Lukas opens his mouth, but she rounds on him. “Did you stop to think how this would affect us? Did you even think to clear it with the bishop?” She spits out the word. “What will your brother say?”
Aleys isn’t sure she’s heard right. His brother? Friar Lukas is brother to the bishop? He never said. However, there seems to be a lot she failed to ask about. Like where she would live.
Friar Lukas’s mouth narrows. “I don’t owe the bishop any ...”
“Oh, spare me your family quarrel. You need his approval. We all know it. Or you’ll bring nothing but trouble upon your order. And on us, if you drag us into this business. A girl who abandons a contracted marriage to join a band of men? Why would we invite such scandal under our roof? A real scandal? When half the town tars us with lies? And our wool contract!” She claps her hands to her wimple. “Why in heaven’s name, Mistress Sophia, would we take this girl in?”
“Because, Sister Katrijn, Friar Lukas is our confessor, and he has asked it of us.”
“We don’t owe him obedience.”
“No,” she agrees, “not obedience. But we do owe him our trust. If Lukas brings us a girl who’s dedicated her life to that of an apostle, we will shelter her. Imagine if he had brought us the Magdalene, Katrijn. Would we turn her away? Christ’s favorite?”
Katrijn exhales sharply and looks toward the church. Mistress Sophia places her hand on Katrijn’s elbow. Katrijn softens at her touch.
“Sister.” Sophia’s voice is gentle, but its authority unquestionable. “I have already decided.”
“Mary Magdalene better earn her keep,” grumbles Katrijn.
Sophia ignores this. “Very well,” she says to Lukas. “We will put Sister Aleys in the dormitory.”
“And she will work where?” demands Katrijn. “I don’t suppose she can handle coin.” She looks hard at Lukas. The thought is plain on her face: You Franciscans, too pure to handle money, but quick enough to let hardworking people fill your bowls.
Aleys decides she doesn’t like Sister Katrijn.
“Enough, Katrijn,” says the grand mistress. “There is ample work for her.”
Sophia claps her hands. “Cecilia!” Across the courtyard, the girl with the blonde braid brightens and passes her carding paddles to the others, dusting her hands on her smock. As she nears, a frizz of wheat-colored curls escapes Cecilia’s cap. She wears a dress of the sort a country girl might wear to church.
Cecilia beams at her. “Hello, miss.” She bobs a curtsy. Aleys inclines her head.
“Sister,” Sophia corrects Cecilia. “We are one family in the begijnhof.” Aleys senses that the message is meant for her as well. “Sister Cecilia, please show Sister Aleys to the dormitory.”
Cecilia’s eyes dart to Katrijn, seeming to check her approval. Katrijn’s lips tighten but she gives a small nod.
“Now,” Sophia adds.
Cecilia takes Aleys’s arm and guides her down the path, but not before Aleys hears Sophia’s next words. “The girl can stay, Lukas. But Katrijn asks a good question. What exactly does the bishop know of this?”
11
The Bishop
It is the year of our Lord 1298, and the Church is uneasy, a fat beast circling itself, snapping at its tail. Jan Smet, Bishop of Tournai, is in his manor house, counting all his money. His accountant, a thin man with a scant moustache, leans over the books he’s lugged into the dining room, squinting up for approval as his finger traces ruled columns. The man looks like he eats nothing but bone broth. Good. Accountants should be thin. It shows they haven’t been skimming the coffers.
“Your Grace.” The accountant’s finger shakes as he reaches the figure at the base of the page. “This last venture, well, it was not as profitable as usual, though ...” His finger steadies as it moves to another column. “As you see here, they did retrieve some relics we could sell.” The accountant taps a list of plunder from the recent crusade: saints’ bones and splinters from the cross.Thecross, if you’re gullible. His accountant is right. The relics could bring in some cash, as long as the buyers believe they’re genuine. The bishop knows better. If you added up every holy bone that a knight has pulled from a dusty saddlebag, you’d deduce that Saint Peter had four legs and two heads. The cross must have been the size of three longships. The bishop retains the best relics for his cathedrals. Long bones of saints attract tithing tourists. The rest—well, the bishop views the sale of minor relics as a sort of holy lottery. Some buyers take home miracle-working bits and ends of martyrs. Others will be praying to the knuckles of sheep farmers. Their coin is the same.
“Your Grace,” murmurs the accountant, “it is not enough.”
It never is. Crusades have their charms, but they’ve been growing ever more expensive and less and less productive.
“Well?” he says. “You’re my accountant. What do you suggest?”
“Sir, there are always indulgences.” As if he’s read the bishop’s mind, he adds, “We could pardon the blasphemers and moneylenders.”
“Perhaps.” Taxing the blasphemers who complain about the Church is satisfying, but not especially profitable. Lofty morals, shallow pockets. Better to tap the moneylenders. “What’s the going penalty for usury?” The Church runs a brisk trade in pardons to men who lend with interest. Notorious usurers, as the pope calls them, are forbidden communion or a Christian burial. Unless they obtain his, the bishop’s, forgiveness. The solution is simple: The Church sells its indulgence, and the moneylenders hike interest rates and count the price of pardon as one more cost of business.
“Three guilders, Your Grace.” The accountant hesitates. “But you may want to lower that, sir. The market is growing a bit ... restless.”
