Francisco pointed and whispered, “Is that King Pedro II?”
Sancho nodded.
“I thought he would be taller,” Francisco whispered.
Next to the envoy stood two men Francisco recognized and who made his blood boil. Arnaud Amalric, the Abbot of Citeaux, the one who encouraged the riot at the synagogue, wore his Cistercian cowl over chainmail. At his side—with his arms folded and a scowl on his face—was the belligerent knight whom Francisco had challenged.
The envoys report concluded, “... quickly capitulated and agreed to a rendition pact.”
A cheer rose but faded. Scattered grumbling and a shout of protest took its place. The shout came from Abbot Arnaud. “Sire, how can you suffer them to live? Their heresy shall spread.”
“How?” King Alfonso asked. “How can I not suffer them to live if they capitulate? Our Lord honors peacemakers.”
King Pedro II nodded. “I agree.”
The abbot protested, “But they will betray you and attack us from behand the moment we march south.”
King Alfonso answered, “May I attribute your response to ignorance of these lands? On this side of the Pyrenees we have an understanding with the Saracens. We let them be and they honor the laws of the governing king, be he Christian or Saracen. Perhaps by this mercy they will be drawn to the light.”
Abbot Arnaud said nothing, but Francisco caught sight of his clenched jaw and his glance at the belligerent knight. He bowed slightly, not taking is eyes off the Spanish monarch. “By your leave, sire. You know best, of course.”
Francisco and Sancho slipped away from the tent just before the meeting dispersed. They dashed back to their bivouac as fast as they could without drawing attention, and recited the account to three dozen others eager to hear fresh news. An hour later a rumor crept through the ranks that ultramontanos had entered the fortress and started killing Saracens.
As in confirmation, four detachments of knights under waving Castilian and Aragonese banners crossed the open land before the gates at a gallop.
Francisco waited with growing dread. Did the ultramontanos ride into a surrendered fortress and start killing everyone? This is not what I came for. Killing men at arms is war. But children? Pregnant women? He clenched his fists. And it is the Lord’s Day. How could they do this on a Sunday? Maybe that’s it. Maybe God has called me here for this purpose: to heal those who should not die in war, if indeed anyone should. The more he watched, the stronger his conviction grew.
He shot a glance at Sancho. “Come on.”
“What? Where? Across open land into the fortress? No, Francisco, there is no way to cross without being caught. See? No militia this time. And no one will believe we have to run to the fortress to relieve ourselves.”
Francisco looked at Mateo for support.
“If you cross without leave,” Mateo said, “they will flog you or worse.”
A look at Goliath yielded only a shaking head.
“Face it, lad,” Gombal said. “Even I can’t turn a blind eye to it. It’s not worth it. Just wait for the news, be it good or ill.”
Francisco felt torn. If we wear mantles bearing a cross, then I must save the innocent.
“Forger,” Gombal said, “I see your mind a churnin’. Even if they’re wrong, let the King handle it. One militiaman can do nothing against a host of knights on rampage.”
No, but one militiaman with a healing stone can undo their evil. He examined the battlements, the lay of the tower, and the slope of the land for any other point of entry. Of course, it was hopeless. A fortress would only have one entry. There must be a way in. If I dress as a knight … they would surely have my head. Francisco glanced around. Siege gear, empty wagons, other carts, pack mules … and then there’s Tío.
Chapter 21
Francisco
Fortress of Malagón
St. John the Baptist Day
DRESSED IN TÍO’S DROOPY CLOAK, Francisco forced himself to take the walk slowly as if he was on yet another laborious errand. He pulled the chaperon hood down lower to hide his face. Vulnerable to any missiles or stones thrown from the wall, he felt naked in the open field. Each step was at once an act of martial insubordination and an act of pious obedience. He knew from street experience, if he acted like he belonged, no one usually asked. If the King wants his water, his water he shall get. Francisco tried to convince himself that he was breaking the King’s law only to obey a higher law, yet at every footfall, indecision threatened to turn his march into a retreat.
As he approached the gate, both indecision and resolve turned to near panic as he realized he hadn’t prepared a ruse to pass the four guards at the gate. He couldn’t just slip past them. Maybe offering them a drink would convince them he belonged inside. Francisco started to pour a cup while walking. The jug rocked and sloshed on the burro’s back. Francisco’s hands shook with trepidation, and the cup almost slipped. He cursed the awkward moves. These are not the actions of a bored water boy. The cup now full, he raised it as an offering to the first guard. The man waved him off, not even looking at Francisco’s botched performance. The other guards too were distracted by an argument inside the fortress. Indeed, God must want me on this mission.
Francisco turned his attention away from the guards to the courtyard. He gasped. The scene before him gripped his gut with retching nausea and his fists with anger. He had witnessed bloody street beatings and had seen his own leg bone protruding out of his skin before the stone healed it, but he wasn’t prepared for wanton carnage. It was more like a walled city than a fortress, and dead inside were militia farmers, merchants, women, and children—regular people trying to survive on the same land he was. These were not the target of the campaign.
All dead.
He forced himself forward, suppressing the anger. He continued his ruse while denying reality. His eyes frantically searched for someone he could heal, someone still living and hidden from view so he could heal without questions. He led the burro under the porch eaves. The search led him to the argument that distracted the guards. No wonder it drew their attention. The main courtyard was filled. Four detachments of Spanish knights were there watching an argument between three ultramontano captains and King Alfonso VIII himself. One of the knights was the belligerent one from the riot. They were well into the dispute and spoke in rapid-fire French.
The belligerent knight splayed his hands before him and said, “Your so-called rendition pact was invalid as soon as it was brokered. It is a betrayal to our cause. No one who holds to the Saracen ways should be allowed to live in this land!”
“It is my land,” King Alfonso said, “and in this land, I shall broker treaties with whomever I wish and on whatever terms I desire.”
“It is your land only by the Pope’s authority,” another ultramontano said, “and this is his crusade.”
“Have you ever spoken with his Eminence, Innocent III?” the King asked. “No? I think not. I was in his counsel not yet six months ago. It was I who asked for this crusade. It was my petition he granted. Have you even read the edict?”
They stood silent but defiant before him.
“Then know this,” the King continued, “you may disagree with my policies, you may have dealt with severity concerning heretics in your own land, and savage butchery may be the way in the orient, but not here. Not in my land. I will not suffer such,” he swept his arm across the blood-stained courtyard, “such barbarianism as this again on our crusade.” He lowered his voice. “Now let us be reasonable. We have a common enemy; we should not let division—”
Francisco led the burro out of the courtyard and into the stable area with fewer observers. There he spotted a man behind a cart. He lay unmoving and was covered with blood. Francisco released the reins and ran to the man’s side. Without checking for a heartbeat, he withdrew the stone and pressed it to the man’s skin. The stone didn’t warm or tingle. Francisco recited the Hebrew verse.
Nothing.
Again, he recited it.
/> Nothing. No heartbeat, no breath. The man’s skin was cool to the touch.
Francisco checked the stone for hungry marks. It was clean. It shouldn’t be hungry. I feed it every night. He looked around. If this man had been dead for long, the stone wouldn’t work. He couldn’t waste his time here. He heard a sobbing from the west end of the street and moaning from … Are they behind that building? He could not see where the sound came from. The streets were tight and cluttered.
Fearing that the dying were quickly becoming the dead, he abandoned the burro and ran from the stable to a simple courtyard with a fountain. He passed an archer propped up against the wall, moaning with a wound to the abdomen. Francisco paused, considering. No, don’t heal him. He’s an enemy soldier. On the other side of the fountain lay an older man, his hands still gripped tightly around a knife. Is he a soldier? No. No armor. The knife isn’t a true weapon, but a regular house knife, one used for cooking. Francisco knelt, feeling his own heart beat faster than it did before he thought the battle would start. He placed two fingers to the man’s throat under his chin. No heartbeat. Francisco prayed.
Nothing.
A quick search led him to a woman. Cool to the touch. The stone didn’t work.
Running out of time! Is the stone even working at all? He had to be sure. Before he could change his mind, Francisco returned to the old man with the knife. He pried it from the man’s unyielding grip and sliced his own arm. He jerked back from the pain. It was not a deep wound, but blood welled up quickly and trickled down his arm in one dark red drop. He pressed the stone against his skin. Before he completed the Hebrew verse, the familiar warming, numbing, tingling sensation preceded the wound closing. Some of the blood was absorbed back into his skin. He didn’t bother wiping off the rest.
He jumped up, ready to find someone alive, hidden, and needing his services, when two Aragonese knights spotted him. They might have considered him a Saracen or rogue French soldier were it not for the Castilian colors on his cloak. Ignoring his protests, they roughly led him back to the main courtyard to present him before the King. Francisco did not expect leniency or even an ear to hear his defense, his Majesty was in such a sour humor.
The knights stood next to him on either side, engrossed in the King’s argument. They did not restrain Francisco. He came voluntarily and what could he do now, run? How far would he get with an army outside? I’ll tell him this is a misunderstanding. I am the good man here, the healer. Minutes ago, Francisco had been waiting in formation, wondering if the stone was going to work on him or his comrades in warfare. It was still untested four days into the campaign. But he never—not in his most vivid nightmares—did he ever think he would have to use it to save innocents maimed by his own people.
Then he saw them: a mother and child lay wounded under a flight of stairs. They were not moving, but they may still be alive. Francisco slipped back against the wall and out of the knights’ side view. Two heartbeats later, he slid along the wall and behind the stairs to the woman and child. A deep shadow hid him as he ducked under the stairs. There the semidarkness made their unmoving presence suddenly more intimate. Were they still alive? The amount of blood and deep wounds discouraged him.
Taking a deep breath, he withdrew the stone, pressed it against the girl’s arm, and whispered the prayer. He still wasn’t convinced the prayer wasn’t needed. He prayed anyway, not wanting to press his luck.
Nothing.
Tears started flowing down his cheeks. Does this stupid thing not work on Saracens? A scream threatened to escape his lungs, but he held his tongue. In tearful anguish, he repeated the prayer in a hoarse whisper.
Nothing.
Again. Again.
Nothing. Filled with rage and sorrow, he slid back against the wall. He had not remembered feeling this way since his father died: without direction and alone.
He snuck out of the alcove.
The knights had moved closer to the crowd.
Francisco, not caring if he was caught again, nearly ran back to the stables. There were no more sounds of moaning. Why isn’t this working? I am doing everything right. I am trying to heal everyone like my father said. I am trying to bring justice to this world. What greater injustice is there than this? Why are you against me, God? What else do you want from me? He walked into the stable and threw the healing stone against the wall. Hard. It dropped into a mound of hay. Francisco didn’t care if the stone broke or if the pile had manure in it. He was done. Finished with healing.
He regarded the burro: such a simple, unassuming creature. “You’re lucky,” Francisco said. “Your burden is heavy, but at least you know what it is and what’s expected of you.”
The burro didn’t answer. It twitched its long ears and turned to nip at flies on its haunches.
Francisco leaned against the wooden wall. It was covered in dust and dander, and its stiff resistance offered him comfort. He closed his eyes, slid down the wall, and placed his arms and head on his knees.
For several minutes, he didn’t know whether to pray, cry, scream, break something, or take the stone and kill every ultramontanos knight in Malagón. The thought made him laugh. He saw himself skewered with swords and a lance, killing dozens of stunned knights until they held him down or ran from the town screaming. King Alfonso the Lucky would bestow upon him knighthood. He would return to Toledo at the head of a victor’s parade. The Matóns would shrink back in terror. The street gangs would run and hide for fear of the sight of him. And his uncle… Oh, Uncle Bernat would be…
Darkness fell across his vision. He looked up to see a shadow on the wall next to the stable door. He blinked. He had been crying. Someone was about to enter. As quietly as possible, Francisco crawled over to the stall where he had thrown the stone. He found the stone and wiped off a smear of manure, briefly wondering how that would feed the stone. He slipped it into his boot. It was uncomfortable, but he didn’t want someone to take it if they confiscated his pouch.
He wiped the tears from his face. He looked up and squinted at a figure silhouetted with bright daylight. The shadow blocked the only way of escape. Believing it to be one of the knights, he stood up. He straightened his tunic, prepared to turn himself in, and offer a lame excuse about having to tend to his animal before returning to the King. He knew it was weak, but it was all he had.
The figure came into the room. It was Sir Angelo. He walked up to Francisco.
Francisco’s hands went up to his own throat without thinking about it. He gulped.
Sir Angelo didn’t say anything or try to lead him back to the King. He just regarded Francisco with his penetrating green eyes.
Finally, the knight asked him. “It’s not pretty, is it?”
A savage thought crossed Francisco’s mind. He held out his hand, pointing toward the street. “Did you kill them?”
“Kill them? Me? Of course not. I fight against such crimes. A bunch of rogues did that. And don’t think that you Spanish are special. There are rogues in every army.”
“Rogues? Don’t you mean French? You’re French.”
“No. I was born on this side of the mountains.”
“Born. So, you’re not a genie?”
“No. Why would I be a genie?”
“That’s just what a genie would say,” Francisco said. “Your eyes give you away. And you crushed that scout.”
“My eyes?”
“I saw you at the Wayside Tavern. Your wife sliced a man’s head clean off with her hand and then disappeared.”
Sir Angelo’s eyes widened. “Oh. You saw that?”
“See? You are a genie!”
Sir Angelo didn’t answer.
Francisco crossed his arms and tilted his head.
Sir Angelo sighed and said, “I am here for you. Any more, I cannot tell you at the moment.”
“You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe you. I’ve had a bad day.”
Sir Angelo looked down, considering. “Careful with the stone,” he said.
F
rancisco’s jaw dropped.
“The fieldstone is old,” Sir Angelo said. “Very old. It didn’t work because the people here have been dead for too long. Too much tissue and cell damage.”
“You are a genie!” Francisco crossed himself and drew his sword, but it became like a lead weight and dropped from his hand. “Ah, see?” He spread his arms out in surrender. “Let me go or crush me now, you fiend. I am no match for you.”
Sir Angelo laughed. “A genie. Never been called a genie before. I guess it fits.”
The genie-knight’s disregard for his threat and dismissive knowledge of his family secret infuriated Francisco. He tried picking up his sword, but it wouldn’t move. When he grabbed it, his hands felt pulled to the ground as if they were also made of lead.
“Careful,” Sir Angelo said.
The ground released Francisco’s hands. They shot up, and he fell back on his rump.
“If I wanted to kill you,” Sir Angelo said, “you would be flattened like that Almohad31 scout.” He squatted down to Francisco’s level and spoke his words slowly. “I am not going to hurt you or take your fieldstone. I am here to help. Know this, I do not help everyone, only those called by prophecy or chosen by the Voice.” Sir Angelo stood up. “I will tell you more at the proper time. As for now, be encouraged. You are doing well.” He offered Francisco his hand.
Francisco stared at it. It seems human enough, but what would a genie hand look like? Anything the genie wanted. Francisco accepted his hand, and Sir Angelo helped him up.
“May I suggest,” Sir Angelo said, “that you escort Tío’s pack animal back to your squad? If anyone stops you, offer them water.”
Francisco nodded, retrieved his sword, and looked up. Sir Angelo had vanished.
Chapter 22
The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1) Page 16