The Crusader

by Michael Eisner

  Quite frankly, I was a bit annoyed with Francisco and his sanctimonious attitude toward Prince Fernando, whose able leadership produced a glorious victory for Christendom and for Aragón. Indeed, Prince Fernando’s actions, by drawing the Saracens away from the Calatrava’s position, probably saved Francisco’s life.

  When I entered Francisco’s cell this morning, I did not greet him. I had to restrain myself from launching the stern lecture I had replayed many times the previous evening. It was, in fact, an instruction on the spiritual perils of hypocrisy and ingratitude.

  “Perhaps, Francisco,” I said, when I had settled in my chair, “we should focus today on your actions and not seek to cast aspersions on the brave men who lead the crusade.”

  Francisco did not respond. He was sitting against the wall with his eyes closed. After a minute, he stood up and walked to the end of his cell, leaning on the windowsill.

  ANDRÉS AND I skulked back to our tent from the castle. From our camp, we could see the red flames, a bonfire of our enemies. Andrés sat on his bed mat, humming softly, just a whisper. I laid my head down and closed my eyes. Soon I was lost in the sparks and hiss of the fire—a hot, angry night.

  When I opened my eyes, the dark had receded to a damp gray. I could hear the birds, a hushed conversation that whined and twisted free until all that was left was the crying of children. Not a call for attention, but a haunted melody.

  The infidel women and children, we were told, had fled the castle before the siege began. I looked to my comrades, searching their faces for some explanation. No one would meet my glance.

  “Uncle Ramón,” I called. He was still sleeping. “Uncle Ramón.”

  He opened one eye.

  “This had better be good, Francisco,” he said. “I was in bed with a dark-haired beauty.”

  “The children,” I said.

  Ramón studied my face. Then he jerked up to a sitting position and cocked his head inquisitively. A dark shadow crossed his face. He bounded to his feet and reached for his hauberk.

  “Francisco and Andrés,” he said, “we return to the castle. Dress for battle.”

  Ramón set a brisk pace. Andrés and I had to sprint to catch him. I cursed my trembling fingers as I struggled to buckle my belt. My sword rattled against the skirt of my chain mail. The cries became louder, hideous shrieks of ruin and damnation.

  The trail to the castle sloped uneven through the mud. The earth scarred black, still smoking. Patches of grass singed, like tiny embers. Andrés had stopped abruptly. I reached his side and pushed him forward. He resisted, an uncertain smile, pointing down at some unnatural intrusion. A blue flower, solitary, grown mistaken in that barren country.

  As we approached the gates, I had to rub my eyes and squint through the fog to see the strange sentinels who guarded the castle. Four heads on the end of wooden stakes. Children, three boys and a girl, with fierce grimaces that belied their innocence, and bloodstained eyes that followed our movements. I walked that gauntlet as fast as I could. But Andrés stopped just underneath the girl and peered up at her tenderly, as if he would ask that little head if she was thirsty and then offer a drink. I shouted his name, but he was preoccupied with that imagined conversation. I was forced to walk back under the watchful eyes of those four gatekeepers and to pull my friend through the castle portal.

  Inside the fortress, the rancid smell of battle permeated every crevice and choked the air from my lungs. The prayers of the condemned pierced the fetid mist. The shrill cries swallowed the colors, so that the world could be seen only in black, white, and gray. For an instant, I caught a glimpse of one of the infidel girls running naked, the white, spectral skin of her delicate shoulders. She was looking back at an unseen assailant. Then she vanished.

  Ramón had already exchanged words with one of the soldiers at the entrance. He escorted us along the sidewall to the threshold of a heavily guarded room. One of Don Fernando’s aides recognized Ramón immediately and ushered us inside.

  The room had no furnishings except for a long, rectangular table with wooden benches. The whitewashed walls were bare. Don Fernando sat at the head of the table with his lieutenants spaced about him. Platters of venison exuded a noxious aroma that seemed indistinguishable from the smell of rot and death that pervaded the castle.

  “Uncle Ramón, it is a pleasure,” Don Fernando said. “I trust you were greeted by our youthful hosts as you entered the castle.” The laughter of the Don’s lieutenants grated against the solemn labors perpetrated by those same men.

  “Don Fernando, if you refer to the four heads on stakes, we saw the display,” Ramón said gravely.

  “The women and children,” Don Fernando said, “were hiding in an underground tunnel during the battle, praying to their pagan gods. My soldiers found them last night after Mass.

  “Young Francisco and Andrés,” Don Fernando continued, “welcome. Are you Ramón’s first deputies now? You have taken advantage of the tragic deaths of your comrades. I applaud your initiative. Please enter.”

  I took a step forward and slipped on a slick patch of blood on the stone floor. I was able to regain my balance before falling, but, even with their heads riveted on the food before them, Don Fernando’s lieutenants had seen the misstep and were snickering at my expense. Men, so avocated, never miss a sudden movement, not in wartime.

  “Don Fernando,” Ramón said, “there is an important matter about which I would like to speak to you in private.”

  “Ramón,” Don Fernando responded, “I trust my men with my life. They can hear whatever matter concerns you. But first you must join us in this celebratory feast. Then we shall talk.”

  “Don Fernando,” Uncle Ramón said, “I must decline your invitation. We are here on business.”

  “What business would that be, friend, on such a glorious day?”

  “I must protest,” Uncle Ramón said, “the manner in which your men have treated the Muslim women and children. I would ask that you instruct your deputies to see to the protection of all prisoners under your guard and put an end to the abuses against civilians.”

  “Abuses?” Don Fernando asked. “Are you aware of any abuses, Pablo?”

  Pablo González, the Don’s first lieutenant, was seated just to his right. He glanced at Ramón. His dull brown eyes seemed lifeless, incapable of absorbing light or displaying emotion.

  “No, master,” Pablo said, “I know of no such abuses.” Then he resumed eating.

  “And you, Francisco,” Don Fernando said, “have you seen these alleged abuses?”

  “Don Fernando,” I said, “I have heard the cry of innocents.”

  Don Fernando’s lips curled in amusement as he examined my face.

  “Innocents?” Don Fernando said. “The word is alien to me, Francisco. It was my impression that there are no innocents amongst the infidels. Perhaps we should consult Padre Albar on this interesting theological point.”

  “Don Fernando,” I said, “I use the term in reference to the Muslim women and children. They are noncombatants.”

  “Don Fernando,” Ramón said, “the actions of your men bring dishonor on all the Christian forces.”

  “No, Ramón,” Don Fernando said sharply, “you are mistaken. I honor my men by giving them the freedom they have justly earned after risking their lives in this great struggle.”

  “Don Fernando,” Ramón said, “I cannot countenance these activities.”

  “Then go home, old man,” Don Fernando said. “This is not your war.”

  Don Fernando waved his hand as if shooing a fly away, then turned his attention to his meal. He seemed to forget our presence. Not so his men. They understood the potential consequences of speaking such words to the Grand Master of the Calatrava. Every one of his lieutenants stopped eating and looked up. Uncle Ramón’s jaw was hard and shadowed, the crooked vein on his bald head throbbing. He grasped the handle of his sword. Almost simultaneously, Don Fernando’s men swept plates and mugs from the table in a frenzied clatter
. They put their hands to their weapons, although none were drawn. They looked to Uncle Ramón, expectantly, hungrily, and then back to their master, waiting for a signal, like obedient dogs anticipating the distribution of scraps from the table.

  I could feel the eyes of Don Fernando’s lieutenants on my person, scanning my armor, looking for its vulnerable points. I counted their number—twelve of them … three of us. We would have been slaughtered. Our bodies left to decay in that loathsome pit.

  I felt for the hilt of my sword.

  Don Fernando’s methodical chewing was the only sound, the only movement in that chamber. He continued to eat his meal peacefully as if he were in the comfort of his own castle, indifferent to the explosion of violence that threatened to erupt.

  “Ramón,” Don Fernando said, not looking up from his plate, “has life grown so tiresome that you would forfeit it to defend a few infidel whores?”

  In the breathless hush that followed, Ramón carried the weight of all our fates. He looked at Andrés and me. He scrutinized us carefully as if he were calculating the value of our lives. Then he shook his head slowly and eased his grip on his weapon.

  The moment had passed. Don Fernando’s men relaxed their vigilance, although they watched Ramón from the corner of their eyes. Ramón turned slowly, outmaneuvered, overrun, and left the chamber. Andrés and I followed in his wake.

  We walked back to our tent without exchanging word or glance. We never spoke of the confrontation or what we had seen at the castle, not to each other, not to our comrades.

  When we arrived at our tent, Ramón ordered the men to prepare to march back to Acre. Maybe he thought that by putting distance between our force and Toron we could disassociate ourselves from the crimes committed by Don Fernando’s army. Maybe he thought he could silence the silent howls of those children.

  We left early that afternoon, carrying our wounded—four men—in a covered wagon. Two of the wounded died en route. We buried their bodies in full armor on the side of the path, marking the mounds with branches tied, torn, wrenched into a Cross. After reciting the prayer for the dead, we rode off, leaving the gravesites to the local scavengers. No one looked back.

  Two days after we left Toron, we reached Acre. The sun had not yet risen. The streets were deserted. We slinked back to the Hospitaller Ward, fugitives with the bitter taste of our flight like a film on our lips.

  I HAD GREAT difficulty listening to Francisco’s description of the bloody events at Toron. The whole affair is quite upsetting. Indeed, I felt feverish and weak when I left his cell. As I made my way down the winding stairwell, I almost stumbled on the steep steps.

  When the bells rang, I did not go to prayer services. I spent the entire afternoon in my quarters, reading and rereading sections of this manuscript, a record of Francisco’s confession, a map of his soul. I was seeking the source of his possession, some pathway, a trail that would lead through all this darkness.

  I could not concentrate on the written words, though. My thoughts kept returning to Francisco’s account of Toron. The black ink spread like blood on the parchment. Images of the battle mingled amongst the letters. The dark stairwell Francisco descended into the bowels of the castle. Don Fernando’s soldiers breaking through the gates, trampling the fleeing infidels. The head of the little girl on a stake, her olive cheeks smooth, unsullied.

  In short, I was troubled, confused and troubled. I sought out Brother Vial for advice. I found him sitting alone in the parlor gazing at several flowers he had picked from the courtyard.

  “Brother Lucas,” he said, “you look as if you have seen a ghost. Are you unwell?”

  “Brother Vial,” I said, “could we speak of Francisco’s confession?”

  “Please, Brother Lucas, share your concerns.”

  “I fear, Brother Vial, that Francisco has lost his bearings,” I said.

  “You have lost your bearings, Brother Lucas?” he asked.

  “No, Brother Vial, I speak of Francisco. In his description of the battle of Toron, he cannot distinguish between Christian knights and their infidel counterparts. Horror seems to taint everyone and everything.”

  “War is most unpleasant, Brother Lucas.”

  “I spent the afternoon reading over Francisco’s confession,” I said. “I must have read his account of the battle of Toron ten times. I was searching for the map of his soul, some hint of light. I did not find any. It seemed more a map of hell.”

  “What’s all this talk of maps, Brother Lucas?” Brother Vial asked.

  “Excuse me, Brother Vial?”

  “You referred to a map, Brother Lucas,” he said. “Has the monastery received a new shipment of manuscripts from Barcelona?”

  “Brother Vial, I am speaking of more weighty issues. I refer to the map of Francisco’s soul.”

  “A map of Francisco’s soul?” he asked.

  “Brother Vial, surely you remember our conversation not five months ago when you told me the reason you transcribe the confessions of your subjects. In the parchment, you said, you find the map of the subject’s soul, a map that reveals the source of possession and the path toward salvation.”

  “Ah, yes, the map of the soul,” Brother Vial said. “I remember. An old man’s memory sometimes fails him. Forgive me, Brother Lucas.”

  “Brother Vial,” I said, “I searched for the map of Francisco’s soul in his confession. I found only blackness.”

  “Brother Lucas,” he said, “perhaps I misspoke in the conversation to which you refer. I meant a map of the exorcist’s soul. Your soul, Brother Lucas, not Francisco’s.”

  “My soul, Brother Vial?”

  “Yes, Brother Lucas,” he said, “your soul.”

  “Brother Vial, surely you jest?”

  “Brother Lucas,” he said, “the soul of a man is not a subject for jesting.”

  “I am certain, Brother Vial, absolutely certain that you spoke of the map of the soul in reference to the possessed.”

  “An interesting idea, Brother Lucas,” he said, “but not mine. I do transcribe the confessions of my most stubborn subjects. When I read the manuscript, oftentimes I am surprised to find in the parchment the map of my own soul, my own confession. In certain cases, Brother Lucas, the exorcist must examine himself, undertake his own spiritual journey through dark, untrod forests.”

  “Brother Vial,” I said, “I am confounded.”

  “Brother Lucas,” he said, “sometimes we must be confounded, before we can find our way.”

  Brother Vial sat up slowly, put his hand on my clenched fist, then made his way out of the parlor. I sat by myself for a while. I did not feel restful, though. In truth, I felt quite angry with Brother Vial. I suppose my feelings were unjustified. I cannot blame Brother Vial for his memory loss. Perhaps he is becoming senile. He certainly speaks nonsense. Of what use would a map of my soul be? I am not possessed; Francisco is. I decided right then that I would not consult Brother Vial again and that I would seek the answers I needed in prayer. I stood and walked through the courtyard to the church.

  In a dark recess of the chapel, I knelt before a statue of the Virgin. I looked up to the wood sculpture of Mary. The Mother of God—gazing upon the Lord’s creation, mourning the loss of her Son, grieving for the innocents. The wood grain visible through the peeling paint.

  That’s when it happened. A most unfortunate incident. Just an instant. Maybe longer. I do not know. I glanced at the blue enamel of Mary’s eyes, chipped, sorrowful, turning gray. Through the glaze, I imagined I could see the ocean waves—and the horizon, perhaps the same vista Francisco saw on his journey to the Holy Land. A storm seemed to be brewing in the distance. The sky melted into the ocean, the waves leaping to meet the ashen clouds. The boundaries between elements blurred. I could no longer distinguish land from water, sky from sea. I felt dizzy, disoriented, lost in the vortex of that gray space, the apocalypse. The clouds running into the ocean. Goodness bleeding into evil.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow. I cou
ld hardly breathe. The stale air was choking me. I rose and headed for the courtyard. The straight line of the aisle became crooked, though. The location of the door kept shifting. I knocked into an iron candelabrum, dodging the falling flame just barely. When I reached the door, one of my brothers tried to lend a supporting arm.

  “Brother Lucas, what is the matter?” he asked.

  I pushed him away, then staggered into the courtyard. I found refuge under the canopy of the cistern. I splashed water on the back of my neck. Indeed, I dipped my head in the cold water and held on to the rail until the spinning subsided.

  When I looked up from the basin, I noticed a small congregation of monks staring at me from across the courtyard. I must have seemed quite a spectacle. I had to act rather quickly to dampen the curiosity of my anxious brothers. Despite the unsteadiness of my legs, I managed to stand up straight. I washed my hands leisurely, straightened my robe, and walked precisely to the nearest bench. I sat down and pressed my palms together, pretending to pray silently. My brothers soon lost interest in my activities and dispersed.

  When I was finally alone, I took slow, deep breaths. The cool air revived me. In short time, I felt much better, quite myself. The unpleasantness had passed. I was able to reflect with more lucidity on Francisco’s account of Toron.

  Over the years, I have heard stories of the battle of Toron—the boldness of the Christian forces, the barbarism and cruelty of the infidel defenders, placing their civilians before them so that our knights could not fire for fear of hitting a woman or a child. I daresay it would be difficult to find a loyal subject who had not learned the words of at least one of the several songs that commemorate the bravery of the Catalán knights, in particular Prince Fernando. It was upon Fernando’s triumphant return to Barcelona that King Jaime gave his son the title “El Conquistador de Toron, Defender of the Faith, Prince of Barcelona.”