Stormbringers

by Philippa Gregory

  They paused before the open door of the inn, unable to prolong their walk any longer, and Luca took both of her hands in his. ‘Odd that we should both be orphans,’ he said.

  Isolde looked up at him, her face warm. ‘‘It makes me want to comfort you,’ she whispered.

  He took a breath. ‘And I, you.’

  They stood handclasped. Ishraq and Freize hesitated on the quayside behind them, watching the young couple.

  ‘Would you think of me as your friend?’ Luca said very quietly to Isolde.

  She did not hesitate for a moment. ‘We’re both alone in the world,’ she said. ‘I would like to have a friend who could be constant as my father was, patient as he was, faithful as he was.’

  ‘I’d want a friend that I could be proud of,’ Luca said quietly. ‘Perhaps I’ll never be able to take you to meet my mother. Perhaps my mother has been dead for many years. But I would like to think that I could have taken you to meet my mother and she would have liked you . . .’

  He broke off, suddenly remembering his vows. She felt him almost snatch his hands away from their warm mutual hold.

  ‘Of course, I cannot think of anything more than a friendship. I am in the early stages of the priesthood, I am going to be a priest, a celibate priest.’

  ‘Only the early stages,’ Isolde whispered. ‘Not yet sworn.’

  Luca looked at her as if she was tempting him. ‘I am not yet sworn,’ he confirmed. ‘I am not bound by my word. It was my intention to join the priesthood . . . before . . .’ He broke off before he could be tempted to say, ‘before you.’

  While the crowd before the church slowly dispersed, wondering at what they had heard and what it might mean, Brother Peter waited patiently for Johann to finish his whispered confession to Father Benito. After a little while the young man stood up, crossed himself, nodded respectfully to the priest and then walked across the church to kneel in silent prayer on the chancel steps, his head resting against the thickly carved rood screen which protected the mystery of the mass from the congregation. No-one but an ordained priest was allowed near to the altar.

  Behind him, in the silent church, Brother Peter glanced around, and seeing that he was unobserved, crossed the church to kneel in confession. On the other side of the screen the parish priest waited in silence.

  ‘Father Benito, I need your advice on this matter,’ Brother Peter confided, folding his hands together but clearly not preparing to confess his sins.

  The priest was bowed over his rosary, saying his prayers. His hands were shaking. He hardly lifted his head. ‘I can tell you nothing.’

  ‘This could not be more important.’

  ‘I agree. This is the most important thing. I have never known anything of greater importance in this world.’

  ‘I have to ask . . .’

  The priest collected himself and sat back. ‘Ah, you will want to know if he has a true vision,’ he guessed.

  ‘I have to know. This is not a matter of curiosity about a herdboy with a following of half a dozen. This is becoming a mighty crusade. If they get to the Holy Land it could change everything. I have to advise Milord who advises the Holy Father whether this is a true crusade. If this young man is a charlatan, I have to know at once, we have to be prepared. If he is a saint, it is even more important: we need to know all about him. He just confessed to you. Your opinion is most important.’

  The parish priest looked through the carved wooden screen at the great man from Rome. ‘My son, truly, I cannot help you.’

  ‘It is a matter of the good of the Church itself. I command you to speak.’

  Again the priest refused. ‘I cannot help you.’

  ‘Father Benito, I don’t need details, you need not break the seal of the confessional. Just give me an idea. Just tell me: does he sin like a mortal boy? For if he confesses like a foolish ill-educated boy who has the knack of talking to a crowd, but nothing else, then he is a fraudster on a great mission, and we can treat him as such. We have dozens like him popping up every year and we manage them for the good of the church and the glory of God. Help me to know what we must do with this lad.’

  The priest thought for a moment. ‘No, you misunderstand me. I am not refusing to help you. I mean that I cannot tell you anything. He confessed nothing.’

  ‘He refused to confess?’ Brother Peter was surprised at the defiance.

  ‘No! No! He confessed nothing.’ The priest looked up and met Brother Peter’s amazed face. ‘Exactly. I am breaking no confessional secrets for there was no confession. I have nothing to hint at, nothing that I have to hold in silence, as a sinful secret. Johann came to me and made a full confession: and there was nothing. He lives a life without major sin. I set him no penance for he had no sins to atone.’

  ‘No man is without sin,’ Brother Peter said flatly.

  The priest shrugged. ‘I questioned him, and there was nothing.’

  ‘Pride,’ Brother Peter said, thinking of Johann’s sermon and the hundreds of people listening, and how he himself would feel if he could preach like that and call people out of their homes to walk across Christendom. ‘He sees himself as a vehicle of God,’ he said, thinking that would be how the boy felt.

  ‘He takes no pride in himself,’ replied the priest. ‘I tested him, and this is true. He takes no credit for himself. He has no pride, though he is a leader of hundreds. He says God leads them and he walks alongside.’

  ‘Greed.’ Brother Peter thought of the young man who ate a good breakfast.

  ‘He fasts or eats as God commands him, it depends on whether God sends them food or not. Frequently he fasts because he believes that God wants him to hunger as the poor. Mostly he just goes hungry because there is little food to be had, and all that there is, they share. I am not surprised if he ate well at your table. He would believe that God had brought the food to him, and it was his duty to eat. Did he say grace?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he thank you for your hospitality?’

  ‘He did,’ Brother Peter grudgingly allowed.

  ‘Then what more do you ask of him?’

  Brother Peter shrugged.

  ‘If God commands him to eat, he does so. If God commands him to thirst, he does so. Then God releases him and he is free to do His work.’

  ‘Does he take the children? Does he call them away from their parents when they should stay at home? Could we call him a thief? Does he covet followers?’

  ‘He says he does the will of God. I asked him about the children. He says that since he was called by God his sins have emptied out of him so he is a vessel, not a man. He holds only God’s will, not the sins of man. I asked him specifically, and he answered with conviction. He convinced me. I think that he may be a saint in the making. In all my years of hearing confessions I have never spoken to a young man who opened his life to me and it was a clean page. I never would have expected this. It is beyond the dreams of a priest.’

  ‘Lust?’ Brother Peter said thinking of the usual confessions of young men.

  ‘He says he is a virgin and I believe him.’

  Brother Peter’s head was spinning. ‘Can this be true? A pure young man? An innocent?’

  ‘Brother – I believe in him. If he will allow me, if the bishop will give me leave, I am going with him.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I know. I must seem ridiculous. I am a comfortable parish priest, grown plump and lazy in a good living. But this boy knows that the end of days is coming. He told me some of the signs. They are all as the Bible predicts them. He has not been taught what to say, it has been revealed to him. He says we must be in Jerusalem if we hope to be saved. I believe God has told Johann of the end of days. I will close up my house and go with the Children’s Crusade to Jerusalem, if I am allowed. I want to go more than anything in this world.’

  Brother Peter rose to his feet, his head whirling. ‘I must send my report,’ he said.

  ‘Tell them,’ the priest urged him. ‘Tell them in Rome that a
miracle is happening right here and now. A miracle in this little town, before us, worldly fools. God be praised that I am here to see it. God be praised that into this sinful house should come Johann the Good to lead me to Jerusalem.’

  Brother Peter and Luca wrote the report together, while Freize found a stable lad willing to undertake the long ride to Avezzano.

  ‘You’ll take the old Roman road,’ Freize explained to the lad who had been summoned into the dining room to take the precious letter. ‘It’s clear enough, you can’t miss your way.’

  ‘When you get there, you must go to the Church of St Paul and ask for the parish priest,’ Brother Peter told him. ‘He will tell you his name is Father Josef. You can give him this letter. He will send it on.’

  Luca watched Brother Peter double-fold the letter, and light a taper at the dining room fire. From his little writing box, Brother Peter took a stick of sealing wax and held it to the flame, dripping the scarlet wax in three separate pools on the fold. While the wax was still warm and soft he took a sealing ring from a cord around his neck and pressed it into the hardening wax. It left the image that Luca had seen, tattooed on the arm of the man who had recruited him into the secret order. It was a drawing of a dragon eating its tail.

  ‘You will wait,’ Brother Peter told the round-eyed lad who looked at these preparations as a man might watch an alchemist make gold. ‘You will wait that night, and the next day. You will stay in the church house and they will give you food and a bed. In the evening you will go to the church again, see Father Josef and he will give you a letter to bring to me. You will take it, keep it safely, bring it to me without reading it. Do you understand?’

  ‘The boy can’t read,’ Freize said. ‘So you’re safe enough in that. Us servants know nothing. He won’t read your secrets, he would not dream of breaking your seal. But he understands what you’re saying. He’s a bright enough boy.’

  Reluctantly, Brother Peter handed the letter to Luca, who paused for only a moment to study the seals and then passed it to the boy, who knuckled his forehead in a sort of rough salute and went out.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Luca asked. ‘That seal? I saw it on the arm of the man who recruited me to the order.’

  ‘It is the symbol of the order that you know as the Order of Darkness,’ Brother Peter replied quietly. He waited till the door had closed behind Freize and then he rolled up the sleeve of his robe to his shoulder and showed a faded version of the design, tattooed over his upper arm. He looked at Luca’s shocked face.

  ‘It’s pale, because I have worn it for so long,’ he said. ‘I entered the Order when I was younger than you. I swore to it heart and soul when I was little more than a boy.’

  ‘No-one has asked me to take the symbol on my body.’ Luca said uneasily. ‘I don’t know if I would.’

  ‘You’re an apprentice,’ Brother Peter replied. ‘When you have held enough inquiries, and learned enough, when you are wise enough and thoughtful enough: then they may invite you to join the Order.’

  ‘Who? Who will invite me?’

  Brother Peter smiled. ‘It’s a secret order. Not even I know who serves in it. I report to Milord, and he reports to the Holy Father. I know you. I know two other inquirers that I have served with. I know no more than them. We look for the signs of God and Satan in the world and we warn of the end of days.’

  ‘And do we only defend?’ Luca asked shrewdly. ‘Or do we also attack?’

  ‘We do as we are commanded,’ Brother Peter said smoothly. ‘In defence or attack we are obedient to the Order.’

  ‘And the one that you call Milord – it was him who took me from my monastery to Castle Sant’ Angelo, who spoke to me, who gave me this mission and sent me to be trained?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he the commander of the Order?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  In reply Brother Peter showed Luca the blank reports in his writing box that were already addressed, ready for dispatch. They all read only:

  Urgent

  ‘No name?’

  ‘No name.’

  ‘He has no name but your letter will get to him? Just that? Just the seal of the dragon? It needs no name nor direction?’

  ‘It will get to him, if the boy gets it to Father Josef in Avezzano.’

  ‘This Father Josef – the parish priest of the Church of St Paul, Avezzano – he is of our Order?’

  ‘He’s not called Josef. And he’s not the parish priest of Avezzano. But yes, if the boy gets the letter to him, he will open it, see the sign of the Order, and he will get it to Milord. Without fail. None of us would fail to pass on a report. We never know how important a report might be. It could be news of the end itself.’

  ‘So if there is a man in a small town like Avezzano, whose name is not Josef, who knows the seal and knows where to take the letter, there may be many men, other men serving like him, all over Italy?’

  ‘Yes,’ Brother Peter admitted. ‘There are.’

  ‘All over France? All over Spain? All over Christendom?’

  ‘I don’t know how many,’ Brother Peter said cautiously. ‘I know of those I need to know, to get my reports to Milord, and to receive my orders from him. Every time I leave Rome on a new inquiry he tells me who I can rely on – in any direction. He tells me who to ask for at each church along the way.’

  There was a tap on the door and Freize put his head inside. ‘He’s gone. I have sent him on my horse Rufino, who is a good horse, and he has promised to ride, take your letter, and wait for a reply, and then come back. It wasn’t easy to persuade him to go. Half the town swears that they will go on this crusade and he wanted to go too.’

  Brother Peter rose. ‘He is sure of the church and who to ask for?’

  ‘Yes, and he will wait there for the reply from Rome.’

  ‘You have told him he must not fail?’

  ‘He’s a good lad. He’ll do his best. And Rufino is a good horse and can be trusted to find the way.’

  ‘Very well, you can go.’ Brother Peter released him; but Freize leaned on the door to look in at Luca.

  ‘In deep,’ was all he observed. ‘In very deep.’ And then he picked up the kitten and went from the room.

  Inspired by Johann the Good, the people who had come into the little town for the market went back to their villages and farms and spoke of him to their friends and neighbours. Next day, hundreds more people came into Piccolo bringing food and wine and money for the Children’s Crusade, and to hear Johann preach. Once again he stood on the doorstep of the church and promised them all that if they would come with him to Jerusalem they would walk again with the people that they had loved and lost. These were people who had been orphaned young, who had lost their first-born children: when Johann spoke to them of the rising of the dead they wept as if for the first time. Isolde and Ishraq went to hear him preach, standing in the hot sun of the market square with the common people. Luca and Brother Peter stood inside the shadow of the door of the church with the priest and listened intently.

  ‘Come home,’ Johann said surprisingly to the crowd, who were all born and bred within about ten miles and whose homes were mostly unwelcoming hovels. ‘Come home to your real home. Come home to Jerusalem. Come home to Bethlehem.’ He seemed to look towards Ishraq who was dressed as modestly as a lady on a pilgrimage, her cape shielding her face, a gown down to her ankles, and strong riding boots hiding her brown feet with the silver rings on her toes. ‘Come home to Acre, those of you who were born with the taste of milk and honey. Come back to where your mother first opened her eyes. Come to your motherland.’

  Ishraq swallowed and turned to look at Isolde. ‘Can he mean me?’ she whispered. ‘Does he really mean that Acre, the beautiful Arab city, is my true home?’

  ‘I can hear your mother calling you,’ he said simply. ‘I can hear her calling you from across the sea.’

  A woman from the crowd called out: ‘I can hear her! I can hear Mama
!’

  ‘When we get to Jerusalem and the Lord puts out his hand for us, that will be the end of sorrow, that will be the end of grieving. Then shall the orphan find his mother and the girl know her father.’ He glanced towards Ishraq. ‘Then shall the girl who has lived all her life among strangers be with her people again. You will be warmed by the sun that you saw first, when your eyes first opened. You will taste the fruits of your homeland.’

  ‘How can he know?’ Ishraq whispered to Isolde. ‘How can he know that I was born in Acre? How can he know that my mother promised me that one day we would go home? He must hear the voice of God. I have doubted him; but this must be a true revelation.’

  Around the two young women, people were crying and pressing forward, asking the young man about their families; one woman begged him to tell her that her son, her lost son, was in heaven and she would see him again. He put out his hand so that they did not jostle him, and the people at the front of the crowd fell to their knees and linked arms before him as if he were an icon, to be carried through the crowd at shoulder height on a saint’s day.

  ‘Come with us,’ he said simply. ‘Come and see for yourself on that wonderful day of judgment when your children, your father and’ – his bright blue gaze went to Ishraq – ‘your mother takes your hand and welcomes you to your home.’

  Ishraq stepped forwards as if she could not help herself, as if she were in a dream. ‘My father?’ she asked. ‘My mother?’

  ‘They are waiting for you,’ Johann said, speaking only to her with a quiet certainty which was far more convincing than if he had shouted, as most preachers did. ‘The ones that you loved and lost are waiting for you. The father whose name you don’t know, the mother who died without telling you. She will be there, she will tell you then. You will see them together and they will smile at you, their daughter. We will all rise up together.