"Archbishop, I do not see how this relates to your case." The cardinal in the middle stated, not amused with what he decided were stall-tactics.
"Trust me Cardinal, there is a point to my story." Maxwell smiled, leaning back in his chair. "We are all believers, but do not believe; one of my colleagues is constantly saying things like that. I don't really understand his logic, do you?" He paused, looking at Cardinal Molan. "Give me a light."
"But Archbishop," Molan stammered, fumbling in his pocket for his lighter while Maxwell produced a cigarette, "it is not appropriate for you to be making demands right now."
Another cardinal leaned forward offering a match, and the cigarette glowed in the darkened room as Maxwell inhaled deeply. "Cardinal, I believe that I, of all people, know how to conduct a proper Inquisition, would you not agree? That I would know when it is appropriate for the condemned to speak, is that not correct?"
"This is an impeachment trial, Archbishop, NOT an inquisition." The cardinal directly across from Maxwell growled between clenched teeth. "We do not allow for inquisitions anymore."
"Pity." Enrico sighed, resting his chin upon his gloved hand as he looked over the group once again. "Were I running this, it would be an inquisition. I'd have the person in question sobbing on the floor, begging for God to take his life, and praying for mercy from this imperfect, human trial." His eyes settled on Molan once again. "Isn't that what Father Pendrake said to me when I was dragged to Italy to be held accountable for my sins? Sins, which I may add, that were not mine. Once I had the authority to prove myself innocent, I did. I was just too engrossed in my Order by the time my former parish learned the truth that I could not leave my comrades without proper leadership, now could I? Knowing what I know is my sin, my burden, my path to salvation."
"I saw the reports from your former parish, yes. You were completely innocent of the crimes that you had been accused and convicted." The cardinal immediately to the left of center stated, thumbing through Maxwell's case file. He appeared bored with the entire trial.
"So who is to say that God is not working through me once again, testing YOUR faith by placing me in this situation? Did I not target heathens, heretics, blasphemers, pagans, and inhuman monsters? Did any of my men personally kill a single Catholic in London that was still human?"
"YOU ARE GOING TO BE IN CONTEMPT OF THIS COURT, MAXWELL." The middle Cardinal was livid, slamming his palms upon the desk. "Make your point or we will turn you over to the British. They'll kill you."
"Very well." Taking another drag on the cigarette, Maxwell closed his eyes, reminiscing. "Christine Tourvel, that beautiful child, was my first exorcism. . . ."
ooooooooo
The young priest had not realized that Christine had been the pet project of his predecessor. He had been unable to do anything to help the child, or so the letter from the Bishop stated. Enrico had petitioned his superior for help, since so many of the townspeople were now flocking to his home, asking him to lay his hands upon their sick children, or bring God's grace upon the vineyards for an excellent harvest.
The Bishop was so overwhelmed by young Maxwell's command over spirits that he could not ignore the provincial. As he explained in his reply, the young man had not even worn the traditional violet stole or voiced the correct adjurations to truly expel a demon, like the proper exorcists. Surely, God had a plan for Maxwell, and the bishop sought to use the young man's talents to glorify his own position; there were always spaces opening in the College of Cardinals.
Therefore, Maxwell's talent was to be nurtured. The best exorcists from around Europe were sent to Corsica under the guise of guest pastors and visitors to the parish. Each time a new priest or lay member came to instruct the young man, they walked away wondering how God could allow a man with such flare for the dramatic the power to do such good.
Every teacher learned to despise the young man, degrading his every action outside of the church; from wanting to advertise his gifts across Europe in an effort to revitalize the local economy, to his overly feminine hobbies and appearance. He replied to the former that it would increase the town's donations to Rome, and the latter that he could not control his own aging process; if God wanted him to look like a young boy, then who was he to question God?
Months passed; the news spread in to France, Italy, and Spain of the priest that could sense a demonic presence, and for a small token of kindness, either conversion or money, he would free the person from his or her sins. His diocese stopped sending instructors to the parish, since none wanted to remain with Maxwell longer than three weeks. The town celebrated his birthday with a celebration the likes of which was only matched by their Christmas spectacle that year, and at twenty-five, Enrico Maxwell was a bit too ambitious for a parish priest less than a year out of the seminary.
The town loved him; he could not go anywhere without someone offering him dinner, wine, or money for the good he was doing. Tourism was at an all-time high because of the pilgrims that wished to see a miracle. The vineyards could charge more for the grapes and olives now that the area was famous. Simple farmers had created inns from their homes; religious fanatics wanted to be as near St. Pierre's as possible.
The Tourvel family had decided to use their entire house as a hotel for travelers; Father Maxwell had allowed the mother and two daughters sanctuary in the rectory. He enjoyed their company, and since they cooked, cleaned, and performed every other menial task needed by the church and its pastor, Maxwell was left with plenty of time to continue with his hobbies.
His life had been good with the Tourvel family through the cool winter months; he had not expected his comfort to end so abruptly as the days began to grow longer. Christine, the youngest daughter, was obviously pregnant, no matter how she tried to hide her protruding abdomen. Her mother and sister believed the priest when he stated that he had in no way touched the young girl as she claimed- Maxwell was never alone. It was soon decided that Christine live with her paternal relatives on the other side of the island, since the gossip would be too much for such a small parish. Not only would Maxwell lose his credibility, but her mother and sister would be branded as loose, and none could deal with such trauma to their reputations.
Rome was now sending visiting priests to help Enrico develop his talents since the diocese had stopped, but the young man was less than enthusiastic with his studies. Whenever a new priest appeared, he would hide in the rectory, watching the telephone as he waited to hear what the damned girl was going to say once she gave birth to her child. He would be stripped of the only way of life he knew if she were to come public with her accusation. This was not a civilized land; if the girl stated he was the father, obviously Maxwell would be the father. Never mind that a simple paternity test would prove his innocence, she would never agree to one. He had already asked.
But he was not allowed much time to drown himself in his sorrows; the Vatican was sending two visiting clergy- a Cardinal and a priest- to thank his parish for their donations to an orphanage in Rome. Such a visit would be refreshing; neither would try to instruct him or focus his talent, and he would be able to convince these two, with help from Christine's mother and sister, that the girl was insane and obviously possessed once again, but her Protestant father would not allow him to banish the demon once again. It was the truth: her Protestant father would not allow him near the girl.
ooooooooo
"I met Cardinal Molan and Father Anderson on Palm Sunday that year. My parish was thrilled to have Vatican officials presiding over such an important celebration, and when the two announced they would stay for Easter, you can imagine the turnout. My little church had never been so full.
"It was during the Holy Week when Father Anderson pulled my blood-stained stole from a closet, asking why I had not washed the garment. I told him the entire story of the Tourvel family, and that I was being blamed for Christine's current situation.
"Father Anderson was more sympathetic than any of the Vatican members before or after that learned of my sin, and only stated that 'Enrico, there will always be a place for you in the church, even if you are stripped of everything you currently hold dear'. He was correct; the sinners of the Iscariot Organization were more than willing to take me as one of their own."
Enrico sighed, closing his eyes, his hands falling upon his lap. "Pride is my sin. I learned humility under the strict watch of Father Alister Pendrake. He kept in contact with Christine, so that she would write to me of her child, a sandy-blond haired boy she named after me. She would even send Father Pendrake photos of the boy which he would post in my room whenever he felt I was being too extravagant in my work."
The Archbishop stopped, breathing slowly as he allowed himself a moment of silence. Two of the five cardinals looked convinced that Maxwell was a good man, just a victim of circumstance. One more and he would be free to return to Iscariot.
Was he already cleared, Maxwell would have smiled. Instead, he closed his eyes as he bit his lip, bowing his head in sheer humility.
"You have a child! Preposterous! No Archbishop should be a parent!" The cardinal on the far left yelled. "You clearly abused your power!"
Maxwell exhaled a thin line of smoke in the direction of Cardinal Molan. "Actually, as I have been saying this entire time, the boy is not mine. She claimed that the child was brought to her by God, through his divine messenger on the day of her freedom from sin. I lived with the burden for eight years, sending her money each month to keep her quiet, until I finally paid for a paternity test three years ago just to stop the charade, which proved he was not mine. I could take her to court for extortion and defamation of character, but why bother? I do not plan on returning to Corsica.
"Like I said earlier, I am a thirty-six year old virgin. Unlike the rest of you, I won't even allow for self-gratification. I have the discipline to resist any urges."
Maxwell sighed, crushing his cigarette in the ash tray. "You don't believe me. No one ever does believe the damned." He grabbed another cigarette from his pocket, gesturing for the cardinal to light it again. "Molan can testify in my favor. He saw the results of the test."
Cardinal Molan nodded in agreement, whispering the validity of the Archbishop's statement.
"I was young and stupid, and more afraid of scandal than anything else. For two months I cried at night, wondering how God could abandon me in one aspect of my life, and yet give me the power to help people. The hardest thing I ever had to do was baptize the child. I hated him. I hated his mother. And I performed my duty as her parish priest, wondering when Father Anderson would finally return my letters. He said that he would talk to his superior in his Order to see if I could be transferred.
"I was an outcast. Had I remained at St. Pierre's, I would have been discredited and excommunicated when Christine finally admitted her story to the rest of the parish; she was only fifteen. If I left for the Vatican, Christine would be the outcast, making false accusations about a good man; a man that helped revitalize the town and its economy. Her sister Danielle had tried so hard to protect me, but the Protestant father continued to press charges, finally convincing my bishop to have an internal inquiry into my questionable behavior.
"Not once did the bishop ask for a paternity test, thought I begged for one. His proof was that the child had the proper hair and eye color to be mine.
"I remember wanting to die during my trial. I was going to be removed from my parish, never to serve God again. Father Anderson had not written me in weeks. I was being abandoned, I was certain, so I did the only thing I could do. I prayed.
"God answered my prayers. Just as the court had reassembled to banish me from the priesthood, Father Alister Pendrake, escorted by Father Alexander Anderson came, stating that the Order of Iscariot would deal with me properly. The bishop laughed as he slapped my shoulder on the way out, telling me that I was as good as dead.
"I have never been more terrified in my life as I was at that moment.
"They proved to me how good Iscariot was as soon as we were locked together in that room. Together, they proceeded to tear me apart, forcing me to confess all of my sins all the way back to my childhood. Only when I was pleading for forgiveness, Father Pendrake stopped, and just smiled at me. He said I was ready.
"At twenty-five, I joined Special Forces. God had delivered me from my worst fear; I could not allow His kindness to go unanswered."