
A Puritan Voice, Part 3
Michael Lockwood
Chapter 3: Abbeville
Nicholas resisted the urge to stop and take a second look at the face that he had caught out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t quite need the look to confirm that the face he had seen was Phillippe, the man he had chatted with in Le Havre. What was he doing in Abbeville?
On the surface, it didn’t appear to be suspect. Phillippe had said that he was going to Calais, and Abbeville was certainly on the way from Le Havre to Calais, but only if one took a detour through Rouen, as Nicholas had done. However, Nicholas couldn’t dismiss the suspicion that nestled in his mind. While there was no specific reason why Phillippe couldn’t travel from Le Havre to Calais by land, why would he do so? He had said that he was on family business, which implied some level of immediacy. A ship from Le Havre to Calais, of which there were plenty, would have been faster and more comfortable.
Nicholas toyed, briefly, with the notion that Phillippe was actually following him. Nicholas almost automatically rejected that. Why would anyone wish to follow a lone man across France? A man who hadn’t done anything suspicious, that Nicholas could tell. A man whose only conversation with Phillippe had been innocuous enough as to be forgettable. Indeed, the story that Nicholas had told him was ludicrous enough for only scorn by the simple-minded.
Nicholas made two decisions at that point. First, he decided that he needed to return to the story he had spun for Phillippe. It was the one in which Nicholas was supposedly following a fictional cardinal’s journal across France and Germany. On the off chance that he was being followed, Nicholas didn’t want to give any hint that he was going to stray from that path.
The second decision that Nicholas made was to change his path. Originally, he had intended to walk from Abbeville to Calais before he struck east. Seeing Phillippe changed his mind on the wisdom of that route. In his mind, he reviewed a crude map that the rich man in Rouen had shown him. Amiens was to the south-east of Abbeville, a ride of a day or two at a quick trot. He would need to acquire a horse. That shouldn’t be overly difficult. Perhaps one of the contacts he had received could spare him a horse. If nothing else, there was just enough in Nicholas’s purse to purchase a horse. From there, Nicholas would just have to trust in God to get him beyond Amiens.
Ahead, Nicholas spied the spires of a church. It would be completely in character for Nicholas’ identity as Jean-Marc Crevier to visit a church to speak with the clergy there about his “quest.” Nicholas changed directions and made his way to the doors.
“Damn it!” Phillippe swore savagely. The Englishman had spotted him. He didn’t know how, what mistake he’d made, but Phillippe was experienced enough to know when the prey you were stalking was suddenly aware of the predator.
The Englishman didn’t show any indications that he’d seen Phillippe. He certainly hadn’t stopped and taken a second look, but the man’s gait had changed. There was an urgency in the step now that wasn’t there previously. He was walking with a purpose now, with little of the tourist ogling the sights around him. Perhaps that’s when the Englishman had spotted him, through one of his random eye movements to admire this building or that.
Phillippe quickly looked about for Gerard but didn’t see the big man. They’d separated a few blocks before when they lost sight of the Englishman. Each had followed a different path and would meet up with the other once they were sure that the Englishman hadn’t taken their turn. It seemed as though Gerard should have given his search up long ago and come to rejoin Phillippe.
The Englishman turned to cross the busy street, and Phillippe ducked into a recessed shop door to keep out of sight as the Englishman checked for traffic. Safely across the street, he climbed the steps to a church and opened the door.
“That’s interesting,” Phillippe said to himself as he emerged from the doorway. That particular church was a telling choice. The clergy were a hotbed of support for Louis and Richelieu. They were very vocal about it. So, why had the Englishman selected that church? They’d passed another church on the way here, but the Englishman had walked by it without stopping. In Rouen, he hadn’t stopped at even one church.
That implied much about this church and the reasons that the Englishman had selected this specific one to visit. Another piece to the puzzle of the missing red bastard. Phillippe knew he, they, were getting closer. He had to fight his urge to get instant results that could prove harmful to the already tenuous trail he and Gerard were following.
The door closed behind the Englishman, and Phillippe paused a moment to ponder his next action. His first instinct was to follow inside and try to eavesdrop on any conversation that the Englishman might have with any of the sympathetic clergy. However, he dismissed that idea almost immediately. If he’d been spotted, then walking through the door would only be confirmation if the other man hadn’t been completely sure. It was better to let him cool down and talk himself out of what he’d thought he had seen.
Besides, the Englishman wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Even a quick conversation would take at least fifteen minutes or so, but Phillippe thought that this would be a far longer conversation. Phillippe had plenty of time.
The next question: Did he leave to go find Gerard, wherever that bastard had gone off to? He was supposed to be looking for the Englishman on his own, but Phillippe had his doubts.
He juggled the idea in his head, toying with it this way and that. Eventually, he decided to wait for the Englishman here. He could have easily justified that decision on wanting to ensure that the Englishman didn’t get away again or that he needed to stay put for Gerard to find him. Nevertheless, if Phillippe was honest with himself, he found it comforting to not have that sanctimonious ass around him.
The doors protested only slightly as they swung open on well-oiled hinges. The walls were thick stone and held the heat of the multiple hearths easily. The inside was much warmer than the frigid sleet and snow outside. Once the doors closed, the outside bustle subsided behind oak and stone.
As the outside noise vanished, a timeless stillness filled the air. It was as though there were a thousand angels holding a thousand trumpets, holding their breath, waiting for the sign to blast their horns in victorious revelation.
The Knapp family had long since abandoned its Catholic roots to follow Martin Luther. Nicholas’ parents had pushed further away when they adopted the Puritan faith. Still, even Nicholas couldn’t resist the sense of holiness that exuded from this church.
The altar beckoned, and incense carried him down the aisle, almost to the front row. He stopped and gazed upon the carved statues of Mary and Jesus. The paint was blindingly bright and the gilding reflected centuries of loving care. By feel alone, Nicholas felt his way into a pew and numbly sat, unable to avert his eyes.
“A Puritan, if I were to guess.” A voice startled him, and he leaped guiltily to his feet. It wasn’t that the voice was particularly loud, but that it had been trained to project. The authority in the voice was so like that of Reverend Phillips that it reminded Nicholas that he was supposed to reject papistry in all forms.
“Be calm, my son.” The man, dressed as one of the Catholic clergy, raised both hands in a calming manner. “I won’t call upon the Inquisition.” Nicholas sat slowly, his mind still racing. “Don’t bother to deny it.” The priest sat sideways on the pew in front of Nicholas. He draped an arm on the back so he could face Nicholas.
“You obviously aren’t Catholic.” He continued. “A Catholic would have genuflected before the altar before seating themselves. A Lutheran would not be caught admiring the artwork, assuming one would deign to enter in the first place.” A chuckle. “Puritans can be reasoned with. Sometimes, at least.
“That leaves a few options, but you carry yourself as a Puritan would.” The priest looked directly in Nicholas’ eyes. “Am I not correct?” There was no reason to deny it, not now.
“You are.” Nicholas sketched a bow. “Jean-Marc Crevier, at your service.” The priest chuckled.
Nicholas was taken aback. “Pardon? Which part do you doubt?”
“Both your name and that you are at my service.” He was apparently amused at the situation. “You are certainly not French, so the name ‘Jean-Marc’ doesn’t fit. You are not Catholic, so you can’t be of service. Do not worry. Your secret is safe with me. If you are looking for sanctuary, I’m afraid that we are unable to provide it.”
Nicholas felt himself beginning to relax. The priest’s manner was curious and honest. He exuded the same sense of holiness that Nicholas had felt from the altar.
“No fear, Father,” Nicholas assured him. “I am only seeking a brief respite from my travels.”
“Then you are welcome, stranger. No matter how you are called.” He paused a moment. “I do, however, find it humorous that one of your beliefs would seek respite in a papist church. Have you come to convert to the true faith?” His eyes were dancing with mirth.
Nicholas paused a moment. It should have been an instant denial. Until the cleric had asked that question, he hadn’t realized just how much this journey had changed him. The seeds that had been planted with the stories of the up-timers and their religious freedoms were beginning to bear fruit. He still rejected the papistry around him. Even he couldn’t deny the sense of holy purity that emanated from the walls around him and from the chubby cleric sitting sideways in the pew ahead of him.
The humor melted in the priest’s eyes. There was a flash of surprise then understanding before settling into what Nicholas thought of his “bedside” face. It was a calm, curious, and encouraging expression designed to comfort the listener and inspire confidence.
“I see.” The priest said. “A crisis of faith then. Perhaps God has led you here so that I can offer what help I can. Please, tell me what is on your mind.”
“Confession?” Nicholas said dubiously.
“Not unless you wish it to be so.” The priest looked at the splendor around him. “It wasn’t always so. We of this church have had something of a revitalization of our faith. We have been reminded that we are shepherds to all of His children, not only those that happen to agree with us.”
“Oui. Doesn’t it always come back to these Americans?”
“In matters of faith, they are not incorrect about the brotherhood of Jesus Christ. We may follow different paths, but we all worship the same loving Father.” The priest looked into his hands. “I came to the Lord’s service so that I could share my joy in the Lord’s plan for salvation with others. This church was failing God in this, and the clergy, including myself, were entirely too devoted to politics rather than salvation. That will change while I lead. We will return to the holy, sacred duties that He has entrusted unto us.”
“So, while I could wish you were properly Catholic, I am here to help all who wish it, regardless of their heresy. I may not be able to administer any rites, but an ear to hear or a shoulder to cry upon are not things to begrudge any man as cheap as they are. They involve only time.”
“And you might convert me.” Nicholas laughed.
“And I might convert you.” The priest grinned. “What type of shepherd would I be if I didn’t try to multiply my flock?”
The hours passed in conversation. The distinctions in denominations disappeared. Protestant and Catholic lost their meanings. Nicholas was simply one more lost and questioning soul seeking some form of something solid to hold on to. The priest simply listened as Nicholas poured out his questions and his doubts. He asked questions; however, they were designed to help Nicholas guide himself towards his own path.
“About God-damned time,” Phillippe snarled; piss on the blasphemy. This was a situation that would force even a saint to take the Lord’s name in vain, and Phillippe was no saint.
For three hours, Phillippe had stood in this frigid doorway, his cloak vainly wrapped around him, watching the doors of the church across the street. Three hours waiting for either the Englishman to leave or Gerard to arrive. Gerard hadn’t caught up. He was probably torturing small animals for his own sick pleasure.
The Englishman looked pleased with himself. His breath misted as he took a deep, cleansing breath of the chill air. His conversation must have been fruitful, and he had the next step that he needed to take to find his master. At least Phillippe hoped so, otherwise, this chase had been a colossal waste of time.
He waited until the Englishman had turned the corner before he left the shadow of the doorway. He didn’t want to risk being spotted again. He had to be much more careful this time. He would follow the Englishman until he left town. When Phillippe knew where the Englishman was going next, he could then go find that lout Gerard.
The Englishman made one more stop before leaving Abbeville. The house of a sympathizer, no doubt, since a horse was brought to the door and given to the Englishman. Phillippe growled, he and Gerard would have to buy their own horses, just to keep up. At least the Englishman was a poor horseman, by the way he sat in the saddle. That would slow him down considerably, and he’d probably need to rest for a day while his thighs screamed at the unfamiliar activity. That thought alone made Phillippe smile. Serve the bastard right.
He left the Englishman at the edge of the town along the road to Amiens. That was a fairly straightforward road, even if it was somewhat primitive. Phillippe had no concerns that he would be able to find the tracks again after he fetched Gerard out of whatever sewer that he’d lodged himself in.
Surprisingly, it didn’t take long to find where Gerard had ended up. Phillippe had elected to go to the worst part of Abbeville and work out from there. Like most cities, Abbeville had its own district of undesirables. The one here was smaller than most.
While Phillippe didn’t find Gerard torturing small animals, he did find him torturing ladies of dubious virtue with his version of gallantry. It was a wasted effort; Phillippe knew the type of women that had gathered around Gerard. For enough francs, any one of them would lie with you; for a few more, a proper ménage a trois.
Phillippe paused to ponder the sheer hypocrisy of the sight before him. Gerard was doing his best to violate at least one commandment and would soon be working on the other nine. It was amazing how easily a man who was so readily able to find fault in others could overlook, or to be blind to, the same debauchery.
Perhaps it wasn’t such a mystery. A fanatic was forced to view himself superior to others so that he might judge them. Yet, even zealots had human needs and human foibles. So, to satisfy these base desires, he must embrace hypocrisy to maintain the image of superiority. To be sure, Gerard fully embraced the hypocrisy and went searching for more.
Phillippe didn’t care about Gerard’s hypocrisy. Nor did he fault the ladies who gathered around. Prostitution was a tough enough profession without Phillippe passing judgment on them. The life of a whore was difficult. At least a city whore was a step up from a camp whore from any army. The city ladies could be relatively assured of being paid. Phillippe understood their lot in life—his mother had been both a city whore and then a camp whore when the armies had torched his town.
What Phillippe had little patience for was how Gerard had let himself be distracted by these painted faces. It infuriated him that he had huddled for three hours watching a door while this man strutted and preened like a champion rooster among hens.
He walked up to Gerard and tapped the big man on the shoulder. When Gerard looked, Phillippe emphatically nodded to a spot up the street, away from the gathering. Gerard looked irritated, but nodded. The whores stared daggers at Phillippe. While Gerard wasn’t the most pleasant of people, he did represent precious income for at least one of these women.
Gerard chuckled as they turned the corner and lost sight of the painted ladies. “I have to say you’re a welcome sight, mon ami. Satan had almost won this round of temptations, but I withstood him.”
Just like the man, Phillippe groused. He wasn’t going to lie with a prostitute, he only wished to see if he had the strength to resist. So what if he failed. There was always another temptation to resist and prayers of forgiveness to be said until then.
“I found the Englishman,” he said aloud. That jerked Gerard from his self-congratulations and refocused the man’s attention.
“Did he visit anyone?” Gerard asked. A sick gleam was in his eyes. It was the same need to punish the sinners. It was the same look in his eye when he had tortured the apothecary in Rouen.
Phillippe had already decided that he wasn’t going to put another life in Gerard’s hands. Perhaps it was a blessing that Gerard had become distracted and hadn’t met up with Phillippe at the church. God worked in mysterious ways, and the hand of a whore may have saved a church. He wasn’t about to give Gerard that information and have a church full of clergymen burning in a raging fire.
“That doesn’t matter,” Phillippe said quickly to derail Gerard. “I tracked him through the Amiens gate. He’s on horseback now, so we’ll need to find horses of our own to keep up.”
Gerard swore viciously. The big man was an even worse horseman than the Englishman appeared to be. Oh, the mortifications of the flesh that we endure for our Savior Jesus Christ! Phillippe was careful to hide his face lest the grin be seen and punished. He could only hope that the oaf would suffer in quiet. It would be a long trip to Amiens if he had to listen to Gerard whine.