Lenobia's Vow (House of Night Novellas #2)(5)

“To what do my cathedral and I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“Your cathedral, Father? Surely it is more accurate to say that this is God’s house.”

Charles’s anger began to build. Automatically, his long fingers began to stroke the huge ruby cross that always hung from a thick chain around his throat. The flames of the lit votive candles at the feet of the nearby statue of the beheaded Saint Denis fluttered spasmodically.

“To say this is my cathedral is simply a term of endearment and not one of possession,” Charles said. “Shall we retire to my offices to share wine and break bread?”

“Indeed, my journey was long, and though in February I should be thankful it is rain and not snow falling from the gray skies, the damp weather is tiring.”

“Have the wine and a decent meal brought immediately to my offices.” Charles motioned impatiently to one of the nearby acolytes, who jumped nervously before scurrying away to do his bidding. When Charles’s gaze returned to the older priest, he saw that de Juigne was studying the retreating acolyte with an expression that was his first warning that something was amiss with this unannounced visit. “Come, Antoine, you do look weary. My offices are warm and welcoming. You will be comfortable there.” Charles led the old priest away from the nave, across the cathedral, through the pleasant little garden, and to the opulent offices that adjoined his spacious private chambers. All the while the archbishop gazed around them, silent and contemplative.

It wasn’t until they were finally settled in front of Charles’s marble fireplace, a goblet of excellent red wine in his hand and a sumptuous repast placed before him, that de Juigne deigned to speak.

“The climate of the world is changing, Father Charles.”

Charles raised his brows and wondered if the old man was as daft as he appeared. He’d traveled all the way from Paris to talk of the weather? “Indeed, it seems this winter is warmer and wetter than any in my memory,” Charles said, wishing this useless conversation to be over soon.

Antoine le Clerc de Juigne’s blue eyes, which had appeared watery and unfocused just seconds before, sharpened. His gaze skewered Charles. “Idiot! Why would I be speaking of the weather? It is the climate of the people that concerns me.”

“Ah, of course.” For the moment, Charles was too surprised by the sharpness in the old man’s voice even to feel anger. “The people.”

“There is talk of a revolution.”

“There is always talk of a revolution,” Charles said, choosing a succulent piece of pork to go with the smooth goat cheese he’d sliced for his bread.

“It is more than simple talk,” said the old priest.

“Perhaps,” Charles said through a full mouth.

“The world changes around us. We draw near a new century, though I will pass into Grace before it arrives and younger men, men like yourself, will be left to lead the church through the tumult that approaches.”

Charles fervently wished the old priest had expired before he’d made this visit, but he hid his feelings, chewed, and nodded sagely, saying only, “I will pray that I am worthy of such a weighty responsibility.”

“I am pleased that you are in agreement about the need to take responsibility for your actions,” said de Juigne.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “My actions? We were speaking of the people and the change within them.”

“Yes, and that is why your actions have come to the attention of His Holiness.”

Charles’s mouth suddenly went dry and he had to gulp wine to swallow. He tried to speak, but de Juigne continued, not allowing him to talk.

“In times of upheaval, especially as the tide of popular attitude sways toward bourgeois beliefs, it has become increasingly important that the church does not drown in the wake of change.” The priest paused to sip delicately at his wine.

“Forgive me, Father. I am at a loss to understand you.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much. You could not believe your behavior would be ignored forever. You weaken the church, and that cannot be ignored.”

“My behavior? Weaken the church?” Charles was too astounded to be truly angry. He swept a well-manicured hand around them. “Does my church appear weakened to you? I am loved by my parishioners. They show their devotion by tithing with the generosity that fills this table.”

“You are feared by your parishioners. They fill your table and your coffers because they are more afraid of the fire of your rage than the burning of their empty stomachs.”

Charles’s own stomach lurched. How could the old bastard know? And if he knows, does that mean the Pope does as well? Charles forced himself to remain calm. He even managed a dry chuckle. “Absurd! If it is fires they fear, it is brought on by the weight of their own sins and the possibility of eternal damnation. So they give generously to me to alleviate those fears, and I duly absolve them.”

The Archbishop continued as if Charles had never spoken. “You should have kept to the whores. No one notices what happens to them. Isabelle Varlot was the daughter of a marquis.”

Charles’s stomach continued to churn. “That girl was the victim of a horrible accident. She passed too close to a torch. A spark lit her dress afire. She burned before anyone could save her.”

“She burned after spurning your advances.”