The Apprentice Stone (Shadows of Time Book 1)

by Darrell Newton

  “I am not short!”

  “No, son. We have no gear for young men as muscular as you.” The armorer reached over and patted him on the shoulder.

  Goliath chuckled.

  The armorer stepped back, and said with as much solemnity that repetition could muster, “Raise your right hand and repeat after me. ‘I swear before God.’” They repeated his every word with gusto. “That I shall return this gear in good condition, if I return alive.” They repeated it with a little less enthusiasm. “Or I shall forfeit my life, so help me God.” They repeated it with mumbled words.

  They received their gear, and Francisco led Sancho, packs in hand with a javelin and sword poking out the side, walked to an open spot in the esplanade. Goliath followed like a lost ewe lamb, bumping two people by accident with his javelin as he walked. Stooping down, Francisco placed his bundle on the stone pavement. The iron bands on the shield gave a solid “clang.” Sancho followed his lead, but Goliath stood and watched like a hired sentry.

  Francisco pulled out the hauberk and stood up, letting it unfold on its own. It had long sleeves. The torso was long and reached below his knees. He held it up higher and flipped it over. No hood.

  Sancho leaned over to him and said, “Brother, it has no neck protection.”

  Francisco gasped. “Mother of God, be with me!”

  Chapter 15

  Francisco

  Toledo

  Summer, Year of our Lord 1212

  752 Days on the Streets

  AFTER WORK, FRANCISCO AND SANCHO dressed in their armor and headed towards the east fountain. No one wore their armor except when sparring or in battle, but Francisco thought it might help them to meet a few veterans and hear their valiant tales of war. The armor also drew the attention of young ladies, at least that’s what Francisco hoped. He took a deep breath. “Ah, this is heaven after a day in Hades with La Grande.”

  “Heaven?” Sancho asked. “I think not. The air has the taste of a riot. Do you feel it?” He shuddered. “Like the night my parents died.”

  “I only smell rotten cabbage, rancid barley, stale ale, and rank wine. There might even be ... wait ... a fresh carrot to your left. Do you want me to fetch it for you?”

  Sancho looked at him intently and said, “Amigo, make not light of a heavy matter. It is in the eyes of the ultramontanos that I see a riot, and I heard some of them talking about starting the crusade here in Toledo against the Jews and Saracens.”

  “Did you truly hear them say that?”

  “Nay, not exactly, but you could tell it in their tone.”

  “Sancho, I think your ears are wanting that tone. These are Christians, not Muslims. Even if it were true, what would you have us do? Fighting the street gangs with knives is one matter, but these foreign soldiers have swords. I like my head where it is.”

  “Let us in the least travel through the Jewish streets this night. If you are in the right, then it shall quell my fears; but if I am in the right ... then hold the stone close.”

  Francisco consented.

  The narrow cobblestone streets wound uphill to the west towards the Jewish section. Men at arms loitered at the street corners. Crowds gathered around minstrels singing of valiant deeds or the upcoming crusade. The heavy scent of boiled cabbage and fresh-baked bread beckoned to them as they passed by a vendor’s cart. The sun had set, but the street was still warm. Had it been any other year, the height of activity would have been around the fountains and the gossips. This year the city overflowed with crusaders, her resources overtaxed and her latrines too few.

  As they approached the Jewish section, the crowd thickened and Francisco sensed the change. No more were the songs of the minstrels and their audience keeping tempo, or the vendors trying to make that last trade long after vespers. Eyes were filled with anticipation, morbid curiosity, and dread. The crisp evening air was heavy with settling mist. It deadened the sounds and made the sky feel close, as if they were in a cathedral of the damned. Torch lights atop posts flickered, casting jittery shadows along the dark streets. As they came to an intersection, Francisco looked up and down. He noticed for the first time four things: that someone was yelling; that a crowd was cheering in answer; that flames licked yellow-orange against smoke before the night sky; and that everyone on those two streets was moving towards the Ibn Shushan Synagogue.

  Sancho’s pace quickened. They joined a knot of ten others rushing to the sounds and with a few more turns came to the last street before the synagogue. The crowd was thick, but Francisco and Sancho slid to the front. A bonfire blazed to their left. In front of them, twelve paces from the crowd was the yelling man, a monk. He had flung his hood back to reveal his red-brown hair cut in bowl-like ring above his ears and shaved bald at the top. He wore a light gray Cistercian cowl; its long, drooping sleeves flapped like banners as he thrust his arms out toward the synagogue. At his side, a long sword swung from his belt as he paced and turned before the bonfire, but it was his eyes and not his blade that alarmed Francisco. His eyes glittered with a fierce determination Francisco had only seen in wild beasts. This contradiction of savage and monk confused Francisco. Every Cistercian monk Francisco knew kept to a quiet life of manual labor, farming, and brewing ales. What could have stirred up this man’s ire?

  On the other side of the bonfire stood a dozen Jews blocking the doors to the synagogue. They stood defiant, weaponless and with arms out to each side. The nearby bonfire cast stark, flickering shadows across their faces. A woman stood behind a boy about eight. She wrapped her arms around him, protecting him—a mother. Francisco felt his jaw clench. Who would threaten a mother?

  The monk spoke in Castilian with an Aragonese25 accent. Francisco noted that, if he were addressing the mounted ultramontanos knights behind him, he would have spoken Occitan or French or something other than the local language. “I say,” the monk continued his speech, “that we wait not for the accursed Muhammad al-Nasir, but start with these infidels! Too long have the Jews been playing both sides, growing fat and rich on your backs! Too long have they sold information to the Saracen! Too long have they led us astray with their very presence! Is it not Rachael, the Jewess, who has corrupted the heart of your Castilian King? Was it not she who seduced him, and brought the wrath of God upon you? You were defeated at Alarcos because of a Jew!”

  The ultramontanos behind him rallied, cheered as if he were a troubadour. Francisco recognized three thugs from the Castigos and five from the Matóns joining them. The rest, mostly from Toledo or wearing colors of the Spanish kingdoms, stood silent with intent and curious eyes or eyes that shifted with discomfort. If any were concerned, they did nothing to stop the monk. Only one in five beheld the same fervor as the monk.

  Francisco nudged the woman next to him and asked, “Who is he?”

  “He is Arnaud Amalric, Abbot of Citeaux, and he claims to be a papal legate and inquisitor.”

  Abbot Arnaud proclaimed, “I say the crusade has been delayed too long!” The troublemakers in the crowd cheered.

  A sense of injustice mingled with rage filled Francisco. This could not go on. This man was wrong, even if he held an office in the church. Francisco quickly studied the eyes of the crowd again. They would do nothing. Blood would be spilled soon. His heart racing, pounding, he had almost no time to make the decision. He took short breaths, his mind a fog with the contradictions. It was defending the girl in the alley against the brutes all over again, except this time he knew the stone would protect him before going into a fight.

  He heard a voice in his head say, If God is on their side, then you are finished, stone or no. Shouldn’t you be with this Monk? The voice asked. Maybe the abbot is right. The Jews are bringing heresy. Even you have skipped mass a few times because of Sancho.

  When Francisco’s thoughts turned toward Sancho, he remembered his friend’s words, “It is not a question of God being on your side. You should ask, ‘Am I on God’s side?’” God has not commanded me to kill innocents. That much is clear. So, the a
bbot is not on God’s side.

  Francisco stepped out from the crowd towards the abbot.

  The wavering voice in his mind asked, Would El Cid try to stop an abbot? Is this not a man of the cloth?

  He answered the voice, Was killing Jews a decree from the pope? No, I remember the proclamation. The crusade is against a Saracen army, not Jewish families. And, King Alfonso himself has guaranteed the safety of the Jews in Toledo.

  He took a step forward, then almost turned back, remembering how the heedless rush to save the girl had brought pain. Yes, the stone healed him, but the pain now seemed so intense in his memory that he relived it. A voice in his head asked, Would the stone be able to heal you if the crowd tore you limb from limb? If you are lucky enough to not lose your head, would the stone get hungry before the fight finished? These are knights, for the love of Saint Peter, not street thugs. You would be ground to sausage meat before they were done.

  Abbot Arnaud proclaimed, “I say the crusade starts tonight!”

  The mob roared. Even the timid seemed pulled into the enthusiasm.

  Francisco answered the voice, But if I do nothing to defend the innocent, wouldn’t that be the same as letting the mob kill them? Isn’t that a sin of doing harm? Would it break the stone’s charm? And even if helping these people were a mistake, wouldn’t God honor my actions because I meant well? He walked towards the synagogue. Wouldn’t it be better to die a valiant death than live as a coward? That’s something El Cid would do. He felt the heat of the fire intensify as he passed by it. The breeze shifted, blowing smoke into his eyes. The smoke cleared. Abbot Arnaud saw him and smiled, perhaps thinking that this young soldier had taken the initiative and would want to draw first blood. His expression changed when Francisco reached the group at the door. Francisco turned and stretched out his arms like them, blocking the mob’s way. When Francisco turned, it did not surprise him that Sancho had followed him. With gratitude in his weak smile, Sancho walked up to Francisco’s side and turned with arms outstretched.

  It was as if hot steel were thrust into a quenching bath. Francisco felt the mob’s energy dissipate. Their cheers subsided. Abbot Arnaud paused, losing his cadence because two crusaders had joined the Jews.

  “Are you a Jew, boy?” the Abbot asked.

  “No,” Francisco replied, boldly and loud enough for all to hear.

  Sancho remained silent.

  An ultramontano knight urged his horse up next to Abbot Arnaud. “Then you are a traitor,” he said to Francisco. He dismounted and stood resolute, tall and thin and clad in chainmail beneath a calf-length mantle bearing the sign of the cross. Between the bonfire’s shifting amber light and the stark shadows of the night, Francisco could not make out his colors, but his demeanor was all too familiar. Seven other mounted knights rode up behind him.

  This first belligerent knight then drew his sword.

  “Do you know,” Francisco answered, “that these people have paid great sums of money for the crusade? And that we have Jews fighting alongside us?” He felt a fire rise in his gut and it gave his words authority. The other voice in his mind begged him to remain silent for his reputation’s sake, but it was as if that voice came from a whining child sitting in a corner, disciplined for bad behavior. “And do you know, that when we Castilians took Toledo from the Saracens our king granted the Jews full equality with the Christians?” The same timidity from the crowd that gave the abbot license to start a riot gave Francisco time to quell it.

  “Ha!” the tall, belligerent knight replied in Occitan. “The kings of Castile, Aragon, Portugal and the rest in this backwater have long been compliant with the Saracens. They have failed in the defense of Christendom. Only a Christian response from the Franks, from others who know how to handle heresy, can adequately defend the faith.”

  The crowd murmured. The tide had changed. Francisco found himself replying in words so eloquent, it surprised him. “If you defend our faith with a sword only,” Francisco said, “then you betray both our Lord’s reason and his compassion.”

  In the fire’s flickering light Francisco caught the change in the knight’s countenance: a temper hotter than the bonfire itself flashed across it with a squint in his eyes and spasm in his cheek. He dismounted and approached the door on foot. Francisco did not step back and did not draw his sword. He knew better than to test a knight’s blade. Words and courage would have to suffice.

  “How do you know that one of these Jews,” Francisco gestured to those with him before the door, “will not be baptized into the church? You may yet be putting a brother or sister to the sword!”

  With deadly calm the abbot answered for the knight. “How do I know? I know not,” “We will kill them all. God knows whose are his.”

  The belligerent knight nodded and took long strides toward Francisco. The little training Francisco had, told him to draw his sword, but a curious peace prevailed, and he remained standing with his arms out. The knight raised the tip of his sword to Francisco’s neck and pressed ever so slightly against his throbbing artery. Francisco felt the bitter edge bite in slightly. He held his ground and focused on the knight. All else was darkness. The knight’s glare bore into him, and Francisco knew the man would do it. A moment passed. The growing intensity in the knight’s eyes began to erode Francisco’s resolve. The man would do it if Francisco didn’t talk him out of it or find a way to gracefully save face by backing down. Why the neck? Aim for the heart and let the stone heal it. Not the neck.

  Gently, another blade came down on top of the knight’s at a right angle. The two blades formed the sign of the cross. The new blade started to push Belligerent’s sword away from Francisco’s throat. Francisco saw a streak of red on Belligerent’s blade, fresh blood. His blood. A hand’s width from his neck the blades hesitated, and Francisco could see the belligerent knight strain to bring it back. Francisco leaned back slightly, wanting to avoid the upward swing if the blades slipped. The knight grabbed his hilt with both hands. Even then, the blades steadily lowered. The knight’s gaze shifted from Francisco to his new foe. Francisco forced himself to turn and follow the stare. The new foe was another ultramontano knight, older—maybe more than fifty years old—with careworn lines around the eyes and mouth, gray that streaked the sides of his dark brown hair and neatly trimmed beard, skin tanned like hide, and jaw set rigid with defiance. The years had not softened but hardened him like kiln-baked clay, and in his bold posture lay the confidence of one who could lead men into battle. By far his most outstanding feature was his lustrous green eyes that almost glowed in the firelight. Francisco had not seen such eyes since ... since the genie at the bar.

  Despite the prevailing peace he felt, Francisco took a step back. The green-eyed genie-knight kept his attention on Belligerent, an action which for the moment relieved Francisco’s fears. Why would a genie protect me? How am I supposed to know what he wants? Maybe he wants to kill me and won’t let the knight do it.

  Apparently unable to maintain a constant upward push against Green-Eyes’ sword, Belligerent relaxed, and with a loud clang his blade tip hit the ground as if his sword weighed as much as a slab of granite. He tried to lift it but couldn’t. Green-Eyes had pulled back his sword. Belligerent strained to lift his unblocked sword, his neck veins bulging, face reddening. The sword seemed to be wedged between cobblestones. Bewilderment crossed his face.

  In Castilian as fluent as Francisco’s yet tinged with an odd accent, the green-eyed knight said with a half jovial smirk, “Let us both die this very day, brother. Then we shall stand before the Almighty. If you are truly His, then you have no worries.”

  Francisco blinked. Were these the words of a genie?

  Belligerent replied in Occitan, “Foolish words from an old man in a fight not his own.”

  “Would it not be better,” Green-Eyes answered in Castilian, “to place our steel to the throats of invaders instead of a Castilian boy?”

  Belligerent said nothing. He turned to glance at the crowd. It had grown. One of
the knights behind Belligerent rode up beside him and said in a low tone, “Sir Baset, perhaps the noble is correct. This distraction could be handled at a later date.”

  Abbot Arnaud yelled in a tone that brooked no disagreement, “If we take not a stand here, then our crusade is pointless.”

  Green-Eyes turned and spoke loud enough to address both the abbot and the crowd, “Only the enemy would have us kill each other.”

  To their left, knights from Castile, Aragon, and Catalan, numbering twice as many as the ultramontanos, rode through the crowd toward the center.

  Abbot Arnaud raised his hands, his sleeves waving. “His Holiness the Pope has declared that should any man join forces with the enemy or give them aid or council, he would be subject to interdict and excommunication.”

  “Ah,” Green-eyed responded, “I too have read his proclamation. Has not his Holiness the Pope prohibited Christian kings from fighting each other during this crusade?” He said something in Latin that sounded like he was quoting the pope’s proclamation, and then he added, “Would that not also extend to the King’s subjects?”

  By this time Spanish knights had ridden to the edge of the crowd. They faced the foreign knights in battle formation.

  The abbot stammered, searching for words, then yelled, “Hell has a place for you all!” He turned around, and strode out of the crowd followed by the ultramontanos—foot soldiers and knights alike—except for Belligerent and his friends.

  Green-Eyes prepared to sheath his sword.

  Belligerent, unmoved after his confrontation with Green-Eyes, lifted his sword. It was no longer stuck. “You are all traitors,” he said. With is sword now recovered, he lunged at Green-Eyes. It was a sudden, well-practiced move showing skill—perhaps a little hampered by too much wine, but skill nonetheless.

  With hardly any effort, Green-Eyes stepped to the side and parried in one motion. Belligerent’s lunge missed and momentum carried him off balance. He trusted too much to surprise. The crowd rallied and cheered, their bloodlust now being satisfied.