“And your point is?”

“Two things may be true at the same time. The Church is there to bring men to God. But bishops and popes are men, like kings. They experience the same passions. In the old days, the days of Saint Denis, for instance, when Christians were persecuted, as Jews are now, their faith was probably more pure. But now that the Church is rich and powerful, there will be some corruption. I think it’s inevitable.”

Naomi looked down thoughtfully for a few moments. Then she turned her blue eyes on him.

“If the Church is corrupt, Father, why did you leave your faith to join it?”

He stared at her, taken aback. She had never asked him this question before. Of course, when he had first converted, he had given the expected reasons—that Christ was indeed the Messiah that good Jews had been waiting for. And he had often pointed out to his children, at appropriate times during the year, how closely the Christian Church was following this or that aspect of the original Jewish faith. But beyond that, the subject was never discussed. He was sure that Sarah had seen to that.

So had Naomi been brooding about it all these years? It sounded as if she had. And was this the moment of reckoning, when he should tell her the truth? “I converted to save your skin, and that of your brother, and your mother and, yes, my own as well.” Could he say that? He dare not. She was still a girl.

“Because I believe Jesus Christ was the Messiah,” he said. “You know this, Naomi.”

She continued to stare at him, but said nothing more, neither then nor for many months. Whatever her feelings, she kept them to herself. He hoped it was because she loved him.

And perhaps she might have kept silent forever—who could tell?—had it not been for an extraordinary event that took place in 1305, when Naomi was fifteen.

The dispute between King Philip and the pope remained at a furious stalemate until, quite suddenly, the pope had obligingly died. Within months his elderly successor had followed him to the grave—poisoned, probably. A new election was to take place in Rome, and Parisians waited to see whether the next pope would be any more friendly toward their master. The election was delayed. Word came that there was confusion in the Holy City.

It was mid-afternoon on a day in June when Renard arrived at Jacob’s house. The little family were all there.

“I believe I am first with the news,” he declared. And seeing this to be the case, he quickly continued. “We have a new pope. Can you guess who it is? The bishop of Bordeaux.”

“He’s not even a cardinal!” Jacob cried.

“No. But he’s French. He’s King Philip’s man. Our king must have been working behind the scenes.”

Kings often tried to influence papal elections, to get a pope who’d favor them, but this was an extreme case.