Francisco’s confession continues. The intensity of his demeanor during our sessions has not abated. It seems to build every day. Sometimes Francisco trembles as he speaks, as if he were approaching some terrible abyss, perhaps the very root of his infection.
Francisco’s case is such a critical affair for the Church. I cannot help but smile when I imagine the great works, the charities, that could be promoted with the bounty offered by Baron Montcada—one-third of his estate in exchange for his son’s salvation. I hope my work here will bring forth a monument to God’s glory. Indeed, the Church has placed an awesome trust in me. I feel as if the eyes of Rome are focused on Santes Creus.
I write weekly to Archbishop Sancho, describing Francisco’s progress. We seem to grow more and more familiar with each correspondence. I believe the Archbishop considers me a personal friend. Last week I received a letter from the Archbishop. He informed me that Bishop Martín’s condition worsens. “Regrettably,” the letter states, “Tortosa will soon have a vacant post. I hope that your work with Francisco concludes before I must name a replacement.”
The seal of the Archbishop’s letter had already been broken when the Abbot’s personal servant delivered it to me. That’s just as well. Abbot Alfonso might as well know of the Archbishop’s regard for me. Perhaps he will show the proper appreciation for my abilities that I sometimes feel he lacks. Indeed, he seems to have grown more solicitous of my needs since I received that correspondence. Yesterday the Abbot inquired if I might prefer fine Egyptian cotton to the worn and rough material of my current robe. Before I could answer, Abbot Alfonso summoned Brother Mario, the monastery tailor, who took my measurements and will cut the cloth this very week.
My fortunes appear to have changed forever. The future holds immense possibilities. Sometimes, in the night, I close my eyes and picture again the Archbishop’s quarters—the gold chalice brimming with wine, the silken vestments. It seems just a matter of time before the Lord calls me forth to a more hallowed station.
LAST NIGHT I dreamt that a simple priest in a foreign land many years from today, perhaps one hundred, was reading a copy of this manuscript. Brother Vial’s suggestion that these pages might serve as a map of Francisco’s soul seems prescient, if a bit shortsighted. I suspect this manuscript will provide more than that—a map not just of Francisco’s soul but of others similarly afflicted. I wonder if Brother Vial regrets his decision to cede responsibility for the exorcism. Perhaps it was inevitable that I would take charge. As my own star rises, Brother Vial’s will probably grow dimmer. Indeed, I feel a bit sorry for him. I suppose that is why I share details of Francisco’s confession with Brother Vial—to give him a sense of involvement, though it is peripheral. To his credit, Brother Vial evinces no jealousy. He never fails to praise my approach and to encourage my efforts. Just this afternoon, Brother Vial approached me in the parlor.
“Patience, endurance, and restraint,” he said. “These are the Lord’s most powerful weapons against the wiles of the devil. All these qualities, Brother Lucas, you have exhibited in the last four months, waiting for Francisco to begin his confession. Where the violent methods of Father Adelmo at Poblet failed, the more peaceful approach of Brother Lucas has succeeded. I am proud of you.
“Perhaps,” Brother Vial continued, “when Francisco has been saved, I will cede to you responsibility for other cases of possession. You will find the same approach you employed with Francisco no less effective with other troubled souls.”
“Brother Vial,” I said, “I would welcome such an opportunity. I do not wish to boast, but I believe I have established an impressive record as prior, a record that will testify to my diligence and my uncompromising devotion to Santes Creus. Did you notice the hedges that surround the monastery? Many visitors have commented on the manner in which the green bushes soften the gray stone. I overheard Abbot Alfonso tell visitors the idea for the plantings was his own. Perhaps he has told the same to you, Brother Vial. I would not contradict my Abbot. Nevertheless, I would point out that a man’s memory is frail. Sometimes individuals hear a suggestion, forget its source, then propound the notion themselves.”
Brother Vial put his finger to his lips to stop me speaking. He grasped me by both shoulders and smiled softly.
“Brother Lucas,” he said, “you are at the beginning of an arduous journey. It is my fervent hope that after your experience with Francisco, you will find yourself closer to the Lord than you have ever been and that you will reject the false prophets of ambition and vanity that tempt all men. Perhaps, Brother Lucas, when I scale down my official duties, you will become the chief exorcist at Santes Creus and prove a more fierce and implacable adversary of the devil than I could ever be.”
Those were his exact words. A more fierce and implacable adversary of the devil than I could ever be.
I thanked Brother Vial for his kind words. I was a bit embarrassed by his lavish praise and his future plans for my advancement. But I was not surprised. Does not the devil employ the same schemes to deceive, to possess, to destroy God’s children? And do we, His loving servants, not employ the same methods to foil the darkest and most clever plans of the devil? The very same methods I have used to provoke, to draw out, Francisco’s demons, so that one day I, the instrument of the Lord, will crush them. Indeed, this manuscript provides a faithful and precise record of these methods and of what Brother Vial calls this “arduous journey.” Sometimes I imagine monks from all over Spain traveling to Santes Creus—by wagon, by horse, by foot—to copy this manuscript and to meet its author. Perhaps they will view the document as a model, a manual for combat with the devil. The whole Christian world might one day know Francisco’s name—and my own. Brother Lucas de Santes Creus. Bishop Lucas. Blessed Lucas. Saint Lucas. I really must focus more energy on my penmanship.
In light of the potential for wide dissemination of the information contained herein, I feel it imperative to provide background concerning the glorious crusade against the infidels. You see, I fear Francisco’s version of events might give my esteemed reader a distorted impression. He is, after all, still possessed.
Satan begot the incubus. Six hundred years ago, the poisonous weed of Islam sprouted in the deserts of Arabia. Muhammad’s armies spread the scourge east into Persia, north into the Holy Land, west and south across Africa. The darkness cast its shadow into Europe. The Moors carried the affliction across the Straits of Gibraltar into Spain.
For three hundred years, Christian lords have fought sultans and caliphs for control of the Iberian Peninsula. Indeed, the Christian kingdoms of Spain, led by Aragón, Castile, León, Navarre, and Portugal, have put aside their border disputes and petty quarrels and found common cause in the struggle against the infidels. In the last decades, the Christian armies have driven the Moors farther and farther south, conquering Valencia, the Algarve, Córdoba, Murcia, and Seville. Granada is the last infidel stronghold in Spain. God willing, the Christian armies will soon push the savages back across the Mediterranean into the dark regions of Africa.
Unfortunately, the heathen still rage in the east. The abomination continues. The godless occupy, profane, and desecrate the land where Christ lived and died—a holy relic. At first, God’s army experienced miraculous victories. In the Year of Our Lord 1099, the crusaders conquered Jerusalem. Indeed, the Lord wrought fire and brimstone on the devil’s children. The knights put every person in the walled city to the sword. They say the blood ran up to the soldiers’ ankles.
The international military Orders established their headquarters in Jerusalem. The Knights of the Hospital of Saint John claimed the Church of the Holy Sepulcher—built at Golgotha, the place of skulls, the site of the crucifixion. In addition to fighting the infidels, the Hospitallers provide shelter and medical care to pilgrims visiting the Levant. The Knights of the Temple received their name from their base of operations. The conquering lords awarded the Templars the land underneath the old Jewish temple. The crusaders had burned the building to the ground afte
r locking inside the Jews seeking refuge from Christ’s fury. Indeed, the warrior monks have set a high standard of piety and devotion. They take the same vows as ordinary monks—poverty, chastity, obedience. The Church in Rome has granted all the crusaders remission of their sins in return for their service.
Francisco’s Order, the Knights of Calatrava, has a long and illustrious history fighting the Moors on the front lines of Andalusia, Muslim Spain. I am proud to write that one of my own, a Cistercian monk named Ramón Sierra, the abbot of a Navarrese monastery, founded the Order. In the Year of Our Lord 1159, Abbot Sierra traveled to Toledo on business. While he was there, he learned that the Moors were set to attack the nearby City of Calatrava. The situation was desperate—the Moors greatly outnumbered the city’s defenders. Abbot Sierra, with the permission of the King of Castile, organized the defense of the city, recruiting an army of soldiers and monks from his native province and the surrounding territories. In the face of Abbot Sierra’s formidable force, the Moors decided not to attack the city.
Inspired by the fortitude of his recruits, including men of the cloth, Abbot Sierra established a Christian army at the fortress in Calatrava. A few years later, Pope Alexander III issued a Papal Bull recognizing the Knights of Calatrava as the first religious and military order native to Spain. Frey García, the Grand Master of the Order, swore allegiance to the King of Castile and sought affiliation with the Cistercian monks. The Cistercian Order accepted the request from Calatrava. Thereafter, the Cistercians and the Calatrava have viewed each other as brothers and partners in service to the Lord—the Calatrava will do with the sword what we cannot accomplish with the Book.
The Order of Calatrava is renowned for the military valor and skill of its members and for their spiritual devotion. The members are not permitted to hunt, hawk, play dice or chess—activities that are considered frivolous diversions from prayer and spiritual development. Fornication is punished with flogging, and, in some cases, expulsion from the ranks. Regrettably, it appears that under Uncle Ramón’s stewardship, the Calatrava relaxed considerably its monastic discipline. Let us hope that the current Grand Master has restored the spiritual precepts that have traditionally undergirded the Order.
The Calatrava played a critical role in the reconquest of Spain. In response to setbacks suffered by the Christian enclaves in the Holy Land, the Calatrava have more recently turned their attention east. Six years ago, when King Jaime organized an army from Aragón to sail to the Levant, he invited the Calatrava to accompany the armada. After receiving the blessing of King Alfonso of Castile, the son-in-law of King Jaime, the Knights of Calatrava accepted the invitation. Francisco and his comrades joined King Jaime’s crusade. Indeed, this manuscript provides a chronicle of Francisco’s pilgrimage, a journey that took place at a time of great turmoil in the east. In the several years preceding Francisco’s departure to the Holy Land, the Sultan Baibars led his infidel hordes as they swept through the Levant conquering Christian territory, slaughtering and enslaving the inhabitants. By the time of Francisco’s arrival, the Kingdom of Jerusalem did not even include the City of Jerusalem. The Christians were confined to a narrow strip of coast along the Mediterranean, from Jaffa to Acre to Tyre.
In the Year of Our Lord 1269, Hugh, King of Cyprus, acceded to the throne of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, crowned in the great cathedral in Tyre. Hugh was a king in waiting—most of his land occupied by the infidels. Perhaps for this reason, Hugh chose to reside on the island of Cyprus. He installed a constable in Acre to administer the affairs of the city. Unfortunately, the absence of the King and the weak hand of the constable created a confusion of authority in Acre, the largest city in the truncated kingdom. Without the King’s presence to unite the Christian knights, fighting broke out amongst various factions. The Venetians fought the Genoans over trade privileges. The grand masters of the different military Orders made conflicting claims concerning ascendancy in military affairs.
As problematic as the internal divisions of authority in Acre was the presence of a large number of Christian convicts who had their sentences commuted in lieu of settlement in the Levant. While many in this flock have turned to the Lord, there remain a minority that cling stubbornly to their evil ways. Indeed, a priest from Poblet who recently visited the Holy Land told me that his pockets were picked twice during his two-week stay in Acre. In addition, he said that he had to make lengthy detours to avoid treading on streets sullied by the presence of pagan and Christian women selling themselves.
Perhaps the failure of our Christian soldiers and traders to unite in the name of Christ and to stamp out the licentiousness in their presence explains why the Lord would allow Baibars’ army to wreak havoc on our Christian outposts and to occupy the Holy City. With the threat he poses to Christendom, Baibars might actually prod our knights into the life of true warrior monks—poverty, chastity, obedience, and, if necessary, martyrdom. Perhaps, then, that is God’s will, His just punishment, His design.
That Baibars is an agent of Satan there can be no doubt. His evil deeds are well documented. I will mention just a few episodes lest the uninformed reader be led astray by Francisco’s inattention to the crimes of the infidels. Indeed, I shudder when I think of the barbarous acts committed against our brave soldiers.
Safed is a name that should connote horror for every Christian. In the Year of Our Lord 1266, Baibars laid siege to the Templar castle of Safed. After a valiant but doomed defense, the Order of the Temple negotiated safe passage in exchange for their surrender. The documents were signed and delivered to the respective parties. Baibars’ personal seal was set down on the deed, guaranteeing the inviolability of the Christian knights. When the unsuspecting knights, their Templar banners raised to God, exited the castle walls, Baibars’ soldiers fell on them. Those who were not immediately killed were subsequently skinned alive and decapitated. They say that Baibars himself participated in the torture of many of the knights and delighted in the anguished cries of his victims.
The next year, the Kingdom of Acre sent a delegation of Christian ambassadors to the castle of Safed, which Baibars had converted into a Muslim fortress. The ambassadors were to propose a truce between Christian and Muslim forces. The sight of a thousand Christian skulls surrounding the castle did not deter these bold men from fulfilling their mission. Baibars was unyielding, though. He offered our ambassadors, after their long journey, neither bread nor water, and he rejected every attempt at compromise. It was probably just as well. There can be no peace with Baibars or his soldiers. The infidels must be rooted out and completely destroyed.
Perhaps my venerable reader holds a more hopeful view of the potential for a peaceful settlement in the Levant. To obliterate any such illusions, I give one more example of the treachery of the infidels. As my reader is no doubt aware, the Christian City of Antioch fell to the Muslims in May, the Year of Our Lord 1268. Less widely known is the extent of atrocities perpetrated by the infidel soldiers in the wake of the city’s capture. The following account I received from a knight from Aragón who was present in Antioch during its capture. Through God’s grace, this soldier managed to escape the city amidst the chaos of the ensuing massacre.
The first order of business for the Muslim commanders involved the execution of Christian soldiers. The lucky were beheaded. Others died more slowly—lashed, mutilated, burned, quartered. After murdering combatants, the infidels turned their attention to the other inhabitants of the city—women, children, old men. Eyes were gouged out, noses and ears cut off, young girls and boys violated, most unspeakable. Statues of the Virgin were desecrated—spat upon and smashed. There were reports of Saracen soldiers defecating in the churches and holy sanctuaries.
Those Christians lucky enough to find hiding were subsequently rounded up and sold as slaves. Every soldier in the Sultan’s army acquired a slave or two, and a surplus still remained which was sold in the markets of Cairo. They say that because of the great number of captured Christians, the price for a girl fell below
that for an aged goat.
This was the carnage, the evil, confronted by the armies of Christ. That our forces might have committed some excesses is regrettable. Under the circumstances, though, such unchristian behavior by Christian warriors is understandable. With this note, I return the reader to Francisco’s life, his confession, his sorrows.
CHAPTER VIII
THE KINGDOM OF ACRE
ALMOST TWO MONTHS we had been at sea. Seven out of ten of the ships in our armada, including the vessel of King Jaime and his entourage, had been forced to turn back because of the relentless and pounding storms. In our ship, forty men had taken ill with dysentery and died; their bodies were quickly hurled into the sea to avoid the contagion. One unfortunate soul was thrown into the gray swell before his last breath had expired, his hollow eyes righteous, uncomprehending. Our sleeping quarters reeked of death—the guts and bloody excrement smeared indelibly on the worn floorboards, seeped into the cracks, like a shiny coat of varnish.
When the fortress city loomed over the horizon in November, the Year of Our Lord 1270, there was an outbreak of joyful weeping even amongst the hardest knights. The winter sun sanctified the stone walls of the Templar citadel that guarded the entrance to Acre. Gleaming towers announced the majesty of the city as if it were Eden itself.
The three boats from Spain glided into the harbor, every man on deck mumbling grateful prayers. Knights streamed forth into the city like ants swarming over the remains of a dead animal. It was not the glorious entrance Uncle Ramón had described many times belowdeck during the rough waters. But it was triumphant—we were alive.
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