The Angel and the Sword

by Sigmund Brouwer

  There could be not doubt, he told himself, that she should recall their brief meeting.

  She had lied.

  But why? Was she a part of the assassin’s attempt?

  Raphael thought further. Who had stolen his clothes? Who had placed them in the stable to make it look as though he was going to escape with a horse? Why had the stable master lied?

  Raphael gnawed at his lower lip in doubt. He was a jester, after all. And among jesters, perhaps the most skilled. He could juggle, balance, throw knives, tumble, and somersault like few others in the kingdom. But thinking? This was strange and unaccustomed, especially when all his questions seemed to be such puzzles. He much preferred action over thought.

  Like the action that had sent him after the assassin… the action that had sent him into this dungeon… the action that would lead to the horrible death of his family…

  Raphael commanded himself to direct his thoughts back to the morning. Regrets would not help his family now.

  Even in his pain and sorrow, Raphael laughed aloud at that thought. Chained and facing torture and then death, was there any way he could help his family?

  He lapsed back into self-pity.

  Minutes — was it hours? — later, cold water on the back of his neck startled him. He had nodded to sleep, and the next drop of water had missed his skull and landed squarely on the back of his neck.

  He shook his head to wake himself. If the rats attacked…

  Raphael took deep breaths.

  He thought of Clement VI above, sleeping comfortably.

  Then another thought.

  How long might Clement VI remain safe?

  Raphael knew he hadn’t tried to kill Clement VI, but no one else knew that but the assassin himself. Would the assassin not try again? If Clement VI were killed, what then? Would all others see the jester as innocent, his claims of seeing that assassin finally proven true?

  Perhaps, Raphael told himself, if he had not been executed by then. At least his family might be granted life should the true assassin show himself.

  Unless…

  Raphael groaned.

  Unless it was believed that whoever had placed silver in the saddlebag had merely hired another. Then on the death of Clement VI Raphael’s family might be tortured as extra revenge.

  If Raphael could have loosened his hands from the chains, he would have buried his head between them in utter hopelessness. He who preferred action over thought could do nothing except think thoughts of fear. He was powerless to do anything but await his own torture and death.

  Another scuffle reached his ears.

  Ha, Raphael thought, who cares now about rats? Let them chew my ears. Let them tear a hole in my neck and drink blood. It all matters so little when pain and death will arrive soon anyway. It all matters so little when my family will die within the month.

  A scuffle again. This one, however, stronger than the first.

  A man’s shoes?

  Raphael strained his eyes, but in the darkness saw only the deepest of black.

  Another scuffle. A light clanking of metal against metal.

  Keys?

  Raphael was now fully awake.

  He could sense the presence of another in the dungeon chamber, hinted by air moving across his face when air had been heavy and still. It was another sound — so slight as to be barely heard — scuffle of leather on stone.

  He felt his scalp prickle.

  If this were the jailer, he would be carrying a candle.

  What could this mean?

  A rough whisper, so close by that his heart almost jumped from his chest broke the silence.

  “Call out softly.”

  For a moment, Raphael hesitated. Then he realized he was being a fool. One who approached with such stealth was also one who hid from the master of the dungeon. An enemy of the enemy, then, must be a friend.

  “Here,” Raphael whispered. It came out as a croak. “I am here.”

  Moments later, a hand brushed across his face.

  Raphael fought the urge to scream. The hand trailed across his head, then shoulders. Another hand joined it as it searched out his arms, then the chains on his arms.

  No words were spoken. It seemed as if it were an angel reaching for him, invisible in the darkness. But no angel would smell of stale sweat like this and have breath worse than rotted potatoes.

  The hands fumbled with a key. Only briefly. The clasps fell away.

  “Find your leg chains,” the voice whispered. The man’s breath washed over him as vapours from a sewer. Raphael did not complain, not when a key was pressed into one of his hands. “Release the clasps quietly.”

  Within heartbeats, Raphael was free. He had set each chain down with the utmost care, afraid that iron on stone might bring guards at full run.

  Raphael stood. “I am ready,” he whispered.

  “Follow then,” came the reply, barely heard. “Those who wait for you cannot wait long.”

  Chapter Six

  Juliana of Normandy stared out her window. Deep shadow covered the courtyard immediately below her, for the height of the palace had blocked the sun from as early as midafternoon.

  She stood motionless and continued her unfocused stare, hardly aware as evening shadows began to spill over the rooftops on the far side of the palace.

  He sits in chains, she thought again and again, Raphael sits in chains because of me. While her face was serene, Juliana churned with worry and fear inside. Despite the need to put Raphael in chains, she hated her memories of the look of frozen horror and disbelief on his face as she had condemned him to torture and death by denying their brief early morning meeting.

  And, to be sure, the early morning meeting had been brief.

  Juliana was still surprised at herself for having closed the window so harshly on Raphael. Normally she did little without carefully considering the action itself, what might follow from the action, and even what might follow after what might follow. Why then had she reacted so swiftly that morning?

  This was not a question for Juliana to treat lightly. She treated no question lightly, especially any regarding herself. Others might fool themselves — she had seen in royal courts women so large and ugly they could hardly be recognized as women, yet who placed jewelery on their fingers and necks and convinced themselves of their great beauty. She had seen men who believed themselves to be pious and full of faith, yet who had little hesitation in kicking aside a crippled beggar. No, always Juliana wanted to know herself well and would search for and accept truth, even if the search or the truth was painful.

  Why had she reacted so swiftly? As she watched twilight deepen, Juliana finally found her answer. She’d been angered at losing grip on her emotions. To see Raphael — magnificent and tall at the balcony — had brought a strange rush of joy and bewilderment, almost like a wave crashing over her. She could still feel those unfamiliar emotions as she recalled the morning.

  She wished she could have lingered to gaze into his face and enjoy the wonderful sensation that arrived with seeing his open smile and the laughter dancing in his eyes. Why, even after slamming the window shut, she had opened the window again almost immediately, but by then it had been too late. Raphael had already begun to run from her balcony, crouching on the stone beam with balance and speed any cat might envy.

  The rest had happened all too quickly.

  Raphael throwing the juggling pin. The assassin turning the crossbow on him, then surrendering it before escape. The arrival of the soldiers. Then the knock on her door that had led to her audience with Clement VI, one of the most powerful men in all of Europe. And shortly after had come the threat which had forced her to deny she had ever seen Raphael.

  Deny seeing him or find yourself dead. He will die anyway, and your efforts to help him will only bring your own death too.

  Alfred, the captain of the guard, had whispered that threat as they walked together up the winding stairs through the Tower of Angels to the pope’s study. This from th
e captain of the guard? He of broken teeth and a massive scarred face that showed sufficient fierceness to cause children nightmares?

  Deny your meeting.

  Minute by minute, Juliana divided her thoughts between anguish for Raphael and concern for where events might take him.

  ***************

  Darkness had almost descended on Avignon when there was another knock on her door.

  “Yes?” she said. Here in the guest’s quarters, she had no reason to bar the door. “Enter. The door is not locked.”

  Without leaving her position at the window, she turned to greet her visitor.

  “M’lady.” It was a priest. “I have been instructed to deliver to you the name you trust.”

  “Yes?” Juliana whispered.

  “Reynold.” He watched her carefully. “I hope it satisfies you, for that is all I was given.”

  Juliana nodded. “You can be trusted. You have a message for me?”

  “One has taken the key and entered the dungeon.”

  “That is all?” Juliana asked.

  The priest nodded and bowed respect before backing out of the room.

  It was enough of a message. Although the messenger had no idea of what he had delivered, she did, and she hurried to ready herself.

  It had happened quicker than expected.

  Already it might be too late for her to save the life of the jester.

  Chapter Seven

  Juliana shivered in the night air. She stood hidden in tall bushes at the north edge of the palace grounds, the highest point of Avignon, where the gardens ended with almost sheer cliffs down to the Rhone River. She had found the gardens and then slipped into the foliage, expecting them to arrive any minute.

  If she had guessed wrong, the jester was dead.

  Her serene face showed none of her fear.

  Instead, she forced herself to show outward signs of patience. Among the bushes, she ignored the branch tips that tugged against her hair as they shifted with the wind. She kept her chin straight and looked ahead over the river.

  Stars and the strong light of a full moon shimmered on the water, giving it a deceptive calm. Juliana knew better than to believe the flat surface of the water meant any degree of safety. Here in Avignon, the Rhone was swollen from dozens of rivers that entered upstream. Few rivers in the entire kingdom were mightier, and she had been early warned early on that too many peasants, unable to swim, drowned each year from tumbling into the waters from bridges or shore.

  Another minute passed.

  She counted arches far below on the Pont St. Bénézet, the legendary huge stone bridge of Avignon that crossed to an island in the Rhone, then continued arch after arch over the island to the far banks of the river’s deep swiftness. Of the 26 arches along the bridge, she was able to see only six before the ghostly pale stonework disappeared in the darkness.

  Save for the occasional splash of water as the river surged against the bridge’s foundation, little other noise reached her ears. This high and this far north of the town and palace, she was in complete isolation.

  Her first warning of visitors was a grunt, the sound of a large man stumbling in the shadows of the gardens. The voice that followed made her tingle with recognition.

  “Monsieur, are you certain we travel in the right direction? Here there is no way out except by flying like a bird. I know the palace grounds well and have yet to discover a path down the cliffs.”

  Raphael. His words were good-natured and gave no indication that he suspected his approaching death.

  “And who is it that waits for me, monsieur?” Raphael asked. “Surely this far from the dungeon you can finally tell me.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Your name, monsieur? You can now tell me that?”

  “Demigius,” the large man said with impatience. “Now hold your tongue, jester. Is not the rescue in itself enough?”

  “For which you have my gratitude, Demigius,” Raphael replied. They were barely more than ten steps away from her. Juliana saw them as indistinct shapes moving slowly. “I wish, however—”

  “You will see shortly enough.”

  There was a slight pause. She could hear the rustle of leaves against their bodies as they pushed through the garden.

  “Monsieur,” Raphael urged. “Watch for that —”

  “Ummph,” the large man said as he bumped his head into a low branch.

  Raphael chuckled. “Perhaps I should lead. I do know the grounds. If you would tell me where you wished to go…”

  Demigius grumbled low curses, and Raphael held his silence.

  Juliana found herself breathing in shallow gasps. She could not afford to be found yet. The thought of what might happen if she failed added to her nervousness. Earlier she had condemned Raphael to death and torture; now she could not let him die.

  They passed by her without seeing her among the tall bushes. She waited a few seconds and then stepped out to follow.

  The two in front of her reached the edge of the cliffs. They followed along the edge to a point where the land jutted out over the sheer drop. The large man stopped.

  “Monsieur,” Raphael said, “I do not mean to show disrespect, but unless we have wings…”

  “Yes,” the large man said with cold softness. “It would serve you best if you did.”

  “Monsieur?”

  Juliana moved closer. She saw the larger shadow raise his arm.

  “Monsieur!” Raphael blurted as he saw it too. The sword, held high, its gleaming steel reflected by moonlight. He stepped backward away from the sword and onto the narrow point of land. To his left and to his right, only night air. And behind him, only three steps of safety before he would plunge to certain death on the rocks far below.

  “Monsieur…”

  “I could have killed you in the dungeon,” Demigius said. His voice was flat, as if he were merely commenting on the weather. “But then I would have had to carry you here, and I am far too lazy for that.”

  Raphael tried a hesitant step forward. The man slashed his sword, a vicious cut that narrowly missed Raphael’s chest. The swoosh of torn air carried clearly to Juliana. She had never felt such fear before. Fear for Raphael. Fear for what she must do.

  The man kept his sword ready to swing again. Raphael did not move. He had no chance to duck past the man to the safety of the garden.

  “I…I do not understand,” Raphael said. “Why this trouble to…to…”

  “End your life?” The continued flatness of the man’s voice added to Juliana’s fear. He was about to murder Raphael, yet treated it no differently than if he were cutting carrots for soup. “Jester, there are those who do not want to see you questioned. They much prefer that you die while attempting escape.”

  “Who?” Raphael said. “Who wishes that I die? And why?”

  “I find your questions tedious. All that matters is your body be found on the rocks tomorrow in daylight.” Demigius jabbed at Raphael with his sword. Raphael took an unwanted step backward. Two more steps and indeed he would be among the realm of angels.

  Juliana reached into her cloak for the tiny weapon she had taken from her room. She forced herself to move out from the shadows that protected her.

  “Good evening,” she called with a cheerfulness she did not feel. “As I walked through the garden, I heard voices and…”

  She stopped, as if seeing the sword for the first time. “What is this?”

  Demigius turned slightly, able to keep Raphael out on the ledge and able to watch Juliana.

  “Woman,” Demigius grunted, “it would serve you well to walk away.”

  Raphael said nothing. His eyes were on the sword and any opportunity to dive past the man.

  “Walk away?” she asked. “First convince me you mean the jester no harm.”

  “You recognize him?” Demigius sighed. “Woman, you have just brought your own death upon yourself.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Run!” Raphael cried to Juliana, hoarse w
ith desperation. “He will not leave me to chase you. Run now!”

  Demigius danced a stutter step of hesitation, realizing that he could not attack both Raphael and Juliana at once.

  “Run!” Raphael urged again as Juliana had not moved. “Escape!”

  Juliana ignored his plea. She brought her right hand to her mouth and stepped toward Demigius. Darkness hid the short piece of narrow copper tube curled by her fist and aimed at the killer’s throat.

  “You dare fight me?” Demigius challenged her approach with a sneer. “A mere woman?”

  Raphael edged toward Demigius, something that Juliana noted with a surge of warm gratitude. He is willing to attack unarmed, she thought, because he believes me to be in danger.

  Demigius caught the motion out of the corner of his eye. He spun and slashed viciously at Raphael, who barely dodged the sword’s blade with a backward jump.

  “Bah,” Demigius said with contempt as he turned his attention again to Juliana. “You both die.”

  Juliana drew breath but did not to reply. She needed air in her lungs for another reason. One step closer and almost within range of the killer’s sword, she blew hard, forcing a burst of air through the copper tube.

  An instant later, Demigius slapped the side of his neck.

  “What child’s play is this?” he said. He pulled at his skin and answered his own question with a laugh. “A dart?”

  He leered with joy, a horrible grimace in the moon’s light and then laughed again. “I quake with fear at such a weapon.”

  He waved his sword at Juliana. “When I finish with him, you die next. No matter how far you try to run.”

  With lazy confidence, he turned his back on her and faced Raphael. He jabbed the air in front of the jester.

  Raphael inched backward.

  “Ho!” Demigius said. “This has been so troublesome I will now delight to see you fall.”

  Another jab.

  Another backward step by Raphael. One more half step and he would hurtle to his death on the rocks far below.

  Juliana watched in confusion. Surely the potion would take effect. Not even a man as big as Demigius could stand against the weapon she’d been given, a dart poisoned by an extract of herbs and roots.