Questions later, Raphael told himself.
He tucked the juggling pins into the back of his tights. Hands free, he was able to climb quickly from one balcony to the next. Moments later he dropped to the balcony lower down.
A startled gasp drew his attention.
Raphael turned his head to glance through the open window into the room. He locked eyes with someone his height, someone he had never seen before at the Palace. She stood at the side of her bed in a long gown, brushing her long hair, her right hand frozen in midstroke.
In that moment, it seemed Raphael could not find the strength to draw breath into his lungs. Beautiful? She was beyond beautiful to him. The long hair that she held in her left hand, ready to brush, was raven black. Her eyes were deep blue, more perfect than any sapphire. Her lips, the blooming of a rose. Raphael knew he could recite poetry about the wonder of the features of her face, but more than that was the way she watched him with poise, a grace that suggested mystery.
In that moment, Raphael nearly forgot about an assassin on a nearby rooftop. And in that moment, she stepped forward and angrily closed the window in his face.
It startled him so much that he nearly fell backward off the balcony. Only instinct and years of training saved him, a quick shifting of weight that was almost a hop in midair. He landed softly and pushed off without pause, using his momentum to drop from the balcony onto the ledge that ran down the length of this wing of the palace.
Raphael was thankful for the supple and expensive leather of his perfectly fitted shoes. His feet did not so much as scuff the slightest sound when he landed — this was not the moment to give the assassin warning.
Raphael crouched and ran the length of the ledge almost as fast a man might run along the ground below. The balance required Raphael’s total concentration. The beautiful stranger’s face left his mind, as did everything except for the demands of his silent, crouching run across a beam no wider than a dinner plate.
He reached the end of the ledge and dropped to the stone beam that led across to the next building.
Now only a perilous crossing separated him from the assassin.
Raphael measured the distance. Too far to throw a juggling pin. He would be forced to cross, unable to defend himself if the assassin heard him, unable to dodge a deadly crossbow arrow.
As Raphael looked across, he discovered he could now see what the assassin viewed in the courtyard below. He could see the assassin’s target.
The pope.
Pope Clement VI. Perhaps the most important man in all of Europe.
The assassin had yet to lift his crossbow. Because of someone who stood in front of the pope?
Raphael did not pause to question further the assassin’s delay. The pope’s remaining life might now be measured in heartbeats.
Raphael reached for the juggling pins, pulled them from his waistband so that he carried one in each hand, and began to sprint across the beam.
The slap of his running feet was too loud! Surely the assassin would take warning!
Raphael knew too well the possibility but could not stop. He must risk it. The pope was in danger.
A second later, the assassin began to turn his head. A tiny squeak of leather on smooth stone must have caught his ear.
Still too far away to attack, Raphael took the only desperate action he could. Without breaking stride, he threw the juggling pin from his left hand in an underhanded motion.
Given warning, the assassin ducked. The pin bounced off the roof just above his head and fell downward into the courtyard.
The assassin completed his turn with unbelievable quickness, and in one motion he scooped the crossbow into position.
“Stop,” he hissed at Raphael.
Raphael told himself to dive into the crossbow. He told himself the heroic action would at least save the pope’s life, that when his body tumbled into the courtyard, it would raise alarm.
Yet the crossbow arrow was pointed directly at his heart, and much as he tried to force himself to continue, Raphael found himself pulling up short.
“You would be the hero, Raphael?” the assassin jeered softly.
Raphael could not reply. He stared at the unwavering crossbow and heaved for breath. This high up, both the heaving and the assassin’s words could not be heard below. The pope remained in danger.
A shout proved him wrong.
“Who goes up there?”
Raphael had forgotten about his juggling pin. It must have landed in the courtyard somewhere near the pope!
“The…alarm…has…sounded,” Raphael managed to gasp.
Another cry from below.
“So it appears.” The assassin smiled. His hair, dark and curling behind the ears, framed a narrow face and glittering eyes. Hooked nose. A cold smile of large white teeth contrasted with the deeply tanned skin of his face. The smile sent a shiver through Raphael.
The assassin’s smile grew wider.
Raphael saw the man’s knuckle whiten on the trigger of the crossbow. The whitening of pressure!
Time stopped for Raphael. He fully expected the click of a released arrow, the hiss of air, and then a crunch of bone as it hit his chest.
The assassin shot.
But he’d spun the crossbow without warning and sent the arrow harmlessly into the center of the courtyard.
Raphael unfroze and managed to breathe again.
The assassin set the bow down on the roof.
“Here it is, jester. Take it.”
With that, the assassin sprung to his feet and took three sprinting steps to the open window that had let him first gain entry to the roof.
Soldier’s voices began to fill the courtyard, but they were hidden from sight by the roof.
“Goodbye, jester,” the assassin taunted as he closed the window.
Those words broke Raphael loose from his stunned spell. He darted the last few steps across the beam to the roof, grabbed the crossbow, turned back and fought the slope of the roof until he reached the window.
Locked.
“Who goes there?” came a deep voice from the courtyard. “Shout out now!”
Raphael pounded disappointment onto the roof with his fist.
“Who goes there?” The voice was louder. Angrier.
Raphael sighed. He crawled back to the edge of the roof.
“It is I,” Raphael called down as he peered again into the courtyard. A half dozen soldiers waited in a spread-out circle, all peering upward at the roof. Some were armed with broadswords. Others with crossbows. Those with crossbows had their weapons aimed upward.
Raphael ducked back from instinct.
An arrow whizzed past the edge of the roof.
“Shoot no more!” Raphael cried. “I mean no harm!”
“Then throw down your weapon!” the deep voice commanded.
Without thinking, Raphael did just that. Moments later, he heard it clatter among the soldiers.
Minutes later, the window to the roof opened, and the same deep voice commanded him to step inside.
Raphael did, glad to be off the roof. Once standing inside, he blinked, trying to find vision in the shadows of the room after the brightness of the sun outside.
As his feet touched the floor, the soldier with the deep voice pinned the end of his sword to Raphael’s throat.
“You would kill the pope, jester?”
Raphael began to protest.
The sword pressed into his skin, bringing the pain of pierced skin.
“Not another word,” the soldier said, “or you will taste this steel.”
He turned his head and spoke to other soldiers that Raphael was just now able to distinguish among the shadows.
“Bind him,” the soldier ordered the others, “as the criminal scum that he is.”
Angel Blog
As an angel, I wanted to suddenly appear and protest the injustice of the accusation against Raphael. He had been put solely in my charge and would continue to be my responsibility until I was c
ommanded otherwise by our Father.
That would have been fun and satisfying.
Satisfying because my first reaction was this anger. I loved Raphael as much as you would love your own children – I had been watching over him from the days when he’d been crying for his mother’s milk.
And fun because I’m sure the soldiers – so proud of their strength and authority and military weapons – would have scattered in all directions like mice in front of a barking dog.
After all, there’s nothing like the unexpected appearance of a bright, shimmering light in the form of a supernatural being to remind you humans of what you already subconsciously know and fear: There is a spiritual world that you cannot see and can only vaguely sense in moments when you stop focusing on your selfish wants.
But as the soldiers surrounded Raphael, our Father did not direct me to intervene in any manner.
Not for a moment did I consider our Father’s plan to be wrong in any fashion, nor did I question His decision to have me remain as an invisible observer. Our Father’s infinite wisdom is always proved right by the passage of time.
Besides, even if I had wanted to help Raphael, I would have been far more limited than you might expect.
This is as good as time as any to explain something about angels. It’s my standard lecture about angels, and I’m too efficient (some of you might call it lazy, but I’ll stick with efficient ) to try to word it differently from one time to another, so skip through if you already know it. And certainly don’t stop me if you’ve heard it already.
Angels can’t create. That’s something only our Father can do. As I’ll say whenever possible, if you could have been there at the beginning, you would be the biggest believer in the universe. Yes, that beginning. Of time. Of the universe. Not that I was there. But the great thing about the spiritual world is that time and space don’t form a prison for us like they do for you. (Believe me, you’ll find out someday. On the other side. By then you’ll be glad you trusted in our Father.)
As I was saying, since time and space don’t bind us, we angels have a good idea of what it was like at the beginning of creation. “Spectacular” doesn’t give it justice. It’s beyond comprehension. Then again, if you television watchers got off the couch and walked through the woods and took a close look at our Father’s handiwork, you might get an inkling of how incredible it was.
What else can’t angels do?
Angels can’t change substances. Again, only our Father can do that. So don’t come to me and ask for that lump of lead to be changed into gold. I’m not a fairy godmother. And yes, I’ve had that request before.
Angels can’t alter the laws of nature. Only our Father can.
Same thing for miracles.
And here’s something that might surprise you. Angels can’t see into your hearts. (After centuries and centuries of experience with you humans, however, we can make some pretty good guesses.) Some of you wise guys might be saying, hey, no problem, any good doctor can get a good view of the human heart. But that’s not the heart I’m talking about - and you know it.
Angels can’t change your hearts either. Remember that thing called “choice”?
Anyway, that’s a lot of what we can’t do.
Keep that in mind, because the fallen angels can’t do any of it either. Fallen angels. That would be Satan and his gang. They can’t do any of our Father’s special stuff either. No creating out of nothing, no changing of substances, no altering the laws of nature. No searching or changing the hearts of men.
Why’s that important to remember?
Too many humans worry about demons because they believe demons have special power. Not so. Good thing, because I have plenty of stories about their bad intentions and how we’d been sent in by our Father to protect you against them. Nasty bunch, those guys. Of course, they’ve known for a long time that when they picked sides, they joined a loser – Satan himself. For eternity. That would make anyone bitter.
Here’s what’s really important to remember about the fallen angels: Misery loves company.
They want as many of you to lose your souls to the Evil One as possible. They cackle with hideous glee every time one of you dies before making a faith decision in our Father. It’s hard to decide what they like most - the horror that overwhelms you on the other side when you immediately comprehend what it will be like to spend eternity among them or the shock when you discover there was more to life on earth than life on earth.
For the most part, then, an angel’s job is to protect you long enough to make your decision. Do you want eternal light? Or eternal darkness? Yes, your earthly life has great value to our Father – that’s why He designed it for you to be able to enjoy so many things about it. But far more important to Him is the destination of your soul. What you do with your choices. And don’t fool yourself. All of you choose. Deciding not to choose is just like choosing against Him.
Raphael still had not shown anything in his life to indicate faith in our Father. Because of that, with the soldiers around him, I suspected I would be called to protect Raphael if they actually threatened his life.
Otherwise, I could expect to do what I’d already been doing for years around him.
Wait and watch.
Watch and wait. . .
Chapter Three
Raphael stood, alone and hands bound, in the pope’s study chamber. In any other circumstances, he would have been overjoyed at the privilege. Few were those granted public audience with the pope, let alone invited into his private study.
The ceiling was arched stone, and the floors were of exquisite tile. On the walls, a huge mural of forest life showed falcon, ferret and stag hunting, bird snaring, and even fishing in a fish tank. How wonderful! Raphael could entertain the kitchen girls for hours with the description of all that he was seeing here in —
He cut his silent admiration short. To entertain he must first be allowed to rejoin his friends, and the rough rope that held his wrists together was a painful reminder that he might never see them again. A painful reminder of the soldiers’ rough treatment as they’d shoved him down the hallways earlier to reach the chamber.
The injustice!
Raphael vowed he would find a way to prove his innocence.
The scraping of the door to the chamber interrupted his thoughts. Raphael waited for the guards who usually escorted Pope Clement VI.
None stepped inside.
Instead it was the pope himself who shuffled to his desk and sat behind it to look at Raphael with some interest.
Raphael’s heart sank. He had not been invited to kiss the pope’s ring, an action of honor and respect.
“You are…?” Clement VI asked.
“One of the court jesters, m’lord.”
Pope Clement VI sighed. Without his papal dress and papal staff, he seemed smaller than Raphael had imagined. Of course this was the first time he had really met Clement VI.
Raphael discovered too that the pope was balding. His head was a dome, gray hair on the sides. His nose was almost like that of an eagle, but wider. And the eyes, lost in wrinkles of tiredness, were as fierce as an eagle’s.
Now those eyes bored into Raphael. “Here in Avignon,” Clement VI said, “hundreds of maids and servants attend to the needs of the papal court, dozens of musicians and jesters. You will forgive me if I do not know your name.”
“Raphael, m’lord.”
The pope’s eyes widened slightly. “I have heard of a jester named Raphael who stood atop the highest tower of the palace and juggled no less than five balls. Would you be that Raphael?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“And your family name?”
“Villenuve, m’lord. Raphael de Villenuve. And I am innocent of the charges. Rather it was—”
“Silence,” the pope commanded. “This is a private meeting. I do not wear the robes of my office. Despite the informality, you will not speak unless it is to answer my questions.”
Raphael bowed his head.
“De Villenuve…” Clement VI spoke as if he were thinking aloud. “Do we not have a Villenuve in Rome? A courtier?”
“My father, your worship,” Raphael answered as he lifted his head again.
Clement VI glared at him. Briefly. Then softened. “I did ask a question, didn’t I.”
Raphael nodded.
“I’m told you tried to kill me. Is that true?”
“No, m’lord!”
“I understand why you would speak so firmly,” Clement VI replied. “Not only do you face the penalty of death but so does your family.”
Until this moment Raphael had not even considered that truth. A political assassination was so vile — and so often tried — that to prevent it, punishment was often extended to include the criminal’s immediate family.
“Tell me, Raphael,” Clement VI was saying, “why do you deny the attempt? You shot an arrow in the courtyard — I saw it myself. You were found with the weapon.”
“I did not fire the crossbow, m’lord.”
Raphael then explained what had happened.
Clement VI regarded him thoughtfully. “You claim you threw the juggling pin. Yet the captain of the guards tells me that the dropped juggling pin was a ploy to get me to step back from the woman who had my attention and look upward, making it easier for you to find the target.”
Raphael watched Clement VI but bit his tongue against the urge to speak.
“Well,” Clement VI said, “have you no answer to that?”
“I was waiting for a question, m’lord.”
Clement VI smiled and then let Raphael finish.
“And my answer, m’lord, is that it may appear to have happened how your captain described. But told my way, there is also truth.”
“Truth without proof. No one but you saw the assassin. Is that not so?”
Raphael thought a thunderclap had struck him, the answer came so clearly.
“I do have witness!”
“Who?”
Raphael told Clement VI of the girl who had slammed a window in his face — but he did not mention that her beauty had struck him equally hard as he stood on her balcony. “She, m’lord, can confirm my story.”
The Angel and the Sword Page 2