The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  This misfortune, then, this was the source of Isabel’s understanding—consecrated on her birthday, in her mother’s blood. This burden was the looking glass into which I peered when I first encountered Isabel.

  Baron Correa perceived his daughter’s distress and intervened swiftly to protect her. “Andrés, you will watch your tongue. Isabel will always speak her mind at this table.” He then turned to me. “You see, Francisco, my daughter believes that Christ was a man of action.”

  “Then I would think, Baron Correa,” I said, “that she would support her brother’s desire to take the Cross. How much more active can one be than to fight under His banner?”

  Isabel did not wait for her father’s response. She had recovered sufficiently from her brother’s comment and would explain herself. She addressed her father, but her comments were clearly intended for her brother. Andrés shook his head as if to protest his father’s tolerance for his sister’s liberties.

  “Yes, Father,” Isabel said, “Christ is a man of action. But there are different types of action, different motivations. Certainly not all action, even if cloaked in the guise of Christian service, derives its legitimacy from Our Savior. I fear, Father, that my brother’s decision to take the Cross has more to do with a desire for martial glory than with the Lord’s call.”

  Andrés banged his fist on the wood table so that our plates and utensils jumped. Stunned by the sound, one of the servant boys dropped a clay pot full of mutton stew on the floor. The ceramic shattered into a thousand pieces that glittered on the stone floor. The boy stood to the side and bowed his head as if in recognition of his unworthiness to serve at his master’s table. The dogs rushed past the boy to get to the fallen stew. Everyone except Andrés seemed absorbed by the distraction.

  Over the din of the lapping dogs, Andrés spoke sharply to his sister: “Francisco and I do not pretend to imitate Christ, but we will be men of action in the Levant. With or without your blessing.”

  “Sometimes, Francisco, when my brother is at a loss for words, he will express himself with his fist.” This I already knew. “And do you agree with my brother, Francisco?” Isabel asked.

  I was in a difficult situation. Of course, I would stand by Andrés, but I did not want to offend my other cousin twice in the same evening, nor become the next subject of her interrogation. I managed just barely to find an acceptable medium. I avoided the topic altogether.

  “I have never considered myself a man of action,” I said, “except when I was very young and I encountered a dragon or a rare species of Cyclops known to inhabit the outskirts of Barcelona.”

  Andrés laughed loudly and slapped my back.

  “My daughter has never been bashful about expressing her opinions, Francisco,” Baron Correa said.

  “Why should she be,” I replied, “when she has much to say?”

  He smiled at the compliment to his daughter. Isabel looked at me skeptically.

  “You give my sister too much credit, friend,” Andrés said.

  WHEN ANDRÉS KNOCKED at my door in the morning, I was wrapped in a green wool blanket, watching the red dawn peer over the horizon. The remnants of the snowstorm had passed. The sky would be clear for the hunt. We met at the stable, where the servants had already prepared our horses and provisions for the day, my bow and arrows slung on the side of Pancho. Andrés and I were the first to arrive. Baron Correa and Isabel followed several minutes later. Isabel wore a purple dress and cloak with a silver clasp at the collar. Small embroidered shoes peeked out from below the hem of her dress. Her hood was pulled back. I could see the loose strands of her hair tucked behind her ears, except for one that stubbornly eluded her efforts and settled, curving, across her cheek.

  Andrés looked at Isabel from head to toe and frowned.

  “Father,” Andrés said, “we go to shoot deer, not to dance. With her outfit, Isabel will chase away our prey before we even reach the woods. I do not understand why you humor Isabel and her ridiculous requests. A woman should leave the hunt to the men of the family.”

  “Isabel, dear,” Baron Correa responded, “your manner of dress is a bit unorthodox. Perhaps next time you can wear a more natural color. Andrés, you are as much to blame as Isabel for her vestment. She has little experience and cannot be expected to know the proper attire. As her older brother, you should have counseled her on such matters.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Isabel said, glancing sidelong at her older brother.

  We set out in single file with Andrés leading toward the mountain range that I had viewed from my window. We rode east, toward the sun. Its reflection off the snow created a blinding glare. For much of the ride I closed my eyes and ceded to Pancho the responsibility of following the party. As we moved forward, I lost myself in the steady, labored breathing of the horses. Isabel began the journey at the back, but I changed places with her several times so that we shared duties bringing up the rear. We kept a good pace toward the mountain range, and Isabel never fell behind or faltered.

  Because I was so close to Isabel, I could hear her talking with her horse. It was a peculiar habit, not because she spoke to her horse—many knights do so regularly. Isabel seemed to be engaged in an animated philosophical conversation. She and her horse, Flacito, covered many subjects together but seemed to focus on the stupidity of the crusade. Judging by Isabel’s responses, Flacito seemed even surer on this point than she.

  “Flacito,” Isabel said, “do you really believe those who take the Cross are often men without direction or purpose?”

  At several moments I had to restrain myself from refuting a point made by Flacito, reminding myself that horses do not have the gift of speech.

  After half an hour, we met the second party, neighbors of the Correas—Guillem and Miguel Clemente, father and son. Two servants on foot accompanied them. I suppose Baron Correa invited his neighbors in an effort to forge a more beneficial relationship with a family that, after the Correas, was the largest landholder in Girona. The fathers greeted each other warmly. Despite Baron Correa’s introduction, neither Clemente seemed to take an interest in or notice my person.

  Miguel, the son, was twenty-nine years old, ten years my senior. He wore a thick black robe with fur collar and a matching silk hat. His raven curls, well oiled, protruded from his hat. He seemed quite pleased by Isabel’s presence. He rode most of the way next to her. From where I sat on Pancho, I could not help but overhear parts of their conversation. Actually, it was more a monologue—Miguel did all the speaking—mostly about the important contacts of the family or the extent of their property. I believe he made an inventory of the entire estate he stood to inherit, down to the last pig. Isabel’s responses invariably consisted of only one word—“sí” or “bueno.” But she spoke in an enthusiastic tone that suggested to me a partiality to Miguel. Perhaps, I thought, her inappropriate dress did not stem from inexperience, but instead from anticipation of Miguel Clemente’s company. Perhaps Baron Correa and Isabel had more ambitious plans for the hunt than catching our dinner.

  I do not doubt that Miguel has certain attributes that would make him an appealing husband and a convenient ally for the Correa family. Given Isabel’s youth, I suspected that she would be swayed by the superficial benefits of the match. I could picture it—a fall wedding in the garden of the Correa estate, under the watchful eye of the Virgin statue, a bridal terrace of silver leaves, Isabel’s hair tied up under a headdress de moda. Andrés and I would be fighting in the Levant by then.

  It was a long ride up toward the mountains. Pancho’s gait was frustratingly uneven, and Miguel droned on with his soliloquy. Circumstances finally forced Miguel to suspend his discourse. We reached the foot of the mountains, a thickly wooded area where the deer found shelter. The hunt was on, and conversation amongst the party ceased. We slowed the pace to survey our surroundings. The narrow birch trees created a maze for our horses.

  We rode abreast of each other, as an army on the advance, one solid line through the forest. Migu
el and Isabel were on the far right, Baron Correa and Señor Clemente in the middle, and Andrés and I on the left. For some time, we rode without crossing game. A tiny hare scurried to the left, but neither Andrés nor I deemed it worth the arrow. I had a strong and strange desire to make the first kill—strange, I say, because I am usually not one to find contest with other members of a hunting party.

  It was Miguel, though, who spotted the first deer. He practically ran into it as we climbed over a ridge. The deer seemed as startled as we. Eyes opened wide, the animal bolted upright, paralyzed by the sight of intruders in its sanctuary. Miguel had aimed his bow before any of us had a chance to react. The arrow whistled through the air and lodged itself in the hind leg of the deer. The wounded animal remained standing and tried to hobble toward a patch of brush. To my surprise, the Clementes seemed quite pleased with Miguel’s shot and in no rush to finish the job. Señor Clemente even congratulated his son.

  My brother Sergio had taught me to hunt when I was old enough to ride and shoot. I had a natural facility with bow and arrow, and my skills soon surpassed Sergio’s. I could take down a buck at a full gallop from one hundred feet.

  Sergio always emphasized the importance of an “instantaneous death.” That is, killing an animal with the first arrow to avoid unnecessary suffering and bring distinction to the entire hunting party. With this instruction in mind, I readied my bow. As I did so, Señor Clemente yelled at me to hold my arrow—the kill, he said, was Miguel’s. These were the first words he had uttered to me. I ignored him and discharged an arrow that pierced the deer’s neck and ended its life before its body hit the snow.

  Señor Clemente approached me, his horse trotting, his right hand raised and curled tightly in a fist. “The deer was Miguel’s,” he stated. “Miguel was the first to draw blood.” He shook his fist and repeated himself.

  I did not protest. I did not say a word. Miguel cantered toward me. When he was at my side, he placed his bow against Pancho’s saddle so that it was pressing slightly against my backside.

  “If you were not the guest of the Correas,” he said, “I might not overlook this indiscretion.”

  “And if you were not the guest of the Correas,” I responded, “I would return your bow in pieces.”

  Miguel lifted his weapon slowly.

  After this incident, the whole party took to the hunt with more purpose. I felled another deer from a distance. It was a difficult shot, most of the animal obscured by a tree. The arrow entered at the front of the neck and buried itself in the body.

  When we reached the deer seconds later, the breath of the animal had already expired. Baron Correa, leaning forward in his mount and looking down at the dead animal, remarked that he did not think my equal in marksmanship could be found in all the province of Girona. Señor Clemente expressed his view that two clean shots cannot establish the skill of an archer—a true statement, but ill-said under the circumstances. I tied the body of the animal on the broad back of Pancho, and the party proceeded forward.

  Miguel killed another deer, this time with his first arrow. Miguel told one of the servants to gather it from the ground. As the man approached the deer, Miguel used his rope as a lasso. He threw it around the torso of the servant, binding his arms to his body. He pulled the rope tight, then went off on a gallop, dragging the man behind him. I felt temporarily disoriented, stunned—as if what I was seeing could not actually be happening. Perhaps, I thought, Miguel was staging a joke in which the servant played a voluntary role. The sound of the man’s body slashing through the snow reminded me of sledding with Sergio in the hills of our estate. I would wrap my arms around Sergio’s neck and scream in terror as we jumped over bumps and shifted our weight to avert collisions with rocks and trees, sometimes just barely. Señor Clemente’s shouting disturbed my reverie. The father was laughing and pointing in the direction of the servant, helpless, skidding across the ground.

  Before I could collect my thoughts, Andrés took off after Miguel. I could hear the hoofs beating the icy ground and see the awesome figure of my friend, his back turned toward us, gaining quickly on Miguel. Andrés unsheathed his dagger and leaned forward on his mount. He seemed a lion ready to pounce, a warrior closing in for the kill. He held his dagger aloft. Señor Clemente stopped laughing.

  Miguel Clemente would see another sunrise, though. Andrés drew even with his neighbor. In one deft stroke, he sliced the rope that bound the servant. The man slid a short distance before slowing and stopping in a snowbank. Andrés put away his dagger. He trotted toward the fallen servant and reached down to pull him to his feet. The man appeared to be uninjured.

  Miguel galloped for several seconds before turning around. He came back to our party holding the cut rope and laughing.

  “Baron Correa,” he said, “I wish I had known of Andrés’ sentiments concerning the landless. I would have brought along a serf or two as a gift.”

  Baron Correa, his mouth open, stared dumbly at his neighbor. Isabel, who had been on the outside of the party, trotted toward Miguel. There was nothing extraordinary in her movement. That she carried a grave mission was unmistakable, though. One by one, our eyes turned to follow her path. When Isabel was directly in front of Miguel, she stood in her horse uneasily for several seconds. She seemed on the verge of saying something. But the words eluded her. Without warning, she slapped Miguel fiercely across the cheek. The sharp sound echoed through the valley, up into the mountains and then back down again.

  Miguel stood dazed and disabled before his assailant. His hat had fallen to the snow. He seemed a child, mortified by an unexpected and public punishment from a woman just over half his age. He placed his palm on the injured cheek, trying to rub the sting away. Isabel did not move from her position. I saw out of the corner of my eye that Andrés was holding his hand to his dagger, lest Miguel attempt to retaliate against his sister. It was a precarious moment. Even my horse, Pancho, stood completely still, holding his breath.

  Finally, Miguel’s face broke into a joyless smile.

  “Hysterical women,” he said, “should remain at home when their men are hunting.”

  Miguel dismounted, picked up his hat, and brushed the snow from the silk folds. He returned to his horse and rode back to his father.

  That evening at dinner, we ignored the incident and the Clementes. No words needed to be spoken. Baron Correa praised my skill with a bow, but I felt only shame. I wished that I could have relived the moment when Miguel threw his lasso. Perhaps I could have shot the rope through and put an end to the masquerade before the servant suffered such an indignity. I sat at dinner, despite the long day, without hunger. I looked at Andrés and occasionally at Isabel, their noble actions highlighting my own feeling of inadequacy.

  Baron Correa stated that Isabel had proved herself an able rider and announced that she was ready to carry a bow. Isabel was gleeful. With a mouthful of venison, Andrés grunted in protest. Baron Correa asked if I would give his daughter archery lessons.

  “Father,” Andrés said vehemently, “a woman has no place carrying a weapon. It is unseemly.”

  “Was it unseemly,” Isabel responded, “for Eleanor of Aquitaine to don armor before marching into battle against the Saracens in Syria one hundred years ago?”

  “I thought, Isabel,” Andrés said, “you did not approve of the crusade.”

  “You are mistaken, brother. What I do not approve of is your motivation in taking the Cross.”

  “Father, Isabel talks like a sophist. She condemns the very act she now holds up as a virtuous example.”

  “Francisco,” Baron Correa said, temporarily ignoring the disputants, “I fought side by side with Uncle Ramón for three years. The infidel soldiers sometimes greatly outnumbered our forces. No trial, though, could prepare me for the challenges posed by my own children.”

  The Baron turned to Andrés.

  “Eleanor was Queen of France and England, was she not, Andrés?”

  “Yes, Father,” Andrés responded, “but sh
e was royalty.”

  “If Eleanor could make war on the infidels,” the Baron said, “then surely Isabel can carry a bow.

  “Francisco, what say you?” the Baron asked. “Will you teach Isabel to shoot?”

  “Yes, Uncle,” I said, “I would be happy to assist.”

  Isabel kissed her father and thanked him. I felt as if a great gift had been undeservedly bestowed on me. Andrés was shaking his head in silent protest.

  ROLANDO ESTEBAN WAS a faithful squire to his master. He was loyal, good-natured, hardworking. His lack of riding skills made him an ideal chaperon for my lessons with Isabel. At dawn, the three of us rode together to the mountains, where the trees provided targets for Isabel’s practice. Rolando was invariably out of breath, struggling courageously to keep Isabel and me in sight. We never outran him, as that would compromise the honor of both Rolando and Isabel. But for all intents and purposes, Isabel and I rode alone, side by side.

  The morning sun rose quickly. Except for our initial greetings, we did not speak to each other during the ride to the mountains. The sight of dawn flooding the mountains in its tawny wake seemed to render our conversation superfluous, an imposition on the flawless landscape. Even Isabel’s discussions with Flacito were muted.

  When we reached the woods, I demonstrated the proper form of shooting, exaggerating and separating the individual movements of the fluid motion—placing the arrow exactly perpendicular to the bow, drawing it straight back, fixing the target, and discharging. The lessons provided a balm, the sun casting its glow on my face and diffusing the somber haze of the days and nights in Montcada.

  Isabel and I hardly spoke—only to discuss the mechanics of proper shooting form and to identify particular targets. I am not acquainted with feminine attitudes or activities, and I was not sure if the silence between us might be awkward for the girl. Toward the end of the first week, I tried to start a conversation. We were one hour from the estate, almost at the mountains, when I spoke to her.