The Angel and the Sword

by Sigmund Brouwer

  He smiled.

  Two could be followed as easily as one.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Juliana lifted the heavy iron knocker and hesitated before she let it drop on the massive door in front of her. Once it fell, there would be no turning back.

  She told herself that her worries were unnecessary.

  Behind her stood ten of the staunchest soldiers from the pope’s personal guard. And, of course, Reynold, who knew as much as any man alive about the ways to disable an opponent.

  No, she had nothing to fear from the men inside this house on the outskirts of Avignon.

  She told herself, too, that she had good reason for this attack. After all, she had seen the faces of the men as each had entered this house during the midnight hour. Dressed in rich velvets, wearing jewels that glittered in the light of their servants’ oil lamps, these were definitely men of wealth, men of wealth who could only have sinister reasons for assembling this late at night in the remote corner of Avignon.

  She let the knocker fall. And again. In her nervousness, the ponderous echoes seemed like thunder.

  Without knowing it, she held her breath as she waited. Only when the view hole of the door slid open did she draw another breath.

  “Go away,” the voice on the other side of the door said.

  Juliana could only see the man’s eyes.

  “I am here on the order of Pope Clement VI,” she said.

  The view hole slammed shut.

  She smiled at the closed door. If it didn’t open immediately, she’d know that the news had not been well received.

  The door did not open.

  She turned back to the soldiers and nodded.

  They carried a battering ram, a long pole with handles on the side, so five men on each side could hold it horizontally. At her nod, they charged forward.

  The door exploded under the impact of their driving legs.

  Without pause, the soldiers dropped their battering ram, pulled free their swords, and dashed into the house.

  Juliana and Reynold followed.

  They found the soldiers in a large room in the center of the house. A fire crackled from the hearth nearby, throwing a dance of light across the men who were frozen in position in the chairs that lined the room.

  The only other person standing, aside from the armed soldiers, was Alfred.

  He stared, open mouthed, at Juliana.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded when he recovered his voice.

  “Spare the drama,” Juliana said. “You know better than I do the reasons you have to fear the wrath of Clement VI. These soldiers are here to arrest you. And the other men in this room.”

  Many of those velvet-covered men of wealth were obscenely fat. They stirred in their chairs but found difficulty in rising quickly.

  “Arrest?”

  “For treason,” Juliana replied.

  “Do you have proof?”

  “Enough.” Despite that answer, she felt misgivings. Alfred seemed too confident. “It will be brought forth at your trial.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Along with your witness? Demigius the hired killer?”

  His words hit her like blows.

  He understood the reaction on her face. He smiled the smile of a cat toying with a crippled bird.

  “I see you find it startling that I know of Demigius.” He paused, enjoying the effect he had on her. “My pretty little fool. I sent him out hoping you would take him as bait. After all, how could I get you to appear here, tonight, at my convenience?”

  Juliana sternly told herself to ignore the urge to back away from Alfred.

  “Juliana, Juliana,” Alfred continued, “don’t you understand? It was obvious to me that Clement VI was trying to discover who was behind the threats against him. My difficulty was in an uncertainty of the identity of my enemy. Demigius, of course, was my way to find out.”

  He swept his arm around him to indicate the dozen or so men in their chairs. “Yes, these are the men you seek. Rich men of business, as you probably guessed, who would prefer Clement VI die to the alternative of seeing the papal court leave Avignon.”

  Muttering from several of the men greeted that remark.

  Alfred scowled, a terrible enough sight that silence fell on the group.

  “And yes,” he said, “as you have guessed, I am in their hire. But if you think your arrival here is a surprise, you are wrong. Dead wrong.”

  Juliana felt more uncertainty. Could not Alfred see the soldiers, their swords drawn?

  Alfred laughed, as if reading her thoughts. “Simply put, my pretty fool, I needed to find a way to get you into the open. My business friends here accomplished that.”

  “Alfred,” one said in an angry voice, “this is…this is…”

  “Shut your mouth,” Alfred said.

  “But —”

  Alfred sighed. He turned from Juliana and directed his words to the men in the chairs. “We needed to discover our enemy. I sent Demigius forth, knowing he would be taken. I also knew the only loyalty that Demigius feels is toward silver. I’d told Demigius that we would be meeting here, tonight.”

  “You used us as bait!” another nearly shouted. “You cannot sacrifice us in this manner!”

  “Sacrifice?” Alfred was unruffled. “Hardly.”

  “The soldiers!” This from the man nearest the fire. “We cannot fight!”

  Alfred nodded. “Which is why you have me in your hire. I can fight. As can my own men.”

  Alfred nodded, his gaze past Juliana. “Now would suffice, gentlemen. Earn those fat bribes.”

  Even before she turned, Juliana knew that she had lost. And when she faced the soldiers, her eyes confirmed the dread that filled her stomach.

  Eight of the soldiers she had brought now surrounded Reynold and the other two soldiers.

  “Very good,” Alfred said. “You are not stupid enough to resist.” He turned to Juliana. “I’ll admit, it comes as surprise to me that it is you serving Clement VI. And I’ll also admit it grieves me. For someone so young and beautiful should not have to die.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “You should count yourself fortunate that at present you are worth more alive than dead,” Alfred sneered.

  Juliana found little consolation in his words. She was tied up, lying in the back of a wagon. Reynold was equally helpless beside her. Both breathed heavily through flared nostrils; the soldiers had stuffed dirty cloths into their mouths as gags. Alfred stood above, ready to cover them both with a heavy blanket.

  Alfred smiled. His face was little more than shadow, his broken teeth a pale gleam. “After all, I would be stupid to believe that you had not yet informed Clement VI of my identity. As hostages, you provide me the means to barter should the need arise.”

  He threw the blanket over Juliana and Reynold, sealing them from the moonlight and stars.

  His laughter, however, reached her.

  He pulled the top of the blanket back and leaned so close she had to wrinkle her nose against his putrid breath.

  “Of course,” he whispered, “tomorrow night the pope will die. A peaceful death in his sleep. But nonetheless, he will die.” Alfred paused. “Then you will no longer be worth more alive than dead.”

  He flipped the blanket back over their faces.

  The wagon lurched forward.

  Juliana tried to guess its destination by the twists and turns, but she knew it was hopeless. The crooked streets of Avignon made such guesswork impossible.

  And what difference would it make if she knew their destination? She held little hope of rescue. The drivers of the wagons were soldiers, those same handpicked men from the papal guard. Who would stop or challenge a guard in the colors of the papal uniform?

  Juliana bit her tongue in frustration. How stupid not to foresee the possibility that guards would turn against her. Not only would she pay with her own life for her blunder, but with the life of Reynold as well. And worse, with the life of the pope.
r />   She shuddered to think of the consequences of a successful assassination attempt on the pope.

  She remembered her conversation with Raphael, how she had explained the politics and the possibility of war all across Europe. Her blunder would cost hundreds of thousands of lives, if not more. Children without mothers. Wives without husbands.

  Another thought struck her at that remembered conversation.

  Raphael!

  Who would rescue him? She and Reynold had bribed the stable master to travel to Paris. No one would return to release Raphael for at least a week. He would be long dead of thirst by then — a horrible way to die.

  Juliana realized with surprise that she grieved more for Raphael than for herself. She’d told herself again and again they could never be together. She‘d told herself again and again to put him from her mind. Yet now, as she thought of him dying, she deeply grieved him and the loss of hope for his love.

  All because of her stupidity.

  The wooden wheels of the wagon groaned and clattered over the cobblestone, a noise in the quiet nighttime streets that hid the sound of Juliana’s weeping.

  Angel Blog

  Curiosity is essential to creativity.

  True or not, you may be saying, how does that statement relate to the story you are telling about this jester?

  But this is a great truth, especially for those of you who prefer to ignore the fact that humans have souls.

  I offer both as pointers to the human soul.

  Curiosity.

  Creativity.

  Look around the animal kingdom. You will find creatures that exhibit curiosity, but not for the sake of curiosity. Instinct compels them to be curious about their surroundings because their lives depend on that knowledge. Humans, however, are the only inhabitants of this world who are curious when it serves no practical purpose.

  The same with creativity. You might try to argue, for example, that birds, like humans, express creative urges with their beautiful songs. But robins sing like robins; from generation to generation their melody, wonderful as it might be, does not change. Meadowlarks sing like meadowlarks and bluebirds like bluebirds. All of this is to our Father’s glory.

  Humans, on the other hand, are unique among all the inhabitants of our Father’s world. Your creativity leads to amazing and varied works of art. Each generation is different from the next.

  I argue, then, that the simple fact of your unique curiosity and creativity – you alone out of all the millions of species – should indicate very strongly to you that you have an invisible soul, a reflection of our Father, the ultimate Creator.

  Should it surprise you, then, that we angels, also products of His creation, share those human traits?

  Yes, this was a long-winded way of explaining that I, too, enjoy curiosity.

  And now, I was truly, truly curious as to who Juliana was and what would happen to her.

  I was not, however, her guardian, but Raphael’s. If her life was in danger, I could not expect to be sent to intervene by our Father.

  But Raphael, on the other hand. . .

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  At the base of the cliffs below the north end of the palace garden, Raphael shook his head no. He shook it violently, as if the harder he told himself no, the more he might convince himself to remain behind the bush that hid him from the boat.

  He failed to persuade himself.

  After all, he stood almost exactly where several nights earlier Demigius wanted to push him from the cliffs high above. Juliana had rescued him then. Even though she’d betrayed him twice since, he did owe her for his life.

  Not only that, if he didn’t find the master storyteller through her, he would forever remain a fugitive, his family doomed to execution because of it.

  Yet why did it have to be the river?

  He had followed Juliana and the hated assassin, she had called him “Reynold,” to a house in the remote corner of Avignon. He had watched as the soldiers with them battered down the door. He had puzzled the meaning of this while he waited to see who might leave. Finally, he had stayed with the wagon that took Juliana and Reynold to the town gates nearest the river.

  There, it had become more difficult. Armed only with the rope and knife he’d been carrying since the stable, Raphael could not hope to overpower the guards at the town gate. Instead, he managed to distract them with the age-old trick of heaving large rocks in the other direction then sprinting through the gate while they investigated the noise.

  He’d nearly lost the wagon because the wheels were no longer rattling over cobblestone. He had only found it again because he’d heard the curses of one of the soldiers as they forced the horses to pull it through some mud near the river.

  Then Raphael had crept close to discover a large boat moored to shore. He’d watched as the soldiers carried Juliana and Reynold onto the boat.

  Raphael had expected the ropes which held the boat to shore to be loosened immediately. Instead, one soldier had departed with the wagon and horses. The other had moved into the boat and settled down for a wait.

  As Raphael watched, he knew there would be no better time than now to take action. Obviously, the soldier expected someone else to arrive. Would it not be better to rush the boat before others joined this lone soldier?

  Yet why did it have to be the river?

  If Raphael fell overboard during the fight, certainly he would drown. And because it was the river, Raphael did not have the luxury of choosing to follow the boat should it leave.

  No, he would have to act now.

  Raphael shuddered. He feared very little. Heights were nothing. Running across something as narrow as a sagging rope was as easy as falling asleep. He could juggle five pins at once. But swim? It did not help that every time he closed his eyes he could feel it again — the black river closing over him and sucking him down to…

  Stop!

  He told himself it did no good to think of the possibility of his death. He told himself to remember that it was Juliana who had rescued him from the mighty Rhone. He told himself he had no choice but risk those black waters.

  The soldier had settled in the boat, sitting with his back against the bow. With the poor light of moon and stars, Raphael had an excellent chance to get close unobserved.

  He crouched and stepped out from the bush. He had the rope wrapped around his waist, the knife in his hand.

  Step by stealthy step, he approached the boat. It was far bigger than the rowboat which had first taken him down the river — this one could easily hold ten grown men. Its bow was high enough that Raphael knew the soldier inside would not see him. A single rope held the boat to shore, its bow pointed upstream toward Raphael.

  The splashes of the river current masked any noise his feet might have made in the soft ground. He crept to within reach of the bow.

  This was the moment to jump up, scramble over the bow, and overwhelm the soldier with surprise.

  Raphael placed the blade of the knife flat and held it between his teeth. He needed both hands free to haul himself into the boat.

  He took a breath and tensed.

  “Halt!” The soldier’s voice clearly broke the night air. “Who goes there?”

  Raphael froze. How could the soldier have —

  “Alfred, fool,” another voice answered back. “And keep your voice down.”

  Alfred. The captain of the guards. Approaching from the down river side of the boat.

  Raphael eased himself into the river to keep the boat between him and Alfred.

  “Are all things ready?” Alfred asked, his voice ringing louder as he neared the boat.

  “Yes, sire. Come on board and all that needs done is to cut the rope that holds us to shore.”

  “Excellent.” Alfred was almost to the boat.

  Raphael stepped farther into the river. Already the water swirled well above his knees, pulling at him with the power he knew all too well. Yet he had to keep the boat between him and Alfred.

  He ke
pt one hand on the rough wood of the boat’s hull. He used that to guide him as he stepped deeper into the river. The water surged above his thighs — cold as ice, cold as death.

  Now he was directly opposite shore, with the boat between him and Alfred.

  The boat rocked. Alfred had boarded.

  Raphael thought of his own rope wrapped around his waist. He had only one chance. The boat must have a hook or ring at the stern, for surely there would be times when it needed more than a bow rope to keep it moored.

  He kept wading, torn between the urgency to rush and the need to prevent splashing or losing his balance. Each step was an agony of suspense.

  “Don’t delay, man,” Alfred commanded. “Cut us loose.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  The boat moved up and down as the soldier clambered to reach the rope.

  Raphael let the curve of the boat guide him to the stern. He reached up, praying that his hand would find —

  Yes!

  A large iron ring, screwed into the wood at the top of the back of the stern. He pulled an end of the rope loose from his waist and frantically threaded it through the ring. He was almost standing now, his head only inches below the top of the stern. He had to knot it quickly. Any second the boat would spin in the current and drift loose.

  Without warning, the boat bumped back, nearly knocking him over.

  The rope at the bow had been cut.

  Raphael pulled hard on his knot. He had to trust that he’d tied it well enough to hold.

  The boat turned in the current.

  The soldier started to row.

  Raphael ducked to hide. The water reached his chin. He let the rope slide through his hands, then wrapped the end around his wrist.

  In moments, he was trailing the boat, almost like a fish tied to a heavy line. Far too quickly the boat reached mid-river. Raphael hung onto the rope, fought to keep his head above the water, and commanded himself not to think of the deep, dark water below him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It didn’t take long for Raphael to understand he had made a mistake.