Isabella took a deep breath.
She knew this moment would come sooner or later.
She pushed the sleeping Anton further onto the bed, covered him with the blanket, and said in a hoarse voice, “Please come in, Lord Abbot.” The door opened.
Giovanni stepped inside.
He had changed into a simpler grey friar’s robe and carried a wooden tray with a glass of wine sweetened with honey.
He set the glass on the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down a short distance from the bed.
He was in no rush to speak.
He merely watched Isabella silently, his eyes brimming with pity.
That look made Isabella feel like a sinner awaiting salvation.
“Drink a little,” Giovanni said, pushing the glass toward her.
“You need to relax.” Isabella shook her head.
Giovanni did not press her.
He sighed and spoke.
“I know you are in great pain right now, and full of hate.” Isabella’s body trembled.
“You hate those villagers.
They acted like wild beasts, destroying your home and plundering your possessions.” “You hate me too.” Giovanni looked directly into her eyes.
“You believe I incited them.
That I caused all of this.” Isabella bit her lip, remaining silent.
But her eyes said it all.
“Child,” Giovanni’s voice grew softer, yet heavier, “what you see is merely the surface of things.” “Have you ever wondered why?
Why would those villagers, who were normally so submissive and respectful toward your husband, suddenly turn into beasts?” “It was the Lord’s wrath, my child.
The Lord used their hands to execute judgment.” “Bartolo’s death was not a riot.
It was a long-overdue, holy sacrifice.” Isabella whipped her head up, glaring at him in rage.
“Sacrifice?
My husband’s head was smashed open with a hammer, and you call that a sacrifice?” “Yes,” Giovanni’s expression did not change in the slightest; instead, it grew even more solemn.
“To cleanse the sins he committed in life.” “Sins?” “Yes, sins.” Giovanni stood up.
“The sin of greed.
He possessed the most land, the finest cattle and sheep in the village, yet was still unsatisfied.
Like a ravenous rat, he hoarded grain that rightfully belonged to the poor.” “The sin of exploitation.
He forced those poor tenant farmers to labor for him year-round, leaving them with barely enough yield to stave off starvation.
He ate white bread and drank fine wine, while those who bled and sweated for him were left gnawing on moldy black bread.” “The sin of usury.
He lent money to desperate people with nowhere else to turn, demanding devilish interest.
How many families were ruined because of his promissory notes?” “And most crucial of all,” Giovanni looked down at Isabella, “the sin of sacrilege.” “He openly mocked the Lord’s grace and boycotted the sacred Firstfruits Thanksgiving.
He placed his own greed above the glory of the Lord.
With his own hands, he opened the gates of this village to the devil.” Giovanni pointed out the window.
“That poisoned well, the bread that would not rise, the ox that dropped dead, and the fire that burned down your granary—do you truly believe I caused all of that?” “No, my child.
That was divine punishment.
Warning after warning from the Lord.” “Yet Bartolo did not repent.
Instead, he redoubled his cruelty, whipping an innocent tenant farmer to death.” “With that innocent man’s blood, he utterly ignited the Lord’s fury.” “That is why last night’s judgment came to pass.
It was not the villagers’ rage; it was the Lord’s wrath.
It was not a robbery; it was the Lord taking back what never belonged to Bartolo in the first place, returning it to those who truly needed it.” Giovanni’s speech left Isabella dizzy and lightheaded.
She wanted to refute him.
She wanted to say that although Bartolo was greedy and stingy, his sins did not warrant death.
She wanted to say that those villagers were nothing more than a mob incited to violence.
She wanted to say: *You, Giovanni, you are the real demon!* But she could not utter a single word.
Because Giovanni’s logic was flawless.
In this era, in an environment where everyone believed in God, his explanation was the only “reasonable” one.
Divine punishment.
Judgment.
Sin and retribution.
These grand concepts weighed down on Isabella like towering mountains, suffocating her.
Her hatred and anger seemed so puny, so pale and powerless before these “holy” justifications.
She even began to falter internally.
Could her husband’s death really have been…
God’s will?
Giovanni keenly caught that tiny flicker of wavering.
He sat back down in the chair, his voice dropping lower, growing more beguiling.
“Bartolo is dead.
His flesh has paid the price.
But my child, his sins did not vanish with his death.” Isabella looked at him in confusion.
“Sin is inherited.” “It acts like a curse, clinging to the estate he left behind, clinging to his bloodline.” “Do you think everything ended last night?
No, that was merely the beginning.” “Those villagers took your family’s property.
They will be grateful to me, and grateful to the Lord.
But their hatred for the name Bartolo has not disappeared.
They will transfer that hatred onto you and your son, Anton.” “They will view you two as a continuation of the sinner.
They will shun you like the plague.
Behind your backs, they will curse you with the foulest words.” “Your son, Anton,” Giovanni’s gaze fell upon the small figure on the bed, “will forever carry the name of a sinner’s son.
He will be ostracized, bullied, and humiliated.
He will never be able to hold his head high.
This sin will follow him like a shadow for the rest of his life.” “No…” Isabella let out a groan of despair.
She was not afraid of suffering herself, but she was terrified of her son suffering.
Giovanni’s words had struck her only weakness.
“Then…
what should I do?” She looked at Giovanni pleadingly.
“Lord Abbot, I beg you, save my child…
save him…” Giovanni had been waiting for these exact words.
A compassionate yet resolute expression appeared on his face.
“There is a way.
The only way.” “A way that will allow your soul and Anton’s to achieve complete redemption.” “A way that will allow your deceased husband, Bartolo’s soul, to ascend to Heaven.” A spark of hope reignited in Isabella’s eyes.
“What way?” “Donate all of that tainted wealth to the Lord.” “Everything Bartolo owned in life—the land, the real estate, and the promissory notes detailing what others owe him.
All of it is the root of his sin.
It is tainted with a curse.” “You, mother and son, must never touch it again.
Not a single coin.
Otherwise, you will be dragged into hell by this curse.” “You must donate all of it, completely and without reservation, to the monastery.” “I, along with the holy friars of this monastery, will purify the sins upon this wealth through daily prayers and masses.” “This is not surrendering it.
It is a grand, ultimate act of atonement.” “The moment you sign the deed of donation, you will no longer be a sinner’s wife.
You will be a pious saint who has devoted her everything to the Lord.” “And Anton will no longer be a sinner’s son.
He will be a pure child granted new life under the Lord’s protection.” “As for Bartolo,” Giovanni’s voice was filled with sacred allure, “his soul will receive the Lord’s forgiveness because of your noble deed.
He will be delivered from the fires of hell and ascend into the radiant Kingdom of Heaven.” “Isabella, my child.
Are you willing to make this grand sacrifice for the sake of your son, and for your husband’s soul?”