Bride Tree

Apostolic Palace, Vatican City, Italy 1770

“H

e is ready, Your Holiness.”

Pope Clement XIV tilted his red-capped head to one side. “Is he?” The pontiff continued to contemplate the agony reflected on the face of the suspended Christ-figure before him. Clement wore a simple mottled gray garment, more like the habit of a twelfth-century monk than the elaborate vesture typically worn by the Successor of the Prince of the Apostles.

“Is he indeed... ready?” His voice was hoarse and low, like a man who spoke but was not sure if the world was ready to hear his words. He tore his gaze away from the imposing statue that loomed above his head and, with a soft sigh, turned around to fix his eyes upon the young man who now stood before him. Cardinal Rezzonico, the man who had first spoken, placed his hands protectively on the boy’s head as the pope stepped forward.

“Fabio. Twelve years of age. Twelve years of training—one for each disciple.” Clement placed his hands underneath the soft flesh of the boy’s chin. “Abandoned by a mother who did not want you. I gave you a home and I prepared you to do God’s work.” He tilted the boy’s face upward and sighed again. “Now, I am sending you to your death.”

Rezzonico sucked in his breath. “You cannot know that Your Holiness. Fabio may well survive his mission.” He drew the young man still closer into the folds of his protective embrace, almost as a mother would her child.

Clement gave a noncommittal nod. “That is true. You may survive but, should your mission require your death, are you prepared to die, my young Fabio?”

Dark eyes, that had seen more hardship in twelve years than most men saw in a lifetime, stared up at him with smoldering intensity. Then the youth’s chin jerked downward in a decisive nod.

“Good… that is very good.” Clement patted Fabio’s shoulders, his fingers touching boyish muscle hardened beyond its years by rigorous combat training. “There is strength here. It may be that these shoulders carry the destiny of the Mother Church.”

He bent low and stared into Fabio’s eyes. “Why do you live?”

The boy spoke swiftly, the oft-repeated answer spilling from his mouth like water pouring over the edge of a cataract. “I live for the glory of God and the glory of his holy Church.”

“To whom do you owe your full allegiance?”

This also was expected.

“To the man whom God ordains to sit on the throne of Saint Peter.”

Clement nodded, pleased. Cardinal Rezzonico has done his work well.

He stepped back and asked a question that the boy could not expect. “What is it you desire most?”

Fabio blinked several times before answering. His eyes flicked past the pope to the massive cross that protruded from the stone walls around them.

“I wish to be made a saint.” He touched the Franciscan rosary of seventy-two beads that dangled around his neck. Like all his clothes, it had been dyed obsidian black.

“High aspirations indeed.” The pontiff pursed his lips. “But not out of reach.” He stooped and put his face inches from that of his prodigy. “Sainthood can be granted only to those whose actions mirror the greatness of the prize. You know what you must do?”

The onset of adolescence coupled with the momentous nature of the moment made Fabio’s voice crack. “I will overthrow the government of France, Holy Father.”

“Excellent Fabio.” Clement arched an eyebrow. “Now let us test your knowledge of the French language.” This last statement was said in French which Fabio had learned since childhood. “Let me give you a parting gift of wisdom.” He straightened with a groan. “You must remember that nothing is as it seems. This is a fundamental principle in the world of men.” Clement gestured toward the life-sized crucifix. “God disguised as a man.”

He pointed to his simple tunic. “The Vicar of Christ dressed as a common priest.” The finger singled Fabio out. “A highly-trained servant of the Church who appears to be a mere boy. Everything deceives so that it may better proclaim the truth. Tu comprends?”

Fabio nodded his understanding.

The pope steepled his fingers as he paced in front of his silent audience.

“I will make our position perfectly plain.” He cleared his throat. “The Kingdom of France is quickly straying—no, running—from the path of righteousness. Reason and politics undermine the influence of the Church. Our armies are not strong enough to invade France, leaving us with only one option: to destroy her government from within. Any envoy sent from Rome would arouse suspicions at King Louis’s court of Versailles. But a child? You may succeed where we would surely fail.”

He fell silent for a moment, then continued. “The penalty for not reclaiming our place of prominence would be to lose control of France and, ultimately, the rest of Europe. Already the feuds between Catholic monarchs cause many to lose faith. If left unchecked, France’s growing defiance will influence others to succumb to the will of Satan.”

He paused and cast a shrewd glance at the boy. In the wrong hands, the secret he was about to divulge could ignite a war. Then the cardinal’s words echoed in Clement’s mind. He is ready.

The pontiff nodded once, then continued. “Over a century ago, Pope Clement IX saw the evil brewing under the reign of Louis XIV and tried to curb its rapid growth. Unfortunately, the plot to assassinate the Sun King failed and Rome has silently watched the cultural center of Europe slip into the darkness of unfettered heretics.”

Unable to stay still, the pope resumed his pacing. “Like his forefathers, the King of France prefers science to Scripture. He is too weak to crush underfoot the serpent that is polluting his Eden.”

Clement raised a clenched fist toward the vaulted ceiling. “Therefore, it falls to Rome to destroy the wicked one. It is our task to rip out the tares that will choke the wheat if left unfettered. This time we will not only bring down a king. No, we will destroy the entire Bourbon dynasty!”

His face flushed and a thin sheen of sweat dotted the creases of his furrowed brow. “As we speak, the pangs of hunger, fear and uncertainty tighten like the coils of a serpent around the hearts of the French, stifling their hope of a better future. French is stagnated into three social groups: the peasants, the middle-class bourgeois, and the nobility. If we sow the seeds of rebellion, the peasant rabble and the bourgeois will unite against the upper echelon of society. The government will collapse from within and our venerated clergy in France will usher in a new era—one controlled by Rome.”

The pontiff grabbed the boy’s shoulder. “Maria-Antonia of Austria is soon to marry the dauphin, Louis Capet, who will be the next King of France. If we succeed, he will be the last Bourbon to rule.” He swept the child into a sudden embrace and held him close to his chest.

“Fabio, Fabio.” His voice was a low murmur. “You must be the autumn wind which sweeps away the dead leaves that cling to the gnarled branches of the tree. You will go to France and live on the streets. Homeless, you will endure eighteen years of solitude. You must become one of the people, surviving by the strength of your will and the cunning of your mind alone.

As our Lord began his ministry in the thirtieth year of his life so, in your thirtieth year, will you strike for the glory of God.” Clement’s grip tightened but Fabio did not flinch.

“As Christ gave a new name to Simon calling him Peter the rock, so I give you a new name. Alexandre, the name of a conqueror. For you will destroy an earthly kingdom so that the kingdom of God may rise in France and, from France, spread throughout the world.”

He succumbed to a violent fit of coughing. Rezzonico rushed forward but the pontiff waved aside his assistance.

“This illness comes and goes.” He wheezed and coughed again. “I may not live to see your mission completed boy, but you must finish it. Complete it for the Church who has sheltered you. Complete it for the chance to achieve eternal glory.”

The glint of unshed tears shone in Fabio’s eyes. “I will not fail you, Holy Father.” He gripped his rosary. “I swear it.”

Clement mopped his brow with his sleeve. He took a deep breath and continued. “In addition to sainthood there may be other, more temporal rewards that await you. When the Bourbon lineage is destroyed, I will place a worthy man as absolute ruler under the authority of the Church. Prove to me that you are worthy and you will receive your reward.” He clapped his hands twice and Fabio bowed low.

“Go with God, my son.” He traced the pattern of a cross in the air and Fabio left the hall without another word. “Go with God.”

Cardinal Rezzonico closed the door then turned back to his master, the mask of a protective mother dropping with the speed of a headsman’s axe.

“You are not seriously considering making him the ruler of France?” Scorn dripped like acid from his thin lips. “It will take twenty, maybe thirty years for Fabio… for Alexandre to accomplish his mission, if he succeeds. But surely you have considered that no ruler of Europe will accept a puppet of Rome on the throne of France! Even the clergy of France would balk, especially the Jesuits who already hold you in contempt.”

Clement pressed his lips into a thin line. “When this is over, if the boy survives, you will kill him yourself. History must never bear witness to the true force that lay behind the fall of the Bourbons.”

He paused and turned toward the crucifix, mesmerized by the painted blood that dripped from the nail-pierced palms of Christ. “Serve me well Rezzonico, and it may be you who sits on the throne of France.”

“What are we doing here?” Philippe whispered in French to his father, the Duke of Valence. He craned his twelve–year–old neck in a vain attempt to see over the dense crowds that were massed inside Whitefield Chapel.

“Quiet my son.” His father’s gray eyes flickered over the bystanders whose bodies pressed against them. Then he stooped and whispered in the child’s ear. “No French here today, son. English only when in England. We’re safer that way.”

He straightened and said in a louder tone, “This is history in the making. Perhaps it is only coincidence that we were visiting relatives in England during Reverend George Whitefield’s funeral, but I do not wish to miss this opportunity to hear the renowned John Wesley speak.”

Philippe crinkled his brow. He didn’t know who George Whitefield was, but the name of the Protestant preacher Wesley was often whispered in hushed undertones as though he were the devil himself. “But Father, why would you want to hear Mr. Wesley? Isn’t he a heretic? We are Catholics. And why are we disguised?” He tugged the edge of the plain garments that covered his father’s expansive belly.

Again, the Duke bent to his son’s ear. “We are loyal Catholics. That is why we do not want anyone to know who we are. I have heard how this John Wesley is turning England upside down.” He shrugged. “I do not want to miss the chance to see him in action. One must know one’s enemy. Now, no more questions!” He rested his broad palm on his son’s thin shoulder.

At that moment, a low murmur swelled among the crowd. A man, robed in black, with a nose that reminded the boy of an eagle’s beak, strode to the vaulted platform which jutted over the heads of the crowd. Wavy, shoulder-length white hair framed a strong face. Even from this distance Philippe could feel the sorrow and resolve that emanated from the man. This was him! This could only be John Wesley.

Without preamble, the preacher began to speak:

“Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like this man’s.” His voice, sonorous and powerful, rumbled over the audience. “How many of you join in this wish?” The young soul of Philippe de Valence trembled. I wish it!

“Perhaps there are few of you who do not wish it, even in this numerous congregation. May this wish also rest upon your minds—to be ‘where the wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary are at rest.’”

Again, Philippe felt something churning within him. Fear of what would happen to him when he died mingled with a longing for some positive assurance of entering Paradise. The thought struck him that this man had walked from heaven, like an angel, to speak to him. But why would God send a heretic to him?

Papa’s priest assures me that I will be saved. I am good, I recite my catechism and am kind to others. There is no need to worry.

Wesley’s voice cut through his thoughts like a fiery sword. “The man who lies before us was convinced that we ‘must be born again’ or outward religion would profit us nothing.”

What is this? The wood flooring beneath Philippe’s feet seemed to shake. He gripped his father’s arm as his eyes darted around the crowd. If the ground was indeed trembling, no one but him appeared to notice. Perhaps it was the preacher’s words that had unhinged the foundation of his faith. Nothing? All my prayers mean nothing? His heart cried out for answers as the reality of what he was hearing sank into his mind.

“It is not enough to say that all men are sick of sin.” Wesley raised a fist. “No, we are all dead in trespasses and sins. We are all guilty before God and are liable to death both temporal and eternal.”

Philippe’s heart clenched within him. Fear. It was raw, ugly fear. His mind conjured up images of red, writhing demons who tortured his skin with blazing pitchforks while he begged in vain for them to stop. He could not—he would not–spend eternity in hell.

“What can I do?” He whimpered the words in agony. Philippe felt as though the multitudes around him had all disappeared. He had never heard anything like this. Wesley’s words were sharp arrows that penetrated an invisible target: his immortal soul.

“Christ was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities. He bore all our sins in his own body upon the tree. He was delivered for our offenses and was raised again for our justification.”

Is there hope? Philippe’s mind screamed at the preacher. Can I earn my way to heaven?

He buried his face in his hands, forgetting his father’s presence and the thousands around him. Images of his sins flitted through his mind. Although the list of his wrongs would be considered trivial by most, the God that Wesley described would not overlook even one transgression. Each memory pressed down on him like a mountain of despair, crushing him beneath its weight.

“It is not by works, lest any man should boast,” Wesley’s voice thundered to the young and trembling soul before him. Then his tone gentled. “But by faith alone.”

The evangelist laid emphasis on the final word and, in that moment, the fountains of Philippe’s understanding broke open. With understanding came faith—the simple faith of a child that could move a mountain of fear.

The church cannot save me. Neither could he escape hell by his good deeds. The price of salvation had already been paid by a man who had hung on a tree, bleeding and dying because of him. Tears streaked down his face and he sniffed, trying in vain to stop the waterfall of emotion that threatened to bury his soul with its intensity.

“Conscious then of your own wants and of God’s bounteous love, who gives liberally and upbraids not, cry to Him that works all in all for a measure of the same precious faith!” Wesley hammered the pulpit with his fist. “Cry!”

And Philippe did cry. His thin reedy voice bounced off the soaring walls and up to heaven’s gates. Curious heads jerked around at this unexpected interruption. Philippe lurched forward, crying, laughing, and screaming, as joy, wonder and fear surged within him like geyser erupting toward the heavens. His father’s flailing arms grasped at his coat but the Duke’s fingers caught only empty air. All Philippe knew was that he had to go forward. Like a drowning man he reached out, desperate to make his way past the crush of the onlookers who separated him from this messenger of God whose words had changed everything. The crowd parted.

“Who is he?”

“What’s going on?”

The whispers grew but he was oblivious to them. Wesley had stopped preaching and watched the young man make his way forward as though he was used to this sort of spectacle. Perhaps he was.

Philippe bypassed the coffin and threw himself to his knees. He didn’t know how to pray. His catechism seemed insufficient to the task of expressing the needs of his soul. He didn’t know what God wanted but he knew that he wanted God.

He lifted his arms. “Save me, please save me!”

A tender but firm hand squeezed his shoulder and he looked up into the sparkling eyes of John Wesley. The evangelist had come down from his pulpit to help a soul that yearned to be lifted into the presence of God. “He died on the tree to redeem a bride for his name’s sake. His love is greater than your fear. Do you believe this?”

Philippe jerked his head up and down. He didn’t understand everything the man said but he believed it.

“Grace is given to you, young man.” Wesley’s smile was warm and genuine. “Believe that Christ takes you unto himself.”

They were simple words but they brought with them a peace that the boy could not explain. “I, I won’t go to hell?” It seemed too simple to be true.

Wesley responded with a question. “Do you truly believe he died for your sins?” His eyes bored into those of the young man before him.

“Yes!” Philippe grabbed the preacher’s flowing robe. “I do.”

“Then how can God condemn what his son has already saved?”

Wesley pulled him to his feet. Philippe’s heart flooded with light. Joy replaced fear; assurance conquered uncertainty.

“Son?” The voice was his father’s but it was hesitant... almost foreign. Philippe stood up from the altar, glowing with the effect of what had just transpired. His father stared at him, slack-jawed. Philippe ran forward, throwing his arms around him and murmuring, “Oh Papa.” He lapsed into French. “It is wonderful, so very wonderful!”

Wesley looked at the display in silence. “I ask you all,” he spread his arms wide as the beginning of another smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, “what better tribute could there be to the life of Reverand Whitefield than this?”

She is coming. All of France was talking about it. The cathedral bells had heralded the news for days. Marie-Antoinette, the future queen, was even now en route to Versailles. Marie-Antoinette, the woman that he was going to kill.

It was said that she would stay in Rheims and, from Rheims, she would travel to Versailles where the heir to the throne awaited her arrival. He’ll be waiting a long time. The boy sniggered as he pushed another branch out of his way and stole along the forest path. Instead of an eager bride, the prince would be confronted with a pale corpse.

The boy had made the three-day journey from Arras to Rheims in only two. His twelve-year-old legs had carried his thin frame along country roads late into the night. With each step, his father’s words drummed through his mind without reprieve. Death steals everything, boy. Everything but your name.

His father’s breath had reeked with the stench of stale beer while his blood-shot eyes bored deep into his son’s skull. Then he had gripped the back of the boy’s stubby neck. Make our name to be remembered. Become so powerful that the whole world will tremble when they hear it whispered.

Then his father had lurched to the door, slammed it shut, and walked out of his son’s life forever.

Abandoned by his father while still grieving the loss of his mother, the boy had taken his younger siblings to his relatives in Arras, France. That had been six months ago. The loneliness of those six months had transformed an idealistic child into a potential murderer.

His eyes narrowed as he broke through a copse of trees and spied the towering cathedral which had consecrated the kings of France for almost a thousand years. “I did it!” His whoop rang out across the clearing. “I reached Rheims just like I told Augustin I would.” The thought of his younger brother made his throat tighten.

“Don’t go.” Augustin had pleaded with him two nights ago, just as he prepared to sneak out of their bedroom window.

“I have to do this, Augustin.” He had gently detached his brother’s small hand from his black coat. “Father told me that a name is the only thing that outlives us. Look at how quickly mother died! It could be the same for us, Augustin.”

“But this is not what Father would have wanted.” Augustin’s small face, pockmarked by pre-pubescent acne, crinkled into a pale ball. He was about to cry.

“How do you know what Father would have wanted?” Frustration had tinged the boy’s voice. It was time to go. “I’m the eldest and I know best! Something has to be done to make sure that our name is remembered forever.” He laid his hand on Augustin’s shoulder and took a deep breath. “Cook says that ‘Father always was a man of extremes.’ Maybe if I kill this foreign queen, Father will see that I can make our name great and will come back to us.”

Tears had blurred the boy’s eyes and he dashed them away with the back of his hand. He was angry at his father for leaving, angry at his own weakness in crying, angry at God for taking their mother and letting all this happen in the first place.

“Augustin, this is our chance to get Father back. Don’t you see?” He had tapped the wooden handle of the rusty meat cleaver which protruded from his belt. He had stolen it when Cook’s back was turned. “We’ll show Father that we’re worthy of him and he’ll come home again.”

Augustin had stuck his thumb in his mouth and nodded. “If it will bring Father back.” Unshed tears had glistened in his eyes as he lifted a small hand in a gesture of farewell and watched his older brother disappear into the night.

Now the young assassin’s face hardened as he glared at the royal entourage that wound its way through the city below him. “I will do it, Father. For you.” The angular lines of his cheeks slanted upward beneath the mop of his brown curls. “For Maman. I will become the master of life and death. The world will never forget our name.”

Marie-Antoinette, future Queen of France, gazed out of her carriage at the royal entourage that prepared to complete the final stage of the journey from Rheims to Versailles. She had been travelling for twenty-one days, and every inch of her pampered fourteen-year-old body pleaded for an end to the trip. That would not happen of course. She would arrive in two more days. Just in time for her royal wedding. Marie sighed.

She had plenty of company: fifty-seven carriages, one hundred seventeen footmen, and three hundred seventy-six horses from her home country in Austria had been joined by a myriad of courtiers from France. A small army surrounded her. Not that there was any danger, of course. All of Austria loved her and it was only natural that her French subjects would love her also.

“What’s not to love?” She pulled a pearl-encrusted mirror from one of the drawers built into the wall of her carriage and stared at her reflection. A powdered, oval face with cheeks that were still rounded from childhood looked back at her.

The image blurred in her mind for a moment and her face was replaced by that of her mother. Lines, created by the weight of the crown, became more prominent as her mother’s words echoed in her thoughts. Be so good that the people of France will think I have sent them an angel.

“I will, Mama.” Marie whispered the promise. “I will make you proud.” The mirage—more a memory than her imagination—disappeared but as it did, Marie became conscious of another presence in the carriage. The princess-bride slowly tore her gaze from the mirror only to be confronted by twin pools of dark intensity set in the angular face of a boy her age. Smudges of dirt accentuated the dark circles that lay underneath his disconcerting amber eyes. In his hand, he held some sort of metal knife.

A scream built up inside her but, anticipating her reaction, his free hand shot out and clamped down over her mouth. He pressed himself closer as she struggled to free herself. He was quite strong for such a small boy.

“Shh, Princess.” He shifted closer and the stench of dried sweat and manure burned in her nostrils. She wriggled again, desperate to free herself from this walking chamber pot.

“Don’t scream.” He tightened his grip on the knife. “I will take my hand away if you promise you won’t scream.” Her head bobbed up and down. After a moment, he released his hold.

She scooted to the opposite end of the carriage and pressed her body against its wall of plush satin. How did he get in here?

“It was quite easy really.” The boy glanced down at his smooth hands then back up at her face. “Getting into your carriage, I mean.”

Her face paled. Was he a sorcerer with the ability to read minds?

“It’s quite amazing how one can be so alone while surrounded by so many people.” His right cheek twitched as he spoke. “All the guards thought I was just another errand boy. Only one, an Austrian, bothered to question me when I came close to the carriage. I told him that I had been ordered to empty your chamber pot.” He spread his hands. “And here I am. No one knows my true purpose.”

Marie found her voice. “What is that purpose?”

He paused and looked down as his cheek twitched again. She found the reaction quite revolting.

“I don’t know… now,” he said at last. “At first I came here to kill you but…” He broke off, as though distracted, and stared at her. His empty hand reached out and fingered a ringlet of her golden hair which had come undone in her short struggle. “You are quite beautiful you know.” He pressed his lips against her hair. “So very beautiful.”

Marie was a statue, struck dumb by his audacity. Then she jerked away from his grubby paw.

“You’re mad!” Royal pride vanquished her fear and anger arose like an awakened dragon. “How dare you touch me?” Her fingers tightened on the mirror that lay unnoticed on the seat beside her. In one smooth motion, she lifted and smashed it against his face. His hands flew upward in a vain effort to protect himself and he released his hold on the cleaver in the process.

Shards of glass bit into his cheek below his eye causing blood to stream down his face. “What right have you to call me beautiful? You filthy brute!” She spat on him. “Am I some bourgeoise on whom you can make advances? Do I look like a woman of the streets? Like your mother?”

He shrank back, screaming, and she slammed the broken mirror against the side of his head again. “I am the betrothed wife to your sovereign, peasant. Respect me. Fear me. But never insult me by making me the object of your affection!”

Dimly her outraged mind registered three things:

One: alarmed voices were coming closer to the carriage which meant help would soon arrive.

Two: The boy had meant to kill her. Why?

Three: He too had heard the noise and, despite his fury and pain, he was intelligent enough to throw himself to the door of the carriage, pry it open with bloody fingers and drop to the ground.

“My mother?” He pivoted on his heel. “A woman of the streets?”

His bloodied face looked demonic. “I swear to you,” he lifted a trembling finger, “one day, Marie-Antoinette, you too will quake at the sound of my name.” He slammed the door behind him, lurched away and slipped into the entrance of a nearby barn.

Once out of sight, the boy lost no time in pulling the hood of his shirt over his head to conceal the blood that still flowed from the cut under his eye. He peeked out in the direction of the outraged princess. A crowd of servants and soldiers swarmed around the carriage and he saw a few heads turning toward him. Quickly he pressed his thin frame against the side of the door, slipped outside and around the corner of the barn.

Rheims was a heavily populated city with a constant flow of travelers. The city’s population had swelled slightly as visitors made the journey toward Versailles to be spectators at the upcoming nuptials. It was this natural disguise of ten thousand tourists which had allowed him to slip undetected into Marie-Antoinette’s presence. It was this very thing that would allow him to leave Rheims and make the long journey home to Arras.

Why didn’t I do it when I had the chance? He struck his small fist against his thigh. But he knew the answer. To kill her would be to crush an irreplaceable jewel. The clear skin, golden hair and bright eyes of the Austrian princess had blinded him for a few fatal seconds and, in those moments, he had lost the critical element of surprise. That would not happen again.

Father would be disappointed in me. His steps lengthened as he slipped around a shop corner and waited, peering over his shoulder to ensure that he had not been followed. Now he’ll never come back.

“I will make her remember our name.” His nerveless fingers tightened until the knuckles of his fists went white. “I swear that before I die, the queen and all of France will bow before the name of Maximilien Robespierre!”

Part One

Twenty years later