“Lucy told us about your addlepated adventure,” Father Philip said, coming to his side. “With so much foolishness in one boy, ’tis a miracle you have lived for twelve years—going into a crypt in search of a ghost; trying to match wits with a murderous bandit.”
The priest’s tone sounded disapproving, yet his eyes sparkled playfully.
Xan slowly pulled himself to a sitting position. “That earthquake—’twas so destructive. Was anyone else hurt?”
“All told, there are very few deaths,” Father Philip said. “Very few.”
“’Tis a miracle not more were killed,” the monk said. “Especially with such damage, and with so many still in bed when it struck.”
“The last earthquake in England happened when I was just a lad,” the old priest said. “This one was worse. ’Twill take years to repair this evil.”
Lucy, still dressed in the dusty red frock, came to his side and took his hand. “I saw that cathedral, Xan. Only by the grace of God could you have survived that disaster in there.”
“Where’s the Northman boy?” he asked her.
“Gone to be with his own kind,” Father Philip answered. “They came back last night, and I made sure the guards knew to let them pass.”
“You’ve been sleeping in here almost a day, Xan,” Lucy explained in a gentle voice. “Your uncle carried you back from the cathedral the entire way.”
Father Philip didn’t seem to notice Lucy’s interruption. “I brought that poor child to the gate myself and handed him to his family with deep apologies—as much as I could without speaking their strange tongue. Even in this season of penance, we all had closed minds and hearts. We were focused on our earthly goods, yet those people sought true treasure: a child they loved.”
Lucy smiled warmly. “You should’ve seen his face, Xan—so happy to see his mother.”
Good for the boy. But Xan would never get the chance to communicate with Mother and Father, would he? Not in this life. At least he’d played a part in helping a child find his home again.
“You saved that boy’s life from both earthquake and bandit,” Brother Andrew said. “He would have died in that tomb had you not discovered him.”
That must be true. Even as Xan had fled, the crypt was collapsing.
“Wait—where’s Rummy? Did he escape?”
Christina smirked at him. “I was about to ask you the same thing. What happened?”
In a frail voice, he recounted the events in the cathedral after Lucy had left. “The last I saw, that greedy bandit was still trying to get the treasure.”
Surely even that evil man couldn’t have saved both his life and the treasure in that chaos.
“He is probably buried in the tomb,” the monk said. “That crypt is filled to the brim now with the rubble of the cathedral. ’Twill be impossible to explore it any further.”
Simon seemed disappointed. “Then the treasure is buried forever.”
“Or removed by that villain,” Father Philip said. “We cannot know for certain.”
“By Adam, it no longer matters,” Brother Andrew said. “Some secrets are best left buried.”
Xan sighed. “’Tis a shame. Uncle William really could have used that treasure.”
The monk nodded. “At least he is safe, child. While you slept, your uncle sat by your side for hours. He will return on the morrow to see you again, he says.”
Father Philip brought him a plate filled with food. “All of you—let this tired boy eat and rest now. There will be time enough for words in the morning, when he will be back on his feet and ready for more foolish adventures, no doubt.” A smile formed under the priest’s pointed nose.
With that, Lucy, Simon, and Christina bid him farewell while he ate his meal.
Then he settled into the bumpy mattress again and closed his eyes.
“Ere you rest,” the monk said, “I must have a word with you about the prisoner Carlo.”
In the dungeon of the sturdy castle, the bandit had probably been safe from the earthquake. Meanwhile, Carlo’s treasure had lured Rummy into the cathedral, nearly leading to Xan’s death.
The monk hesitated. “Due to this disaster, Carlo surely will not face justice ’til after Easter. But tomorrow I have arranged to speak with a minister of the royal court.”
“Speak about what?”
“After his rescue, that injured guard, Ox, told the minister that Carlo murdered your parents. As a victim of these crimes, the minister wishes to know your wishes for Carlo’s doom.”
Xan blinked in surprise. “I thought I was too young to give testimony in the courts.”
“Not testimony, my son. This meeting will be informal. Still, I know your recommendation will be given great weight in the minister’s mind when he discusses the case with the judges.”
“You want me to forgive Carlo—to recommend he escape the hangman.”
The monk placed a hand on Xan’s shoulder. “The abbot’s plea to save Carlo has made some impact, but not as much as he’d hoped. What you tell the minister might be the difference.”
The bandit’s life hung in the balance and, as before, Xan held the key to Carlo’s doom.
“Will you pray, Xan? Consider our Lord’s words about forgiveness that you translated.”
“Aye, Brother.” Xan shut his eyes as the exhaustion overwhelmed him once again.
Why did God keep giving him such influence over Carlo’s doom? Perhaps so the bandit would truly face justice for his crimes. In that case, he should recommend death tomorrow.
Unless God was doing this not for Carlo but for Xan—a way to help him discover the true meaning of the Scripture’s words about forgiveness by living out that lesson in real life.
Uncle William’s mind was occupied with his own problems, and there would be no chance of learning the wishes of Mother and Father now. Xan must make this decision on his own.
25
Carlo’s Doom
The long night stretched on, with the tiny earthquakes growing milder as dawn approached.
After sunup and morning prayers, Brother Andrew and Xan began preparations for the meeting with the minister at Lincoln Castle.
“Can you walk well on that ankle?” the monk asked, as Xan tested his weight on his foot.
How easy it would be to lie—to say he felt too ill to attend the meeting. Those royal judges probably cared little what a peasant boy thought on the matter anyway. Except this peasant’s family had been murdered by that bandit, and Xan was fast growing out of boyhood and becoming a man.
He gave Brother Andrew a nod and smile. “If we go slowly, I think I’ll be all right.”
In that way, he and the monk limped in painful silence together to Lincoln Castle.
Brother Andrew wisely did not press him about their conversation from last night. There was no need for the monk’s urging. Xan’s own heart seemed to be giving enough of that.
How strange the words of Jesus: “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” And also: “Pray for those who mistreat you.” Did God truly mean all that?
Back at the abbey, Brother Andrew had said that living out those words would reveal their truth. Yet all this time Xan had ignored that advice, wishing instead for death to the vile bandit. Had such wishes brought him peace or happiness? Nay, hatred for Carlo had brought misery.
What would Lucy’s advice be to him? Perhaps she would say that God was love, and that Mother and Father were with God and, thus, they too would seek love.
Yet Carlo had not asked him for forgiveness. Well, perhaps he had tried, but Xan hadn’t allowed him to say the words.
The gates of Lincoln Castle stood before them; Lucy Tower stared down upon them.
Aye, Lucy would tell him to forgive Carlo. Surely, she would.
“Brother?” Xan said, as they passed under the rounded archway. “Can we stop and visit a moment with Carlo ere we meet with the minister?”
Brother Andrew halted and studied Xan’s eyes.
“I see.”
If he gave Carlo the chance to ask for forgiveness, that might make a difference, especially in Holy Week. But the words must come from the bandit’s lips—words of sorrow and penance.
The monk nodded. “You are very close to forgiveness, my son. I can feel it in my heart.”
Forgiveness was like a journey, then, and here he was at its final step. Arriving there, he could maybe end this chapter of doubt and despair that had plagued him the past few months.
They diverted their path down the steep, painful stairs that led to the musty dungeon.
“He will seek your forgiveness if you let him speak,” the monk said at the bottom step.
The narrow stairway opened into a larger hallway, lit by short torches hanging within iron holders. But no one could be seen, either right or left.
They arrived at the thick wooden door that led to Carlo’s dungeon pit, but no sound came from behind the tall door or anywhere along the hallway.
Brother Andrew seemed concerned. “Where are all the guards?”
Xan shook the large door ring uselessly; it was locked.
“We must find the guard,” the monk said, moving toward the stairway once more.
The clanging of metal and heavy-booted steps approached down the stone steps. Armed with a broad iron sword at his side, a tall guard dressed in chain mail rounded the corner and flinched in surprise at the sight of the visitors.
“You two need an escort to be down here!”
Brother Andrew ignored the bark and raised his hand in a gesture of blessing. “Peace to you. We have come to see the prisoner Carlo.”
The guard frowned. “Then you come too late.”
“Too late?”
“He is dead.” The cold voice of the guard held no sorrow.
“Dead?” The monk put an arm out to steady himself. “But how? The quake?”
“Nay. The bandit took ill and the dungeon finished him.”
“Open the door!” Brother Andrew commanded, as though the guard were telling lies.
With a suspicious glance, the man complied with the monk’s order. The sharp echo of screeching metal filled the corridor as the door swung open into darkness.
Grasping a torch, the monk entered the pit and rushed down to the place where they’d last spoken with Carlo, just days earlier. It was empty. Lonely chains hung from a crumbling wall.
At the top of the pit, Xan stared into the dimness.
How could Carlo be dead? All that God had done within his heart had led him to this very moment—had prepared him for this chance at the forgiveness he’d resisted.
Now, at the very end, he was to be deprived of even this small comfort?
“Where did you put the body?” Brother Andrew said, as he climbed the last step and handed the torch to the guard. “Take me to it; I want to see it with my own eyes.”
The reluctant guard obeyed the monk’s commands and walked them to a chamber at the end of the hall. Xan remained outside; he had no need to see another dead body. The vision of Guy crumpled lifeless upon that log would be enough for one lifetime.
Brother Andrew emerged a while later, his brown and blue eyes partly red now. “Let us leave this place, Xan. Our work here is done.”
Arriving back at noon, they found Father Philip resting in the shade of an ancient tree outside the cottage. While Xan pressed his hand upon the old oak, tracing the crevices in its trunk with his fingers, Brother Andrew gave the priest a full account of their journey.
“Curses and evil days!” the monk said sorrowfully, as though he’d lost a dear friend. “The abbot will grieve for this man’s soul. He often tried to hear the bandit’s confession.”
“Though he lived a life of sin, he will receive a Christian burial,” Father Philip said.
That didn’t seem possible. Christian burials were supposed to be reserved for those who died in good graces with the Church. If Carlo received a Christian burial, did that mean he would be in Heaven with Mother and Father?
“I will see to it myself,” the priest added.
“The bandit knew his death approached, ’tis true,” the monk said. “He told us so when we saw him at the dungeon, and he even gave Xan his family heirloom as a final act of kindness.”
Suddenly Xan reached into the pouch on his belt and pulled from it the pendant Carlo had given him: a star with a dragon within, carved from a soft wood. A flash of emotions rushed his mind—anger, sorrow, regret. He began to limp in haste toward the cottage door and the fiery hearth inside.
“Wait!” Brother Andrew called out with worry. “Xan, what are you going to do?” But he didn’t wait. He cast open the door to the cottage, stumbled to the hearth, and flung Carlo’s heirloom into the greedy flames, which lapped at the wood, consuming it with glee.
“Xan, nay!” Brother Andrew cried from the door—too late.
“What are you doing, boy?” said Father Philip, entering the cottage.
Xan said nothing. What had he prophesied to Carlo on the night they’d arrived in Lincoln? “I’ll keep this thing safe,” he’d told the bandit. “But I vow to you now, I’ll burn this dragon on the day you die, just as you burned my village to the ground.”
Now he’d fulfilled that vow. Carlo’s heirloom blackened in the flames of the hearth.
Father Philip put a hand on Xan’s head, scratching his hair in a fatherly gesture. “Do not cling to your hatred for this man, child. The Lord will bring healing to you only if you forgive.”
But tears began streaming down Xan’s cheeks.
God was not to blame for him missing his chance at forgiveness. Xan himself had turned his back on the many opportunities he’d been given to forgive Carlo. Indeed, it had been his own stubbornness and desire for revenge that had stolen that chance for healing from him.
His forgiveness of Carlo had been too late in coming.
If only there were a way for Carlo to accept that forgiveness now that he gave it freely from his heart. Perhaps—though Xan might never know—perhaps Carlo had already accepted it.
Brother Andrew put a comforting arm around Xan’s shoulder as he sobbed and, with the black sleeve of his robe, wiped tears from his own eyes too.
Together, they stood watching the last of the wood char to black. And as the fire worked its cremation of the necklace, they held silent vigil for the bandit Carlo.
Yet as they stared into the flames, an unexpected transformation occurred.
With the final shoot of orange flame—signaling the full consumption of the wood—a deep green glow began to shine at the bottom of the hearth where the necklace had been.
“By grace,” the monk said, rubbing his wet eyes, as though he were seeing a vision.
“What is that?” Xan asked.
26
The Forgiven
Xan grasped the black metal tongs Father Philip used for placing logs upon the fire. He thrust them into the embers, closing them upon the green, pebble-like stone glowing at the bottom of the hearth.
“An emerald!” Father Philip said, as Xan drew it out from the flames.
Perfectly shaped like a pebble, the stunning jewel fit nicely in Xan’s palm: the bandit’s heirloom, given as his final gift. Nay, it was as though Carlo—having received and accepted Xan’s forgiveness from the grave—had now transformed his heirloom by fire into an even greater gift.
Father Philip took it and held it to the light, using thumb and forefinger. “Amazing.”
“’Tis the most flawless emerald I have ever seen,” Brother Andrew said.
The priest chuckled. “Oh? You keep many of these around your humble abbey?”
“Not at the abbey, Father. I was not raised in a monastery; I come from a noble family.”
Xan pulled his eyes from the jewel. “You’re a nobleman? Like Lord Godfrey?” The monk once had told him he’d been raised to be a knight, but this seemed even a step above that revelation.
“Nay, my son. Like my Savior, I am but a servant. I once was entitled to inhe
rit my father’s wealth. But he disowned me when I took my vows and rejected the life of a land baron.”
Father Philip shook his head. “A land baron! I misjudged you, Brother. Then you are qualified to estimate the worth of this gem.”
Brother Andrew took the emerald from the priest and examined it, as though he were a jewel merchant appraising its value for sale. He held it up to the light and searched for defects.
“’Tis a kingly gift. I cannot say for certain, but it would no doubt pay Xan’s head money at least twentyfold.”
Father Philip took the sparkling jewel and handed it to Xan. “Child, this treasure could take a poor serf and make him a prince. With this, you could be free from both manor and abbey.”
Brother Andrew flinched at the priest’s words.
“But . . .” Xan flopped to the wide bench in shock. “Carlo gave me this gift knowing its worth, yet said nothing about it? He knew . . . knew I would keep this thing; that I would look at it and wonder about its green eyes. He knew I would discover its true value one day.”
The priest nodded. “He must have feared the guards at the dungeon would remove this necklace, so he entrusted it to the care of one of his victims.”
“But how can I take this?” Xan said. “He may have stolen it from an innocent person.”
Brother Andrew and Father Philip exchanged a glance, but not in disagreement this time.
“You are the innocent person from whom he stole, my son,” the monk said. “I think this was his way of asking your forgiveness and doing penance for his many sins.”
Just then a knock came on the cottage door. Uncle William entered, still dressed as a beggar.
“Stephen,” he said with joy. “Up from the healer’s bed! Are you recovered, then?”
Xan slipped the emerald into the pouch on his belt and returned his uncle’s embrace.
“I’m well, Uncle. And you?”
The man looked back toward the door as though someone might burst through it while he spoke. “The earthquake has not solved my problem. That is why I have come to speak with you.”
“Have you made a decision about the boy, then?” Brother Andrew asked, clenching his robe between both fists.
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