The Brethren, Page 2

  “Messieurs,” said he, “you couldn’t have come to a better place. In a week’s time, the castlery of Mespech will be auctioned by sealed bids. As you will see, the place has fallen into disrepair since the death of its owner, but its lands are spacious and fertile and include some good grazing land and handsome hardwood forests. The Baron de Fontenac, whose lands abut on the Mespech domain, would naturally like to round out his holdings as cheaply as possible, and he has done everything he can to delay the sale in hopes that the castle will fall into such disrepair that no other buyers would be tempted. However, despite the manoeuvrings of Fontenac, the authorities in Sarlat have finally decided in the interests of the heirs of Mespech to proceed to a sale. The auction will take place on Monday next at noon.”

  “Monsieur de Caumont,” said Jean de Sauveterre, “do you count the Baron de Fontenac among your friends?”

  “Absolutely not,” answered Caumont. “No one here counts Fontenac as his friend, and he is friend to no man.”

  From the silence that followed, Sauveterre understood that there was a long history behind his words that Caumont preferred not to relate. Siorac would have pressed the matter, but at that very moment a gracious maiden entered the great hall, clothed in a very low-cut morning dress, her blonde hair falling freely about her shoulders. Since the beginning of his visits to the noble families of Sarlat, Siorac had seen a great many women whose necks were so bound in plaits and ruffles that their heads appeared to be served on platters. His heart gave a mighty leap at the sight of this white breast sculpted with the grace of a swan, while, for her part, the maiden returned his gaze with her large blue eyes. As he limped forward to exchange greetings with her, Sauveterre caught sight of a medallion on her breast which displeased him mightily.

  “Isabelle,” Caumont announced in his deep bass voice, “is the daughter of my uncle, the Chevalier de Caumont. My wife is forced to keep to her bed as a result of the vapours, otherwise she would herself have come down to honour our guests with her presence. But Isabelle will take her place. Although she is not without her own fortune, my cousin Isabelle lodges with us—a distinct honour and a pleasure, for she is perfection itself.” This last was directed, accompanied by a significant look, at Siorac.

  François added, jokingly, this time glancing at Sauveterre, “Really there is nothing one could reproach her for, except perhaps her strange taste in medallions.”

  Sparks flew from Isabelle’s blue eyes as she replied with a petulant movement of shoulders and neck, “A taste shared, my cousin, by my king, Louis XI—”

  “Who was a great king, despite his idolatry,” interrupted Caumont gravely, though his eyes danced in merriment.

  When the two Jeans arrived at the Château de Mespech the next morning, they were surprised to find the drawbridge raised. After repeated cries, a hairy head finally appeared on the ramparts, wild-eyed and face flushed with drink: “Go your way!” the fellow croaked. “I have orders to open to no man.”

  “What is this order?” asked Jean de Siorac. “And who has given it? I am the Chevalier de Siorac, nephew of Raymond Siorac de Taniès, and I wish to purchase the castlery with my friend and companion, Jean de Sauveterre. How can I make a purchase, my good man, if I cannot visit the premises?”

  “Ah, Monsieur,” whined the man, “I humbly beg your pardon, but my life and my family’s lives would be worth nothing if I opened these gates.”

  “Who are you and what is your name?”

  “Maligou.”

  “He seems to like his drink,” muttered Sauveterre.

  “Maligou,” said Siorac, “are you a servant in this house?”

  “Not on your life,” answered Maligou proudly. “I have lands, a house and a vineyard.”

  “A large vineyard?” asked Sauveterre.

  “Large enough, Monsieur, for my thirst.”

  “And how do you come to be here?”

  “My harvest is in, and I agreed, for my misfortune, to serve as guard at Mespech for the heirs of the estate, for two sols a day.”

  “You seem to be earning them badly if you don’t open the doors to prospective buyers!”

  “Monsieur, I cannot,” said old Maligou plaintively. “I have my orders. And I risk my life if I disobey them.”

  “Who gives these orders?”

  “You know very well,” said Maligou, his head hanging.

  “Maligou,” answered Sauveterre, knitting his brow, “if you don’t lower the drawbridge, I will ride to Sarlat in search of the king’s lieutenant and his archers! And they will hang you for refusing entry to us.”

  “I will certainly open the gates to Monsieur de La Boétie,” Maligou sighed in relief, “but I don’t think he’ll hang me. Go find the lieutenant, Monsieur, before I am killed by the others. I beg you in the name of the Lord and all his saints!”

  “The Devil take the saints,” grumbled Sauveterre, “does this fool also wear a medallion to the Virgin?”

  “Perhaps, but not in so beautiful and goodly a place,” whispered Siorac. And, out loud, “Come, Sauveterre. Let’s ride to Sarlat! We must hie ourselves all the way back to Sarlat thanks to this fool.”

  “Or thanks to those who’ve terrorized him,” countered Sauveterre worriedly, spurring his horse. “My brother, we must consider this bad neighbour we shall likely have, if it’s true that the lands of Fontenac border those of Mespech.”

  “But ’tis a beautiful chateau,” replied Siorac, standing full up on his stirrups. “’Tis handsome and newly built. We will have much joy from living in a house so new as this. A pox on the narrow windows of the old fortresses with their blackened, moss-covered walls. Let me live instead in shining stone and with doubled windows which let in the sun!”

  “And offer easy entry to our assailants…”

  “If need be, we’ll reinforce them on the inside with oak shutters.”

  “You’re buying a pig in a poke, brother,” growled Sauveterre. “We haven’t even seen the fields.”

  “Today the house. Tomorrow and the day after the land,” cried Siorac.

  Anthoine de La Boétie, police lieutenant by authority of the seneschalty of Sarlat and of the domain of Domme, lived opposite the church in Sarlat. He had a beautiful new house, pierced with the double casement windows so admired by my father, who loved all the new ideas, whether in matters of religion, agriculture, military science or medicine. For Jean had continued his diligent study of the medical sciences. I recently found in his impressive library a treatise by Ambroise Paré entitled The Method of Treating Wounds Made by the Blunderbuss and Other Firearms, bought, according to my father’s notation, from a book dealer in Sarlat on 13th July 1545, the year of this business concerning Mespech.

  Monsieur de La Boétie was elegantly clad in a silk doublet and sported a carefully groomed moustache and goatee. Seated beside him on a low chair was a lad of about fifteen whose homeliness was offset by brilliant piercing eyes.

  “My son, Étienne,” Monsieur de La Boétie announced, not without a touch of pride. “Messieurs,” he continued, “I am entirely aware of the machinations of Fontenac. He wants Mespech and will try to get it by any means—no matter how vile and dirty. I have learnt, though alas I cannot prove it, that a month ago he sent some men by night to scale the walls and dislodge some roofing stones so that water could get in and ruin the flooring, thus depreciating the value of the place. Fontenac has only 15,000 livres and knows that no one hereabouts would lend him a sol. So, unless he’s the only bidder on Mespech, he won’t be able to afford it. To prevent any further damage, the heirs to Mespech hired Maligou to stand guard, but Fontenac, having learnt of your interest—”

  “So, he knows about us!” said Siorac.

  “Like everyone else in Sarlat,” smiled La Boétie, stroking his goatee. “You’re the talk of every chateau and farm in the region. And everyone knows that Fontenac has threatened to roast Maligou and his wife and children alive in their house if he lets you in.”

  “And Fontenac
is capable of such a thing?” asked Sauveterre.

  “He has done much worse,” replied La Boétie with a helpless gesture. “But he’s as clever as a snake and has never left a trace of his foul play by which we could try him.”

  “We have some experience of war and command three good soldiers,” said Sauveterre. “Lieutenant, what harm can this brigand baron do to us?”

  “Post masked men in ambush on any wooded road in Périgord and attribute your deaths to the many armed bands that infest the countryside.”

  “And how many swords does Fontenac have at his disposal?”

  “About ten good-for-nothing scoundrels whom he calls his soldiers.”

  “Ten?” sniffed Siorac haughtily. “That’s precious few.”

  The moment of silence that followed this remark was broken by Anthoine de La Boétie: “But Fontenac has already begun a campaign of rumours to get at you by subtler means. The monster possesses a kind of venomous sweetness to sugar his plots. He has already advised the bishopric of Sarlat that you are both purported to be members of the reformed religion.”

  “We are neither of us members of the reformed congregation,” replied Siorac after a moment of reflection, “and we attend Mass like everyone else.”

  Sauveterre neither confirmed nor denied this, but chose to remain silent. This difference did not go unnoticed by Anthoine de La Boétie. As for his son, Étienne, he rose, walked briskly to the window and turned, saying with equal indignation and eloquence, “Is it not shameful to question these gentlemen’s attendance at Mass when they have shed their blood for ten years in the service of the kingdom? And who dares raise this question? This incendiary, this butcher, this wild animal, this dirty plague of a man who wears religion like a shield to cover his crimes! God preserve us from the worst tyranny of all which respects not our beliefs—”

  “My son,” broke in Anthoine with a mixture of affection and admiration, “I appreciate the feelings which incite your generous heart against oppression.”

  “Moreover, you express yourself admirably,” said Siorac to Étienne. It had not escaped his notice that Étienne had said “in the service of the kingdom” and not “in the service of the king”.

  Étienne returned to his place on the stool beside Monsieur de La Boétie’s chair and, blushing, took Anthoine’s hand in a touching gesture that revealed his love for his father. His ardent look conveyed his immense gratitude for the approbation he had received. What good fortune that nature had united such a father and son, for their hearts could not be closer nor their wills more clearly intermingled.

  “Ah, Father,” exclaimed Étienne, tears in his eyes, “why do people accept tyranny so easily? I think about this every day God has given me to live. I cannot forget the infernal expedition undertaken last April against the poor Vaudois people of Luberon: 800 workers massacred, their villages burnt, their wives and daughters raped in the very church of Mérindol and then burnt inside, the old women who instead of being raped were torn asunder by gunpowder forced into their intimate parts, prisoners who were eviscerated alive to have their guts displayed on sticks! And the Pope’s legate, witnessing these horrors at Cabrières, applauded them! And why did all this happen? Because these poor people, peaceful and hard-working as they are, refused to hear Mass, worship the saints and accept confession—just like the reformists whom they resemble so closely. As you know, Father, I am as good a Catholic as the next man (though I cannot approve of the corruption of the Roman Church), but I blush for shame that the Church of St Peter has steered the king of France towards such abominations…”

  “My son,” said Anthoine de La Boétie, glancing with embarrassment at his guests, “you know as I do that our king, François I, is a good man. He signed without reading them the letters ordering the Baron d’Oppède to execute the Act of the parliament at Aix against the Vaudois. But afterwards he was filled with such remorse that he has ordered an inquest against the men responsible for these massacres.”

  “Alas, it is too late now!” replied Étienne. But sensing his father’s impatience, he sighed, lowered his eyes and fell silent.

  Sauveterre broke the silence: “If I may return to this rascal Fontenac, may I ask if his word has any weight with the bishop?”

  “I know not,” replied La Boétie, who looked as if he knew all too well. “This scoundrel claims to be a good Catholic, although he’s a miserable excuse for a Christian. He pays for Masses, and makes many charitable contributions…”

  “And the bishop accepts these payments?”

  “Well, the problem is that we don’t have a bishop,” rejoined La Boétie with a smile, all the while stroking his goatee with the back of his hand. “Our bishop, Nicolas de Gadis, appointed by Catherine de’ Medici, is a Florentine, like his patroness, and lives in Rome where he awaits his cardinal’s mitre.”

  “In Rome!” replied Siorac. “The tithes extracted from the sweat of the Sarlat workers have a long way to go to reach him!” At this exclamation, Étienne burst out laughing, and his sudden gaiety infused his melancholy countenance with youth.

  “We have, of course, a coadjutor,” La Boétie added, half seriously, half amusedly, “one Jean Fabri.”

  “But he lives in Belvès,” noted Étienne, “since he finds the climate of Sarlat suffocating, especially in summer…”

  “From Sarlat to Belvès,” Siorac rejoined in the spirit of the moment, “the Church tithes have less far to travel than to Rome.”

  “But a few of these tithes must tarry in Sarlat,” said Étienne, “for we have here a tertium quid, the vicar general, Noailles, who pretends to govern in their place.”

  This exchange had the effect of weaving a close complicity among these four men, barely masked by the apparent hilarity of their speech. La Boétie rose; as Étienne stood up, his father put his arm around his son’s shoulders and, smiling, looked at his visitors as they rose too—Sauveterre with some difficulty due to his infirm leg.

  “Gentlemen, if you want Mespech,” he continued in that inimitable Périgordian jocular manner, which always masks some more serious or satirical intention, “you’ll have to make some concessions. It may be too much to ask of you to make a gift to Anthoine de Noailles in honour of the Holy Virgin, for whom you have so long felt a special devotion…”

  Siorac smiled but refrained from any response; Sauveterre remained impassive.

  “Or perhaps you could manage to attend High Mass this Sunday at Sarlat. The vicar general will be presiding and could not fail to notice your presence.”

  “Indeed!” cried Siorac happily. “If Mespech is to our liking, we will not fail to be there!”

  The king’s lieutenant and his archers, followed by the two Jeans, had only to appear; the drawbridge of Mespech was lowered before them. Maligou, infinitely relieved to escape with a scolding, was sent home and four of La Boétie’s men were stationed within the walls until the date of the sale. La Boétie obviously feared that a desperate Fontenac might try to set fire to the place, since, without the chateau itself, the vast acreage of Mespech would attract no buyer other than its powerful neighbour.

  After La Boétie had taken his leave, Siorac and Sauveterre explored Mespech from top to bottom. The next day, Friday, they spent surveying the farmlands and woods belonging to the property. On Saturday they returned to Sarlat and there, in the presence of Ricou, the notary, they formally adopted each other and ceded each to the other all of his present and future worldly goods. From this moment on, the two Jeans became brothers, not only out of the mutual affection they had sworn, but now legally as well, heirs one of the other—and Mespech, should they acquire it, was to be their indissoluble property.

  I have read this moving document. It is composed entirely in langue d’oc even though by this time all official acts were already written in French. But the notaries were the last to give in to this rule, since their clients more often than not could understand nothing of the northern tongue.

  Word of the captains’ brothering had s
pread in Sarlat, and it was quickly bruited about that the two worthies would purchase Mespech right from under Fontenac’s nose. And this hypothesis was confirmed when they were sighted at High Mass the next morning. Rumour also had it that after Mass they presented the vicar general, Anthoine de Noailles, with a gift of 500 livres “for the poor veterans of the king’s armies who live within the diocese in feeble and crippled condition”.

  The arrival of the captains in Sarlat, that Sunday, was no trivial event: they passed through the la Lendrevie gate, escorted by their three soldiers, all five (except Coulondre) with pistols and swords drawn and at the ready. They paraded through the streets, Siorac and Sauveterre, eyes on the windows above them, their soldiers scrutinizing every passer-by. They did not sheathe their weapons until they dismounted in front of La Boétie’s house. The lieutenant, alerted by the sound of horses’ hooves in the street, immediately emerged to greet them, smiling and extending a welcoming hand, a gesture intended to impress upon those gathered in the square (as was their custom in good weather before Mass), the consideration accorded these newcomers by a royal officer.

  There was a great to-do when the “Brethren” had withdrawn into La Boétie’s house, much chatter and shaking of heads among the burghers, while the peasants crowded around the five purebred steeds tethered by the three soldiers, admiring their sweaty flanks and the military fittings, whose embroidered covers had been folded back to reveal the handles of their powerful firearms.

  Fontenac was roundly detested by the burghers of Sarlat, as well as by the nobles in their chateaux, because of his many crimes and infinite excesses, yet the populace of the town favoured him since, with the profits of his various plunders, he occasionally paid for a religious procession supposedly to honour a saint, but which always ended up in a river of free wine and the usual street fight which La Boétie had to quell. Despite these all-too-frequent disruptions, many are of the opinion that the peasants, who must work from dawn to dusk for a pittance, cannot help loving the Church processions, since they provide a day of rest—the innumerable saints revered by the Catholic cult providing fifty holidays, not counting Sundays, year in, year out. Thus it has always been easy to excite the populace against members of the reformed religion because they are suspected of wanting to do away with these holidays by suppressing the worship of the very saints which occasion them.