The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “After three days, my men had not returned. I sent one of my soldiers to the cave of which the old man had spoken. He was to request another day, to guarantee delivery of the treasure within twenty-four hours on condition that no more harm came to Simon.

  “At the cave, twelve infidels met my messenger. The old man who had earlier visited our camp translated the request to the others. As my messenger waited, they talked and argued amongst themselves. Finally, the translator said that they would spare Simon for one more day.

  “Dawn came with no word from Acre. I improvised a plan to try to save Simon’s life. I thought the twelve Muslims who greeted my messenger were probably the entire enemy force—a small band of thieves and murderers roaming the countryside. We would try to use our superior numbers to crush them, first luring them out of hiding, then rescuing Simon by force. With this purpose in mind, I sent a messenger to tell the infidels we had gathered the ransom and to arrange for the exchange on the open plain not half a mile from our camp. I made clear that we would hand over the gold only at the same time the infidels delivered Simon.

  “The Muslims agreed to my conditions, but added three of their own—we could bring only five men, and we would have to come to the rendezvous on foot and unarmed. Their conditions foiled my original plan. I had no choice but to consent, though.

  “A most dangerous mission, Lucas. When the infidels realized we had not brought the treasure, they would try to kill Simon and us. And there were twelve of them against five of us. Bad odds, particularly considering the other conditions.

  “I revised my plan. We would no longer rely on superior numbers but instead on stealth and surprise. I instructed the carpenters to build two wooden chests. In each chest, we loaded six crossbows. I had my engineers lock an arrow in the chamber of each bow. They would be ready to fire when the time came. Twelve arrows for twelve infidels.

  “Then I chose four men to accompany me—four men to stand side by side with me on the field of battle. Four men who would not waver or fall back even in the face of such a perilous mission. Do you know whom I chose?”

  “Your most able marksmen?” I responded.

  “No, Brother Lucas. Nor did I choose my bravest knights. I chose Simon’s closest friends—those who had journeyed with him from the province of Conflent, in northwest Catalonia. These men shared a bond with Simon that had developed over several years of training and fighting together. They would not abandon their friend to the infidels even in the face of overwhelming odds.

  “We arrived at the meeting place with our enemies. The sun was behind us, in the eyes of our adversaries. We would need every advantage we could gain.

  “The old man arrived first. He inspected each one of us to make sure we were unarmed. Then he asked me to open the chests and show him the treasure. I told him he could see the treasure when we saw Simon. He raised his fist in the air, and his renegade band approached on horseback. Simon, blindfolded, walked amongst them. When they stood across from us, I signaled my men to open the chests. Under the watchful eyes of the infidels, two of my comrades began to lift the lids, watching each other’s progress. They had to act simultaneously. As soon as the infidels saw our weapons, they would kill Simon, then loose their arrows on us. My comrades did not wait for my order to attack. I was reaching into the chest for two crossbows when I heard the swoosh of arrows flying through the air and the screams of pain from our enemies. I grabbed two bows, one in each arm, and fired at the two Muslims across from me. I hit both.”

  “Simon must have been grateful, Brother Vial,” I said. “Surprised and grateful.”

  “No, Brother Lucas,” he said.

  “Then he expected your rescue?” I asked.

  “Simon was dead, Brother Lucas.”

  “Your deputy was dead, Brother Vial?”

  “In the confusion, it was difficult to distinguish friend from foe. One of Simon’s own comrades from the province of Conflent shot him in the chest. The crossbow is a powerful weapon, Brother Lucas. You could see the metal blade protruding from Simon’s back.”

  Brother Vial sighed and shook his head. Then he got up to leave. I followed quickly after him and grabbed his arm.

  “So they failed, Brother Vial,” I said. “These men whom you picked did not save Simon.”

  “No, Brother Lucas, they did not.”

  “But their qualifications?” I said. “I thought the point of your story …”

  “The future is uncertain, Brother Lucas.” Brother Vial spoke sharply. “The Lord’s purpose is inscrutable.”

  “Brother Vial, I’m not sure how your story relates to Francisco’s exorcism.”

  “Do you not love Francisco, Brother Lucas?” he asked.

  “I love all my brothers at Santes Creus, Brother Vial.”

  “I am not talking of Santes Creus, Brother Lucas.”

  “I have not seen Francisco for six years, Brother Vial.”

  “Love knows nothing of time, Brother Lucas. You spoke to me of Francisco as if you had seen him only yesterday.”

  “I still remember his crooked smile, Brother Vial.”

  “Would you risk your life for Francisco?” Brother Vial asked.

  “I must say, Brother Vial, I am quite confused. I cannot see the relevance of your questions. I am simply not qualified to conduct Francisco’s exorcism.”

  “Brother Lucas, you are more qualified than any man in the world to exorcise Francisco’s demons.”

  More qualified than any man in the world to exorcise Francisco’s demons. Those were his exact words.

  Brother Vial closed his eyes and bowed his head. He held both my arms tightly.

  “Lord,” he said, “give your servant Lucas the courage to perform his mission. Lord, give him the wisdom to see your path even in the darkest forest. Lord, give him the courage to resist the devil’s temptation.”

  Brother Vial looked up, but he was still clutching my arm. Indeed, his nails were digging into my skin.

  “The devil’s temptation, Lucas,” he said.

  “Yes, Brother Vial, I understand.”

  Brother Vial spoke to Abbot Alfonso that evening. I do not know what he said. The next morning, the Abbot observed me suspiciously when I entered the wagon with my cassock. But he said nothing. Indeed, for the most part, he ignored me during the two days of our journey to Tarragona.

  This was the first time I had ever left the grounds of Santes Creus. As the wagon forged over muddied, rugged roads, I looked out the back, searching for the devil’s temptation that Brother Vial had mentioned. But I did not see it. I saw the brown earth. I saw the emerald forest. I saw peasants who stared warily at the Archbishop’s wagon. I saw a field of sunflowers that had turned to face the wagon as a congregation faces its priest. I saw an ancient Roman aqueduct—a silly contraption built by pagans. As Abbot Pedro said, if God wanted rivers to run on aqueducts, why wouldn’t he just have created them?

  Abbot Alfonso instructed me to close the curtains as we approached Tarragona. He pretended to be asleep, but I could tell he was a bit frightened by the noise and bustle of the streets. We must have passed one thousand people.

  We arrived at the church just in time for vespers. I had never seen such a sacred space—cavernous, chaste. I could feel God’s presence in every crevice, his fingerprints on the angelic sculptures that peered down tenderly from their perches, his warm breath in the chanted psalms that filtered through the monastery.

  We spent that evening in the guest dormitory with pilgrims and other visiting monks. In the morning, just after matins, Abbot Alfonso went to the Archbishop’s chambers. I remained in the cloister. After several hours, a monk approached.

  “Brother Lucas?”

  “Yes, I am he,” I said.

  “The Archbishop will see you now.”

  I followed him through the treasury and up the stairs. As we ascended, I could hear my heart beating. I was afraid my escort could hear it too. I had never been in the presence of an archbishop, or a bishop for t
hat matter. We entered an antechamber, then passed into the Archbishop’s private office.

  What exquisite beauty. Yellow and blue tiles covered the floor. A large oak desk strewn with manuscripts stood in the center of the room, each document held fast by a silver buckle. A golden chalice filled to the brim with wine was poised atop a pile of loose papers. Sculpted serpents snaked up the stem of the chalice, so that the shiny heads of those creatures perched over the cup and appeared to be sipping the sweet liquid. I saw more gold and silver in that room than I had seen in my entire life.

  Archbishop Sancho was reading Brother Vial’s letter. His nose was long, angular, noble. His skin was sallow, with a few red splotches. He was dressed in a white robe and wore an oval hat. A silver chain with a rubied Cross dangled on his chest.

  As I stood in that chamber, I felt a warmth flow into my body and a tingling in my fingers and toes. I felt at home, as if I belonged in that room, in those chambers, among those holy, sublime articles. Faith, Lucas, I told myself, one day the Lord will reward your devotion. One day, the Lord will set everything right.

  The Archbishop glanced at me periodically, then back down at the letter. When he was finished, he motioned for me to take a seat across from him.

  “My cousin, Brother Vial,” he said, “informs me that you were a friend of Francisco.”

  “Yes, your eminence, I was at Santes Creus during his three years at the monastery.”

  The Archbishop seemed to study me for some time. I felt slightly uncomfortable and had to remind myself not to crack my knuckles, an unfortunate habit I acquired during my days as Abbot Pedro’s assistant.

  “Your eminence,” I said, “may I ask where is Abbot Alfonso?”

  “I sent him to the church so that I could meet you privately. You are not afraid of me, are you, Brother Lucas?”

  “Certainly not, your eminence,” I said. “It’s just that I feel unworthy to merit a private audience with such a distinguished and holy man as yourself.”

  “My cousin also writes,” the Archbishop continued, “that you are more qualified than any other man in the kingdom to exorcise Francisco’s demons. Do you think that’s true?”

  “Your eminence,” I responded, “I am not so blind or arrogant as to support such a statement. And yet, I would be loath to contradict Brother Vial.”

  A faint smile crossed the Archbishop’s lips.

  “Father Adelmo,” the Archbishop continued, “seems to have reached an impasse in his efforts with Francisco. As a last resort, he has proposed cutting open Francisco’s head from ear to ear to provide a passage for the demons to depart. What do you think of such a course, Brother Lucas?”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “other means could be tried before relying on such a drastic and undoubtedly fatal measure.”

  “Yes, Brother Lucas,” the Archbishop said, “I tend to agree. Our legal experts have pointed out that an exorcism resulting in the death of Francisco might not satisfy the terms of Baron Montcada’s donation. We would certainly have an argument, but the gift would not be assured.”

  “A gift, your eminence?” I asked.

  “You have not heard? Baron Montcada has offered one-third of his estate in exchange for the salvation of his son. The Baron included in the bequest the condition of Francisco’s ‘physical and spiritual recovery.’ It is the inclusion of the word ‘physical’ that makes me pause before assenting to Father Adelmo’s radical plan. I am inclined to try another avenue, to put Brother Vial’s confidence in you to the test.”

  “I am humbled by such an opportunity, your eminence.”

  “As well you should be, Brother Lucas,” the Archbishop said. “The landholdings and vast wealth of the Montcadas rival those of the royal family. Many parties stand to gain by Francisco’s salvation, including you, Brother Lucas.”

  “Me, your eminence?”

  Archbishop Sancho placed his hand on top of mine. It felt cold and sweaty.

  “I would not forget such a service,” he said.

  Many parties stand to gain by Francisco’s salvation, including you, Brother Lucas.

  Including me, indeed. I imagined myself in the Archbishop’s quarters. Sitting behind his desk. My desk. I would glide my hand over the solid oak, the smooth varnish like drops of water on my palm. On one side of the desk, I would keep quill and parchment, upon which I could pen correspondence to other archbishops, or perhaps the Holy Father in Rome. On the other side, a golden reliquary containing a finger, a few strands of hair, maybe even the ear of some revered saint.

  The Archbishop did not mention whether Francisco was one of the parties that stood to gain by his own salvation. Indeed, I do not think he was referring to Francisco.

  Abbot Alfonso returned to Santes Creus the next day. I was sent to Poblet to gather Francisco. I carried a sealed letter from Archbishop Sancho to Abbot Rodrigo. I have already described my initial reception at Poblet and my impressions of Francisco and the conditions in which he was kept. Indeed, I was a bit jarred upon seeing my friend. I had not anticipated, I could not have imagined, the extent to which the demons had infested his soul and ravaged his body.

  The morning of my arrival at Poblet, after visiting Francisco, I presented the letter to Abbot Rodrigo and Father Adelmo. Both men studied the document for some time, perhaps hoping to find a loophole, an ambiguity that would allow them to keep Francisco another week or two while clarification was sought from Tarragona. My eyes kept wandering to the scarred hands of Father Adelmo. They resembled claws more than hands, malformed, charred from applying the red-hot coals of repentance to his subjects. Having read the letter, I waited patiently, recognizing that the two men had no choice but to obey the Archbishop’s unequivocal instructions. By midday, we had departed, Francisco manacled inside the wagon, as I rode above with our escort.

  Father Adelmo watched us leave from the roof of the cloister. The black hood of his robe shadowed his face. But I could still see his eyes, blazing white with the Lord’s fury.

  IT HAS BEEN four months since Francisco arrived at Santes Creus. I have tried to follow faithfully Brother Vial’s methods of exorcism. Waking for matins, I chant the psalms before walking to Francisco’s cell on the second floor of the cloister. I read Scripture to him several hours each day. I finished the Bible and began again from Genesis.

  I set aside a period each evening to transcribe Francisco’s confession. When there is nothing to record, I write down my memories of Francisco—as Brother Vial said, a map of the soul, a map that one day, I hope, will show the path toward Francisco’s salvation.

  Francisco’s physical condition improved rapidly. When he first arrived at the monastery, the wounds on his back were raw and pus-filled. Brother Vial provided herbs from the Levant, which have helped heal the marks of Father Adelmo’s exorcism.

  Francisco barely ate or drank and never spoke when he came to Santes Creus. After one week, he began to pick at his meals. Upon the advice of Brother Vial, I experimented with different foods. Francisco seems to prefer chicken. After a couple of months, he was eating full portions. He has gained weight. He is well groomed. The barber comes to Francisco’s cell weekly to trim his hair and his reddish beard and cut his nails. Sometimes he looks like his old self.

  Two months ago, Francisco spoke. He asked me to lower my voice so that he could sleep. Never have so few words brought me such happiness. Since then, Francisco has spoken more and more. He seemed a bit out of practice at first, never quite stringing together more than a few sentences. But he progressed swiftly so that in a few weeks we had full conversations. His memory is more or less intact. Quite surprisingly, Francisco did not at first recall my name, although he remembered that we had slept next to each other in the dormitory. He does know exactly where he is. He even asked about the health and whereabouts of some of his former brothers, most of whom remain at Santes Creus. He never mentioned Andrés. He never mentioned the crusade. Neither did I. Until two weeks ago.

  I had always wondered why Francisco to
ok the Cross. While Francisco was devout in his own manner, he seemed disinclined to follow the call of any man, no less an army. Nor had he ever evinced an interest in the military aspect of Christ’s dominion. Moreover, as the heir of the Crown’s most powerful vassal, Francisco’s life in Barcelona was well set. I daresay every man in the kingdom, save the King, would have changed places with Francisco. And yet, Francisco chose another path—a dangerous and uncertain journey.

  I had just finished the Book of Exodus for a second time when I asked him.

  “Why did you take the Cross, Francisco?”

  He did not answer. He stared straight ahead and did not acknowledge my presence for the rest of the day. Francisco has remained mute since I posed that question two weeks ago. He stopped eating as well and seems to have lost the weight he had gained over the previous months.

  Since Francisco’s arrival, I have lit a candle in his windowsill every afternoon before I leave. A candle of hope, a candle of courage. For the last two weeks, when I enter his cell in the morning, I have found the flame extinguished, the wick unused. As if Francisco can no longer abide God’s light. As if he preferred outer darkness to reflect the condition of his soul.

  Two days ago, I saw blood dripping from his closed fist. When he ignored my pleas to open his hand, I pried open his fingers. He was clutching the knife I had given him to carve his meat. The cut bore deep into his palm. I could see the bone. I confiscated the bloody knife and ran from the cell.