Sessio XIII – The Abbot and “Cursèd Oro”

Lorenzo leaned over the table in the dim cellar, his voice low and urgent.

“The fake Cuore Rosso changes everything. Someone inside the Red Scarf -- or very close to them -- has stolen the real relic and left a counterfeit in its place. That means fractured loyalties, double-dealing, perhaps even open betrayal.

“I need you four to find out who has the true ruby, and why. Start with the Red Scarf’s known contacts in Florence -- taverns, guild halls, the Carbonari cells. Watch for whispers of a power struggle, missing leaders, or sudden wealth.

“Bring me proof of the traitor, or better yet the real Heart itself. Time is short; the Byzantines will not wait forever, and the Medici will move quickly once they realize the relic is gone.

Lorenzo folded the fake ruby into a cloth and set it aside.

“But for now, we must return to our original mission. It is perhaps more urgent now than ever. With the Red Scarf fracturing and the Medici likely to strike while their allies falter, we need powerful, trustworthy figures on our side quickly.

“You must determine if Abbot Aldobrandino is worthy of receiving one of the masks. Watch him closely -- his words, his actions, who he meets, where his gold flows. Prove his virtue or expose his corruption. Only then can we decide if he deserves such power.

“Begin tomorrow. The abbey’s gates are open to pilgrims; use that cover. Report what you find.”

            The four did as Lorenzo directed. They dressed as pilgrims (albeit one with a plague doctor in tow) and approached the abbey.

            The Abbey of San Benedetto stood on a low hill overlooking the Arno, its pale stone walls and red-tiled bell tower rising above olive groves and cypress trees. A simple iron gate opened onto a gravel courtyard where pilgrims often rested; beyond lay the church with its Romanesque facade, cloisters to the east, and monastic buildings behind.

The four knew Abbot Aldobrandino as a respected churchman of middle years, appointed by the Pope himself, known for eloquent sermons on charity and for overseeing the abbey’s scriptorium and hospital for the poor. Rumors spoke of his close ties to several noble families who funded abbey works, but nothing openly scandalous had reached their ears.

Avicellus decided that, with a doctor and priest among their number, they should offer their services at the hospital. Under that cover, they might be able to gather more information about the abbot and the abbey’s operations. They hoped that they might even have the opportunity to meet him themselves.

            The party approached the abbey hospital, a long stone building attached to the cloisters, its doors open to the needy. A lay brother at the entrance greeted them.

Fr. Malachi explained their offer: a priest to give spiritual comfort and a physician to tend the sick. The brother, grateful for aid during winter illnesses, led them inside.

The ward held two dozen beds, half occupied by poor pilgrims and laborers. Novices moved between them with basins and herbs. The air smelled of vinegar, woodsmoke, and sickness.

A stern sister directed them to begin work at once. Word of their arrival spread quickly; within the hour, a monk approached Fr. Malachi.

“The Abbot wishes to thank you personally for your charity. He will receive you in his study after Vespers.”

            Avicellus began to tend the patients with Fr. Malachi. Godefroid and Fiona, however, were directed to more menial tasks.

            Avicellus knelt beside a feverish child, his gloved hands steady as he brewed a poultice of willow bark and honey. The boy’s breathing eased, color returning to his cheeks. Fr. Malachi unwrapped a pilgrim’s ragged bandages, cleaned the ulcerated feet with vinegar, and applied a salve of comfrey and yarrow. The old man sighed in relief, murmuring thanks to St. Joseph.

In the chill courtyard behind the hospital, Godefroid and Fiona carried sloshing chamber pots to the drainage trench. Fiona wrinkled her nose and muttered, “You could have told the sister you know healing from the wars. We’d be inside, warm.”

Godefroid dumped a pot and shrugged. “I’d be inside, warm. You’d be scrubbing chamber pots alone. This task leaves use more free to snoop. Besides, I wasn’t leaving you alone with buckets of piss.”

Fiona snorted, half-amused, half-annoyed, as she scraped the next pot clean.

From the courtyard they could see the abbot’s private lodgings across the cloister garden, candlelight flickering behind latticed windows. A novice hurried past carrying a silver tray toward that door. Two liveried guards -- Medici colors -- stood watch outside the abbot’s entrance.

            After a short time, the two set aside the chamber pots and crossed the courtyard. Godefried engaged the two Medici guards in easy talk of campaigns and the Holy Land. Both warmed to him quickly, sharing tales of service in Sicily and boasting of old wounds. Their attention fixed on the veteran, backs half-turned to the cloister shadows.

Fiona melted into the darkness, her elven cloak rendering her nearly invisible. She glided across the garden path and reached the abbot’s lodgings unseen. A narrow side window stood ajar; through it drifted candlelight and the low murmur of voices—one smooth and cultured (the abbot’s), the other rougher, with a Venetian accent.

She pressed closer, peering inside a small study lined with books and ledgers. Abbot Aldobrandino sat at a desk, counting stacks of gold florins into a velvet purse. Across from him stood a scarred man in a red-trimmed cloak, a silver heart medallion at his throat.

“…the Byzantines will pay double if the relic arrives by new moon,” the scarred man said.

The abbot smiled thinly. “And the Medici’s share?”

“Half, as agreed. But keep the sermons loud—the poor must stay quiet.”

Fiona recognized the silver heart medallion as the same symbol worn by the Red Scarf zealots in the vaults, and the red-trimmed cloak also matched their colors.

            Avicellus and Fr. Malachi spent the afternoon moving slowly through the long ward, the winter light slanting through high windows and falling in pale bars across the rows of beds. The air carried the sharp tang of vinegar used to cleanse wounds and the faint, sweet smoke of burning juniper to ward off sickness. Patients lay quiet for the most part, some sleeping fitfully, others staring at the vaulted ceiling as if reading messages in the cracks.

Avicellus paused first at the bed of the feverish child, no more than eight years old, whose mother sat vigil beside him. He knelt, his black-gloved hands gentle as he mixed willow bark into a cup of hot water and pressed cool cloths to the boy’s brow. The mother watched him with wary gratitude, murmuring thanks. Only after the child’s breathing had eased did Avicellus ask softly about the abbey, how long they had been here, who came and went. The woman answered in fragments -- pilgrims mostly, but lately more merchants from the north, men with fine boots who never stayed for Mass.

Fr. Malachi, meanwhile, tended a laborer with a broken arm. The man winced when Fr. Malachi set the bone but spoke freely once the pain lessened, praising the abbot’s sermons on charity that drew tears from the congregation. Yet as Fr. Malachi bound a splint around the limb, the pilgrim lowered his voice and added, almost as an afterthought, that gold seemed to flow more readily to the scriptorium these days than to the almshouse.

Hours passed. Later in the afternoon, as the light through the high windows turned amber, Fr. Malachi finished bandaging a young stonemason’s crushed fingers and moved to the far end of the ward where a gaunt man lay beneath a thin blanket. The patient’s breathing came in shallow rasps; his skin had the gray pallor of one slipping toward death. A novice had whispered that the man, a former abbey laborer named Bernardo, had taken a fever after a fall from scaffolding weeks earlier.

Fr. Malachi sat on the low stool beside the bed and took the man’s hot, dry hand. “Peace, my son,” he said softly. “Do you wish to make your confession?”

Bernardo’s eyes, clouded but urgent, fixed on the priest. He nodded weakly. Fr. Malachi leaned closer, making the sign of the cross and beginning the familiar words. The man’s grip tightened with surprising strength.

“Father… I carried stone for the new wing… saw things I shouldn’t.” His voice was a ragged whisper. “Crates… heavy… not stone or timber. Gold. Florins in sacks, marked with the Medici lion. The Abbot himself counted them by candlelight… said it was ‘for the glory of God’… but the gold felt wrong. Cursed. Like it burned my hands just to touch the wood.”

He paused, coughing weakly. Fr. Malachi murmured encouragement, tracing a blessing on the man’s forehead.

“I heard voices… Venetian accents… talk of a red heart that would ‘bind the city.’ The Abbot laughed and said the poor would never know. I… I took ill the next day. Poison, maybe. Forgive me, Father… I kept silent for the coin they gave me.”

Tears slipped from the corners of Bernardo’s eyes. Fr. Malachi spoke the words of absolution, his own expression grave. The dying man’s grip loosened; his breathing slowed. Within minutes he slipped into unconsciousness, the confession hanging heavy in the quiet ward.

Fr. Malachi remained seated a long moment, staring at the man’s slack face, the weight of the words settling over him like winter frost.

In the courtyard, Godefroid worked under the sister’s watchful eye, hauling heavy chamber pots to the drainage trench and scrubbing them clean with stiff brushes. The cold stone bit through his gloves, and the stench lingered despite the wind. The labor was tedious, but it gave Fiona the opportunity she needed to slip inside the house. There, she overheard two guards grumbling about extra watches for “Venetian guests” who arrived after Compline and left before Lauds.

As she approached the stairs, and an opportunity to head either upstairs or down, she hid as several workers carried crates down. They passed close enough for her to see Medici seals plain on the wax that sealed the crates. The porters moved quickly, heads down, and vanished down to the basement without a word.

Fiona opted to follow them.

She followed at a distance, her footsteps silent on the worn steps. The air grew cooler and damper, carrying the faint scent of earth and old wine.

The stairs ended in a vaulted basement corridor lit by a single lantern hanging from a hook. To the left, a heavy oak door stood barred; to the right, an open archway revealed a storeroom stacked with barrels and sacks. The porters turned right, setting the crates among others bearing the same Medici seals. One muttered, “Another shipment for the Abbot’s ‘special project.’”

They departed upward, leaving Fiona alone in the dim light. The barred door remained silent, but faint scratching sounds echoed from behind it.

Fiona pressed her ear to the barred oak door and ran gloved fingers along the iron fittings. She noticed faint scratch marks around the lock, suggesting frequent use or perhaps a hidden mechanism. No sound came from beyond—only silence. The storeroom crates remained stacked quietly behind her.

Fiona crouched beside the stacked crates, her lockpicks useless against the sturdy Medici-sealed locks. She turned to the crates themselves, prying at lids and feeling along seams.

Most were nailed shut and heavy with coin—gold florins by the weight and faint clink. One smaller crate, however, yielded to her blade. Inside lay bundled ledgers and a sealed letter addressed to "Abbot A." in Venetian script. A quick glance showed columns of payments marked "R.S." (Red Scarf) and "B." (likely Byzantine).

Fiona slipped a slim ledger from the crate, tucking it beneath her cloak. She retraced her steps silently up the narrow stairs.

At the top, a novice rounded the corner carrying an armful of linens. Fiona pressed flat against the wall, breath held. The novice passed without glancing her way and continued down the corridor.

She emerged into the cloister garden unseen, the ledger secure against her side. Godefried still chatted with the sister while scrubbing pots, buying her time. As Fiona approached, she could hear that he was telling her about when he had seen the monastery on Mt. Carmel.

She returned to her place beside Godefroid and began scrubbing a pot, hoping her absence wouldn’t be questioned by the sister. It wasn’t, so enraptured was she by tales of Godefroid’s exploits.

Vespers approached, the bell tolling across the courtyard.  The sister took her leave, and Fiona started to tell Godefroid what she had found when they both saw Fr. Malachi crossing the courtyard for his promised audience with Abbot Aldobrandino.

Fr. Malachi crossed the cloister garden as the Vespers bell tolled, its deep bronze note rolling over the abbey walls and fading into the winter dusk. The air had grown colder; his breath misted as he walked the gravel path between clipped rosemary hedges toward the church door.

Inside the abbey church, candlelight flickered along the nave. Monks in black habits already filled the choir stalls, their voices rising in the opening psalm. Fr. Malachi took a place near the rear, bowing his head with the others. The Latin verses washed over him, familiar and comforting, yet his mind remained sharp, noting the richness of the vestments, the new silver candlesticks on the altar, the faint scent of expensive incense drifting from the thurible.

When Vespers ended, the monks filed out in silence. Abbot Aldobrandino lingered at the altar, speaking quietly with the sacristan before turning toward Fr. Malachi with a warm smile. He was a man of middle years, tall and lean, with refined features and silver threading his dark tonsure. His black habit was of finest wool, edged in subtle embroidery.

“My son,” the abbot said softly, approaching with outstretched hands, “your charity in the hospital has been a blessing this day. Walk with me.”

He led Fr. Malachi out a side door and up the narrow stone staircase Fiona had noted earlier. The steps wound upward past a landing with a locked iron gate -- perhaps to the bell tower -- then opened into a spacious study warmed by a brazier. Books lined the walls; a large window overlooked the darkened Arno. A silver tray with wine and honey cakes waited on a polished table.

The abbot poured two cups and gestured to a cushioned chair.

“Sit, Father. I would speak with you not merely to thank you, but to know you better. A priest who tends the sick with such devotion… and travels with a physician of rare skill… is no ordinary pilgrim.”

“Oh,” Fr. Malachi began, “you are right I am no pilgrim. I am here to pay a debt. You see, my travels have taken me all over Europe, tending to the poor and sick. Some years ago, I found myself in the Holy Land. I was at Acre when the wounded were brought from Hattin after the skirmish.  I helped tend them on the voyage back to Europe. First, we landed at Cyprus and then  Italy. I’ve been looking for a way to pay back my debt to God for bringing me back to Christian lands safely.”

Abbot Aldobrandino leaned back in his cushioned chair, the firelight from the brazier dancing across his refined features. He regarded Fr. Malachi with a measured smile, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“A noble debt, Father,” he said smoothly. “The Holy Land leaves its mark on all who serve there. God repays such devotion in many ways -- sometimes through unexpected opportunities.”

He rose and crossed to a small cabinet, unlocking it with a key from his belt. From within he drew a small velvet pouch, heavy with coin, and set it on the table between them.

“The abbey has need of faithful men who understand the world’s dangers. We care for the poor, yes, but we also preserve knowledge and…influence. Certain patrons -- noble families, even distant allies -- entrust us with delicate matters. Your experience could serve the Church well here, discreetly.”

He paused, eyes keen.

“Stay longer. Tend the sick by day, and by night aid me in guiding those patrons’ generosity where it will do the most good -- for Florence, for Christendom. There would be comfort, security, and a place of honor.”

“You are very generous, Father Abbot,” Fr. Malachi replied with a smile. “I would be happy to stay on and help you tend to your patients.” He leaned in and took the purse as he said this. Not that Fr. Malachi was desirous of the gold, but he wanted to win the full confidence of the Abbot.  I arrived with three friends. One, a veteran who I tended at Acre. Another, a doctor with whom I served in Florence. The last is a young girl we saved from a life of dissipation. I trust they will be equally welcome…and well-treated.”

Abbot Aldobrandino’s smile widened, though his eyes remained cool and calculating.

“Of course, Father. Your companions are most welcome. The veteran may guard the gates or train our lay brothers in arms -- useful skills in these troubled times. The physician will aid you in the hospital. And the girl…well, the sisters can always use diligent hands for humble tasks. They shall all be housed and fed as honored guests.”

He refilled Fr. Malachi’s cup.

“Tomorrow I will introduce you to certain…benefactors. Men of vision who share our desire to guide Florence toward greater piety and order. Your discretion, I trust, is absolute.”

Fr. Malachi and Abbot Aldobrandino concluded their conversation with courteous bows. The abbot rang a small silver bell, summoning a quiet novice who led Fr. Malachi through dim cloisters to the monks’ dormitory. His cell was small and austere: whitewashed walls, a narrow cot with wool blanket, a crucifix above a plain desk, and a single candle stub. The novice, Brother Matteo -- a young, earnest man with ink-stained fingers from the scriptorium -- lingered to offer water and a whispered welcome. Matteo’s eyes darted nervously when Fr. Malachi thanked him, hinting at unspoken worries about late-night visitors to the abbot’s study.

Avicellus and Godefried were escorted by a lay servant to the guest wing overlooking the courtyard. Their shared chamber was comfortably appointed: two sturdy beds with clean linen, a brazier already glowing, a carved chest, and a window with a view of the moonlit olive groves. Their guide, Ser Giovanni -- a grizzled former mercenary now serving as abbey guard -- boasted of his years in Medici service while unlocking the door. He lingered to polish his halberd, casually mentioning extra night watches ordered “for certain Venetian friends of the abbot” and how “gold speaks louder than prayers these days.”

Fiona was led across the cloister garden by Sister Lucia, a stern but not unkind woman of middle years who oversaw the convent’s novices. The sisters’ dormitory lay behind a gated archway scented with lavender from the herb beds. Fiona’s small room held a pallet, a basin, and a tiny icon of the Virgin. Sister Lucia introduced her to Sister Chiara -- a young, wide-eyed novice with quick smiles -- who brought fresh water and a spare habit. Chiara chattered softly about the abbot’s generosity to the poor while folding linens, yet her voice dropped when speaking of “strange crates” delivered after dark and the abbot’s private meetings that kept the candle-makers busy.

Night settled over the abbey, the bell tolling Compline. Each companion lay in their separate quarters, the weight of new alliances and overheard secrets pressing upon them as the investigation deepened.