You might call it a command from our Father, but it is much more. It is a joyous certainty, almost like a merging of thoughts. But I can explain it to you no better than trying to explain why gravity exists. You simply have to accept that it is there.
It was dark, and the waves of the river so powerful that I suppose I could have simply used the power given to me by our Father and pushed Raphael and Juliana both to shore, as if I were a giant unseen fish shoving them with my snout. I’m sure, had I chosen to do this, both would have believed later that it had been a fish, for humans struggle with the concept of angels as helpers.
But simply pushing them wouldn’t have been a very elegant solution. And I hate to be accused of lacking in imagination. After all, when angels get together, we trade stories, and the better the rescue, the more entertaining to all the angels listening.
In a flash, I understood what would work.
There was a herd of horses near the river. And horses are great swimmers.
It wouldn’t take much to panic them. Nor much to direct two of the strongest horses into a part of the river where the current would sweep Raphael and Juliana against their broad backs. Where both could grab the manes of the horses and hold on until the horses brought them back to shore.
So that’s exactly what I did.
Chapter Sixteen
Alone and shivering wet, Raphael woke in darkness. He coughed violently at iron bands which seemed to squeeze his chest.
Then he remembered.
The river!
Desperate against all desperations on the bridge, he’d backed away from the soldiers and their advancing swords. That horrible moment as he tottered on the edge. Those heartbeats of fear as he fell, knowing as he plunged to the river that only a miracle could save him from death in the deep waters.
He’d fought hard against death, kicking upward in useless efforts to keep his head above water. The weight of his wet clothes had pulled him down again and again. And he’d kept a clenched grip on the burlap sack, knowing that without it, his life was worth little anyway.
He’d felt no more powerful than a helpless insect, sucked to certain doom, until the black of night had become a roaring in his ears, and the agony had finally faded to nothing as his struggles ended.
Now this? How was it that he was alive? Had he gone mad?
Without rising, Raphael coughed again. The pain in his chest racked him with each cough.
“Turn on your side,” came a soft voice from the darkness.
He ignored the advice and searched for the voice. His eyes grew accustomed to the faint light of the moon, and he saw that he was lying in the shadows of a huge boulder. Lower down, and several hundred feet away, the black, deadly waters of the river reminded him of how horribly close he had come to dying.
Why had he not died?
“Turn on your side,” the voice said again. “It is the water that you tried to breath that gives you such pain.”
He recognized the voice in the same instance that he dimly saw her in the shadows of a nearby boulder.
“Julia—” He coughed hard, sputtering as he tried to speak.
“Yes. Juliana,” she answered. “The same.”
He tried to speak, but the effort hurt him too badly.
“We are downstream from Avignon,” she said. “Not too far. I dragged you up here to keep us hidden should the soldiers search for us.”
“You! You dragged me here? You dove in?”
“Foolish of me,” Juliana replied.
“Again!” Raphael still wheezed and choked out his words. “An insult!”
“No,” she said. “I meant foolish of me because the river nearly drowned me too.”
“So how is it we’re not dead?”
“The strangest thing,” she mused. “Horses. Suddenly appearing in front of me. I had you with one hand and was about to go under myself, when two great horses arrived. As if sent by God.”
“I’m sure it was just coincidence,” Raphael said. “It – ”
Coughing seized him again.
“Turn on your side.”
He did as directed. Raphael coughed again almost immediately, and he felt water rise within him. The pain of coughing weakened him so much that all he could do was turn his head and let the water fall from his mouth. When he coughed next, it hurt less and barely any water dribbled from the side of his mouth.
He stayed in that position, coughing and clearing his lungs. When it seemed that the bands of pain around his chest had eased, he struggled to sit.
That effort took all his energy.
Back against the boulder, he remained motionless for long minutes as he waited for the waves of nausea to subside. Slowly, much too slowly, he felt strength return. His shivering began anew, and he clenched his teeth to keep from chattering.
“Why?” he finally asked. He hugged his knees to warm himself.
“Why?” she repeated.
“Again you betrayed me. And again you saved me. Why?”
Juliana sighed. “It appears that I betrayed you because I did not know I had been followed. And…” She faltered. “And I saved you because I could not merely watch while you died.”
“I suppose I must believe that, because here you are with me.” Raphael had enough strength to manage a snort of mixed laughter and disgust. “The soldiers witnessed your attempt to save me. You realize that you now share whatever punishment awaits me.”
Her answer was quiet. “I do.”
Raphael sensed there was much more to her answer than those two simple words, but it was said with such sadness, that he was afraid to ask.
They shared silence.
Above the edge of the boulders, across the unprotected hill, a wind began to push at the grass and trees. Clouds, the first of the night, moved across the moon. The shadows of the rocks became invisible in the heightened darkness.
“Who are you?” Raphael finally asked. It was not a challenge. Not asked in anger or bitterness. It was almost a question of hopelessness, of someone so lost that he did not know where to turn.
She waited so long across from him in the darkness that he wondered if she had even heard. In his mind, he saw her as he had first seen her. The long raven hair. Eyes deeper blue than any sapphire. The softness of her face, the tilt of her chin, the mystery of her grace. In the darkness, he smiled sadly, even as he shivered. As much as he wanted to hold her and that mystery, he could not believe he would ever truly know her.
“Who are you?” he tried again with that same helpless wonder. “You appear when least expected. You take down large men with tiny darts. You triumph over the mighty Rhone, entering as boldly as any fish. You hold secrets of plots and assassins and your very presence makes my head light. So I’ll ask again. Who are you?”
“Juliana of Normandy,” she said above the sigh of the wind.
Before he could protest that he already knew that simple detail, she continued.
“I am a distant cousin to Clement VI,” she went on. “As you may know, he was once the Abbot of Fecamp in Normandy. He, like me and all of my family, are intensely loyal to the French, although he must temper his loyalty by ensuring all under his rule are treated fairly.”
“You serve him? Secretly?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Why?”
A longer silence than the first, as if she were weighing in her mind what she might tell him. Raphael did not break that silence with impatient questions. He waited.
“Telling you completely would break a promise more important to me than my life. Can you accept that?”
“Yes,” Raphael said, almost surprised that he truly meant it. Something in her voice had hinted at incredible agony — he did not desire to add to her sorrow.
Her next words startled him.
“Yet I will tell you as much as I can,” she said.
Chapter Seventeen
“Explain first, though, where you got the silver coin you gave to me,” Juliana said.
“Silver coin?”
“Jesters do not have the wealth of kings. Yet you gave me a silver coin as if it were nothing.”
Raphael leaned forward, still huddled over his knees, but curious at the accusation behind her words.
“Are you saying it would be unusual for a jester to have a silver coin?”
“I am saying I want to trust you.”
Raphael thought of the six remaining pieces of silver sewn in his jacket lining. “On the contrary, I need to trust you before I tell.”
“Very well.”
He expected her to continue, but the sound of the wind cutting across the hills replaced conversation. Several minutes passed before he realized that her “very well” meant just the opposite. She expected him to speak.
“You might recall that I took the jacket off Demigius back in the palace garden,” Raphael told her.
In the dark, he could see her head lift as she brought her attention back to him.
“In the lining of his jacket,” he continued, “I found pieces of silver. Perhaps his payment for leading me to death.”
She said nothing.
Raphael removed the coat and threw it at her feet. Damp as the coat was, he discovered the night chill worsened without it.
“Feel for yourself,” he said. “You must know that in the few days since then I had neither time nor opportunity nor skill to sew them into the lining myself.”
Juliana stood. She scooped the coat into her hands, but did not, as he expected, run her fingers along the bottom edges of the coat. Instead, she moved toward him and draped the coat over his back. The tenderness of her act and her trust in not searching for the silver touched him. Again he felt the strange mixture of sadness and joy to think of loving someone so mysterious.
She sat next to him.
“Raphael.” Her voice was quiet. “The payment for killing the pope was found in your room. Along with the letter of instruction. You can’t deny that.”
“Not mine, I can assure you.” He spoke solemnly. “Someone put those things there without my knowledge.”
“You cannot blame me for wondering.”
Raphael forgot the cold and the rawness of his throat from coughing. “I tell you! A master storyteller directs the events around me!”
Raphael explained the thoughts he’d had during his time in the rowboat. He did not explain, however, how he had decided to find the master storyteller.
“There is some truth in what you say,” she agreed when he finished.
“But why?” Raphael asked. “That is the question which threatens to drive me mad. Why go to such lengths to involve me in an attempt to kill Clement VI?”
“Not you.”
“Not me?” Raphael became indignant. “Not me? Who else do you suppose spent time in the dungeon? Who else nearly died at the cliff walls of the palace garden? Who now runs with the price of two pounds of gold on his head?”
She placed a hand on his arm to silence him. Her fingers were soft. Warm. She left her hand upon him.
“No, Raphael. It was not done to you. Rather, the politics and events make you a helpless pawn.”
Suddenly, the comforting warmth of her hand on his arm felt like the burning of molten iron. He pulled his arm away at his sudden suspicions.
“How is it you know?”
She laughed softly at his reaction. “I am not part of the plot against you. Remember, I am sitting here beside you. Equally wet. Equally chilled. Were I against you, I would have watched you drown then returned to the comfort of my bed.”
Raphael relaxed. He regretted his rash action, for now her hands were in her lap and he wished for the touch of her fingers on his arm.
“Then how is it you know?” His words were much gentler.
She took a moment to gather her thoughts. The clouds above them broke apart, their shadows fleeing as ghosts. In the new light of the moon, he could clearly see her eyes closed, the beauty of her face.
“This is,” she began. Then stopped and cocked her head.
Raphael heard what she heard.
The baying of hounds.
He took her by the hand.
“I’ll keep us safe,” he promised. “In return, I want you to tell me what you can at the first opportunity.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Last night,” Raphael said, “you promised an explanation.”
“You may recall we did have to escape the hounds.” Juliana seemed to be in a more cheerful mood than anytime earlier. He thought he heard a smile in her words. Raphael, however, could not confirm his guess. Walking at her side and holding her arm to guide her steps, he could not see her face.
Even had he looked at her, he would have had difficulty seeing her smile. A shawl covered most of her face, a long coat most of her body. She walked bent and stooped as if she were an old lady, leaning on her cane with her other arm as she slowly moved down the uneven cobblestones on the streets of Avignon.
The streets were already crowded. Potters. Goldsmiths. Tailors. Wine merchants. Shoemakers. Butchers. All hawked their wares, most at top volume. Musicians danced to their own playing of flutes, a sight that brought an ache to Raphael’s heart — he missed the joy of entertaining crowds with his own skills.
The shops, since few could read, were not marked with words painted on signs but with colorfully painted symbols. Stores were wedged together in long lines along the crooked streets, roofs so high and the street so narrow that even in mid-morning Raphael and Juliana walked in shadow.
It had taken them several hours since dawn to return to the town walls of Avignon. They’d watched the gates to see if soldiers waited to inspect the crowds that entered Avignon and had finally satisfied themselves that it was safe to join those crowds.
Once past the gates, Raphael had gone to an inn and waited for Juliana. She had hastened to purchase the shawl, coat, and cane for herself. She’d also gone to a tannery and bartered copper coins for some of the dye that tanners used to darken leather. Back at the small room rented at the inn, she had applied the dye to Raphael’s blond hair.
As they now walked through the streets, Raphael in his rough clothing and with a small sack in his hand, appeared to be a kindly peasant farmer helping his elderly mother through the markets of Avignon. No peasant farmer with an elderly mother, however, would have flushed as Raphael did to remember his slumber the night before.
“You did fall asleep while I was talking,” Juliana reminded him.
Indeed, exhausted as only a fugitive can be when death might arrive with any next heartbeat, he had fallen asleep as she spoke. He flushed to think of how he’d woken to discover Juliana curled beside him, an arm thrown over his chest to keep them both warm against the cold of the night. Yes, her closeness had been entirely pleasant. So pleasant that he almost wished he might fall again into the Rhone River some night soon.
He coughed to hide his embarrassment and quickly continued with his question. “How is it you know that great lengths were taken to make the attempt on the pope’s life?”
She stopped, clutched his arm as if she had stumbled. “How far until we reach our destination?”
“At this pace? I may be old before we arrive.”
“That allows me time then. I shall explain as we walk. In the noise of this crowd, there is little danger that unfriendly ears will overhear our conversation.”
She clutched his arm closer to her. To any others, it would have seemed that the kindly peasant farmer was humoring his elderly mother with exaggerated attention. To Raphael, her closeness brought another flush to his face.
“How many people live in Avignon?” she asked.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” he said with a shrug. “Thousands upon thousands?”
“More,” she replied. “And if you were to listen to the babble around us, you would hear the language of nearly every mother tongue in Europe. Avignon is the crossroads of all Christendom. Italy’s largest banks are centered here. Architects and decorators from France.
Men of letters and artists from every country known. Hundreds of administrators.”
“Yes,” Raphael said. “And so…?”
“Why are they here?” she demanded, with some impatience, as if the answer was obvious.
He hesitated.
“Why have the Italian banking centers moved here from Rome? Who has hired the artists? Whose wealth is attended by the administrators?”
“All because of the pope,” Raphael said. “Clement VI.”
“And before him?”
“I entertain crowds with feats of skill,” Raphael said. “Why fill my head with unneeded historical nonsense?”
Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Nonsense? Matters of the mind are nonsense?”
Raphael was too stubborn to admit otherwise. “When I can strive to be the best juggler the courts have seen, I see no need to waste my time otherwise.”
“Had you wasted your time otherwise,” Juliana said sharply, “you would have known that for almost fifty years, Avignon has grown, and grown wealthy as the result of the decision of Clement V to move the papacy here away from Rome those fifty years ago.”
Raphael attempted to shrug again, but her firm grip prevented him.
“And had you decided matters of the mind were important,” she continued with the same impatience, “you might easily have realized that without the pope and his palace here, Avignon will no longer be the crossroads of all Christendom.”
“Why would the pope leave?” Raphael was intrigued despite his stung pride.
“For one, the war that England has fought with France over the last dozens of years. Surely even you know that Edward III has long laid claim from England to the French throne. Surely even you know of the great battles in northern France less than ten years ago. Surely even you know that conquered towns like Calais are considered English strongholds in the heart of France.”
“M’lady,” Raphael said, “by the tone of your voice, you wish to do battle with me.”
Juliana walked several halting steps in silence. When she spoke again, her voice no longer held anger. “Please forgive me. You and I will not battle.”
She drew a breath. “King Edward in England wishes to continue war with France. He is deeply in debt to Italian bankers who have financed much of his war thus far. Italian bankers would love to see nothing better than the papacy return to Rome. If Edward rules France, and if the Italian bankers pressure Edward, will the papacy continue to enjoy its shelter here?”
The Angel and the Sword Page 8