The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  Just before supper on a Sunday evening, Francisco used the wedge to block the door of the pantry, placing the item just under the door hinge. He fetched me from my cell, where I was praying, and told me that the Abbot was locked in the pantry and that I should bring Brother Juan immediately. I went to Brother Juan’s cell and hurriedly explained what I thought to be the situation.

  When Brother Juan and I reached the room, Francisco and several of the other boys were already using a thin metal rod to pry the door open. I remember Francisco calling out to the Abbot several times.

  “Can you hear us, Abbot Pedro?” Francisco asked. “Are you all right? Do not be afraid, Abbot Pedro. Have faith, Abbot Pedro. We will have you out in minutes.”

  The Abbot never responded. When the door was finally flung open, our victory celebration was short-lived. I saw Francisco’s wooden wedge fall to the ground and quickly realized the reason for the door’s malfunction. Before I had a chance to question Francisco, I looked up to see Abbot Pedro standing in the entryway, rigid, stone-faced. The Abbot stated that he had been advising one of the servant girls, Noelle, on a difficult family matter. Then he proceeded to his quarters.

  We were all quite perplexed by the Abbot’s behavior, a mystery that was compounded when Brother Juan walked into the pantry and picked up Noelle. She was sobbing softly, kneeling on the wet stone behind two barrels of fresh rainwater. All of us followed Brother Juan as he carried her as if she were an infant, a silent procession into the courtyard. He sat her on a stone bench and told Francisco to fetch a wet cloth for her forehead. Francisco ripped a strip from his own robe and dipped it in the cistern. Then he sat on the bench beside Noelle and held the cloth firmly to her forehead. She fell back against his shoulder. Francisco put his other arm around her waist and rocked her gently, as Brother Juan mumbled a prayer.

  Noelle was the daughter of Álvaro, a peasant who rented land on the estate. Álvaro’s growing debt to the monastery was a source of jokes amongst the monks. Every month he would arrive, hat in hand, to explain to the Abbot his failure to provide the amounts of grain owed to the monastery according to custom. As the Abbot’s assistant, I was often present during these episodes. Lack of rain, wilted crop, a hunting party trampling the grain, demons emerging from underground to steal the harvest—Álvaro’s excuses became more and more fantastic. We all knew the real reason for his failure—he was an incorrigible drunk and hopelessly unskilled in the science of agriculture.

  When we opened the pantry, both the Abbot and Noelle had been fully dressed. But doubts and speculation were inevitable, especially in light of Álvaro’s vulnerable financial position and the unusual location of the counseling session. Regardless of malicious talk amongst some of my brothers, I have faith that the Abbot, my mentor and patron, had merely been counseling Noelle and that he was true to his vows as a man of God. Indeed, I am quite certain.

  And yet, neither my opinion nor that of any member of the monastery is of consequence. The Abbot speaks for Christ, and no man sits in judgment of Christ. As Saint Benedict wrote, the first step of humility is unhesitating obedience. The faithful must endure everything, even contradiction, even injustice, for the Lord’s sake.

  SEVERAL DAYS FOLLOWING this incident, Abbot Pedro informed me that Francisco was in “spiritual rebellion.”

  I was rubbing the lint off the Abbot’s vestments at the time.

  “Abbot Pedro,” I asked, “does Francisco rebel against the Lord or against you?”

  I believe Abbot Pedro interpreted my question as a challenge to his diagnosis rather than what it was—an effort to understand his opinion. The Abbot’s cheeks, scarred with the pockmarked ravages of adolescent affliction, seemed to fill with blood. He put his arm around me roughly and pinched my neck in a most uncomfortable manner.

  “Lucas,” he said, “sometimes you try my patience. The rock upon which Saint Peter built the Church represents Christ on earth. I am merely Peter’s servant. He who rebels against me rebels against the Lord. It would be best if Francisco would return to Montcada and not further disrupt the serenity of the monastery.”

  “But Abbot Pedro,” I said, “many boys look up to Francisco. I could speak to him. He is my friend.”

  “Friend?” Abbot Pedro laughed. “He feels sorry for you, Lucas. Do you think that the heir to the Montcada fortune would be friends with you?”

  As learned as he was, Abbot Pedro did not understand certain issues.

  Correspondence with the Montcada estate followed. By letter, Abbot Pedro explained that Francisco was experiencing “certain difficulties” at Santes Creus that might be more effectively addressed at home. The seneschal of the Montcada family responded, conveying the reluctance of the parents to cut short their son’s commitment to the Lord.

  “After all,” the seneschal wrote, “Francisco has already served two-thirds of his three-year term.”

  The seneschal did suggest an ameliorative measure. He proposed sending Francisco’s first cousin, Andrés Correa de Girona, to the monastery.

  “Andrés,” the seneschal wrote, “has a benign influence on his cousin. He is sure to alleviate Francisco’s difficulties.”

  These were the circumstances in which Abbot Pedro admitted Andrés Correa to Santes Creus as an oblate. Andrés was eighteen, the same age as Francisco. The barber sheared his long blond hair before he entered the sanctuary, the yellow locks cut, strewn, scattered in the dusty courtyard just outside the church. Andrés was enormous, broad-shouldered, almost a head taller than the other monks. He stood bolt upright, not even having the good sense to stoop, if just a little, so as to draw attention away from his unseemly stature. He reminded one of the blocks of stone that compose the foundation of a monastery. In short, Andrés took up entirely too much space.

  Moreover, a thick jaw and eyebrows knit together just above his nose gave Andrés a less than scholarly appearance. Many of the boys referred to him as the “soldier,” a nickname that derived not only from his appearance but also from his violent nature, a characteristic that became apparent not one week after his arrival.

  We had just gone to bed after compline. Felipe González’s voice pierced the silence of the corridor.

  “Did they ever find your brother’s body, Francisco?”

  Felipe and several of the young lions giggled. Francisco was staring straight up at the wooden planks as if he had not heard the question.

  I suppose Felipe had never forgiven Francisco for that rejection in the parlor. Would that he had. Andrés stood up and walked right past me, matter-of-factly, as if he were going to answer nature’s call. As he approached Felipe, the laughter ceased. He bent down and picked up Felipe like a sack of barley, one hand on his belt cord, the other holding his robe. Then he tossed Felipe out the second-story window before walking slowly back to his bed mat.

  Incredibly, Felipe landed in a cart of manure and did not sustain any serious injuries—a few cuts and bruises. It goes without saying that Andrés’ action, his behavior, was incompatible with the principles of monastic life. Abbot Pedro took decisive action against the perpetrator, announcing in the chapter house the next morning Andrés’ sentence—twenty-five lashes and one week in the monastery prison. It was a severe punishment, but Abbot Pedro acted out of compassion for the culprit. As Saint Benedict wrote, such a man is handed over for the destruction of his flesh, that his spirit may be saved on the day of the Lord.

  That same day after sext, I went to Abbot Pedro’s quarters as I always do to fulfill my functions as his assistant. The Abbot was perusing a recently acquired manuscript as I shaved his baldpate. Francisco spoke from the shadows in the corner of the room.

  “You mentioned the largesse of my family when I first arrived at the monastery.” I was so startled by Francisco’s presence that my hand jerked the razor, cutting Abbot Pedro’s forehead. The Abbot slapped me hard against the face. I had to lean back to stem the flow of blood from my nostrils.

  “One day,” Francisco continued, “I will b
ecome Baron Montcada, with the responsibility of making decisions concerning the family’s donations.” Francisco walked in front of Abbot Pedro’s desk. He picked up a gold coin, tossed it in the air, and caught it in his open palm. “My cousin Andrés is dear to me. If he suffers, my opinion of the Cistercian way is bound to change.”

  The next day at our chapter meeting, Abbot Pedro announced that Andrés had expressed sincere repentance for his act, and that, accordingly, corporeal punishment would prove unnecessary. Furthermore, Andrés’ prison sentence would be reduced to three days. The young lions let out gasps of disapproval. Felipe, in particular, was terribly upset that his assailant should get off so easily.

  The episode disturbed me as well, but for another reason. Francisco had never before mentioned the wealth of his family. He had never relied on his name to exact an advantage or a favor. Andrés had caused this change. Contrary to the representations of the Montcada seneschal, Andrés was not a benign but a corrupting influence on Francisco. Indeed, it was difficult to understand the basis of their close friendship beyond their familial relation. In my estimation, Andrés lacked spiritual depth and the powers of the intellect that would make him a worthwhile companion. He was barely literate. And yet, particularly in the parlor, Francisco would sometimes focus his attentions on his cousin and neglect his true friends.

  I used to wonder whether Francisco would have done the same for me—whether he would have acted contrary to his own nature in order to save me from the lash. Sometimes I still wonder.

  ONE OF THE lay brothers coming back from the fields found Noelle. Her body had been placed in the cistern. It was a grizzly sight, her naked corpse covered with bruises, still bleeding from her sex, her brown eyes staring plaintively straight ahead.

  That afternoon in the parlor, no one spoke. Not one word was said. Not one.

  In our daily meeting in the chapter house, Abbot Pedro broke down sobbing while reading from the Rule.

  “Look upon the devil’s work,” he said. “Look what he has done to my children.”

  Brother Juan was mumbling to himself as the Abbot spoke.

  “Brother Juan, if you have words of consolation,” the Abbot said, “please share them.”

  “You … you …” Brother Juan stuttered.

  “Speak more clearly, Brother Juan,” the Abbot said, “no one can understand your gibberish.”

  “I could have done something,” Brother Juan managed to say. “I could have prevented this.”

  Three days after Noelle’s body was found, Brother Juan hanged himself in the refectory. Abbot Pedro said that Brother Juan, as a suicide, would spend eternity in the inferno. Accordingly, he could not be buried in the monastery’s funeral plot with the other monks just outside the infirmary. Abbot Pedro gave me several coins to give to one of the peasants to cart the body away.

  Before dinner that evening, Abbot Pedro said that Brother Juan’s act was tantamount to a confession of murder. That Brother Juan had come close to confessing in the chapter meeting following Noelle’s murder, but had held his tongue at the last moment.

  “Such is the wages of sin,” the Abbot said, with his arms outstretched, his black eyes aflame. “Such is the justice of Our Savior. Such is the fate of the damned.”

  It was a dreadful time in Santes Creus. Even the bread tasted of blood.

  Only the Abbot seemed unaffected by the horrid events. Indeed, he seemed reinvigorated by the tragedies. He prayed with an unrelenting fervor and spoke his sermons with passionate conviction. I was kept busy transcribing numerous missives to members of the Crown and clergy. The Abbot was requesting funds to build a second story of monastic cells around the cloister. Such an addition, the Abbot said, would demonstrate to his flock that not even the devil’s mischief could dampen the ardor of the faithful.

  On the fourth day of Lent, I was sharpening the razor, preparing for Abbot Pedro’s weekly shave. The blade stroked gently against the coarse leather strap. There was a knock. I approached the door. It opened before I reached the passageway. Francisco and Andrés stepped into the room.

  “Francisco and Andrés,” Abbot Pedro said, “you should be in chapel. I suggest you move along quickly. Lucas, you fool, start grooming me. I have a busy schedule today.”

  I stepped behind the Abbot’s chair and placed a cotton cloth around his neck to keep clean his vestments. The Abbot closed his eyes, and I began shaving gently the tiny hairs on his baldpate. Francisco and Andrés remained. They stood in the center of the room, their cool gazes resting on the Abbot.

  “I have heard no footsteps leaving my chamber,” the Abbot said, without opening his eyes. “Andrés, you escaped the lash one time—just barely. I would not again test the quality of my mercy.”

  “We have come,” Francisco said, “to discuss the death of the servant girl Noelle.”

  “The matter is settled,” the Abbot said. “Brother Juan admitted his guilt. Do you have some new information to shed light on Brother Juan’s dealings with the dark one? Or perhaps the name of an accomplice?”

  “Yes, Abbot Pedro,” Francisco said, “I have vital information. I am certain that Brother Juan never harmed the girl.”

  “Are you now?” Abbot Pedro said, sitting up. “Pray, tell me, how do you know this?”

  “Because,” Francisco said, “I knew Brother Juan.”

  “If I were you, Francisco,” the Abbot responded, “that is a fact I would soon forget lest the finger of suspicion be pointed in your direction. After all, I suspect that Brother Juan had conspirators. Under the right circumstances, when his friends become his accusers, even a Montcada can burn at the stake. Or perhaps just his cousin.”

  “Brother Juan,” Francisco said, “did not kill the girl.”

  “Interesting,” Abbot Pedro said, “that you should possess intimate knowledge of this affair.”

  “Abbot Pedro,” Andrés said, “Francisco told me of the incident with the servant girl Noelle. The door of the pantry jammed.”

  “Perhaps, Abbot Pedro,” Francisco said, “you could explain yourself.”

  The Abbot stood up slowly. The blood rising on his neck, the red sheen coagulating in the crevices of his cheeks. He pulled off the cotton cloth and threw it to the ground. He shook his fist.

  “For two years, I’ve had to put up with your arrogance, Francisco. You think I haven’t dealt with insolent boys like you before? I put them in their place. Hard too. With the stroke of a metal rod. I don’t care what your family name is.”

  “We only seek the truth,” Francisco said.

  “The truth?” the Abbot said. “The truth is that the girl you speak of was a whore. I knew from the first time I saw her. She cast her spell. The carnal yearnings returned—lust. Black, infernal lust. I will not tolerate those demons in this sanctuary. Do you hear me? I will crush the devil in whatever form he takes.”

  I daresay Abbot Pedro was trembling with anger. He wiped his spittle-flecked lips and placed his hand on the edge of the desk to balance himself.

  “Now,” he said, “get out of here.”

  Francisco and Andrés did not move, though. I was still standing behind the Abbot’s chair, breathless, holding the razor. Francisco glanced at me, his eyes tender. His gaze followed my arm down to my hand. Then to the razor. It was the manner in which he focused on the glint of the metal blade. I let out a gasp and dropped the razor, which clattered on the stone floor.

  “Lucas,” Andrés said, “could you leave us. My cousin and I have private business with the Abbot.”

  I looked to Francisco. He smiled somberly and nodded, and I made my way toward the passageway.

  “Lucas,” Abbot Pedro said, “stay where you are and finish shaving me. Lucas, get back here.”

  Andrés closed the door behind me. I walked to the chapel. Actually, I do not remember how I got there. I was sweating, shivering. I must have said one hundred Ave Marias before I heard the scream of one of the servants, who discovered the Abbot’s body. He had bled to death.


  They said that Abbot Pedro castrated himself rather than give in to the temptations of the flesh. The Archbishop of Tarragona deemed the Abbot’s death not a suicide but an act of “self-martyrdom.” Abbot Pedro, according to the official report, used the razor not against himself but against the devil’s agents.

  The Archbishop has filed a petition with the Pope to have the Abbot canonized. Four months ago, legates from Rome came to Santes Creus to interview me concerning other miracles that the Abbot performed. They said they would come again. I never told them about Francisco and Andrés’ presence that afternoon. I never told anyone. Never.

  And if thy hand offend thee, cut it off. Those are the exact words on Abbot Pedro’s crypt, the words of Our Savior. The tomb lies at the doorstep to the refectory. As the new Abbot, Alfonso de Barbera, explained to the monks, Abbot Pedro’s great humility during his lifetime repeats itself in death. The monks walk over his tomb several times a day on their way to their meals.

  The Abbot’s portrait is sculpted ivory inlaid into the stone floor. Dressed in his finest vestments, Abbot Pedro carries the scepter to indicate his position as head of the monastery. His face is turning away and appears to be wincing. His hands are crossed strategically just in front of his genitals as if in homage to that sacred act or perhaps simply to protect himself from the footsteps of overeager novices.

  CHAPTER III

  BROTHER VIAL

  FOR SEVEN YEARS, I did not see him. I remained at Santes Creus and rose from monk to prior of the monastery, second only to the Abbot. I am the youngest prior ever appointed at Santes Creus. I have the potential to rise even higher. Abbot Alfonso often refers to me as his successor.

  I heard news of Francisco from time to time. The Church keeps track of its patrons and their heirs. I knew that he had gone on the King’s crusade six years ago. After the Spanish kings evicted the infidels from almost the entire Iberian Peninsula, King Jaime decided to focus his military prowess on the Holy Land. He intended to sail the Mediterranean to the Levant and to chase the infidels from Jerusalem. Knights of the Hospital, Knights of the Temple, and Knights of Calatrava—Francisco’s Order—all joined the Christian armada. Sometimes I weep when I think of the brave knights who take the Cross, who sacrifice everything to put an end to the desecration—the devil’s children trodding on, sullying the sacred ground where Christ carried His Cross.