The Angel and the Sword

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Clement VI raised a bell from his desk and tinkled it once. Within seconds, a guard opened the door. Clement VI instructed the guard to bring them the girl as described by Raphael. The guard departed.

  They were left in long minutes of silence that Raphael dared not break. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to contain his nervousness.

  Clement VI occupied himself with papers on his desk. He took a quill, dipped it into ink, and signed three of the sheaves of paper.

  “You may find it strange,” Clement VI said without lifting his head, “that you and I speak so informally. After all, my office demands of me much ceremony.”

  Raphael did not hear a question in the pope’s words, so he waited.

  “I regret the need to keep this matter away from public audience,” Clement VI continued, “because it means I must be sole judge of the entire matter. And, as it was my life in danger, I am not without bias. However…”

  Clement VI again directed his gaze at Raphael. “There are some papal matters of great importance that are in delicate negotiations. It will do no good for word of an attempt on my life to reach certain ears. And, as no one but a small group of guards witnessed the attempt, it is a secret that will be kept.”

  Raphael fought the chills that rippled beneath his skin. Something in the pope’s tone was a warning. He did not have long to wait.

  “You see, I have no choice. If I believe you are innocent of the attempt, I must imprison you — secretly — until the negotiations are complete. That is my only guarantee that you will speak of it to no one else.”

  Clement VI rubbed his face as if weary of his responsibilities. “And if I believe you are guilty, you will be executed in equal secrecy.”

  Raphael forgot himself and spoke without waiting for a question. “M’lord, I—”

  “Silence.” Clement VI resumed his examination of the papers on his desk.

  It seemed to Raphael that an hour passed before a respectful knock on the door disturbed the quiet of the room.

  “Enter,” Clement VI said.

  It was not, as Raphael had expected, the guard who had first entered, but the captain of the guard, who had first put a sword to his throat.

  He was large and filled the entire doorway. In his right hand, he carried a large cloth sack. A frown covered his massive face and made his looks appear even darker. When he opened his mouth to speak, Raphael saw that several teeth were missing, broken off as if once struck by the blows of a war club.

  “She is with me, your worship,” the captain said.

  “Bring her in.”

  “And I have other news.” He hefted the sack to indicate the news.

  “Pertaining to the jester?” Clement VI asked.

  “Yes, your worship.”

  “Join us and close the door behind you then.”

  Raphael did not think to wonder what the other news might be or what was in the sack. After all, he was innocent and he knew it. Besides, the one with raven hair was a great distraction.

  She curtsied to Clement VI.

  His face softened at her young loveliness.

  “Your name?” he asked gently.

  “Juliana of Normandy, your worship.” Her French was faultless, but she spoke with an accent. Raphael, who had never been outside of Avignon, could not decide where the accent might have come from.

  “Ah, yes, the delegates from England,” Clement VI said, answering Raphael’s silent question. “I trust your lodgings are satisfactory?”

  “Most satisfactory, your worship.”

  “You were not disturbed earlier this morning?” he asked her.

  Raphael tensed. Now, at last, he would be cleared.

  Puzzlement filled her features. She had not yet bothered to glance over at Raphael.

  “Disturbed, your worship? Here in the Palace of the Popes?”

  Clement VI glanced sharply at Raphael. Then back to Juliana.

  “Look upon this young man,” he told her. “Is his face not familiar?”

  She stared. Raphael stared at her. Inside he pleaded for her to speak out for him.

  “Perhaps, your worship. But there are so many strangers to me here that I…”

  “He claims he stood on your balcony earlier this morning.”

  Juliana merely continued to stare at Raphael.

  “And on the roof behind me,” Raphael cried, “did you not see a man armed with a crossbow!”

  The captain stepped forward and slapped Raphael across the face, a blow hard enough to break the skin at the sides of his mouth. “Silence!”

  Raphael licked his blood away, and still she stared at him.

  “Juliana?” Clement VI prompted.

  “Now that I look closely, m’lord,” she began slowly.

  “Yes?”

  Raphael’s heart raced. Not only did his own life depend on her next words but his family’s future did too.

  She nodded to herself, as if confirming her thoughts, and she spoke with great seriousness. “Now that I look closely,” she finished, “I have never seen him before.”

  Chapter Four

  “M’lady —”

  Another backhanded blow from the burly captain slammed Raphael’s protest short.

  No expression crossed Juliana’s face as she watched blood trickle from his split lip.

  “You have my gratitude for assisting us with this matter,” Clement VI said to her, “and my apologies that we interrupted your morning.”

  Juliana of Normandy curtsied again, and, at the captain’s invitation, departed through the study door.

  “A desperate attempt, jester,” the captain sneered as he closed the door and turned back to Raphael and Clement VI, “hoping that out of pity, she might lie for you.”

  Raphael stared back. He could feel the blood now on his chin, but he was too angry to show any weakness by attempting to wipe it away.

  The captain lifted the sack that he’d set down near the door. “Your worship,” he went on, “I believe this will demonstrate further the lies of this villainous jester.”

  Clement VI raised a questioning eyebrow. “Yes, Alfred?”

  In response, the captain dumped the contents of the sack onto the tiled floor.

  Raphael drew in a quick breath.

  “Your clothes, I believe,” Alfred said.

  “Yes!” Raphael could not hide his surprise. “How did —”

  “You would be a fool to deny them as such,” Alfred said, “for we have a sound witness that testifies they are yours.”

  “They were missing from my room when I woke this morning!”

  “Of course,” the captain grunted in mock agreement. “And your provisions were missing too?”

  “Provisions? I do not understand.”

  “Playing the fool will not help, jester.” The captain turned to Clement VI. “Your eminence, we found the clothing and provisions in a saddlebag on a horse at the stables.”

  “I was not there!” cried Raphael, his anger forgotten in his confusion.

  Alfred faced Raphael. “Why then does the stable master say you met with him last night? Why then does he say you purchased from him his fastest horse and requested that he have it waiting for you?”

  “No! Those are falsehoods!”

  The captain turned back to Clement VI. “Were I him, m’lord, I would have committed the crime costumed as the jester. Then in fleeing I would cloth myself in less color, for the soldiers would be searching the town for one in jester’s garb.”

  Clement VI nodded. “There is logic in that. A horse waiting, and a disguise too.”

  “No!” Raphael protested.

  Clement VI and Alfred ignored him and continued their conversation.

  “Not only his fastest horse and provisions for two days, your worship, but this…” The guard reached into the sack and pulled from it a small leather bag, bulging with weight. “We found this in his room.” He emptied it onto Clement VI’s desk.

  Raphael gasped at the glitter of tum
bling silver coin.

  “Payment, I suspect,” the captain said. “Like Judas of old, he was happy to betray you to your death for mere silver.”

  “No!” Raphael cried again. He could think of nothing else to say.

  Clement VI looked away from the silver and into Raphael’s eyes.

  “Who bought you?” he asked Raphael. “Who gave you this payment to take my life?”

  “M’lord! It is not my silver. I am innocent.”

  Alfred coughed.

  “Yes?” Clement VI said.

  “There was also this in his room – a letter.” Alfred held up a sheet of paper. “With instructions to kill you by a certain date.”

  “I’ve never read the letter!” Raphael said. “Never seen it!”

  “It appears,” Alfred said, ignoring Raphael’s outburst, “to have come from a leading Italian banker.”

  “The Italians!” Clement VI was angry. He turned to Raphael. “You are Italian. Help us find your master, and I will spare your family.”

  His mother, Raphael thought. His two sisters. His father. Each would be taken without mercy from their home. Each killed horribly. And worse, each would blame it on him as they died.

  “No…” Raphael moaned his agony.

  “No? You will not tell?” Clement VI tightened his mouth with fury and was barely able to speak from clenched teeth. “Perhaps the whip will loosen your tongue.”

  Clement VI barked an order to the captain. “I have seen and heard enough. Take him below. To the dungeon.”

  **********

  Below. To the dungeon.

  Raphael sat in chains, aware that he was prisoner beneath a tower so imposing that it dominated the courtyard and the rest of the palace and all of Avignon, a tower so staggeringly high that someone at the top could drop a rock, and count slowly almost to three until that rock hit the ground far below.

  It was known far and wide as The Tower of Angels, one of the most secure fortifications in all of Europe. The top chambers of this tower, where Clement VI had so recently judged Raphael, contained the pope’s study and living quarters.

  If this weren’t reason enough for the tower to be filled with men-at-arms, directly below the pope’s study and living quarter’s was the Chamberlain’s chamber, and he, after the pope, was the second most powerful person in all Christendom.

  And if this weren’t yet reason enough, on ground level — below the Chamberlain’s chamber and above the dungeon — was the Treasury Hall, where all of the kingdom’s taxes were counted and stored.

  Reason enough for security — the pope’s quarters, the chamberlain’s quarters, the treasury hall, and the dungeon — that this tower’s walls were as thick as not one stride, not two strides, but fully as thick as three walking strides of a large man.

  Perhaps after years of siege Avignon itself could fall, and much later even the palace within Avignon, but no army would ever topple this Tower of Angels.

  Raphael found little comfort in knowing that his new living quarters were so secure. He found even less in thinking of Clement VI so far above him, comfortable in his elegant quarters — and alive! — while Raphael, who had saved his life, endured the cold clammy darkness of the dungeon.

  Hours passed.

  Raphael had no sense of time, not without the sun or shadows to guide him. Putrid water dripped onto his head. He breathed shallowly through his mouth, trying to avoid the stench of accumulated body wastes. Moaning of distant prisoners added to his horror. But nothing in the dungeon filled him with as much fear as did the thoughts of the fate that would fall on his family.

  In two weeks, three weeks, as little time as it took for messengers to reach Italy, his mother would be taken at sword point from her garden. His mother, who had kissed all his hurts during his boyhood, who had sobbed for days before his departure to Avignon. She would be helpless to fight her death.

  His sisters too. Raphael nearly cried in the darkness to remember the songs they always sang for him. Rosy-cheeked Marie. Dark-haired Elizabeth. Soon they would be old enough to be married — it had been that long since he’d departed — but instead of the joy of betrothal, each would now hang.

  And his father. So strong and noble. With that special smile of pride for him during the quiet times they had shared. He had encouraged him to be the best, to accept his training in Avignon as the beginning of a wonderful life. Instead of continued warm pride, his father would receive death by rope.

  Each would believe that Raphael had betrayed God, his country, and them.

  Which would be worse to them, Raphael tortured himself with his thoughts, death itself, or hearing of the betrayal?

  In the darkness, a rat ran across his leg. Then another.

  Raphael had heard of rats attacking unguarded babies in cribs. Was he any less helpless, his arms and legs chained against stone wall? If he fell asleep, would they attack him?

  Raphael fought the chains and cried out against the injustice. After all, he had tried to save Clement VI, not murder him. Why was this happening?

  No one answered his cries.

  The chains did not loosen.

  And time passed as slowly as the steady drip of water on his head.

  He could find no hope.

  Angel Blog

  Raphael with no hope?

  Let me break in for a moment (Not that you have a choice).

  Over the centuries, I’ve spent a lot of time with many of you. All of you I’ve loved, but some of you have been difficult to like.

  You might ask how can you love someone but not like him.

  Easy.

  Love flows from our Father. It is an eternally unbreakable bond and the strongest force in the universe. We angels, like our Father, are able to love you and your souls in a way that you’ll never understand until you cross the border to our side.

  But there are days when you are extremely difficult to like. Let me count the ways that you are able to irritate an angel watching over you. (We’re not bothered by things like the moments that you pick your nose. Or when you scratch your armpit and then sniff your finger. Those are parts of the physical world, and, hey, you’re built in a way that makes that sort of stuff inevitable.)

  The things that irritate us come from your selfishness. Your whining. Complaining. Bullying. Lying. Mean-spiritedness. If you see a pattern here, good for you. If you don’t, I’ll spell it out.

  All of the things I’ve just mentioned are choices that defy love. No coincidence that Jesus told you the two greatest commands were to love our Father with all your heart, soul, and mind, and to love your fellow man as you would love yourself.

  Love. Love. Love.

  Choices based on love, like generosity, kindness, and justice, are all very pleasing to our Father. Choices that hurt you or others because those choices don’t reflect His love are, well, hurtful to Him, and at the very least irritating to us angels.

  But out of all the sins that irritate me, there’s one near the top of my list. One that might surprise you, and the fact that it is surprising irritates me even more.

  Worry.

  You don’t hear worry called a sin too often, do you?

  You get the standard sins listed all the time. Don’t steal. Don’t lust. Yada, yada, yada.

  But how often do your elders tell you that worrying is a sin?

  Not enough.

  Hey, when you worry, when you believe there is no hope, it is a very strong way of silently telling our Father that you don’t trust Him and His plans.

  Believe me, that’s an insult to Him, who is all powerful and is weaving all the human events together in a way that works to His greater glory. In other words, when you get to this side, you’ll see how ridiculous your worries were.

  Face it, no matter how much you worry, it’s not going to change one simple fact: You’re going to die. Whether sooner or later, whether quickly or slowly, you’re going to check out of this world. Buy the ranch. Kick the bucket.

  Not only that, death is g
oing to take away whatever wealth and possessions you might have. You’re going to leave behind all the people you love. It’s going to wipe you from the face of this earth.

  Depressing, huh.

  Just ask Job. You know, the guy in the Bible. Lost his sheep, horses, cows, children, and on top of all that got some horrible itchy diseases. What Job learned, however, is a great lesson. Our Father and His love is what matters most. That’s what’s waiting for you when you lose everything. And you will lose everything, if I haven’t made that clear enough yet.

  So why worry? One, everything is in our Father’s hands and will work out to the good of those who have faith in Him. Two, your ultimate hope is in what He promises through His Son. Whether you live ten years or a hundred, whether you live in a mansion or a hut, when you get to our side, you’re going to discover a whole new existence that’s going to make whatever bad things happened on earth seem like a distant memory.

  I trust you’re getting my point here.

  All of this I wanted to tell Raphael as he moped in the dungeon.

  But I couldn’t. Not yet.

  It still wasn’t my time to intervene. . .

  Chapter Five

  Too exhausted to sleep, too numb to fear his own death, it finally occurred to Raphael to wonder about the events that had brought him to the dungeon.

  Why had Juliana betrayed him? Earlier that morning, they had locked eyes, he was sure. Yet she claimed otherwise.

  Perhaps she truly did not remember his face. Her beauty had enchanted him so fully that he could close his eyes and count each lovely strand of hair upon her head. Yet his feelings for her, of course, did not mean she could say the same for him.

  But wait!

  He had balanced outside her window in his jester’s costume. Surely — even forgetting his face — she would remember his colors, or at the very least the jester’s crown that had dangled about his face. And too, she had slammed the window shutters — proving she had definitely seen him outside.

  Raphael frowned into the darkness at these realizations.