The Cellars of Notre Dame Read online

  “Where are we?” asked Nogaret.

  “About fifteen feet below the Châtelet. Above our heads is the courtyard which leads to the judgement chambers.”

  “What is this place?”

  “A burial ground, Nogaret.”

  The lawyer had never heard of an underground cemetery beneath the foundations of the most feared prison in Paris. Bernard Gui moved along the corridor formed by the pillars, and the play of fleeting shadows cast by his lantern illuminated six granite funerary statues along the sides. Each dead man sat motionless upon the stone throne within which his remains must be contained. Nogaret followed the Dominican, while those faces, sealed by darkness and eternal silence, seemed to scrutinize him greedily until they too disappeared into the dense murk.

  “They were all noblemen of high lineage,” murmured the friar. “Royal blood even flows in the veins of some of them.”

  “I thought the royal necropolis was in the abbey of Saint Denis,” the jurist said.

  “In fact, that is where sovereigns and their relatives are buried, Nogaret. Those who die in the grace of God.”

  “And what about these? Why are they here?”

  Another obvious question; but Nogaret’s astonishment at that gloomy revelation had clouded his usual acumen.

  “These men lived a hundred years ago,” replied the friar, “when the plague of heresy spread through the kingdom and had contaminated many Christian people.”

  “Were they heretics? I understand why they were not admitted into the royal sanctuary with others who died in peace, but the crime of heresy is usually purged with fire.”

  In the dimness of that dim flickering light, Bernard Gui’s face showed genuine fear.

  “There is a reason why they were not burned,” he said. “It was thought that, instead of liberating their souls by purifying them, fire might actually make these perverse spirits stronger by giving them the power of darkness.”

  “What heresy did they follow?”

  “The mother of all heresies. The primitive one, born in the dawn of time, from the rebellion of Lucifer and his legions of fallen angels. They called them Naassenes because they worshiped Naas, the Serpent of Genesis.”

  “The Beast of the Apocalypse. Or the Antichrist.”

  “The followers of those diabolical doctrines hated humanity and aspired to join with the Prince of Darkness. In order to do so, they spread death among the people: every life they ended was considered a human sacrifice. They believed they would become like gods when the great universal conflagration took place. Fire was the source of their strength and power. To that end they unleashed a lethal, incomprehensible disease in the towns using certain unknown stones with an innocuous appearance which, at the slightest contact, could cause horrendous burns upon the body, and tumours that grew uncontrollably until they caused a death among atrocious torments. Those stones come from the deepest bowels of the earth, and were detached from the walls of Hell itself.”

  “So you think that Arnaldo’s words…”

  “If what you have told me is true, I cannot doubt it. ‘From the tunnels of Notre-Dame, the Antichrist will invade the earth’: it is clearly a heretical phrase. It was in precisely those terms that the German monk Rodulfus Glaber described the terrible blight that struck the human race in around the year 1000: the fire devoured their limbs, consuming them inexorably without it being possible to tell from whence it came. Rodolfo was alive exactly when the Naassenes re-emerged from their centuries-long sleep.”

  “But I know Arnaldo from Villanova,” protested Nogaret. “I cannot believe that he has given in to such a perverse belief!”

  “Perhaps the Catalan is not a member of the sect. But he knows. He knows the names of those involved. The old man uttered those ambiguous words as a warning: those who could interpret them would understand his message. Come, Nogaret. There is another thing I wish to show you.”

  Bernard Gui advanced a few more steps and again raised the lantern in front of his head. Further on, the crypt continued on into the darkness. There were other graves in that darkness, open and empty. They looked like black chrysalises of death ready to receive corpses.

  “Perhaps Arnaldo spoke through obscure symbols because his tongue is bound by fear,” the inquisitor murmured. “The names he would have had to speak were names that cannot be spoken. So be careful, Nogaret. Pray to God to protect you: today as in the past, the breath of the Evil One may have seduced the men and women who sit by the steps of the throne!”

  V

  Paris was the largest metropolis in Europe. And the one where the eye was met by the most striking contrasts.

  The streets of the poor were unhealthy and asphyxiated gutters that ran between rows of tall shabby houses, which grew close together like ugly quarrelsome sisters. The ground floors of almost all of them were rented out as workshops, and the wooden beams set haphazardly in their half-timbered frontages seemed to beg for mercy from the burden placed on their poor shoulders.

  The streets itself was nothing more than an irregular track of earth beaten by the constant passing of carts and people. Bunches of weeds grew by the walls, and down the middle flowed a stinking stream into which it was unwise to put one’s feet. Sometimes the rain fell like a blessing and cleansed the air of those revolting miasmas. In the autumn it could rain uninterruptedly for whole days, fresh water beating down on the roofs and filling the gutters, which vomited turbid rivers down into the street, as cold and impetuous as waterfalls. The sewage and other filth were all carried away, and afterwards the city was a different place, refreshed and smelling almost like a washcloth.

  The city’s urban heart, instead – the island of the Seine – was paved with stone even in its most hidden corners. On the elegant streets, the houses were no less narrow than elsewhere, but were more regular, and embellished with details in light-coloured stone. Almost all of them had small windows in the shutters, and decorative lanterns hung from the walls to illuminate their respectable bourgeois life; their facades were composed of the same curious combination of materials, but here arranged in good order, so that the timbers were set in a handsome diamond pattern.

  The pungent smell of the acids used by the goldsmiths, the scent of candied fruits and confectioner’s sugars, filed iron and warm bread, and in spring the delicate scent of flowers that the rich wives of the artisans grew in the vases resting on the windowsills hung in the air around the houses. The smells of those good industrious people who were like a beehive full of tireless bees, always well provided with wax and honey because they were never idle: the favourite subjects of His Majesty Philip IV.

  Guillaume Nogaret was about to pass between the tall houses that crowded the sides of the Pont au Change on both sides when he stopped, seized by a sudden sensation. He looked at the waters of the Seine, upon which the houses and the comings and goings of people were reflected. The step he was about to take was a bold one – but if he thought about it, did he really have any other choice?

  The Inn of the Half Moon bore that name because, thanks to the Babel of people who came to Paris for a plethora of reasons, it professed an unusual sexual ecumenism – so much so that among the whores who worked there in the evening there were even three belly dancers with skin as dark as night. By day, instead, especially in the morning, it was simply a sleepy and respectable tavern where the best cider in the city was sold. Its nocturnal vocation was however famous, so Cardinal Matthew of Acquasparta had very grudgingly accepted the proposal to meet Nogaret there only on condition that the interview took place in the courtyard, without his having to properly set foot inside. He’d had to disguise himself as a servant, moreover, to protect his honour and the honour of the Holy Mother Church.

  The lawyer arrived with the decisive step of one who has unpleasant business to take care of.

  “Good morning, very reverend father. Thank you for giving me this interview. I am sure you won’t regret it.”

  “Let us hope not!” muttered the Cardinal. Fo
r the moment, he was annoyed at having been dragged there, and looked around himself constantly for fear that some passer-by might recognize him.

  “Your reputation is safe,” Nogaret reassured him. “I tipped the innkeeper. No one will pass through here for at least half an hour.”

  This news spread a beneficial balm upon the cardinal’s nerves, and he instantly relaxed and grew more willing to listen.

  “Why did you want to meet me?” he asked.

  “I know you are going to Rome, eminence. You will certainly see the Pope, and I believe that you will be able to give him a valuable piece of information.”

  The cardinal became curious.

  “Really? Then tell me what it is.”

  “Most reverend, my subject is civil law, but I know for certain that our king does not have the authority necessary to arrest a bishop. The abuses committed by His Majesty against Monsignor Saisset put you and all the clergy of France in an atrocious position.”

  Matthew of Acquasparta shook his head gloomily. That someone understood the immense dilemma with which he found himself struggling was some small comfort.

  “Nogaret, in theory I should impose an interdiction upon Paris. But can you imagine the pandemonium that would ensue?”

  “That can be avoided,” the lawyer replied firmly. “Especially if you find a way to tell His Holiness the real reason Monsignor Saisset is under arrest.”

  “What do you mean, Nogaret?”

  “For the moment I cannot prove it, most reverend father, but there are awful and secret conspiracies underlying this grave violation of the liberties of the Church. The king of France is scared. He must watch his back from fierce enemies who hide in the shadow of the Louvre and have their champion in the bishop of Pamiers. “

  Mathew Bentivegna’s eyes widened in dismay.

  “In the name of God, Nogaret… are you sure of what you say?”

  With diligence and due tact, revealing what he could and keeping silent about that which it was instead appropriate to retain under a prudent veil of reserve, Nogaret informed him of the facts he had gathered during his talks with Queen Joan, the royal surgeon and Bernard Gui.

  “My suspicions are solid enough to justify such alarmism. When you are in Rome, you must do everything possible to bring Arnaldo da Villanova back to France. Do you know who he is?”

  “How could I not?” the exasperated cardinal replied. Everyone seemed to be seeking that accursed Arnaldo! He did not dare recount the awful experience he had been put through a few nights earlier when he had received the visit of that masked thug who had come to order him to seize the Catalan. And now Nogaret was at it too…

  “Yes, I remember that old crackpot,” he answered evasively. “But why does the king care about him so much?”

  “I believe Arnaldo discovered a conspiracy. If my conjectures are right, a group of unscrupulous people wish to overthrow the throne of France, and to succeed they are willing to spread a terrible epidemic, a plague that could depopulate the country. The Catalan was preparing an antidote using methods known only to him. They heard about it, and tried to eliminate him by having him incriminated for sacrilege. Or perhaps things went differently. Perhaps the Catalan was involved with it too, and had adhered to the diabolical creed of a sect that lurks in the inaccessible mountains of the South, and had created a contagion for these spawn of the devil a contagion that leaves no way out. And then he repented in time and decided to stop the calamity. He betrayed his accomplices and they took their revenge.”

  “They wanted to send him to his death to stop him from denouncing them?”

  “It is plausible, but that no longer matters now. All that matters now is that the pope accepts the sovereign’s request, and obliges the old man to return here. The Vicar of Christ has a duty to save all these innocent lives!”

  Matthew of Acquasparta nodded vigorously. Of course, now everything made sense! The clandestine visit he had received that night, those ambiguous words which spoke of bringing the Catalan back to France at any cost.

  The idea of abducting him had seemed abominable, but now, faced with the prospect of seeing the country decimated by a horrifying epidemic, at the thought of all the poor souls who were in danger he agreed that it was necessary to drag the reluctant old man back to France, one way or in the other. Even at the cost of giving him a knock on the head and stuffing him into a sack, if necessary with his own priestly hands gloved with purple.

  “Very well, Nogaret: I will do my utmost to convince His Holiness.”

  “If Boniface does not believe you, if he should demand concrete proof, you should know that unfortunately we have none. But the sovereign is ready to offer a valuable concession in exchange for the favour he asks for. Assure the pontiff that Bernard Saisset will be released immediately, as soon as the Catalan has once again entered the walls of Paris. Even if the monsignor a troublemaker who is trying to foment a rebellion against his king.”

  “Did the king tell you that himself, Nogaret?”

  The jurist was no liar, and did not want to lie in such a crucial moment.

  “No, reverend father, not in so many words. But he gave me to understand it. He asked me to read the arrest warrant against Saisset, which you will admit is odd: he instructs me to acquit Arnaldo da Villanova, and orders me to read the mandate against the bishop of Pamiers? It makes no sense. Unless, of course, there is some relationship between the two arrests. And I truly believe there is.”

  “I don’t understand. Would one arrest therefore be the consequence of the other?”

  “In a way. The charges against Saisset are completely specious, and form a case that is so fragile it could even be dismantled by a good university student. Why, I asked myself? If Saisset has indeed committed the crimes of which he is accused, if he accuses Philip of being a usurper, his crimes are much more serious than those alleged. There is only one answer which would explain it all: His Majesty wishes to keep the bishop in his hands without, however, compromising him irreparably.”

  “Yes, Nogaret, it is clear to me now: the king has tied the hands of the bishop of Pamiers with a voluminous knot which, however, can be easily undone when he so wishes.”

  “And it will be undone on the instant, if the Catalan returns to Paris. But much of this depends on you. I pray that God will guide you, your eminence, or we will see that tragic warning come true: “From the tunnels of Notre-Dame, the Antichrist will invade the earth!’“

  *

  Your Holiness,

  This letter comes to you from your devoted daughter Joan, countess of Champagne and Brie, sovereign of Navarre and, less happily, queen consort of France. From the tone of my words you will understand that this is a most private communication, therefore it will not reach you through the usual channels but through a trusted envoy.

  You should know that the situation in France is deteriorating day by day, Chancellor Flotte is increasingly determined to attack your sacred authority and stir up the great lords of France by inciting them to revolt against the Holy Mother Church. There is no hope of my convincing my husband, the king, to free the poor bishop of Pamiers; I suspect that my consort harbours a visceral hatred, a deaf resentment which he cannot express and of which perhaps is not even fully aware, and which derives from private reasons closely linked to his unfortunate family.

  I have treasured your paternal counsel, Your Worshipfulness, and I kneel at your feet like a desperate daughter. I would have no scruples in using my wife’s affection, my body, my seductions as a woman, to change my husband’s disposition towards you; I would comport myself even like a prostitute, if that were needed. But I cannot. Indifferent to everything, to my tears as to the warmth of my bed, King Philip IV for weeks has not approached me for several weeks.

  This is the situation in which I find myself, Your Holiness: having married the man I had always loved, the only one I will love in my life, only to see myself treated by him with the same cordial detachment he reserves for enemies worthy of some con
sideration.

  Pray for me, Holy Father; because I am the most unhappy woman on earth!

  Joan of Navarre reread the text of the letter she had just written then let the ink dry completely, folded it and closed it with her private seal. She took a long breath of the kind that generally serve to summon up one’s courage.

  It was humiliating to have to confess certain things to the Pope, the same man who had asked her in a secret letter and with language laden with allegories to use the lure of sex to keep her husband loyal to the Holy See. The lure of sex… what lure was that?!

  The pungent pain in her soul made its way up to her eyes, and Joan had to wipe her tears with her fingers as they began to cloud her vision.

  She placed the pen on the table for a moment, overwhelmed by memories. There had always been distance, between them. Philip had excluded her from everything, the woman who they had made him marry him out of duty to the state, and whom he bore the blame for having taken with supine resignation and without batting an eyelid.

  They did not speak to each other except rarely; principally there was between them a game of glances, from one end to the other of the long table where His Majesty presided over official banquets. Silent looks amidst the crush of the courtiers, a crowd of sharp-eyed faces eager to see the slightest interaction between them that might feed the gossip of the day. The king had always faced this morbid collective curiosity with the same impenetrable mask of indifference, from which little could be inferred.

  Everyone said that the eyes of King Philip IV were as beautiful as they were cold and inexpressive; but not her, not Joan. The colour of his eyes made her think of the ocean in the far north where the world ends, but there was nothing cold about them, not when they rested on her; then it seemed to her that dark blue changed its shade, that glacial sea suddenly became disturbed by a rush of warm currents, that it ignited with anger, and a desire for revenge. Passion, sometimes. And perhaps even pain.