The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  “Yes, Brother Lucas, but I have in mind a much more tangible reward. And a tangible penalty if you choose not to perform your duties to the Crown.”

  “Penalty, Prince Fernando?”

  “A future king cannot very well let his subjects ignore his wishes. My father always tells me his first rule of governance—disobedience means death.”

  “Indeed, Prince Fernando, that is tangible.”

  “Or you can cooperate and earn my gratitude.”

  “A devil’s choice, Prince Fernando.”

  “Your own doing, Brother Lucas. If you had left Francisco at Poblet with Father Adelmo, this difficult situation would never have arisen.”

  “I am a man of God, Prince Fernando.”

  “Even a man of God is still a man, Brother Lucas.”

  “Indeed he is, Prince Fernando.”

  “The most venerated saints had temporal concerns, Brother Lucas.”

  “I imagine they did, Prince Fernando.”

  “Did not Jesus Himself say to render unto Caesar what is properly his?”

  “He did in fact say those words, Prince Fernando.”

  “Temporal concerns and temporal desires, Brother Lucas.”

  “Desires, Prince Fernando?”

  “Aspirations, Brother Lucas. For example, you could live the rest of your days in Santes Creus. But I suspect you would be more comfortable in the palaces of Barcelona, or perhaps in the jeweled parlors of the Vatican.”

  “The cost of such accommodations seems exorbitant, Prince Fernando.”

  “On the contrary, Brother Lucas, I am not asking you to act in a manner that would conflict with your solemn vows. All you have to do is bring me to Francisco. Then your work is done.”

  “I am Francisco’s confessor.”

  “With you or without you, Brother Lucas, I will fulfill my mission here. Your assistance would merely make the task more convenient and discreet.”

  “Discretion seems a rare and valuable quality, Prince Fernando.”

  “The more reason I would appreciate and repay your service, Brother Lucas. With the right sponsor, an able monk such as yourself could rise to the highest levels of the clergy in Aragón.”

  “How high, Prince Fernando?”

  “I have heard that the Bishop of Barcelona is quite ill, Brother Lucas.”

  What choice did I have? Prince Fernando stated that they would carry out their mission with or without my assistance. If I refused to cooperate, I would merely be sentencing myself to death. And for what purpose? I would accomplish nothing. At least if I lived, I could do the Lord’s work in Barcelona—helping the poor, the downtrodden. And I could try to protect Isabel.

  “And Andrés’ sister?” I asked.

  “Judging by the girl’s greeting, I suspect she possesses sensitive information. Information, Brother Lucas, that I would trust only with my closest allies.”

  “Isabel was much affected by her brother’s death, Prince Fernando. She is a hysterical girl. No one will believe her fanciful stories. Not against the word of Prince Fernando and Brother Lucas, or, dare I say, the Bishop of Barcelona.”

  “Perhaps we can let the girl live then.”

  “The Lord looks with favor on the merciful, Prince Fernando.”

  “Then we understand each other, Brother Lucas.”

  “Indeed, Prince Fernando, we do.”

  Prince Fernando was anxious not to disturb the monks at prayer. At the Prince’s urging, I escorted him and Pablo around the outside gardens. It was a circuitous route to Francisco’s cell, avoiding the church and the courtyard. We entered the monastery through a rear window. Pablo climbed the ledge, then helped pull me up. Regrettably, Brother Eduardo had neglected to clean the windowsill, and my white habit was tarnished with grime.

  After we had negotiated the window ledge, I led them to the staircase. At the base, Prince Fernando motioned for me to go first. As I ascended, the Prince put his hand on my shoulder. He was close enough so that I could feel his tepid breath on the back of my neck.

  When we had almost reached the top, Prince Fernando withdrew his sword. The glint of the blade was blinding. The steps began to meld together, the rock face spinning, twisting toward that same gray vista I had seen in the looking glass. The sky bleeding into the ocean. Right into left. I closed my eyes. Then I lost my footing and fell backward.

  Prince Fernando caught me. In the process, he dropped his sword. Pablo tried in vain to intercept it. As it fell, the sword seemed to crash into every step of that winding stairwell. The echo resonated through the corridors.

  “Idiot,” Prince Fernando said to me. “Why don’t you just announce our arrival?”

  Pablo was already moving down the steps to retrieve his master’s weapon. He returned swiftly and gave Prince Fernando his sword.

  We stepped into the corridor. My legs were uncooperative, unwieldy. Prince Fernando pushed me forward. My hands were trembling. I felt as if I were walking to my own execution.

  We passed seven empty cells before I stopped outside of Francisco’s. The door was slightly ajar. Prince Fernando peered inside. Then he gestured to his deputy to push the portal open. Prince Fernando stood back, muscles tensed. The door creaked open. The two men charged into the cell.

  Lord, do not desert me.

  “Damn it! Goddamn it!” Prince Fernando’s curses chafed against the sacred work performed in that chamber.

  I stepped into the doorway. The cell was empty. Prince Fernando stood in the center of the room. Pablo was ransacking Francisco’s meager provisions.

  Prince Fernando caught my eye. His knuckles had turned white choking the handle of his sword.

  “Where is he, Brother Lucas?”

  Lord, have mercy on me.

  “Where the hell is he?”

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “I suppose he vanished. Is that what happened, Brother Lucas? For your sake, you should pray that we find your friend soon.

  “Pablo, check every cell that we passed—from here to the staircase. If you find Francisco, kill him. Brother Lucas and I will check the other end of the corridor.”

  Francisco was not in the section of the corridor that Prince Fernando and I inspected. We searched ten cells, one by one. Actually, the Prince, his sword at the ready, would conceal himself at the side of the entrance and direct me to open the door. Then the Prince would dash into the cell. He returned to the corridor each time, shouting to Francisco.

  “You cannot hide, Francisco, you might as well show yourself.”

  “Francisco, you are making this much harder on yourself than it has to be.”

  “I only want to talk, Francisco, to set the record straight.”

  We turned a corner of the corridor, and Prince Fernando searched the last two cells. When he was done, he let loose a torrent of invective. I braced myself, fearing the Prince would direct his ire at me. He did not, though, and we walked back. As we approached Francisco’s cell, Prince Fernando called to his deputy.

  “Pablo! Stop pilfering from the monastery and get over here.”

  As the Prince spoke, I glanced into Francisco’s cell. I saw rays of light collecting dust in midair. I heard a bird chirping just outside the window. I saw Pablo. He was facing the blue sky, sitting in Francisco’s wicker chair.

  “Prince Fernando,” I said, and pointed toward his deputy.

  “Taking a rest,” Prince Fernando addressed his deputy, “when I told you many times the importance of this mission. Francisco de Montcada could bring me down. And where would that leave you?”

  Prince Fernando walked into the cell, pulling me along by the collar. Pablo did not respond to his master’s chastisement.

  Indeed, Pablo was dead. When we walked around to face him, we could see his dagger, the very same with which he had desecrated the table in the reception antechamber. In truth, we could only see its handle. The entire blade was submerged in his chest. His scabbard dangled empty from his belt. His sword was missing. Pablo’s face bo
re the same glazed look in death as it had in life. His eyes were blank, lusterless, his mouth open wide.

  Prince Fernando let his sword drag on the cell floor. As he studied his deputy’s expression, his own face became pensive. He squinted his eyes and folded his lower lip into his mouth.

  “This affair has become quite a nuisance,” he said.

  He grasped the front of my robe and jerked me toward the cell door. When we reached the corridor, he threw me down to the stone. My knees skinned on the rough surface.

  Francisco was standing about thirty feet away. In his white cassock, he looked like any other monk. But for the sword at his side.

  “You disappoint me, Francisco,” Prince Fernando said.

  The Prince held his dagger in one hand, his sword in the other. He advanced on Francisco cautiously.

  “I rather like you, Francisco. Your resilience. Your courage.”

  Prince Fernando stopped a couple of steps from Francisco. The two men circled.

  “It displeases me to kill those who I like. You see, I do not like many people.”

  Prince Fernando feinted forward with his sword. Francisco lurched backward.

  “The reflexes suffer most when you are away from the battlefield, Francisco.”

  The Prince lunged at Francisco, who parried the blow. The two men faced each other again.

  “The reflexes, Francisco.”

  The Prince crouched as he spoke. He reached his sword forward at Francisco, who deflected the blade with his own. Then the Prince passed by Francisco on the left, holding his dagger backhand.

  “You lose a step,” the Prince said, “but that step is the difference between life and death.”

  Francisco’s robe was cut open at the thigh. The white threads darkened with blood.

  “Tell me, Francisco, how did you kill Pablo? He’s a formidable warrior.”

  Francisco thrust his sword forward. Prince Fernando blocked the blade. The two weapons grated against each other.

  “I suppose you set a trap in one of the empty cells. Pablo always lacked a certain shrewdness. Even so, I am impressed.”

  Prince Fernando smiled. The two men circled again.

  “And your sense of drama. I never saw that quality in you, Francisco. Carrying Pablo’s body back to your cell.”

  Francisco swung his sword toward the Prince, who pivoted to the side. Francisco’s blade bounced off the stone. Prince Fernando drove his elbow into Francisco’s stomach. Francisco grunted.

  “I never had any animosity toward you, Francisco. The whole episode with Ramón forced my hand. Your Grand Master was soft.”

  Prince Fernando stepped to the left, then changed course and passed Francisco on the right. Francisco blocked his sword, then tried to jump back to elude the Prince’s dagger. He was not quick enough. The blade rent Francisco’s other thigh.

  “Soft and self-righteous, Uncle Ramón. He never understood the Levant. Little girls grow up into women, who give birth to little boys, who grow up into men. The men become soldiers who try to kill us. Why not stop the whole process in the beginning with the little girl?”

  Prince Fernando passed his dagger and sword between his hands. He tossed the weapons back and forth with such speed the blades began to blur.

  “Do you think the Lord values the life of that little girl more than the soldiers whom you killed in battle, Francisco?”

  Francisco feinted, then pulled back. Prince Fernando sprang forward. Francisco sidestepped, then jabbed his sword toward the Prince. The blade penetrated the Prince’s shoulder. Blood splashed across his cloak. Prince Fernando flexed his arm. Then he circled again, paying no heed to the wound.

  “I will mourn your death, Francisco. You will soon join your cousin Andrés. How did he die?”

  The blood from Francisco’s wounds ran down his legs and dripped on the stone floor.

  “Baibars told me his guards would take you to the Citadel in Aleppo. I have heard gruesome tales from ransomed prisoners. Is it true that the Christians eat their own dead? Is that what happened to Andrés’ body?”

  Francisco scraped his sword against the stone floor.

  “You do not have the right to utter his name,” Francisco said.

  “It’s true, then,” Prince Fernando said. “You can speak. You ask me not to mention the dead. Andrés is dead, yes? It would vex me to have to make another trip like this one.”

  Francisco leapt forward, whirling his sword at Prince Fernando. The Prince stepped aside, then rotated his body in a circle, passing his dagger across Francisco’s stomach. The robe severed—more blood on the white threads. Francisco slumped down on one knee. He was breathing heavily.

  “It won’t be long now, Francisco. In a way, I wish you had died in combat with the infidels. A more fitting death for a warrior.”

  Prince Fernando feinted. Francisco jerked backward.

  “Nothing more to say, Francisco? An epitaph, perhaps? Some words of affection Brother Lucas can relay to your family? He will be joining me in Barcelona. I have promised Brother Lucas a prestigious post in exchange for leading me to you.”

  “I had no choice, Francisco,” I screamed. “He made me. I would never betray you.”

  My stomach knotted. Warm tears spilled on my cheeks.

  “Come now, Brother Lucas,” the Prince said. “A man is about to die. This is a time for truth.”

  Francisco did not glance in my direction. They were circling again. Francisco stumbled on the uneven stones, but quickly regained his balance.

  “Careful, Francisco.”

  Prince Fernando feinted with his sword, then thrust his dagger at Francisco’s midsection. Francisco twisted his body to avoid the blade.

  “At least you and Andrés stained your swords with infidel blood. That’s more than one can say about your brother. What was his name? The one who drowned off the coast of Barcelona?”

  At the mention of his brother, Francisco groaned. He charged forward, waving his sword back and forth. Prince Fernando trapped Francisco’s sword against the floor. Then he brought down the butt end of his dagger on Francisco’s hand. I could hear the bones cracking. Francisco let go of his sword.

  Francisco’s hands were empty. The two men circled around the fallen sword. Francisco reached down for his weapon but pulled his hand back when Prince Fernando raised his sword and shook his head.

  Francisco shifted his weight from side to side, then lunged for the sword. Prince Fernando stepped on the blade with one foot, then kicked Francisco in the face with the other. Francisco fell backward. He lay on the stone, looking up at Prince Fernando. The Prince put the point of his blade at Francisco’s throat.

  “Pablo and I come to visit an old comrade. Possessed by demons, he murders my deputy. I had no choice but to kill him. Pablo’s death adds a certain authenticity to the tragic denouement. I expect, Francisco, even your father will sympathize with the cruel task circumstances forced upon me.”

  Prince Fernando raised his sword. I was already on my feet, sprinting toward the Prince. I hit him square in the back as he was bringing down his sword. I felt as if I had run straight into a stone wall. I crumpled. Prince Fernando was pushed forward slightly but did not lose his footing. He recovered quickly and attempted to follow through with the flight of his sword. Francisco had used the instant of delay afforded by my intervention to retrieve his weapon. He blocked Prince Fernando’s blow. Then he thrust his own sword upward. The blade entered the bowels of Prince Fernando. The Prince dropped his weapon and seemed to be resting on Francisco’s sword. His torso was parallel to Francisco’s. Then the point of the blade burst free from Prince Fernando’s back. The Prince gasped as his body slid slowly down the sword until he was face to face with Francisco.

  Prince Fernando’s lips were pursed and slightly upturned. He seemed to be smirking, as if he were amused by the circumstances of his death. He dropped his sword and brought his hand up to Francisco’s face. He clenched his fingers into a fist, then exhaled one last time before
his head slumped forward.

  Francisco let go of his weapon and rolled to the side. Prince Fernando’s body fell to the stone, impaled on Francisco’s sword.

  Francisco crawled to the wall and brought himself up into a sitting position.

  “He is dead, Francisco,” I said. “Prince Fernando is dead.”

  Francisco gazed down at his open palms. He traced a finger across one of the creases, then back around the other side of his hand. His blood mixed with Prince Fernando’s.

  The morning sun entered the monastery through the narrow windows and fractured against the gray stone. A shadow bestowed on the dead, a thin light cast over the living.

  “Where is Isabel, Lucas?”

  “The girl, Francisco?”

  Francisco stood up, leaning against the wall.

  “Where is she?”

  “She is downstairs in the antechamber.”

  He ran down the corridor. Actually, it was more of a shuffle, Francisco dripping blood every step.

  One might think that an expression of gratitude toward me would have been appropriate, a small acknowledgment of my sacrifices after five grueling months together. Or perhaps Francisco could have simply thanked me for saving his life. Fortunately, the Lord’s work provides its own reward.

  EPILOGUE

  GIRONA

  THE FOURTEENTH DAY OF APRIL, THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1293

  IT HAS BEEN eighteen years since I picked up a quill to write in this manuscript. That’s when Francisco and I left Santes Creus. I never returned. I remember those months in Francisco’s cell, though. Indeed, I often dream of the monastery. One dream seems to play out almost every night now. I am in Francisco’s cell, sitting next to him. He smiles, then he motions to his friend—Andrés, alive, slumbering, his blond hair shimmering in the summer breeze. I sit there for a while. Francisco, Andrés, and I. Then I wake.

  Francisco’s wounds from his battle with Prince Fernando proved quite serious. It was not clear he would survive the first few days. His condition subsequently improved, but he remained extremely weak. I provided my own chamber for his comfort. I slept in Francisco’s cell on his straw mat while Isabel nursed Francisco.