The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Abbot Alfonso,” I replied, “God does not work on a deadline.”

  “Are you feeling well, Brother Lucas?” he asked. “Perhaps you need a rest from your toils, a break from your work with Francisco?”

  “And will the devil,” I asked, “also take a break, Abbot Alfonso?”

  Abbot Alfonso took my candle from my hand and held it just in front of my face. I could feel the heat on my cheeks.

  “I worry about you, Brother Lucas,” he said. “In the last month, you have changed considerably. I have passed you more than once in the corridor without your recognition, as if you were entranced by some black sorcery. Even your appearance has altered. Your cheeks are gaunt, your complexion has grown pale. You spend all your time in Francisco’s cell or pacing in the courtyard. You have neglected your duties as prior of Santes Creus. I wonder if your work with Francisco has undermined your loyalty to the monastery.”

  “I am sorry, Abbot Alfonso, if I have disappointed you,” I said. “I can only say that my devotion to Francisco’s exorcism merely reflects my fidelity to the Church.”

  “Let that be so, Brother Lucas. Be careful, though. If you put your hand in the fire, you will sustain a burn. If you put your soul there, you risk eternal damnation.”

  The call to matins occurred as the Abbot exited my quarters. I dressed quickly, pulling my brown robe over my head and fastening my sandals.

  As I proceeded down the corridor to Isabel’s quarters, I suspected that the girl would decline to revisit Francisco’s cell. I certainly did not relish hearing an account of Andrés’ death. I could only imagine that Isabel viewed the prospect with dread. If asked for spiritual counsel, I would have advised Isabel to leave Santes Creus and never return.

  Isabel had no intention of leaving, though. She was already dressed when I arrived.

  “I am ready, Brother Lucas,” she said.

  I led her once again up the stairs to Francisco’s cell. We stopped just at the entrance. I took a deep breath. It would not have surprised me if Satan himself had been standing behind that door.

  “Faith, Brother Lucas.” These words Isabel spoke to me as I undid the latch and opened the door.

  Faith indeed, Isabel Correa.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE KRAK DES CHEVALIERS

  FRANCISCO HAD MOVED his chair closer to the window, perhaps to enhance his view of the monastery’s garden. Or perhaps to exclude Isabel and me from his line of vision. Indeed, he did not seem to be looking down into the courtyard, but instead staring at a gray patch of sky. He gripped the armrests tightly, the blue veins visible on the back of his hands. He did not respond to my greeting or acknowledge our presence. Isabel and I sat down on the cold stone behind Francisco. We spoke a few words. I inquired if she was comfortable. She said she was. Then we waited. As the sun rose, its shadow crept over the floor. I followed its progress across each stone, across Isabel, across me. An hour, two hours, three—I do not know how much time elapsed before Francisco began again his confession.

  ALMOST FORTY KNIGHTS of Calatrava had been killed at Toron—both of Ramón’s deputies—Roberto and Bernard. Andrés and I assumed their posts. We were the next-highest-ranking officers—first lieutenants. We had earned that distinction by winning the foot race over the mountain trail during our training in Calatrava.

  Our Order occupied less than half the space in our chambers. No one bothered to collect the unused mats, though, and their presence fostered the illusion that our dead comrades were merely delayed and would return shortly.

  Andrés’ wound healed rapidly, but not his fighting spirit. He spoke little during our few weeks in Acre and never left the compound. He walked around the courtyard during the day, his eyes glazed, his blond hair spread haphazardly across his shoulders.

  Baron Bernières and Don Fernando arrived in Acre a few days after us. Don Fernando’s men returned to their quarters on the outskirts of the city. Our Hospitaller comrades settled across from us in the eastern wing of the compound. To mark our victory at Toron, they conducted daily celebrations after morning Mass. In the Great Hall, spigots of wine remained open from dawn until dusk. Knights reveled into the evening hours.

  As guests in the Hospitaller headquarters, the Knights of Calatrava could not decline the invitation of our hosts to join the festivities. In their strident mirth, my brothers sought to disavow their memories of Toron. I could not forget, though. Padre Albar standing before a bonfire of corpses in the castle courtyard. The Word of God proclaimed in a field of blood.

  The merrymaking of my comrades grated like a knife against stone. My head pounded. I had to loosen my collar to breathe more freely. On the fourth day of celebration, I left the Hospitaller compound. I went alone, without asking Ramón’s permission, without informing anyone, even Andrés.

  I wandered through the streets, losing myself in the anonymity of the city. When I reached the port, I sat on the dock, dangling my feet just above the waves that washed against the stones. I looked out at the harbor, at the sailors loading cargo—the same exotic goods from the market bound for Christian Europe. The men rolled laden barrels up ramps into the ship’s hold. One of the barrels escaped, whirling backward. Sailors jumped into the water to avoid being run over. The barrel splintered against the dock. Pearls, yellow, white, black, scattered like marbles across the stone.

  At dusk, I returned to the compound. As I walked through the streets, a group of monks came up behind me, jostling, pressing on both sides. Their brown habits were frayed, worn ragged from their sojourns. Belts of rope kept their rags in place. Their bare feet had blistered, crusted in dried blood and dirt. They were pilgrims on their way to Muslim-occupied Jerusalem, relying on the Lord’s protection and their patron—one Francis of Assisi. I had heard his name at Santes Creus. Accounts of his passions had reached Aragón, inspiring others to follow his example. Those men called by the saint had established a new monastic Order and taken the name of their master—Franciscans.

  Censers burning incense swung to and fro. The sharp perfume pervaded the narrow street. One monk carried a wooden Cross, groaning under the burden. Their leader, grim-faced, shouted in Italian, reciting the miracles of Francis. He spoke of the five wounds which appeared on the saint’s body—the stigmata of Christ. The scars blackened, the same color as the nails that bore into Our Savior.

  Saint Francis of Assisi, dead not fifty years. His side discharged drops of blood even after his death. The monk set forth the evidence, describing the condition of his master as if he had seen the blood with his own eyes. He pointed his finger at shopkeepers, at passersby, at me. He looked sideways, across his shoulder, down his long arm, as if he were an inquisitor inquiring as to our doubts, our deeds.

  “Likewise,” he testified, “one of the twelve companions of Saint Francis, whose name was Friar Giovanni Cappella, apostatized and finally hanged himself by the neck.” The monk’s voice resonated, cracked and shrill. “This being a cause of humility and fear even amongst the elect.” He nodded his head, severe and knowing. “That no man can be certain that he will persevere until the end in the grace of God.”

  A week after his arrival in Acre, Baron Bernières summoned Uncle Ramón for a meeting. As Ramón’s new deputies, Andrés and I accompanied him.

  When we entered his chambers, Baron Bernières sat regal on a gilded chair. He wore a silk sash across his shoulder and a garland of leaves on his head.

  “Ramón,” the Baron said, “welcome. Congratulations to the Knights of Calatrava for our glorious victory.”

  “And to you, Baron Bernières, and your men,” Ramón responded.

  “Ramón,” the Baron said, “unfortunately, I have called you here to discuss some troubling news. Yesterday I received a letter from the Krak des Chevaliers. Don Lorgne, the castellan, reports that the Muslim commander Baibars has laid siege to the castle. The state of affairs is rather disappointing. You would think with such a massive fortress they could protect themselves.”

  The Baron ca
lled forth his first deputy, Colonel Delacorte, who nodded at Uncle Ramón and unfurled a parchment. He began to recite:

  “Greetings from the Krak des Chevaliers, Baron Bernières. Unfortunately, I write in desperate circumstances. Baibars’ forces have surrounded the castle. In the last several days, the infidels have transported catapults to lay siege to the fortress. Barring the arrival of significant reinforcements, the castle will fall before summer.

  “Accordingly, I am requesting that you lead all Hospitaller knights under your command to the Krak. Our survival depends on your swift journey north. God willing, we will see each other under more favorable conditions.

  “Don Lorgne, castellan of the Krak des Chevaliers, the twenty-fourth day of March, the Year of Our Lord 1271.”

  Colonel Delacorte rolled up the parchment.

  “Ramón, do you know how many years the Hospitallers have occupied the Krak?” the Baron asked.

  “I do not,” Ramón said.

  “One hundred and thirty,” the Baron said. “Constructing and reconstructing the castle over decades, we have built an impregnable fortress. Two sets of walls protect the castle—a fortress within a fortress. Eighteen towers guard its approaches. There is even a windmill. A whole city for God’s army. Do you know how thick the walls are? Twelve feet. Twelve feet of solid stone.

  “Did you know, Ramón, that the castle has survived four major earthquakes? Did you know that the Hospitaller knights defending the Krak have repulsed twelve attacks by the Muslims? Saladin, after conquering Jerusalem in just thirteen days, led an expedition to the Krak to mount a siege against the fortress. He recognized the importance of the castle. Whoever occupies the Krak controls the flow of goods between the Mediterranean and the inland cities. Do you know what Saladin did after observing the castle defenses? He turned around and left. He never returned. Even the great Saladin recognized the futility of attacking such a fortress.

  “And now we have a castellan who panics because a few infidel regiments have surrounded the fortress. It’s disgraceful. I’m sure, Ramón, you can understand my hesitancy in sharing internal correspondence which casts an unfavorable light on one of my fellow Hospitaller officers. And yet I have no choice. With the Grand Master of the Hospital out of country, I am responsible for the defense of our castles, and though the castellan is a bit hysterical, I cannot ignore his appeal. If we do not relieve the castellan, I fear he will surrender the castle without a fight.

  “You see, Ramón,” the Baron continued, “I left most of my knights at Toron to guard the castle. I have a mere one hundred knights—that’s all the able-bodied men I have at my disposal. It’s quite ridiculous to think of such a force coming to the rescue of our excitable castellan. My small contingent could hardly affect the course of any battle.”

  The Baron continued to examine Ramón.

  “If we can enlist the powerful combination of forces that conquered Toron … well … then the probability of steeling our castellan and rescuing the fortress would increase rather dramatically. I meet with Don Fernando to request his assistance later this afternoon. I am hopeful that both of you will agree to fight under my command. I do not see that you have a choice. If the Krak falls, no one in the Christian Levant will be safe from Baibars’ soldiers.”

  Ramón was stroking his beard thoughtfully, and he did not provide the ready assurance the Baron seemed to expect.

  “Surely, Ramón,” the Baron asked, “you do not plan to partake of our hospitality, eat our food, drink our wine, while we fight to protect your well-being?”

  “Baron Bernières,” Ramón responded, “the Calatrava will not turn their backs on comrades in need. We will fight by your side. As Don Fernando may join the expedition, though, I feel it is my duty to protest the treatment by his soldiers of the Muslim prisoners at the castle of Toron. I trust you are aware of the cruel manner in which Don Fernando’s army dealt with the civilian population. The actions of his men besmirched every Christian soldier who took part in the siege.”

  “Ramón,” the Baron said, “this is neither the time nor the place to bring up petty conflicts or jealousies between you and Don Fernando.”

  “This matter is not petty, Baron. Nor does it stem from my personal feelings toward Don Fernando. The treatment of civilians by Don Fernando’s soldiers at Toron was incompatible with our mission.”

  “Ramón,” the Baron responded, “I find it distasteful that you raise this trivial issue at such a critical juncture. How will Don Fernando perceive such an attack?”

  “Let us hope, Baron,” Ramón said, “the Don will perceive it as an inducement to change his behavior and that of his regiment.”

  “Considering the results, I thought Don Fernando’s regiment behaved rather well at Toron.”

  “Baron Bernières,” Ramón said, “as you are reluctant to pursue this matter with the Don, I have no choice but to lodge my protest with your superior, the Grand Master of the Hospital, and with King Jaime, the Don’s father, upon my return to Aragón.”

  “Ramón,” Baron Bernières said, “you can seek redress from Jesus Christ for all I care. Just prepare your men for the journey.”

  After Andrés and I gathered our brothers in a corner of the courtyard, Uncle Ramón told them of our mission.

  “The infidels,” he said, “have laid siege to the great castle of the Krak des Chevaliers. Its capture would be a devastating blow to the armies of Christ. In a few days’ time, we will march north to go to the aid of our Hospitaller brothers at the fortress.

  “We lost nearly half our number at Toron. More of you will perish beneath the walls of the Hospitaller castle. Know this. The Lord measures every drop of blood shed in defense of His Kingdom.”

  In the afternoon, I crossed paths in the courtyard with Don Fernando. He was coming from his own meeting with the Baron. I noticed his purple cape from a distance and tried to avoid a confrontation by changing direction. He called before I could elude his gaze.

  “Ah, Francisco,” he said. “How is the heir to the Montcada fortune?”

  “I am well, Don Fernando.”

  “Tell me, Francisco,” he said, “how is the Princess?”

  “I know no princess in these parts.”

  “Do you not serve the illustrious, the renowned Princess Ramón of Calatrava?”

  “I know of no such person.”

  “My spies,” Don Fernando said, “tell me that your master has a story concerning my conduct at Toron that he intends to tell my father. If Ramón thinks I will stand by while he sullies my reputation, he knows little of my character.”

  I did not respond. I had seen enough to draw my own conclusions as to Don Fernando’s character.

  “Very well, Francisco,” Don Fernando said, “I have good news on another front. There is an opening on my staff. I invite you to join my entourage. I have plans for you, Francisco.”

  “Don Fernando, I am flattered by your consideration, but I remain faithful to the Calatrava and my master, Ramón.”

  “I admire your loyalty, Francisco. One day I hope to be its beneficiary. Reflect on my offer, though. I fear there is not much of a future for our Uncle Ramón.”

  We left the city three days later, just before dawn. Uncle Ramón explained that the stealth of our departure stemmed from a desire not to alarm Acre’s residents, most of whom considered the Krak des Chevaliers invincible, a symbol of Christian might in the Levant. News of the Krak’s predicament might well have spread panic through the city, already teeming with rumors of infidel advances.

  The Krak stood at the northeast boundary of the Christian territories, approximately one hundred and sixty-five miles from Acre. According to Colonel Delacorte, Hospitaller knights generally made the journey from Acre to the Krak in two weeks. Because of the dire situation at the castle, we would make the journey in five days.

  Only mounted soldiers could travel with such speed. Accordingly, foot soldiers and archers were not included on the expedition. Nevertheless, the consolidation
of forces fielded a formidable force—over two hundred and fifty knights, several hundred mounted squires, and another one hundred professional calvary soldiers drawn from the local populace, Orthodox Christians by religion, Arabs by ethnicity. The natives looked like the men we had just fought at Toron. They also spoke the same language—two facts that caused uneasiness amongst my brothers. I had heard stories of native Christian guides leading our knights into ambushes. But I had also heard stories of Hospitaller and Templar knights slaughtering whole Arab villages, only to find out later that the residents were Orthodox or Jacobite Christians. So I would not judge certain natives if they felt more allegiance to their neighbors than to their Christian comrades. This reluctance to pass judgment, though, did not lessen my concern or my vigilance. In the night, we would never turn our backs on the Arab Christians.

  One of these native Christians approached Andrés and me outside Beirut. He stood before us, shifting his weight back and forth. Andrés put his hand to his scabbard.

  “One day you go home,” the man said.

  “God willing,” I said, “we will all go home.”

  He smiled, almost bashful, glancing back at the city lights.

  “I am home.”

  We rode twelve hours a day straight up the coast, bivouacking on the outskirts of the northern cities—Tyre, Sidon, Beirut, Tripoli. Ramón said that when the first crusaders came to the Levant, the Christian residents competed with one another to feed and shelter knights traveling into battle. Sentiments had changed. The local populace provided food and shelter, water and oats for our horses. But we paid for our provisions in coin, gold and silver, which the merchants counted carefully right before us.

  We ate our meals around campfires. Instead of staring into the burning embers, we looked to the distant lights of the city, listening jealously to the sounds of the night, the call of a friend, a scuffle outside a tavern, the laughter of a girl. We slept—immobile, dreamless—like dead men, too tired to ponder an uncertain future. We woke at dawn and set out before the merchants had set their stalls, leaving no trace of our presence. The city residents must have wondered if pilgrim soldiers or ghosts had visited them. After a couple of hours’ riding, I could not remember under what stars we had lain or even if we had slept at all.