Jan finds Lukas outside the Lakenhalle, sermonizing on the evils of capital to an assembly of beggars. He might as well preach to pigs about the dangers of flight. Jan will say this of his little brother, though. He never gives up.
Jan shoos away his men and waits for Lukas to finish. It’s a warm day for February, the skies cloudless. He stretches his shoulders back. Lukas, he notices, looks worse. The skin on his face seems to droop. His robe pulls concave where his belt cinches it. How his brother eats from people’s scraps every day, he cannot fathom. It’s a recipe for flux. Perhaps he should call a surgeon for Lukas to let off a little blood.
He knows the sermon will end with the noon bell. It’s contrived and predictable. The people know it, too. At the tenth stroke, they turn to scatter. When they see the bishop standing behind them, they make small bows and give him wide berth. He strides over the cobbles.
“I think you won over some widows today. Soon every crone will be wearing brown.”
Lukas doesn’t rise to the bait. Jan peers at him. The lining of his eyes is moist and scarlet. “Are you ill?”
A group of merchants look their way, and Jan raises his hand in benediction. They see him talking with Lukas and someone laughs. Jan bristles. He doesn’t like it when they laugh at Lukas. It reminds Jan of how he had to stick up for his brother when larger boys would push him around. How he’d had to defend Lukas against their father’s mockery. Jan doesn’t like anyone to call his younger brother weak.
“Are you not well, Lukas?” he repeats.
Lukas bows his head. “Jan, it’s worse than that. I’m bedeviled.”
Oh Lord, it’s another one of his moods.
“You just need a good meal.” Jan slaps him on the shoulder. He’ll bring him to the alehouse, order him some mutton stew. It’s a shame Lukas doesn’t indulge in women. A barmaid would be the antidote to his saint in a cell. She’s wearing him thin. The idea was to get Lukas away from her, but he’s worse now than when they entombed her five months ago.
“I need to confess. Will you hear me?”
“Nonsense. You’re overworked.” It’s the services he’s holding in the cathedral, in addition to this preaching on corners and shepherding his friars. And those beguines. Lukas still ministers to them on Sundays. His brother would have been better suited for the university in Paris. Jan knows the dean of theology—perhaps he could arrange for Lukas to study with the Dominicans, to debate Aristotelian logic until the sun falls from the sky. Once Jan’s made a cardinal, he’ll see about sending Lukas off. He’ll assign one of his diocesan priests as the girl’s new confessor. Someone less impressionable.
“Come, Brother. Walk with me. I have news to share.” He takes Lukas by the elbow and steers him toward the canal, away from the square. A rower ferries timbers to the opposite shore. “The reputation of your girl has spread.” With his help, of course. “Rome is sending an entire panel to interrogate Sister Aleys.”
“Interrogate her?”
“Of course. Rome needs to document her miracles.” It worked according to plan. Rome wants to try her for themselves, but they will do so here, on his territory.
“Jan, she says they’ve stopped.”
“Have they? Really? That’s a shame.” Jan steeples his fingers before his lips, then rotates them to point downward like a dowser searching for water. “No matter. We’ll find people to attest to her healings.” Willems will rally some former lepers. Willems knows the best players.
“She’s been visited by God.”
“Has she?” The girl must have realized that miracles will be found out, eventually. Showings, on the other hand, no one can prove. A smart change of tactic. “And what does God say to her?”
“Extraordinary things. Her words burn into my flesh.”
Extraordinary is good. “You’re recording them? She’ll talk to the pope’s men?”
His brother is staring straight ahead, like he’s spotted something in the shadows beneath the bridge.
“Lukas?” Jan stops short. “Her visions are orthodox, aren’t they?” He remembers now how the strange girl undressed him with her eyes and glared at his pectoral cross. “Nothing problematic?”
“She describes an unspeakable love.”
Better she speak of sin and brimstone, but he can work with love. “What else?”
“Christ is a mother.”
“What?”
Lukas turns to him with a look of desperation. “She’s witnessed the union between mother and child, father and son, groom and bride. They are all one, she says.”
“That’s unusual,” says Jan cautiously. Something is definitely off with Lukas. “Though not strictly unorthodox. Not necessarily.”
“She says his voice is music.” The yearning in his brother’s voice is palpable.
