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cloudy dawn at the beginning of June, a few days after the visit to the Pope’s castle, Jonas and I set off towards Paris. Our horses looked great following several days of plenty of food and rest at the captaincy stables, and they also seemed to be very satisfied with their new luxurious garments. I, on the other hand, couldn’t say the same for myself. In addition to being tired, I felt uncomfortable and strange in this stuffy court outfit, imprisoned in an elegant brocade coat and looking ridiculous with the terrible red and gold boots with a curled toe.
    The young Jonas was still angry with me, feeling little less than a victim of a shameful abduction. He had barely opened his mouth since the first night, only speaking to me when absolutely necessary, as if he didn’t have time for any nonsense, and as I was focused on the papal documents, I didn’t pay him the slightest attention.
    Shortly after leaving Avignon, barely a couple of hours later, I came to a halt at the entrance of a small town named Roquemaure.
    “We will stay here,” I announced. “Go on ahead to the inn and order us some food.”
    “Here?” protested Jonas. “But this village doesn’t even seem to be inhabited!”
    “Well it is. Ask for François’ inn. We will eat there. Take care of everything while I take a look around.”
    I watched him enter the village with his head sunk between his shoulders, dragging behind him the mares we had been given in Avignon to carry our equipment and which, due to their large size, are highly sought after there and are known as haquenées. Jonas was actually a remarkable boy; he wasn’t to blame for his great pride, as it was a family trait that only improved over time and with the blows of life.
    Roquemaure was made up of four or five peasant houses and, taking advantage of the fact that the Avignon-Paris road ran through the village, they all sold food and offered lodgings to travelers. Its proximity to the city somewhat lessened the benefits but it was said that, precisely due to its location, the prelates from the court of Avignon frequently went there to discretely meet their lovers which is how they all stayed in business.
    Well, on the morning of the 20th of April 1314, the retinue of the poor, sick Pope Clement had stopped in Roquemaure. The Pope had begun a journey — which had ended in death —, to his hometown of Wlaudraut, in Gascony, to recover from what the medical reports in my leather folder described as ‘attacks of anxiety and suffering, whose only physical symptom was a persistent fever’. The deterioration of the Pope forced the retinue to stop and seek refuge in the only official inn in the village, the one belonging to the innkeeper François. A few hours later, between sharp spasms of pain, Pope Clement died, bleeding from every orifice in his body.
    Faced with the inevitable, and to avoid rumors and nasty comments, given the village’s bad reputation, the cardinals of the Apostolic Chamber decided to discretely move the body to the Dominican priorate in Avignon, where the Pope had resided since the Council of Vienne in 1311. Clement’s personal servant, Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valery, had sworn on the cross that His Holiness had not had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, before leaving Avignon. Interestingly, shortly after, Cardinal Saint-Valery had requested to be sent to Rome as a vicar to take control of the Papal State’s taxes.
    The inn’s dining room was a small, dark place, with a strong smell of food and was filled with the steam that was coming from the pots over the fire. Between the wine barrels, stacked here and there, the walls appeared to be stained with filthy grease spots which was not a good recommendation for delicate stomachs. Jonas was waiting for me, bored, at the only clean table in the establishment, playing with crumbs from a loaf of bread that he had been given to accompany the food. I sat in front of him, placing my coat to one side.
    “What