The Crystal Crux - Betrayal (YA EDITION Book 1)

by A Werner

  Pero had no intention of accepting ‘no’ for an answer. Bold and belligerent, he strutted between the woman and the altar before plopping his weight down on the other side of the pew beside her.

  Beneath the purple cape with icy silver trim, the annoyed maiden rolled her eyes, her shoulders now drawn the other way.

  Pero would not be ignored.

  “I know,” Pero said blindly, ignorantly, foolishly. “A beautiful young princesa from a far off land will wed the Castellan of this city and here you sit.” He shook his head disappointed. “Here you sit in a sad chapel, all alone, so alone.” He gestured in the general direction of the crucified Christ observing them. “I know what you pray. You pray God send you a man, a strong hombre with sincere principles and courage. You need a man to lift you up from your worries and carry you away.”

  The woman stiffened as the odor of mead raced up her nose. The strangers scent was suffocating the calming scent of the candles and incenses. She remained defiant. “Hardly.”

  The thought suddenly crisscrossed Pero’s scrambled mind that he might be wooing a married woman. “Are you currently attached to another?”

  “Again I say, hardly.”

  An unexpected wave of alcohol suddenly swam up into Pero’s brain and he lost his concentration. His hungry stomach made a bizarre, unsettling noise followed by a rude belch. Dizziness forced him to lean over on the woman’s shoulder as if to fall asleep.

  Disgusted, the woman brushed him back to his place in both the booth and in the mind.

  “Sorry,” Pero quickly apologized. “I am a bit lightheaded from devout prayer.” He couldn’t help but laugh at what he said.

  She was not amused.

  Listless and woozy, Pero decided to speak no matter how moronic the pronouncements might be.

  “So here we sit,” He quipped. “I, the unbearable bones of a dizzy man in his wretched attire, and you, the flowering essence of true womanhood crouched beneath the hide of a Nemean lion. How does a knight approach such a terrifying beast and triumph? There are all these obvious contrasts between us, here and there, up and down, you heartbroken and I, full of revelry and life. Can a downcast senhorita destroy the light in me or can I destroy the dark in you? I do not know. Should I challenge your God, or your gods, or fate, or chance, in this house of the Lord?” He peaked at the face of the crucified Christ and shuddered. “Can He see us down here under all this brick and glass?”

  She wanted to respond but didn’t. ‘Drunken idiot.’

  “Oh, pardon my offense. I’ve insulted someone, no one.” He snickered. “Everyone? I don’t know. I am obviously confused.” He nudged her with his elbow. “Truth be told, I had a few too many spirits tonight. Perhaps it’s time you bolted for the door. I fear I may never make sense. I am a sinner, my lady. The worse kind of sinner there is. I think I hear the Old Man moving around upstairs, and I don’t mean Gherardus.” He giggled a little. “Look at Him hanging up there. I know that long face. I’ve seen Him many times in many chapels around the world. He’s not pleased with me. He’s never pleased with me. Always mad. Always angry. One day, He will strike me down for such disrespect.” Pero leaned in closer and whispered at her hood, “Was that a crackle of lightning or just my heart breaking?”

  The woman fought against a smile yearning to emerge.

  Pero was pinning like a schoolboy. He wanted to force the affair. There were no more doubts. She had to be compelling and young, she didn’t even smell old. But Pero had better training than that. ‘Be patient, hijo,’ his mother’s voice echoed.

  Confident but cautious, Pero placed his right hand on top of her left hand. She didn’t flinch. She allowed it to stay.

  Encouraged, Pero began to slowly curl his fingers around the side of her hand. He kept advancing until the back of his hand was lying against her thigh and the palm of her hand gently rested in his. Again, she offered no resistance.

  The woman suddenly squeezed his hand as if she were motioning him to proceed, do something or say something more to grow her confidence in him.

  Pero studied their joined hands and smiled. Time had slowed to a sluggish crawl and he could feel her pulse thundering.

  The door to the chapel was still cracked open and with the stream of light came music. Pero recognized the melody at once. “My lady, do you know this song?”

  She shook her head slightly for she had never heard it.

  “Ah, it is wonderful. I shall sing it for you.”

  Pero was an accomplished singer who always began lightly, but not because he was meek. He was anything but. He was merely finding his voice. “The night comes before I fall asleep. It brings me visions that will be dreams; it brings me thoughts of you.” Pero knew at once that she was pleased with him for she squeezed his hand again, a tad bit harder this time, an encouraging prompt indeed. Inspiration filled his heart and it could not be contained. His voice rose. “The night visits you before you fall asleep. It whispers tales of me. Through stars, through moons, through worlds unseen. It whispers tales of me. It asks, it begs. It calls. Will you dream? Will you dream? Will you dream of me?”

  Pero sang no more because the young lady had come up from her slouch and rewarded his efforts with the most beautiful smile he had ever seen, teeth so white and perfect. But her grin was all he could see. The purple hood still served as a barrier between them, a frustrating shadow covering her eyes, jailing her soul.

  Pero could wait no longer. The butterfly had to be freed. He risked everything and let go of her left hand. He raised his arms on either side of her head and whispered, “May I?”

  The lady granted him her permission with an unhurried, deliberate nod.

  Pero took a deep breath and pushed back the material. What he beheld was perfection itself. She was angelic. He placed her features immediately. She was Grecian. Her eyes were ‘grey, no, green, no, grey again, no, a perfect blending of both,’ colors running deeper than the Aegean Sea. Her cheekbones were graceful, rolling down into the smooth dark tenderness of her lips and mouth. As he sailed away into her docile gaze, he realized she approved of his countenance for in unison they said to themselves and to each other, “Beautiful.”

  Embarrassed, the maiden turned slightly red. She started running her fingers though that which remained of her hair. It was an erratic, unflattering cut. Parts of her scalp were showing. Pero had not taken notice of this unpleasantness until she gave him reason to pay attention to it. He tried to touch the wound but she politely bumped his hand away.

  “Don’t.” In shame, she turned her head away. “Please, do not touch it.”

  “What has happened? Who has clipped gossamer from this ravishing creature?”

  She raised the purple hood back up over her head as a few tears appeared. “I did.”

  An uncomfortable silence arrived and tried its best to separate them. The young lady found her confession too difficult to endure and started to move to leave.

  Pero caught hold of her hand as she rose up out of the pew. “If it pleases the lady, I would ask her to stay a few moments longer and pray with me.”

  This request caught her off-guard. She seemed confused and pleased by the stranger who, despite being heavily influenced by distilled spirits, still strove to act politely. After considering an easy escape through the cracked open door, she bravely returned to her seat. “What Sir, shall we pray for?”

  Pero lowered the hood again and she allowed it.

  “I am called Pero. Tell me your name.”

  “I asked you kindly, Sir, what we should pray for. My name is not necessary. He knows who I am.”

  Pero smiled. “Ah, senhorita, you might think your name is unnecessary but I assure you, I know better. When I take time to pray to Dios, I make sure to name my advocate. My angel will grant access. The Old Man doesn’t permit just anyone to approach His throne. I require credentials.”

  She closed her grey-green eyes and blushed. “Pero, I am no angel. I have no special message for you.” She touched a p
lace on her head where the scalp was showing. “This is a sacrifice for my sins, shorn for His forgiveness. My name is impure and unfit for the lips of a gentleman’s speak.”

  Pero chuckled. “Gentleman, you say? Let me assure you that my gentlemanly manners have been suspended this evening. I have been debauch. I won’t even repeat these things for fear I make you cringe. And now,” he lifted and kissed the back of her hand, “in vile impulsiveness, I propose to proclaim before God, words that even the most wicked paladin in all of Christendom would doom me for uttering.”

  She gazed solemnly into his blue eyes. ‘Such a noble, handsome clown. He just won’t shut up. Please stop talking madness.’ She couldn’t believe she was even bearing him in mind after the awful day she had endured. ‘In better times, under better conditions, I believe he is what I might consider a decent man. If only I had the courage to believe they still exist.’

  “You are drunk, Sir, yes, but wicked, no.”

  “Please, my lady, your name.”

  Finally, she relented. “Anthea.”

  Pero nodded. “Indeed, Anthea is perfect. I could see this face attached to no other name. You are a flower; no designation was ever truer.”

  Anthea was impressed. The Latins she had met since arriving in Italy were cretins. They all, to a man, associated her name immediately upon hearing it, with the pagan goddess of her homeland. Not a one of them considered the flower.

  “Come with me, Anthea,” Pero whispered. And simultaneously they went down to their knees and then facedown before the altar.

  “Father in heaven,” Pero began to pray aloud. “Although there be no one in this chapel, I know there are angels and they testify to everything they see, especially those things that be upright and true. So, if this moment and these words seem upright and true to them, I beg them to fly and to flee, deliver my message to your ears. For I, Pero of Penafiel, the son of Blassilo Velez, and the Lord of the keep at Capua …”

  Anthea’s head shifted. ‘A knight? Capua? He is a lord?’

  “…swear to shield Anthea from every woe. I shall wipe her every tear, vanquish her every grief. I will be her comforter. By the Christ, I will stand beside her and offer her the joy she so richly deserves. My sword, my possessiones, and my life are Anthea’s chattel forever and ever, until death do us part.”

  Anthea retreated from the prayer in a huff. She sat up on her knees and glared at the drunken clown. “What have you done, Sir?”

  Pero de Alava grinned from ear to ear, rising slowly to his knees as well. “I have committed us to the banns before almighty God. You, Anthea, shall be my wife.”

  Anthea jumped to her feet not realizing that the bottom of her cape was caught under Pero’s knee. She yanked hard at the fabric and accidently dislodged the gold clasp that had been holding shut the purple cape about her neck. The clasp popped off in the dark and rattled to a halt on the floor beside Pero’s knee.

  “No,” she declared. “No, this will not do. This must be annulled immediately. I will find a priest. You must recant. You know nothing about me and my sins. You don’t know who I am or what has happened today. What you wish for is impossible.” Anthea stormed out of the chapel, barging through the door in tears. The door bounced violently off the wall and slammed shut, the latch now catching.

  Content in candlelight, Pero poked around on the floor until he located the wayward clasp Anthea had lost. He examined the fish-hook clip, touched it tenderly to his lips and used it to button his shirt where the button would not work before. It was an easy exercise to perform and that made him smile.

  Without any more bowing, Pero turned back towards the altar and finished his prayer, his blue eyes staring directly into those of the chastened Christ. “Father in heaven, I ask that this token serve as a perpetual reminder of my oath to Anthea. Hold me fast to it. Don’t ever let me run from it. My quest to find perfection in woman has not been in vain. Her beauty has ruined me for all others. I can never speak the name Anthea again without being humbled by it. I have entered into her eternal service.”

  Pero stood up and brushed himself off. He realized that the crucified depiction of the Christ figure looming above the altar did not intimidate him anymore. It had been transformed into a glorious symbol of grace and love. God led him here. This was destiny.

  “I am Pero de Alava, your faithful servant. I have tasted the fruit of your kingdom, beheld its everlasting beauty and been blinded, spellbound. Command me Lord as you would command your holy angels. I am ready to make my stand in life. Place your faith in me and my love for Anthea and watch me change the world.”

  Chapter 32 – Jawbone Of An Ass

  From his mount, Pero de Alava sized up Cambio, the build of his body, the broad shoulders, his bushy dark hair. Several hours ago, he has this young man begging for his life. Miriam’s tip resting near his Adam’s apple. Pero’s mind, however, was unsound, bewitched by a lustful spirit. He never really inspected the boy’s facial features. He took no interest in him at all. Cambio even had an axe secreted beneath his homespun and Pero never noticed. It was all about Gisele. But now they were leagues away from civilization with the sun descending and the journey waning. Every field had been as foreign as the last. There was little to do and even less to occupy the mind. ‘What the heck does he look like?’

  The longer Pero examined the peasant’s backside, the more he came to realize that he had misjudged the youngster. Cambio was not nearly as feeble or as weak as his constitution. He was not even a boy. Cambio was a man, young and healthy, perhaps in his early twenties without an ounce of fat on him. As Cambio did battle with the overgrowth before him, Pero came to respect his determination. His swings with the axe were accurate and lethal, almost artful, the stems and stalks bending to his will, falling helplessly before him. Sweating profusely, he did not appear labored. There was an ease to his industry. The peasant never rested, never tired, never paused or turned around to evaluate his betters. He gave no hint of his frustrations.

  Every now and then, Pero’s mind would drift further away and a sense of paranoia would rush back on him. He could see the little man on the leaf and worried that there were more of them, an army of them waiting to pounce, attack while they slept. But he had never seen them before, not a single one, not until today. And the horse. ‘Are flying horses real? Why hasn’t anyone else spoken of them? Just because I’ve never seen them, it doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Now I’m seeing them.’

  Cambio, meanwhile, was highly unsettled, more than Pero knew. The young man wore a scowl on the part of his head no one else could see. Being the only member of the party hoofing it, toiling and sweating, the swings of his hatchet were increasing in intensity. His typically quiet mind was burbling with activity, a fury unlike anything he had ever experienced before. He was deeply troubled.

  Never formally educated and wholly unable to write a single word in any language, Cambio was no fool. Pero’s lust towards his sister had not gone unnoticed. And when the beast in shiny armor decided to remain behind, announcing he would catch up, Cambio’s thoughts were instantly afire with images of sin. ‘What did you do to Gisele?’

  Cambio had no history of committing violence against anyone. He hardly ever raised his voice. He was fully aware of his lowly station in life and knew that using force to resolve his problems would only get him in trouble with local authorities. Even now, just thinking about the tip of the knight’s blade grazing his neck was enough to give him chills. This Pero-person was obviously a very mean-spirited, unstable brute and his impulsive nature couldn’t be trusted. ‘Remember how quickly he changed his ways when he saw his escorts arriving,’ Cambio reminded himself.

  But something was different now; something inside Cambio had wriggled to life and invaded his subconscious. The moment he forced himself between Gisele and Pero, an exhilaration of fear and courage surged through his body. He tingled all over. He had defied a nobleman, a knight. ‘What the heck was I thinking? He could have killed me.’ But it was a g
ood feeling, a powerful feeling. And now he was left to deal with the confusion it created. Cambio rarely, if ever, thought this way. He rarely ever thought about anything. His life was simple and submissive. He kept his nose down and performed his duties without complaint. All those warlike emotions he denied were kept in chains for it would do him no good to have them freed. But they were alive now, twisting and turning, rattling the bars of their cages, prodding him to let them out.

  A newly awaken worm spoke to Cambio from its cell. ‘Who put these nobles in charge? Who gave them their authority? Was it God? Would God condone such lust?’ There was a quiet pause before the worm returned with an appealing inkling. ‘Samson slayed a cohort of Philistines with the jawbone of an ass.’ Cambio thought on the crude weapon in his hand. ‘I don’t have the jawbone of an ass but I have this. I have an axe. And I have the element of surprise. With God’s help, I could kill these knights.’

  At that very instant, a darkling likeness of Gisele flashed to mind and Cambio bristled. He pictured his sister weeping beneath a tall tree, her garment torn, arms bruised, legs crossed in shame. It was all too real. ‘She’s communicating with me. She wants justice.’ But Cambio had never avenged. He was no crusader. ‘Who am I to be the hand of God?’ Cambio toiled to convince himself that he should act. ‘I am strong, devout and armed. She was just a girl. Did you kill her?’ He hadn’t even thought of that possibility until now. ‘Did you have your way with her and murder her? And what of me? Will you kill me too?’ Cambio could feel every sweat bead on his body and was developing a chill. ‘This is really going to happen. I’m going to turn around and kill these men. Bless me and forgive me as I strike Pero dead.’

  Cambio squeezed the handle of his hatchet and took one more swing at a particularly defiant stalk in his path. The plant flew out of the way with ease. Cambio dreamed it was Pero’s head flying from his body.