The Sorcerer of Sainte Felice

By Ann Finnin

"I was only an apprentice. I swear it. By all the angels in Heaven." Condemned to death by the Holy Office for sorcery, fifteen-year-old Michael de Lorraine is rescued from the flames by Abbot Francis and granted refuge at Sainte Felice, a Benedictine monastery in fifteenth-century France. Michael learns that this strange and wonderful place, famous for its healing wine, harbors renegade monk-sorcerers, enchanted gargoyles, and a closely guarded secret that could spell violent death for the Abbot. As the church intensifies its cruel pursuit of Michael, Abbot Francis and the wizard monks find themselves in grave danger. Michael will do anything to protect his mentor, but are his own magical powers great enough to save the monastery from the merciless, bloodthirsty Inquisition?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flux
• Release date: Sep 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9780738726168

Ann Finnin

Ever since escaping from a convent school at fifteen, Ann Finnin's life has been a continuous journey into magic. A Celtic harpist, Renaissance festival enthusiast, and lay historian, Finnin works as a freelance technical writer in the Healthcare industry. She and her husband live outside Los Angeles with their black Lab, Hunter. The Sorcerer of Sainte Felice is her debut novel.

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The Sorcerer of Sainte Felice © 2010 by Ann Finnin.

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First e-book edition © 2010

E-book ISBN: 9780738726168

Cover design and photo illustration by Kevin R. Brown

Cover images: boy © iStockphoto.com/Sascha Burkard;

parchment © iStockphoto.com/Anastasiya Maksymenko;

monastery © iStockphoto.com/Tomasz Parys;

monk © iStockphoto.com/Roberto A. Sanchez

Map on p. vi © Jared Blando

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For Dave

I was only an apprentice. I swear it. By all the angels in heaven.

Michael de Lorraine, the magistrate below me bellowed in a voice like a death knell. A soldier thrust a burning torch into the pile of straw and sticks around my feet. By the order of His Most Catholic Majesty Louis, King of France, you are hereby condemned to be burnt at the stake in the city of Orleans for the crime of sorcery on this the twenty-second day of August in the year of our Lord, 1480.

I struggled against the rope that bound me to the stake in the center of the pyre. My wrists ached, but the rope held me fast. God, this couldn’t be happening. Was I, after only fifteen years in this world, doomed to perish in these cruel flames?

No! I screamed as the flames tossed billows of smoke into my face. No, you can’t do this. You can’t!

Let the sentence be carried out according to the king’s law, the magistrate continued in an implacable voice. And may God have mercy on your soul.

The people gathered in the town square gawked at me as though I were nothing but a freak in a traveling caravan. A cry rose from one throat in the crowd: Sorcerer! It soon became a chorus. Heretic!

Something hit me in the face. It squished in my hair and smelled rotten. My stomach lurched. Smoke filled my lungs and I choked for breath.

In despair, I cast my gaze up to the darkening sky—more to turn my face away from the billowing smoke than to beseech a God who had abandoned me thus. Summoning all the air left in my lungs, I screamed one final time, hoping that somewhere, somehow, someone might hear me.

My cry was swallowed up by the shouts and commotion that suddenly emerged from the crowd. I squinted my eyes against the smoke and peered through the shimmering heat to see what was happening. My heart rose in my throat. Had my heartfelt cry been heard? Was someone coming to rescue me?

A priest, clad in the black habit of the Benedictine order, pushed his way through the crowd towards me. The magistrate blocked his path, but the priest shoved him aside. Heedless of the flames, he scrambled up onto the pyre beside me.

My heart sank to my toes. I was only going to be shriven, not rescued. What else would a Benedictine priest want with me, save to hear an apprentice sorcerer’s last confession?

Then my mouth dropped open in astonishment. Ignoring me completely, the priest lifted one hand to heaven while clutching a golden cross on his breast with the other. Over the deepening roar of the flames, I heard him shout bits of Latin. I didn’t quite catch all of what he said. But what I did catch sent a chill down my spine in spite of the flames.

Gaze down upon the tortured soul, O Archangel Gabriel, he bellowed. And let the blessed tears of Heaven pour forth from your eyes and rain down upon him. By the power of Almighty God, who spake and it was done.

I shook my head as despair overwhelmed me once more. He was mad. That was why he was here. Hot tears ran down my cheeks. The flames weren’t cruel enough. They had to send a madman to torment my final moments on this earth.

I glanced up at a sudden crack of thunder. More water ran down my face, and the drops came not from my eyes but from the blessed heavens. The sprinkle turned into a downpour that squelched the tongues of fire that licked my feet. Steam and ash blew up into my face, blinding me and setting me to coughing. To my amazement, the strange priest’s strong fingers unravelled the rope that bound my hands and feet, and he pulled me down from the heap of wood.

Behold, the judgment of Almighty God! The priest’s booming voice tolled like a church bell, echoing back from the distant hills. Blessed be God the Compassionate who has shown mercy on the sinner.

Mercy? I rubbed the smoke from my eyes until I could see more clearly. What was this about mercy? But I had no opportunity to ask. Holding my arm in a tight grip, the priest dragged me through the crowd. The spectators fell back at his approach as wheat before the scythe. Many crossed themselves and bowed their heads. A few even knelt, reaching out their hands to touch the hem of his habit.

Only the magistrate, a thin sparrowhawk of a man named Montaigne, stood in our way. Go no further, Abbot Duchienne. He crossed his arms across his chest. You will not get away with this flagrant disregard of the king’s justice.

And God’s justice? What of that? God has tendered His divine judgment. The priest waved his hand in the direction of the departing thunderclouds. Do the very elements themselves have to box your ears to get you to take heed? Now stand aside.

The crowd began to rumble dangerously. The magistrate’s tiny eyes flickered from side to side as the people moved in closer. The scowls on their faces told me they weren’t pleased with how he was treating my rescuer. Would there be a riot?

This is only one of your damnable tricks, he hissed. But he stood aside and allowed us to pass unmolested. Excited babble and shouts followed us as we left the town square. The words truly a miracle wafted towards me. I felt a shiver down my spine.

Was that what had just happened? A miracle?

The priest led the way towards a rickety cart drawn up at the edge of the square. As we approached, a gaunt mule pulled at its harness and glared at me with a baleful eye. I hesitated for a moment, but the priest grabbed me and pushed me up onto the seat. He vaulted up beside me and gathered up the reins. With a shout, he flicked the reins across the mule’s bony rump and we lurched away from the town square.

I glanced over at him discreetly as he maneuvered the mule past the last of the houses towards the road out of town. In spite of his clerical demeanor, I could not help but detect a certain air of smug satisfaction at having defied the magistrate. He was tall and imposing, and his strong chin and aquiline nose made him an arresting figure indeed. He looked as though he had weathered at least forty-five winters and his black hair was streaked with silver. But his eyes were as clear a blue as the summer sky, and looked as though they could darken to winter chill when he was crossed. I knew only that I shouldn’t wish to cross him.

I tried to ask him what he planned to do with me, but my throat still felt raw and seared by the burning smoke. We were well down the road before I found my voice.

Where are you taking me? I rasped.

To the monastery near the village of Sainte Felice. You will be safe there.

I felt my stomach drop. God’s blood! A monastery? What if I don’t wish to go to a monastery?

Then you don’t have to, he replied, with a nonchalant shrug. But it’s either that or burn. The choice is yours.

I see, I muttered in annoyance. Then, I have no choice. Do I?

He glanced over at me and raised an eyebrow. My, aren’t you the suspicious one. We offer you sanctuary from the secular authorities who were trying to roast you. Do you fear us as well?

I swallowed hard. I fear that if you knew my crime, you would not hesitate to turn me back over to the magistrate.

Try me.

I glanced over at him, then turned away, biting my lip. My name is Michael de Lorraine, I began. And I …

Have been tried and convicted by the Holy Office of the Inquisition for the crime of sorcery and turned over to the secular arm to be burnt, he finished. We already know. I fear you’ll have to do better than that.

You knew? My eyes grew wide with astonishment. And still you rescued me from the pyre?

Indeed, so. And that is precisely why I am taking you to my monastery. He chuckled softly. I strongly suggest that you stay with us, or you will be taken again by the magistrate. And I can’t guarantee that tomorrow or the next day will bring quite a convenient rainstorm to douse your pyre.

I stared at him, my mind refusing to accept the conclusion I had reached. There hadn’t been a cloud in the sky when they had tied me to the stake. No sooner had this mysterious priest mounted the pyre than the clouds had gathered. Had he actually caused the rainstorm?

And if so, how?

"Who are you?" I demanded, too suspicious to be polite.

I am Father Francis Duchienne, he replied. Abbot of the Monastery of Sainte Felice.

But how … My question was interrupted by a group of children who emerged from a cluster of whitewashed cottages and swarmed around the cart. So distracted was I with the abbot’s conversation, I had not noticed that the cart had clattered into the square of a tiny village.

This is Sainte Felice. He encompassed the entire square with a wave of his hand.

Good day to you, Father Francis. An old man with a haystack of white hair and a bushy mustache waved from the doorway of a tavern. God keep you.

The abbot waved back. And God keep you, Emil.

Several old women washing their clothes in the fountain looked up at us and pointed. They left their washing and ran towards us. Braving the hooves of the mule, they grasped at the hem of the abbot’s habit with their gnarled hands. The children ran behind the cart, giggling and squealing, until we had passed through the square.

After leaving the village behind, I noticed that there was nothing but bare countryside on either side of the road. Frowning in puzzlement, I craned my neck and looked around. But where is your monastery?

Up there. He pointed up to the top of a small hill.

I don’t know just what I had been expecting. Maybe one of the opulent abbeys of Paris. But my heart sank as I gazed up at the cracked façade of the tiny rectangular building. A tower rose from one end overlooking battlements that appeared as though they had definitely seen more successful battles than the present one against the wind and rain. A row of windows looked out over a rusty gate that presumably led into a cloister, and tendrils of ivy crawled over the crumbling stones of the wall that encircled it.

All in all, it looked rather like a home for bats, not black-robed monks.

The abbot urged the mule up a small path that led away from the main road, and I had to hold on to the edge of the seat to keep from falling over. As we neared the gate, I noticed another monk scurrying about amid some twisted grapevines that spanned the hillside behind the building. He looked up at our approach and waved enthusiastically.

Abbot Francis waved back. As we climbed down from the cart, the other monk picked up the hem of his habit and scrambled down the hillside towards us.

Ah, Francis. He pushed his dark hair away from his brow. He turned to me, his mouth arranging itself in a grin beneath the beak of a nose that dominated his face. I see your rescue effort was successful.

Allow me to present Brother Fernando Marcelli, Abbot Francis said, patting the monk’s shoulder. Florentine scholar, alchemist, and advisor to His Holiness himself in happier days … until he ran afoul of agents of the Roman Curia and he was forced to flee Italy.

My mouth dropped open. He rescued you, too?

Brother Fernando laughed. Absolutely. He rescued all of us, one way or another. He took the reins of the mule and led the way to the front gate. So tell me, Francis. Just how did you manage it this time?

A fortuitous storm, Fernando. The abbot allowed himself a soft chuckle. "Which just happened to darken the skies of Orleans and douse the burning pyre. Poor Montaigne. I fear it quite ruined his auto-da-fe."

Fernando gave the abbot a reproving look. Francis, you didn’t.

It was the will of God. The abbot smiled beatifically and crossed himself.

Will of God indeed! Fernando snorted. Francis, sometimes your theatrics worry even me. Now, go on inside. John should have supper ready by now. I’ll put the mule in the barn.

The abbot nodded and pushed the iron gate open with a creak. I followed him into the cloister, frowning in puzzlement. Alchemist? It seemed I wasn’t the only practitioner of the forbidden arts that the abbot had rescued. There was at least one more. I should have found the revelation reassuring, but it only increased my unease.

Why was this strange priest rescuing sorcerers in the first place?

Abbot Francis led the way along a flagstone path that wound between plots of earth filled with a variety of colorful herbs. A black mound rose up from the middle of one of the beds. Picking up the hem of his habit, the abbot stepped into the bed, stopped beside the mound, and pointedly cleared his throat. Marcel?

The mound moved, and I realized with a start that it was actually another monk crouched on hands and knees in the black earth. He was heavyset, with wide features. He rose to his feet and brushed his hands on his habit, glowering at me from beneath brows knit together in a perpetual frown.

So, you got him, eh? His voice was low and gruff.

Of course. Abbot Francis smiled and turned to me. This is Brother Marcel de Fontanges, a cunning man and herbalist who has greatly enriched our garden. He was supposed to have been hanged by a superstitious lot of Anjou peasants, but I performed the last rites myself and they buried a coffin full of stones.

Marcel grunted. I’ll bet Montaigne isn’t happy about all this.

Hardly, the abbot sniffed. But that isn’t important. Come into the refectory. It’s nearly supper time.

In a minute. Marcel knelt down in the dirt once again. I have to finish here before this damned verbena takes over the entire bed.

The abbot nodded his assent and stepped onto the path again. I snuck a backward glance at Brother Marcel—another sorcerer snatched from the jaws of death—calmly clipping a leafy bush with a pair of shears. I swallowed hard, then scrambled to catch up with Abbot Francis as he headed towards a small door at the back of the monastery.

He opened the door and the aroma of freshly baked bread caressed my nostrils. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten in at least a day. An older monk, small in stature with a dreamy expression on his face, stood at a wooden table wielding a carving knife. His mousy brown hair was surrounded by a halo of white flour.

Here we have Brother John Moore, the abbot said as he pointed to the flour-dusted monk. English poet and seer. His heretical verse was bad enough. But when he foretold the murder of the English king and the victory of the White Rose at Tewksbury, he was condemned to the gibbet for treason as well as witchcraft.

Brother John turned to me and brushed the flour from his hands. Welcome, he said with a smile so kindly that it warmed my heart. I trust you are staying for supper.

Oh, I hope so, I breathed.

Indeed, so. The abbot chuckled. Are we ready to eat?

Nearly. Brother John grabbed a towel and opened the oven door. He extracted a loaf of herb bread and set it down on the table. It smelled so good I nearly fainted from hunger. The others are waiting for you in the refectory. And please remind Fernando that it is his turn to serve this week.

I can’t imagine that you would let him forget. The abbot raised an eyebrow. But I will mention it to him.

I followed the abbot through a doorway into a large room dominated by a long table lined with benches. A lectern stood in the corner and a sideboard along the wall held a large pitcher of wine, along with wooden trenchers and several earthenware goblets.

Antonin. Abbot Francis nudged a youngish looking monk with delicate features, yellow hair, and blue eyes who was sitting at the table. He was surrounded by star maps, and leatherbound volumes filled with columns of numbers were piled up beside him. Do put those away. It’s nearly time for supper.

You’ve returned already? The yellow-haired monk glanced up and closed his book. My, that was quick. You had no trouble from Montaigne, I take it.

None worth mentioning. Abbot Francis turned to me. Michael, this is Brother Antonin LeFevre, our Flemish physician and astrologer. He fled from the rotting court of the Holy Roman Emperor and found refuge with us. He has turned his cell into quite an observatory.

Brother Antonin studied me as though I were some rare species of butterfly. So, this is the latest object of the affections of the Holy Office.

Let us hope the Holy Office proves a fickle lover and forgets her ardor quickly, muttered another monk sitting at the table. He was the only one sporting a dark mustache.

And finally we have Juan-José de Saveñera. The abbot indicated the monk with the mustache. Castilian nobleman and soldier who came to us with the fires of the Spanish Inquisition hot on his heels. It seems they didn’t approve of his Moorish mother and his interest in Arabic mysticism.

As the abbot spoke, Brother Fernando and Brother Marcel came through the refectory door and took their places at the table. Brother John stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a towel. I waited for a moment for any more to arrive. But there appeared to be only five monks in the whole place.

Is this … all of you? I asked, feeling rather foolish.

Not a large company, I will grant you. But although we are small in numbers, we have accomplished much since we have been here. He turned to the assembled monks. My brothers, allow me to present Michael de Lorraine. He has chosen to seek sanctuary with us for awhile.

I still don’t understand. I shook my head in confusion. If you are all fleeing from the persecution of the Church, why do you crouch here in Her very bosom?

My son, do you not think this would be the ideal place to hide? The Holy Office will not be seeking sorcerers here in a Benedictine monastery. The abbot eased himself into a large, ornately carved chair by the hearth. He motioned me to a bench beside him. We have everything here to meet our simple needs. But above all, I have provided a place which is peaceful, quiet, secluded, and safe, perfect for study, contemplation, and the practice of magical arts. As long as we maintain our façade of sanctity, we are secure.

I sat poised on the edge of my seat while all the monks turned their attention to me. It made me squirm on the hard wood of the bench. Would I be subjected to yet another Inquisition?

But how came you to the stake? Brother Juan-José leaned towards me with a piercing look. Such a punishment is seldom meted out to one so young.

I am fifteen, I retorted, annoyed at being reminded yet again that I look younger than my years. That’s old enough, I assure you. But your abbot appears to know all about me already.

Not entirely, Abbot Francis said. All I heard in the village was that a certain Michael de Lorraine was about to be burnt at the stake in Orleans for sorcery. I was hoping you would enlighten me as to how you came by such a fate. Are you indeed a sorcerer?

I remained silent for a moment, not sure how to answer. All five pairs of eyes were on me, the eyes of men who would know far better than that fool of a magistrate whether or not I was lying. I thought of Abbot Francis standing on my pyre, commanding the rain and having it obey. I decided that the truth was called for.

No, I finally replied. Only an apprentice. My master is … was … Alphonse, Count de Sainte Jacques. You must have heard of him. He was reputed at one time to be the most gifted necromancer that ever served at the court of the Duke of Normandy.

His Grace was ever the patron of the arcane arts, Abbot Francis commented noncommittally. Or so I’ve heard.

My master served him well for many years. But then the Duke was defeated by King Louis, and my master fled to Paris. I was a student there at the University when I met him. I served him for almost two years … that is, until about a month ago.

What happened then? the abbot prompted gently.

The King’s Royal Highwaymen burst into our house at dawn to arrest my master. My voice grew hoarse. As if I could ever forget that dreadful night. The Inquisition claimed that he had attempted to murder King Louis by magical art while in the service of the Duke.

My, my. The abbot lifted an eyebrow. That is quite an accusation. Was it true?

I … I don’t know. If he had done such a thing, I had no part in it. They dragged him from his bed and he beseeched me to run to save my own life. I did so, with great reluctance.

Still, you made it all the way to Orleans, the abbot said. That is no mean feat. What did you hope to find there?

I had hoped to try to get a ship to England, where my master has friends. I clenched my fists in helpless rage. I swore that I would return and rescue him. But he perished in prison before I could.

And it was when you inquired after him that you were arrested yourself, I take it.

I nodded. The magistrate of Orleans had orders to arrest me. I was an ‘unrepentant heretic,’ and I was to be turned over to the king’s justice and the king’s fire. I gazed furiously at the black-robed company before me. I tell you, I have harmed no one. My only crime, if crime it be, is to reject the pious platitudes of fat churchmen who will promise me salvation for the gold in my pocket—gold with which they adorn their mistresses and furnish their tables. I do not need such as these to steer me to heaven.

Calm your fury, my young friend. The abbot laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. You preach to the converted, here. Remember that we have all run afoul of those who seek worldly riches and power in the name of the Kingdom of Heaven.

And yet, I retorted, I have heard that many abbeys grow rich by selling indulgences like apples in the marketplace.

I immediately regretted my hasty words, thinking that the abbot would surely be offended. Instead, he leaned back with a secretive smile. I think you will find us somewhat unusual in that respect. Instead of selling indulgences, we sell wine.

Wine? I echoed.

Fernando, I see our young friend is still skeptical. Perhaps a goblet of your latest batch will convince him.

With a grin, Fernando headed to the sideboard and grabbed the pitcher and several goblets. He poured the blood-colored liquid into one of the goblets and handed it to me.

I took a swallow and let my breath out in a slow sigh. God Almighty, but it was good. Full-bodied and sweet, it warmed my vitals like a maiden’s kiss, leaving me with a tingling feeling nearly down to my feet. Never had I tasted