The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Did your father tell you,” Ramón said, “that he asked me to marry him as we were still suspended in the air, pressing against one another?”

  “Be quiet, Ramón,” Baron Correa said.

  “Your father makes war sound entertaining,” Ramón said. “I will tell some true stories from the crusade.”

  With a mouth full of food, Ramón described animatedly several battles in the Levant. Andrés and I listened rapt. We interjected questions when Ramón glossed over details of the fighting. Bernard continued proposing toasts, to which we all drank. Except Isabel. She remained silent, withdrawn.

  “Isabel,” Ramón said, “you look as if the angel of death had paid a visit to your home. This journey will bring only glory to your brother and to the Correa name. The great army being assembled by King Jaime will smash the will of the Saracens. In a few years, we will reconquer Jerusalem. Then I will invite you and your father to come and pray with me at the Holy Sepulcher. I promise.”

  Ramón’s words did not have their intended effect. Isabel remained stone-faced. Ramón realized he would have to employ a more drastic measure to coax Isabel into the spirit of revelry. He paused in contemplation for a moment, then started clapping and urging the servants to join him. He motioned for the two musicians to play. They began strumming their lutes, investing the meter with a lilting, lyrical air. When the spry melody had reached a pitch, Ramón walked over to Isabel and offered his hand. She accepted reluctantly, and Ramón and his goddaughter were soon dancing around the table to the rhythms of the proffered beat. The tempo accelerated, the skill of both dancers tested. Isabel moved her feet and whirled her dress with an elegance and charm that hypnotized guest and servant alike. The folds of her dress, resplendent with gold and silver, swayed with an infinite harmony. Her face a shadow of impenetrable grace.

  Captivated by the music, Isabel finally exhibited the trace of a smile, her cheeks rising. Ramón, sensing his opportunity, spun her through the cavalcade of servants. When they were finished, Isabel curtsied graciously. Ramón sat down, his sweated brow, if not triumphant, at least displaying a measure of relief.

  “Fill the cups, my friends,” Ramón said breathlessly. “This is a night of celebration.”

  And it was. Isabel remained staid, but she wore her smile, hard-won by Ramón. The evening passed in a blur. The sweet wine spread through my body, into my chest, my arms, and then my fingertips. My mind was swimming, and I felt an abiding affection for every person in the hall. I do not remember the number of toasts that were declared. To the Queen Mother, to the Apostles and all their mistresses, to Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, to Samson and Delilah, to Genghis Khan, and to Isabel and her simmering beauty. That last one was Roberto’s—the first words he had spoken the entire evening. In fact, I think they were the most words I ever heard Roberto speak. Ramón and Baron Correa were too drunk to take notice of the impropriety. I glanced at Isabel, who looked straight ahead and pretended not to hear Roberto’s compliment.

  I gave my own toast—“To Roberto, who has the soul of a poet but hides it well.” I smiled at Isabel as I raised my glass. She returned my gaze, her gray eyes flashing indignantly, as if it had been I, and not Roberto, who had taken inappropriate liberties.

  Despite the pleasure of the evening, a melancholy nostalgia rumbled down my chest and lodged in the seat of my stomach. Ramón’s news meant that I would soon be leaving the Correas. I had passed almost three months at their estate, and I felt a lightness in my heart that I had not felt since Sergio’s death. The loneliness, so resilient, bottomless, in Montcada, had faded. Its wintry shadow no longer lingered in the moonlit hours. Its daggers no longer woke me at dawn. I looked at Isabel on my right. She was conversing with her brother. I knew that I might never see her again. I wondered whether she understood this. I had an urge to speak to her intimately, as I had in the garden, but we were not alone. The boisterous nature of the evening provided a measure of privacy, though. I seized a particularly turbulent moment—Uncle Ramón was standing on the dining table demonstrating the proper form to parry a sword thrust—to speak to her.

  “Are you happy for your brother and me, Isabel?” I asked.

  “If you will find what you seek, Francisco,” she said, “then I am happy for you.”

  “Pray tell, what is it that I seek?” I said. “I have forgotten in this haze of wine and merriment.”

  “Ghosts and demons, Francisco. You said so yourself.” Isabel spoke those words not bitterly, but decisively. Our conversation ended. Daughter and father excused themselves not long after our discourse. Isabel did not even glance at me as she departed the table and made her way up the stairs on his arm.

  Those who remained drank until the first glimmer of natural light entered the dining room. With a wan and tired smile, Uncle Ramón announced that it was time to retire. Andrés was already asleep, his head resting on his outstretched arm across the table. His mouth was open and drooling on the stained brocade before him. Roberto and I walked arm in arm, supporting each other up the stairs. When we reached the corridor, he said good night, before collapsing facedown on the stone. A group of servants that must have been surreptitiously following us carried him away. I lumbered into my bedchamber, said good night to my stolid companion on the Cross, and lay down on my bed fully clothed.

  The Grand Master and his entourage had already left the estate by the time I awoke in the early afternoon with a splitting headache and a parched tongue. Andrés kept me busy over the next few days—making an inventory of items for our journey, dragging me to the marketplace, bargaining for provisions. As we prepared for our departure, I barely spoke to Isabel. I yearned for her presence, but I did not know what to say to her. There was nothing to say.

  On a coarse, cloudless day, Baron Correa and Isabel stood in the courtyard to see us off. My breath rising in the crisp air. I thanked Baron Correa for his hospitality and extended an open invitation to visit Barcelona. He hugged me warmly.

  “Francisco,” he said, “you will always be a son to me.”

  “And you a father,” I responded.

  “When you saved my daughter’s life,” Baron Correa said, “you saved my own. She is the light in this dark abode.”

  I nodded to Isabel and told her to continue practicing archery. I presented her with my bow as a present. She had often admired its delicate craftsmanship. She said that the gift was too generous, but I insisted that she accept it. Isabel moved toward me. I took a step back and remained frozen. She kissed both my cheeks, then put her arms around the back of my head and pressed her cheek into my own. It was only an instant, but I closed my eyes and sealed the smell of her skin across my brow.

  THE EVENING OF our arrival at the fortress, Ramón spoke to the new recruits in the refectory.

  “In the Year of Our Lord 1099,” he said, “a ragged army of one thousand five hundred starving knights laid siege to a city populated by more than one hundred thousand people. The Egyptian governor reinforced the local garrison with a special contingent of handpicked Arab and Sudanese soldiers. The city was Jerusalem; the army Christ’s own. Our brothers, now in paradise, were victorious. In one month, they breached the walls and conquered Jerusalem.

  “How was this done? How did these knights accomplish such a spectacular victory?”

  “God’s intervention,” one of the recruits answered.

  “A partial answer,” Ramón responded. “Christ inspired the knights. But the first crusaders were also stronger, quicker, more disciplined than their adversaries. Never forget the reason we train so rigorously. One day you will serve God in the same manner as the first crusaders.”

  Primary training for a Knight of Calatrava lasts two years. The first year, the novitiate, is devoted to the more spiritual aspects of knighthood—learning the liturgy and the Rule of the Order. The second year, after taking vows, the knights concentrate on the physical and military aspects of our calling.

  The armada of King Jaime would not wait for the twenty new recruit
s of the Calatrava to finish our regimen, though. Ramón said we would have to prioritize our instruction. Fortunately, Andrés and I had learned the liturgy as monks at Santes Creus.

  “The infidel soldiers,” Ramón said, “generally do not measure our knowledge of the prayer offices.”

  We would spend only eight months at the fortress. Eight months in which Ramón molded us, transformed us into soldiers.

  The blacksmiths woke us at dawn the morning after our arrival. The old men came into the dormitory and measured our limbs, our shoulders, the crowns of our heads. They avoided meeting our glances. They did not even ask our names as they scrawled figures in their notebooks.

  When they returned with our armor three months later, seven of our number were already gone. Three left voluntarily. Ramón dismissed the other four. I envied them at the time. No longer having to endure the grueling, endless sessions of training. The days and nights which melded together so that when the bell struck to wake us, I could swear I had just then laid my head to rest. Roused from my moment of peace to run the mountain trail before dawn. Through the forest, over the black streams and jagged rocks. Ramón and his bodyguards always leading the way. Every step. Returning to the fortress for morning prayer. My stomach churning. The first few weeks, I threw up every day in the courtyard. My comrades surrounded me, retching, spitting, trying to catch their breath before proceeding to the chapel.

  After breakfast and a short rest, we would simulate battle, sparring with wooden swords and shields. One partner would collapse from exhaustion, only to be spurred on by an instructor until the fallen one had raised himself to continue. I can still hear the cries of our instructors, men who had retired to the cloth after many years of fighting—until death, men, a martyr’s death! We would shoot arrows at swinging wooden shields, fastened by leather cords to a high branch. My shoulders would burn, my fingers numb and bloodied. Marching the full day without rest, without water. My hands and feet raw. My legs and back stiff and tender.

  One morning, I walked to Ramón’s chambers during our rest period. I could feel Andrés’ anxious gaze follow me through the dormitory into the courtyard. I intended to resign from the Order, to explain my situation to Ramón—Uncle, I can no longer continue. My body cannot endure this punishment. I am finished.

  I stood before Ramón unable to speak. He was mending his boot, stitching the leather seam, ignoring my presence. He finally looked up and watched me for several minutes. He put his hands together so that only his fingertips were touching.

  “Do you think, Francisco, that your sorrow is unique?” he asked. “Do you think there is another course you can take to salve the pain?”

  I returned to the dormitory without speaking a word.

  After a couple months, the hard skin grew back over the blisters. My muscles ached, but the strain had become familiar, almost comforting. When I lay down at night and closed my eyes, I was riding through the forest in Montcada. I could feel the blood course through my limbs, the warm vibration of pulsing sinew.

  I slept. I woke. I ran. I prayed. I ate. I fought. I listened. My doubts and fears, the past and future receded.

  The morning the blacksmiths returned was different. When we woke, rays of light illuminated the tiny particles of dust that floated gently through the chamber. It was the first time in three months I had not seen dawn’s first light. I could smell the sweet dew rising in the courtyard. They placed the armor on our bed mats, then helped dress us, making adjustments to fit the armor more closely.

  Over a long undershirt of quilted cotton, I wore a hauberk, forty thousand metal rings forged together in the furnace. The chain mail covered my chest and my arms, and extended to my knees. A mail coif, open-faced, was pulled over my head and hung down over my neck. A thick cotton pad attached to the crown provided a cushion for the great helm, a flat-topped metal bowl that fit snugly over my head. Mail leggings ran down to my feet.

  Over my armor, I wore a white surcoat—a loose-fitting sleeveless robe. White, the same color as the habit of our Cistercian brothers, representing the simplicity and purity of our holy mission.

  My sword weighed ten pounds, measured three feet long, almost half a foot wide at the hilt. I carried in my belt a smaller, pointed dagger, so sharp I cut the tips of my fingers brushing its edge.

  Finally, a long triangular shield, made of wood, covered with boiled leather on the outside and padded with cotton on the inside. The edges of the shield were rimmed with metal to enhance its strength.

  Viewing my comrades strutting through the courtyard fully armored, I remembered our mission, my mission. We were God’s soldiers. In that service, I would save my brother’s soul. I grasped the solid handle of my sword—the blade, gleaming, exquisite. One day to be stained with blood. But not that day.

  Ramón assembled the recruits in rows alongside the other more experienced soldiers. Over one hundred knights ready for battle. Each knight dressed in identical armor—in accordance with the statutes of the Order and in the spirit of brotherhood—each of us equal in the eyes of God. Ramón walked silently through our ranks, perusing the shiny armor of the recruits. Then he walked to the front and faced us.

  “Very pretty,” he said. “We should conduct a beauty contest, only we have no qualified judges. You will have to settle for a foot race. Roberto and Bernard will assign each of you a partner. They will tie a leather cord between your wrists. You are responsible for your partner. You will run the mountain trail as you have every morning. Except today, you will wear your armor. And your partner will run beside you. There are fifty flags on the summit. Each team will retrieve one and return. You must complete the course with your full set of armor, including your sword and shield. The cord between partners must not break. The first two knights who plant their flag in the courtyard will become lieutenants in the Order of Calatrava.”

  A lusty cry rose up from the ranks of the veteran soldiers. A commission of lieutenant in the Calatrava was a great prize—an honor recognized in clerical and lay circles. Roberto and Bernard went through the lines teaming more experienced soldiers with the newer recruits. Ramón had other plans for Andrés and me.

  “Bind the cousins,” Ramón instructed Bernard. “In the Levant, Andrés and Francisco will fight twice as hard side by side. They will run together today.”

  Bernard wrapped the cord tightly around my wrist, then tied it to Andrés.

  “Just like racing horses in Montcada, cousin,” Andrés said, “only this time we both win.”

  The key to moving quickly was coordination. After a short awkward interval, Andrés and I learned to time our stride so that our middle, attached wrists were moving forward and back together. We ran the forest smoothly, then up the mountain trail. The others had more difficulty adjusting. We joined a group of five other teams who broke away from the pack. Sunyer de Jaca and Carlos de Casabas, two of the swiftest soldiers, led the group until they tangled and fell in a rock field. As the teams ran past the former leaders, we slowed to see Sunyer’s shinbone, splintered, sticking out of his skin. White film and blood splattered on Carlos’ new armor. Sunyer stared confusedly at his leg. Carlos was speaking softly, trying to console his partner. Several of the teams approached their fallen comrades to lend assistance. Bernard, running in front, yelled at us to proceed up the mountain and leave the injured to the medical attendants.

  On the steep slope, two of the teams in the lead group fell back. They had gone out too quickly and could not sustain the pace. The distance amongst the teams spread as we made our way toward the peak. As Andrés and I approached the rows of flags, only two teams ran before us.

  In the first heat of competition, the armor seemed not to hinder our speed. The chain mail, fashioned in the most advanced workshop in Iberia, afforded a full range of motion. The helmet fit comfortably and did not obstruct my vision. I was not accustomed to carrying the extra weight, though, nearly sixty pounds. On the downslope, I felt a twinge in my thigh muscles, which became sharper and more freque
nt as we descended. My shoulders strained under the heavy mesh, the sword and shield strapped across my shoulders. I fell as we entered the forest. My legs gave way. I pulled Andrés with me as I tumbled through the brush. My helmet smacked against the rock face before I landed on a patch of soil. My cheek rested on a cool pillow of dead leaves. Breathing the musty earth, I glanced at my wrist, stretched backward, still bound by the leather cord. Andrés sat next to me. His chest was heaving beneath the metal links, his face damp with sweat.

  “Has nap period ended?” he asked.

  I raised myself and brushed the leaves from my armor. Bernard was screaming at us from below.

  “Take your time,” Andrés said, frowning. “Who wants to be a lieutenant anyway?”

  We began to jog, my limbs heavy as if we were running underwater. Bernard ran alongside us, shouting obscenities. We went faster, trying to keep pace with him. Twigs and branches crushed underneath. Through bushes, over tree roots, deeper into the forest. I looked to my right. We had pulled even with Galindo and Marcos. Galindo, glass-eyed, white foam on his lips. Blood coated the front of his armor. Three feathered arrows had pierced his stomach. The metal mesh ripped, exposing the torn flesh lining the inside of his stomach. I looked ahead, running as fast as I could away from that diabolic apparition. When I glanced back at Galindo, the arrows had disappeared, his armor undamaged, pristine. He and Marcos were struggling through the tall grass. They tried to stay with us, but faded as the fortress came into view through the trees.

  Andrés and I were gliding breathless. We climbed the last hill to the entrance of the fort just behind Alejandro and Sancho. Our instructors shouted encouragement when we entered the courtyard. Ramón cross-armed, solemn, as if standing in judgment of our efforts. We collapsed next to the stake that Andrés planted in the ground. We were the second team to finish.