Lord Ferrán looked at me hopefully. I nodded. Andrés was yawning.
The visits began two days later. A noble delegation led by Baron Calvell de Palau arrived in the afternoon. Lord Ferrán ushered them into the Great Hall, where Andrés and I sat waiting. The seneschal made a formal introduction of our guests, then dismissed himself. Lord Ferrán had said that it was vital for Barcelona to see that the young heirs could stand on their own feet in council with the heads of other noble families.
Andrés and I did not intend deception. Lord Ferrán had created the opportunity by neglecting to specify in his introduction which one of us was Francisco. Baron Calvell spoke for some time expressing his grief over the tragic accident and his condolences concerning my brother. He looked back and forth from Andrés to me. Finally, he seemed to focus his attention on Andrés and henceforth directed his speech entirely in my cousin’s direction.
When the Baron finished his lengthy soliloquy, there was a long, silent pause. His entourage looked anxiously at Andrés, who was stroking his chin.
“How many chickens do you maintain on your estate?” Andrés asked pointedly.
“I beg your pardon, Don Francisco?” the Baron asked.
Andrés repeated his question, his countenance deadly serious.
The Baron consulted in whispers with the other members of his entourage.
“One hundred and ten, Don Francisco, give or take a few,” he said.
Andrés nodded gravely in my direction, as if his suspicions had been confirmed. The members of Baron Clavell’s entourage looked uneasily amongst themselves.
“Yes,” Andrés finally said, “quite so.”
The Baron and his entourage left soon thereafter. As they departed, they studied Andrés and seemed disinclined to turn their backs on him. The Baron himself must have bowed ten times on his way out the door.
We conducted one interview a day. Two, three, four hours of listening to a continuous litany of irrelevant details and stale lies. The number of hectares and serfs held by the family; their favorable impression of King Jaime’s health during their latest visit to the palace; the bishops and royal family members whom they counted as close friends; their profound sorrow upon hearing of my brother’s death and the many prayers they had said in his name, “blessed Sergio.”
Andrés and I found it difficult not to doze off. After several days of interviews, we devised a strategy. We would finish our morning horse ride with a race back to the estate. Whoever lost would have to play Francisco at the afternoon interview. Despite Andrés’ boasts, we were well matched as horsemen, and the burden of playing the heir seemed to fall evenly between us.
Like vultures circling the corpse of my brother, the delegations descended upon Montcada. We gave them what they wanted—a quiet nod, a knowing smile. That seemed to please our guests as much as any speech we could have given. When our visitors ceased speaking and looked up, we knew a comment or question was expected. We readily provided one.
Nevertheless, Andrés and I knew well that Lord Ferrán would disapprove of our switching identities. When one of the servants relayed Lord Ferrán’s request to meet with us after our morning ride, we suspected that he had learned of our peculiar arrangement.
“Do you have anything to say to me?” Lord Ferrán asked, when we stood before him.
“Lord Ferrán,” Andrés said, “let me first say that our city friends are prone to great exaggeration.”
“I think not, Andrés,” Lord Ferrán said. “You are much too modest. The two of you are the talk of Barcelona—the cousins whose good looks are exceeded only by their sagacity. They say the twins—yes, that’s what they call you—the twins talk in parables and poetry. A formidable pair, indeed. Nobles might be prone to exaggeration, but they can always discern excellence. All of the Montcada vassals share in the glory of the new heir. Our fortunes rise and fall with those of the family. I know if Baron Montcada were here, he would be full of pride for the performance of both of you this last month.”
Lord Ferrán was beaming, ebullient. He was looking at us expectantly, as if he too, like our daily visitors, required a comment or question. I shuffled uncomfortably.
“Yes, quite so,” Andrés replied. He was looking down at his shoes.
Lord Ferrán never discovered our arrangement. Andrés and I continued racing our horses for several months. We could have continued for several years if my mother had not intervened.
She persuaded my father to send me to the monastery at Santes Creus. She said she would return from Barcelona when the younger had fulfilled the elder’s unspoken vows. In Sergio’s stead, I would serve a three-year sentence at the monastery—to assuage the Lord’s wrath and perhaps my mother’s.
That’s where I met you, Lucas. When was that—ten years ago? I see you have remained at Santes Creus. Judging by your jewelry, I would say you have profited quite handsomely in the clergy. Tell me, Lucas, did Jesus Christ wear gold rings on His fingers?
But I have lost the thread of my explanation. After three years at the monastery, I returned to Montcada, to the old darkness. My parents were away, my father at a jousting tournament in Flanders, my mother at our residence in the city. Although I was home, I felt an unrelenting homesickness. It was an unquenchable ache. My brother dominated my dreams—Sergio on the ship with his quiet, unsuspecting smile, Sergio beckoning me into the still water. Sleepless or sleeping, my nights were haunted by the same images.
I had been home for one month when Sergio called me from his icy grave. It was a dream. I was a member of a cavalry regiment. We were galloping toward the Holy City. We rode for several days without resting. My fears subsided in the rhythm of Pancho’s powerful and certain gait, and in the thunder that shook the earth from a thousand hooves. I was a soldier in a vast and mighty army that moved as one organism. My armor felt as light as skin and my body underneath like iron, impenetrable.
I put my hand to my chest. My cloak was wet. I thought that I was bleeding from the heart, a familiar wound. I looked down but saw no blood. The rest of my tunic was soaking, though. I thought we must be riding in the pouring rain.
I cupped my hands in front of me to gather water for my parched lips, but my hands remained empty. It was not raining.
Then I realized. We were on the bottom of the ocean, a battle-ready regiment in full armor. I tried to speak to the nearest knight, to question him, but he could not hear my voice through the misty water.
I looked to my left and right. The horses and knights advanced slowly, bogged down by the effort of moving their limbs through the heavy water. I tried in vain to make out the faces of the others. One of the knights next to me motioned for me to approach. Pancho and I galloped by his side.
It was Sergio. He spoke without emotion. “I am lost,” he said.
He does not recognize me, I thought. I shouted to him over the tumult of the galloping horses: “Sergio, it is I, Francisco, your brother.”
He stared at me impassively, then lunged toward me. His nails scraped across my chest. I managed to pull myself away. Sergio disappeared into the maelstrom of charging cavalry.
We continued for several hours until I felt a hand grip my arm tightly. I turned to confront this knight. His shining armor illuminated a path toward the East, toward Jerusalem. I could not make out his face. I peered into his helmet but saw only the vast black ocean, inscrutable, unending.
When I woke, I did not need a priest to decipher my brother’s message. Sergio had spoken to me from purgatory. My brother’s soul was in limbo. He had asked for my help. To lift him from the inferno through my sacrifice.
That faceless knight—it was me, one of Christ’s nameless soldiers. My own face, my own future—uncertain, uncharted. I would sail to Jerusalem in search of redemption—for my brother and myself.
It was never my intention to take the Cross. I was called. From the abyss.
FROM THE ABYSS, indeed. Francisco would have done well to consult a priest concerning his “brother’s messa
ge.” The ways of the devil are infinitely complex and wicked. I suspect it was Satan who assumed the guise of his brother Sergio to lure Francisco to the Levant. Satan undoubtedly viewed the Montcada heir as a great prize and would do anything to woo him into that dark fold. The devil understood that Francisco, far away from his home, would be more vulnerable to doubts and temptation. Thus the paradox at the core of Francisco’s decision to take the Cross—the paradox that makes me shudder as I realize the cunning, nefarious methods of Satan—Francisco joined God’s army and journeyed to the Holy Land at the behest of the devil.
Perhaps another note of explanation is necessary. In an effort to divert attention away from his own spiritual trials, Francisco mentioned the jewelry on my person. I do in fact wear two gold rings—one on each of my middle fingers. I say so quite openly. I am proud of the rings and wear them as a symbol of my devotion to the Lord.
The first ring was a gift from Bishop Bisson of Lérida in gratitude for my negotiations with Baron Enrique de Penedès over the sale of an indulgence. It could be said that Baron Enrique’s elder brother Don Jaume brought death to his own door. Don Jaume had, over a five-year period, repeatedly refused to fulfill his promise, made to Bishop Bisson, to take the Cross. After a final, unsuccessful appeal to Don Jaume, Bishop Bisson excommunicated him. The Bishop’s declaration disinherited Don Jaume from his father’s estate and released Don Jaume’s vassals from any obligation they held toward him. Don Jaume refused to recognize the measure and went so far as to take three priests from Lérida hostage.
During the crisis, the younger brother, Baron Enrique, sent an assassin, a Frenchman, to murder Don Jaume. The assassin disguised himself as a Dominican priest and stabbed Don Jaume as he was receiving communion at the cathedral in Penedès. It was reported that the silver chalice with Christ’s blood fell over during the commotion, and the blood of Don Jaume mixed with that of Christ on the floor of the cathedral.
I do not pretend that such a drastic measure as employed by Baron Enrique is ever justified. It contradicts most clearly the teachings of the Lord. No matter that the Baron was acting, in an indirect fashion, as an instrument of divine retribution.
When Don Jaume passed, his brother Baron Enrique became heir to his father’s estate and provided the diocese of Lérida with a chest of treasures. In that chest was the ring I wear on my right middle finger. Bishop Bisson gave me the ring, engraved with the coat of arms of the family Penedès, in recognition of my work in negotiating the exact terms of Baron Enrique’s dispensation. I do not think it would be false boasting to say that I drove a hard bargain—one indulgence in exchange for seventy pounds of gold and silver. In short, I received for the Lord the greatest possible settlement, and thereby increased dramatically, if not assured, the Baron’s chances of entering the Kingdom upon his own death.
Archbishop Sancho of Tarragona gave me the second ring. He sent it to Santes Creus just last week with a letter.
“I am not surprised to hear,” he wrote, “of Francisco’s recent progress under your direction. I have high hopes, Brother Lucas, for your advancement in the clergy. I never told you, Brother Lucas, but I was deeply impressed by your poise during our meeting in my chambers in Tarragona.” That was the exact word he used—“poise.”
“Unfortunately, Bishop Martín of Tortosa is quite ill,” the letter continued. “I am making a preliminary list of potential replacements. If your work with Francisco should be completed by the time Bishop Martín expires, I would certainly consider you a leading candidate for the position. I am enclosing this ring as a mark of gratitude for your efforts with Francisco and as a harbinger of Francisco’s spiritual and physical recovery.”
I have always believed that I carried and conveyed a special quality. I never lost faith that the Lord or one of his illustrious servants would recognize that quality and reward my fealty. Even before the Archbishop’s letter, I would often pretend I was a member of the high clergy. Sometimes, when Abbot Alfonso was not looking, I would try on his felt hat and make believe I was giving a sermon to the faithful. I had studied his hand gestures during the service and would copy them in the privacy of chambers.
It seems both impossible and inevitable that my hopes, my grandest expectations, will be fulfilled. What were the words of Brother Vial—faith and patience. His eminence, Bishop Lucas of Tortosa. It has rather a nice cadence. I can picture myself accidentally running into Francisco on a visit to Barcelona with my entourage. We will chat for some time about mutual acquaintances, perhaps members of the royal family. We will share a long charitable laugh at the expense of some of our former brothers at Santes Creus. When the conversation subsides, Francisco will smile and invite me to spend a week in Montcada. I, in turn, will insist that he spend part of the summer on my own estate in Tortosa.
Regrettably, Francisco, possessed by demons, cannot appreciate the significance of these rings or the nature of my sacrifices over the last four months. He cannot understand that these rings represent my commitment to one of Christ’s most important precepts—the power of forgiveness and the salvation by the Church of a sinner. Is this not the very kernel of our work, to show sinners the true path? To rescue those who have lost their way? Indeed, the Archbishop’s gift symbolizes my fidelity to Francisco himself and the process of his redemption.
CHAPTER V
ISABEL
YESTERDAY I GAVE away one of my rings as alms to a beggar family. They visited the monastery during the feast of the holy martyrs. The father of the family approached me as I made my way to the chapel for morning Mass. Ill-clad and foul-smelling, he was the kind of man who would call master anyone who wore shoes.
He fell to his knees, blocking my path up the steps and rousing me from my internal deliberations on Francisco’s predicament. He spoke to me of his two young ones, starving for lack of bread. He asked that God have mercy on him and his family. I was moved by the plight of the man, and I knew that the Lord would approve giving the ring to the family—it could probably feed them for a full year. When I bestowed the ring, the man grasped my ankles and began to kiss my feet. The rest of the family remained withdrawn, the mother clutching her two children to her hips. They looked almost mistrustful, too foolish to understand the full implications of my generosity. The act created quite a stir in the monastery, and I could see that the young monks looked to me with a certain reverence that was perhaps appropriate under the circumstances. If Francisco noticed the disappearance of the ring, he did not mention it.
Francisco and I have continued our discussions. While Francisco appeared indifferent to my presence during his first months here, he now seems to await my arrival anxiously, impatient to start speaking, to take up his narrative exactly where he left off the previous evening. Francisco often paces the cell as he talks. At times he exhibits keen emotions, as if he were reliving the events he describes. He usually speaks for several hours without resting. He seems to feel a great sense of urgency. Frequently he begins speaking before I can settle in my chair and place on my lap the wood board carved to my specifications by one of the novices. On this miniature desk, I keep a Bible, an inkwell, a quill, and parchment, upon which I take notes that help me transcribe Francisco’s confession in the evenings.
As I make my way to his cell after matins in the morning, sometimes I feel a vague sense of foreboding. Perhaps I am afraid that Francisco will say something that will alter my life, that I will come face to face with an insupportable horror, the selfsame that pushed Francisco into the arms of the devil. I pray that I will be strong enough to look that temptation in the face without flinching.
Faith, Lucas. Faith and courage.
ANDRÉS’ LETTER CAME not one week after my dream of Sergio. He wrote of a crusade that King Jaime would launch in the coming year. He suggested that we join the Knights of Calatrava, who were sure to accompany the King. I felt as if my brother Sergio were the true author of the letter, a proposal that seemed more a mandate than a question.
I met my mother a
t our residence in Barcelona the next day. I found her in a barely lit parlor. She was praying, kneeling before a wooden statue of the Virgin, inscribed MATER DEI, the Mother of God. Mary held an apple in her right hand, Eve resurrected, and a golden chalice in her left, the mark of the Church’s function on earth, sharing the body and blood of Our Savior.
My mother’s hands were empty, tiny and frail in my own. The three years since Sergio’s death had taken their toll. She was still dressed in the black clothes of mourning. I had to help my mother off her knees and guide her to a chair, her back stooped, her eyes cast down.
I told her that I had seen Sergio. I told her of my dream and my intention to take the Cross. She listened without saying a word as if she already knew. When I finished, she pressed her arid lips against my forehead and left the room.
Through correspondence, Andrés and I decided we would travel to Calatrava, the headquarters of the military Order, from his family’s estate in Girona. I had never visited Andrés’ home, although I had met his father, my mother’s brother, on several occasions. He would stay with us in Montcada when he traveled to Barcelona to attend meetings of the King’s Council. When I was young, he used to carry me on his shoulders, galloping through the courtyard gardens. I would grasp his blond hair with one hand, the other wielding my stick against imaginary foes, cutting off infidel heads. My mother would always interrupt our sessions, chastising her brother for trampling the flowers. “Sir Francisco,” my uncle called me, “a knight errant.”
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