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“It is my privilege as well as my duty, Holy Father.”
The pope moves his hands to the lap of his silk robe and twists the gold ring. “How closely have you followed the problem with the Franciscans?”
Fournier inclines his head, his plump sausage-fingers interlaced. “I know that one faction, the Spirituals, preach that our Lord and his followers lived in poverty,” he says. “And that we should all do likewise.”
“They’re happy to live in housing they say belongs to me,” snaps the pontiff. “Happy to consume food and wine they say belongs to me. And happiest of all to denounce me for possessing these things that sustain their lives of precious purity.” He is sputtering with anger, spraying drops of spittle that sparkle in the slanting afternoon light.
Fournier shakes his head sadly. “They do Your Holiness an injustice. And now…but perhaps it is not my place to speak of it.”
“To speak of what?” The aged head snaps up, the eyes blazing.
“One hears…reports, Holy Father.”
“What kind of reports?”
“The Franciscans’ minister general, Michael of Cesena, grows bolder. He openly calls Your Holiness a hypocrite, a hedonist, and a heretic.” The pope’s fingers scrabble at the arms of the chair. “Forgive me if I speak too frankly,” Fournier continues, “but now Michael is said to be conspiring with Louis of Bavaria to destroy you. Their goal is to put a Franciscan on the papal throne. Perhaps none other than Michael himself.”
“Spawn of the Devil,” the old man rages. “Sons of Satan. They must be brought to heel.”
“Louis might prove difficult to rein in, but would Your Holiness consider summoning Michael to Avignon for…questioning?” The pope’s glittering eyes bore into Fournier’s; the cardinal bows deferentially. “I stand ready, of course, to serve in any capacity you think helpful.”
The pope nods. “Bring them here.” Reaching into a pocket of his cassock, he rummages ineffectually. “There are cells beneath us,” he rasps. “Also in the bishop’s palace in Avignon.” Finally he extracts a pair of keys and hands them to Fournier. Not quite the keys to heaven, thinks Fournier, but the papal dungeon is a starting place.
He takes the keys and takes his leave. On his way out, though, he hesitates, then turns. “Your Holiness, I beg your pardon. My conscience would trouble me if I did not mention another matter. I’m also hearing disturbing reports from the archbishop of Cologne.”
“Do Michael and the Franciscans foment trouble in Cologne, too?”
“No, Holy Father, not Michael; someone else. Someone far more subtle, and perhaps far more sinister. He does not bother to criticize you, Holy Father. This man dares to criticize God Himself.”
CHAPTER 8
Avignon
The Present
“I have an idea for you,” Elisabeth said, setting my morning glass of blood orange juice on the table in Lumani’s garden. “For your — how do you say it? — zhondo?”
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “For my what?”
“Your zhondo. Your dead man with no name. Your mysterious bones.”
“Oh, my John Doe.” I smiled, but I was puzzled and concerned. How did she know about the bones? I’d been careful not to discuss the case with Elisabeth and Jean, given Stefan’s skittishness and my new paranoia. “Did Stefan or Miranda tell you about him?”
“Non, pas du tout. Not at all. It’s simple to guess. I look you up on Google after you arrive. I do this to learn about every guest. Most of the time, I find nothing. But you — you are a famous bone detective!”
“Not so famous.”
“Ah, monsieur, you are wrong. Too humble. So. A bone detective comes all the way to Avignon. Pourquoi? Because someone has found mysterious bones, oui? You and your friends, you arrive wearing badges from the Palais des Papes that day. So I think, ah, they are working at the Palais; this is where the mysterious bones are found. You see? Simple.”
I couldn’t help laughing. “Elisabeth, you’re a better detective than plenty of police officers I know.” She seemed to like that, but she wasn’t finished yet, apparently, because she raised her index finger and wagged it at me. “So, mysterious bones at the Palais. Oui? Oui.” She nodded, pleased to have answered her own question. “Whose bones? Someone from the time of the popes. Someone important. Someone whose death the pope needs to hide, oui? Oui.”
“Are you really an innkeeper and artist, Elisabeth? Or are you an undercover cop?”
She laughed. “Artists, we have
big imagination.”
“And you can imagine who this John Doe is?”
She looked self-conscious for the first time. “Maybe yes, maybe no. But there is a mystery in Avignon at the time of the popes. An important man comes here. He has powerful enemies. And he disappears.”
I was starting to get intrigued. “And who was this important man?”
She smiled, happy to have me on the hook, and then drew a deep breath and launched into her story. “In the early thirteen hundreds,” she began, “there was a popular and powerful preacher in Germany, a Dominican friar named Eckhart. Jean. John. Johannes, in German. You have heard of him? Meister Johannes Eckhart?” She cocked her head and lifted her eyebrows.
“I’ve heard the name, but I don’t know anything about him,” I admitted. “Tell me.”
“Ah. Well, he was brilliant. My cousin is a Dominican, and he tells me about this. Eckhart was a great…théologien?”
“Theologian. It’s the same word in English.”
“Ah, bon. Eckhart studied in Cologne with Albertus Magnus — Albert the Great—and with Thomas Aquinas, the two most brilliant men of the time. Then he taught theology in Paris. But”—she raised a finger for emphasis—“he was also a great preacher. Very much loved. The Dominicans were the best preachers. They took the message out to the people.”
“The evangelists,” I said, nodding. “So what happened? You said he had powerful enemies?”
“Yes. One is the archbishop of Cologne. He is jealous because he is not so popular like Eckhart. So. He accuses Eckhart of heresy. Ah, but Eckhart fights back. He appeals directly to the pope, Pope John Twenty-Two. And in 1327—Eckhart has sixty-six years at this time — he walks from Cologne to Avignon, eight hundred kilometers, to make a defense.”
