The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

The blade cut through his neck and lodged in the soft earth. The head bounced forward, rolling toward the prisoners.

  Two guards dragged the headless body toward the bonfire. The second prisoner was already walking toward the block. He broke free from the guards. He ran back toward the hole. He meant to find refuge in that dungeon. The guards intercepted him and carried him toward the wooden stand.

  The force of the axe sent the head skidding. Eyes and ears were severed from their roots. Bloody fibers protruded from the fissure, twisting like worms uncovered from the soil beneath a dead log.

  A third, a fourth. The heads spread haphazard.

  Another. And another.

  The executioner’s thick forearms were as bloody as a butcher’s. His face and cloak, splattered red.

  I looked down the row. The commander pointed to the men on either side of Giovanni, passing over our Venetian friend.

  “Every other man,” Andrés said.

  He was right. The guards were executing half the prisoners. They had no great design. It was merely a matter of placement.

  Two, four … ten, twelve.

  The commander was approaching our position. The infidels wanted only one of our heads. They bore no preference, no personal grudge.

  It was an evil selection, an ugly, ignoble death, half a world from Aragón, not worthy of a knight. The bodies were dragged through the dust, piled on top of other corpses, waiting for the fires. A frozen grimace made public a private moment of foreboding.

  If only Andrés and I had died at the Krak. We would have been buried together under the rubble of the castle.

  Andrés placed his hand on my shoulder. He pinched my muscle until I turned to face him.

  “Francisco, I have seen enough,” he said.

  “Enough,” I repeated his last word.

  “Do you understand?” He spoke calmly.

  He pulled me toward him. A short embrace. The sting of the whip on my back interrupted our goodbye. Andrés pivoted to avoid the lash, then pulled me to the side. A slight rotation. Barely perceptible.

  Barely.

  The infidel commander walked past me and motioned to Andrés. Two guards seized him by the arms.

  He looked back at me on his way to the block. He smiled, a keen smile, intimate, as if we were back at Santes Creus, sharing a secret joke about the Abbot. As if I were his accomplice.

  When the last prisoner placed his head on the bloody block, dawn was breaking hard across the courtyard. The severed heads were suffused with a sallow glow. Soldiers yawned. Prisoners yearned for darkness.

  The infidels provided two ropes to the cave floor. Most of the prisoners jumped into the soft clay, though, anxious to leave that unhallowed ground.

  I returned to our shelter, sitting next to Salamago and Manuel’s grave. I never left the enclosure. I would have died, starved to death, if not for Giovanni. He brought me food and water several times a week. I ate and drank only so that he would leave me in peace.

  A Venetian trader arrived at the prison some months after the executions. He came to ransom Giovanni and his crew. Half the sailors had been executed. Giovanni chose replacements amongst his countrymen. He also chose me.

  I sailed with Giovanni to Italy. When we reached Venice, he booked passage for me aboard a merchant vessel bound for Barcelona.

  Unaccustomed to the bright sun, I stayed below in the hold during the day. In the night, I climbed on deck. Just a few mariners manned the sails. I lay naked on the wooden beams of the ship, spread my arms out, listening to the cool breeze across the bow, imagining the metal blade penetrating my neck.

  That blade was meant for me. Andrés had switched places. He had seen the pattern. Every other man. So had I.

  I think about that moment, our embrace. I imagine a different ending. Sometimes I hate Andrés.

  When I left Girona, Isabel, you said to bring your brother home. I did not. But if you look at the reflection off the yellow stone just before dusk, you will see his wan smile. I do.

  IT WAS DONE. Francisco was finished. Thank God. My left leg was numb from sitting in the same position for several hours. The blood in my temples was throbbing.

  Indeed, Francisco seemed to have exhausted himself. He leaned against the cell wall. He slid down slowly until his bottom rested on the stone floor. His head slumped forward. He closed his eyes.

  “Francisco,” Isabel said, “the Lord has compassion.”

  Her words carried a gentle cadence, her voice fraught with sorrow.

  Francisco opened his eyes. He turned toward the girl, his lips skewed unevenly.

  “I have seen up close His compassion, Isabel,” he said, “on the battlefields of the Levant, in the courtyard of the Citadel in Aleppo, on the docks of Barcelona, watching Sergio’s ship disappear. Do you think the Lord will have mercy on this sinner?”

  “It is you who have tried and condemned yourself,” Isabel said.

  Francisco’s back tensed. He coiled his fingers into a tight fist.

  I thought to intervene, to console Isabel and Francisco, to protect them from each other.

  “Francisco,” I said, “the ways of the world are mysterious. Indeed, it is sometimes impossible to grasp our own intentions.”

  “Don’t you understand?” he asked.

  Isabel did not move. Indeed, her resilient gaze seemed to intensify Francisco’s anger.

  “He took my place,” Francisco yelled. “Andrés should have been ransomed instead of me.”

  “Francisco,” I said, “a man can be his own harshest judge. I myself know that well.”

  I had more to say. Wise words that might have eased Francisco’s burden. But he interrupted me.

  “Did you hear what I said, Isabel? I am responsible for the death of your brother.”

  Isabel finally looked away from Francisco—out the window, toward the horizon. She reached up and held her hands to her ears.

  Francisco stepped forward and seized her wrists. She tried to resist, but he was too strong. He pried her hands from her ears. Their faces were almost touching.

  “As much as the axe that severed Andrés’ head from his body,” Francisco said, “I was the instrument of his death.”

  Isabel stopped struggling. Francisco released her. She bent down and crossed her arms before her stomach. Then she began to retch on the cold stone.

  I tried to support her head. She pushed me away before stepping from the cell and fleeing down the corridor.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A VISITOR

  ISABEL DID NOT supper that afternoon. She did not breakfast the following morning. By the afternoon, she was running a high fever. We moved her to a bedchamber in the infirmary. I visited after the evening office.

  When I entered the chamber, Isabel was lying on the bed. Her head was propped up on a pillow. Her cheeks were flushed pink. Loose strands of hair fell damp across her fevered brow.

  I tried to engage the girl in conversation. She did not respond. Indeed, for the next two days, Isabel did not speak or stir from her position.

  I consulted Brother Vial concerning the girl’s condition. We sat across from each other in the parlor. He inquired as to the substance of Francisco’s confession. I told him what had happened to Francisco and Andrés at the Krak. About Andrés’ death at the Citadel.

  He listened patiently. When I was done, he walked up and down the corridor. Several monks “praying silently” in the courtyard kept drifting by the parlor, peering at Brother Vial. I shooed them away with sharp words. Brother Vial finally stopped his pacing and sat next to me.

  “Most troubling,” he said.

  We visited Isabel together. Brother Vial sat at her bedside. He dipped a cloth in a bowl of water and placed it on the girl’s forehead. The cool water seemed to revive her. Isabel raised her hand and grasped Brother Vial’s wrist.

  “Why does he despise me?” she asked. Her first words in two days.

  “He does not despise you, Isabel,” Brother Vial said. Then he picked up the cl
oth and squeezed the excess water on the floor. He dipped it again in the bowl and placed it on her forehead.

  “Francisco cannot bear his burden,” he said. “He seeks to share it.”

  That was the extent of their conversation. Before departing the chamber, Brother Vial blessed the girl. Then he bent down and kissed her hand. Sometimes I think Brother Vial forgets himself and the modest manner in which we servants of God must conduct ourselves in relation to the opposite gender.

  “Do not fear for her health, Brother Lucas,” Brother Vial said as we walked around the courtyard to the refectory. “Her grip felt as strong as a soldier’s.”

  Indeed, the next day, Isabel’s fever subsided. In the evening, she drank some wine and ate a piece of bread.

  When I visited Isabel the following day, I found her standing in the chamber, glancing out the window. She turned to face me.

  “Brother Lucas,” she said, “I am grateful for your care.”

  “I am at your service,” I said.

  We proceeded to discuss her accommodations, the weather—pleasant things. She did not mention Francisco or Andrés. I suggested a short walk to exercise her legs. She threaded her arm in mine, and we left the infirmary.

  She walked rather slowly, breathing deeply the damp air of the early morning. She had stopped to admire a broad tree just outside the gates of the monastery when we saw one of the novices running toward us as if on urgent business.

  I had not seen Francisco for three days—since the end of his confession. In caring for Isabel, I had neglected my friend. It was the first time since his arrival five months earlier that I had gone more than a day without seeing Francisco. I remembered the words of Brother Vial about Francisco’s not being able to bear his burden. I immediately imagined the worst. Unfortunately, I let out an audible gasp, which had the effect of alarming Isabel. She gripped my arm tightly.

  “Brother Lucas,” the novice said, “two knights have arrived at the monastery. They fought with Francisco in the Levant. They have come to visit their comrade.”

  Recognizing that Knights of Calatrava would bear the same relationship to Andrés that they did to Francisco, I tried unsuccessfully to dissuade Isabel from greeting our visitors. I did not see what good could come of her presence. Better for Isabel to let the past recede. She rebuffed my entreaties.

  We met the two men in the antechamber off the abbey—a cozy room with several chairs and a table carved by the monastery’s own monks. The two soldiers were seated when we entered. The man farthest away had his dagger out and seemed to be trying to balance the blade on the oak table. I could not help noticing with regret the indentations made to the table’s surface by the point of the knife.

  The man closest to our position stood up.

  “Brother Lucas, I presume?” he said.

  “I am he.”

  “Then you are responsible for exorcising Francisco’s demons,” he said. “It is a great honor.” He had leathered skin, a lantern jaw, close-set black eyes that seemed to bore under my skin. The countenance of a warrior, except for a delicate, aquiline nose.

  “All thanks goes to the Lord,” I said.

  “I have heard that Francisco can recall past events and speaks of battles in the Levant.” The hard edge of his voice rasped against his courteous manner.

  “Francisco,” I said, “speaks with great precision about his experiences on the crusade.”

  The other visitor’s knife fell to the table. He looked up. Pug-nosed, dull-eyed. He glanced at his comrade, then resumed his efforts at balancing his blade on the table.

  “You perform miracles, Brother Lucas,” the visitor said, smoothing his purple cape.

  “Only the Lord performs miracles. I am His humble servant.”

  “Well,” he said, “I will see that the Crown rewards this humble servant handsomely.”

  “The Crown? Knights of Calatrava have such influence in the palaces of Barcelona?”

  “I apologize, Brother Lucas, for not introducing myself. I am Prince Fernando, the son of my father, the King of Aragón. This is my faithful deputy Pablo. I am not a member of the Calatrava, but I fought by their side more than once in the Levant.”

  Don Fernando. El Conquistador de Toron. Defender of the Faith. Crowned Prince upon his triumphant return to Aragón.

  My body strained rigid. My legs fastened to the stone floor like columns.

  Prince Fernando did fight by the side of the Calatrava. According to Francisco, he oversaw the massacre of civilians at Toron. Then he betrayed Uncle Ramón at the Krak and delivered Francisco and Andrés to the infidels.

  Prince Fernando proffered his hand, a golden ring with the royal seal on his middle finger.

  “Will you pay homage to your Prince, Brother Lucas?”

  I kneeled and kissed the ring.

  “Abbot Alfonso,” he said, “has kept me abreast of Francisco’s progress with regular reports. Has he not told you of my interest in this case?”

  Abbot Alfonso had mentioned Prince Fernando. That was before Francisco gave his account of the siege at the Krak, an account that portrayed the Prince in a most unfavorable light. Most unfavorable, indeed. Prince Fernando could not have relished the prospect of such a witness as Francisco returning to Barcelona society.

  “Brother Lucas, are you well?” the Prince asked. “You have grown pale.”

  “I am a bit tired and somewhat startled to receive such a distinguished visitor. I will call Abbot Alfonso so that we can offer a proper greeting for a Prince of Aragón.”

  “No, Brother Lucas. Pablo and I do not want to disturb the Abbot or the other monks. We were passing by Santes Creus and decided to make a stop. I have come only to offer you my gratitude.”

  “Then you will not be staying long, Prince Fernando?”

  “My duties call me back to Barcelona, Brother Lucas.”

  My fingers unclenched. My fears appeared unfounded. Abbot Pedro used to say I had an overactive imagination.

  “I will always cherish your visit, Prince Fernando, and your kind words. I will pass your regards and your well wishes to Francisco.”

  “You misunderstand me, Brother Lucas. Your work has finished. I have come to retrieve Francisco and bring him to Barcelona.”

  “But Prince Fernando, I cannot … Francisco cannot make such a journey. He is still quite ill.”

  “Do you have so little faith in the royal clergy, Brother Lucas? I have a practiced exorcist on my staff who can finish your inspiring work.”

  “But I know Francisco like no other. I understand his condition, Prince Fernando. I need more time with him.”

  “Do not fret about unfinished business, Brother Lucas. You will be fully compensated.”

  As I contemplated a suitable response, I heard behind me the slick sound of a dagger sliding from its sheath. I thought perhaps that the Prince’s deputy had heard enough of my protestations. I turned around to face my attacker. Pablo’s hands were empty, though. Isabel had reached over and grabbed Pablo’s dagger. She held it aloft. During my discussions with the Prince, I had forgotten completely her presence. Her face was ashen, her jaw taut, her arm bent at the elbow. Considering her recent illness, the girl moved toward Prince Fernando with surprising agility.

  The Prince caught her wrist as she was bringing down the weapon. He twisted her arm until the blade fell, clanging on the stone floor. He smacked the girl with the back of his hand. She managed somehow to remain on her feet and to fasten her teeth onto Prince Fernando’s forearm.

  “Damn it,” he yelled. Then he pulled free his own dagger and brought its butt down on Isabel’s head. The girl fell with a thud on the floor. She lay motionless.

  Prince Fernando was bleeding. He tore a strip of cloth from his purple cape and bound the fabric around his arm.

  “Who is the girl, Brother Lucas?” He fixed on me a penetrating gaze that seemed to hold an accusation, as if I had been harboring a fugitive.

  “Doña Isabel Correa de Girona,” I answered fort
hrightly.

  Prince Fernando snorted.

  “She has the same disposition as her brother,” he said, before nodding to his deputy.

  Pablo bent down to reclaim his dagger from the ground. He picked up the blade and grazed his fingers over its edge. He remained squatting next to the girl. He looked down at Isabel’s prostrate body. He appeared to be examining the fine strands of her hair. He stroked her head gently. Then he gripped her hair with his free hand and raised her head off the stone, placing the dagger before her neck.

  “No.” The scream escaped my mouth unwittingly. A discordant noise amidst the serenity of the monastery. Most uncharacteristic. Indeed, I cannot recall ever raising my voice before that moment.

  The vehemence of my tone seemed to irritate Prince Fernando. Scratching the back of his head, he grimaced. Pablo, still holding the girl’s head above the ground, looked to his master for direction.

  “No, Pablo,” Prince Fernando said. “Brother Lucas is right. It would be better to deal with the girl later. After Brother Lucas helps us to accomplish our primary mission here. Isn’t that so, Brother Lucas?”

  “I am not sure what you mean, Prince Fernando.”

  “Are you the King’s faithful servant, Brother Lucas?”

  “I am a loyal subject of the Crown, Prince Fernando.”

  “I have heard favorable reports of you, Brother Lucas. Abbot Alfonso gave me his personal assurance of your understanding and respect for the privileges of your superiors. He also volunteered that you nurtured ambitions that might lead you far away from the rustic confines of Santes Creus.”

  “Perhaps,” I said, “Abbot Alfonso misjudged me.” Did I speak those words? To none other than the Prince of Aragón?

  His eyes, probing, coal black. That’s how Francisco had described them.

  “That would be a great tragedy for you, Brother Lucas. The truth is I have come to Santes Creus on important business.”

  “What manner of business, Prince Fernando?”

  “A delicate manner, Brother Lucas. Your assistance would be rewarded many times over.”

  “The Lord’s work provides its own reward, Prince Fernando.”