The Kingdom

by Bryan M. Litfin

  The Papa’s head spun. Too many important facts vied for his attention at once. He wanted to learn about rescue plans for the captured sisters, and the outcome of Teofil’s mission to Marsay, and the housemother’s burial arrangements, and the identity of the strange visitor who stood quietly at the Overseer’s side. First things first, he reminded himself.

  “Is Teofil going after the women?”

  “Yes, Holy Father. He has located a clue that directs him to Napoly.”

  “That is a logical destination for whoremongers like the Exterminati. They often dispose of kidnapped women among the pimps of that place.”

  “Teofil has already set sail for Napoly in Captain Marco’s fast ship,” the Overseer reported.

  “If anyone can rescue those women, Teofil can,” Sol added.

  The Papa sighed heavily. “Deus will be those women’s shield—but perhaps Teofil will be the instrument of his hand. It is a matter for urgent prayer.”

  “We have already made it so.”

  “I knew you would, Brother Ambrosius. Let your prayers continue to ascend.” The Papa turned his attention toward the third visitor. “And now it appears you have a guest who has not been properly introduced.”

  Before the Overseer could speak, the stranger stepped forward. In the light shining from the dome far above, the Papa noticed the cross tattoo on his forehead for the first time. “I am Brother Thomas,” the stout man said. “I bring you greetings from the Order of the Cross at Marsay.”

  “Marsay!” The Papa smiled agreeably. “So that place does exist—and with Christiani knights there! I had heard rumors of this but did not know for sure.”

  A shadow crossed Brother Thomas’s face. “Yes, there are knights at Marsay. The order is ancient, and it commands a powerful militia. Our fortress is known as Castle d’If. The abbot Odo is a man who—how shall I describe it? To borrow the words of the Apocalypse, he has lost his first love.”

  “Yet some at Marsay are still zealous for the faith?” the Papa asked, arching his eyebrows.

  “There are friars among the knights who have sworn an oath of higher commitment.”

  “And are you one of those?”

  Brother Thomas grinned and nodded. “The first of them, as a matter of fact. Ten more good men came with me from Marsay. They have sailed with Teofil and Marco.”

  “Warrior monks, eh?”

  “At Marsay warfare was a necessity for many years. We had no alliances with surrounding empires or kingdoms. When enemies attacked, we either fought or we died. Today the knights can marshal a strong force at a moment’s notice.”

  The Papa folded his hands in his lap. “Peace on earth will be achieved when the Promised King ushers in his reign. Until then, peace is bought by the blood of brave men who stand up to oppression.”

  At these words Brother Thomas rushed forward unexpectedly. He knelt before the Papa’s chair, his head bowed low. “I am very glad to hear you say this, Holy Father!” he exclaimed.

  “Rise, knight.”

  Brother Thomas obeyed.

  The Papa studied his face. The man’s features were plain. Nothing would make him stand out except for the Latin cross etched upon his brow. “Why this earnestness?” the Papa asked.

  “Evil rises. Events are converging. A time of reckoning draws near.”

  “In Marsay or elsewhere?”

  “In all lands.”

  “Yes,” the Papa said slowly. “I feel it too.”

  “Do you know about the Pact?”

  “The Pact? What is it?”

  Brother Thomas glanced at Sol and the Overseer, then looked back at the Papa. From the expressions on the other men’s faces, the Papa deduced they didn’t know about the Pact either.

  “It is an ancient agreement between the rulers of the nations,” Brother Thomas said, withdrawing several sheets of stained parchment from inside his jerkin. “Teofil discovered this secret record of it in our archives.”

  “Summarize it for me,” the Papa said as the friar handed him the evidence.

  “Long ago in the age of the Great Destruction a man named Jonluc Beaumont came to Marsay from Chiveis. There he summoned many great kings to himself. They swore an oath to leave each other alone. Each kingdom would command its own destiny without interference from the others. Only in one task did they bind themselves to each other—and this damnable vow they sealed by intermingling their own blood.”

  “What was that task?”

  “The task for which the Exterminati were originally founded.”

  “Ah. To eradicate Christianism from the face of the earth.”

  “Yes, Holy Father. And as you well know, their efforts have been vigorous.”

  “Yet they have tasted defeat.”

  “A setback, not a total defeat. Their power comes from the ‘rulers and principalities of this present darkness,’ as the holy writings put it. They will not easily be defeated. One queen in particular orchestrates all these affairs. She is undergirded by the prince of the demons. Teofil has confronted her.”

  “Who?”

  “The High Priestess of Chiveis. She is making a move against a kingdom called Jineve. It is upriver from Marsay. Teofil has journeyed there with me.”

  The friar’s rapid-fire assertions were swirling past the Papa almost too fast for him to comprehend. Each announcement boded dire consequences and demanded an immediate response. The Papa held up his hands. “Brother Thomas, let us distill this matter to its essence. Why did you bow before me just now?”

  “You spoke of war. And war is upon us, whether we wish it or not. The High Priestess will come to Jineve in alliance with forest barbarians. That kingdom will fall, and she will secure its resources. New weapons will become available to her. New wealth will enrich her coffers. New armies will be at her command. She will spread darkness over the face of the earth . . . the darkness of a god whose name I will not utter in this sacred place.”

  For a long moment no one spoke. Then the Papa said, “What would you have me do?”

  “Command the Knights at Marsay to fight on behalf of Jineve. Send me back there with a bull from your own hand. Odo may be recalcitrant, but the knights will not disobey a direct order from the Holy Father at Roma. Their war machine is ponderous and reluctant to move. Yet he who has the power to snap its chains of lethargy will find a powerful force for good at his disposal. Use this army to defend Jineve against the High Priestess. In this way you might turn back her evil designs.”

  The Papa inhaled deeply, then let out his breath. The three men stood circled before his chair, their faces expectant.

  “Do you know the words of the second Hymn?” he asked them.

  When he did not receive an answer, he quoted a verse from memory: “ ‘The kings of the earth rose up together, and the princes plotted against the Lord and his Christ.’ ” He paused. “Do you know what that hymn says next?”

  Still there was silence. The Papa rose from his chair. “Come with me,” he said.

  The three visitors followed him to the side chapel where the ritual of Washing had reached its climax. Several peasants stood in soaking wet robes, while other men in loincloths waited their turn to go down into the font. As the Papa watched, the priest plunged one of the new Christiani into the healing waters of life. Jubilation was etched on the man’s face as he rose up, climbed the steps of the font, and received the new garment of Iesus.

  “ ‘He that sits in heaven shall laugh,’ ” the Papa said. “That is the response of Deus when earthly kings try to thwart his purposes. No one can stop the rebirth of the Christiani.”

  “Holy Father,” Brother Thomas said breathlessly, “is this the ritual known as the Washing?”

  The Papa’s head swung around. “You don’t know it?”

  “The Knights of Marsay do not practice this observance. Teofil spoke of it with me, but it hasn’t been a custom among us.”

  “Are you saying the Knights of the Cross are unwashed?”

  “Yes, Holy Fat
her. Odo described it as an ancient rite best left forgotten.”

  For a moment the leader of the Christiani could not speak as his eyes searched the bright recesses of the basilica’s dome. At last he turned back to Brother Thomas.

  “I will grant you a bull commanding your brothers to defend Jineve against the High Priestess,” he declared, then caught the friar’s eye with a stern gaze. “Yet I fear more than a piece of paper is needed at Castle d’If.”

  C H A P T E R

  8

  Two sailors picked up the cauldron of barley gruel and turned to climb the steps of the ship’s hold.

  “More! Give us more!” the sisters cried. It was their third day in captivity, and everyone was hungry.

  The men ignored the request and went topside, then returned for the water barrel. As they were about to haul it up, a sister who had been running a fever since boarding the ship vomited across the decking.

  “Ew! That’s disgusting!” one of the sailors cried, wincing and scrunching his nose.

  “You women smell bad enough already without adding that!” the other man put in.

  The sailors left the hold. A moment later a mop rattled down the steps. “Clean it up!” yelled a rough voice.

  “With what?” Vanita demanded.

  “Your drinking water—and make it quick!” The sailors’ arrogant guffaws were cut short by the hatch slamming shut.

  “I’ll do it,” Ana said, picking up the mop. “Sister Deidre, please help Sister Miriam find a place to rest.”

  Ana grasped the lid of the water barrel and tugged it until it popped off. The thirsty sisters crowded around, desperate to make the most of this chance for an extra drink. Ana let them dip their clay bowls as long as they wanted. When they were satisfied, she scooped out water to wash the vomit into the cracks between the deck planks. The filth went down into the bilge, which reeked already. Finally Ana set the mop aside. She was about to wedge the barrel’s lid in place again when an idea struck her.

  The drinking water level had dropped—a lot. The barrel would feel much lighter now.

  Unless . . .

  “Vanita! Come here!” Ana waved her friend close.

  She walked over. “What is it?”

  Ana pointed inside the barrel. “It’s almost empty now.”

  “So? They told us to clean up. We were supposed to use the water.”

  “Right. But now one of us could hide in there.”

  Vanita’s eyes grew wide. “You should do it!” she whispered.

  “Me? Why me? Maybe it should be you.”

  “No, you’re much better at this sort of thing. You have more experience.”

  “I do?”

  “Of course! You’ve snuck around secret places with Teofil. You’ve killed men before. You could do it again if you had to.”

  Ana frowned but didn’t reply, knowing her friend was right. At various points in her life Ana had done what was needed. She had put arrows into mortal enemies. She had crushed a man’s skull with a stone. She had fought off armed assailants. She had killed a wolf and a bear. Though she didn’t relish it, Ana wasn’t afraid to draw blood.

  “I guess I could hide in there until nightfall,” she said at last.

  “Right! Then push off the lid when no one’s looking, jump overboard, and get away.”

  “I’d swim straight to the dock and alert the authorities.” Though Ana had no idea where she was, she knew from the sounds outside that the Exterminati ship was anchored in a port. Surely the local law enforcement would want to know the ship was full of kidnapped women.

  Vanita took the lid from Ana. “Quick! Get in before those bullies come back. They’re too dumb to expect a trick.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Ana hiked up her skirt and swung one leg into the barrel, then the other. The little water that was left immediately soaked her leather slippers and the hem of her woolen kirtle. As she was about to crouch down, a fear born out of a horrific memory began to claw at her soul. “Ohh,” she groaned. “Don’t put that lid on tight. I can’t stand the feeling of being trapped in a closed place.”

  Vanita’s face took on a sorrowful expression. Unexpectedly she grabbed Ana’s hand and brought it to her lips to kiss it. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay.”

  “Anastasia, listen to me! I want you to know you’re my best friend! You’ve given me so much. I love you like a sister—like my own flesh and blood.”

  “Oh, Vanita, me too!”

  “Thank you for taking this risk for me. For all of us.”

  Ana was too choked up to speak. She felt she was saying good-bye to Vanita forever . . . and perhaps she was.

  “Girls, gather ’round!” Vanita beckoned the other sisters to draw near. She briefly explained the plan, then asked each woman to lay hands on Ana. After everyone had done so, Vanita led them in a heartfelt prayer for divine protection.

  When the prayer was finished, Ana nodded resolutely and bent her knees. The barrel was tight, and the sides seemed to press her, yet there was enough room to move a little as long as she kept her elbows drawn against her chest. She glanced up. Vanita was there with the lid. A worried look was on her face.

  “Go with Deu, sister of my soul,” she said.

  Then everything went dark.

  The men came not long after that. They took the barrel up on deck, grunting and heaving, yet oblivious to the secret within. Ana sat in the cold darkness, her ankles and bottom immersed in water, trying to make no sound as she was jostled. Claustrophobia threatened to engulf her several times, but she closed her eyes and slowed her breathing. It helped to touch the barrel’s lid and feel it give under her fingers. Ana told herself she could burst free at any moment if she had to.

  As time wore on, the circle of light where the lid met the barrel’s rim began to grow brighter. Ana realized the sun was catching the barrel in its final rays as it made its way toward the horizon. Now the oak began to grow hot. A musty smell emanated from the moist wood. Sweat broke out on Ana’s forehead, and her breathing became labored. There’s not enough air in here! I have to get out! She felt she couldn’t take any more of the confinement, yet to leap from the barrel would ruin her one chance at escape. Iesus, Iesus, Iesus, she chanted in her mind, trying to calm the rising panic. Help me, help me, help me, help me . . .

  The two sailors finally drew Ana’s attention away from her cramped quarters. Though the men were ostensibly engaged in some shipboard chore, they seemed to spend most of their time exchanging crude remarks about their plans for the bordellos later that night. Back and forth they bickered, trading insults.

  “Hey, that’s mine!” one of them shouted.

  “But I’m thirsty,” whined the other.

  “I don’t care—get your own!”

  “We’re out of grog! The chief steward is fetching more tomorrow.”

  “Then drink water, you tosspot, but you ain’t gettin’ mine.”

  “What water?”

  “I don’t know, whatever you can find. Look there! Take some from the brides.”

  “I don’t want that water. It’s dirty.”

  “If that ain’t good enough for ya, then just shut up.”

  Ana held her breath and listened as footsteps approached. The thirsty sailor grumbled under his breath about wanting grog. He came near the barrel.

  Deu, make him go away! Ana’s heart raced. Her whole body was prepared for action. The lid moved as someone grasped the handle. Ana tensed the muscles in her legs, ready to spring. Surprise was her best defense now.

  “Stupid dirty water,” the sailor muttered.

  “Hey! Quit loafin’ and get back here,” shouted a distant voice.

  “Alright! I’m comin’!”

  The footsteps receded. Relieved, Ana let out the breath she was holding.

  “Where’s that godforsaken dipper?” the thirsty sailor bellowed, stomping around.

  “Just use your hands, you woman!”

  �
��Fine!” the nearby man replied, then yanked off the lid.

  No one moved. The man stared down at Ana, his mouth agape. She stared back.

  Now!

  Ana exploded from the barrel, tipping it over as she scrambled free. “Hey!” the man yelled, grabbing her dress. “Come here, you!” She knocked his arm loose and wrenched herself from his grasp. “Where do you think you’re going?” he snarled, his lip curling in his chin stubble. He started forward with his hands held out like eagle’s talons. There was nothing else to do. Ana took a running start and dived over the ship’s rail.

  The water was colder than she expected, its icy chill snatching her breath away. Ana surfaced quickly to grab a lungful of air, then ducked under again and swam as far as she could. She was wearing the type of garment that all the sisters wore, a woolen kirtle over a cotton chemise. The skirt billowed out, obstructing her kicks, weighing her down. She came up for another breath. Though the sun had set already, an evening twilight still illumined the sky. Ana glanced around. The ship was anchored in the open harbor instead of a berth. The nearest dock looked impossibly far away. Ana had grown up on the Farm River and considered herself a strong swimmer, yet now she was half-starved and encumbered by thick clothing. The distance to the pier was intimidating.

  “There she is!” a voice called from the ship. “Put a shaft in ’er!”

  Something smacked the water near Ana’s head. They’re shooting arrows at me! She went under again, praying an arrowhead wouldn’t pierce her between the shoulder blades.

  Ana swam hard, remaining submerged as much as possible until she thought she was out of her enemies’ range. Every time she surfaced her breath came in ragged gasps. She wished she could kick off her shoes and skirt, but that was impossible. All she could do was struggle through the murky waters. Her destination was a small dock that floated at the base of a pier.