The Brotherhood of Book Hunters by Howard Curtis, Raphaël Jerusalmy Read Free Book Online

considered an exasperating waste of time.
    Sacrificing himself for the sake of hospitality, Brother Paul remained for a few moments in the company of the two guests. Starved, Colin and François devoured the rest of the bread, scoured the bottom of the cauldron, knocked back glassfuls of goat’s milk.
    â€œWe are not accustomed to receiving visitors. The cohorts of pilgrims rarely come this way. Sanctimonious fools with their cheap crosses! Better to tread the ways of the heart, to explore the solitude of the soul, than to beat a path to the gates of Jerusalem.”
    The fat monk stood up and walked to an oak chest to which he alone had the key. From it, he took two liters of wine. Drinking only a gulp himself, he was amused at the swiftness with which Colin and François drained the rest straight from the bottle.
    François wiped his lips with his sleeve. “Will we be allowed to look at your precious books?”
    â€œThat depends on Brother Médard, who is rarely in a good humor. He prays constantly for God’s creatures but hates their company. Even ours. He scolds us endlessly, reproaching us for mishandling the books, and for misreading them, reading them too quickly or too slowly.”
    François wondered if this was the very place where the books he had come to find, the books that would break down the defenses of Rome, were stored.
    Paul rose abruptly to his feet. He blessed the two men and smiled. “You can sleep here. There is straw over there in the corner.”
    The prior refused the crown offered by François as alms and left the refectory. A square of clear sky could briefly be glimpsed, then the door closed again on the stale smells and the stifling semidarkness. The banquet given in honor of the envoys of Louis XI had been frugal to say the least, their reception devoid of ceremony. Fust’s suppliers were a sorry sight. It seemed strange that the German should get his stocks from these ragged monks, especially as the works with which they supplied him undermined the integrity of the Church. And yet Brother Paul appeared to be a good Christian.
    Exhausted, Colin pushed his straw mattress against the wall and fell asleep, cursing his sad lot. François, though, was not offended at the frugality of this welcome. He had been dreading the idea of having to strut like a peacock at some dinner attended by diplomats or merchants. It little mattered if he went in through the main door or the back one, this was the threshold of a secret kingdom. He was sure of it.
    Tantalized, he took a last swig of communion wine, toasting his own shadow on the wall, then blew out the candle. He placed his tricorn on the floor and lay down in his turn. He did not close his eyes. His hands crossed behind his head, he smiled up at the thousands of stars he imagined on the other side of the roof.

6
    A pale sun freed itself from the morning mist. Fleeting shadows of monks bustled about the courtyard. The door of the chapel was ajar. Inside, the spent candles gave off a chilly smell. François could not resist the desire to go and stroke the bound books and parchments. He entered the nave, seized a volume at random, opened it without reading it, and turned the pages with the tips of his fingers, as if passing his hand beneath a waterfall. A flood of black letters poured from page to page. No punctuation slowed or stopped this rushed, apparently meaningless calligraphy. François quivered with pleasure. Was it not thus that the word became poetry?
    â€œGet your filthy paws off that book, heathen!”
    In the doorway, a dwarf was hopping and gesticulating frantically. His huge head swayed at the end of a puny, twisted body, like a loose rattle. His complexion was pale, the skin crumpled like badly-wrung linen.
    â€œBrother Médard?”
    â€œI’m nobody’s brother!” he retorted, waving a stick as if about to strike the intruder. François looked at him for a moment with a