The Haunted Cathedral

by Antony Barone Kolenc

  But they had to act quickly.

  Xan pointed at Carlo. “Good then. Now help me with this wagon.”

  9

  The Escape

  The rain finally stopped. Carlo walked a distance ahead of Xan on the muddy road. On both sides steep hills rose, crowned with budding trees and pale stones that poked up from the earth.

  Brother Andrew dangled from the bandit’s shoulders, head bobbing with Carlo’s stride like a cloth doll, his limp body showing no signs of life.

  Carlo had been true to his word thus far. He’d even helped move the wagon off Ox’s leg. The ungrateful guard had cursed the bandit as they’d left him there, a crossbow for his protection. The climb from the gully to the road had been difficult; Carlo twice had fallen to his knees. Grumbling, he’d reached the top only by the force of his will. There they’d rested in silence.

  Perhaps the abbot had been right about Carlo. In Hardonbury, that day Xan’s parents had died, Carlo had been the one on horseback trying to restrain the other bandits from needless killing. Maybe there was some hidden good in him. Yet today, if not for Xan’s pleading, Carlo would have slain Ox as he lay there helpless and afraid. So how much had the bandit really changed?

  But there he was, carrying a monk on his shoulders, staying to the soft grassy edge of the path when he could, but often tolerating sharp stones under his bare feet without complaint.

  Still, Xan wouldn’t walk too closely to the villain. He fell behind when the road turned a bend, winding along the side of a stream that foamed with cool, flowing water.

  Nay, he had to walk faster, had to catch up to the bandit. If Carlo got too far ahead, he might dump Brother Andrew and escape. If the monk died today, setting that killer free would have been all for naught, and Xan would never be able to forgive himself for it.

  He rounded the turn and gasped.

  There, ahead in the distance, Carlo had set Brother Andrew’s body to the dirt. Another black figure crouched low over the monk while Carlo gestured to him.

  Rummy! It must be him. That greedy bandit wanted Carlo’s treasure. Maybe Rummy would convince Carlo to run away with him and leave the monk to die. That scarred bandit might even want to kill Xan to finish the task he’d twice failed to accomplish.

  Carlo was having an urgent conversation with him, his hands jabbing the air in an angry fashion. Rummy was pointing down toward Brother Andrew’s body and shaking his head.

  “Don’t hurt him!” Xan called, sprinting toward the two bandits.

  Carlo must have heard his voice. The bandit shouted sharply at Rummy, who backed away into the trees and disappeared.

  “Stop!” Xan finally reached the spot. “What are you doing?”

  “Do not fear,” Carlo said gently. “Your monk is safe.” Xan peered between the trees, but there was no sign of Rummy. “Where is he? What does he want?”

  Carlo shook his head. “You are out of danger, boy, but we must go now, ere dark.” He stooped and lifted the monk to his shoulders with a grunt.

  “That Rummy’s going to escape with you, isn’t he? And then where will you go?”

  Carlo gazed at the clouds gathering again in the sky above. “Far away.”

  “You’ll be free. No punishment for your crimes.” And all of that would be Xan’s fault. Carlo didn’t respond to his comment but took to the trail again.

  He let the bandit stay ahead of him as the road began to widen. All around them, green with life and teeming with birds, the hills gradually flattened to trees and open grass. They traveled like that an hour before Carlo finally stopped on a green embankment and set the monk to the ground with care. Xan plopped on the grass beside the monk, out of breath.

  “You are strong,” Carlo said. “At your age I would have given up back on those hills.”

  Xan didn’t answer. He didn’t need compliments from a murderer. Carlo touched the monk’s forehead and listened to his breath. “I hope we make it in time.”

  “How long ’til we get there?” Xan said.

  “Soon. We are already on the path that leads to the city.”

  “So you weren’t lying about Lincoln? This was truly your home?”

  Carlo nodded. “My memories of this place are many: the castle; the cathedral—I spent much time there as a lad. But no one is left for me now. Like you, I am all alone in the world.”

  That bandit had some nerve comparing the two of them. Why was Xan all alone? That day in Hardonbury, when Xan had thrown that rock at Rummy and run into the forest, Carlo had been in charge. Mother and Father had been alive when Xan had left; they’d died on Carlo’s watch, either from the flames or at the hands of the bandits.

  “Maybe someone like you deserves to be alone,” Xan said.

  The bandit sighed. “How nice it would be to see the world as you again, in stark contrasts—good and bad, kind and cruel, punishment and reward. Alas, I lost that vision too many years ago.” Carlo’s words had been said gently, but they’d surely been meant as a rebuke.

  “When did you lose it?” Xan replied sharply. “The day you became a bandit and a killer?”

  Carlo said nothing for a long moment, eyes bowed low. Perhaps Xan shouldn’t have lashed out at him like that. What if he got angry and left Brother Andrew on the road to die? The only thing stopping Carlo’s escape now was a simple vow, and Rummy was apparently waiting for him somewhere to go share the treasure together.

  “Boy, I remember the day I became a killer,” he said finally. “I was no bandit back then.” His voice grew softer. “I was a lad, just a few years older than you, going off to war to do good—to free Portugal from the cruel hands of the heathens. Indeed, I was at the Siege of Lisbon.”

  Carlo was talking about his years as a crusader again. Brother Andrew had told Xan how Saint Bernard had called men to war to free the Christians living under the oppression of the Moors.

  “I still can see that first man I killed—within the city walls. I ran my sword through his heart with a single stroke.” Carlo held out his hand as though it still grasped the sword that had taken the man’s life. “He had been one of Lisbon’s cruel captors,” the bandit said. “He had deserved death, no doubt. But at the time, I didn’t know that his wife was standing just a few feet away, watching me kill her husband. She had a young boy with her. The child looked at me with—”

  Carlo stopped speaking. Then the air was filled with the cawing of blackbirds. The bandit grunted, struggled to his feet, and lifted the monk back to his shoulders.

  “They say Jerusalem will fall again one day, boy. Then there will be a new Crusade. I pray that God never gives you the honor of learning all I know about this hard world.” With that, Carlo took to the trail at twice the pace as before.

  The sky started to drizzle again, but none of that mattered now. Xan was already cold and shivering, and Carlo looked like a wretched rat that had washed upon the shore. The road became hard beneath their feet as they reached the outskirts of town. It showed signs of better care too—holes filled with dirt, markers along its edges. Lincoln must be close indeed.

  They passed a trio of travelers heading toward the city, dressed in black cloaks and carrying a brown bag filled with goods or wares. They might be merchants, like Uncle William. Indeed, might one of them be his uncle? That would truly be a show of God’s mighty will.

  No one they passed along the way offered help, even as more people appeared on the road. “They are in haste to get through the city walls ere the gate is locked for the night,” Carlo said. “If we hurry, we still might make it.”

  Xan straggled behind again, but not too far this time. The road began to rise—up, up, up—and had been paved with cobblestones, much like the paths at the abbey. Twilight had already arrived. Somehow Carlo kept moving forward. Xan followed. Soon the towering walls of Lincoln rose in the distance like great pillars protecting the city on the hill. They were higher than the walls surrounding Lord Godfrey’s manor house, and they looked three times as thick, made of stones harde
r and deeper and browner than any at the abbey.

  An iron metal gate stood open wide, its rectangular bars topped with spear-like points. The gate blocked an arched tunnel that led through the wall and was guarded by two tall men in chain mail, holding spears in black-gloved hands.

  Carlo was waiting for Xan to catch up. “Let me do the talking,” he said. “These gate guards are not kind to strangers.” Xan nodded and followed. They waited behind three other travelers, who were answering the guards’ questions.

  “You canna’ be too careful these days,” one of the guards was saying to an older woman in the group. “Those filthy Northmen families have been peddling their wares they get from who-knows-where. Barely a-one of them foreigners can utter a word that makes any sense.”

  “I heard the guards had forced them out of the city weeks ago,” the woman said, concerned.

  “Aye, we did, but a few of ’em keep coming back each week, testing us at the gates or on the docks. We have our orders not to let ’em back in—not ’til next year’s selling season, at least.”

  The guard let the travelers through and then turned to Carlo with suspicion. “What you got there, old man? A dead monk and a boy?”

  Carlo moved Brother Andrew into his arms like a father might hold a large child. “Let us through at once,” Carlo said urgently. “See? The monk lives but is dearly injured. I know a place where we can get him help.”

  The guards exchanged glances. The shorter one shrugged. “Let ’em in, I guess.” The guards stepped aside hesitantly but allowed them to pass through, into a thick archway that ran under the invincible wall, like an entryway that had been chiseled through solid stone.

  They’d made it within the safety of the city walls, but it was so dark now that Lincoln itself was shrouded in mystery. They couldn’t see the castle Carlo had mentioned, nor even the haunted cathedral poor Guy had talked about. They could barely see the path ahead.

  Carlo seemed to know his way. He led them from the main trail toward a little stone cottage just a pebble’s throw inside the gate. A tiny chapel stood nearby. “This is it,” the bandit said, as they approached the cottage door. “Knock loudly.”

  Xan pounded on the door with all his might. Would anyone answer for strangers after nightfall in this untrusting town? Perhaps a boy might be welcomed. “Please, open!” he cried. “A monk and a boy need help.”

  Movement came from within. The door cracked open a few inches, revealing an elderly man with silver hair. His long, pointed nose was the only thing that stuck through the door’s crack. “What has happened?” the man asked. Light from a hearth shone within, its smoky fragrance blessing the air as it had in Xan’s own cottage back in Hardonbury.

  “Father, please allow us to leave this injured monk in your care,” said Carlo, with genuine respect. “He suffered a terrible crash, and I am afraid he will die without a warm bed and herbs.”

  The priest glanced at Carlo’s arms and then opened the door wide, gesturing to the warm room inside. “Quickly lads! Bring the monk in.” Carlo placed Brother Andrew on a wide wooden bench near the orange glow of the hearth.

  “I am Father Philip,” the man said. He had a full head of silver hair that was not cut in a tonsure like the monks but curled at its edges all round. “How long has the monk been this way?”

  “Several hours, Father,” Carlo replied. “He requires warmth most of all, I think.”

  “Aye, the night is cold,” the priest said. “’Tis good you have brought him to me.”

  Carlo nodded and then turned to Xan. “Your monk is safe, boy. My vow is honored.”

  Xan refused to look at him. This was the moment where the bandit would be rewarded with his freedom. Had he earned it? He’d kept his word; he’d spared Ox’s life; he’d even suffered on the road to save Brother Andrew. Was that enough to make up for all the evil he’d done? If Mother and Father’s spirits were with them in the room right now, would they be happy or sad?

  “What vow?” Father Philip asked, as Carlo stepped to the door. “What is happening here?”

  “’Tis too difficult to explain; the boy will tell you when I am gone. I must go now, Father.”

  “You will do no such thing!” The priest folded his arms. “Get the monk out of those wet robes and move him to my bed this instant. Whatever vow you have taken is not yet fulfilled.”

  Carlo looked to the door. Was he worried about the guards at the gate? They’d looked suspiciously at them as they’d passed through. Or maybe the bandit had set a time to meet Rummy.

  “As you wish, Father,” Carlo said with respect. With Xan’s help, he removed the waterlogged robes from the monk’s limp body and carried him to the priest’s own bed. Straw stuck out from the mattress’s bottom, and a layer of wool covered the top.

  Father Philip flitted about, gathering linens and stoking the hearth. He placed a pot of water over the fire to warm it for rags. Opening a cabinet, he drew out a bundle of aromatic green herbs.

  Carlo stepped to the door again. “’Tis done,” he said. He hesitated, his hand on the door handle. “Boy, I will never see you again. I must say something, whether or not you will hear it.”

  Xan already was shaking his head in defiance. The bandit would try to apologize, even ask forgiveness. He’d already given the fiend his freedom. At least the bandit should suffer in this way, knowing he’d orphaned an innocent boy who would never forget that offense.

  But Carlo didn’t back down. “Nay. You must hear this, boy, for good or ill.”

  “Go now.” Xan’s voice was low and threatening. “Go, ere I shout for help.”

  “What is this evil ’twixt you two?” Father Philip said. “Why would he shout for help?”

  “I owe this boy a great debt, Father.” Carlo sighed. “I must tell him that—”

  But he didn’t finish the thought, for at that instant a pounding came upon the door. The clanging of iron encircled the tiny house. “Father, are you well?” a harsh voice called from outside.

  The priest beheld Carlo with mistrusting eyes. “Who are you?”

  “Nobody,” Carlo said. “But I must leave now through your back door. Farewell!” The bandit rushed to the other door, but it burst open before him. A guard in chain mail bolted into the room with a spear. The front door also swung in and two more guards entered. “There he is!” one of the guards shouted—the taller one from the gate.

  Immediately Carlo began to stoop weakly. His gray eyes dimmed. He coughed. “I mean no harm,” he croaked, like an old weary traveler.

  “Boy,” the guard said, “who is this man? Is he a villain? Are you his prisoner?”

  The bandit gazed longingly at the door that led to his liberty. Xan could still set him free.

  “Speak, child,” another guard ordered, holding Carlo’s arms. “Is he a villain or not?”

  10

  The Gift

  Answer us, boy,” the guard holding Carlo said, more emphatically this time.

  Carlo looked to Xan with sad eyes—old, weary, regretful. The last time Xan had gazed at Mother’s face, her tender gaze had been sorrowful too, just before he’d run to Father’s call.

  That was when Carlo and his men had come. They’d taken from him what he’d loved most. Carlo might not have wanted to hurt the peasants, but something had gone wrong. Unless Mother and Father had perished in the flames. Even then, they were Carlo’s flames. That much was certain.

  Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you—the Lord’s words. And if Lucy were here, she too would tell him to forgive, wouldn’t she?

  If he set Carlo free now, surely the old bandit would live a reformed life. The man seemed to believe in God. He’d kept his vow and had even refrained from striking Ox down. What harm could he still do, an old man with a treasure? He might even do good to others as a penance for his sins, in thanksgiving to the abbot and even to Xan for setting him free.

  Xan had told Mother everything would be all right that morning. He hadn’t even given her
a farewell kiss. Then she’d perished. Who would suffer for the harm that came to her?

  Xan met the guard’s eye. The words came from his mouth as if they had their own will.

  “He’s a filthy murderer.”

  At that, one of the guards pushed Carlo to the ground. The bandit groaned and struggled against the shackles being drawn over his hands and feet. Then his body went limp in despair.

  Xan couldn’t bear to speak or even look at the man again. No doubt, the bandit had been crushed by his hard words, but wasn’t this what Carlo deserved? Wasn’t this justice for Mother?

  The guards raised Carlo to his feet. “Tell us, boy. What has he done?”

  Carlo listened—head bowed low in shame—as Xan recounted the story of the travelers’ journey from Harwood Abbey and the reason for Carlo’s imprisonment. Father Philip tended to Brother Andrew’s injuries the whole time, his eyes widening with wonder as the story progressed.

  After its full telling, the guards dispatched horsemen to rescue Ox, still helpless in that gully, and to retrieve the dead body of poor Guy.

  “So instead of escaping, this villain chose to save the monk?” one of the guards asked in disbelief, after the rescue party had left. Xan’s face flushed with warmth. Maybe he hadn’t balanced Carlo’s deeds properly, after all. Had the bandit’s fulfillment of his vow been penance enough to earn him redemption?

  “We will take him to the castle dungeon ’til his doom is pronounced,” the taller guard said, guiding Carlo toward the door, though not as roughly as before.

  Xan sat upon the little chair near Brother Andrew’s body and took the monk’s cold hand.

  “Wait,” Carlo begged the guard. “I wish not to part from the boy with this evil ’twixt us.” The guard looked to Xan, who gave a nod. Perhaps he owed the bandit that much, at least. With that, the guard loosened his grip on Carlo. “Do not attempt to escape.”

  “I am your prisoner,” the bandit assured him. Carlo raised his shackled hands behind his head. Using his thumbs, he grasped the tattered rope and pulled the dragon pendant over his straggly gray hair. He offered it to Xan. “Take this, boy. I want you to have it. Where I am going, ’twill be of no use.”