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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

J onas had been hearing confessions since noon. Although he took his job seriously and always had, still, it was rather amusing when the nobility entered the church and made their way to the banks of confessionals against the north wall.

They were dark, little cells built from heavy oak, used mostly by the nobility, as the upper crust of England would not use cells patronized by the poor or lesser classes. These confessionals were meant for high class confessions.

It was just after Lammas Day, a holy holiday celebrating the wheat harvest and usually a holiday where the nobles spent days celebrating with ale and rich foods. It was a festival ripe with debauchery and Jonas was anticipating a host of wild stories as the nobles began to infiltrate the church just after noon. For a man who lived cleanly, there were times when those stories would keep him up at night, wondering what it would be like, just once, to know a woman in the Biblical sense.

Sitting in the confessional bank, in the large confessional at the end where most of the upper crust attended, he could see the light flashing as the door to the church opened and closed. The sunset was glowing, the day growing cool as night set in. He knew it had been a balmy day because he had been outside earlier, enjoying the day and thinking on his conversation with David de Lohr.

Twice, he almost wavered and went back on his word, but the more he thought on the situation, the more he understood that what was considered wrong was, in fact, right. The Queen of England was a wreck of woman, vile and appalling, and any man who would openly cavort with her was surely the same. Perhaps it was a matter of saving Lady de Moyon from her husband’s depraved soul. Surely such a man was not a man of God.

That was how he reconciled it in his own mind, at any rate. As he sat in the confessional, mulling over his thoughts, the door to the small booth suddenly opened and a woman slipped in. He could smell the very strong perfume, like cinnamon and cloves. Then a heavily accented voice spoke.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” she asked softly. “It has been six days since my last confession.”

Jonas perked up. He knew that voice. He had heard it before, a few times. Peering through the slats in the confessional wall, he could see a richly robed woman and a flash of a profile.

It was Isabella. He had suspected she might come this day, directly after a holy day and wild feasting. That was usually her pattern, which was why he had taken confessional duty rotation from Father Constantine so the man could focus on other things. Jonas had sat through a morning of insipid confessions from an earl, three barons, and four noblewomen. Now his suspicions had paid off as the grandest lady of all joined him in private.

“Speak, my lady, of sins past and present,” he made the sign of the cross against the confessional partition.

Isabella of Angouleme was a mere sixteen years old, a woman who had lived much in her short life. Married to the king at twelve years of age, she appeared much older than her sixteen years. She had not aged well. A small woman with big, brown eyes, she sniffled delicately into her fine silk kerchief.

“I… I have been wicked,” she pretended to sniffle but the truth was that it was all an act. “I have drunk to excess and in my drunkenness have allowed men of less reputation to take advantage of me. I am innocent of desire, Your Grace, but my husband does not protect me from those who would prey upon me. I plead forgiveness for being too weak to fight them away.”

Jonas listened in silence, contemplating his next move. “These men you speak of,” he said softly. “What have they done?”

She pretended to weep, deeply disturbed by the nature of the sin. “They have preyed upon my flesh, taken advantage of….”

He cut her off. “Names, lady. I cannot help you unless I know who has done this to you.”

Isabella brought the kerchief to her eyes, wiping them daintily. “I…I do not know their names. They are friends of my husband, men of the court.”

He remained steady even though, inside, he was disgusted with her lies. “They are men of the court yet you do not know their names?”

She hesitated. “Perhaps I do know one or two. Why does it matter who they are? It only matters that I be absolved of my sins, sins I did not want to commit.”

Jonas was struggling to keep his disgust at bay. So far, she was playing the victim, which enraged him. The woman was no more a victim than Caligula was at an orgy. He tried another angle.

“Man is made fallible by God, my lady,” he said softly. “We are made to sin but we are also made to forgive. If you have knowingly given in to temptation, all you need do is admit your trespasses and God will forgive you. In order to name your penitence, I must know who you have sinned with. I will give penitence to you both so that you may be absolved of your sins.”

Isabella seemed to perk up, forgetting about the act of remorse she always put on for the priests. She did the same thing every time she went to confession, thinking they would never notice. But they did.

“Is this true?” she asked.

“It is, as long as you are both truly sorry. Who have you sinned with?”

She appeared timid again, looking around the confessional booth to make sure the door wasn’t open and no one could hear her. She leaned towards the screen that separated her from the priest.

“Armand de Foix,” she whispered.

Jonas sat upright. That wasn’t the name he was expecting. A look of supreme confusion crossed his featured and he struggled not to let his confusion show in his words.

“Who is this man?”

She was pressed against the screen. “A man sent by my father,” she hissed. “He is a mercenary. I was overcome with desire but I am truly sorry. What is my penance for my sin?”

Jonas was off-balance now. The conversation was not going as expected. “Only de Foix?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is there no one else you have sinned with?”

Against the screen, Isabella’s features creased with an angry pout. “There is no one else! Why would you ask such terrible things of me?”

Jonas could see that she was verging on a tantrum and quickly moved to stop it. It would not do to infuriate the young queen, for a myriad of reasons, mostly because he liked his head and neck just where they were.

“You must do one hundred Hail Mary’s and pray at the grave of St. Edmund for your penance,” he said quickly. “Mention de Foix’s name in your prayers and he will be forgiven as well. Go with God, my lady.”

Isabella was quickly soothed, crossing herself quickly before leaving the confessional booth. Jonas sat there, watching the flickers of light through the screen, hearing her speak with her women as she wandered from the church.

He left the confessional when she quit the church. There was much on his mind, much that de Lohr needed to know. Making his way to his quarters deep in the bowels of the cathedral, he collected his heavy cloak and his purse. He had to get to Bellham Place and he was sure he was going to have to pay someone to take him there.

The stakes of the situation had changed.