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  “Madeleine’s brother, Barthelemy, brought us in their work wagon.” Albertina gave her great-uncle an encouraging look. “You remember. They are the children of Philippe Cardon, the stonemason, and he is the son of—”

  “Of course!” Names and faces slid into place. “Of course! You are the granddaughter of my friend Jean Cardon! How foolish! Of course I know you. You and Albertina sang together in the district music competition at Pinerolo.”

  “That’s right, Uncle!”

  “And you won.”

  “Second place.”

  “Tchet! That other singer sounded like a screeching hinge.”

  The girls giggled behind their hands.

  Ah, not completely women yet. “So where is your brother, Madeleine?”

  Madeleine looked at her shoes, and Albertina answered. “Her brother does not . . . feel . . . comfortable in the monastery.”

  Father Andrew leaned forward and spoke softly to Madeleine. “You may not think I understand this, little daughter of the Waldenese, but I do. I know your stories. Your grandfather, Jean Cardon, came to me many years ago, and asked that I write down some of the memories of the people’s lives and their persecution. He did not want the stories of the Waldenese to be lost to time or destroyed by enemies. He knew of my reputation and that my work would not be scrutinized. He trusted me with your history. That is how we became friends.”

  Her head came up, and she gave the old priest a narrow look. “But you are a Catholic priest.”

  “How old are you, Madeleine Cardon?”

  “Fourteen.”

  He thought her brave for fourteen. “Yes, I am a Catholic priest, but before I became a priest I was a young man of the world. A scholar. A traveler. I learned languages and philosophy. I saw many acts of cowardice and bravery. I sank beneath the dark water of the world. Do you understand this?” Madeleine nodded. “And then I was lifted up, and I worked hard to discern truth from error and right from wrong.” He gently took her hand. “And one of the many things I know is that the persecution suffered by your people is wrong, and has been wrong through all ages.”

  “See,” Albertina said confidently, “I told you he would understand.” She turned to her uncle. “There is wonderful news, Uncle! Madeleine’s grandfather wanted you to know, but was too feeble to come himself, so he sent us!”

  Andrew sat back. “So, I am finally going to discover the reason for your visit?”

  “Yes, Uncle! Yes! There is a great celebration going on in all the towns and villages of the Waldenese. Have you not heard the bells from their temple?”

  “Yes. I hear them now.”

  “In all the valleys, high up into the heart of the alpine mountains, the people are singing and the bells are ringing!”

  Andrew looked over at Madeleine. “And what is the cause for this celebrating?”

  The young woman stood, her face shining in the light of the candles. “King Carlo Alberto has set down a constitution, and in it he recognizes the Waldenese as a free people—as citizens!” This last statement was said with a note of awe.

  Father Andrew closed his eyes.

  Albertina was instantly alert. “Are you well, Uncle?”

  He patted her hand, but did not open his eyes. “Yes, my sweet Albertina. I am saying a prayer of gratitude for the brave action of the king of Piedmont-Sardinia.”

  “It is a brave action, isn’t it? And it is right.”

  Andrew opened his eyes and smiled at his niece. “Yes, it is right.” He looked at Madeleine. “You imagine that no one knows or cares about your people, but some of us do.” He smiled at her. “King Carlo Alberto knows, and now your people will have more freedom—more freedom to come down out of the mountains, to live wherever you want.”

  “More freedom to speak out?” Madeleine asked.

  Andrew nodded. “Yes, most assuredly. Freedom of conscience, freedom to worship.”

  “But not freedom to preach to others,” Madeleine broke in.

  Andrew hesitated. “No, probably not that, but still, a great oppression has been lifted from your people. Citizens! Just think of it! Freedom is a great thing.” Tears jumped into Madeleine’s eyes and she covered her face with her hands. “Here, here. Come here, little one. Come here.”

  Madeleine swiped the tears away with the palms of her hands and moved to the old priest. “And you are glad for us, even though you are . . . are a priest?”

  “Yes. I am glad. No person of true faith would condone the history of injustice against your people. This edict from a Catholic king says much, does it not?”

  Madeleine nodded.

  Albertina put her arm around her friend’s waist and beamed at her uncle. “Her grandfather said he would come to see you in a day or two for a lengthy discussion.”

  Father Andrew nodded. “Ah, good . . . good.” He liked lengthy discussions with his friend.

  The library door opened and Father Nathanael came in with a tray. He set it on one of the library’s rustic wooden tables. “I’ve brought the bread, but I thought before eating, you may like to go out onto the balcony and see something.”

  “An interruption to our visit?” Andrew grumbled.

  “You will like this interruption.”

  “Come on, old bear,” Albertina said tenderly. “Let’s go and see.”

  Father Nathanael helped him to stand, making sure he was steady, then placed a shawl around his shoulders. As the girls helped Father Andrew on either side, Father Nathanael preceded the three to the large carved doors that opened onto the balcony. He pushed against the accumulated snow, making room for the others to pass. A cacophony of joyous sound met their ears: cheers, shouts, singing. They stepped carefully through the few inches of snow to the stone railing.

  The monastery sat on the mountainside, so their view was to the west where the winter sun was setting behind the distant Alpine peaks. The long shadows of night crept through the valleys, but where normally the hamlets and villages disappeared with the coming of dark, this night it seemed as though a thousand glowing stars winked through the pine trees.

  “Ah!” the girls breathed out on a sigh.

  Father Andrew squinted into the advancing dusk. “What? What is it?”

  “A thousand torches, Uncle!”

  “And many bonfires!” Madeleine added.

  Andrew squinted again and saw glowing orbs flickering through the trees. And closer to them, in the streets of Torre Pellice, lights moving as people celebrated in the streets. “Ah! Beautiful!” he whispered.

  “February 17. We will never forget this day,” Madeleine said. “Never.”

  Father Andrew knew this was true. For generations, the children of the Waldenese would be joyous on this day of liberation. He breathed in the clean, cold winter air and adjusted the shawl around his shoulders. He saw the ink stains on his fingers, and smiled. Nearly seven hundred years of oppression struck down by words.

  Notes

  The town of Torre Pellice, in the Piedmont area of Italy, was formally known as La Tour.

  King Carlo Alberto was a member of the Savoy royal family and ruled the area of Piedmont-Sardinia from 1831 to 1849. He established a constitutional monarchy, and the 1848 constitution he set down was meant to be a standard for the eventual unifying of Italy, which, at the time, was a loosely woven group of city and papal states, the two kingdoms of Sicily, and areas ruled over by Austria. One of the things set down in the constitution was an allowance for greater freedom of worship for the Waldenese. King Carlo Alberto also declared them citizens of the state, thereby affording them recognition and security.

  When Italy did unify in 1860, King Carlo Alberto’s son Vittorio Emanuele II became its first king.

  The 1848 constitution came only eighteen months prior to Brigham Young calling missionaries to labor in Italy.

  Chapter Two


  Torre Pellice

  April 1848

  Father Andrew lay prostrate on the cold stone floor of the unadorned Beggar’s Chapel. Christ on the cross seemed to look down on him with pity. Andrew had never understood or condoned the ancient works of self-flagellation, but perhaps the scourging of the flesh released the poison of regret. Perhaps the penitent found relief from the revelations of personal depravity. Relief was what Andrew longed for. It was not the agony of personal depravity that haunted him; it was the ancient parchment in his hand, filled with words of evil and pain. Yet, he could not part from it; it was fused to his flesh as though branded there with a hot iron.

  He had been in the library translating a work concerning Pope Innocent VIII when he’d come to the end of the parchment and realized that the final argument of the papal court was missing. There had to be another scroll. Instead of waiting for a fellow priest to help him, Andrew had made his way to the small back room where the oldest manuscripts of the monastery were kept. He was one of the few priestly scribes allowed to enter the room, and he was aware of and vigilant to the duty owed. He always wore his spectacles and handled the rare items with a deft touch. He was sitting on a short stool investigating books and parchments on the bottom shelf when he’d found it. He was at the back of the room, and the light from his lantern was hazy. He had just rubbed his eyes and moved aside two stiff leather tubes containing maps when his fingers brushed over the vellum sheath. Andrew’s breath caught in his throat. There was no mistaking the feeling of well-prepared goat’s skin. He’d lifted the old volume onto his lap and opened the cover. Inside were four unbound vellum parchments, each written in a different hand, each bearing marks of wear and age. He reached for one that had been partially burned. The archaic French spoke in voices that were three hundred years old. Andrew brought the document closer to his face to make out the faded writing.

  I, Barba Revelli, pastor of the Waldenese, set forth the following account. It is made by my hand and I put my life in forfeit for so doing but I cannot be silent and face God.

  There is no town in Piedmont under a Waldensian pastor, where some of our brethren have not been cruelly persecuted or put to death.

  Hugo Chiamps of Finestrelle had his entrails torn from his living body at Turin. Peter Geymarali of Bobbio, in like manner.

  Maria Romano and Magdalen Foulano were buried alive at Rocco-patia.

  Susan Michelini was bound hand and foot, and left to perish of cold and hunger at Saracena.

  A band of pain and disgust tightened around Andrew’s chest. He wanted the words to be false, but he knew they were not. He wanted to look away, but he could not. It was no wonder that the missive held evidence of burning. All such invectives that revealed the persecution of the Waldenese found their home in the fire.

  Bartholomew Fache, gashed with sabers, had the wounds filled with quicklime and perished in agony.

  Daniel Michelini had his tongue torn out at Bobbio for having praised God.

  Paul Garnier was slowly sliced to pieces at Rorà for refusal on his part to abjure the gospel.

  There were more names, more horrors, but Andrew could not endure the inhumanity. Sickened by the stench of evil, he had fled to the small chapel, brandishing the vellum parchment and sobbing out words of anger and recrimination. He cursed the knowing of letters and languages. He demanded understanding. He fought as the weight of disillusion pressed him to the ground. After an hour of anguish his strength was spent and he cried out for solace. Exhaustion brought quietude, and as Andrew struggled to his knees, simple words came into his mind. Men are free to choose good or evil. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid. In your midst are good men who call upon my name.

  Andrew felt a small sliver of pain leave his heart, and he sat back onto the floor with a groan of release. He had heard stories of the Waldensian torture from the mouth of his friend Jean Cardon. At Jean’s request and dictation, he had written several accounts in his delicate penmanship. The stories had been brutal, but at that time he had detached himself as a scholar. Now he read the words of the parchment as a frail old man, and he was battered by the inhumanity of the world. He heard footfalls of soft-soled boots on the stones, but he was too weary to wonder at the wearer.

  “Father Andrew! Father Andrew! Where have you . . . why . . .” Father Nathanael crouched down beside Andrew and put a comforting hand on his back. “Are you all right?”

  Father Andrew tried to clear his thoughts.

  “We have been looking for you. When I did not find you in the library, I . . . Here, let me help you up.” With effort, the young priest lifted Andrew onto his feet. The old priest was unsteady and swayed precariously. Father Nathanael took his arm and reached for the crumpled parchment. “Here, let me take that.”

  “No!” Andrew barked. Then in a softer tone, “No. No, my son. I have it. I have it.” He steadied himself.

  “How long have you been here?” Father Nathanael questioned. He was watching Andrew with the eyes of a parent.

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Why did you leave the library?”

  “I needed to pray,” Father Andrew said in a feeble voice.

  Father Nathanael took his arm. “You are not well. Let me take you to your room.”

  Andrew only nodded. His thoughts were foggy and his body stiff from lying on the cold stone floor. He shuffled along, worried that he would fall, worried that he would cry. He must not cry. Lord, I must believe that You spoke words of comfort to my heart. I must believe that there are good men in the church. I know that there are good men in the church. In my many years I have seen them: men who follow your ways, who care for the poor, who love thy word.

  “Steps,” Father Nathanael warned. The two climbed slowly.

  “Father Nathanael?” Andrew said when he’d recovered his breath.

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you become a priest?”

  Father Nathanael did not answer for such a long while that Andrew was about to excuse him the telling, but the young priest finally looked over at him and smiled.

  “I grew up in Milan, in the shadow of the great cathedral. Many days when the other boys were playing their games and sports, I would wander the church, looking at the statues and paintings. I loved the stories of Christ feeding the five thousand, of walking on the water, and of raising people from the dead.”

  Andrew nodded. “The miracles.”

  “Yes. The miracles. But I was young. I thought of them like the fanciful stories my father told me of the Norsemen, or the gods of the Slavic countries.”

  “Yes, me too. Ghosts and witches.”

  “And then, when I was thirteen, my father died and my mother and I went to live with my grandmother.”

  Father Andrew stopped. “Am I tiring you?” Father Nathanael asked.

  “No, no. The talking helps. It distracts me.” He took a breath. “Now I’m ready.” They started forward. “You were speaking about your grandmother.”

  “She was a formidable woman. It was her idea I join the clergy.”

  “Not God’s idea?”

  Father Nathanael gave a half grin. “Well, God’s idea later, but her idea to begin. One did not get much past Grandmother. She wanted to control everyone’s business, and she kept her eye on me. When I was sixteen she told my mother that I was definitely not suited to be a scholar or a merchant.”

  “And the military?”

  “Not to my liking.”

  Andrew nodded. “Yes, I cannot imagine you on the battlefield.”

  Father Nathanael shook his head. “No.” They neared Father Andrew’s room. “When my grandmother mentioned the church as a possible place, I thought again of the statues and stories of the saints, and that is how my life’s occupation was settled.” The young priest opened the door and brought Andrew into the chamber.

  Andrew loo
ked anxiously into his face. “But what did you mean by ‘God’s idea later’?” Andrew put the parchment on the chair and laid his hat on top.

  As Father Nathanael spoke he helped Andrew to undress. “At first it was an occupation like any other: Get up in the morning, learn what is expected, do what is expected, and go to bed.” He helped Andrew with his robe and then had him sit on the side of the bed.

  “But then?” Andrew asked.

  “But then the words of the New Testament reached my heart.” He removed Andrew’s shoes, and helped him sit back against the pillow. “Christ was no longer just the Lord of miracles, but the preacher of truth to the woman at the well, the storyteller talking of lost sheep, candles on candlesticks, and lilies in the field.” Father Nathanael placed a blanket over Andrew’s legs.

  “The Son of God praying for us in the garden,” Andrew added.

  “Yes.”

  Andrew felt the pressure of tears in his throat. In your midst are good men who call upon my name. He groaned.

  “Father Andrew, are you in pain?”

  He gave the young priest a kindly look. “I am old, Father Nathanael, so I am always in pain, but I have learned to accept my body’s complaints.” He shifted on the bed. “No, tonight it is my soul. Sometimes my soul is too much with the world.” He took a deep breath. “Where there is hatred, let me sow love. Where there is . . . where there is—”

  “Injury—pardon,” Father Nathanael said softly.

  Andrew nodded. “Where there is doubt—faith.”

  “The words of Saint Francis are a rock in turbulent waters,” Father Nathanael said as he moved to the door. “Shall I bring you bread and soup?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Rest. I will return soon.”

  But before the young priest exited, Andrew called to him. “Father Nathanael?”

  “Yes?”

  Andrew looked over at the parchment on the chair. “What is the purpose of our calling?”

  Father Nathanael hesitated, and then came back into the room and closed the door. He went to the chair and picked up the parchment and Andrew’s cap.