The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “A light?” I asked.

  “Amidst this death,” she said.

  “Francisco was casting lights?”

  “A pale light that pierced my solitude,” she said.

  “Francisco rescued you,” I said. “Perhaps now you seek to save him? Is that what you mean to say?”

  “One eye focused on night, the other on day.”

  “Isabel, are you listening to what I am saying?”

  “Until Andrés’ death.”

  “This hardly seems a conversation,” I said.

  “The pale light extinguished,” she said.

  Her little speech was beginning to grate on my nerves.

  “Speaking of the pale light,” I said, “the sun seems to be setting. Perhaps, Isabel, we should retire.”

  “And then night, Brother Lucas. A long night for Francisco.”

  A long conversation. Or rather soliloquy.

  “Now only I hold the candle,” she said.

  “Actually, Isabel, your hands are empty. Perhaps you are tired after your journey.”

  Isabel was gazing rather dramatically toward the pastel shadows encroaching on the parlor. I slapped my hands to my knees and rose to my feet. She finally glanced up.

  “Shall we go, Isabel? You will need your sleep. We will meet with Francisco tomorrow morning.”

  Isabel stood slowly and followed me as I left the parlor.

  She certainly has a morbid disposition. I could see why Francisco and she might be drawn to one another. Both seem to share an unwholesome fascination with the macabre.

  “Brother Lucas, could I ask you a question?” Isabel spoke as we navigated the courtyard.

  “Certainly, child.”

  “Are you here to fulfill an obligation?”

  “No, child, I serve the Lord from love, not from obligation.”

  “Brother Vial told me that you have been with Francisco for almost five months.”

  “Indeed, I have,” I answered.

  “Thank you, Brother Lucas, for your devotion to Francisco.”

  “Servants of the Lord do not seek gratitude,” I said. “The work provides its own compensation.”

  As we walked the narrow passage through the courtyard plantings, I was forced to veer closer to Isabel, so close that I could feel the soft rustle of her silk dress against my white robe.

  “Can I ask another question, Brother Lucas?”

  It seems the girl did not know when to shut up.

  “Please, child.”

  “Perhaps I overstep my bounds, Brother Lucas, but is your presence here related to the reward Baron Montcada has offered for the salvation of his son?”

  “I am not sure to what you refer, Isabel.”

  “It is said that Baron Montcada has offered one-third of his estate to the Church in exchange for the salvation of his son.”

  “It is said by whom, child?”

  “Perhaps I have been misinformed,” she said. “Girona is rife with rumors.”

  Isabel has no business knowing the intricate workings of the Church, no less the substance of a private exchange between the diocese and a member of its flock. The girl is simply not capable of understanding the full ramifications and intricacies of such matters. Nevertheless, I did my best to explain the situation in order to dispel any misconceptions she might entertain.

  “Isabel,” I stated, “you are not misinformed. Baron Montcada has made such an offer. It is the desperate plea of a father who has already sacrificed one son to the glory of God. You would not have the Church ignore the Baron’s plight, would you?”

  “Is that what you meant, Brother Lucas, when you said the work provides its own compensation?”

  “I do not think the direction of your questioning would please the inquisitors, Isabel. The Church has answered the request of one of its most devoted followers, Baron Montcada. My superiors sent me here in the service of the Lord. To banish the demons that afflict the soul of the Baron’s son.”

  In mentioning the inquisition, I did not mean to threaten the girl, but merely to warn her for her own good. If she did not become more careful in her discourse, Isabel might well find herself facing one of its tribunals. I would have thought the subject terminated. I was wrong.

  “And what do you gain, Brother Lucas,” Isabel asked, “if Francisco is saved?”

  “Excuse me, child?” I said. Such audacity.

  “What temptation,” Isabel continued, “keeps you so long tending to my cousin, Brother Lucas?”

  We stopped walking and stood facing each other, not two feet apart. The girl’s stare was fixed, her teeth clenched. Our dance was over. Isabel had dispensed the mannered cloak of our diplomacy. Her insolence provoked an anger that took me by surprise. It was with an effort and God’s grace that I resisted an impulse to slap her. When she saw on the morrow the progress Francisco had made under my care, I was certain she would bitterly regret the manner in which she had doubted my intentions. But for that moment, she was unaware of my sacrifices. She did not understand the keenness of my emotions in this matter.

  Yet, there was more in her expression than a brazen challenge. In the dark shadows under her eyes, in the slight twitch of her eyebrow, I perceived the markings of a solemn, unhealthy introspection. The girl has certainly experienced her share of loss. When her father dies, Francisco will be her most intimate and perhaps only link to the past. I felt a pang of compassion that subdued my anger and drew me toward the girl. My proximity to Isabel was such that I could smell the gentle scent of lavender—the dried leaves that perfumed her clothing. I quite forgot myself and reached out to comfort her, stroking her forearm. It was several seconds before I looked away, distracted by several of my brothers exiting the church. When I looked back, Isabel had turned toward the main gate and was walking through the courtyard. I had to move quite quickly to catch up with the girl. I escorted her to one of the private chambers reserved for our patrician visitors.

  When I returned to my quarters, I lingered in the anteroom to my bedchamber, considering my conversation with Isabel. The girl’s questions suggested that I had been less than forthright about Baron Montcada’s offer and the personal benefits I might expect in the event of Francisco’s salvation. But I have made no secret of Archbishop Sancho’s solicitude for Francisco’s welfare or his appreciation of the difficulties of my mission.

  I would not claim that I am indifferent to the Archbishop’s favor. I doubt any man is completely immune to the material temptations. Brother Vial had said as much on more than one occasion. What if I want to rise in the clerical hierarchy? Is not my ambition compatible with the work of God? Is not the success of my mission—the salvation of Francisco’s soul—consistent with my plans for clerical advancement? Indeed, the higher I rise the more good I can accomplish.

  And what right does Isabel have to speak to me of temptation? Has Isabel ever felt an aching emptiness in her stomach that would not be filled that day, nor the next, nor the day after? I have, and I have not forgotten. Born an orphan, a lowly servant. A godforsaken existence of filth and hunger. And servitude to these very people, her people, who were oblivious to my sufferings, who treated me as if I were just another animal on their estate. I have not forgotten.

  Then, amidst this daily degradation, the Lord dangles before you not only food and a warm place to sleep, but much more—a life of privilege, the life that Isabel, Andrés, and Francisco so carelessly assumed as their birthright, then seemed indifferent to its benefits, contemptuous of those who sought its blessings.

  What if I wanted a crumb from their table? Would God condemn me for that? Would God judge me for wanting to better my condition? Who would not choose such a life and follow it to its logical conclusion, higher and higher, farther and farther away from that wretched poverty?

  THE NEXT MORNING I met Isabel in her quarters. She was sitting in her chair, much the same as I had left her. Her bed mat was unruffled, the blanket folded to the side.

  “Good morning, Isabel. Santes
Creus gets quite chilly at night. I hope you managed to stay warm.”

  I addressed her in an amiable manner, determined to show her that her insulting remarks had no effect on me. She returned my courtesies, but cut short a discussion of recent weather conditions. She seemed altogether uninterested in conversation. Nor did she partake of the tea and biscuits Brother Dominic, the porter, provided on my instructions.

  I set out on the same solitary walk I had taken every day since Francisco’s arrival at Santes Creus some nine months ago. Only this time, I could hear the soft beat of footsteps behind me. I led Isabel through the courtyard, up the stairs, and down the long corridor. When we reached Francisco’s cell, I nodded reassuringly at the girl.

  “May God be with us, child,” I said.

  As soon as I opened the door, Isabel tried to maneuver past me into the cell. I stayed her, holding fast her arm just underneath the shoulder. I did not want to startle Francisco with the sudden sight of his cousin.

  He was facing away from the door, seated in the middle of the cell, looking out the window.

  “Francisco,” I said, “you have a visitor. Isabel Correa de Girona stands beside me.”

  Francisco did not turn. He made no sign that he had heard me.

  “Francisco,” I said, raising my voice, “Isabel Correa, your cousin, visits you from Girona.”

  Still no reaction from Francisco. Most peculiar.

  I released my grip on Isabel’s arm. She walked slowly around in front of him. I followed her closely. Francisco continued to stare out the window, ignoring the girl. She touched his cheek, studying his face. Isabel’s emotions finally overcame her cool reserve. She fell to her knees and placed her head in Francisco’s lap. She clutched his legs tightly as if he were a phantom that could disappear at any moment. The girl was sobbing softly, her nose running onto Francisco’s newly laundered cloak.

  Francisco clenched his fists and closed his eyes tightly—a pained expression, as if Isabel’s fingers were shards of glass. He raised his arms above his head. I thought he was preparing to strike the girl. But then he turned his body away from her, his torso twisted in an unnatural, almost violent manner.

  Isabel sensed Francisco’s discomfort. She loosened her grip and looked up confusedly. Her glance unguarded. Tears suspended.

  “Francisco,” she said, “it is me.”

  Her voice seemed to exacerbate his condition. His face contorted anew. She let go of his legs, pulling her hands back, but remained kneeling before him.

  “Francisco,” I said, “will you not greet Isabel? She has traveled many miles to visit you.”

  His sealed lips uncoiled.

  “Has she come to view the corpse, Brother Lucas?”

  “Francisco,” I said, “what are you talking about?”

  “Tell Isabel, Brother Lucas, that Francisco de Montcada died several years ago in Syria. An ignoble death.”

  “Francisco, this is no time for jesting.”

  “I agree, Brother Lucas,” Francisco said. “Isabel should know the truth.”

  “Isabel,” I said, “do not pay attention to this momentary nonsense. Francisco’s confession proceeds quite rapidly. I can assure you that we have made enormous strides in beating back the demons. One day I hope to write Baron Montcada with news of his son’s complete recovery.”

  “Brother Lucas,” Francisco said, “I am not Lazarus, and you cannot raise the dead.”

  Francisco could be quite ungrateful. I felt the blood rising to my cheeks.

  “By the grace of God, Francisco, you live,” I said.

  “I can assure you, Brother Lucas, the Lord does not deem me worthy of His grace.”

  “The Lord’s grace,” I said, “gives hope to those who suffer, faith to those who doubt.”

  “My faith disappeared several years ago,” Francisco said, “drowned in the blood of children.”

  “A man can live without faith,” Isabel responded.

  Francisco turned hard toward the girl.

  “Perhaps he can, Isabel. But he cannot live without faith or honor.”

  “You spoke to me once of your brother Sergio,” Isabel said. “You told me that his soul was in limbo. You took the Cross for his salvation. Is not that honorable, Brother Lucas?”

  “Yes, Isabel,” I said, “quite honorable.”

  “There is no honor in murder,” he responded.

  “Francisco,” I said, “I have listened to your account of the battle at Toron. I have recorded every word. Excesses were committed. The isolated acts of overzealous comrades do not taint the nobility of your mission, nor of the combined Christian forces.”

  “Nobility? I can still smell the stink of burning flesh from our victory. Sergio’s soul did not rise on those ashes.”

  “It rose on your service to the Lord,” I said. “Saint Michael must have taken notice of your bravery when he weighed your brother’s soul.”

  “A coward cannot tip the scales of Saint Michael,” Francisco said.

  “A coward,” I said, “would not have traveled one thousand miles to fight the enemies of Christ. You were a member of a glorious crusade, Francisco. I do not understand how you can speak of yourself so.”

  “You will, Brother Lucas. You will understand all. Come to my cell tomorrow morning. I invite you as well, cousin, with Brother Lucas’ permission. The death of your brother, Andrés—that’s the subject of tomorrow’s session—a somewhat tragic tale. It is a story of cowardice and shame. My own.”

  Isabel reached forward and grasped Francisco by the front of his robe.

  “You speak lies,” she said.

  He studied her for several seconds. Then he laughed. Or was it a demon, so strident was that sound?

  Isabel fell back as if struck by a blow. She clutched her hands to her chest.

  “Tomorrow, Isabel, you will see me as I am and not as you imagine. Then you will flee this place and leave me to my demons.”

  Brother Vial told me that the suffering of others sometimes helps us to overcome preoccupation with our own predicament. Isabel was badly shaken. As I looked at her, prostrate on the floor, I put aside my own distress concerning Francisco’s condition. I mustered all my strength to raise the girl, placing her arm over my shoulder and leading her out of the cell and down the corridor.

  “Isabel,” I said, “do not heed Francisco’s words. It is the devil who speaks in his stead.”

  As we walked, Isabel stumbled on the uneven rock. I was forced to call Brother Dominic to help carry the girl down the narrow stairs.

  I left Isabel at her quarters and returned to the courtyard. I spent the remainder of the day in silent prayer and meditation. By the time I returned to my chambers, the sun had already set. My supper had been laid out on the table in the antechamber. I was not hungry, though. I found it difficult to sit still. I clasped my hands behind my back and paced around the antechamber. I stopped across from the broken shard of looking glass placed in one of the window panels. Sometimes, when I become discouraged with Francisco’s progress, I contemplate my reflection. Its familiarity is a source of comfort—its certainty, the determination I find in my expression, the distinguished crease that runs between my eyes. Sometimes I imagine myself wearing the long crimson robe of a bishop or a cardinal. I practice blessing my subjects with two outstretched fingers. Yes, I think, that is my future. That is I.

  That evening was different, though. My reflection seemed remote, alien. It felt as if I were looking at a stranger. I turned away from the looking glass. I assumed the self-assured smile that always reminded me of my plans, my hopes, my ambitions. Then I glanced back suddenly at the mirror. The effect was the same, though. There was something foreign in my eyes—a gnawing insecurity, a vague, restless fear. Looming behind my reflection, I could see that gray vista—the sky bleeding into the ocean, black into white. My stomach began to churn. I got down on my knees before the iron crucifix set on the windowsill and clasped my hands together. Help me, Lord. I am lost.

  JUS
T BEFORE THE call to matins, I drifted off to sleep. A loud knocking at the door woke me. I tried to ignore the noise, hoping my visitor would give up, but the pounding only intensified. I lit the candle beside my bed and dragged myself to the door. It was Abbot Alfonso.

  “May I have a word, Brother Lucas?” he asked.

  “Yes, Abbot Alfonso,” I replied. “Please enter.”

  “Prince Fernando has requested a timetable in his latest letter,” Abbot Alfonso said.

  “A timetable for what?” I asked.

  “The Prince,” Abbot Alfonso said, “wants to know when Francisco will be fully recovered. He wants a date certain. Francisco is still progressing, yes?”

  “Yes, yes,” I responded. The events of yesterday seemed a nightmare. I was certainly not ready to discuss the encounter or its implications concerning Francisco’s condition.

  “The Prince,” Abbot Alfonso said, “has asked whether Francisco recalls his experiences in the Levant—the battles, his imprisonment—the details.”

  Abbot Alfonso looked at me expectantly, but my mind was occupied with thoughts of the impending interview with Francisco.

  “Prince Fernando,” Abbot Alfonso continued, “lost many of his men in the service of the Lord. He has great concern for the well-being of the survivors and holds a special place in his heart for Francisco. The least we can do is provide him a report. With good news, I hope?”

  Prince Fernando—the same man who oversaw the massacre of women and children at the castle of Toron—was concerned about the welfare of Francisco.

  “Yes,” I said, “of course, we can provide a report to assuage the concerns of the Prince.”

  “Well, then?” Abbot Alfonso asked.

  “Please write Prince Fernando,” I said, “that Francisco remembers the events of the crusade as if they happened yesterday. His memory for even the smallest detail is quite remarkable. Write the Prince that Francisco’s condition improves, but still I can give no specific date for his recovery. The Lord’s work is fraught with uncertainty and spiritual peril, Abbot Alfonso.”

  “Brother Lucas,” the Abbot said, rather irritably, “spare me the sermon. An estimate will suffice.”