Manner of Devotion

"Everybody likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion."

Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

Author's Note: Follow the link in my profile to my stories page and the forums, where deleted scenes from the Maddox honeymoon have been posted, along with character avatars. And there's a contest to decide on Monkey's picture!

Chapter 10 – Ghost in the Chapel

Abbot Francesco Chiaramonti was guardian of thirty-two souls in the ancient monastery overlooking the Spanish coast. This particular afternoon, his concerns focused on one of them. Turning away from the window, he looked at the ancient mosaics of the saints – Benedict, Gregory, Peter - as the bishop sat in his chair, perusing the documents the abbot had now nearly memorized. Saint Benedict looked heavenward, a book in his hand, believed to be the Rule he had written for his monks. Peter had his hands outstretched and his head nodding down, with the keys to heaven in golden illumination hanging from his belt. Only Gregory looked straight out, his eyes facing the window, his halo seeming especially bright because it was in the right position for the sun to hit it just right. All of them were serene in their expressions – and yet, how they all had suffered. Beneath the altar in their very sanctuary was a reliquary with a tooth from Peter's head, which by history's count was resting in four different places. How were they so unaffected in death from their experiences in life?

"Where is he now?"

He reacted from being pulled from his reverie as if struck. Maybe he was getting old. "What, Your Excellency?"

"Where is the monk?"

"He is at the threshold of the oratory, of course."

Bishop Fernando Valerano of Oviedo removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. "Does he know all of the charges laid before him?"

"I was not aware of the extent of them when he was excommunicated. The details should be fully explained and he should answer for them."

"Do you think he will answer truthfully?"

"He will, Your Excellency. I have no doubt of that."

"You have great faith in this monk who has disobeyed the Rule and lied to his elders in two different monasteries now."

"This I will not deny," he said. "Nonetheless, if we ask him, he will not lie. Especially now that he has been given time to meditate on his sins."

The bishop did not look so impressed, but the abbot had no way to impress him. Bishop Valerano did not know Brother Grégoire, and probably would have never known him, if not for this.

"Your Excellency," the abbot said, "I do not think this mess will become any less untangled without the aid of the soul in question. I will not rely on stories on the wind."

"Fine." The bishop rose from the abbot's chair, and though he was a much younger man than the abbot, a former archbishop himself, he moved as if he was exhausted. "Then let us hear what your monk has to say for himself."

The bishop walked with his cap and miter, and the monks bowed in reverence and hurried out of his way. They found Brother Grégoire where he was supposed to be, on the stone floor before the oratory, in silent prayer.

"Brother Grégoire," the abbot said as they stood over him. "The charges laid against you should be heard again before your penance is decided."

Because the abbot was old, and somewhat hard of hearing, he had a bench brought for himself and the archbishop.

"As you know, it was made known to us that a noblewoman who shall for these purposes remain nameless was given no less than 200 ducados for the distribution among the poor of this diocese. How we came upon this information is not relevant," the bishop said, and the abbot resisted the urge to cross himself. That poor noblewoman, thinking she was doing only good, happened to mention it in confession to her priest, who then reported it to the bishop. "We now also have the confession of the man who delivered the money, a courier who has been hired before for similar purposes by a banker in Madrid. This we have come to understand was done at your command. Is this true, Brother Grégoire?"

"Yes," Grégoire said, his first word in a day, since he had been sent into temporary excommunication.

"And you are in contact with this banker in Madrid? He is in your employ?"

"He is not in my employ, Your Excellency. He is in the employ of my brother, but he does answer my requests as part of his employment."

"Are you the owner of the money in this account?"

"I am."

"And how much is it?"

Grégoire hesitated. "I d-do not know, precisely. It should be – maybe f-four or five thousand English pounds."

The abbot looked at the bishop, very aware of how his eyes reacted. His mouth must have been watering as he continued, "And this is your savings in Madrid?"

"No, Your Excellency. It is my yearly income."

"For how many years?"

"This year alone, Your Excellency."

"How is that possible?"

"My father, G-d rest his soul, left me a great deal of money in hopes that I would become a gentleman in his stead. When I told him before his death that it was my ambition to enter the church, he insisted that I have savings of my own. When I refused, he closed my access to them. They are sent to me every year whether I want them or not." Grégoire swallowed and continued. "The controller of this account is now my brother, his legitimate son. The account is in London and every year he sends some of the interest to Madrid."

"Did you have similar situations in your previous monasteries?"

"Yes."

"Were the abbots aware of them?"

"In Mon-Claire, where I was only a novice, yes. When I took the cowl in Bavaria, no."

"Why not?"

"My b-brother appealed to me not to."

"Your brother is an Englishman?"

"Yes. Anglican."

"Is he religious?"

Grégoire seemed to weigh his answer. "To the extent within his sphere that he can be, he is, Your Excellency."

"Brother Grégoire," the bishop continued, "are you aware of how much money is in your inheritance in London?"

Grégoire flinched in fear. "Roughly, Your Excellency."

The abbot did not think this was relevant, but he would not raise this issue here. He wanted to see how it affected the bishop.

Of course, the bishop asked, "How much is it?"

"It is – two hundred thousand pounds, Your Excellency."

The abbot sighed for all of them, giving Bishop Valerano his time to drool. Even to a bishop from a noble Spanish family like Valerano or a Roman family like the abbot himself, that was an extensive fortune. When he finally recovered, the bishop said, "Father Abbot, do you have the brother's petition?"

"I do." The only reason he had it ready was because it was necessary to perjure Grégoire; otherwise it remained locked in a box beneath the alter with the rest of the brothers' petitions. He unrolled it. "Brother Grégoire, you do not need to be reminded that this is your petition to join the Brotherhood of Saint Benedict, and your promise to obey the Rule to all of its extent. This includes the chapter about giving all of your worldly possessions to charity upon taking the cowl, or presenting them to the church to do such. In this case, I feel we may consider your said 'income' to be a gift from your brother to you because you have no legal control over it. However, you seem to have forgotten what you wrote here, which is that you would present all gifts to myself for approval and any money would be dispersed by the church, and not by you."

"Yes, Father. I know, Father."

"Your wealth is not your own, and so you testified in Bavaria and again here in Spain, and both times it was not true. Did you fail to understand the Rule, Brother Grégoire?"

"No, Father. I was in error. I should not have done so."

"The Rule is not to be taken lightly, Brother," he said, more insistently.

"I know, Father."

"Did you not trust the church to manage its own wealth and give it appropriately to charity?" the bishop interrupted. "Do you believe the words of a heretic over the Vicar of Christ?"

Each sentence seemed to fall like a blow on the shivering monk before them. "Your Excellency, my brother – he is not a heretic."

"You said yourself he is a member of the Church of England, which denies the supremacy of Rome."

"That is true, and in our eyes, he is. But he does not believe he is, and he is my brother. I will not slander him with such an implication."

"But by doing so you –"

"Your Excellency," Abbot Francesco interrupted. "This – Señor Darcy is not on trial here. His soul is not our concern. I will not ask Brother Grégoire to speak ill of his own family."

Grégoire glanced up with teary eyes only briefly before bowing his head again.

"You will write the banker in Madrid," the bishop said, "and tell him to send the five thousand pounds to the abbot, who will distribute it himself. Then we will discuss the rest of your 'inheritance.'"

"Forgive me, Your Excellency, but I promised my brother I wouldn't."

"You promised him you would not give your money to the church?"

Grégoire could not seem to bring himself to speak. Instead, he only nodded furiously.

"You did not swear an oath," the abbot said, hoping it was not true.

"I did, Father. I am sorry, Father."

"Brother Grégoire, you cannot swear contradictory oaths!"

Grégoire fell on his face, choking back sobs. "Please, Your Excellency, Father Abbot, do not make me choose between my father's wishes and the Holy Father's! Please, have mercy on this horrible sinner!"

The bishop was going to say something, but the abbot was sure he was not going to like it. Besides, this was his charge, and even he did not know the answer to the question before them. "Brother Grégoire," he said, standing up to tower over his monk, "you have sworn falsely, you have deceived the church, and you have disobeyed the Rule in writing and in action, knowing full well what you were doing. However, you have told me previously that you fully wish to repent and I do not doubt it. However, I must instill punishment so that you may see your error as Saint Benedict prescribed. Today, you will return to your cell, and take bread after the rest of your brothers. Your excommunication stands, and you will remain in silence until tomorrow, when you will submit to the discipline of the Rule. Then you shall write your brother, explaining fully the situation, and beg to be relieved of your oath. From there, we shall go forward with the financial matters that remain." He put his hand on Grégoire's head. "Have faith in Christ, who hast forgiven greater sins. You may go."

"Thank you, Father. Your Excellency." He bowed again, and clutching his rosary, scurried off to his cell, passing the brothers that were forbidden to look at him.

The heaviness that had descended upon Abbot Francesco did not lift as they returned to his office, the bishop once again taking his chair and leaving the abbot to stand. "I will call for a doctor. I want him on hand tomorrow."

"What about the funds?"

"You had best forget about them, beyond the five thousand in Madrid. And even there, you are chasing a ghost," the abbot said. "His brother will freeze his assets as soon as he hears of this, if he has not already. The banker in Madrid is an Englishman."

"Who is his brother?"

"Aristocracy, I believe. He owns a lot of land in the north of England." He paced, hoping it would relieve the pain in his heart. It did not. "I have let Brother Grégoire visit him twice since taking the cowl here. He is attached to his English family."

"Even though he is a Frenchman."

"Yes. It seems Grégoire is the child of Señor Darcy senior – his father – and a French maid. She was sent home to have the child, who was named after someone else in the family, presumably. Despite his illegitimacy, Grégoire was acknowledged by both his blood father and his half-brother, the heir to the fortune. He also has a half-sister he is very fond of, now married to a Scottish earl," he said. "Grégoire has admitted to me that his brother and sister tried to persuade him from a life in the church many times, before he took his final vows and after the monastery in Bavaria was dissolved. They begged for him to enter the Church of England, but he refused. He wanted the contemplative life and would settle for nothing else. He has been a pious monk and perhaps the greatest apothecary our monastery has ever seen. He has saved any number of souls with medical knowledge he picked up in England. He is all humility."

"And yet, fantastically rich."

"Yes." The abbot put his hand over his head. "There is that. We cannot ask him to choose between the church and his family. It is a violation of G-d's commandments. Some deal will be reached with the brother and this will all pass."

But something told him it wouldn't.

"Darcy, you're kicking me."

That brought him out of his sleep. Or at least, it brought him to more awareness, for he had not been asleep for some time. He had woken in the middle of the night and had not been able to return to rest, and tossed and turned to the point of accidentally kicking his wife. "I am sorry," he mumbled, kissing whatever the nearest available limb was. Apparently, it was her shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Elizabeth said, stroking his cheek.

"Yes. I just – feel restless." He kissed her again. "I'll have a bite of something, perhaps."

"Try not to wake the children."

"Is that all you will say to me?"

"Oh," she said, "and I love you."

He smiled and dressed himself in a robe and slippers before leaving the chambers, armed with a now-lit candlestick. Sometimes he did have nights where he could find no sleep or had a disturbing dream; some Austrian ghosts continued to haunt him, but he usually solved that with a cup of a special concoction of Dr. Maddox's. This was different. Finding himself not hungry, he wandered the halls of Pemberley like a ghost himself. The moon was full and its light shone through the windows of the great hall. He used to walk this way with his dogs; how he missed them.

Somehow he found himself in the chapel. He was rarely there when his brother was not in residence. He considered himself a faithful Christian, but he felt he fulfilled his obligations by weekly church attendance and being a charitable man. The candles for the chapel were not lit, and the cold stone made it a soothing room in the late summer heat. Those old castles of the Middles Ages must have been awfully drafty.

To his surprise, he was not alone. Anne Darcy was sitting on one of the hard wooden pews, wrapped in a blanket. "Anne?"

"Papa!" she shouted with delight, and lifted her arms. He did not pick her up as much as sit down beside her and lift her into his lap, which she was getting a little big for.

"What are you doing awake? Where is Nurse?"

"She's sleeping."

"What are you doing here, then? Why are you not in the nursery?"

"I was talking to somebody."

"You were?" His alarm was rising. "Who?"

"I don't know him. He said he was one of Uncle Grégoire's friends."

"Anne," he said much more seriously. "What did he look like?"

"He had a beard and a funny accent." She whispered. "I think he was a ghost."

"What makes you think that?"

"He said he was really old," she said. "Older than Grandpapa!"

"Did he say his name?"

"No."

"Anne, darling, you know you should not speak to strangers, especially in the middle of the night. What if –" But he didn't want to contemplate it, or frighten his daughter. "Just promise me if you see a stranger in Pemberley, you will tell someone immediately. Promise?"

"Promise." She hugged him. "He was just a ghost."

"And you're not scared of ghosts?"

"He was a nice ghost."

He sighed. She had probably imagined the whole thing, or fallen asleep and dreamt it. "Very well. What did you talk about?"

"Uncle Grégoire."

"Of course. He's Grégoire's friend, is he not? What did he have to say about his good friend?"

"He said he was worried about him." She looked up at her father. "Is he in trouble?"

"I – don't think so," he said. "But I suppose if a ghost said so – well, he might know something we don't."

"Are ghosts smart?"

"I don't know why they would not be as smart as they were when they weren't ghosts, sweetie." He rose, picking her up with him. "Why don't we discuss it with your mother in the morning? Someone is up past her bedtime."

"Papa!"

But he would not listen to protest. He carried his daughter with her head resting on his shoulder. By the time he reached the nursery, she was already asleep, and he laid her down on her bed, not disturbing her sleeping younger sisters. Only when he left the nursery did he remember that he left his light in the chapel, and stumbled in the darkness back to his own chambers.

Back in his warm bed, with his wife by his side, he finally closed his eyes, but sleep was slow in coming.

...Next Chapter - The Discipline of Saint Benedict

Warning: The next chapter is not for the faint of heart.