Abbot Pedro looked hopefully to the new arrival, but Francisco had no intention of responding. It was not clear Francisco was listening to the Abbot’s speech. Francisco’s gaze seemed to reach just beyond Abbot Pedro. The Abbot glanced behind himself, evidently searching for the source of Francisco’s interest.
“Our Benedictine brothers,” the Abbot raised his voice, trying to draw Francisco’s attention, “own serfs to work the fields. The brothers of Santes Creus till the land ourselves. We use our hands as Christ the carpenter did in Galilee. We have not come to replace the Rule of Saint Benedict, which remains our guide, our path to the Almighty. We seek merely to reform some of the excesses of the old Order. With stone and wood, we expand Christ’s dominion into the darkest plains of Iberia.
“Francisco,” Abbot Pedro was shouting, “in recognition of the unusual and temporary nature of your stay here, I have prepared a private cell for your habitation. You will also be exempt from fieldwork on alternate days. And I have reserved a place for you on my right in the refectory where the food is served first. On feast days, you will be able to pick from the most succulent pieces of fish.”
“Sir,” Francisco said his first words, “did Christ receive exemptions?”
“Excuse me, Francisco?” Abbot Pedro said.
“Did Christ receive special treatment on the Cross?” Francisco asked.
“No,” the Abbot said. “Our Lord suffered most grievously.”
“Then I do not think,” Francisco said, “that a Montcada merits special treatment. I appreciate your consideration, Abbot Pedro, but I would prefer to take my natural place amongst the others in the dormitory and to perform the tasks expected of any member of the monastery.”
Abbot Pedro was smiling thinly. At least, he knew Francisco had been listening.
“Would you be so kind,” Francisco asked, glancing in my direction, “as to escort me to the dormitory?”
Despite the initial commotion concerning Francisco’s arrival, he soon settled into life at Santes Creus. Francisco seemed quite suited for the rhythms of monastic life. He prayed with a marked devotion during each of the eight offices of daily prayer—the Opus Dei. While some of the monks would mumble the words, particularly during matins at two in the morning, Francisco always chanted the psalms with a peculiar intensity. Abbot Pedro once commented that Francisco’s prayer had a desperate quality, as if the boy were making a solemn plea to the Lord or seeking some critical information.
When the sun rose, Francisco took his place in the fields beside the other monks—four hours a day wielding spade and hoe. Sowing seeds that, like good deeds, would reap reward one hundredfold. While others might tarry in the shade, Francisco was loath to break even for water, and he worked with an uncommon vigor. Sometimes, on hot days, he pulled his white robe off. The sweat would glisten off his bare back, the smooth muscles twisting against the yellow wheat.
The others watched Francisco with curiosity. Who was this most noble of nobles who worked like a peasant and seemed to enjoy his labor? Several boys whispered disagreeable comments. I overheard Felipe González question the noble origins of Francisco.
“Perhaps,” Felipe said, “his father was a field hand who wandered into the Baroness’ chambers while her husband was away.”
In time, though, Francisco’s energy seemed to infect the other brothers. Eventually, we all followed his example. After Francisco’s first summer, the monastery registered a record crop of barley and wheat.
Unlike most of our new arrivals, Francisco was literate when he came to Santes Creus. He was able to take advantage of the monastery’s fine collection of books. During the two hours in the library after Mass, Francisco would bury his head in the manuscript of some obscure Christian saint. His thumb was stained permanently with black ink from turning the pages. Such was his concentration that Francisco seemed not to hear the bells for sext, so that the librarian would have to tap him on the shoulder after most of the boys had already departed for the noon service.
During the day, the brothers observe the Order’s prohibition on frivolous conversation. As it is written, in a flood of words you will not avoid sin. For a quarter of an hour each day that prohibition is lifted. The monks and lay brothers gather in the parlor to discuss whatever they wish. Invariably, the same small groups congregate. A hierarchy seems to pervade these gatherings. The monks are mindful of the social standing of each member’s family, so that the highest nobility associate only with each other. Felipe González surrounded himself with an entourage of four other monks, sons of the richest and most powerful families in Barcelona. They called themselves the young lions. Felipe’s father was the treasurer of the kingdom. Alfredo Martí led a rival but equally prestigious faction, whose members hailed from the northern territories. The other brothers formed similar, if less exalted, groups.
Given the distinguished status of his family, Francisco’s arrival threatened to disrupt the balance of factions. We were all anxious to see whether he would join Felipe’s or Alfredo’s group. In light of the proximity of Montcada to Barcelona, most of the brothers opined that Francisco would favor Felipe’s group.
Felipe approached Francisco two weeks after his arrival.
“Francisco de Montcada,” Felipe said, “we invite you to join the young lions.”
Francisco looked up. He smiled at Felipe, that same ironic expression from his interview with Abbot Pedro. The parlor became silent as every brother strained to hear Francisco’s response.
“Thank you, Felipe,” Francisco answered, “you honor me with this invitation. But I prefer the breeze on this side of the parlor.”
Felipe’s face drained of color, slack-jawed, as if he had just learned that his family descended from serfs. It was something of a humiliation for Felipe, who seemed to have instantaneously acquired a limp as he shuffled back to the other end of the parlor.
Francisco became the subject of much conversation in the parlor, not all of it flattering. There were some that felt Francisco’s rebuff to Felipe reflected a deep arrogance.
“Perhaps,” I heard one of the young lions say, “young Montcada thinks he is above us. We shall see how he fares on his own.”
In fact, Francisco fared quite well. In time, most of the boys developed a grudging respect, even an admiration, for Francisco and his independence. It was more than his family name, although some undoubtedly were unable to see beyond that. In his quiet smile, in the tilt of his head, in the slight inflection of his voice, Francisco bore a striking dignity, a regal quality that set him apart from his colleagues—indeed, even from our superiors. Everyone seemed to understand tacitly that Francisco was different, that his destiny would take him far above the intrigues of the parlor and the petty controversies amongst our Catalán nobility. Francisco made no effort to curry favor with the Abbot or to engage in the machinations that forged powerful alliances between families long after boys had left the monastery to become prelates or barons. He seemed indifferent to the solicitude of the Abbot and immune to the flattering of the sycophants amongst the monks who sought the favor of a Montcada. He resisted the comfortable future in which all seemed to conspire to place him. He was, in short, marked for greater things. That, or simply greater suffering.
My friendship with Francisco began in the parlor. Not every brother fit within one of the cliques that formed. Because of jealousy concerning my position as the Abbot’s assistant or because of the unusual circumstances of my birth, the other brothers excluded me from their circles of conversation.
Perhaps another note of explanation would be helpful. Before becoming a novice, I was a servant in the monastery. You see, several local habitants live among us. The more industrious have acquired the status of lay brothers. It is a mark of Cistercian humility that the monks consider as brothers these unlearned, unsophisticated peasants. While the lay brothers are not permitted to partake in the eight offices, the work of God, Abbot Pedro does allow them to celebrate Mass with the monks. Those ill-suited for the m
ore spiritual endeavors, including women, become servants, who perform the bulk of menial tasks at the monastery.
My mother had been a servant in the monastery. She was thirteen and unmarried at the time of my arrival. Evidently she concealed the pregnancy underneath her wool smock. Upon giving birth, she abandoned the infant in the stable before fleeing. No one in the monastery ever heard from her again.
It was generally assumed that my father was Lucas Sierra de Manresa, a young monk who had abruptly and unexpectedly deserted the monastery several weeks before the birth. Based on this assumption, I was christened Lucas de Santes Creus. But I have always suspected that Brother Sierra provided a convenient scapegoat and that my true father was a man of much less humble origins, perhaps a visiting dignitary or even a bishop. How else to explain my precocious development and the patronage of Abbot Pedro?
Indeed, I believe that Abbot Pedro knows the true identity of my father. He once told me I had the same black eyes as my father.
“Lucas Sierra had black eyes?” I asked.
“Lucas who?” he said.
Given the unfortunate situation surrounding my birth, I was forced to live with the other servants until the age of nine. It is, I believe, interesting to note that I never felt at home amongst the servants, and I do not believe they themselves viewed me as one of their own. Even the older servants seemed to treat me with a distance befitting the treatment that should, in those circumstances, be accorded one born to a higher station. For instance, while the servants slept huddled together in a ragged mass on the stone floor of the kitchen, they always reserved for me a separate space, underneath the chopping table.
There were some cold nights in the kitchen. I can still remember waking in the pitch dark in the dead of winter with no blanket. Waiting for the sun to bring some warmth. Trying to breathe some life into my frozen fingers. Anticipating the scraps of bread, leftovers from the monks’ table, which would soothe only partially the ache in my belly.
Until one day, a miracle occurred. On my ninth birthday, Abbot Pedro called me forth as a novice, the first and only of the local inhabitants to become a full member of the monastery. Abbot Pedro introduced me to the other monks during our meeting in the chapter house. I was kneeling next to the same boys to whom I had served supper the previous day. The brown wool of my new habit felt like silk against my skin. The robe had been used briefly, worn by a monk who had passed from illness the previous month. But he had been with us for such a short time that the garment was practically new. As the former owner was substantially older than I, the habit was on the larger side. I rolled up the sleeves carefully so as to avoid the unsightly wrinkles that I had often seen in the habits of the other monks.
After the daily reading of a chapter from the Rule of Saint Benedict, the Abbot introduced me to my colleagues.
“We welcome Lucas,” he said, “as a father would welcome a wayward son back into the fold.”
The Abbot described my admission as an act of expiation for the sins of the past and a symbol of the spirit of forgiveness that pervaded the monastery. I was grateful for the opportunity to take what I knew to be my rightful place in the constellation of God’s universe, and I was determined to prove the wisdom of the Abbot’s decision.
But I have strayed from my purpose. This manuscript will provide a map of Francisco’s soul, a description of his spiritual struggles, not an account of the achievements of one of God’s humble servants, that is, me. My friendship with Francisco began in the parlor. I believe Francisco recognized an innate nobility about my character and appreciated my skills as a shrewd conversationalist. Indeed, it was he who initiated our discussions. I remember his first remark—“I think, Brother Lucas, your habit is a bit large for you.” Then he smiled.
Soon, the long and painful minutes in the parlor became something quite different—a period to which I looked forward—a chance to talk to my friend, in truth, my only friend. Except for Abbot Pedro, my benefactor. During Francisco’s first year at the monastery, our relationship evolved toward a deep mutual respect and spiritual bond. The only impediment was the propensity of other members to intrude upon our private conversations. Sometimes Francisco unwittingly invited the participation of other brothers not affiliated with a specific faction. Francisco could be rather naive at times. He would direct an offhand, stray comment in the direction of one of these stragglers, who seized upon the remark as an invitation to enter our circle. Our little parlor group must have seemed a motley crew.
By coincidence, Francisco’s sleeping mat was next to mine in the dormitory. In our proximity, Francisco and I became accustomed to each other’s presence. When Francisco left the first year to spend Easter with his family, I was surprised to feel his absence. Waking for matins, I would glimpse the cold, flat outline of his wool blanket and feel just for a moment a sense of aloneness in the vast monastery.
MOST OF HIS days at the monastery, Francisco carried the ineffable spirit that made him a leader amongst our peers. There were also dark periods, though, in which he never smiled and seemed lost in another world. During these periods, his eyes seemed to look inward, focused on what manner of demons I know not. All the boys felt his absence during these episodes. For me, it was as if the sun had stopped rising.
I do not know if Francisco preferred isolation during these periods or if he simply had no choice. I would try unsuccessfully to engage him in conversation in the parlor or to exchange a glance in the cloister. When he did not ignore me, he would be cold and distant. Just when Francisco was most in need of my friendship, he remained trapped in his own solitude.
At first, I took his behavior personally. I felt hurt by his aloofness. In time, I realized that his morose demeanor had nothing to do with me—that a greater force had taken hold of him.
What was this greater force? Who can see into the soul of a person to make such a judgment but the Lord Himself? With this qualification, I will state humbly that I believe Francisco was struggling to emerge from the darkness that had enveloped his soul the day his brother died. It was a fierce struggle, and, at times, he seemed to be losing. I was deeply troubled by Francisco’s episodes, which could last a week, sometimes several weeks. He seemed to suffer unnecessarily. During one of his longer spells, I raised the matter with Brother Juan in the chapel. After the Abbot, Brother Juan was the most senior monk at the monastery. He had been in that position for over twenty years, but he would never rise above it. He was extremely dark, and most harbored suspicions that his family had been Muslim converts when Toledo was conquered from the infidels.
Brother Juan seemed to have a special, almost paternal relationship with Francisco. Francisco chose Brother Juan as his confessor and always spoke of him with profound respect. In Francisco’s darkest periods, Brother Juan would often sit side by side with him during our silent hours in the cloister. “A communion of unspoken sorrow”—that’s how Abbot Pedro referred to their association.
“Lucas,” Brother Juan said, responding to my concerns, “do not worry for Francisco. As the winter turns to spring, so shall the demons leave Francisco.”
I felt greatly relieved and thanked Brother Juan for his insight. As I was turning away, he spoke softly.
“Lucas, have you noticed Abbot Pedro spending more time with the servants of late? Perhaps with the servant girls?”
I hesitated, baffled by Brother Juan’s question. He looked down before I had a chance to answer.
Brother Juan was right about Francisco’s demons. The darkness would burn itself out. The cloud of melancholy would always lift, and he would return to me. That is, he would resume his proper place in the monastery.
DURING OUR MEALS, we followed the Rule—which is to say we ate without speaking, focusing on our food, God’s bounty, and His Word, read by one of the brothers. Each of the fifty monks at Santes Creus would read for one full week during the year. I would always feel somewhat anxious in the few days before I delivered the reading. Quite embarrassing to make a mistake in t
he oratory—an error of diction or pronunciation in front of the Abbot and the other brothers. More than one mistake and the errant brother would feel the sharp stroke of the rod against his bare back that evening.
Francisco ascended the marble staircase to the pulpit on the first Sunday of Advent. He said the customary grace. Before reading the assigned passage of Latin Scripture, Francisco added a special message in Catalan.
“I want to express thanks to Abbot Pedro,” Francisco said, “for his solicitude for all of his charges, in particular the servant girls.”
Several monks exchanged furtive glances. I looked up at the Abbot as Francisco commenced reading the Scriptures. He was staring at Francisco with an expression of bewilderment and compassion.
Rumors circulated concerning Abbot Pedro’s fraternization with the female servants. In truth, Abbot Pedro considered the girls to be members of his flock, entitled to his ministry. As the Order prohibited women from entering most parts of the monastery, the Abbot had no choice but to make special arrangements for the provision of spiritual guidance.
Several weeks after Francisco made his unfortunate remark, I saw him carving a triangular wedge during the evenings.
“Why do you carve the wedge?” I asked Francisco in the parlor.
“It is a gift for the Abbot,” he said.
I was surprised at the time, as Francisco seemed to lack the proper regard that one should feel toward a man of Abbot Pedro’s station. Perhaps, I thought, Francisco had recognized the error of his ways. Perhaps his prayer in the refectory had not contained the sinister insinuation that some of my colleagues ascribed to it.
The Crusader Page 2