"The clergy?!" The Minister repeated scornfully, tearing himself from his chair. "Are you out of your mind, boy?"
Claude rubbed the back of his neck anxiously as he stood in the middle of his father's study. His eyes darted back and forth between the man and the cathedral centered in the window opposite him. "I…I believe that this might be the proper path for me. I think I owe it to myself and God to do this, especially after…all that's happened."
It took every bit of bravado for Claude to enter the Palace of Justice, prepared to tell his father of his decision. He knew the man would be less than pleased and argue at every turn, but Claude knew the discussion was inevitable and it was prudent to tackle it as soon as possible.
Leaning heavily against his desk, Nicolas fumed, "I tried to show you one small, kind gesture—just to help you grow a backbone—and you repay me by throwing away your entire future? And for what—an old burlap habit, a tonsure, and a life of celibacy?"
"It might be an appropriate penance," Claude countered, attempting to be patient. Inside, he still worried that his father might just express his anger as violently as when he was a child. Though Nicolas seemed less than eager at the notion, Jeanne-Marie was jubilant that her son was so quick in wanting to redeem his soul through service to God.
His father's rants didn't stop there. "I put you through school; I purchased every book that you wanted; I tried to have you properly trained in combat…just so you can hide away in Notre Dame and give sermons? What kind of life is that?"
Claude struggled for an answer, feeling so small as his father's rebuke continued, raining more furious words on his son.
"Master Lucroy has told me that you're destroying almost everyone in your class when you fight," Nicolas reasoned, a fleeting glint of pride in his voice. "That little visit to Florika's has done wonders for you, my boy. Honestly, I don't see the problem."
Of course, he doesn't, his mind cursed. Claude wished that he could make this man understand the unwavering guilt that consumed him ever since that faithful night. How he seemed to spend every waking moment tormented by visions of his birthday, reminding him of the marring of his once pure soul.
However, the boy saw the twinkle of pride in his father's eyes after the ordeal. Claude had yearned for the man's approval his entire life—but now Nicolas's acclaim felt like a constant damning finger being pointed at him. Claude detested the bereft feeling knowing the one shred of regard would be torn away in an instant.
You know you don't need his approval, he tried to console himself. He's the one who pushed you into this whole mess. Who took you to that brothel in the first place? Who told you that such a thing was the only way to become a man? Everything that's happened is all because of him!
"You'd be better off getting your master's degree in something lower, such as medicine," Nicolas condemned, waving his hand at the thought. "You understand that if you do this, those clerics are going to send you to the University to study theology—that's twelve years of studying!"
Claude tried a more diplomatic approach. "Well, becoming a member of the Church would cost significantly less than another area of study."
"A life of the cloth isn't something you merely jump into," Nicolas bit back sternly, trying to make this boy reconsider. "Do you have any idea for whom that life is predestined? Last-born sons—the ones who will inherit nothing. And—as much as it pains me to say it—you are all we have. God knows your mother is somehow barren as the desert, and we won't be finding any manna there anytime soon."
The young man thought it blasphemy every time the Minister said something so repugnant about his mother. At least he still had one parent in her who offered him the support he so desperately wanted.
"You were destined for a life of law, Claude—not the Church," Nicolas coldly reminded him. Claude noticed a visible vein throbbing from the man's neck as he continued this diatribe. "Obviously you don't have the tenacity to acquire my position as Minister, but a clerk or lawyer of some kind. The point being, where will our assets go when your mother and I have passed? Are we to simply allow our family name to die?"
"Men of the cloth are still allowed to keep their properties and tithes," Claude said, trying to maintain a steady voice despite the brewing anger. "I could still keep everything we have. And being part of the clergy comes with more power and status…and isn't that what we want to maintain?"
"Then consider this: title. What kind of firstborn doesn't follow in the footsteps of his father? You would honestly prefer becoming some lowly priest than a man of the law?"
Something inside the boy couldn't help but force him to speak candidly with his father. "I need to do this," Claude answered firmly, brushing a hand through his black hair. "I'm sure it's not too late to have another heir. But this is something I must do, even if you cast me out of your house. If Francis of Assisi found strength in the Lord as a vagabond, I'm sure I would too."
Nicolas ran his large hands down the length of his face, releasing a burdened sigh of disappointment.
"You are a damn fool, Claude," he breathed, his words sending a brief pang of guilt into the boy's heart. "If I could, I would easily throw you to the wolves and let you live the rest of your life as a penniless preacher. But I have King Charles breathing down his officials' necks regarding morale. If he heard I disowned my only son, no doubt it would lead to some unsavory questioning."
Claude's brows rose hopefully. "So, you're allowing me to?"
"You are making a huge mistake." The Minister pointed a finger strictly at him, his face becoming more colored by a bright red. "Enormous and idiotic. How do you not understand what is at stake? Wealth that most of your peers would only dream of…and you want to give that up simply because you feel a tad bit guilty? And over something you should not even feel remorse for—taking a woman is part of growing up! Think of your future, boy."
Claude briefly considered it: the manor at Tirechappe, the fief of the mill near Gentily, the farthings lining the family chest…everything was to be his eventually. However…the wretched guilt had never ceased in its magnitude, rather only worsened every day. He felt the Church was calling him, offering him salvation for his afflicted conscience.
Could this truly be the right path? Was a life of service to God worth more than the countless riches acquired by the family name? How else might he finally cleanse his soul of this putrid sin that would not offer him a moment of peace? With every tormenting dream that replayed of the night at the brothel, he felt himself ever more drawn to the idea.
"Why am I even surprised by this?" Nicolas chided, tearing away his gaze from the boy. "I suppose since you've managed to disappoint and humiliate me for fourteen years, why should this little decision be any different?"
That did it. After all that his father had put him through in attempts to "help" him, all Claude had gained were memories of fear and sickening shame, not to mention the endless wounds that covered his body. Claude could feel his heart race and jaw tighten in rage. Before he could let the feverish fury send him into a violent attack, he balled his fists that wanted to destroy the man.
He thought of every abuse, every belittling comment, every strike and word that his father had used to hurt him in the name of caring. Years of resentment building up, ready to burst like some weakened dam. But with the fate of his soul now in jeopardy, Claude would not let this tyrant of a man stand in his way.
Claude's being shook with vehemence, and even he could not stop his next heated words from spilling from his lips—words he would dare never say had he not been pushed to the edge.
"Well if you are worried about a lack of heirs, it might not be very difficult to have another, given the number of women who keep you company!"
He froze like some prey spotted by the hunter, horrified that such pent-up hatred finally found a voice after being silent for years. What are you doing, you idiot! His inner voice screamed, instantly he wished he could jump out the window containing the visage of his beloved cathedral—run and never look back. You'll be entering Notre Dame, alright—but in a coffin now!
The hellish outrage contorting his father's face reminded him that he had never spoken to the man in such a manner, let alone even considered it. Claude barely realized what he had just said before he felt his hair being gripped and his knees dropping to the ground under his father's brute strength.
"You ungrateful, disrespectful, little waste of skin!" the Minister spat, yanking his son's hair up and forcing his eyes to meet his. "You want this life for yourself? Very well then! If you want to spend the rest of your life with nothing but a cross around your neck, go right ahead! Deny yourself the pleasures of the world and you will never be happy!"
Despite the stinging pain in his scalp, Claude forced himself not to show an inkling of fear as he stubbornly looked up at his father. The boy's expression of fervid anger easily mirrored that of the Minister. You have fought for this—do not let it escape! He, like others, believe you will fail—prove them wrong! You are not weak!
Nicolas continued, never easing his grip on the boy's locks, even tearing out a few strands. "Perhaps a life in the Church might do you some good. With any hope, the first lesson will remind you to respect your father!"
Reluctantly, he released Claude, who rubbed his scalp trying to ease the pain. He saw in his father's eyes that any shred of compassion was dissipated.
"You've made your bed," Nicolas venomously warned, kneeling and bringing his livid countenance closer to the young man. "And now you will lie in it."
X
The Minister's coach stopped before Notre Dame, the family seated quietly inside. Claude's heartbeat pounded in his chest as he gathered himself. This time, other teenaged boys would be heading to their law and history classes. But he would be surrounding himself with a new group of peers in a matter of minutes.
Sensing his tension beside her, Jeanne-Marie pulled her son into a tight, reassuring embrace. "I'm very proud of you, Claude," she cooed, brushing her fingers over his hair. By the tender gesture, she looked as though she was never going to see him again.
His father, however, looked more distant as he watched their sentimentality, viewing it as plain insipid. When his wife released the boy, Nicolas coldly remarked to Claude, "I hope you find what you're looking for here." A trace of doubt could still be heard in his low voice.
"I hope so too," Claude flatly muttered, unlocking the door and stepping out to the front of the church. He followed a couple of boys who filed in past the cathedral doors. Inside, his eyes instantly fell on the Archdeacon standing before a handful of other boys near the nave.
Exhaling a heavy breath, Claude made his way to the cluster of chattering boys. You can do this, he reminded himself confidently. You're on the path to redemption…
X
"Tonsuring our heads shows humility," the clergyman droned in an even voice. "It reminds us that God is always above us."
Strands of black hair sprinkled onto his shoulders as Claude sat in the center of the classroom, adorned in a traditional brown robe, while one of the clerics carefully shaved the crown of his head with a fine knife. His peers sat quietly in a circle while Claude stared blankly ahead at the plain stone wall, as he had volunteered to be first.
Once the top of Claude's scalp was shaved clean, the older man placed a small brown scapular necklace over the boy's head. As he examined the little rectangular piece of cloth, he heard the man explain with reverence, "Remember that these small scapulars are symbols of devotion, and you should wear them always."
Claude ran a hand over his head, noticing how cold the air around him was now that only a devout ring ran around his skull. A small smile tugged at his lips, already feeling the burden in his heart being lifted.
"And you are aware of what this path consists of, Claude?" asked Father Augustin, before whom Claude went for his admittance. After the young man's assurance of his decision, the Archdeacon was more than happy to welcome the boy into the handful of future clerics.
"Yes, Your Grace," Claude stoically answered, keeping his gaze low and his hands folded before him. He had rehearsed his careful words over and over again in his head. "One must learn the virtues a man of the Church should possess, of which I am willing to learn."
True to his word, Claude was able to enter the monastic school of Notre Dame, ready to embrace a life of God—the faculty certainly had no objections to admitting the Minister of Justice's son on such short notice. After classes ended late in the day, he would track down Celeste to tell her all about his studies, returning home late with the excuse that he was studying. Although it was expected that he and the other boys go and continue their studies outside class together, Claude fibbed to his fellow students that he preferred studying alone.
Celeste could not stop staring at Claude's haircut, much to his chagrin. "So how long do you have to wear that?" she jested, dusting off his shoulder. The two sat on the bank of the Seine as they watched dockhands unload numerous ships, the late autumn air breezing over them as they chatted after another one of his classes.
Running a hand over the smooth top of his head—still adjusting to the look—Claude answered, "Until I'm ordained a priest, then I can grow it back out, but that won't be until I'm at least twenty."
"Well it certainly makes you look…devout," Celeste airily remarked, a wicked glint in her hazel eyes. Claude had told her in the strictest confidence of the sin that unfolded on his fourteenth birthday, his friend letting him divulge in the lewd details that plagued his nightmares. Trying to console him seemed near impossible. Since then, she was careful to keep their conversations light as she did not want him to spiral into a frenzy of endless lament.
Claude chuckled, absent-mindedly drawing in the dirt with a stray twig. "Thankfully my mother doesn't look at me with shame anymore; she's just proud of me for joining the Church. She says that devotion is the greatest tribute I can offer the Lord."
"How does your father feel about this new ordeal?"
"He's overjoyed at the notion," Claude answered wryly, using the stick to sketch his father's displeased expression into the wet dirt. "He thinks I'm an idiot for making my choice. He expects me to fail and thinks that I'll learn something about life after that happens. But I'm going to make sure I don't—I swear."
The gypsy girl decided to move the subject along before he could unfurl a slew of nasty words against his father. "So, what do you have to do as part of your learning?" Celeste picked up the large book at Claude's side, carefully thumbing through the parchment pages as she glanced at its pictures.
"At the moment, I am an ostiary," Claude explained, blankly scanning over the boats rocking against the river's current. "Which means that I am a doorkeeper to Notre Dame. The others and I make sure that no "undesirables" enter when the Eucharist is being given. But I look to becoming an acolyte, then I could assist in conducting services."
"And what is an "undesirable" to you?" There was a bit of an edge in the young gypsy girl's voice. "Like my people?"
"No, no—of course not!" he stammered, eyes pleading. "You know who I mean: lepers, the insane—not you, I-I…!"
Suddenly a smirk found its way to the girl's face, Claude easily realizing that she was simply needling him. "You know I'm kidding," she reminded with a laugh, instantly putting Claude at ease. "We've never needed church before, why start now?" she commented, allowing him to breathe a sigh of relief.
"You've never exactly been a people-person," she then noted, eliciting a puzzled look from her friend. "How are you going to survive being a glorified doorkeeper when these "undesirables" try to get in? Or what if they make you start caring for the sick? I don't think you of all people would be thrilled at the idea."
Claude thought about how he cast sickened scowls at the weak, ailing, and unfortunate as he passed them by on the streets. Now Celeste raised a good point: as a man of the Church, he would have to reach out and offer assistance in the name of charity—no matter how much it repulsed him.
It's for the good of your soul, he told himself.
Claude couldn't help a sound of disgust escaping his voice. "It's a long road, but I'm sure God will grant me the strength to do it. But I pray that I won't run into any of your kin and their fake injuries." It was his turn to be sarcastic.
Celeste shot him a withering glare. "Don't forget why we need to use fake injuries." She gave him a harmless shove at his shoulder.
Claude raised a hand, as if waving her words away. "I know, I know. Celeste, just be patient. I promise, things will be different, and change will come."
The girl scoffed a little. "Maybe someday," she agreed, not whole-heartedly believing her own words. "But until then, I guess we'll just have to bide our time and look out for ourselves like we always do. And who knows? Maybe Father Claude here will be able to change people's minds on gypsies."
Claude was taken by her coy smile, which never failed to make his heart thrum. He thought for a moment how he was always able to be himself in her company, never as austere and subdued as when he was in class or around his father.
As he noticed her tuck a strand of ebony hair behind her ear, the young man felt himself flush with heat and a new growing excitement filled his core. As he watched her trace something in the dirt beside him, he could only think of how he wanted to take her hand in his and hold her close.
A life of celibacy…his mind echoed, trying not to notice the shape of her young form as she crouched next to him. The reason you're doing this is because of a woman—now is not the time to allow impure thoughts in!
He took a deep breath in, expelling those intrusive thoughts as he averted his eyes from the girl. As he scribbled something that barely constituted as a drawing, he remarked aside, "Maybe I can help shape the city's views on gypsies. But I don't know how much influence a man of the Church has over that."
"You're Claude Frollo—you of all people can find a way." She gave him an encouraging pat on his arm, every small touch offering him a sense of belonging and acceptance.
"I swear, I'll put everything I learn to good use. After all it is a spark that starts a fire."
Despite his confidence, the girl had to ask. "What if you go through with this, and it doesn't work out?" Celeste raised, resting her chin on her hand. "What if you spend all this time trying to be part of the Church, and you don't feel any better? What if you're not happy?"
Happy…The very same word his father had thrown at him as he cursed his son's goal. The idea of contentment seemed to meaningless to him now. Not when all he could focus on was the salvation of his soul.
"Happy or not," Claude morosely began, his fingers clutching at the scapular at his neck. "All I want is to stop feeling this awful guilt. I…I need to do this. And if I can't…I don't know what I'll do."
X
*A/N: I wanna thank everyone who's been reading so far. Let's see what happens when Claude tries his hand at the Church. I've also been dumping a whole bunch of Frollo stuff on my DA, in case anyone's interested.
Hope you enjoy the continuing story of Frollo's youth. If you do, please leave a review, it really encourages me to keep writing! Thanks again!
