“It is far from a game,” Sir John replied sadly. “Pelagius seeks glory that only the sacrifice of others can grant him. He is — not unlike me — a king without a country. Or, in his case, a patriarch without a flock. If he cannot have Antioch, he will have Jerusalem and the Holy Lands, and it does not weigh on his soul in the slightest the number who must die to achieve this mad dream of his. But he knows he cannot be the recipient of a message from God. He needs an innocent to receive it.” He looked at Raphael.
“Me?” Raphael asked.
“No, the boy. Eptor. But more importantly, he needs a witness. Someone who will attest to what the boy has said; someone who will spread the word.”
“He wants me to…” Raphael struggled with the idea of what was being suggested. “But he is the voice of Rome,” Raphael said. “He speaks on behalf of the Pope. If he commands that I serve him — in any way that I am capable — and I refuse…Am I not condemning myself? And the order too, for that matter.”
Calpurnius let out a low chuckle. “This one thinks too much,” he said, jerking his thumb at Raphael. “It will always be his greatest flaw.”
“I do not,” Raphael protested.
Calpurnius made a face. “Ah, you are correct. I am exaggerating. There was that one instance where you did not think. Where you simply acted. And what a glorious moment that was.”
Raphael felt his face get hot. “Any one of us would have done the same,” he mumbled.
“Perhaps,” Calpurnius mused. “But you were the one who did.”
“It…it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Raphael offered lamely, wishing the conversation would turn away from discussion about the tower assault a year ago. He and Eptor had made it to the ramparts and, in the crush of bodies, had gotten separated from the other Shield-Brethren. The Muslims had fought ferociously, and it had been here that Eptor had received a savage blow to the head that Raphael believed to be fatal. The farmer’s son had fallen, and the press of Muslims had threatened to overwhelm Raphael. His sword had been knocked from his hand, and having fallen to his knees, he waited tensely, anticipating the sharp edge of a Muslim sword against his neck.
And then…Eptor’s body, lying nearby, and the flail, unused and forgotten.
Raphael grabs the weapon, whirling it about his head as he turns to face his enemies. He snarls at them, defiant in this final moment. The chains chime and ring about his head as he swings the flail, and he feels the metal tear at the face of the nearest man. His heart thunders in his chest, a war drum that drives him forward. The Muslims hesitate, wary of his whirling chains, and he plunges into their midst, not caring who he strikes. They are all his enemy. He is alone and in battle — where he should be — and the flail is rising and falling. A wild abandon is surging through his body…
“The legate needs you,” Sir John said quietly, starting Raphael from the horrible reverie into which he had fallen. “He wants the hero of the tower to give credence to this prophecy.”
“Do not let the legate sway you,” Calpurnius said, his voice cutting through Raphael’s confusion. “He is a small-minded man who will never amount to more than the bite of a gnat.” He made a flicking motion with two fingers, brushing something so small as to be invisible from his surcoat. “Your vows are not to the Church or the man who says he speaks for the Church. You swore to protect your brothers and to protect the spirit of the Virgin. Nothing else matters.”
Raphael rested his fingertips against his forehead. “This is — ” he began.
Calpurnius put his hands on Raphael’s shoulders. “Remember your vows,” he reiterated, looking the young man straight in the eye.
“Nothing else matters,” Raphael echoed, trying to let go of the panic twisting in his gut. “Aye.”
“This will not be an easy thing. The legate will insist,” Sir John said, “and he may threaten you. And he may…” He trailed off, unwilling to give credence to his suspicions.
Raphael nodded, realizing what he was being volunteered for. “Aye,” he said, his voice weakening. “I will not falter. I will protect my brothers.”
VERNA, 1224
The young knight’s thoughts continued to trouble him, and as it became clear that Raphael was uncomfortable being surrounded by the other monks, Brother Leo encouraged the young man to follow him. Once they had left the oratory, Brother Leo led Raphael along the path that trundled past the hermitage. The route took them into the shadows of tall rocks where tiny pools of water moistened fringes of pale lichens. The monk showed Raphael were to step so as to steer clear of a pair of empty bird nests — used this last spring, but empty now as the chicks had all grown strong enough to fly on their own. Eventually they came to the narrow footbridge that crossed a yawning gap in the mountain.
Brother Leo laid his hand on Raphael’s shoulder. “You have seen much, my son, and I have not the skills to ease your pain,” he said. “I am an old man, and my life is simple.” He chuckled. “I like it that way.”
“Aye,” Raphael said, offering him a shy smile. “I fear I have upset your tranquility, Brother Leo.”
Brother Leo shook his head. “I know you did not climb all this way to test my faith with your stories and your questions,” he said. “My simple life is of little import to you, though my heart is enriched by the knowledge that you will fret about having an undue effect on my thoughts.” He shook his head. “I wish that I could give you the gift of such simplicity, but I know I am not the one you seek. I cannot help you find your path.”
Raphael said nothing, and Brother Leo could not tell if the young man’s reticence stemmed from politeness or despair.
“Brother Francis does not live among us,” Brother Leo said, and when Raphael tensed at his words, he gently squeezed the knight’s shoulder. “He lives in a tiny cell,” Brother Leo continued. “Just over there.” Brother Leo pointed out the corner of the shack that stuck out beyond the wide shelf of rock that lay on the other side of the chasm. “We try not to disturb him during his vigil. Every day I come here and offer him a benediction. If he responds, then I cross the bridge and we say our prayers together.”
“What do you say?” Raphael asked, his voice breaking.
“It is from the fifty-first Psalm,” Brother Leo said, eyeing Raphael carefully. “‘ Domine, labia mea aperies.’ Do you know it?”
“‘Lord, open my lips,’” Raphael translated.
“Do you know what comes next?”
Raphael shook his head.
“‘ Et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam,’” Brother Leo said. “‘And my mouth shall declare Your praise.’”
Tears began to track down Raphael’s face.
Brother Leo embraced the young knight. Raphael’s body was tense at first, but gradually the tears broke down his defenses and he relented, weeping openly and freely.
“‘Create in me a clean heart,’” Brother Leo quoted softly, recalling another part of the fifty-first Psalm, “‘and renew a steadfast spirit within me.’”
When he spotted the hunched figure totter around the edge of the rocky outcrop and make its way slowly and painfully toward the bridge, he let go of Raphael. “God knows what is in your heart,” he said to Raphael. “That is the true measure of the man.”
Raphael nodded, wiping at his nose. He looked very much like the boy he might have been, had many things been different. Had God granted him a different path, Brother Leo reflected.
“I have been lost, Brother Leo,” Raphael said. “I have not known what to do. Where to go. I just haven’t known…”
“Very few of us ever do,” Brother Leo said as he made the sign of the cross. He pointed over Raphael’s shoulder.
As the young man turned to look, Brother Leo departed. He wasn’t needed anymore. As he reached the first bend in the path, he heard Raphael’s voice — querulous at first, but stronger in its second attempt.
“‘ Domine…Domine, labia mea aperies…’”