Thomas stopped and turned to the provost, halting him with a hand on the sleeve of his heavy coat. “Marcel—”
“No. I would speak, and I would have you hear me out.” Marcel pulled his sleeve from Thomas’ grasp. “You do not yet understand the basic difference between us, my friend. You devote your life to God, and God’s work. I devote—have devoted—my life to the people of my city, and,” Marcel’s eyes hardened and his mouth lifted slightly as he spoke his heresy, “to wresting them from God’s overly protective hand.”
“That is sacrilege—but then, what could I expect from you!”
Marcel laughed, low and bitter. “Sacrilege? Nay. Not in my eyes, nor in the eyes of those who love me and for whom I work. But in your eyes … well, yes, doubtless I am,” he smiled very slightly, “a true imp from hell. Will you come with me this day, or do you fear what I might show you?”
“Nothing you show me could shake me, or my faith.”
“Perhaps not what I show you,” Marcel said, resuming his stride down the thoroughfare, “but I can make a start.”
Angered, puzzled and appalled in equal amounts, Thomas again hurried after him, pushing roughly past the Parisians who crowded the small open square the Grande Rue had opened into. It was almost noon, and the markets and associated commerces and crafts around the sides of the square were at their peak.
Bells sounded, and Thomas glanced upward. A magnificent guildhall, the wool merchant’s guild, according to the signs attached to walls and hanging from balconies, rose to his right. It was decked with gilded spires as— more—ostentatious than any cathedral’s, and in its tower sat a fat-faced clock, its hands marking the midday. As Thomas stared, figures painted in scarlets and golds ran out on cunning rails from the right-hand base of the clock, raising hammers and axes and staging a mock battle before sliding back into an all but hidden door on the left side of the clock.
At the same time the bells of Notre Dame sounded, yet—and even accounting for the fact that the great cathedral was still some distance away—Thomas had the uncomfortable feeling that the bells of the guildhall almost completely obliterated the cathedral bells.
Indeed, the people in the square raised their eyes and exclaimed at the bells—but they looked to the guildhall, not Notre Dame.
They worshipped at the house of Mammon, not the house of God?
Thomas dropped his eyes, and saw that Marcel was watching him with a horrible intense knowingness in his eyes.
“See these people,” Marcel said, letting the crowds swirl about himself and Thomas. A husband and wife, two small children grasped firmly by their hands, passed close by, and Marcel smiled and nodded at them. “They are honest people who pain and love and suffer as all people on this earth do. All they want is the chance to make their lives bearable—”
“They hunger for the wrong thing,” Thomas said, not willing to allow Marcel to indulge in his own prating. “This life is not important, nor worthwhile. Instead, they should concentrate on the next life and of achieving their salvation therein, not on the worldly distractions of this wasteland of a world.”
“You are a sad man,” Marcel said, “and deluded. Why is this life not worthwhile?
Why are their lives,” his hand swept out, embracing the entire crowded square, “not important?”
“We are all sinners and this life is but a temptation to sin further. Can you call that worthwhile?”
“Can you not see how blind you are?” Marcel said. “Can you not see how beautiful this world and this life is?”
“All I see is ignorance and sin.”
“Then I pity you,” Marcel said, and walked into the crowd, disappearing behind a swirl of red and green-cloaked shoulders and peaked hoods.
Furious, Thomas pushed through the throng after him. “What have you done?” he shouted.
“I have done my best,” Marcel said over his shoulder, continuing to walk briskly.
Thomas cursed, and followed him.
HE’D THOUGHT Marcel was leading him toward the guildhall, but the provost abruptly turned into a tiny alley just to the side of the hall, leading Thomas to a small
shop set under the overhang of the dwelling above.
Marcel stopped by the doorway, waited for Thomas to catch up, then knocked and entered, holding the door open for Thomas to follow.
Grateful to be, at the least, out of the press of the market crowds outside, Thomas looked about.
A man dressed in a leather apron stood behind a table strewn with tools. He was in mid-life, his fair hair thinning, his beard streaked with gray, his face worn and tired.
He was holding a small chisel in one hand, a mallet in the other. On the table before him there was a roughly hewn, curved board covered in chalk lines to guide the carpenter’s hand and eye. To one side of the table were planks and carved bits of wood… Thomas realized with a small jolt that they were pieces of choir stalls, beautifully worked and carved.
“To the other side of the table, staring at Thomas with frightened eyes, was the carpenter’s wife, and a small boy-child of about seven years clutching at her side, as frightened as his mother.”
“What is wrong?” the carpenter said, his eyes darting between Marcel and Thomas. “Has my work been found wanting?”
“Nay, Raymond,” said Marcel, smiling reassuringly at Raymond’s wife and tousling the boy’s hair before looking back to the carpenter. “Who could find your work wanting?”
The fear did not leave Raymond’s eyes. “Then why is he here? Perhaps I have carved an inaccuracy into one of the stalls. Carelessly misrepresented one of the saints, or perhaps one of the Church Fathers? Brother,” Raymond dropped his tools and held out his hands to Thomas, “none of it has been intentional. I have not meant to represent any heretical idea with my carvings! I—”
“Peace, Raymond,” Marcel said. “Brother Thomas has heard only of the precision and beauty of your work, and has come to praise, not condemn.”
Marcel turned to regard Thomas, his eyes wide and disingenuous. “Isn’t that so, brother?”
Thomas glared at Marcel, but softened his expression as he moved over to examine some of the boards that had been completed.
The carving was exquisite, the figures and representations flowing across and through the grain of the wood almost as if God had placed them there, not the skill of the carpenter.
But then, wasn’t that the truth? These carvings were truly the work of God, rather than of the carpenter, who was himself only a tool of the Master Craftsman.
Marcel’s mouth twisted slightly, bitterly, cynically. “Raymond has, at the behest of the archbishop, been working on improvements to the choir stalls in Notre Dame for the past eight months.”
At the tone of Marcel’s voice, Thomas turned away from the woodwork and looked back to the provost. “His work is wondrous, and will surely add to his store of good works so that—”
“So that when Raymond dies,” Marcel finished for him, “and appears before the angels of judgment, his eight months spent working on these carvings, and on
nothing else, and with no payment, will undoubtedly weigh heavily in his favor. Of course, it doesn’t help at the moment, when Raymond is not allowed to work on any other project that might actually earn him the coin with which to feed his family.”
“I am not complaining,” Raymond said anxiously.
“Of course you are not,” Marcel said. “You are merely doing what the Church has told you is necessary for the good of your soul. Meanwhile, you would starve if not for the beneficence of the carpenters’ guild, which provides your family a small stipend to see them through their hardship. Raymond’s plight has not,” Marcel turned to Thomas with flat, cold eyes, “bothered the archbishop of Paris, who resides comfortably in his palace, with his seventy-nine servants, gold platter, jeweled fingers and bevy of seductive-eyed teenage ‘housekeepers.’ Fear of the next life, Thomas, is an excellent way of obtaining free services in this one … is it not?”
Thomas did not reply. He was furious, but he would not give Marcel the satisfaction of a shouting match here in the carpenter’s poor shop.
“Raymond,” Marcel said, dipping his head at the carpenter. “Gissette. I wish you a good day.”
And he led the way back into the street.
Thomas strode out, banged the door closed behind him, and opened his mouth to speak.
Marcel’s fist closed in the front of Thomas’ robe, and the next instant Thomas found himself pushed back up against the door with Marcel’s equally furious face not a finger span’s from his.
“Is that fair, priest? Is that right? Do you think it is acceptable that your Church can demand that it be fit and proper for Raymond and Gissette and their children to starve for the future benefit of their damn souls? And if the Church doesn’t demand free work for a nebulous future benefit in heaven, then the nobles or the king or some self-righteous local lord demand taxes and dues that mean starvation and misery. Ah!”