Secundus settled himself on the floor.
I sat up. How rude of me! “Milord, I will take the floor—the bed is for you—”
“No, Boy. I prefer the feel of the cold. Truly.” He coughed, and stretched out. I pictured his eyes shining in the darkness. . . .
His bright eyes. His flushed cheeks. His cough.
I gasped. How had I not realized? Secundus was burning with fever.
My master was terribly ill.
11 The Story of the Tear-Soaked Veil
I dreamed that Ox was jeering at my curls, calling me a pretty girl, and I woke up gasping in the dark. With both hands I held my curls down, and repeated the words I go to Rome to become a boy over and over again till I could fall back asleep.
The next morning we set off, though Secundus made me leave behind my hood as well as my goatskin, for he claimed they both smelled. So I held down my curls as I walked, wishing the sun did not shine so bright on my hair.
He grinned: “Do not fret, Boy. They’re an asset.”
I did not know what asset meant, however, and feared it might be an insult. In the daylight I could see the fevered pink of his cheeks and the unhealthy shine of his eyes. But I did not mention it. I kept pace, and waited at crossroads whilst he studied his book, and ducked behind him when he asked directions, for I did not like others to see me.
Our road climbed and turned; the crest, when we reached it, revealed hills in every shade of green, and a sky of woolly clouds. A walled church with a fine spire stood on a distant peak; on another hill rose a castle that glowed in the sun.
Secundus smiled, and he shut his book with a snap. “My next . . . acquisition.”
“The thumb”—’twas nice to think of something other than sickness and hair.
“Do you remember every blessed word I say? Yes, the thumb. But it will not be easy.” He headed down the hill, speaking to me and to himself, telling a story.
The story, as it happened, involved both the distant walled church and the castle. The Castle of Gold, it is called, because the yellow stone glows so prettily. Many decades ago, a fine lady lived in the Castle of Gold, a lady with terrible sadness because she could not have a baby. She pilgrimed to Spain, to Canterbury, to Rome, but her prayers were not answered. At last she returned home and sought comfort at a nearby convent. She wept so hard during her prayers that her veil became soaked with tears. Within a year, she gave birth to a boy.
Word spread of this miraculous birth, and soon women from many towns journeyed to the convent to pray. Their prayers, too, were answered. The lady of the Castle of Gold gave the convent her tear-soaked veil and half her lands, and other grateful mothers gifted the convent so that it grew to be a great church. Every year the nuns washed the tear-soaked veil in wine, and sold the blessed wash-wine in small glass vials. Women from many lands now pilgrimed here, and men too.
A fine story this was, for who does not want to hear about babies—but ’twas only half the tale. The other half involved the son—the very son of the Castle of Gold. This fine lord, though he should be grateful indeed for his mother’s prayers and efforts, resented that she had given so much land to the convent, land that he believed should be his. His sons and grandsons and great-grandsons believed as well. The present lord of the Castle of Gold at this very minute was in Paris suing to get the lands back.
The lord had left his wife behind, and this is where the story grew sad. Ten years they’d been married, and in ten years the wife had not had a child. She begged to pray to the tear-soaked veil, but the nuns would not allow her to visit. The nuns would not even allow her a vial of wash-wine—not till the lord ended his lawsuit.
“But that is so awful,” I cried. “This poor wife has naught to do with her husband’s meanness.”
Secundus agreed. The wife herself came from a fine noble family. In fact, an ancestor had fought in the First Crusade, and had helped to capture Jerusalem. The pope in gratitude gave him a most holy relic: a sword that held in its hilt the thumb of Saint Peter. This ancestor used the sword in every battle he fought, gripping Saint Peter in his very fist, and thanks to Saint Peter he won. His descendants wielded the sword till the blade wore clear away. The hilt with its precious bone relic remained the family’s most treasured possession, and served as the wife’s dowry.
The spire of the convent was quite close now—I could see it between the budding oak trees. “You mean,” I asked, “that this wife who cannot have children has the thumb of Saint Peter?” ’Twas like tracing a spiderweb, all these lines. “We should help her, don’t you think?” A brilliant thought struck me. “We could bring her the veil!”
Secundus smiled. “That’s a clever notion. If only I’d come up with it.”
“She’d be so happy that she’d give us the thumb. But . . .” My joy dimmed. “Why would the nuns give us the veil?”
“Ah. An inn,” Secundus exclaimed. “Let us refresh ourselves, for the night will be long.” So I did not get an answer.
The inn was crowded with travelers gossiping like crows whilst they dined. Several asked if we had been threatened.
“Threatened by what?” asked Secundus, pouring wine.
Brigands, we learned, had attacked a group of pilgrims not twenty leagues distant. “It was terrible, terrible,” a peddler reported.
“Terrible,” echoed Secundus, carving himself a slice of roast.
A man leaned in—a messenger, judging from his fine clothes, and the locked pouch on his belt, and his general air of importance. A messenger to some fine nobleman. “They say the brigands were so wicked that they smelled of brimstone.”
Secundus flinched. With fierce strokes he returned to his roast. “Hmph. What other news have you?”
I did not know this word brimstone. But I knew other scents Secundus was feared of—rotting turnips, and windy dogs . . .
I crept to the messenger who sat cracking nuts with the butt of his knife. “Excuse me,” I whispered. “’Tis only—did the brigands smell of farts?”
Well. If I had dropped a snake into a henhouse, I could not have caused a greater disruption. The messenger roared with laughter, and repeated my question whilst holding my arm so I could not duck away. My face near burned off as every man wiped his eyes in mirth, repeating did they smell of farts? for a fine jest cannot simply be swallowed but must be burped up again and again.
But Secundus did not laugh. He stuffed the roast in his mouth and gulped down his wine. “Come, Boy,” he ordered, his voice cutting through the laughter. “We’ve a quest to complete.” We left the inn soon thereafter, and hurried along without speaking.
I worked up my courage. “Milord? What’s brimstone?”
“’Tis the stench of hell,” he answered, not breaking stride.
That made sense, for neither farts nor turnips smell of heaven. But—oh! “Did those brigands come from hell?”
He snorted a laugh. “No. Men manage wickedness quite fine on their own. . . . Don’t dwell on brimstone, Boy. We’ve bigger problems at present.”
With that, we entered the convent.
12 Thievery
Oh, was this convent fine. It included the church, of course, an infirmary, a winery, a buttery, a hostel for pilgrims, a finer hostel for wellborn ladies . . . even a badge seller with lead badges in the shape of a veil.
We walked through the church to a chapel screened by iron bars, a chapel guarded by a hawkish nun. Within the chapel rose an altar as tall as three men. Pilgrims knelt, clutching their vials, and gazed at the top of the altar, at a crystal chest on a shelf. Inside the crystal chest, barely visible, lay a yellowed piece of linen.
Secundus knelt, but his eyes stayed on the nun.
I knelt, and watched, and waited. The tear-soaked veil was so high! My knees began to ache. “Do we ask the nun for the veil?” I whispered. She did not seem very nice.
“Shh.” Secundus bobbed his head to the nun, then led me into the darkest section of the church, the dark so dense that it made me fearfu
l. He reached into the neck of his robe and pulled out a key—a small rusty key on a cord. The key stank of rotting turnips, rotting eggs, foul air. . . . At once I realized ’twas the key that made Secundus smell so sour. The key and the book.
He gazed around: no one observed us. He unlocked a door and nodded me into a small chamber.
I recoiled in horror: Stone coffins flanked the walls!
But Secundus only locked the door behind us. “Don’t fear. These folk will not mind our company.” He pulled out his candle stub, and by its light settled into a corner.
“But milord, ’tis not—” The truth hit me. “You’re going to steal the tear-soaked veil!”
“No, Boy. We are going to steal it.”
“I am not a thief!”
“Indeed you’re not. But don’t you want to help the wife of the Castle of Gold?”
“Yes, but—”
“The nuns will not help her. Nor her husband.”
“But . . .” I pondered. “We cannot steal it. ’Tis locked behind a screen.”
Secundus grinned, and held up the stinky key. “Behold, Boy: the key to hell. The key to hell picks all locks.”
“What? How did you—” I tried to find the words. “Does he know you have it?”
“You mean Satan?” He snorted. “He’s too slothful. Sit, Boy. I will tell you a story. A legend I heard from a man. A man who had once been pope.”
“You knew a pope?”
“I’ve known several. And he told me—don’t look so surprised.”
“You knew a pope?”
“Will you shut your mouth, please? This pope told me a legend. A legend about Saint Peter. Peter, you know, holds the key to heaven and stands at heaven’s gates.”
“He has a curly beard. Father Petrus told me.”
“Ah. Yes. The pope told me that if someone brought all the relics of Peter to his tomb in Rome—if someone gathered all of his pieces in one place—then Saint Peter would open the gates of heaven. So I have made it my business to learn everything I can about his relics. To identify where they are, and how they can be . . . found. Rib tooth thumb shin dust skull tomb. Guards, you know, can be bribed, or tricked. But locks—locks need a key.”
“The key to hell.” The very words made me shiver.
“Yes. I must get to heaven, Boy.” He coughed, and for some time he could not stop. “You see,” he gasped, “my time is short. I am . . . not well.”
He did not say more, and neither did I, and for hours we sat whilst the candle guttered and I pondered the nature of sin. Stealing is wicked, yes. But Secundus was trying to get to heaven. That was good—yes? Was it wicked to help a woman have a baby? Father Petrus would say no.
Was it wicked to wish to be a boy instead of a monster?
Far above our heads the bells rang lauds, marking passage from one day to the next.
Secundus stretched. “Are you ready, Boy?” He stared at me. “Boy?”
I nodded. A single, small nod. I would steal for him. I would do something that sometimes is wicked because I must help my master, and I must help this childless wife, and most of all I must get to Rome.
The church was dark now but for the candles burning at the altar of the tear-soaked veil. We approached, my heart hammering—
Secundus froze.
Behind the locked screen knelt a nun. A nun guarding the altar.
What would we do? We could not get past her—
A noise reached our ears: a wheeze. The nun was snoring.
Secundus’s lips twitched. He looked at me, and up at the veil. I shook my head—but already he was unlocking the screen.
Oh, I did not want to do this. But I must become a boy.
So I tiptoed around the nun, and with fingers and boots began to climb the altar that was as high as three men. Do not tip over, altar, I prayed. Do not squeak.
Up I climbed, slipping on the smooth marble . . . but not slipping much. I did not fall. The nun snored on.
What you’re doing is sinful, I scolded myself. But another thought came to me, too, a wicked thought: This is also a little bit fun.
I reached the shelf with the crystal chest holding its yellowed relic. Do not think of this as fun, Boy, I scolded. This is serious. This is life and death.
I glanced down: Secundus stood watching.
I reached. I opened the crystal chest, and withdrew the veil, thanking Saint Peter.
I latched the chest shut, slipped the veil into my tunic, and began to descend.
A soft click.
The chest fell open.
The nun stopped snoring.
I froze. Do not wake up, nun.
The nun grunted, and scratched her face: “Dearie me . . .”
I peered around, panicked: Secundus was nowhere in sight!
“You’ve dozed off,” she muttered. “What if they found you sleeping again?” She fussed with her habit, straightening her sleeves. She looked up.
I clung, halfway down the altar, my eyes as wide as a rabbit’s.
The old nun squinted. “Dearie me, what is that?”
I did not move even a muscle. But oh, the candles burned bright.
The old nun lumbered to her feet. “No,” she whispered. Her rheumy eyes traveled up and down my body. My blue tunic. My face. My hair.
No, thought I, trying so hard not to blink.
“It cannot be . . . I must tell the others.” She fumbled in her robe—stared at me—and shuffled off, shooting me one last glance. “Sisters,” she cried, doddering through the church. “Sisters, I have seen an angel!”
13 Thumb, the Third
We were out the front door of the church before the old nun creaked out the back. Secundus knew of a door in the convent’s walls behind the buttery, and oh, how I at that moment appreciated the key that picks all locks! Then we ran, the ripening moon lighting our way. I feared brigands, yes, and wolves, and I feared the dark very much; but at that moment I feared nuns. What if they caught us? What if they found the tear-soaked veil so carefully hidden beneath my tunic?
Soon enough the church bells rang—warning bells, different from the bells marking prayers or celebrations. The jangling prompted me to hurry still faster, my breath ragged in my ears.
Secundus cocked his head: hoofbeats approached! We dove into a ditch, and watched through weeds as a rider galloped past—a rider from the convent.
My heart clenched in fear, but Secundus laughed. “He is riding to the Castle of Gold, Boy. Soon the wife will know that the veil has been stolen.”
“But that is terrible, milord!”
He grinned. “’Tis perfect. By the time we arrive, she’ll be ready to barter.”
We did not meet any more riders, though I jumped at the cries of night animals and even at birdsong, and checked again and again the veil tucked beneath my tunic and belt.
Day brightened, and ahead rose the Castle of Gold, glowing in the pink of dawn. How pretty it looked. Like a story.
“Play your part, Boy, and kneel when you should.” He wiped his brow. “This hour will determine my destiny.”
A crowd as noisy as starlings filled the castle courtyard, everyone twittering about the theft. Secundus wandered, listening with both his ears.
Two boys eyed me, snickering. My dratted curls . . . At least they paid no notice to my hump beneath the pack of Saint Peter. Blessed Saint Peter.
“Come, Boy,” cried Secundus. He was with a man, a sharp-faced steward in formal dress who glared at me. He led us into the castle, to a staircase, and along a dim hall.
Secundus squared his shoulders.
We entered a room. What a room! Milady’s chamber in paradise must be as fine as this. Marble covered the floor, and glass covered the windows. A candle burned even in daylight. Paintings hung on every wall. . . .
Beside me Secundus knelt. The steward knelt. Only then did I perceive the woman praying before a gold-bedecked altar.
I fell to my knees, my eyes busy beneath my lashes, and at length the woman fini
shed her prayers and came to us: the wife of the Castle of Gold. She was adorned in gold from head to toe: gold netting held her brown hair, gold flowers were stitched into her gown, gold decorated her long pointed shoes.
We bowed—I bowed as I had been taught—whilst the sharp-faced steward whispered to the wife. She bade us to rise. The cross on her chest had a crystal panel; within, I could see, lay a fragment of bone. “Behold those curls,” she cooed at me.
Secundus beamed. “The boy is as honest within as he is handsome without.”
“Even as a hunchback?” asked the sharp-faced steward.
I flinched. That word I had not heard in days, and it felt like a slap. A slap and a stone. I must go to Rome to become a boy. I would kneel before the tomb of Saint Peter, and touch my hand to the tomb’s wall, and all at last would be well.
“Hush,” the wife chided her steward. She turned to Secundus. “Now. You have the veil, I believe?”
Secundus’s eyebrows rose. “My lady, I know not of what you speak.”
“Enough of that,” she chided. “What might interest you?” She gestured to her altar. A gold foot stood upon it, and gold arm—both doubtless holding bones. Yellowed bones glowed inside glass vessels, and the candlelight twinkled on vials of oil and blood.
Secundus examined them. “I seek one relic in particular. A relic from the pope himself . . . The thumb of Saint Peter.”
The wife stiffened. “How do you know of this?”
He smiled. “I hear many tales.”
“That relic was a gift for freeing Jerusalem from the infidels, given to my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather.” She did not stumble whilst listing the greats.
Secundus smiled a smile of ice. “I heard his skill lay mostly in slaughtering helpless infidel babies.”
The room fell silent. The wife’s lips went white, and her cheeks. “How dare you.”
Secundus smiled. “So. The thumb.”