The Angel and the Sword

by Sigmund Brouwer

  Raphael sat back and pondered his new dilemma. Could he approach a peasant’s hut and offer to purchase a set of clothing? No, it was unlikely that any poor peasant had the luxury of owning a second set of clothing he coud sell. Even if there were trousers available for purchase, talk of a young jester wandering from hut to hut in search of clothing would reach Avignon as quickly, if not more quickly, than news of the broken boat which the jester’s cap.

  A set of wrinkles entirely unfamiliar to Raphael’s face furrowed his brow as he sat back against the pile of hay, deep in thought, the single silver coin clutched in his hand.

  How could he find trousers to replace his jester’s colors?

  Half an hour later, when the sun was hot enough to rouse flies and bring ants forth from the ground, Raphael grinned at the solution that had taken him so long to reach him.

  All he needed to do was find a hog wallow.

  Angel Blog

  Frankly, I was as confused as Raphael about what was going on.

  Our Father, of course, knew the answers. But it is not His job to pass everything He knows onto angels. Nor do we expect it. Our trust in Him is sufficient, something that would make life easier on you if you would do the same.

  All I knew was that I was to stay with Raphael.

  It didn’t mean, however, that I couldn’t think for myself. Angels have had thousands of years of dealing with humans and observing you very closely without your knowledge of our presence, so I was prepared to make some pretty good guesses about what’s going on.

  What I did know was that Raphael was innocent of the charges of attempting to assassinate the pope. Because of this, I knew that someone had gone to great effort to make him look guilty.

  Instead of wondering who had gone to the effort, I began to ask why someone would go to the effort.

  And to that end, the answer was simple.

  When humans lie to other humans, hurt other humans, or kill other humans, it’s usually for power. (This includes money, since money is simply another form of power among humans.)

  That meant someone had done all this to gain power.

  All I needed to discover what power the assassination attempt involved, and it would point me to the person wanting that power.

  So that was the big question.

  What power or money could be gained by having the world believe an obscure jester was determined to kill the pope, the one man in the entire civilized world with the most power of all?

  I felt much better when I had simplified Raphael’s problem to that one question.

  Of course, it hadn’t led me to an answer.

  But at least I knew the question.

  And sometimes, having the right question is all you need.

  I could afford to be patient.

  As long as Raphael was still alive. . .

  Chapter Twelve

  “Good afternoon, mademoiselle. I hope you will not mind this interruption.”

  Juliana lifted her eyes from the book in her hands. She’d been so absorbed in the words that she had barely realized the servant girl had entered her room. “Not at all. You are welcome here anytime.”

  The servant girl smiled shyly. The smile brought warmth to her thin face. She carried a jug of warm water for Juliana’s wash basin. “I can see now why you spend little time with the rest of the travelers from England.”

  At first, Juliana did not understand. Then she glanced down at the open book.

  “Oh, this,” Juliana said. She closed the book, careful that the heavy pages did not wrinkle. “The pope’s library contains writing from all across the known world. I thought it would be a terrible waste not to enjoy such an opportunity.”

  The servant girl poured the water in the basin. “How do the words on a page speak to you?” She paused, then spoke quickly. “I would not normally ask, but you seem so kind and I’ve always wondered.”

  Juliana realized this girl was almost afraid. They were the same age, but the servant girl was treating her as if she were a queen.

  And Juliana knew why.

  For Juliana and for those around her who had been raised as she had, the ability to read was assumed, taken for granted. It took a situation like this to remind Juliana that usually only royalty and the most learned of the church were taught the special gift of reading. To peasants and servants, the power of books was frightening.

  Juliana opened the book again. “Come closer,” she said. “I’ll try to show you.”

  Juliana pointed at a word. Looping lines of the letters hand scripted so beautifully on the page spelled out cognito. “Each mark or letter gives a different sound,” Juliana said. “All the sounds together make the word.”

  Juliana pronounced it aloud for the girl as she ran her finger slowly beneath the word. “Cog-nee-toe.”

  “Cognito?” The girl laughed. “I’ve never heard such a word.”

  Again, Juliana had to pause and remind herself how different her world and how she’d been raised. Often, she didn’t realize when her thoughts switched from one language to another.

  “Latin,” Juliana explained. “The language you hear the priests use in mass. Cognito means to be aware.”

  “Why a book in a language nobody understands?” the girl asked. “And who first made that language if only the priests speak it?”

  Juliana looked at the servant girl. She looked hard, as if seeing her for the first time. The girl’s eyes were bright with intelligence, her shoulders straight with pride. She truly did want to know. And curiosity was too precious, lost too easily with age. Juliana would answer her questions with patience.

  “Latin is a language that all scholars and diplomats understand,” Juliana replied. “Germans can write letters to Italians. Italians to the French. All of them use Latin as a common language.”

  The girl nodded.

  “Latin began with the Romans,” Juliana said. “Centuries ago. It spread with them as they conquered the world.”

  “Romans?”

  Juliana smiled. She enjoyed being around someone with such a thirst for knowledge.

  “Romans,” Juliana repeated. “The greatest empire in history. They had water that ran into their houses — aqueducts. They had slaves to take care of every need. Many of the ruins you see in this countryside remain from when they ruled southern France.”

  The servant girl sat, mouth open, eagerly taking in each word.

  Juliana closed the book again. She closed her eyes and recalled the lessons in history that she’d absorbed in her childhood. But where to begin when this girl knew so little of the world?

  Half an hour later, Juliana finished.

  “I cannot thank you enough, mademoiselle.” The girl frowned. “Your wash water. It’s now cold.”

  Juliana shrugged. “It’s still wet, is it not?“

  The servant girl grinned. “You are different. Some of the ladies I served would wish me whipped.”

  Juliana could not help but grin too. “What is your name?”

  “Aliena.”

  They shared a friendly silence until Juliana spoke as casually as she could. Perhaps she could learn something in return about a matter much closer to her heart than ancient Rome.

  “You have heard, I suppose, of the jester named Raphael?” Juliana asked.

  Aliena nodded. “I cannot believe he is guilty.”

  “No? You knew him?” Juliana was glad to see that Aliena saw nothing unusual in her offhand questions, gladder to see Aliena’s eyes sparkle at the chance to share what she knew.

  “The most skilled among jesters. He once climbed a tower and stood in the wind and juggled five balls,” Aliena said. “On another day, he invited a girl to sit on his shoulders as he walked both of them across a strung rope.”

  Juliana nodded encouragement, much as Aliena had nodded during their discussion on Rome.

  “Raphael was a great favorite among us,” Aliena said. “When he smiled and looked into your eyes, it made your knees tremble.”

  J
uliana felt an unfamiliar emotion. Jealousy, she realized. She bit the inside of her cheek in sudden anger at being so irrational and weak.

  “He…he had someone special?” she finally asked.

  “No,” Aliena laughed. “Though we all tried. Some more than others. Some more than once.” Her laugh sobered quickly. “And to think that now he is hunted not by servant girls but by the pope’s guards.”

  “As one strange to this land,” Juliana said, “I have followed the story with interest. How could he have first escaped the dungeon stronghold?”

  “It is beyond belief,” Aliena agreed. “Had you ever met Raphael, however, you might not express such surprise. Few jesters could equal him.”

  “People say had he not escaped, word of his attempt to kill the pope would never have reached our ears.” Juliana was glad at this moment that the high officials of the pope’s court had released so little information that her own involvement in condemning Raphael had been kept secret.

  “Who knows the ways of the rich and powerful,” Aliena said. Then blushed. “I meant no insult, mademoiselle.”

  “None taken.” Juliana needed to keep Aliena at ease. “You need not assume that because I come from England that I am either rich or powerful.” She smiled continued encouragement. “So you think this jester is innocent?”

  “If you knew Raphael, you would know he could not have done this. Raphael tamed mice and kept them as pets. He fed pigeons from his window.”

  “There is the letter found in his room,” Juliana countered. “The letter instructing him to kill Clement VI. And the silver hidden beneath his bed as payment.”

  For the first time since speaking of Raphael, Aliena’s certainty wavered. “Yes. That letter cannot be denied.” Her face became sad. “Worse, I’ve heard it means his death. Poor Raphael.”

  Juliana fought a sudden chill. “Death? Surely if he is innocent it will be proved at his trial. An explanation for the letter, perhaps. A witness to vouch for him.”

  Aliena shook her head. “You have not heard?”

  “No,” Juliana said. And she had not. She had gladly embraced books as a means to occupy her attention over the last day, an escape from her worries and constant thoughts of Raphael. Until Aliena, there had been no one she trusted enough to even ask the simplest questions about Raphael.

  “He will never reach a trial. The merchants of Avignon have posted a reward,” Aliena said. “Even the best of Raphael’s friends might be tempted to slit his throat.”

  “I…I…do not understand.”

  “Two pounds of gold have been offered by the wealthy men of business in Avignon,” Aliena said. “Whether he is returned with or without his head, the reward for Raphael’s capture is two pounds of gold coin.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Answers?” Clement VI frowned, an intimidating sight from a man dressed in robes worth two months of wages. “I thought you understood what we put at risk to meet.”

  “I understand too well,” Juliana said, “but I needed to see you.”

  Juliana would not be discouraged. The thought of gold in exchange for Raphael’s head in a burlap sack had tormented her for hours. A simple answer from this man, and she could rest in peace.

  They stood in the pope’s chamber, more secluded even than the pope’s study. Large foliages of vines and oak leaves were painted on the walls, with birds and squirrels painted on a blue background. They seemed to bring the room to life. The windows were decorated with bird cages, the floor covered with ornamental tiles. Truly a breathtaking room, worthy of the mightiest man in all of Europe.

  Juliana had no eye for these details. She wanted instead to be reassured.

  “We share one word,” Juliana said. “Reynold. Without that word, I would not trust you. And with that word, you have certain obligations to me.”

  “That is why I am here.” Clement VI was facing away from her. “I will help as I can.”

  “I only have one question and it concerns the jester. Can you give me assurance that he safely arrived in Tarascon?”

  Clement VI turned and studied her face. “No other questions?”

  “The reward of gold offered for his head causes me fear,” Juliana explained. “I merely wish to know the jester is safely away from Avignon. We had arranged to keep him safe with your priest. Surely you know if he has arrived.”

  “I have a goddaughter your age,” Clement VI said, the expression on his face gentle. “I would do my utmost to help her avoid pain and anguish.”

  He lifted his hand, as if to brush hair away from Juliana’s forehead. Then stopped. “In the same way, I would wish to spare you.”

  “What is it?” Juliana felt more alarm at this sudden tenderness than she had at his frown.

  “You should not take the guilt upon yourself,” Clement VI said. “You are not to blame.”

  “I do not understand.” But Juliana was afraid she did.

  “I do understand,” Clement VI said. His face sagged with weariness. “And I wish I did not.”

  “Raphael did not escape?” Juliana asked. “He is already captured?”

  Clement VI shook his head. “Far worse. Drowned.”

  *****

  Juliana returned to her chambers, fell across her bed, and mourned Raphael’s death alone in silence. The pope’s tale of the jester’s cap found in an overturned boat deeply troubled her. Despite the pope’s advice otherwise, Juliana did feel blame for Raphael’s death. The depth of her feelings of sorrow amazed her; until meeting Raphael, she had been convinced that logic and pure thought could always triumph over the emotions that swayed the weak. Now she was discovering that her heart was stronger than her mind.

  She continued to mourn as the sky outside her window darkened with the beginning of a clear cold spring night. Then, as the deep purple became a black that glittered with stars, she heard a scraping on her balcony.

  She wrapped herself in her robe and moved toward the window.

  A half step later, she froze.

  Her window was opening.

  Her room was already dim, and the dark fabric of her robe made her almost invisible as she stepped aside to hide in the shadows of the drapes.

  Backing through the open window, a monster stepped into her room.

  A lesser woman would have screamed, for what little light shone through the drapes showed the figure to have rough, almost scaly skin. Its eyes gleamed from a face cracked and distorted into inhuman features.

  And the stench!

  The foulness of a sewer filled the room. Juliana imagined long dead corpses, flesh hanging from bones.

  The monster straightened.

  Juliana clenched her teeth.

  Her childhood had not been without training in matters of defense. There was a point on a man’s neck where the pressure of two fingertips would render him helpless, force him in a dead faint within seconds. Monster or not, she would not stand helpless and await its intentions.

  Juliana stepped away from the drapes. She reached for the monster’s neck.

  Somehow, though, it detected her movement. It whirled, slapping away her hand. In another swift motion, it clasped her other wrist.

  Briefly, they stood there. Locked. Juliana strained to pull her wrist free, then push it free. She could not budge against the monster’s strength. She swung again at the monster’s face with her free hand. The monster blocked that blow easily.

  More seconds of silence, until a low laugh bubbled from the monster.

  “M’lady, your appearance is deceptive. Who would think that such beauty hides such fierceness.”

  She gasped. Raphael!

  Immediate anger washed over her surprise. Irrational anger that he had caused her such sorrow with news of his death.

  “How dare you!” she blurted. “And to sneak in like a thief!”

  “Shall I ask for an escort through the palace halls?” Raphael’s voice lost its laughter, as if sudden anger took him as well. “Had you spoken truth earlier to the pope,
I would not be in this situation.”

  They both realized he was still holding her wrists. It was an awkward moment, simply because with that realization, he continued to hold her close and she did not pull away.

  Heartbeats ticked by. Finally, he dropped her hands.

  She stared defiance at him.

  “Call for guards, if you wish,” he said quietly. “However, along with my death, you risk your own life. Consider that not a threat, but a promise.”

  “You would kill me, jester?”

  “With regret.” Raphael paused, his response piercing his own heart. “The lives of my parents and sisters are at stake. It drives me to such desperation.”

  “We will talk,” Juliana said, “not because I fear your threat. I have my own questions. Talk, I presume, is the reason for your visit.”

  Raphael nodded.

  Juliana wrinkled her nose. “Is it your habit to call on ladies dressed in this manner and smelling so?”

  “There is little safety in wearing jester’s colors.” He rubbed at his face. “ I have spent the last day and a half hidden in the countryside. My disguise is the mud of a hog wallow, the only thing I could find that would hide both my jester’s colors and my face should I be seen from a distance. Believe me, I find it as offensive as you do.”

  “Hidden in the countryside? I had heard you drowned.”

  “Excellent,” he replied.

  “More than you know. There is also a price on your head. Two pounds of gold. Believed dead, you may not be hunted.”

  Instead of shock or outrage, Raphael nodded thoughtfully. “Two pounds of gold? That’s ten times the reward for even the most infamous criminals. The storyteller shows desperation.”

  “Storyteller?”

  “Storyteller,” Raphael said firmly. “And that is the reason I am here. You see —”

  A knock at Juliana’s door echoed over his whispered words.

  Raphael jolted to rigid attention. “Are you expecting someone?” he asked softly.