Heretics of Piedmont: A Novel of the Waldensians: Witnesses of the Light, #1

By D. J. Speckhals

IN THE YEAR 1458, Andreas de Bonomo, a struggling novice monk, is sent on a mission to infiltrate an ancient Christian sect flourishing in the Italian Alps.

 

Along the way, Andreas meets a travelling preacher, who introduces him to the mysterious Vallenses. As they accept him into their society, he finds himself unexpectedly sympathetic toward their simple faith, which places him in the center of a conflict between the mighty medieval Church and the primitive Christians of the valleys.

 

When intimidation and violence begin, Andreas must decide whether to follow the traditions of his ancestors or open himself to those he once named heretics.

 

This is first book in the Witnesses of the Light series. Print length, 350 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Locust Lamp Press
• Release date: Sep 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737536413

Book preview

This is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2021 by D. J. Speckhals

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Locust Lamp Press, Pennsylvania, United States of America

www.djspeckhals.com

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at [e-mail].

Trade Paperback edition ISBN: 978-1-7375364-0-6

eBook ISBN: 978-1-7375364-1-3

Front cover illustration: The Monastery of San Michele, Italy by Carlo Bossoli, Public domain

Map created by: Adriano Bezerra

Author photograph by: Catie Golden

First Edition

To those men I would call barbes—

Dr. Timothy Jackson

Dr. Randy Starr

Chris Starr

Your years of sacrifice and investment will last for eternity.

A picture containing map Description automatically generated

1

They are chaste, temperate, and sober. They abstain from anger.

—An ancient inquisitor

Historia Bohemica, 1463

The monk woke up with a splash of ice-cold water to his face.

Get outta here, you dirty drunk! the grating voice of an older woman said.

Andreas wiped away the water from his eyes. He couldn’t make much sense of anything outside of the blur but knew she wasn’t the only one there. Behind her, a small crowd gathered to watch what would come next.

His head pounded, and his stomach was empty.

Slowly, his vision cleared. He was in the village. He turned to see a big house behind him.

The crowd met his efforts with laughter as he swung his legs underneath himself to stand.

One onlooker said, It’s that priest who gave away cheap wine from the monastery last night. Got caught up in your folly there, eh?

He walked closer and helped Andreas up. Don’t ya got some prayers or something you gotta do today, Father?

Andreas was quick to answer that ignorant question. I’m not a Father, and I’m not a priest. I’m a monk. Call me 'Dom.' That’s it. Standing was difficult now that he was on two feet, but speaking was harder. He hoped his words had come out how he’d wanted.

Yesterday, he’d been reading, praying, and chanting at the monastery high on the ridge above them. It was his home, the men there were his brothers, and to him, the abbot was his father. But he must have missed three prayer times by now. It wasn’t the first time, though—whatever punishment he would receive was going to be harsh.

Soon, the gawkers dispersed, likely back to their daily grind as merchants, beggars, farmers, and whatever else they did. A few rolled their eyes while others shrugged their shoulders. Some whispered to each other as they walked away.

One young man in a decorated shirt and pair of pantaloons eyed him closer, and then with a slight smile, walked toward Andreas and brushed against his shoulder.

Two men with black hooded robes lingered a little longer before leaving.

He tried to remember the events of the night before, and it came back to him drip by drip. He had travelled down to share his wine and ended up staying to drink a few—more than a few, as his appearance that morning conveyed. For some reason, he remembered being carried to the place he now stood, so he must have been sleeping elsewhere, at least at first.

Andreas looked down to see his brown monastic robe was missing. A linen undershirt and pants were the only things he had on.

It was the most drunk he'd ever been. He must have been passed out on the street until morning, just like an old, worn beggar.

Most of the village had to have heard of this hungover monk by now. His lack of discernment and self-control the previous night was embarrassing. He was supposed to act differently in the service of the Holy Church of Saints Peter and Paul. His actions would surely cause shame not only to be cast upon him, but also the Benedictine Order in which he served.

For now, he needed to walk back up to the monastery. Andreas ducked onto a side street where he would be less obvious and wound through back alleys and less-traveled walkways toward the outskirts of the village. He passed peasants and merchants, rich and poor, high-status and low. The people he saw had their own duties today. Some would sell, others would beg. Some would plant, for it was almost that time of year in the valley. As for him, his duty was only to the Church and its God, but last night, he failed in that duty.

I must confess to a priest sometime today, he thought, as humiliating as that will be.

It would take him about an hour to make his way back up to Saint Michael’s Abbey. For several hundred years, it had sat on a cliff and watched over the Susa Valley. On many days, including that morning, fog and clouds shrouded it. Even then, travelers, pilgrims, peasants, and kings knew Michael the Archangel kept guard against all those who would oppose the Roman Catholic Church.

The buildings thinned, and the medieval town’s noises faded into the sounds of the alpine valley. The springtime wind made Andreas shiver. If only he’d kept his robe. The dampness from the bucket of water the old lady had thrown on him made the chill even more bitter, but as he became more alert from his stupor, his body also warmed.

The winding dirt path up to the abbey began just south of the town: Saint Ambrogio. It meandered up the side of the valley wall, switching back and forth to make the climb easier, though longer in distance.

As he climbed higher, the fog thickened until he could no longer see the valley and its hamlets, farms, and river. The more he climbed upwards, the closer he drew to God—at least superstitions said as much. For generations, pilgrims from France traveling to Rome and even Jerusalem stopped at Saint Michael’s Abbey for refuge, provision, and worship.

Father Antonio, the monastery’s abbot, was a man well-esteemed in the surrounding communities. Andreas had grown to love and respect him, and someday wished he could have the wisdom and reputation Father Antonio had earned.

Andreas hadn’t seen a soul since leaving the village, and he was thankful for that. Fewer eyes meant fewer witnesses to his sins.

In the fog behind him, the sound of trotting horses drifted into his ears, faint at first, but their steps became clearer as they approached. He could duck into the brush along the path, but it appeared too thin to hide him. Anyway, if he hid, it would seem too suspicious. He stayed on the trail, hoping they would ignore him and continue on their way.

When two horses cantered beside him, he turned and gave them a quick nod. The riders nodded back, but instead of continuing, they pulled their reins and gestured for his attention.

His pulse quickened as they called out.

"Heus. Hey, one of them said in Latin. My name is Friar Igor Rapa. He motioned toward the other horse and rider. This is my brother, Isacco. We are new to this land. Is this the way to the abbey?" His voice was gravelly, like a sanding brush scrubbed across a rough wooden plank.

Their figures were intimidating, sitting tall on their coal-black horses. Dark robes flowed down their body and onto the flanks of their steeds. Their hoods were off and layered across their shoulders.

Andreas remembered these men—they were the ones who saw him earlier, wobbling up from his stupor. I hope they’ve forgotten me.

The abbey’s a short walk ahead. Stay on this path, and you’ll be there soon. He avoided their eyes and fixed his gaze on the forest.

The one who had said nothing yet, Isacco, dismounted and walked toward Andreas. He stood a little above the height of his horse’s bridle. He stared, eyes unblinking, and said, We are Dominican inquisitors, and we were in the village back there searching for anyone who questions the authority of the Holy See. Most were accommodating, and we saw you back there—he flashed an evil smirk— collecting yourself.

Andreas glanced away from his vicious stare.

You look like an honest man, he continued. What is your name?

Andreas.

Andreas, he said, looking him up and down, have you heard anything, even if you think it to be insignificant, that could help us rid this land of Satan’s legions?

These friars were—what was the right word? Zealous. Perhaps even over-zealous. They were sniffing around, trying to find anything that could give them the thrill of conquest.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, I’ve only lived in the area for a couple of years, and all that time, I’ve been in the abbey up ahead. I have nothing you seek.

Isacco continued to look into Andreas’s eyes, almost as if he were trying to see into his heart. Then he spun around, marched back to his horse, and remounted it. Before continuing ahead, Igor turned back and said, "Thank you for your direction, brother. Dominus vobiscum. The Lord be with you." They rode off and disappeared into the fog.

Andreas pondered the odd meeting, but he was apathetic toward their mission. Most people were submissive toward the Church, and the few who were bold enough to show otherwise were excluded from business and society.

His mind now focused on entering the abbey undetected. If he succeeded, his actions would produce few consequences.

But if he failed, this could be a day he would remember forever.

2

They look upon the church, built of stone, to be no better than a common barn, neither do they believe that God dwells there, and that prayer made in them is of no greater efficacy.

—An ancient inquisitor

Historia Bohemica, 1463

Andreas reached the last switchback turn before plateauing onto the ridge. He walked through the thick forest of pine and oak until the abbey’s sacred gray stone stood ahead. Low terraces surrounded the ancient monastery’s perimeter, striped with fields soon to be planted. From the ground, the buildings appeared to climb on top of themselves until the pinnacle where the sanctuary towered. The buildings clung to the mountain rocks, as if they had grown into it.

A few of his monastic brothers worked in the distance with their livestock, bees, orchards, and grain fields. However, no one was at the vineyards. That responsibility belonged to Andreas de Bonomo.

He was not only late but had missed the morning prayers. He winced thinking about what the prior would say, but the more hidden he could be today, the less trouble he would find himself buried in.

Andreas left the path, trying to wheel his way around the main gate. If he hurried, he could make Terce, the third-hour prayer time. But first, he needed to wash off last night’s filth, freshen his mouth, and don his spare robe—all while appearing normal to his brothers. The ideal way into the abbey would be anywhere but the wide-open front gate. His best option would probably be to scale the modest rock face where the pilgrim houses were molded. It was a straightforward climb, but easy to be spotted if anyone were looking in that direction.

Andreas left the main path and ducked into some hedgerows of berries. The front gate was only thirty paces or so away, but from his vantage point, no one was watching. He crept up to the abbey’s rock wall and only needed to scale the rock face.

Andreas climbed, put his weight over the top, and hopped the short distance down to the walkway below.

And into the path of five monks.

He didn’t have a single good explanation for his abrupt appearance, and his lack of a robe made the entire event more suspicious.

The first thing that came to his mind to say was, "Me excusa. Excuse me." But as soon as he said it, he wished he could take it back.

The men shook their heads in disbelief and remained silent—quite the bad sign. They would surely report his behavior straight to the prior. If all were normal, they would’ve laughed and moved on. Instead, they stared and talked in whispers outside of his earshot. Today was going to be a tough day.

At that point, it was useless for Andreas to sneak back to the dorter. His only goal was to return to his routine. He didn’t want to drink down in the village again. It was too risky and not worth having a negative reputation over. From now on, he was going to be a respectable monk. He had aspirations, plans, and a family to honor, so he couldn’t waste it all on riotous living like last night.

Andreas found his way to the stairs leading up to the center of the abbey. The sanctuary itself was still far above, but now its grand edifice scrutinized him as a judging menace. It represented the power of Saint Michael’s avenging sword on all those who would oppose the Catholic Church.

I just hope that sword doesn’t come down on me.

To his right and left were the rooms reserved for pilgrims and travelers searching for refuge. When he first came to the abbey, one of his responsibilities was to clean up after the guests had left, but he was thankful that job was behind him.

The grand entrance hall to the abbey covered a steep staircase marching up the side of the mountain on which it stood. When Andreas had first walked down this hallway, it surprised him to see the bones of former abbots and other revered monks in niches along the staircase walls. They were decorated and painted in various colors, with some having distinct carvings and others left plain. Yet they all gave off a powerful presence as the worshipper climbed ever-upward toward the pinnacle.

After three flights of stairs and through the Zodiac Portal—a stone doorway with carved astrological symbols—Andreas came to his dorter. He walked past five other beds before coming to his, thinking of each monk they belonged to and how each was performing his proper duties that morning.

Andreas reached beside his bed, trying to find his leather pack and robe. His wool robe was more wrinkled and soiled, but it would suffice for today. Tomorrow, he could begin setting things in order again. He slipped it on and headed over to the lavatorium to wash.

When he arrived at the washing trough, two fellow novice monks, Brother Stefano and Brother Gioann, were rinsing their hands. Both were local boys from Piedmont and were the closest Andreas had to friends at the abbey.

"Salve, fratres. I trust your morning has gone well, Andreas said. How are the beehives today?"

Andreas’s attempt at small talk sounded awkward and out-of-place. More so, he imagined, since they hadn’t seen him in his usual place this morning.

Good enough, Brother Andreas, Stefano said. How was your pruning? You must have been up quite early and skipped both Lauds and Prime. Or perhaps you skipped both your prayers and your duties? Andreas didn’t respond, and Stefano continued. Saint Benedict says that we must both work and worship, and you did neither. You ought to take care of yourself. Some elder brothers have been watching you, and I can tell they dislike what they see.

Andreas dried his hands and face before looking up at Stefano. The words stung, but he expected them. I was only out for one night, he said. It’s not a habit, and I’m not living in sin. I only wanted to experience the village a bit. I had a wonderful time.

Perhaps a wonderful time was inaccurate. He had just slept on the filthy streets.

Gioann jumped in next. You can’t do that. You swore to forsake all material gain and commit yourself to prayer and study. We’re not permitted to come and go from the abbey whenever we please.

True, Andreas thought. But I don’t need a lecture from these two. Not now.

Andreas was trying to straighten out his day, so all their abstract morality could wait for some other time.

I admit it was a mistake, Andreas said. But now we all have prayers to attend. It’s what we’re here for. It’s not simply to obey the little rules and regulations. We’re here to worship God and intercede for the men in this world.

Andreas left them in the lavatorium, went back into the hallway, and soon faced the welcoming gray and greenstone doorway that was the portal into the sanctuary, the center of his monastic life. He entered and placed the first three fingers of his right hand into the holy water, which reminded every Catholic of their baptism into the Church and renewed that baptism in them today. As he made the signum crucis—the sign of the cross—with those fingers, he recited the same prayer he had uttered hundreds, if not thousands of times in his twenty-one years:

By this Holy water and by Your precious blood, wash away all my sins, O Lord.

Yet, Andreas didn’t feel his sins wash away. He had faith that they were—that’s what the Church taught—but these words he had said so many times didn’t relieve him of any guilt or shame.

A few others had already entered the sanctuary. Though Andreas was always on time—trying to arrive soon after the bell rang—the monks there that early were the laziest instead of the most pious. They were always early for the daylight prayers but were never there before they had to for Matins: the vigil. He glanced over at them, but they focused on their lounging and failed to notice him.

He turned left toward the apse and walked through the central nave, flanked by pillars vaulting up to the arched ceiling high above. He found the fourth pew on the left, his assigned seat, and sat down just as the bell tolled.

Soon, all fifty-eight monks who devoted their lives to the monastery were seated, awaiting the abbot to begin prayers. The abbot was last to enter, adorned in his regal-yet-humble robe.

He started the service with a versicle: Domine, miserere. Lord, have mercy on us. The opening was followed by repeating, iterating responses and verses by the congregation. The 118th Psalm was then recited aloud in Latin.

"Confitemini Domino quoniam bonus quoniam in sæculum misericordia eius. O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: because his mercy endureth for ever."

All adorned in the same clothing, the congregation of men sang and chanted together in unison, remembering the words they had studied and read since entering the abbey. Some men had known them for decades, while novices like Andreas had only learned the words a short time before. The communal liturgy was enchanting, giving him a lofty purpose far above what he could accomplish anywhere else on earth.

The monastery was his life, and he was committed to it. Poverty, chastity, and obedience to the Church came naturally to him. Though he had his doubts when his parents first brought up this life of sacrifice, he had now settled into contentment and peace with his duties. His lack of obedience as of late seemed to be the only obstacle blocking his ascent into the Church’s hierarchy.

A short while later, prayers ended, candles were snuffed out, and Andreas made his way back down the nave toward the portal. But as soon as he stepped out of the church—where earthly speaking was allowed again—the wise old abbot, Father Antonio, approached him from his periphery. His heart fluttered as the abbot spoke.

"Salve, Andreas. The wine. I hear it’s brought in quite the fortune for us this year."

Andreas had never received this kind of accolade from anyone, let alone from Father Antonio. It was out of the ordinary, more so since he imagined the abbot had already heard of his prayer-skipping and sneaking. I could confess all my sins right now. I don’t care who listens. Andreas’s stomach roiled. Or, perhaps I could tonight, instead. When I feel less hungover.

"Gratis, Abbas. Thank you, Father. I enjoy my work and I’m also happy to see the abbey helped." His dictation shook, but he still spoke with the reverence and respect the man deserved.

Don’t let yourself fall into a habit of sin and pleasure, Father Antonio said. It will break you, keep you away from what you love, and cause you to fall out of favor. Continue to trust in the grace of the Blessed Virgin and her intercession for us, and you will be a fine monk. Father Antonio backed away, then began talking to another.

Several of Andreas’s brothers surrounded him, likely listening to his conversation with the abbot. Their expressions seemed underhanded and backbiting. Andreas was sure they all knew about him. They knew he was a hypocrite. But did Father Antonio?

The day might pass without a reprimand, but the coming weeks hung over him like a heavy burden. Judgment was coming.

He gathered his thoughts, and without a word of discussion, walked down the abbey’s winding stairs, out of the main gate, and down the slope into his place of retreat—the one place he could be alone and meditate without distraction. It was a place of difficult, physical work, but more than anything, it was a place of refuge from the monks’ judging eyes.

3

They believe that the religion of the Medicants was invented by evil spirits.

—Aeneas Sylvius Bartholomeus, Pope Pius II

Historia Bohemica, 1463

The abbey needed a substantial sum of money to carry out its mission of spiritual seclusion and service. Holes and cracks appeared in the stone walls incessantly, and letting them go would invite frigid winds and pests. But most of all, visitors would think less of the Church. Though the monks worked without monetary payment, they still had to have food, two or three changes of clothing, paper to copy and read from, and alms for the poor.

The vineyards were Andreas's retreat, and there he could show himself worthy of his divine calling to the order. When he arrived with his tools—a rake, shovel, sheers, and a knife—he began where he had left off yesterday. Near the bottom of the three terraces marching down the side of the hill, some other monks had cut down a stand of trees to make a new terrace for grape-growing. Andreas grabbed his shovel and began turning over the earth, removing large rocks and other debris that would inhibit a plenteous harvest.

Andreas tried to remember more of last night, but it wasn’t coming back to him. There had been a lot of laughing and dancing, but after that, it was a cloudy vision of men, women, and wine. Before that, he had walked down the mountainside after Vespers. To transport the barrel of watered-down wine, he borrowed the abbey’s donkey—.

The donkey. Oh no! I lost that beast. And the cart! Andreas eyes darted about, searching for something stable. I have to get that back. Maybe tomorrow. Someone was going to notice a missing animal.

Andreas refocused his mind. Last night, he had met an acquaintance, Giocomo, at a house on the edge of town. Then he’d gone to the town square with a few rowdy men and enjoyed the evening.

Was it a little greedy of him to take the abbey’s wine? Yes. But what of the abbey? Wasn’t he supposed to sell the wine and deposit the income back into the common storehouse? Yet at the same time, didn’t he deserve to enjoy at least some payment for his labor? After all, he’d put in the work last year for preparing and tending the vines, harvesting and juicing the grapes, and watching over the aging process in the cellar. He had watered down that barrel before bringing it with him anyway, so the monastery was only losing a little.

As the sun climbed higher and the fog had all but disappeared, one of the elder monks startled him. There’s a man at the gate from the village, he said. He wants to buy something from you.

At least it isn’t about last night, he thought. But his nerves still tightened.

I’ll handle it, Andreas said, as he laid his tools on the hillside and slogged back up the terraces.

When he reached the top, his customer waved. Someone could’ve just let him in.

Andreas brushed off his robe before greeting the middle-aged man and opening the gate. "Bondi. Good morning, Andreas said in the Piedmontese dialect used in the land. Are you here to buy some of our renowned wine?"

Vinegar. How much? The man’s abruptness was common amongst the Piedmontese merchants.

I can sell you a barrel for five silver ducats.

I need one, and I can only give you four ducats. The man turned, assuming Andreas would accept his offer. I’ve got a cart outside the gate, if you’ll help me load it.

Typical village bartering. The man, probably a grocer buying vinegar for meat preservation, didn’t come all the way up to the monastery only to be turned away for a single silver ducat.

Sorry, Andreas said, but I can’t sell it for less than five. The abbot would find out, and I would wash dirty robes for a week. Full price, or you’ll go back down to Saint Ambrogio with a tired donkey and empty cart.

"Va bin. Sounds good. I’ll take it for five. Help me load it."

Andreas directed his customer into the wine cellar and went to the side where he stored the vinegar. The cellar was dark, chilly, and smelled of fermentation and oak. A distinct, musty smell overwhelmed the senses, but it was pleasant and warming—the smell of wealth and good fortune.

They rolled the barrel out of the cellar and to the gate, then lifted it onto the merchant’s cart. The man handed Andreas the five coins, then surprised him by what he said next.

My little sister said there’s a monk up here who gives away monastery wine when he wants a good time. You know what I’m talkin’ about?

He knew, and he was that monk. That was how Andreas had made friends last night. Now I remember. He must have given the entire village an evening of fun. More people knew about him—including his customer.

I’m not sure what you’re talking about. The monastery only sells wine here at the abbey.

The man shrugged his shoulders, but he saw through his deception. Though Andreas had enjoyed himself, he wanted to stop feeling guilty. He just wanted last night behind him and forgotten. This man would have to find a free drink or two elsewhere.

They parted ways, and Andreas headed back to his work. The day was becoming worse. As each moment passed, guilt grew within him. If he confessed his sin to the abbot, they’d forgive him, but would also hand out some punishment. A little chastisement was common to any novice monk, but this time would be the worst. He’d be assigned to laundering and eating only lentils and flax for months.

Two hours passed as he tried to work through the silent doom oppressing him. Andreas was at least feeling better than when he woke up.

The bell rang for Sext, the midday liturgy, and he traveled back to the sanctuary. That service passed, followed by Nones, an afternoon meal, Vespers, and Compline. He was thankful to have maneuvered through the day’s twists and turns without punishment, and his guilt had dissipated almost to the point of being forgotten. His conscience was soothed instead of seared, and tonight would be a welcome night of rest, only once interrupted by the midnight vigil. He was grateful to see his pallet and the slumber it would bring.

The next day was Sunday, the delight of all monks, where they took part in the ancient sacrament of the Mass.

* * *

Before Andreas could put himself to sleep, Stefano stood beside the neighboring bed. Instead of going through his bedtime routine, he glanced over and spoke to Andreas. I had to tell Prior Carlo about your absence at the morning prayers.

Of course he told the prior—that was what any good monk would do. Accountability was a virtue in the monastery, and it was routine to talk to the abbey leaders about the faults and unacceptable behavior of other monks. Andreas had done it, too—it was necessary to keep each other disciplined and pure. The one understood guideline they kept in contradiction was not informing on elder monks; they handled that amongst themselves. Andreas was just a novice, though, and they received the brunt of the talebearing.

I figured you or Gioann would, Andreas said. It’s not like I was trying to hide anything. Though, I wish you would’ve talked to me about it first.

Stefano sat on his bed and exhaled like a haughty judge rather than a friend. Doubtless, the monk wanted to lecture him about his sins.

When I told the prior, Stefano said, before a brief pause, he told me you had a habit of multiple besetting sins.

Andreas was taken aback. How much did they know?

Stefano continued with his eyes cast down. They told me to avoid you. I agreed, but I wanted to warn you. As a friend.

What besetting sin? What else did he say about me? His anger rose, and he wanted to know everything spread behind his back.

Of all people, you should know.

I want to know if they are lies or rumors. I will not be slandered, and my reputation dragged through the hog trough! Andreas said that with a louder voice than he had intended, but now he was determined to find the truth. He laid back onto his pallet and sighed before crafting his next words. Please, I’d like to know what they’re saying about me.

You missed the morning prayers yesterday for one, but they know that’s only because you left the abbey. You skipped them because something else took priority.

Yes, but every monk, except maybe the most pious, misses a prayer or two for some extra sleep or a morning walk outside the walls. Why does this have to be such an ordeal?

He did more than just sleep in or stroll the abbey grounds, but he wanted to appear oblivious to the rumors. It was deceitful, but he wanted to maintain his image among peers like Stefano.

You know you did more than that. I’m going to keep most of what the prior told me in confidence. As if making sure their conversation was secret, he glanced around. I’m just going to say this—he said you visited a house of ill repute. That was all he said about it, and that’s all I know. Stefano took off his leather shoes and laid down on his pallet.

Andreas felt helpless. And betrayed.

He needed to know what other sins the prior had blabbed about to Stefano, but the impropriety accusation was too overwhelming. Andreas was a pure, chaste man of God. Sure, he forgot most of what happened last night, but his body and mind told him he was anywhere but that place. In fact, as many times as he’d been in the village, he had never heard of such a place.

Stefano was a pious monk, and Andreas still held him in high regard. Some monks would talk to everyone except the accused. He had preempted the now inevitable confrontation with the prior and likely the abbot, and for this Andreas was thankful. Still, he needed to clear his name, and he would start with Stefano.

I did not go into that place. It is for base men, not one with honor and devotion as me. He stared directly at Stefano on the neighboring bed. You believe me, right?

Stefano directed his eyes elsewhere, dodging the question and Andreas’s eager stare. That expression made any hope of reconciliation and restoration with the brother fleet away.

At that moment, he was more alone and secluded in the abbey than ever. Monks surrounded him with the same routines, goals, and dreams, yet he was isolated. He imagined himself as a lone tree in an arid, windswept plain. Would anyone sympathize?

Good night, and thank you for talking to me, Andreas said. He wanted to know more, but his neighbor was obviously done talking tonight.

Stefano only vocalized a sigh in response.

On the other side, Gioann lay asleep on his pallet. What would he say? Had he also heard the rumors, including the false one? Gioann, though eager to strike up a conversation with Andreas about matters of the Church, was also harsh and judgmental. On purpose, he put himself in the company of brothers he imagined were less than him, making him appear superior.

Confession was one course Andreas could take. He had skipped it today, even though he now wished he hadn’t. It was humbling to go into that booth and be forthcoming with the priest. He always felt better after being honest and direct about his faults. The abbot would instruct him to say Ave Maria a set number of times, covering his transgressions until the next session.

Yet, every way Andreas tried to console himself only compounded his wandering thoughts. The night prayer vigil came and went like a dream. Andreas rolled one way, then another through the night, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. He thought of the Mass, readings, copying, and even manual labor. It all seemed peripheral to the storm cloud that hung over him, waiting to drop its rainwater.

4

They celebrate the Eucharist in their household cups, and say, that the corporal, or cloth on which the Host is laid, is no holier than the cloth of their breeches.

—An ancient inquisitor

Historia Bohemica, 1463

The next morning, the abbot took the role of priest and entered the sanctuary bearing the elements of the Holy Eucharist. The sacrifice of the Mass, the central rite of the Catholic Church, was about to begin.

The bells rang in a solemn accord. Andreas focused up toward the crucifix, the most significant symbol of worship in the building. It bore the image of Christ’s bloody body hanging in agony on the cross. Next to it stood a statue hued from marble and stained with color depicting the Blessed Virgin. Every image, painting, and piece of furniture had a mysterious meaning behind it—meanings he became more knowledgeable about as his time in the monastery lengthened.

This Sunday, he needed the Mass more than ever. The burden of sin and shame pressed on his soul. His inmost desire was that today’s sacrifice would absolve him.

A screen adorned with saintly images separated the congregation sitting in the nave from the altar. In front of the screen, the cantor sang in Latin as the monks knelt in reverence.

"Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto. Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit."

His voice, gentle yet determined, echoed through the vastness of the sanctuary. Andreas sat in his seat and listened to the words calling the faithful to worship and to prepare their minds for the coming ritual.

Father Antonio sprinkled holy water on them with the aspergillum, an instrument with a silver ball and wooden handle. As the water droplets hit his forehead, Andreas focused on their meaning. I need this cleansing.

When the cantor finished the song, the abbot’s voice carried across the room and echoed off the granite walls. "In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."

Amen, the congregation said in response as they crossed themselves.

Next, the abbot said, "Dominus vobiscum. The Lord be with you."

"Et cum spiritu tuo. And with your spirit," they responded.

Father Antonio followed by leading the Penitential Act, where the congregation confessed all their sins to God. They were required to be cleansed from sin, lest they be struck dead by a vengeful Savior for their impure soul.

Deep in his heart, Andreas desired to have the weight of guilt lifted, but still it lingered. He struggled with determining whether his recent sins were mortal—thus demanding punishment in hellfire—or venial. Either way, he mouthed the confession along with the congregation.

They began more responsive chanting, but one point struck him to his soul. In unison, the entire congregation, including the abbot, struck their chests three times and said, "Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault." Next, they pleaded for Mary Ever-Virgin to intercede. The Church taught that direct access to the Savior was impossible, therefore they must pray to a saint who would approach God on their behalf.

Andreas felt as if he were the only guilty one there. It was only he who needed penitence and the intercession of the saints.

The abbot then said their sins were absolved. But to Andreas, they were mere words, destined to echo these halls but never reach the one who could cleanse him. Those thoughts were dangerous, but it was a genuine feeling deep within his soul, clinging onto his intellect and demanding an answer.

Now the abbot and the deacon turned and faced the altar. When they approached it, they genuflected as a sign of worship and adoration. Father Antonio opened the missal—the book containing the liturgy text—and began the rite of the sacrifice. On the altar, he prepared the objects that would transform into the body and blood of Jesus Christ. The cantor continued to sing as the abbot prayed silently, using the missal as his guidebook.

An acolyte monk swung the thurible—the vessel containing the Holy Spirit’s incense—over the congregation and the elements. Every step of the ritual had a meaning, most of it unknown to the typical layperson. The great mystery of the Mass.

The sacred