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Edward and Saint Ambrose rested at Châlons on their arduous journey to Paris. Weeks of begging, sleeping in humble lodgings, and enduring the harshness of winter had forged a bond between the saint and his penitent follower, Edward. Despite his past transgressions, Edward’s patience, courage, and deep remorse had earned him the saint’s affection.
Edward’s demeanor had changed drastically. Once filled with sin and vice, he now displayed the gentleness of a lamb, the obedience of a faithful servant, and a profound devotion to prayers and penance. He found solace in Saint Ambrose’s teachings about heaven and holy matters, especially in the stories of Blaise, the saintly youth whose life and death were recounted with reverence by the saint.
Saint Ambrose often spoke of Blaise’s origins in Salem, his noble lineage, his early family tragedies, his youthful age of twenty, and his dark, pale complexion. In contrast, Edward spoke little of himself, focusing instead on his shame, remorse, and the journey that led him to seek redemption at the saint’s side.
As they rested in a humble hut overlooking the Maine River, Edward, clad in a rough brown robe, read aloud from the writings of Saint Jerome. The cold seeped through the cracks in the walls, denying them the luxury of a warm fire. Edward’s face, once marked by sin and excess, now bore the signs of penance and hardship.
As he read, Edward noticed Saint Ambrose, slumped on a bench, exhausted from their travels. He had not slept for three nights, and now he either slept or had swooned, his fair head drooping forward.
Edward, feeling a surge of bitter emotions, slowly rose from his stool. Hunger gnawed at his stomach, and the cold pierced his bones. Scorn and derision twisted his features as he regarded the sleeping saint. With cautious steps, he approached the door and looked out at the desolate landscape.
The distant towers of Châlons pierced the wintry sky, and the river flowed silently between its snowy banks. Edward, now consumed by a mix of desperation and defiance, ventured towards the Maine River. The wind whipped at his thin frame, and he beat his chest in anguish.
Standing at the riverbank, Edward surveyed the lonely expanse. No signs of life met his gaze—no boats, no animals, no homes—only the stark beauty of land, sky, and water. He wandered among the gnarled willows, his mind a tumult of conflicting thoughts and emotions.
Edward trudged through the snow, his breath visible in the frigid air. Ahead, he spied a black man and a black dog seated on the riverbank, both staring intently toward Châlons. Summoning his courage, Edward approached them.
“Good even,” Edward said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “It’s mighty cold.”
The Blackamoor turned, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Are you content with your journey, and your companion?” he asked, nodding slightly.
Edward’s face darkened. “How much longer must I suffer this?”
“You must have patience,” the black man replied, his tone calm and measured. “And endurance.”
“I have both,” Edward said, his voice edged with bitterness. “Look at my hands—they’re no longer soft, but red and hard. My feet are blistered and bleeding from these rough boots. I walk until I’m ready to collapse, then pray instead of sleeping. I see no fire and barely taste food.”
The hell-hound at the Blackamoor’s side whined, its eyes gleaming like embers in the dark. The jewels in the man’s collar sparkled, casting an eerie glow.
“You will be rewarded,” the Blackamoor said, “and avenged too—oh, ho, it is indeed cold, as you say, very cold.”
“What must I do?” Edward asked, his voice trembling with desperation.
The black man rubbed his hands together, a malevolent smile playing on his lips. “You know what you must do.”
Edward’s wan face grew determined. “Am I to use this?” He touched his rough habit where he had hidden a small green phial.
“Yes.”
Edward’s voice wavered. “Then I shall be defenseless. If anything should happen...I could not...oh, Sathanas! I could not be revealed!”
The Blackamoor stood, towering over Edward. “Do you trust yourself and me?” he asked.
Edward covered his eyes with a thin hand. “Yes, master.”
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“Then you know what to do. You will not see me for many years, but when you have triumphed, I shall come.”
With that, the Blackamoor and his hound leapt into the waters of the Maine and vanished with a soft splash.
Resolving himself, Edward reentered the hut to find Saint Ambrose still slumped against the wall, deeply asleep. Moving stealthily, Edward reached into his bosom and drew out the green phial. He broke the seal, his eyes never leaving the saint’s peaceful face.
Saint Ambrose’s rosary hung beside him, each bead worn smooth from constant prayer. Edward lifted the heavy crucifix attached to it and carefully poured a single precious drop from the phial onto the holy symbol. The saint remained still, undisturbed by Edward’s actions. Edward retreated to the wall, his eyes fierce as he cursed the biting wind.
When Saint Ambrose awoke, Edward was again seated on the broken stool, reading aloud from the writings of Saint Jerome.
“Is it still light?” Saint Ambrose asked, bewildered.
“It is dawn,” Edward replied.
“And I have slept through the night.” The saint, his body stiff and aching, fell to his knees, overcome with misery and prayer.
Dunk closed the book and watched the saint intently; watched his long fingers twining in the beads of his rosary, watched him kiss the crucifix over and over. Then Dunk, too, knelt, his face buried in his hands. He was the first to rise.
“Master, shall we press on to Paris?” he asked humbly.
The saint lifted dazed eyes from his devotions. “Yea,” he said. “Yea.”
Dunk began bundling their few belongings—books, a wooden platter used to collect their meager food. This was all they possessed.
“I dreamt last night of Paradise,” Saint Ambrose said faintly. “The ground was thick with tiny flowers—red, white, and purple... and it was warm, like Italy in May.”
Dunk swung the bundle onto his shoulder and opened the door of the hut. “There’s no sun today,” he remarked.
“How long it has been since we’ve seen the sun,” said Saint Ambrose wistfully.
They stepped out into the dreary landscape and made their slow way along the banks of the Maine. Until midday they did not pause, scarcely spoke. Then they passed through a small village where the charitable gave them food.
That night they slept in the open, under the shelter of a hedge. Ambrose of Menthon complained of weakness; Dunk, waking in the dark, heard him praying... heard, too, the rattle of the wooden rosary.
When dawn broke and they resumed their journey, the saint was so feeble he had to lean on Dunk’s shoulder. “I think I am dying,” he said. His face was flushed, his eyes burning, and he smiled continuously. “Let me reach Paris,” he added, “so I may tell the Brethren of Blaise...”
The youth supporting him wept bitterly.
By noon, they met a woodman’s cart that helped them on their way. That night they slept in the stable of an inn. The next day they descended into the valley of the Seine, and by evening, they reached the gates of Paris.
As the bells across the beautiful city rang for vespers, they arrived at their destination—a grand old convent surrounded by vast gardens near the riverbank. The winter sky had finally cleared, revealing gold and scarlet hues against which the buildings stood in stark relief.
The straight roof of the convent, the little tower with its slow-moving bell, the bare fruit trees, the herb beds sweet-smelling even now, and the red lamp glowing in the dark doorway, all appeared to Edward as he entered the gate. He looked at them intently, bitter memories darkening his hollow face.
The monks were singing the Magnificat, their thin voices carrying clearly in the frosty air.
“Fecit potentiam in brachio suo: dispersit superbos mente cordis sui.”
Ambrose of Menthon took his feeble hand from Dunk’s arm and sank to his knees.
“Deposuit potentes de sede, et exaltavit humiles.”
But Edward’s pale lips curled in disdain, and as he gazed at the sunset flaming beyond the convent walls, a haughty challenge burned in his brooding eyes.
“Esurientes implevit bonis, et divites dimisit manes. Suscepit Israel puerum suum, recordatus misericordiae suae.”
The saint murmured the chanted words, clasping his hands to his chest, while the sky brightened vividly above the wide waters of the Seine.
“Sicut locutus est ad patres nostros Abraham et semini ejus in saecula.”
The chant faded into the still evening, but the saint remained kneeling.
“Master,” whispered Edward, “shall we not go in to them?”
“I am dying,” he smiled weakly. “A keen flame licks up my blood and burns my heart to ashes—‘Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus.’” His voice faltered, and he slumped forward, his head falling against the grey beds of rue and fennel.
“Alas! alas!” cried Edward. He made no attempt to seek assistance, nor did he call out; instead, he stood still, gazing intently at the unconscious man.
When the monks emerged from the chapel and walked in pairs toward the convent, Edward pulled off his worn cap.
“Divinum auxilium maneat semper nobiscum,” they chanted.
“Amen,” said Edward, before running forward and flinging himself before the procession. “My father!” he cried, a sob in his voice.
The priests halted, the “amens” still trembling on their lips.
“Ambrose of Menthon lies within your gates, a dying man,” Edward said meekly and sadly.
With murmurs of awe and grief, the grey-clad figures followed him to where the saint lay.
“Ah me!” murmured Edward. “The way has been so long, so rough, so cold.”
Reverently, they raised Saint Ambrose.
“He has done with his body,” said an old monk, supporting the dying man.
The flushed sky faded behind them; the saint stirred and half-opened his eyes.
“Blaise,” he whispered. “Blaise”—he tried to point to Edward, who knelt at his feet—“he will tell you.” His eyes closed again, he struggled to pray; the “De profundis” trembled on his lips. He made a sudden upward gesture with his hands, smiled, and died.
For a moment, there was silence among them, broken only by a short sob from Dunk. Then the monks turned to the ragged, emaciated youth crouching at the dead man’s feet.
“Blaise, he said,” one murmured. “It is the holy youth.”
Edward roused himself from what seemed a silent prayer, made the sign of the cross, and rose.
“Who art thou?” they asked reverently.
Dunk lifted a tear-stained, weary face. “The youth Blaise, my fathers,” he answered humbly.