The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  Needless to say, Francisco’s recollections did not comport with the more established version. In recounting the treatment of Muslim civilians, Francisco divested the army of Christ of its spiritual and moral authority, obliterating the distinction between Christian and infidel soldiers. As narrated by Francisco, the battle of Toron seemed a dark, godless abyss.

  How can I account for the discrepancy between Francisco’s version of events and the better-known characterizations with which you, my venerable reader, are no doubt familiar? There is of course a simple explanation—the demons that possessed Francisco sought to spread lies and blasphemy in order to foster doubt amongst the faithful.

  And yet, I cannot deny that Francisco had been an eyewitness to the battle. Nor can I deny that his description of the siege was consistent in certain respects with the more established histories. It is well known that the Knights of Calatrava captured the northwest tower of the castle before Prince Fernando’s forces stormed the eastern gate.

  Francisco’s account was also straightforward and vivid. As Francisco described the bonfire that consumed the Muslim corpses, I could almost smell the burning flesh, a remote yet familiar scent. When I was still a servant at Santes Creus, before the arrival of Francisco, there was an outbreak of fever in the monastery. Fifteen of the brothers succumbed to the illness. To extinguish the contagion, the Abbot instructed the servants to cremate the corpses. The naked bodies of the dead were dragged from carts and fed into the fire in the plaza just outside the gates of the monastery. A putrid scent enveloped the square. The flames whistled louder with each new body, until a constant, low scream pervaded the monastery, overwhelming even the survivors’ lamentation.

  But why did I dwell on such dark memories? Why did I feel unsettled by Francisco’s tale? After listening to Francisco’s account, I found myself, for a brief moment, questioning the virtue of Prince Fernando’s crusaders, admittedly a small group in the context of the larger Christian force.

  And then I caught myself and remembered the warning of Brother Vial, the warning he spoke before I set out to gather Francisco from the clutches of Father Adelmo at Poblet. It was the hand of the devil—setting forth temptation in the form of doubt. Doubt in the righteousness of Christ’s own army. I can assure you, it was a humbling moment—the realization that even I, a child of the Church, a child of God, the second-youngest prior ever appointed at Santes Creus, was vulnerable to the devil’s seduction.

  Preoccupied by these troubling thoughts, I was walking the courtyard leading to my quarters when I saw Isabel. She was sitting in the parlor talking to Brother Vial.

  CHAPTER X

  ISABEL

  TO SPARE MY mentor further embarrassment, I tried to avoid a confrontation with the girl. The less attention focused on the spectacle of a female in the parlor, the more likely to minimize the scandal. Despite his worldly experience, Brother Vial sometimes displays poor judgment.

  I pulled the white hood of my habit down over my head and quickened my pace toward the church. Alas, Brother Vial recognized me.

  “Brother Lucas,” he called, “we have a special visitor today.”

  “Brother Vial, is that you?”

  “Yes, Brother Lucas, come and meet our guest.”

  There was no escape. I approached the parlor on the stone footpath that cut across the courtyard. Inadvertently, I strode off course onto the grass carpet. I could feel the cool blades brush the skin in the gaps of my sandals.

  “Doña Isabel Correa de Girona, I present Brother Lucas.”

  “Welcome to Santes Creus,” I said.

  “Brother Lucas is the prior of the monastery,” Brother Vial said, “and Francisco’s confessor.”

  “How was your journey, Doña Isabel?” I asked.

  She stood and bowed slightly. She seemed to be my height exactly, so that our gaze was unmediated. Evidently, she did not hear my question. Or perhaps she did not deem it necessary to respond.

  “With your permission, Doña Isabel,” Brother Vial said, “I will excuse myself for afternoon service.”

  I grabbed Brother Vial’s sleeve as he turned to leave.

  “Surely, Brother Vial, you would not leave a woman alone in the parlor.”

  “No, Brother Lucas, I would not. I leave her in your capable hands. The two of you can discuss Francisco’s condition.”

  “But Brother Vial,” I said, “the appearance of the prior talking alone with a female might cause consternation amongst members of the flock.”

  “You place too much value on appearances, Brother Lucas.”

  I watched Brother Vial’s broad back as he walked through the courtyard, then disappeared around the corner pillar. I turned to face Isabel. Most uncomfortable.

  “I trust our messenger proved a faithful guide?” I asked.

  Her glance was direct, her eyes sharp, her posture erect. She did not seem to grasp the improper nature of her presence in the holy sanctuary. Nor did she feel a compulsion to engage in pleasantries.

  “Brother Lucas, how is my cousin?”

  Francisco had said that her eyes were gray, the same shade as his brother’s tombstone. A peculiar tombstone indeed. From my vantage point, I could not discern their color. Her eyes seemed green, then blue, then yellow.

  “The devil is stubborn,” I said. “He will not yield his prize easily. Nevertheless, we make progress.”

  Tiny brown freckles settled across the bridge of her nose and marred the clarity of her white skin.

  “Francisco speaks, then?” she asked. A restive glance in the wake of her question betrayed her even tone. I delayed just a moment before answering.

  “Yes, Isabel, Francisco speaks.”

  Isabel looked away before I could gauge the impact of the news of Francisco’s improvement.

  “I trust your husband approved your visit to Santes Creus,” I said.

  “I am unmarried, Brother Lucas.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “I am well occupied caring for my father.”

  “Is he unwell?”

  “He became sick following my brother’s death. Did you know Andrés?”

  “I made his acquaintance many years ago at the monastery. A fine young man. Devoted in his own manner.”

  “Devoted to adventure, Brother Lucas. Ill-suited for monastic life.”

  “We all have our calling, Isabel.”

  “He died at the Krak des Chevaliers. My father received a letter from Prince Fernando, who commanded the Christian forces at the castle, commending the bravery of my brother. He died the day before the castle fell.”

  I had to restrain an urge to wipe away a fragment of yellow crust lodged in the corner of her eye. She had obviously failed to groom herself before our interview. Locks of hair, uncombed, iridescent, escaped from under her hood and fell over the side of her face. Brother Vial once said that women help men to recognize the beauty of God’s creation. Women, he said, make the blue deeper, the green greener; “the red catches fire.” A quaint hypothesis. I tend toward the view that only through prayer can we approach a full appreciation of the Lord’s bounty.

  “Do not despair, child,” I said. “Andrés died in the service of the Lord.”

  “Sometimes I wonder, Brother Lucas,” Isabel said, “whether the Lord looks with favor upon those who raise their swords against an enemy so far away.”

  “Child,” I said, “your brother died for Christ. He was one of the chosen, a member of God’s army.”

  “Does God have an army, Brother Lucas?”

  “He certainly does. Knights, monks, and priests who battle the devil’s agents wherever we encounter them. A righteous army of the strong and courageous—the keepers of the divine legacy.”

  “Isn’t it the meek who shall inherit the earth, Brother Lucas?”

  The girl could be irritating.

  “Yes, Isabel, but the strong shall ensure the inheritance.”

  The afternoon sun cast a mournful shadow across her face. Sorrow borne in the delicat
e lines that graced her forehead, probably imperceptible before her brother’s journey to the Levant. She smiled wearily as if my conversation were tiresome.

  “You must have faith in the divine plan, Isabel.”

  “I cannot see what role my brother’s death plays in such a plan. It seems quite meaningless.”

  “I understand your distress, child,” I responded tenderly. “I understand more than you can possibly know.”

  I did not tell Isabel that I too have experienced injustice, born into the world almost certainly of noble blood, yet without a name. A common servant I became. We cannot comprehend the path the Lord has chosen for us.

  “Remember, child,” I said, “our suffering brings us closer to Christ. Our tears run into the river of blood that flows from the stigmata. It is there that we find communion and peace. Your brother, just as Christ, died for you.”

  “Forgive me, Brother Lucas. I have not studied the Scriptures or spent the hours of spiritual devotion that you have. I know that I am unlearned in these matters. But I do not understand why these men had to die for me. If it were my choice, I would have preferred that they live.”

  “They do, Isabel. Your brother lives in paradise. He looks down upon you right now.”

  I spoke fervently, but the girl seemed not to be listening. Her attention focused on a patch of weeds that sprouted between two stone tablets on the floor of the parlor. An embarrassing distraction. I would speak with Brother Eduardo, who is responsible for the proper maintenance of the monastery grounds. The Lord’s work requires an uncompromising discipline that must extend to all members of the monastery and to all tasks, from the holy offices to the most mundane chores.

  “Sometimes, Brother Lucas,” she said, “I feel that I must be missing some critical wisdom that explains these matters. It seems to me that a martyr’s death brings only anguish to those who live after him. Perhaps he will enter paradise. To those who survive, he leaves only suffering. Even Christ Himself. Imagine, Brother Lucas, the Virgin Mary watching as her Son writhes on the Cross. If He chose life, He could have made water into wine as an old man, healed the sick, given sight to the blind.”

  A faint bitterness tarnished the gentle edge of her voice. Isabel was making a motherly reproach, chiding her brother for taking the Cross. As if Isabel were Mary, chiding her Son for the imprudence, indeed, the selfishness of His choice.

  “Isabel, you are not thinking clearly right now,” I responded. “Christ chose the Cross so that He could share our condition, so that He could show us the path through suffering, through death, to eternal life. So that He could take our sins upon Himself.”

  “I never asked Him to take my sins upon Himself,” she said, “and I am not sure what good He accomplished in doing so.”

  “Isabel, you speak dangerous words. You do not know what you are saying. I suggest you take time to reflect before speaking on these matters again.”

  The girl needed a warning. Her next interlocutor might not be so understanding. Moreover, one of the monks might overhear her. It would not be the first time one of my brothers eavesdropped on a private conversation and relayed the content to Abbot Alfonso, or, worse, to an overeager inquisitor passing through Santes Creus.

  “I am sorry, Brother Lucas. I speak recklessly because I grieve for my brother.”

  I took a cloth from my cassock and wiped the beads of sweat from my forehead. I tried to smile at the girl, but I suspect it seemed more a grimace. The Lord’s work is strenuous.

  The bells rang for holy office. The chimes provided a welcome respite from our discussions and an opportunity for the girl to recover her composure. Regrettably, many of my brothers could not resist the impulse to gaze upon our visitor as they walked past the parlor. Some of them probably had never set eyes upon a female of Isabel’s gentility. Brother Mario stopped cold and stared at the girl.

  “Brother Mario,” I said, “the Lord calls you to prayer.”

  He remained transfixed, open-mouthed, like a village idiot.

  “Perhaps, Brother Mario,” I said, “you would enjoy an extended visit to one of the monasteries in the new territories of Catalonia. The Church needs volunteers to spread the Word amongst the Moorish villagers. I think you would be well qualified.”

  The boy joined his brothers forthwith, and the chapel doors soon closed. Isabel and I were alone.

  “I suppose, Isabel, you wonder why I sent for you.”

  She was twirling a lock of hair in her fingers, periodically placing the end in her mouth. She seemed to be concentrating intently on the task as if she were weaving a basket. I cleared my throat rather loudly. Isabel withdrew the hair from her mouth and tucked the wet strands behind her ear.

  “Perhaps, Isabel, you have asked yourself why you are here.”

  “I know why I am here, Brother Lucas.”

  The girl could be presumptuous.

  “Pray tell, Isabel, why are you here?”

  “When can I see Francisco, Brother Lucas?”

  “Patience, child. We were speaking of your visit to our humble sanctuary. The purpose of your presence here.”

  “I am here to visit my cousin,” she said.

  “Yes, you are, Isabel. Perhaps, though, you do not fully appreciate the situation. Santes Creus is not a castle, and your cousin is not in the habit of receiving visitors. While we have made progress in battling Satan, Francisco is still possessed by the dark one. His soul and body remain in mortal peril. I would not be surprised if he does not recognize you. I daresay if not for our efforts, he would probably be dead. The slightest negative influence could jeopardize his recovery.”

  “What kind of influence am I, Brother Lucas?”

  “I trust a good one, Isabel. You have been called to assist with Francisco’s exorcism. To tempt Francisco with life.”

  Those were Brother Vial’s words when he suggested that we send for the girl—“tempt Francisco with life.” In truth, I remained skeptical. Isabel might tempt Francisco, but toward what purpose? Did not Eve tempt Adam with the apple? Perhaps Isabel had her own purpose in coming to Santes Creus. It would be foolish to discount the possibility that she might seek to take advantage of Francisco in his weakened state to bring about a marriage. Any girl, particularly a twenty-four-year-old spinster, would covet the fortune of Francisco, whatever his condition. I resolved to inquire as to Isabel’s intentions.

  “Isabel, I know you must be tired after your long journey. Could I bother you with a few questions?”

  “Please, Brother Lucas.”

  “How would you describe the nature of your relations with Francisco?”

  “We are first cousins.”

  “Yes, I know, Isabel. But how would you characterize your feelings for Francisco?”

  “I am fond of my cousin, Brother Lucas.”

  “Exceedingly fond or just fond?”

  “I am not sure what you mean, Brother Lucas.”

  “Perhaps, Isabel, you could describe the background of your association with Francisco.”

  “I am sorry, Brother Lucas. I have not the slightest idea what you are talking about.”

  The girl was not as forthcoming as I had hoped she would be.

  “Very well, Isabel. We shall start at the beginning. Where did you meet Francisco?”

  “At the estate of my father in Girona.”

  “And that’s where you became, as you say, fond of Francisco?”

  “Yes, Brother Lucas.”

  “And did he become fond of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know? Did you ask him?”

  “No.”

  “Did he tell you?”

  “No. Not in words.”

  I could picture Francisco at her father’s estate—before the crusade. His pensive gaze, the sadness on the borders of his quiet smile, a smile that could easily be misinterpreted.

  “Sometimes, child, we have an affinity toward another person that is not reciprocated.”

  “Francisco once told me t
here is a moment that holds both night and day.”

  “I am afraid, Isabel, I do not follow.”

  “Five o’clock in the morning. Maybe later. The second before dawn.”

  “Isabel, I do not understand.”

  “Francisco said that in that instant he could sometimes see his brother.”

  “Are you quite sure, Isabel?” I asked.

  “Sergio’s image in the half-light,” she said.

  “Francisco never spoke of such an image to me.”

  “One eye focused on Sergio,” she said, “the other on dawn breaking over the horizon.”

  “It does sound like something Francisco might say.”

  “In that silence, we recognized each other,” she said.

  “Where, Isabel?”

  “A place where life and death intersect.”

  I recalled the circumstances of Isabel’s nativity—born astride a grave. Her mother died in childbirth. A cruel inheritance, indeed.

  “Are you feeling well, child?”

  “A restless loneliness,” she said.

  “Our hearts are restless, Isabel, until they rest in the Lord. The words of Saint Augustine.”

  “Then Francisco came to Girona,” she said.

  “Yes, he told me of his visit to your family’s estate.”

  “Francisco understood,” she said.

  “What did he understand, Isabel?”

  “The desolation that follows in death’s wake.”

  “Are you speaking of Francisco or yourself, Isabel?”

  “It had marked us both,” she said.

  “Do you mean under the ice?” I asked. “Is that what you mean with these cryptic references? Francisco told me of your accident over the lake. How he dove in the freezing water. The two of you crawling to safety as the pond’s surface crumbled.”

  “Francisco cast a pale light,” she said.