Free The Whispering of Bones by Judith Rock

the frost was melting on the courtyard’s north wall, and the sun was finally high enough to chase shadows. Glad to be going inside, he pushed open the ancient house’s weathered oak door. The smell of old wool met him, from generations of cassocks perpetually damp in Parisian weather, and under it the smells of tansy and rue, evidence of diligent lay brothers fighting a century and more of fleas.
    Charles was the last to arrive in the classroom. As he took his seat on the last of the four short benches, the class bell began to ring and Père Valère Remy moved from his chair to the lectern.
    â€œPlease stand,” Remy said, his soft voice nearly inaudible and his hunched shoulders rising and falling in what looked to Charles like a sigh of resignation.
    The eight scholastics rose to their feet, Remy offered up a not very hopeful prayer for the grace of learning, and the scholastics sat down again.
    Remy surveyed them. His angular face was pale and lined, and his large brown eyes looked oddly vulnerable. “I begin,” he said, “by reminding you once more that you studied philosophy earlier in your scholastic years because philosophy is the beginning of theology, the foundation of the thirst for a systematic knowledge of God. Never forget that, because you will need all the philosophy you learned in order to grasp what Saint Thomas and I attempt to teach you now.” That dire reminder given, he swept a doubtful gaze over the class. “As I said at our last meeting, Saint Thomas lived for several years at the Dominican monastery just up the hill from us and was a revered teacher at the University. Not, of course, revered by everyone, since rivalry at the University four hundred fifty years ago was much what it is now. Thomas had a gift of divine clarity. He made for us a very useful system for understanding God, nature, and humanity. He is called the Angelic Doctor for good reason.” Remy cocked an eyebrow at his students, and the ghost of a smile came and went on his face. “You would think his Dominican brothers, who still live just up the hill beside the wall, might enjoy some of that same clear thinking. But apparently not, since they are on the point of taking us to court over our brotherly request that they stop siphoning more than their share of water from our common springwater pipe.”
    The students smiled and nodded dutifully, the water dispute having begun back in June and being common knowledge.
    â€œBut we should have patience with them for failing to measure up to Saint Thomas, since most of
us
are lesser beings than our own Saint Ignatius was. So. In the first article of the
Summa Theologia
, we find . . .” Remy’s voice dropped into its usual learned murmur.
    Charles checked the point of his quill, rearranged his paper and the square of board under it, and tried to be grateful that they were studying only selected parts of Thomas’s
Summa Theologia
, which was the saint’s four-thousand-page “summary” of theology. Straining to hear the lecture, Charles began making notes and trying not to look out the window every few sentences to see from the sun how much time had passed, and how soon he could go to the Novice House and ask to see Amaury de Corbet.

C HAPTER 5
    C harles was first out of the room when the class was dismissed. But he had to wait for Maître Richaud, who was last out, his measured pace and bowed head proclaiming—as it was meant to—his great humility.
    â€œShall we go,
maître
?” Charles forced a smile and started toward the Cour d’honneur and the street passage.
    â€œI have to go and get another pen.”
    â€œWhy?” Charles turned around.
    â€œMy quill broke just now.”
    â€œPlease be quick,” Charles said as mildly as he could, “or we’ll be late. I’ll be at the postern.”
    Richaud bowed his head and paced slowly away. Charles sighed and went on to