The others arrived in bunches, staggering, limping into the courtyard. After the first dozen teams had finished, Andrés and I had recovered sufficiently to sit up and cheer the rest of our brothers. When the last stragglers arrived, Ramón and his bodyguards left to help evacuate Sunyer to the infirmary. In Ramón’s absence, the regular daily activities were canceled. We attended services in the chapel, ate breakfast in the refectory, then returned to the courtyard to wait for news of Sunyer’s condition.
We would wait most of the day. Ramón returned at dusk.
“Congratulations to all of you,” he said. “You ran courageously. I have some unfortunate news. The doctors could not save Sunyer’s leg. They amputated this afternoon below the knee. Sunyer braved the surgery stoically—as a Knight of Calatrava. He rests now. Keep him in your prayers tonight. Alejandro and Sancho, come to my quarters after the compline service.”
As I lay on my bed mat that evening, I thought of Alejandro and Sancho receiving their commissions as lieutenants in the Order. They had been only ten paces ahead of Andrés and me when we entered the courtyard. We might have caught them if I had not fallen. I thought of Sunyer. His leg a bloody stump now. His fortunes changed in one instant, one false movement.
The next day, the bells rang before sunrise. As I dressed for our morning run, I noticed that Alejandro and Sancho were not in their usual places. I scanned the dormitory but did not see them. Perhaps, I thought, they had spent the night celebrating their victory with Ramón in the taverns of the town. Our Grand Master had a weakness for the spirits.
We filed into the courtyard, assembling in rows. The rain fell bitter. We stood in puddles, the fog rising in the half-light just before sunrise. The whispers amongst comrades ceased gradually, our attention focused on the two soldiers before us. Fully armored, they stood facing us, holding swords above their bowed heads. One of the soldiers grasped the blade in his bare hand. The metal had cut into his palm, so that the blood trickled down, the crimson rivulets washed in the rain through the chain links, into the mud.
“We ran the mountain trail yesterday.” Ramón was walking between the rows of soldiers. He spoke softly so that we had to strain to hear his words. “A race. The prize—a position of leadership in the Calatrava. Tomorrow, in the Levant, we will run the gauntlet of infidel arrows. The stakes … life and death.
“Look upon your brothers Alejandro and Sancho. They have waited all night for you. To show their remorse. They finished first yesterday. But they cut the cord that attached them while running in the forest. They did this to speed themselves to the finish.
“Alejandro and Sancho are lucky. They live. They live because it is today and not tomorrow. And because the Grand Master of the Calatrava is merciful. The infidels are not. In the Levant, disobedience means death. Abandoning your partner … death. Fighting alone instead of beside your comrade … death.
“Andrés and Francisco, congratulations. You are first lieutenants in the Order of Calatrava. You will lead the run today.”
NOT ALL OF our training involved strenuous physical activity. For two hours each afternoon, we studied. The master engineer of the Order instructed us in carpentry and building. The first weeks, we sawed oak logs into beams, boards, and bars, which we used to construct long spikes, ladders, a battering ram. After several months, we learned to design and build elaborate siege engines—towers on wheels with a gangplank—that could be brought against a castle during an assault. A doctor gave us two weeks of instruction in medicine—cleaning and binding wounds, making splints for broken bones, mixing syrup of roses to counteract dysentery. The veterans lectured on battle strategy, the past tactics employed by Saracen generals, the strengths and weaknesses of their soldiers, their weapons. Muslim soldiers often wear little if any armor, but they carry sophisticated weapons. They rely primarily on the mechanical crossbow, which can propel an arrow with enough force to pierce armor from one hundred feet.
“The infidels fear to look us in the eyes,” our instructors explained, “so they prefer to fight from afar. Bridge the distance, men. Bridge the distance between you and the enemy as fast as possible. Close combat will render the crossbow useless.”
Ramón assigned one servant, two squires, and four horses to each knight—two warhorses, in the event one was felled, one packhorse to transport our armor, and one riding horse. The servant would carry and prepare food during journeys. The two squires would care for our horses and help us don our armor before battle, a process that usually required the three of us working together. The chain mail was unwieldy, and the blacksmiths placed buckles and straps in locations impossible for the wearer to reach. We spent an hour every day with our squires, dressing and undressing for battle, getting quicker each time.
We also conducted maneuvers with the foot soldiers of the Calatrava—mostly peasants trained to fight with spears and bows in support of the knights. They, along with the squires and servants, took their meals and found shelter in another wing of the fortress.
Periodically, Ramón expounded on what he called the “art of war.” “A true warrior,” according to Ramón, “is always an artist. In Christ’s name, he wades into the swamp of human passions—rage, terror, shame, euphoria, valor, reverence. He wades into chaos, seeking to create order—the Kingdom of God within himself and on earth. The warrior lies sleepless before battle, before creation, uncertain of the morrow. He might be anxious to prove himself—for ephemeral glory—the recognition of his peers. But the only lasting reward is his faith.”
During our last week in Calatrava, Ramón explained the unusual circumstances of our departure. By letter, King Jaime had requested a “purely aristocratic contingent” from the Calatrava—only knights. Our servants, squires, engineers, and foot soldiers would not accompany us to the Levant.
Considerations of space aboard the fleet, the King’s letter stated, made the inclusion of the Calatrava’s common soldiers and servants “impracticable.”
“We are all disappointed to leave our faithful comrades,” Ramón said at supper. “Nevertheless, the King has assured me that our needs will be met. A dearth of knights exists in the Levant, alongside a surplus of squires and foot soldiers—a body with no head to lead it. The King promises that upon our arrival in the Levant, he will provide unstinting support to our force—including servants, two squires for each knight, and five hundred foot soldiers from the armies already stationed in the East.
“In any case, we have no choice in the matter. We must abide the King’s instructions.”
I was sitting across from Ramón. Toward the end of supper, I overheard him whispering to Bernard. “The King,” he said, “probably needs five ships for his sycophants and courtesans.”
Two days before we set out for the docks of Barcelona, we were inducted into the Order of Calatrava. We received our swords, blessed by Archbishop Emmanuel of Toledo. The ceremony began at dusk with a ritual bath. Purified by the sacred water, we dressed in white, linen garments with a hooded robe. We knelt barefoot before the altar, upon which we placed our weapons and armor. We remained in that uncomfortable posture until dawn without uttering a word. A group of Cistercian monks from the adjoining monastery chanted verses from the Holy Scriptures through the long evening and kept the candles and incense burners continually lit. A turbid cloud of purple incense spread through the monastery. An excruciatingly boring evening—eight hours remaining still like an idiot in that silly costume. The night passed painfully.
At dawn, the Archbishop entered the church. A fat man, sweat across his forehead, his hair combed straight forward in the style of the Roman emperors. He said Mass, coughing periodically when the mist of incense became overwhelming. Then he laid his hands on the altar and blessed our weapons in the name of Jesus Christ. After Mass, Uncle Ramón performed the dubbing. He struck our cheeks with the side of his sword and declared each one of us a Knight of Calatrava. The harder blows Ramón reserved for those who were dozing after the sleepless night. Their heads jerked back fro
m the sting. One of my brothers fell over from the impact.
Andrés was fast asleep, his neck jutting forward, his blond hair hanging over his face. I was surprised he could remain kneeling in such a state. I tried unsuccessfully to rouse him, whispering across the cathedral, but the sound was captured by the hollow spaces under the apse. Andrés received the cruelest blow, the sound vibrating through the great cathedral. Even the Archbishop seemed to wince at the echo. Ramón was no doubt disappointed in Andrés, a lieutenant in the Order, a leader amongst our brethren.
On bended knee, we spoke our vows. Poverty, chastity, obedience. We promised to defend the Church against its enemies, to protect widows, orphans, and the poor. It was almost evening when the ceremony finally ended and we made our way to the Great Hall for a celebratory feast.
I RECOGNIZED THE opportunity presented by Francisco’s broaching the subject of his induction ceremony. Francisco, I believe, broke his vows in the Levant. I am certain that this transgression is at the root of his possession. I seized the chance to question him concerning his conduct on the crusade.
“Poverty, chastity, obedience,” I repeated.
“The very words we spoke, Lucas.”
“Do you know their meaning, Francisco? Do you understand the implications of the commitment you made before the Lord, His Son, and the Holy Spirit?”
“The words are simple, Lucas.”
Francisco must have felt as if the light of the Lord were directed at him, such was the intensity of my gaze.
“And you obeyed those vows, Francisco?”
Francisco seemed not to hear my question. His eyes scrutinizing his palms, his attention focused far away. What were the words of Isabel concerning Francisco’s search in the Levant? Ghosts and demons.
“Francisco de Montcada,” I said sternly, “while you fought in God’s name, did you obey your vows?”
He smiled. Actually, half a smile. The same ironic expression the first time I saw him in Abbot Pedro’s quarters.
“Would that I had broken only one of those vows—or all of them. My deeds are much blacker, Lucas.”
“Tell me, Francisco. I am here to confess you. To offer God’s forgiveness. Tell me of this darkness.”
“A starless twilight, Lucas, beyond redemption.”
CHAPTER VII
NOTE TO THE FAITHFUL
“A STARLESS TWILIGHT. Beyond redemption.” I repeated Francisco’s words to Brother Vial.
Brother Vial scratched the thin strands of hair on the side of his head.
“Your friend sounds a bit arrogant, Lucas,” he said.
“I do not understand, Brother Vial.”
“No one is beyond redemption,” Brother Vial said. “A man who makes such a claim could just as easily maintain he is beyond damnation.”
“But, Brother Vial,” I responded, “you said that in cases in which the subject has wedded the devil, dissolution is impossible. Isn’t that what you said about the woman who had suffocated her two children?”
“Do you always remember everything I say?” Brother Vial said.
“For the most part.”
“Well,” he said, “I suppose I did speak words to that effect.”
“Brother Vial,” I said, “the Scriptures say, he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.”
“Does the Good Book say that, Lucas?”
“Indeed, Brother Vial, it does. Perhaps Francisco is guilty of an eternal sin. Before his martyrdom, Abbot Pedro said that Francisco was in spiritual rebellion, that he was a man at war with God.”
“Did Abbot Pedro say that, Lucas?”
“Indeed, he did, Brother Vial.”
“A man at war with God …” Brother Vial mused. He was tapping his leather sandal against the stone. “Francisco seems more a man at war with himself than with God.”
“I do not understand, Brother Vial.”
“Nor do I, Lucas.”
As much as I admire Brother Vial, I would concede that his lack of seminary training sometimes handicaps his understanding of more spiritual issues. A man at war with himself … Brother Vial probably heard the phrase during his sojourn in the Levant—picked it up from some unlearned knights in a tavern in Acre. To be charitable, it is a rather naive assessment of Francisco’s condition. How can a man be at war with himself? True spiritual conflict takes place between the Lord and Satan. Between the Church and the devil’s minions. Our souls merely provide the field of battle. Indeed, in God’s name, I struggle with Satan every day for possession of Francisco’s soul.
Perhaps Brother Vial’s experiences as a warrior have also softened, even skewed, his ability to stand in judgment of his comrades. When I related Francisco’s report concerning the unwholesome activities of the Grand Master of the Calatrava, Brother Vial laughed generously.
“Yes,” he said, “that sounds exactly like the great man.”
“The great man?” I asked incredulously. “Then you made Ramón’s acquaintance in the Levant?”
“Everyone who spent time in the Levant knew Uncle Ramón. He had a grand appetite for living.”
“Then you know of his corruptions.”
“Excuse me, Lucas. I do not follow.”
“The violations of his vows. Francisco’s report indicates that Ramón engaged in drunkenness and fornication. Worse still, he permitted, indeed encouraged, his knights to follow his depraved activities. My cheeks flush with indignation when I think of the young, impressionable souls put in his charge. We have uncovered quite a scandal, Brother Vial. I will write an immediate dispatch to the Archbishop of Tarragona concerning these most unfortunate revelations.”
“Lucas,” Brother Vial said, “you have a formidable mind and a prodigious memory. I daresay you know the Psalter and Scriptures by heart. The truth often lies beneath and beyond the words, though. The character of a man shuns simple equation. A knight might remain true to his vows, resisting every temptation, and yet his heart becomes a frozen pasture. He carries out his duties grudgingly and never exerts himself beyond his obligations. Another knight breaks his vows repeatedly, and yet his heart overflows with love. In battle, he refuses to desert a wounded comrade, though the enemy outnumber him ten to one. Who is worthier in the eyes of the Lord? Make such judgments at your own peril. As Christ said, for with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.
“I would put aside any plans to write the Archbishop concerning Uncle Ramón. Your mission concerns Francisco and his salvation. There is someone you can write, though, someone who might help spur Francisco’s confession.”
“Who would that be, Brother Vial? I will write him immediately.”
“Her, Lucas. Andrés’ sister. What is her name?”
“Isabel?”
“Yes, Isabel. Send for the girl.”
“Brother Vial, I am confused. Would you place temptation before Francisco in his vulnerable condition?”
“Lucas, would you place a pitcher of water before a man who had walked through the desert?”
Brother Vial stood up, folded his arms underneath his robe, and walked into the courtyard. I hurried after him. When I reached him, he was gazing at the purple flowers around the cistern. I tugged at his robe to get his attention.
“Brother Vial, with all due respect, I believe it would be a grave error to bring the girl to Santes Creus. She will constitute an unnecessary temptation, an extraneous obstacle to Francisco’s convalescence.”
“Temptation, Lucas, is not only the province of the evil one. Does not the Lord place life and death before every person?”
“Indeed, Brother Vial, he does.”
“Both will tempt a man. We will tempt Francisco with life.”
“But, Brother Vial, Isabel has not seen Francisco for six years. She has certainly married. Her husband will probably not permit his wife to travel the countryside alone.”
“Then we will send a
n escort, Lucas.”
“Yes, Brother Vial, but Francisco will provide a painful remembrance of Isabel’s lost brother. I doubt she will accept our invitation.”
“The girl will come.”
That was all he said before disappearing into the chapel for the afternoon office. I feel deeply troubled by our conversation. I fear Brother Vial underestimates the potentially pernicious and disruptive influence that Isabel could exercise on Francisco’s recovery. Abbot Pedro used to say that a woman can never be trusted. “Remember, Lucas,” he would say, “you yourself were in this world but one hour when your own mother abandoned you in a barn stall.”
Perhaps I was mistaken to recount Francisco’s confession to Brother Vial. I wish I had at least omitted Francisco’s trip to the Correa estate in Girona. Then Brother Vial would never know of Isabel.
I cannot very well disobey Brother Vial’s injunction to send for Isabel. As the prior of the monastery, I outrank him. But Brother Vial’s authority derives from his moral and spiritual prestige, not his position. And, of course, his connections—especially to his cousin, Archbishop Sancho of Tarragona. It would be most unwise to defy my mentor. Tomorrow I will send for the girl. The consequences, if they be negative, will be on Brother Vial’s head.
Perhaps Isabel will decline the invitation. That would be most desirable. I suspect she will be loath to embark on what would probably be a ten-day journey from Girona to Santes Creus—assuming she is still in Girona. Perhaps she married a gentleman from other parts, and the invitation will never reach her. Indeed, it is quite silly for me to worry about the effect of her visit on Francisco, an event that in all likelihood will never occur.
Francisco’s physical condition continues to improve. We take long walks around the courtyard most every day. Once a week we venture forth from the monastery and roam the hills around the sanctuary. Francisco never speaks on these outings. He seems quite taken, indeed invigorated, by the natural beauty of our surroundings. His spirits seem to lift for the rest of the day.
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