reaching enough to pose any real problem. Even so, Honorius would have to dig deep into his war chest, dole out promises, threats even, liberally, while pretending to be as meek as a lamb, if he had any hope of being elected. He would see to it that he was.

He felt a warm affection for the young Clair Gresson, who had been won over by his arguments without any need for remuneration. He was pure. Pure in the way Benedetti was pure, since purity has many faces.

‘My friend, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. How strange, I utter that word “friend” twenty times a day without ever meaning it. I needed to say it to you in order to rediscover its wonderful significance. Go and rest. Thank you. Thank you for having brought me this reprieve from anxiety.’

‘I must leave again at once, Your Eminence.’

‘Very well.’ Embarrassed suddenly by the oft-repeated gesture, Benedetti took a purse from the drawer of his magnificent desk, pausing before handing it to the other man. ‘I … Take this. It is neither payment nor reward, it is simply …’

Gresson’s face flushed, and he stood up, declaring abruptly:

‘You insult me, Monsieur. I may be poor, but I am not for sale. If I wore out my hired horses in order to arrive here as quickly as I could, it is because I believe in your vision. Men are incapable of governing their lives. Without our guidance they would live in turmoil. Does the wish for peace – or at least a practical approximation to it – require payment? That being so, I will accept the cost of my journey, which I can ill afford. But nothing more. The satisfaction of working for the future is the only reward I need.’

Benedetti knew it, and had expected, counted on Gresson’s refusal. Perhaps the camerlingo had needed this rebuff in order to convince himself that he was not entirely alone.

‘Truly … your visit will be the only pleasant experience in my entire day, or should I say in a series of very long days,’ he commented, accompanying the young man to the door leading out of his study.

Alone once more, Honorius gave in to a brief surge of emotion. That exhausted young man had no idea to what extent his visit had calmed the camerlingo. Of course, the information he had brought was of the utmost importance. But aside from this clever piece of espionage, Gresson’s integrity, his scrupulous honesty, vindicated Benedetti’s struggle. Power and intelligence were so isolating that it became easy sometimes to lose sight of the measure of what was at stake. And the camerlingo was occasionally plagued by doubts, by the fear of being mistaken, of having sold his soul for the wrong cause.

Gentle Jesus, I too wish to save them. To save them from themselves, to save them for You. Like You I wish to save them from their lust for murder, villainy and cruelty. But I am a mere man, not the Son of God, and I fight with the weapons of man. They are corrupt, I know. But I have no others.

Clair Gresson crossed Saint Peter’s Square with a heavy step. A flutter of pigeons accompanied his passage, their wings brushing boldly against him as they took noisily to the air. He scarcely noticed them.

Honorius Benedetti would range his impressive forces against Monseigneur de Troyes, who would never recover. The path of Bertrand de Got, Archbishop of Bordeaux and the King of France’s true choice, would be open. Generously aided by Philip the Fair, his election to the papacy was almost guaranteed, thanks in large part to the Gascon vote. And Bertrand de Got would never abandon the military orders, certainly not the Hospitallers. Behind his rather nondescript appearance he was a skilled diplomat who knew how to keep his head down and weather the storm. He was an expert at inaction, continually promising, never delivering until he was absolutely certain. The elaborate game of hide and seek that he would soon be playing with the King would not change this.

Arnaud de Viancourt, the Grand-Commander of their order, would be relieved. Viancourt was by no means glad to turn his back on the order of the Knights Templar. They were enemies yet brothers. Brothers in spirit. Brothers in battle. Blood brothers. However, he would go to any lengths to save the order of the Hospitallers.