Chapter 1: The Bells of Saint-Pierre

The bell of Saint-Pierre tolled seven times, each peal slow and heavy, sending echoes rolling through the narrow streets of Avignon. Luc de Mirepoix paused at the threshold of his family’s shop, a bolt of woven linen clutched in his arms. The chime made his skin crawl. For months now, the bells had marked not the hours, but the dead. A chill wind swept along the rue des Teinturiers, carrying the dampness of the Rhône and the faint, ever-present scent of burning pitch—meant to purify the air, or so the physicians said. Luc’s mother, Marie, appeared behind him, her face thin and pale beneath her kerchief. She took the linen from his arms and smoothed it with trembling fingers. “Come inside, Luc,” she urged, glancing at the deserted street. “We do not linger at doorways.” Luc obeyed, but not before stealing a glance toward the Papal Palace, its pale stone turrets jutting above the rooftops. Even in plague, the Pope’s banners fluttered defiantly. Avignon, the City of Popes, had not been spared. Inside, the shop was a world of shadows and dust. Luc’s father, Jean, hunched behind the counter, his eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights. The shelves, once lined with fine cloth, now held only rough wool and linen; the Venetian silks had vanished months ago, their suppliers lost to the pestilence. Luc saw his father’s gaze fix on him with a mixture of pride and worry. “You must deliver this to Madame Fournier,” Jean said, pushing a small parcel across the counter. “But take care. Use the side alley. And do not touch any beggars.” Luc nodded. He’d heard the stories—the plague spread by foul airs, ill fortune, or even a glance from the wrong person. He wrapped a vinegar-soaked rag around his nose, as his mother had taught him, and slid the parcel beneath his cloak. Outside, the city felt haunted. Shutters banged in the wind, and shop doors bore crude chalk crosses. Passing the Carmelite convent, Luc glimpsed a line of carts laden with bodies, faces covered in linen. A friar muttered prayers as the carts rumbled toward the cemetery beyond the walls. Luc hurried on, heart pounding. He was sixteen, nearly a man, yet in this year of death, he felt small and frightened. He tried to remember the world before—feasts in the square, the laughter of friends. Most of them were gone now, or vanished behind locked doors. At last, he reached Madame Fournier’s door. He knocked softly. After a long pause, the door creaked open, revealing a thin, veiled woman. She took the linen with trembling hands, pressing a silver coin into his palm. “God keep you, Luc,” she whispered. He nodded, unable to reply. As he turned to leave, the church bells began to toll again—another death, another soul lost to the plague. Luc pulled his cloak tighter, and hurried home, the weight of the city’s sorrow pressing down on his narrow shoulders. —

Chapter 2: Shadows and Ashes

Night in Avignon was no longer a time for laughter or song. The city’s narrow lanes, once alive with the clamour of merchants and laughter, now echoed only with the distant wails of the bereaved and the creak of the death carts. Luc sat on a low stool in the kitchen, watching the fire dance in the hearth as his mother stirred a thin pot of barley gruel. The smell of woodsmoke mingled with the sharp tang of burning herbs. Marie moved with the weary precision of one who had lost count of her prayers. “You washed your hands?” she asked, glancing at Luc. “And your boots?” “Yes, Mother,” Luc replied, showing his reddened palms. “I used the vinegar.” She nodded, satisfied, and spooned a meagre portion into his bowl. Luc ate in silence, listening to the rhythmic scrape of his father’s pen as Jean tallied debts by candlelight. The ledger was thin—too many customers gone, too many credits never to be repaid. When the knock came at the door, all three of them started. No one visited after sunset now. Jean set down his pen and rose slowly, fetching the iron poker from beside the hearth. Luc’s heart thudded in his chest. Marie drew him close, her arm a trembling shield. The knock came again, softer but insistent. Jean opened the door a crack, peering into the gloom. A young woman stood outside, her face half-hidden by a woolen scarf. Luc recognized her at once—Isabeau, the apothecary’s daughter. “Forgive me, Monsieur de Mirepoix,” she said, her voice hushed. “My father…he is worse. I beg you, do you have any cloth to spare for bandages? The nuns at Saint-Martial have none left.” Jean hesitated, then nodded. “Come in, child. Quickly.” Isabeau slipped inside, shivering. Her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion, but she managed a grateful smile at Luc. They had known each other since childhood, but the world had changed since then. Now, every kindness felt precious. Marie fetched a bundle of coarse linen. “Take this, and my prayers as well,” she said. Isabeau accepted the cloth, her fingers brushing Luc’s. For a moment, their eyes met—a flicker of hope amid the darkness. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I will not forget your kindness.” As she left, Luc watched her disappear into the night, the scarf fluttering behind her like a pennant of defiance. He wondered if he would see her again, or if she too would vanish, swept away by the tide of death. That night, Luc lay awake, listening to the distant bells. He thought of Isabeau braving the streets alone, of his father’s worried eyes, of the empty houses and silent churches. He wondered what it meant to become a man in a world so uncertain, where each morning was a victory and each evening a prayer. —

Chapter 3: The Weight of Loss

Spring crept slowly into Avignon, its arrival muted by the shadow of plague. The plane trees along the city walls unfurled their leaves, but the markets remained empty, and the laughter of children was a memory. Luc spent his days running errands, his mind restless with questions he dared not ask. The news from outside the city was grim. Merchants whispered of entire villages wiped out, of fields left fallow and roads haunted by the desperate and the dying. Yet in the midst of sorrow, life persisted. Luc’s mother baked bread, his father patched tattered ledgers, and the bells continued their mournful toll. One afternoon, a messenger arrived from the Papal Palace—an official summons for Jean de Mirepoix. The Pope’s household, desperate for supplies, had called upon the city’s remaining merchants to deliver goods to the palace kitchens. Jean dressed in his best tunic, but Luc saw the fear in his father’s eyes. “If I do not return by nightfall,” Jean said quietly, “you are the man of this house. Protect your mother. Mind the shop.” Luc nodded, feeling the weight of the words settle upon him like a mantle. He watched his father disappear into the labyrinth of streets, the Papal Palace looming in the distance. The hours passed slowly. Luc busied himself restocking shelves, sweeping the floor, and fixing the broken latch on the storeroom door. Marie prayed by the window, her rosary beads worn smooth by worry. When dusk fell, Jean had not returned. By morning, a courier arrived—a papal scribe with a face like grave wax. He carried Jean’s ring and a note written in a shaky hand: “Pray for me. The fever took hold swiftly. May God protect you.” Marie crumpled to the floor, her wail echoing through the silent shop. Luc stood frozen, the ring cold in his palm. In that instant, childhood ended. He was sixteen, but the world required more. That night, Luc sat alone by the fire, his father’s ring heavy on his finger. He looked at his mother, her eyes red and hollow, and understood that he must be strong—not for himself, but for her. The world had changed, and so must he. —

Chapter 4: The Market of Ghosts

Luc rose before dawn, shoulders stiff with grief but mind sharpened by necessity. The shop could not feed them much longer; he must find a way to keep his mother alive. The city’s central market, once a riot of color and sound, now echoed with the quiet desperation of the living. He wrapped his father’s cloak around his shoulders and loaded a cart with their best cloth—rough, but sturdy. “I will return soon, Mother,” he said, pressing a kiss to Marie’s brow. She clung to his hand, eyes brimming with silent pleading. The streets were eerily empty, save for scavenging dogs and the ever-present death carts. Luc passed the apothecary’s shop and paused, heart pounding. He saw Isabeau inside, her face streaked with soot as she tended to a cauldron. He rapped softly on the glass. She opened the door, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Luc! I heard about your father. I am so sorry.” He nodded, unable to find words. “If you need help, I can—” Isabeau shook her head. “Father passed last night. I… I am all that remains.” They stood in silence, the weight of loss binding them together. Finally, Luc spoke. “We must survive. For them. Will you join me at market?” She nodded, wiping her hands on her apron. Together, they pushed the cart through the sunlit streets, the city’s wounds laid bare all around them. At the market, a few traders haggled in hushed voices, eyes hollow with suspicion and fear. Luc and Isabeau set up their stall, displaying cloth and tinctures. A nun from Saint-Martial approached, her hands trembling as she bartered for linen and herbs. Each sale felt like a small defiance, proof that life endured. As the sun climbed higher, Luc glanced at Isabeau, her face set in determination. He realized he was not alone in his struggle. Side by side, they faced the city’s sorrow, finding strength in one another’s presence. When the day ended, their cart was lighter, and Luc’s pouch heavier. He offered Isabeau half the coins, but she shook her head. “Keep them. Your mother needs them more.” He protested, but she smiled—a glimmer of hope in the ashes. “We will survive, Luc. Together.” They walked home through streets gilded by evening light, the first stirrings of friendship—and something more—growing between them. —

Chapter 5: Beneath Papal Shadows

The summer sun rose high over Avignon, a harsh white glare on the pale stones of the Papal Palace. Luc and Isabeau found themselves summoned to the palace gates, their goods requested by the Pope’s steward. The summons was both an honor and a risk; the plague still smoldered within the palace walls. Luc dressed carefully, pinning his father’s ring to his tunic. Isabeau tied her hair back, her hands steady despite the danger. Together, they crossed the square, past statues of saints and clusters of beggars whose faces bore the marks of fear and hunger. Inside the gates, the palace was a world apart—lavish halls, tapestries heavy with dust, servants moving with silent urgency. The steward, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, greeted them brusquely. “Cloth for the kitchens, herbs for the infirmary,” he said, barely looking at them. “Set your wares here. Wait.” As they waited, Luc watched the bustle of palace life. Cardinals in red robes whispered in corners, their faces pinched with worry. In a distant courtyard, a group of nuns tended to the sick, their voices rising in song. It was a strange world—one foot in grandeur, the other in despair. Finally, the steward returned, counting coins into Luc’s palm. “The Pope thanks you. Return next week.” As they left, Isabeau grasped Luc’s hand. “Did you see the faces of the servants? They are as frightened as the rest of us.” Luc nodded. “They are trapped by their own walls. Gold and power cannot protect against death.” They walked home in silence, the weight of the palace’s sorrow pressing upon them. Yet as they reached the city gates, Luc felt a new resolve. He was no longer the frightened boy of spring. He stood taller, his heart steadied by purpose and by Isabeau’s quiet strength at his side. That night, as they watched the stars from the apothecary’s rooftop, Isabeau leaned her head on Luc’s shoulder. “We are still here,” she whispered. “And while we are, we must live.” Luc nodded, feeling the stirrings of hope—fragile, but real—take root within him. —

Chapter 6: The Promise of Autumn

The months passed, and the plague’s grip loosened. The bells tolled less often, and the markets began to fill, cautiously, with the living. Luc and Isabeau grew their trade, tending to the sick and the weary, offering cloth and tinctures, a listening ear and a word of comfort. Marie, once shadowed by grief, began to smile again. She baked bread for the nuns, her hands steady with purpose. Luc watched her with quiet pride, grateful for each day that dawned. One crisp morning, Luc and Isabeau strolled along the city walls, the Rhône glittering in the distance. They spoke of the future—of reopening the shop, of rebuilding what had been lost. Isabeau confided her dream of studying medicine with the nuns, to learn more than her father had been able to teach. “You could join me,” she said quietly. “There is much to be done. So many lives to heal.” Luc hesitated. He thought of his father’s shop, of his mother’s hopes, of the city he loved. But he also thought of the pain he had seen, of the need for hands and hearts willing to rebuild. “I will try,” he said at last, a smile breaking through. “For you. For all of us.” As they watched the sun set over Avignon, Luc realized that growing up did not mean forgetting sorrow, but learning to carry it—and to build something new from its ashes. —

Chapter 7: The Year of Reckoning

The year turned, and Avignon slowly healed. The city’s wounds would never fully fade, but hope budded in the cracks. Luc became a fixture in the market, known for his steady hand and kind heart. Isabeau apprenticed with the nuns, her knowledge growing with each passing day. One evening, as the first autumn rains fell, Luc sat with his mother by the fire. He took her hand, the memory of his father’s ring warm between them. “We survived, Mother,” he said softly. Marie smiled, tears glinting in her eyes. “Your father would be proud.” Luc thought of the boy he had been—a child afraid of shadows, uncertain of his place in the world. He was no longer that boy. The plague had taken much, but it had also given him purpose, and the courage to shape his own fate. Outside, Isabeau waited, her lantern casting golden light on the rain-slick stones. Luc rose, embracing his mother, and stepped into the night, the future bright with possibility. Avignon’s bells tolled, not for death, but for evening prayers—a song of hope carried on the autumn wind. —