The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  After two days, the storm ended. It was dark outside when I exited my quarters and trod soundlessly down the hallway to Isabel’s room. I stood close to the door and heard the baritone voice of Brother Tagle. He spoke of God’s love for all living things.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, “saved your life. Only through His love can you be completely healed.” He read from the Scriptures.

  “I opened to my beloved, but my beloved had turned and gone.”

  Though Brother Tagle was the reader, I felt it was Isabel who spoke those words, a rueful condemnation. I touched my palm to the rough grain of the closed door. I could hear her breathing.

  “I adjure you, O daughters of Jerusalem, if you find my beloved, that you tell him, I am sick with love.”

  CHAPTER VI

  UNCLE RAMÓN

  I WAS WALKING down the staircase when a party of three knights entered the Correa manor. Stamping the cold from their feet, they watched me descend. When I set foot on the landing, two of them tackled me. My face pressed hard against the cold stone. A knife held against my throat. My empty fists pried open. My body searched roughly down to my ankles.

  “He has no weapon, Ramón,” one of my attackers said. “Speak up, man. Who are you? What is the nature of your business in these parts?”

  Andrés’ appearance at the end of the hallway afforded considerable relief. Unfortunately, he seemed more interested in greeting my assailants, hugging them warmly, than in rescuing me. Finally, he seemed to notice my presence.

  “Uncle Ramón,” he said, “the man who polishes the floor is my friend Francisco de Montcada. We are your newest recruits in the Order of Calatrava.”

  As the knee was lifted from my back, I raised myself.

  “Delighted,” I said, as I rubbed my sore cheek. I offered my hand. It was nearly broken in Ramón’s tight grip.

  Uncle Ramón was no more Andrés’ uncle than he was my own. Just the same, everyone seemed to call him by that title, probably in reference to his avuncular nature. Ramón was the Grand Master of the Order of Calatrava and the leader of some one hundred knights. He was a formidable soldier and an imposing presence. He was not a tall man. But he was powerful. He carried most of his weight in his chest and shoulders. He had a distinguished bald head, broad and wrinkled. A scar running across his cheek delineated his profession. His thin lips seemed too delicate for his ribald language and his penchant for imbibing sweet wines, two activities frowned upon by Abbot Vincente of the Cistercian monastery adjacent to the fortress in Calatrava. Abbot Vincente seemed to enjoy analyzing Ramón’s spiritual defects.

  “Ramón,” Abbot Vincente often said, “is too much in love with life for a man of God.”

  Although he smiled easily and laughed at times with abandon, Ramón had sad brown eyes with tiny flecks of gold, as if the death of each of his soldiers had made its mark. His eyes were framed by thick black-gray brows and creases that spread out like sunbeams.

  In Calatrava, Ramón passed his days with the young knights, teaching, teasing, advising. He seemed to view the Order as an extended family. He quickly learned all of our names, our strengths and weaknesses. As Abbot Vincente said, Ramón could know the core of a person after seeing the direction and number of creases on his face.

  “Ramón sees too much for his own good,” the Abbot stated. “It is better to leave certain things to God.”

  This may have been true in general, but not in Ramón’s profession. In the pitch of battle, a commander must know who can be counted on, who will run in the face of overwhelming odds, who will stay and fight. In short, Ramón was a man who, by the natural order, leads other men, and those who followed him would do so even unto almost certain death.

  Ramón had two bodyguards—Bernard and Roberto—although Ramón preferred to call them his deputies. They were the men who had tackled me in the Correas’ foyer. They never left Ramón’s side, and they eyed strangers who approached him like watchdogs. In temperament and personality, the two men were very similar—brooding, vigilant, and fiercely loyal to their master. I never saw them smile or frown, except when they were drunk. Andrés used to joke that Bernard and Roberto reminded him of the two lion statues that guarded the palace entrance in Barcelona.

  Uncle Ramón’s need for bodyguards—there had been several attempts on his life—did not stem from his leadership of the Calatrava, but from more secular activities. It was said by some that Ramón’s “indiscretions” would eventually catch up with him. Some men certainly wanted him dead—the husbands, fathers, and brothers of the women in question. I had my first taste of combat defending Uncle Ramón against the swords of paid assassins hired by an angry father. Actually, not really. Andrés and I were more bystanders than active participants.

  They were Italian—a group of eight—all dressed identically in orange robes with gold epaulets and wide-brimmed, triangular black hats. Ramón had invited Andrés and me to accompany him and his bodyguards to the market outside the fort in the town of Calatrava. It was shortly after our arrival at the fort. I think Ramón wanted to make amends for our unusual introduction. Andrés and I ambled through the bustling market sampling the wares. We were clothed in the white robes of the Order with only daggers at our sides. I had dropped my finger in a jar of olive oil when Andrés tapped me from behind. I tasted the oil before looking up. The street was empty. The sounds of bargaining and haggling over prices had ceased. The merchants had deserted their stalls.

  The Italians came four on each side. Their leader stepped forward. He had a tall face, a high, discerning forehead. Underneath a fine, bladelike nose, he had cultivated a long, waxed mustache that ran perpendicular to his narrow face.

  He removed his hat, took a deep bow, and introduced himself as “the venerable Gian Paolo Manzella of Siena—soldier, spy, bon vivant, raconteur, renegade, traitor, confidant, and paid assassin.”

  He then made a sound as if to clear his throat, and one of his colleagues handed him a scroll tied in a red ribbon. The venerable Manzella undid the ribbon ceremoniously, opened the scroll, and began reading solemnly in broken Catalán. It was difficult to decipher his words, but I gathered that the Count of Anjou had tried, convicted, and sentenced to death Uncle Ramón for the “defilement” of his daughter, the Lady Mireille.

  Uncle Ramón was leaning against a stall at the time and nibbling a fig. I heard him exclaim, “Yes, Mireille, a lovely girl.” He smiled warmly at his Italian counterpart, who flared his nostrils disdainfully and then finished reading: “… signed the Count of Anjou, Marceau Dourmant, the fourteenth day of April, the Year of Our Lord 1268.”

  I clutched my dagger. My heart was pounding.

  The eight Italians unsheathed their weapons on cue from Señor Manzella and approached our position. We were surrounded. Ramón and his bodyguards seemed at ease, though, as if encountering assassins in the marketplace was a common occurrence.

  “How is Mireille?” Uncle Ramón asked.

  “Oh, she is fine,” Señor Manzella responded, twirling his mustache. “Married to that same uncouth German. What a waste for such a beauty. Six kids now. Brats, all of them, one worse than the other.”

  Ramón shook his head, as if to say it was a shame, and sighed sympathetically.

  When the Italians were almost upon us, Ramón and his bodyguards took out their swords. They hesitated an instant before charging toward one side. Andrés and I followed in their wake. It was difficult to get a clear picture. Squawking chickens were batted around and fruit stalls were turned over. When the debris cleared, two of the Italians lay dead, strewn across squashed fruit and exotic fabrics. The surviving six, including the venerable Manzella, were running in the opposite direction out of town. One was clutching a wounded arm. Another was limping.

  Ramón shouted after them, “Please give my regards to Mireille.” Under his breath, barely audible, he said, “A lovely girl.” He finished the fig he still had in his hand, and we returned to the fort.

  Unfortunately, we had no figs
for Uncle Ramón during his visit to the Correa estate. Andrés’ father had not expected his former comrade. Otherwise he would have sent for the finest from Granada. Ramón was a connoisseur.

  I was still recovering from my unpleasant reception, massaging my neck, when Baron Correa called to Ramón from the top of the landing. He must have heard the commotion. He bounded down the stairs, taking two at a time.

  “Ramón,” he said, “you seem to have misplaced your hair on some battlefield.”

  “Has it been so many years?” Ramón smiled.

  They kissed on both cheeks and repeated the gesture several times, studying each other as if cataloging the minute changes in their faces.

  “Your father and I,” Ramón said to Andrés, “fought together in southern Spain against the infidels. I owe my life many times to his sword.”

  “Come, daughter,” Baron Correa said to Isabel, who was standing at the opposite end of the hallway, “greet your godfather, the godfather of both my children. We could ask for no truer friend.”

  Isabel peered around the stairwell, then walked cautiously forward to kiss Ramón.

  “I last saw you when you were so high, Isabel,” Ramón said, gesturing to his waist. “You have grown into an elegant woman, like your mother.”

  Isabel curtsied but said nothing. She understood that Ramón’s arrival would mean the departure of her brother and me. She would not pretend to welcome this development, no matter her relation to Ramón or her father’s affinity for the visitor.

  Dinner was served in the Great Hall. It was a festive evening. A steady parade of servants traveled back and forth from the kitchen carrying various dishes—fish, mutton, vegetable soup, venison served with a savory sauce of herbs ground to a paste and mixed with wine, ginger, cloves, and cinnamon. The animal had stumbled upon our hunting party just yesterday. Uncle Ramón and Baron Correa sat at opposite ends. Isabel sat on her father’s left, next to me. Bernard and Roberto, Ramón’s bodyguards, sat on each side of him. They jostled the servants who tried to get close enough to serve Ramón. Finally, the servants gave up and asked me to pass along Ramón’s portions.

  Baron Correa instructed Andrés to go down to the basement to retrieve a crate of wine imported from France. When Andrés returned and our cups had been filled, Ramón glanced quickly around the table.

  “To the King’s son, the bastard Fernando Sánchez,” Ramón shouted before downing his cup in one gulp and slamming it down on the table.

  The bang of ceramic meeting the thick wood table was followed in an instant by the two empty cups of his bodyguards, Bernard and Roberto. Roberto’s cup shattered over the table, but none of the three men seemed to take notice. Isabel raised herself from her seat beside her father and supervised the servants in cleaning the mess and replacing the offending vessel. Ramón used his sleeve to wipe the trickle of red wine that rolled down his chin.

  “I have received a dispatch from the King,” Ramón said. “The old man finally steps down from his throne and sees that all is not well in the world.”

  Baron Correa leaned forward and whispered in a voice that carried to every crevice of the dining room so that even the dogs, slanting their heads, turned their attention from the food on the table and glanced confusedly at their master. “Ramón, I wish you would be more careful in choosing your words. You have enemies enough. We would not want a false report to reach the King’s ears indicating that any disrespect was accorded him in my home.”

  Baron Correa motioned to the servants and frowned at Ramón. The servants, in turn, bowed their heads, pretending not to hear Ramón’s colorful remarks or their master’s plea.

  “Rest assured,” Ramón stated, “that the King is my personal friend. I love the man like a father. He has many exemplary qualities. He can be as lazy as a twenty-year-old mare, though. I say that with a filial affection.”

  Upon speaking, Ramón again raised his cup, which had been filled by a servant, and pronounced a toast: “To the King and whatever children he may have.”

  Bernard and Roberto raised their cups, and the three men drank again, as the Correas and their servants looked on. Baron Correa threw up his hands and instructed one of the servants to retrieve more wine from the cellar.

  “The fall of Antioch to the infidels,” Ramón said, “made a deep impression on the King. They say the Saracens butchered every Christian in the city who could not be sold or bartered. A crusade will be launched from Barcelona this summer to retake the city and avenge our brethren. The King himself will lead it with the assistance of his two bastard sons, Fernando Sánchez and Pedro Fernández. Don Fernando asks that the Order of Calatrava take their passage alongside the royal army. I have never met Don Fernando, but I have heard he is a skilled and brave warrior. At the very least, he is wise enough to choose my knights to serve at his side. The Calatrava fight like lions in the defense of Christendom. Isn’t that so, Andrés?”

  “Yes, Uncle Ramón,” Andrés responded ardently. “All of Spain knows there are no more bold or daring knights than those of the Calatrava.”

  This, of course, was the right answer and probably true. Ramón, Bernard, and Roberto raised their cups, downed the contents, then looked at Andrés expectantly. He glanced into the murky liquid, put the cup to his lips, and drank until the vessel was empty. A good portion of the contents fell on his cloak, but Ramón was satisfied.

  “Andrés,” he said, “I can already see you will be a fine warrior.”

  Andrés flushed a deep shade of red and mumbled something unintelligible, as if this were the highest compliment he had ever received.

  “I regret, my friend,” Ramón said to Baron Correa, “that my visit will be so brief. I have been called to the palace to make arrangements with Don Fernando. We must leave tomorrow morning for Barcelona and then on to Calatrava to train my soldiers. Andrés and Francisco, in the next week, you will proceed to Calatrava, ten days’ journey from here. Enjoy your last days of freedom. Soon you will belong to me, Knights of Calatrava.”

  Andrés winked at me, vindicated, ecstatic. After a servant girl placed a platter on the table, Andrés took her by the waist and danced around the company to the rhythms of Uncle Ramón’s clapping. Bernard and Roberto, following their master’s lead, banged their wooden spoons on the table. This orchestra of three was surprisingly euphonic, and several of the other servants joined the dance. Baron Correa glanced philosophically at his son. Isabel, expressionless, stared straight ahead. Andrés finally tired and sat down. Dinner continued.

  “Father,” Andrés said, “tell Francisco about the time Uncle Ramón saved your life.”

  “Has your father been telling lies, Andrés?” Ramón asked.

  “Please, Father,” Andrés said.

  “Very well, Andrés,” Baron Correa said. “It was twenty years ago, my last battle before I returned to Girona. The infidels had just surrendered Seville to the Christian forces. The Castilians were busy celebrating in the streets of the city. Our regiment from Aragón—some one hundred soldiers—occupied a fort on the outskirts of Seville. The Muslims were supposed to have withdrawn all their forces in compliance with the terms of surrender. We did not expect to see any more combat. We were wrong. Not a week after victory, one of the infidel generals and his force surrounded the castle at dawn. Maybe he thought we had hid some treasure in the fort. Or perhaps he just wanted to kill some Christian knights before retreating.

  “The infidels must have carried fifty ladders into battle—each as tall as the castle walls. Before we could organize our defense, the infidels advanced on the castle, leaning the ladders against the walls. Their soldiers climbed quickly. We ran frantically around the parapet, pushing off the ladders before the infidel soldiers could climb to the top. They fell backward, like trees cut down in the forest, the men dropping to the ground. We were greatly outnumbered, though. It seemed that for every one ladder we pushed down, two more would rise.

  “As I scanned the outside walls,” Baron Correa continued, “I
spotted one of the infidel climbers fast approaching the castle tower. I sprinted to the tower and reached the ladder just as the infidel stepped onto the surface. Neither of us had drawn our weapons.

  “The infidel and I began to wrestle on the edge of the tower. After a struggle, I managed to push him off the ledge. Our armor had become tangled, though, and I fell to the ground with him just outside the castle walls.”

  “I was not injured from the fall. In fact, one the infidels helped pull me up before he realized I was a Christian knight. I was standing amidst a crowd of Muslim soldiers, who looked me over curiously. I drew my dagger and waited. I figured I could take at least two of them with me. They formed a tight circle around me, but did not attack.

  “One of the infidels finally stepped forward. He must have weighed twice as much as me. He was a giant. He pulled his dagger. We circled each other. The crowd of Muslims around us grew. Many of the infidels seemed to neglect the siege to witness our one-on-one combat.”

  “The Christian soldiers watched the action from the tower,” Ramón said. “We shouted encouragement down to your father. I think he was trying to negotiate safe passage for himself.”

  “If I did speak,” Baron Correa said, “I was giving myself last rites. The infidel was stronger and faster than me. He slashed me twice across the chest, almost cutting through my chain mail. He was chasing me around the circle. Fortunately, he slipped, or you and Isabel would not be here. I pounced on him, stabbing him in the stomach—a deathblow. His comrades dragged his body from the circle. They seemed to be in the process of choosing another combatant for me, arguing amongst each other, when Ramón appeared in the circle. I thought he was an angel who had jumped down from the heavens.”

  “What did you do, Uncle Ramón?” Andrés asked. “Did you fly from the castle walls?”

  “I had tied a rope under my shoulders,” Ramón said, “and a group of our comrades lowered me to the ground.”

  “Before I could think,” Baron Correa said, “Ramón grabbed me by the chest, and we were yanked through the air. We smacked hard against the stone wall, but continued to ascend. The infidels had crossbows, but they did not shoot at us. They were too stunned to do anything, except cheer, paying homage to Ramón’s bravery. There were a few more skirmishes that morning, but their force soon departed.”