Cardinal Knowledge

By Robert Reinarts

This is the story of Shannon Lahey and the people whose lives become intertwined with hers. Her heroic journey is that of a 19th century woman with 21st century aspirations and sense of self. Her early struggles for professional recognition as mathematics professor of Cambridge University are rebuffed when her gender is discovered. She accepts a position at an abolitionist college in frontier Kentucky, directed by Father LeFonde, a Jesuit. This second effort is destroyed by the Friends of Dixie, abetted by a Vatican Bishop, who was behind her denial of a faculty position and publication of her work. In a raid on the school, by the Friends of Dixie, her students are killed and her sponsor and lover, Father LeFonde, vanishes. Shannon feels guilty because she was not able to defend her students. The faces of her now dead students haunt her. This traumatic event is transformative and instills in her a much more encompassing and urgent goal. She must obtain justice for her dead students. With the help of Queen Victoria, a trap involving a flaw in a mathematics proof is used to expose Vatican Bishop Isetta. In the end, the lives of Robert LeFonde, George Clay, and Lee Mitchell converge to bring about the downfall of Vatican Bishop Isetta. She is honored by the Queen by being installed as Dame Grand Cross in the Order of Bath. She turns down Cambridge faculty offers and returns to her family farm. Her dead students’ faces are smiling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Reinarts
• Release date: Aug 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370613953

Robert Reinarts

Mr. Reinarts preparation as a writer is his life. From toddler scribbles to today’s novels and poetry, his writing has expressed his life experiences, struggles, concerns, wishes, dreams, and puzzlements. He comes to fiction writing late in life, and though he has extensive experience in technical and research writing, found fiction writing difficult to master. Being awarded first prize for his work by the prestigious San Francisco Writers Conference was a much appreciated honor.

Book preview

1

A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR

Cambridge, England

Spring 1852

Shannon Lahey, Senior Wrangler in Mathematics, was about to graduate from Apostles College of the University of Cambridge. Her name was called. She slipped off the bench, knelt and then lay prone on the floor, as was the historic custom. Prostrate on the floor of the Cambridge University Senate House, Shannon Lahey began to crawl, her stomach scraping the floor, towards the vice-chancellor.

The scarlet-caped vice-chancellor was seated throne-like at the end of a long gold and red carpet, facing the many guests, faculty, and alumni in the great hall of the Senate House. The soft voices of a Mendelssohn oratorio undulated throughout the great hall. Shannon could hear the praelector reciting the ancient Latin formula that served as introduction of the University’s degree candidates to the vice-chancellor and official confirmation of each candidate’s character and learning as suitable for conferring a Cambridge degree.

Dignissime domine Domine Procancellarie…, — o most worthy master of the domain of scholars —he droned on about Shannon crossing over to the domain or world of scholars. Auctoriate mihi commissa admitto te ad gradum Baccalaurei in Artibus…" —By the authority of my position I promote to the step of Bachelor of Arts — responded the vice-chancellor, saying that the advocate had recommended that Shannon Lahey be admitted to the community of Bachelors of Arts, and that she was hereby accepted.

Shannon had dropped her head a few inches as she strained to pull herself forward on her forearms towards the vice-chancellor. A soft whirring sound tickled her ear, and immediately a hard vibrating sound, with a puff of air struck inches from her face. Whatever it was had grazed her shoulder, and imbedded itself in the chair leg.

Yeeah Gods! Ahaaaaa, screamed the vice-chancellor as he grasped his leg and tumbled from his throne-like perch onto the floor. The stunned praelector and nearby attendants stood gaping. The vice-chancellor thrashed about throwing blood across all nearby. Shannon gasped at the quivering metal shaft imbedded in the stout oak leg of the vice-chancellor’s chair. She recognized the short stout bolt of a crossbow. The shaft carried markings unique to the Swiss Guard, and she knew the deadly metal was meant to strike her. Shannon looked cautiously around. The assembled guests and faculty had not yet reacted. Looking at the angle of the embedded bolt, she could easily guess the bolt’s trajectory. It must have been launched from the rear of the great hall. A crossbow was a large weapon and not easily concealed when assembled and aimed. Yet it seemed that no one had seen the taut spring-frame emerge from behind the curtain of a rear private seating area, nor heard the sharp twang of the crossbow catapulting its bolt across the hats and wigs of the assembly. Shannon looked cautiously around, and knowing that it would take several minutes to rewind the weapon, leapt to her feet. Nothing seemed threatening so she moved to help the fallen man. The bolt had gouged a chunk out of the vice-chancellor’s lower left calf. He was thrashing in pain.

Shannon looked around again. The audience had stood now and partially obscured her view of the most likely area from which the bolt could have been launched. She remembered that the first time she looked around, she did see two men dressed appropriately for the ceremony, step casually through the side portal. These men were the only ones moving away from the fallen vice-chancellor. She remembered she did not see any cases or bags that could conceal a large cross bow. They were not carrying any bulky objects. Shannon turned back towards the fallen vice-chancellor and dropped down to attend to him. The surrounding crowd of onlookers seemed stunned and immobile. No one spoke or made any other sounds.

She lifted the corner of his blood-soaked gown and immediately saw the raw-open-wound on the vice-chancellor’s lower right leg. She opened her own robe, pulled off her sash, picked up his fallen scepter and using it as a leaver, tightened the sash about his leg to stop the bleeding. She motioned to the praelector to come to her.

Hold this rod. He is still thrashing about. Try to keep him down until he can be attended to. Then have some men help you move him to the dressing room and call for a physician. There must be several among our attendees. You must continue the ceremony. Thank you for the degree. The praelector moved as directed and said nothing. Shannon guessed that he did not know what to do, but also that he also did not want to be blamed for anything that might yet happen. Shannon suspected that the shooters were now gone but she went outside anyway to see if she could encounter anyone who might have seen them. There were few people outside the hall and the few she asked, had seen no one. She was not sure who the two men were but she did understand their motive. Shannon paused outside the hall to quiet herself and think. She knew they had tried to kill her. It must be the papists. It’s their style. But why are they so angry with me? Am I, the little girl from Kentucky, a threat to the mighty Vatican? Shannon went back inside the hall. The vice-chancellor was being attended to. The guests and other students were gathered in clusters chattering. Shannon knew that her life was changing rapidly now, in ways that she was unable to make sense of. She knew that she had to be away from everyone for a while.

I must leave now, she said to the praelector, as she turned and walked out of the hall, her mind churning. Why do I still care about being bloody worthy? If I am so good, why are people trying to snuff me? I will be appointed to the bloody faculty. That makes me worthy. So why was I crawling on my belly in front of an old coot in a dreadful costume? Then his royalness gets his leg blown up, and I escape having myself hollowed out, just because I snooked my head down to crawl. I know it was meant for me. Why are the papists doing this to me? All I want is to move into my well-earned faculty appointment and finally to be published in the Royal Journal, Shannon thought as she walked away from the Senate House.

The episode of just two days earlier ran through her mind. She had stood in the noisy crowded student court, talking to James Maswell, her mentor and secretive lover, enjoying the spring day and the freedom from pending assignments.

Just two more damn days! Two more days and I will be free of these costumes, Eton style haircuts, and boorish lectures, she had said turning towards James, her hands gesturing downwards at the fold of her student gown. The gown covered her womanly body and protected her from gender discovery.

It has been a long and demanding journey into a very abstract world for you, hasn’t it? James responded, gazing off towards nowhere.

It isn’t the abstraction that churns my stomach, it’s the bloody politics. It’s the stupid and narrow vision the dons who run this place have of themselves and the role of Cambridge as a breeder of scholars and gentlemen. There are no women here outside the laundry! No women students. No women faculty. I must stop or I will get myself into a rage.

Is there nothing to be happy about? asked James to divert het thinking.

Yes. I am elated about the decision of the Times of London to publish my article; The World is an Illusion, James. A faculty appointment for me must surely be offered. Will you look into it for me?

Yes, of course, but I must be off now. I have a student reading to supervise, he said, with a slight nod. He sighed, turned and pushed his way through the student throng towards the court gate.

Shannon looked around at the excited crowd of students. They seemed to be feeling the same exuberance over the impending graduation that Shannon felt. Then she spotted a short stout figure dressed in dark clothing looking almost priestly, pushing his way through the students. He spotted Shannon, turned towards her, and rapidly walked towards her. He stopped abruptly in front of her and thrust an envelope into her hands.

What is this? Do I need this? Shannon asked, looking him in the eyes now that his face was lifted. His eyes were cloudy. His lower left cheek had a jagged scar that ran from mid-cheek down across his chin. His eyes moved rapidly back and forth as he began to speak.

The word of the Lord, he said quietly while raising both arms into the air, as though he were Moses. As he did so, Shannon could see a small gold cross, with diamond pendant, the medallion of a little known Swiss Guard honor group, pinned to his inner shirt collar. He lowered his arms and pressed the envelope against Shannon’s chest. His eyes popped wide open as he brushed against her breasts. Shannon reflexively pulled back and grabbed the envelope while knocking his hand away.

Keep your hands off my body, she growled down at him, or I will break your bloody arm.

Go find your place in hell, perverted sinner. I will tell the others about your masquerade. Just as quickly, he turned, gave her foot a hard rap with his cane, and with his rolling gate, quickly disappeared into the jostling student throng.

Shannon was stunned though none of the other students seemed to notice. She looked down at the envelope in her hand. It was dark red with a small gold cross in the center. She opened it and removed the only item in it, a hand-written note. Though written in Latin she easily translated it. It read:

Shannon Lahey, by order of the Servants of the Sacred Heart, be thou notified to cease thy blasphemous writings and withdraw thy request for Cambridge University faculty employment. Thou shalt return immediately to your thine own country. Delay and thy life will be forfeit.

The chap with his trinket gold cross must be a papist. They take themselves and their silly doctrines so seriously, she said to everyone and to no one. She ripped the note and threw it into the gutter. I must get back to my Uncle Ian’s house and prepare my costume for graduation, she mused to herself. I am Shannon Lahey, Senior Wrangler in Mathematics, and I am about to graduate from Apostles College of the University of Cambridge.

The stone-paved student court was crowded and noisy. Students were enjoying the spring day and the freedom from pending assignments. For Shannon it was the climax of a long and demanding journey into a world of sets of objects and transformations; of groups and infinities. She felt elated about the publication of her article; The World is an Illusion, and knew that a faculty appointment must be offered shortly.

Our dons get first choice of the very best students, and I am the best, she continued her monologue, and I know exactly how to revise the maths lectures. I will get rid of the stuffy old Newtonian expression, fluxions, and adopt the term differential, used by Leibniz. All the journals except ours, now use this expression."

The school chimes jerked her mind back to the real world. She could feel their pounding vibrations. The simple scales and deep sonorous intonations were ennobling. Those same melodies emanated from the great clock on the Houses of Parliament. She hoped the bell songs were not also wasted there. Politicians needed ennoblement.

She threw back her black cloth and white fur hood, pulled her black and gold robe, the colors of Apostles College, tightly around her, turned and walked through the side door and out of the building into the light spring rain.

The grey sky was oozing mist around and over the stone walls of Cambridge. She began a slow jog.

Shannon rounded the corner of Pisspot Lane, as the students named it, and began to run past college after college. As she moved farther down the streets, away from the Senate House, the sounds emanating from the different colleges changed depending on their stage of participation. Some were quiet having yet to begin their march to the senate house. Some had finished, and were boisterous in celebration. Still others were waiting their turn at the Senate-House.

As she moved along the chimes rang loudly at first, then later, merged with the Ta-Ta of the trumpets and drums, and as she moved still further away, quieted into the background sounds of a bustling village.

Shannon’s school, Apostles College, an older and larger college of the Cambridge group, was built, as most of the other colleges, on the banks of the river Cam. Shannon often walked the streets of this ancient academic community. She felt stimulated by the clutter of twisty streets and oddly placed buildings that because of centuries of differing times of construction reflected quite varied architectural bents. Some were built by the Romans over a thousand years earlier, and their square straight stone walls showed their fortress origin. Saint Peter’s showed its Norman origin, with medieval carved font, and the rough mote of Cambridge Castle built around 1068, still dominated a commanding view. The most inspiring, to Shannon was Kings College with soaring arches infused with artwork in every imaginable place.

Shannon did not look particularly different from the rest of the all-male class. At seventeen, tall and athletic, thick, shiny black hair clipped in current young man's fashion, face well scrubbed, and body shrouded in the velvet sackish robes of academia, Shannon projected an aura of fierceness and strength that could not be muted, by either dress or manner. Being Irish, arrogant, and contending as leading class scholar with a condescending manner of argumentation, was enough to start a pub riot most nights. Only one person at the College, her lover Maswell, knew that Shannon was a woman. Her Uncle Ian Lahey and his family, with whom she lived when not at the college, also knew.

I had better start planning the curriculum for my first classes, and to hell with the bloody Papists, she shouted and ran even faster.

The sky, now dark and dotted with bright patches, was clearing rapidly, typical for England in the spring. The insect and animal sounds, chirping and buzzing and humming so alive. The fields around the University were erupting with blossoms. The fragrance of the wisteria, rambling roses, yellow iris, and Welsh poppies, burst through the musty overlay of residual dead grasses, teased the nose, and evoked memories of other times and places. With eyes open wide and smiling broadly, Shannon kept on running past Apostles, past Peterhouse, across the Great Court, down Saint John's Street, and out across the open fields called the Backs. Shannon would escape for now into her own world.

Her run slowed to a brisk walk as she left the town behind her and strode into the open countryside. She smiled as she recalled the don’s droning hypnotic recitation of her tripos achievement, final examinations, First in Mathematics, First in Philosophy, and felt a lightness envelope her body as her mind, so often out of alignment with her immediate world, began its own march.

The wisteria was especially fragrant. She was reminded of her first days at the University. She had arrived from the frontiers of America, the colonies as still thought by her classmates, with a few boxes and books, some rustic clothing, and little else. Her uncle, Ian Lahey, a successful merchant of spirits, had a fondness for flowers, which expressed itself vividly across the vast fields of his estate. These lands had been in the family for sixteen generations. Shannon was family, and this fact was important in both Royal and academic society, and Ian provided for her as his own daughter.

Shannon slowed to a walk and continued at that pace for miles through open fields past small farm plots and through small villages. When her mind was swirling with images of symbols, numbers, and twisted arrays of lines, she had no sense of time. She stopped with her nose inches away from a large stonewall that jutted out into the road. She simply stood there, talking to herself, annoyed, and thinking that the barrier would move if she persisted.

Are ye lost, squire? spoke an unfamiliar voice, ending with a giggle. She realized that standing, face against a stone wall, talking to herself, was an odd picture to present to the world; especially those parts of the world not visited regularly by eccentric students. The voice apparently belonged to an unfriendly townee, as the student body called them.

Yes, very. But, I know where I am, she replied. What I don't know is how I know that. Perhaps Kant is right, she said.

You talking about ole Black Head Kant? The crazy chap that bakes charcoal? asked a second voice.

I think you better skat out of here, gownee, before you get hurt, said the first voice, giving her a shove at the same time.

I am talking about Emanuel Kant the philosopher. You probably never heard of him, said Shannon, now becoming alert and irritated.

’Tis indeed a puzzlement if you ask me, sir. You are in Gog Magog Hills, said the second voice, And if you have any questions about your Kant chap, I am sure the Monsignor would be happy to explain it all to you. He is most generous, but, us being a poor village and all that, it’s best that I collect your offering for him. As a man of means I am sure a few coppers would be no pinch for you. So let’s have it.

Shannon was still facing the wall as the engulfing brain surges began to subside and it occurred to her that she must look odd and vulnerable indeed. She began to look around a bit, as much as she could see without turning her head. She could not see much, a profusion of pileostegia was clambering from a slope on her right, and a great cloud of wisteria hung over the wall to her left. It was enough though to see two poorly-dressed young men, probably unemployed tradesmen, out to have some fun tormenting an obvious University student.

Be ye ill? the taller of the two asked, If not yet we can help you puke good.

We can sure help you get started, the shorter one said, punching her in the back.

No; In fact I feel quite good. Shannon, whirled around and kicked the taller one at the side of his knee joint. He let out a yelp and slumped to the ground holding his now contorted left leg. An odd bulge at the side of his leg appeared where the kneecap was cracked and lodged off to the side of his leg joint.

Could you tell me the hour, clock face? Shannon asked of the shorter one punching him squarely in the face. He just stood in place while blood from his nose had spattered all over his shirt. Shannon kicked him in the groin. He slumped to the ground screaming.

The tower rang two bells just a short time ago, you bloody whump, said the taller one, with a quivering voice, while still on the ground rubbing his knee. It's usually about right until evening when the bell ringer is down in his cups, he continued with a whine. Shannon gasped; she had been wandering for almost three hours.

I must get back to see James. He was to inquire about my faculty position, she said, turning and running back towards the University.

James Maswell, another prodigy and mathematician, had graduated earlier and was immediately awarded a Readership within the Cambridge faculty. He recognized Shannon's talent early, had encouraged her, acted as confidant, friend, and more recently as lover. James had urged her to apply for a faculty position, and she had done so, and indicated he would aggressively advocate her acceptance.

Hours later, Shannon arrived back at the college and raced up the stairs of Morris Hall to the Wrangler's center, a row of small study rooms. James, bent over a cluttered pile of notes, and as she entered, looked up as though startled.

Well, it's finished. I'm ready to work, she blurted out, winded from her run.

Hello, Shannon.

What do you hear about my appointment?

It's been approved, he said turning and looking out the window. Though you will have to start at a little lower level than we hoped.

What is the position?

Department Clerk.

What! That is not a faculty position. Shannon’s face flushed. Her hands shook. Not even on the academic ladder. What happened? Were my publications not recognized? I know they were not in the top journals. I don’t know why but the Royal Mathematics Society returns my material unread. But, Statistics of India is not all that bad.

That article you wrote for the Times of London, you know the one, The World is an Illusion, really set them off. They of course did not understand the article, but the title they could grasp, and they did not like it. Also, they got a letter from the Secretary of State of the Vatican, some Bishop named Isetta, denouncing you.

"Shannon, with all that, I also felt I had to tell them that you are a woman.

Bloody bastard! You did that to me?

You should have heard the screaming. Hundreds of years of tradition, imposter, deviant, and all that. You know very well that your own sense of honor would have obliged you to tell them, if you were I. Better now than later, I thought.

But I am a Cambridge man. I am a gentleman and a scholar by their own proclamation. They awarded me a degree that attests to that. Damn them. Damn the senile old bugs. I sure got the little end of the horn on that one. Damn the bloody coots. Soak their balls in Aqua Regia. They should be jubilant to have my participation. I am worth it. Shannon ranted and putting her hands up to her face, began to sob.

James put his arm around her and offered, We can still be together. We can still work together. Shannon pulled away and slapped him in the neck. She stood immobile for a few minutes then her weeping subsided.

I have always feared the bondage of a wedded relationship, though I have also known that I could love a man. The right man. A strong and moral man. Now, it appears as though just being close friends with a man is as distorting to my life as marriage would be. I trusted you with my soul, with my sense of life and dignity, and you brushed all that aside, as though it did not matter. You are a moral midget.

I did all I could.

I am tired and it’s late. All the colleges must have finished the ceremony. Let's get Lee and shoot some billiards while I fume and fuss, she said, wiping her face and heading for the door. I get so worked up beating him I will forget this other bloody bucket of bird dung I was handed, at least for a while.

Then the enormity of what James had just told her registered. She spun around facing James. Her face was now red and her skin taut over her cheeks and neck. Her hands trembled.

No! No! You stay here. I do not want to be around you. Traitor! I will go alone. She turned back and slammed the door closed as she went out into the hallway.

Despite her rage, Shannon chuckled to herself, as she went out of the building. She remembered her earlier bout with the street toughs; it occurred to her that street fighting, especially winning, was a way of achieving worthiness. Yet she knew that stature and toughness would be accorded to her in a world she did not care to live in. Her thoughts were chaotic. What is happening to me? I excel in the world of abstract thought and for that the papists want to kill me? The local town toughs want to rob me, and my lover wants my quim but is a traitor to my soul. This world is insane. De-rotate this preposterous world!

Put me on the faculty, now, you old coots, she screamed as she walked the narrow path along side the stone walls of Kings College towards the Ox and Hen Pub."

2

ROBERT LEFONDE’S RED BIRETTA

Vatican

Summer 1852

Sunday arrived. A disciplined week of prayer and fasting by the priest candidates for higher office had ended. First light became the morning sun and rippled through the stained glass windows, as it gathered intensity in the eastern sky just above the walls surrounding Vatican City. Forty three votive candles, one for each candidate, glowed and wafted their distinctive wax aroma into the cloistered semi-darkness of the small, but highly ornate, Vatican chapel provided to the ordination celebrants.

Father Robert LeFonde, a tall lanky man with heavy black hair on his head and arms, intoned the morning Latin hymnal office in his low baritone voice, along with the other priests. It was the time of Lauds.

Ecce jam noctis tenuactur umbra Lux aurorae rutilans corascat; — Behold the dark night is dissolved by the presence of God’s red light of dawn — they sang celebrating the gift of God’s light, both physical and spiritual. The gift of light. Of God’s light. It seemed so ironic and so unfair, thought LeFonde. Why was I rejected so rudely and so publicly? Wasn’t I the light? Wasn’t I the one who had led them all through the ecclesiastical mists into the light? Into an understanding of their own faith? I should have my red biretta. I should have been embraced by Mother Church, not dismissed as though I were a street urchin or a protestant.

His mind raced back to the time, just a few years ago, when his stature was just beginning to rise at the School of Scholastic Studies in Leon. He had engaged the Bishop of Mt. St. Genevieve in public debate. The contest was short and decisive. He was the rising dialectician with the acute and daring mind. Mere dogmatism was cheap and tawdry in contrast with the sacred light of truth, as he saw it. The intellectual freedom he exhibited was a revelation to the shackled intellects surrounding him. He was the master of Aristotle and Aquinas. He wrote widely and taught at the major universities. There was no doubt that he would soon be anointed as Bishop and Cardinal. He dreamed of the red hat and purple robes.

Two days ago, when the Papal Nuncio asked him to rise at the assembly of all ordination candidates, he eagerly anticipated an oratory of praise. The Nuncio began to speak.

Brother LeFonde. The whole world knows of your contributions to the stirring and seasoning of the pot of theology. Thousands of your students have made notes of your argumentation and hung breathless on your words. You indeed are our blessing, he paused for a long time, and then continued, "and our bane. Your pride and your intellect have pushed aside reverence and humility. You have shown us to be bogged down in the tideway and quick sands of conceptualizing our faith and our beliefs about the world, yet you have never attempted yourself to build a bridge or ford these treacherous waters. You have not tried to answer the questions that all people ask about life and God and the war of good and evil. You came into our house