The Grand Cathedral Arson #2

Not even half a day had passed since the Grand Cathedral burned, and already the day's events had been written up in the newspapers and were spreading in every direction.

More than the flames that had clung to the Grand Cathedral, it was these newspapers that were the true fire now.

The Grand Cathedral, burned black from end to end. People kept pouring in to gawk at it, and they all talked over one another.

"He raped the Holy Mother? Good God — has the Allied Kingdom ever produced a creature this vile in all its history…?"

"…The man's a complete lunatic. I hear Baron Voltaire's soldier Hans cut down his own comrades and deserted because of this Rust character, too."

"And Michelan, the head of the Artists' Association, was one of Rust's lackeys!"

What a circus of rumors.

More to the point ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠— when did I ever rape the Holy Mother?

I just clung to the Pietà statue, that's all!

I wanted to yank it down with my bare hands and smash it, but the damn thing was a rock and absurdly heavy, so it wouldn't budge. So I grunted and strained, and ended up rocking back and forth against it. That was it.

Then that bitch Milione wrote a bunch of nonsense in the papers, and now Rust has this hideous new epithet: "Holy Mother Rapist."

That same Milione was now sitting on a bench by the Grand Cathedral, swinging her legs. Her expression was bright and thoroughly delighted.

"Two hundred years of painstaking work, and the Grand Cathedral burns to the ground overnight. Honestly, you never know what life's going to throw at you. Hyde, do you have any idea how spectacular things got while you were off hiding like a coward?"

I know.

I wish I didn't.

In more ways than one, the smell of smoke was starting to make me dizzy.

"Oh, heavens…! The cathedral — our cathedral has fallen…!"

"What are we supposed to do now…!"

They were a stooped-backed cleaner and a foreign woman with an injured hand. I knew them as servants who worked at the Grand Cathedral; of course they were grieving now that their workplace had burned down.

I felt terribly sorry for them.

The burning of the Grand Cathedral was entirely Michelan's fault — but if you traced the causes carefully, I bore a speck of responsibility myself.

"Michelan, that savage. I knew what he was the moment he panned my masterpiece, Backstreet Nymph's Village. A heartless arsonist without a drop of blood or tears in him. How could he do such a—"

I'd already figured out that Michelan was some kind of psychopath the day he gave my novel a bad review.

Only a psychopath would pan my novel.

So I'd expected him to cause some kind of incident — and the fact that I foresaw it and still failed to stop him was the burden I had to carry.

In terms of shares in the Great Arson, I was maybe one percent responsible.

Still—

That one percent of responsibility felt like a great cross on my shoulders, and in the end I had no choice but to rise from my seat and speak.

"Brothers and sisters — the church in the Agarpe territory will soon open its doors anew, and we will need servants for cleaning and various other duties. Would you care to hear me out? I will cover all your expenses myself."

I drew gold coins from my pocket.

They were the money I had received as offerings from Voltaire — money I had naturally been saving to put to good use.

At the sight of the gold, the workers' tearful faces transformed in an instant.

"The Agarpe territory?"

"But Fierenzo is my hometown, and my whole family is here. How am I supposed to leave?"

"Of course you may stay if you wish. The chapel will be rebuilt soon enough. But when it is, there will be no tolls for the church, and no restrictions on entry!"

The abolition of church admission fees.

The annihilation of the Artists' Association that had opposed it.

Just as I had promised Archbishop Archibold, I had accomplished it all.

"So the Grand Cathedral burned to a cinder. You could see the smoke rising even from this manor. Good heavens — that such a dreadful thing should happen."

Archbishop Archibold was watering the flower beds in the garden with a watering can.

He said a dreadful thing had happened — yet his face betrayed no emotion at all, so calm he almost looked serene.

I asked, puzzled.

"With a fire like that, isn't the damage enormous?"

"No one was hurt, I hear. That is enough. The building was too large to begin with. His Holiness Pope Gregory forced its completion in undue haste."

"I see."

"It is a pity the building burned, but the Church is not merely a building, is it? So I intend to leave it as it is for a while. Everyone will look upon it and learn something."

So it seemed.

Indeed, the sight of a building that had seemed destined to stand for a thousand years reduced to a worthless ruin was both tragic and rich with lessons.

It gave the sense that human life, which seems as if it might last forever, will ultimately vanish — and that only salvation is eternal and immortal.

"The problem is Rust. Hyde, that man is inflating his own infamy without restraint and swelling his power. We can no longer laugh him off as some pretender merely impersonating a Great Sin."

"Is that ridiculous creature really that dangerous?"

"Who can say. But the fact that people have truly begun to believe it — that is what is dangerous. By defiling the Holy Mother and setting fire to the Grand Cathedral, he has ceased to be a mere braggart."

"……"

"Go on, then. I must water the flowers. And Hyde — however the form of it turned out, things were settled as you said they would be, so I shall fulfill what I promised."

"You mean you'll dispatch the Holy Crusade to Agarpe?"

"Yes. And one of the Knights of Six has been assigned as well. Once Rust's street sermon three days from now is dealt with, Sir Parmas will set out for the Agarpe territory."

Parmas — that old knight from earlier?

I didn't like that guy.

The old fossil who got angry at me when it was his own disciple who'd done wrong — classic reverse-victim nonsense.

"Couldn't you send someone else?"

"Sir Parmas is an excellent knight. He knows a great deal, and as a warrior his skill ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠is formidable enough that he once slew the Great Sin of Greed. He will certainly be of help."

"Is that so."

"Hyde, the world has begun to change with the fire at the Grand Cathedral. The heretics will move. To stop them, the knighthood will have to draw their swords once more."

"……"

"Five years. Within that span, another great war may well break out — a war vast enough to split the Allied Kingdom in two. In any case, that is all for today. You may go."

"Then please take care of yourself."

I offered Archbishop Archibold a light bow and withdrew.

The weather was so fine it was hard to believe there had been an arson that morning.

As I was looking at the flowers, Milione came up beside me.

"I've never seen the old man that pissed off! Serves him right! Don't you think?"

"That gentle demeanor is him being angry?"

"Yeah! He's watering the flowers himself. The only other time he did that was when I rode his favorite horse off a cliff and killed it."

As she spoke, Milione's cheek was red and swollen.

The mark of a blow from someone.

"It says in the Bible, you know. Parents are supposed to take up the rod to discipline their children. So I got hit."

"Then maybe you should have behaved better in the first place."

Milione, you need a few more beatings.

I half wanted to take a switch to your backside myself.

"Kyahaha! Serves him right! Serves him right! That's our Rust for you! You can go on about the great Archbishop Archibold all you want — he's no match for Rust!"

Milione laughed as if it were the funniest thing in the world.

I spoke to her.

"Milione, I hear there's a trial tomorrow in the square for the ringleaders of the arson, and that you are one of the defendants. Are you sure you should be laughing like this?"

"What are you worried about? My dad will just use that ridiculous power of his to pull me out again. He's always done it. No matter what mess I made, he covered it all up."

With that, Milione whirled away into the distance.

From where I stood, it looked like her father hadn't hit her hard enough.

With that thought, I sat in the garden and was offering a prayer of repentance for the day's events when—

"—Ah, Lord Hyde."

Someone approached me.

He was a butler with white hair grown long and tied neatly behind, a monocle on his face.

His name was Fred, I believed.

The head butler who oversaw the entire Archibold estate.

"Butler. What is it?"

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"Are you aware that a trial will be held tomorrow? I have heard that Lady Milione must appear as a defendant at a public tribunal."

"I have heard. The newspapers are making quite a fuss about it. But Lady Milione is, strictly speaking, a victim of Rust, is she not?"

And she's the archbishop's daughter.

What could possibly go wrong—

That was what I thought, but Butler Fred seemed deeply uneasy.

"…There was an occasion, long ago. The day Lady Johanna, the mistress of this house, gave birth to young Lady Milione and then passed away—. On that day, His Excellency watered the flowers in the garden just as he is doing now."

"Is that so?"

"It had been raining in sheets from morning until dawn, so there was no need to water anything. Looking back, a great many things changed after that day. In Durgien, many people died without anyone knowing why."

"And that has some connection to the present?"

"Lord Hyde, this old man sees in you an excellent priest. So I would ask that you listen carefully to what I am about to say. It is a story I once told a young, passionate priest much like ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠yourself—."

"What is it you wish to tell me?"

"In this world, there are those who appear to be angry, yet are in truth weeping. Please lend your ear to the voices of those who weep in sorrow. Now, if you will excuse me…"

With that, Butler Fred bowed his head and withdrew.

The next day.

The arson of the Grand Cathedral.

For the trial of this unprecedented incident, a great throng of people crowded into the square of Fierenzo.

In the center of the square sat people bound hand and foot, and their presence alone drew a fresh wave of public fascination.

"That's Michelan! That bastard set fire to the Grand Cathedral? Is that true?"

"Lord Rust! This Michelan is Lord Rust's loyal servant! I shall martyr myself for Lord Rust just as I am! Behold the spectacle of my blood spraying like flame — my greatest masterpiece! Kyaaaah! Execute me already!!! When I die I shall join seventy-two beauties in hell—!!!"

Michelan. True to form for an uncultured medieval savage — a complete madman.

The crowd now turned their heads from Michelan to the woman bound so beautifully among them.

Her hands, feet, and head were locked in stocks like a criminal's, yet no one truly thought of her as a criminal.

"Live long enough and you even get to see Milione Archibold trussed up like that."

"She'll be free soon enough. She's Archbishop Archibold's daughter."

"Right?"

The crowd chattered noisily.

And in the very middle of it all, sitting bound, Milione Archibold looked exceedingly demure, pitiful, and beautiful.

"Seeing her so quiet like that, she's truly lovely. Just like a single white rose."

"Well, her mother Johanna was the greatest beauty in the kingdom. That Medici fellow — a commoner who married the Archibold family's only daughter and rose all the way to archbishop—."

"Shh, someone might hear. More importantly, when are the judge and the jury getting here?"

As the crowd murmured, knights in cloaks and swords began filing into the public tribunal, and with them came a bishop of considerable bulk, his belly well padded, a man of imposing presence.

He was bald, his head polished smooth, and his beard was as luxuriant as Zhang Fei's.

"I am Coramdeo, Gold Badge Archbishop, attending this place as judge in the name of the Heavenly Father and His proxy, Pope Gregory II."

Gold Badge Archbishop Coramdeo.

This man, too, was quite formidable.

After all, he was one of only three archbishops in the entire Church.

And his end was quite something as well.

As I was thinking that, Coramdeo spoke.

"As a servant of the Lord, I swear upon the Scriptures and upon Heaven that I shall deliver a judgment free of shame! Now — let the jury enter!"

Knights with swords stepped forward.

Among them was Sir Parmas, one of the Knights of Six. Indeed — with the archbishop's daughter on trial and the Grand Cathedral burned, both jury and judge were heavyweight appointments.

In a situation like this, what scheme will Archbishop Archibold use to clear his daughter and preserve his own glory?

I found the prospect fascinating enough that my heart was pounding with anticipation.

Everyone gathered here was probably thinking the same thing.

"Given the gravity and urgency of the situation, by the papal decree of His Holiness Gregory II, this Coramdeo shall hear the testimony. Do any of the accused wish to offer a defense?"

"None!"

Michelan shouted bravely.

Michelan was a madman.

Then Milione Archibold looked around her.

Searching for her father's face, perhaps?

Archbishop Archibold was seated among the spectators.

But that was all.

He did not defend his daughter, nor did he appear to have hired a lawyer.

"Then, taking it that none of you intend to offer a defense, I shall read the verdict already deliberated with the jury. Defendants Michelan and Milione Archibold. Upon you both, I pronounce the sentence of death."

Death—

At that word, the crowd began to stir.

They were criminals for whom a death sentence would not have been strange — yet no one had truly expected them to receive one.

"Death? Don't make me laugh. Do you know who my father is? Archbishop Medici Archibold. He's definitely going to submit some piece of evidence that overturns this verdict! At worst I'll get three months as a novice nun doing charity work at a convent."

Milione laughed — puhaha.

But when the sword-bearing knights appeared and began to drag them away, Milione Archibold seemed to sense that something was wrong, and she cried out urgently.

"Dad! Say something!"

Milione resisted.

Her formidable strength gave the knights trouble, but Archibold still said nothing at all. Only then did I understand what Butler Fred had been trying to tell me the day before.

Medici Archibold.

He had given up on saving his own daughter.

I was not the only one to realize it.

One by one, people began raising their hands and shouting.

"Execute her!"

"Hang her!"

"Burn her!"

Only moments ago they had been watching the trial with fascinated interest. Now they were roaring like a mob — and the reason was simple.

People loved to drag the high and mighty down and tear them to shreds.

The heat rising around me made my vision swim.

Death.

Was Milione Archibold truly someone who deserved such a sentence?

As Wrath of the Great Sin Seat, perhaps.

But in the matter of the Grand Cathedral arson, Milione Archibold's crime was one that called for a parental thrashing and a fine.

No — from the start, Milione had been put under "hypnosis" by Rust.

She, too, was a victim, someone who might even deserve comfort.

And yet — a death sentence—

By what right does one human being pronounce a death sentence upon another?

"I object—!"

By the time I came to my senses, I had already leapt to my feet and was shouting before a crowd of nearly a thousand. I felt a thousand pairs of eyes snap toward me in an instant.