“I’m eighty-five,” the pope croaks. “Do not insult me, insolent boy.” Fournier is nearing fifty—hasn’t been a boy for more than thirty years—but he’s old enough and wise enough not to quibble over terminology, especially in the midst of a scolding that makes him feel like a slow-witted pupil. “Eckhart walked here from Cologne—five hundred miles on foot—to answer the charges against him. He was not a frail man. Not when he arrived.”
Fournier slides his tongue over his lips, back and forth, a nervous habit that looks vaguely obscene. “Perhaps the rigors of the journey took a delayed toll on him.”
“Perhaps the rigors of your questioning proved too much for mortal flesh,” the old man replies. “Your zeal is commendable, but your measures can be excessive.”
“How can one go too far to protect the purity of the faith, Your Holiness?”
“By mistaking anger for righteousness, and rigidity for strength. I remember a woman you burned in Montaillou, two years after I made you bishop. Do you?” How could Fournier forget her, that stubborn, stupid shrew who refused to break for him? But he simply nods slightly, hoping to deflect the conversation. “Remind me why you burned her?”
“She refused to take the oath, Your Holiness. I begged her, again and again. I gave her many chances.”
“You burned her because she would not swear to tell the truth?”
“She would not.” Irked now, Fournier can’t resist the urge to justify himself. “And as you know, the oath is required of all who are called before the Inquisition.”
“Was anyone else burned for refusing to take it?”
“No one else refused, Holiness.”
“Then perhaps no one else knew the teachings of our Lord as well as she did. Jesus said, ‘Do not swear, either by heaven or by earth or even by your own head, but simply say yes or no.’ Did he not?” Fournier inclines his head ever so slightly. “Tell me, Jacques, why was this a burning offense, this peasant woman’s refusal to swear an oath?”
Why were half a hundred Templars burned in Paris, Fournier thinks, and four Franciscan monks in Marseilles? But he dares not voice those questions. Instead, he responds, “She defied the holy office of the Inquisition.”
“She defied you, Jacques, and it enraged you.” The old man studies the clenched jaw and flashing eyes of his middle-aged protégé. “Cardinal Fournier, I speak now as your spiritual father. Make confession, admit to the sin of pride, and do whatever penance your confessor requires.”
Fournier kneels, his face livid. “Yes, Your Holiness.”
“So Eckhart is dead. Died on the rack, I suppose.” Fournier does not correct the supposition; does not admit that he has broken one of the Inquisitor’s fundamental rules: Shed no blood. Instead, he makes a show of rising from his knees. The old man shakes a clawlike hand, dismissing his own question. “No matter. But we must not allow our foes to use his death against us.”
Fournier nods. “Your Holiness is wise, as always. I will see to it.” Bowing once more, he turns to leave the audience chamber, the hem of his white cassock gliding an inch above the gritty floor, remaining—as ever—unsullied.
“Jacques?”
He stops, looks over his shoulder. “Yes, Holiness?”
“Did Eckhart die in a state of grace?”
“Yes, Holy Father. At the end—the very end—he confessed his sins, renounced his erroneous teachings, and prayed for forgiveness. It was inspiring to see him saved.” The papal head nods, or perhaps it simply dodders. Either way, Fournier chooses to interpret the gesture as a benediction, and he leaves before the pontiff can call him back.
Descending the narrow staircase to the cells where prisoners are chained, the cardinal replays the scene once more in his mind. Only a few hours have passed, but already he has seen the scene a hundred times, exactly as he sees it again now:
Eckhart is no longer fit for the rack—his arms and legs too badly damaged by months of torture. Despite obvious agony, the man has refused to yield; has remained stubbornly, damnably unrepentant. “Perhaps my thoughts are mistaken,” he groans, “but my heart is pure. My heart loves God completely. I cannot be a heretic.”
“Are you so perfect?” Fournier demands. “Unblemished? The very lamb of God? So be it.” He sends the jailer to summon a carpenter, and he orders the startled carpenter to fashion a wooden cross in the cell, and to fetch rope, spikes, and a hammer. The carpenter complies, quaking in fear, then flees. Reluctantly, the jailer ties the heretic to the cross and helps wrestle it upright, leaning against the wall, but then he, too, retreats from the cell.
Eckhart’s breathing is scarcely more than a whisper now, scarcely enough to keep him alive. Minute by minute, as he hangs from his arms and his chest sinks, he is inexorably suffocating. “I can still save you,” Fournier tells him, pressing the tip of a spike against the soft flesh of Eckhart’s left wrist. “Confess your sins, renounce your heresies, and beg forgiveness.”
“I have no sins,” Eckhart gasps. “I have no heresies. I am at one with God.”
The iron spike rings as the hammer smashes into it—once, twice, three times.
The three-part sequence—demand, refusal, the ring of hammer upon spike—is repeated at the other wrist, and then at the feet.