Confessions of a Crusader

Prologue

The staccato of bare knuckles on the abbot’s door alerted Father Jerome that there was a change in Father Claude’s condition and there was little time to take his final confession.

Yes, yes, I hear you. I’m coming! He opened the solid wooden barrier to his monastery cell and asked Father Robert, his aide and scribe, to return with him to Father Claude’s room.

How much time do you think he has? Father Jerome said.

That’s difficult to guess, Father Jerome. I’m not a physician but he appears weaker.

Is he still talking?

Oh, yes, I can’t stop him, Father Robert said. But he won’t say any prayers of contrition, only a steady stream of condemnation.

Father Jerome’s lips offered a slight smile. Perhaps his brain has already crossed the great divide, leaving only a frail body to suffer.

I don’t think so, Father. He seems most coherent. On top of that, he insists he will not see another sunrise, and that sinners know this better than saints.

They walked hurriedly from Father Jerome’s cell, adorned with only a simple wooden cross, and through the monastery’s church, which led to the courtyard separating the site of formal worship from the monk’s cells.

Has he mentioned the gold cross?

No, not yet, though he did say that if we would listen to his final confession, he would tell us what you have been asking for more than sixty years.

Did he now? Father Jerome felt the blood rush to his face as he contemplated the recovery of the monastery’s lost treasure. I had given up hope. But then, with Christ, we sometimes have to wait a lifetime.

Father Robert pulled the sleeve of his superior. Please forgive me, Father Jerome, but it is imperative that I ask this now before we go into his room.

You said he was failing, Father Jerome countered. Don’t you think we should hurry?

We can spare a few moments—he will not die that soon. You see, I’m not certain he is going to die at all.

What do you mean? I thought...

You thought God had issued His final notice?

Well, yes, you could put it that way. Just what makes you think that Father Claude is ready for his last confession?

You know how stubborn he is, Father Jerome. For the sixty years he has been here in the monastery at Cloyes, has he ever done anything that anyone else wanted him to do?

Certainly not!

When he declares he is ready to die, should we raise yet another finger in futility? He knows what he knows, and I would not cast a single doubt upon his opinion. Considering his past, I wouldn’t be surprised if he were now in contact with Saint Peter, telling Him to wait a little while—he has some unfinished business to take care of. No, Father Claude will dictate the terms, I’m afraid.

Hmm, you speak knowingly for one who is not a physician. When God invites us to His world, we must accept. No one, not even our irascible Father Claude can refuse. Father Jerome scanned the face of his junior and friendly advisor and saw the smile that conceded the point. Did he say anything different today from the babbling he’s been offering for the last two weeks?

That he did.

Oh, get on with it, Father Robert. I’ve no time for cajoling today. Either he said something or he didn’t. Which was it? This is very important.

They were old friends. Father Jerome was the superior and abbot of the Monastery of Cloyes, a scant distance from the village on the Loire river, and noteworthy only as the pope’s designation for the safekeeping of the Cross of Charlemagne, the gold symbol used in the coronation of the first king of France almost five hundred years ago. Father Robert was the assistant to the abbot and first scribe. His cheerful disposition and cynical humor managed to balance the somber decorum required of the monks, dedicated to hard work and prayer, with very little oral communication to brighten their world.

The sudden serious tone of his superior erased the smile from Father Robert’s face and quickly altered his mood. He raised his eyes in supplication to a higher authority and said, All right, I can see this is important, but let me not be too anxious, my Lord, or I may snap my abbot’s head off. Whenever Father Robert wanted to offer sarcasm to the abbot, he would address his comment to the Lord, expecting the remark to ricochet unerringly to the ears of the intended. Father Claude said, and this is verbatim, ‘Tonight will be a grand night to die. I have seen my last sunrise.’

My word, Father Jerome’s bushy eyebrows flicked nervously, he continues to place himself on a level with God. Won’t he be surprised when his prediction fails to materialize and tomorrow he must face us with nothing on his face but humility and embarrassment? A grand night to die, indeed!

As you were about to say, Father Robert pressed his abbot, what is so important?

The two Benedictine monks looked so similar in their long brown robes and identically tonsured heads that from a distance one would have difficulty telling one from the other. Father Jerome, however, was twelve years Father Robert’s senior, and the wrinkles on his brow etched deeper, as if to record the suffering he had witnessed in the miserable lives of the people who eked out a meager existence in the village.

It was a village of old farmers whose children had simply walked away from their parents more than sixty years ago and never returned. Except for a few timid stragglers who were lame or too young to join their brothers and sisters, there was essentially a missing generation in the village of Cloyes. Superstition repelled visitors from dallying more than a few hours in this place that God had cursed, and even troubadours stayed just long enough to get a meal, sing a few ballads, carry an occasional message from an adjacent town, and venture off again.

I need to know, Father Robert spoke rapidly now, as he could see the ridges on Father Jerome’s brow flexing—a sure sign of his irritation, why that cross is so important that it has to be retrieved. Have we not survived all these years without it?

The question agitated Father Jerome and made him cough up some spittle. You’ve asked me something like this before.

And you’ve never answered, Father.

You are very persistent, Father Robert. Perhaps a little flogging would cure you of this tendency.

As you command, Father. Father Robert turned to offer his back to the abbot for punishment, knowing that none would come. The two men of God paused to reflect on this supposed threat. Each stepped backward one pace and made the sign of the cross.

You must confess that one. It is the second offer of violence that you have made in one month, Father Robert chided his friend.

I might as well stop, they don’t seem to have any effect, Father Jerome complained.

I’m still waiting for an answer. Father Robert grinned and added, That’s the way you avoided it the last time I asked.

Very well! Curiosity seems to be your one uncontrollable sin. What I am about to tell you, you must never repeat to anyone. Is that understood?

Yes, of course, Father. He licked his lips in anticipation.

Two months ago, I received a message from the pope. It seems that His Holiness has been taking an inventory of important religious icons. One of those treasures, a three-pound cross of pure gold that was used in the coronation of Charlemagne, the first Holy Roman Emperor in the eighth century, was given to this monastery more than eighty years ago for safekeeping. My predecessor, Father Bernard, died before I arrived and never mentioned why the previous pope chose this sanctuary for such an honor, but it was his choice. Now, our Pope Innocent III would like it delivered to Rome, to be placed in a special display to demonstrate the role of the Church in the history of world events. In this regard, he is certainly different from his predecessor, but then, I suppose all men differ in one way or another.

I see, I see, Father Robert muttered. And if we cannot deliver...

In that case we will have a visitor very soon to inspect all of our possessions, and while he’s at it, our entire method of operation. In short, if this monastery is found wanting, either in methods or inventory, and especially in the Cross of Charlemagne, I will probably be replaced. He thought about his comment for a moment, and then added, Or the pope may decide to close the monastery.

The two stared ominously into each other’s eyes at the dreaded specter of a formal investigation from the representative of the Holy Father—a process that would last for a month and cause an upheaval that could radically alter the lives of the twenty-two monks who had dedicated themselves to the glory of God.

The abbot broke their unspoken thoughts and said, We don’t have much time. If he dies before his confession, I might have to... He could not finish the words and his hands began to tremble.

It will not be as bad as you are imagining, Father Jerome. After all, we can simply tell the investigator the cross is missing. What is the worst that could come of it?

The older monk twisted his mouth, pulling down the corners like a gargoyle. You don’t understand, Father Robert. For more than twenty years I have sent His Holiness an annual inventory of our precious icons and in each one I have testified to the presence of the most valuable possession in the monastery—the Cross of Charlemagne. There is much more at stake than three pounds of gold. There is the small matter of my one hundred-and-sixty pounds of honor. If I lose that, in the eyes of His Holiness, I cease to be.

So you...you lied to the pope?

If you must put it so bluntly, yes.

You don’t think he would order your death, do you? Father Robert asked.

He would not have to, Father Robert. I have a pact with God to make that determination for myself, as you do also. Come, open the door and let us begin.

What pact are you talking about? Father Robert’s eyes were now bulging at the hint of such heretical talk. I haven’t made any pact with God to destroy myself. If anything, my pact has been one to sustain life...mine, or anybody else’s. Is there some part of our oath as Benedictines that you have not shared with me? If so, I respectfully request to hear it now!

They faced each other fully—one, resolute and querulous, the other, exasperated and contrite. Father Jerome broke the silence by placing his hand on Father Robert’s shoulder and whispering, "You will not find what I am about to tell you in any oath or creed of this church, so listen well, my friend. I will not repeat it.

Before there was a Church; before there was a Christ; before there was a New Testament or an Old Testament; before the pyramids; before Mankind even began to think about religion, or guilt, he thought about life itself. Without prompting from God, Man determined that his primary functions served only to sustain and perpetuate that life. At the same time, Man knew that it was his responsibility to terminate that life if he had exhausted all his reasons for existence. It was not until thousands of years later that Man ‘discovered’ the God we now praise and love. And with this discovery came guilt.

My heavens, Father. Father Robert was astonished by this revelation from the man who had been his philosophical mentor for more than thirty years. How long have you kept this blasphemy to yourself? Surely, you realize what would happen if anyone but I had heard such heresy.

Mind your fears, Father. I have just told you what I have the power to do. It worries me not at all if the pope decides to perform the same ceremony in a more formal manner, or if he is in a more benevolent mood simply excommunicates me.

Oh, you needn’t worry about me, Father Jerome, but I can’t help thinking how close you have become to Father Claude over the years. You used to keep him in his cell for months for uttering such proclamations and now...

And now you see what hypocrites we all become if we live long enough. Come, we have tarried longer than I wanted. Let us go into his cell.

As they turned to enter the dimly lit room, Father Robert could not contain his irrelevant thought any longer. Are you really one hundred and sixty pounds?

Father Jerome bumped his arm in mock dismay, rolling his eyes heavenward. That will cost you ten more Our Fathers and Hail Marys. If your insolence could be calculated like money, your debt to me would make me a wealthy man.

If my prayers of penitence could have been converted to gold, Father Robert replied, we would both be rich.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Chapter 1

Father Jerome had not seen the aging monk in three months, always relying on Father Robert to keep him informed about the welfare of the monastery’s inhabitants. He was stunned to see the deterioration that had taken place and had to muffle his cry of alarm—not for Father Claude, but for himself. It was as though he had just witnessed his own execution. You sent for me, dear Father Claude. I am glad you have decided to speak. In spite of my prayers on your behalf, our beloved Lord, Jesus Christ, Son of God, has moved forward in His plans for you, and I fear you may not have sufficient time to complete your confession.

You have prayed for my life, Father Jerome, and I am appreciative, but I have decided to die.

That is not your decision to make, Brother Claude, but His, alone. Father Jerome glanced over his shoulder to see his aide shaking his head. He knew that after his own admission out in the corridor that Father Robert could see though his hypocrisy. He shrugged as if to say, What else can I say?

The feeble, silver-haired monk shifted his thin hand to allow the rosary beads to be parceled out one by one between his trembling fingers. Come a little closer, Father, I want you to hear my confession.

Of course, Father Claude. Confession is open to all at any time. The abbot reached for the small wooden stool that stood alone in the corner and after positioning himself near Father Claude’s bed, sat down and leaned forward until he felt the warmth of the dying monk’s breath upon his cheek. It was the first time he had heard Father Claude express any desire to confess anything at all in the sixty years since Father Jerome had arrived. Father Claude had preceded him by another seven years, yet chose to remain silent and spoke to others only when asked specific questions.

I have a sense, he continued, that what you have to tell me is your final confession. Is it your wish to have it recorded by a scribe, or do you want it to pass through my ears to God’s alone?

No one else would be interested, Father Claude asserted, but your scribe may do as he wishes. He glanced at his superior without turning his head and let the brown circles of his eyes penetrate the smile that Father Jerome was attempting. Slowly turning to Father Robert, he growled, Come sit! It is my time to talk.

Father Robert grinned and obediently followed Claude’s directive, but finding no other available seat in the room, went out into the corridor and knocked on the door of an adjacent cell. Forgive me, he said to the surprised monk, but would you lend me your stool? I have a great need for it. With a wave of a hand, the stool was quietly removed and Father Robert took his post opposite the two whose conversation he was to record. As the abbot’s chief scribe, he usually carried his quill pen and a small, covered vial of ink in the pocket of his tunic. The scrolls of paper had been snatched up from his cell before he had gone to summon Father Jerome.

Where would you like to begin? Father Jerome prodded.

If I have enough time, I would like to tell you about the miracles, and how they changed this village and my life.

Yes, yes, Father Jerome sought to comfort the oldest resident at the monastery. I remember a few scattered accounts of a boy in this province who had seen a vision. Please go on, and forgive my interruption.

Please, first, some water, Father Jerome. My throat is dry.

The abbot handed Claude a clay cylinder with a smooth glaze. It was the only vessel from which he drank during his sixty-seven years at the Benedictine Order.

I made this, you know. Claude beamed with pride. He had received instruction in pottery while serving his primary years under Father Paul, the master potter, linguist, and mathematician. He had constructed hundreds of similar curios for sale in the village, but he was unable to let this one go.

Yes, agreed Father Jerome. I have long been an admirer of yours as you stood at your wheel, molding your cups and vases to benefit the monastery. The sales of your pottery have kept the bread, butter, and wine on our table for lo, these many years, and I am eternally grateful. And let me add, Father Claude, those magnificent paintings of Jesus Christ in His final moments of agony are some of the greatest works of art that I have ever seen. You are extremely talented.

I could not have done so much without your indulgence and permission, Father Jerome. As you know, artists need to be left alone when they are creating.

Alone with their Creator? Jerome added.

He may have been there, Father Claude answered whimsically, but I had sufficient distraction all by myself. He coughed, closed his eyes and rested a few moments before continuing. I cannot tell you about the miracle yet, Father Jerome, because my story begins long before that. About six years before, as a matter of fact.

I am in no hurry. Take your time. A confession's length has but one constraint, and that is the one determined by God. If He calls before you have completed it, you must finish the task with Him directly. He felt Father Robert’s stare as his lies began to compound upon themselves.

Claude coughed, laughed, and coughed again. Your humor is rivaled only by your naiveté, Father Jerome. Forgive my rudeness but perhaps you will indulge an old man for a few hours. You see, I never believed that business about meeting God in the netherworld. I have seen what happens to corpses left to rot or burn at the stake and I know with certainty that nothing survives that.

Of course, Brother Claude, I know that nothing physical can leave the Earth and find entry into Heaven. It is the spirit of man that goes forward.

You’ve seen this spirit? Claude asked.

No man has seen the Holy Spirit and lived, Jerome countered.

In that case, Claude said, perhaps a spirit is just something that someone, somewhere, simply imagined. Aristotle advised us to have proof before passing judgment. Where is the proof of this spirit?

Jerome could see that the old man had not lost any of his spunk and would have gladly gone to his Maker arguing one of the oldest points in spiritual philosophy—an argument that would have consumed precious time; and that was a commodity he needed more than this dying monk did. Perhaps you’re right, he yielded. When you have completed your confession, we can explore this more fully. Besides, we still do not talk about Aristotle in the Christian church. Please go on.

Just then, a light tap on the door interrupted them, and a tall, silver-haired, slender man, dressed in the clothes of the peasants of the village, entered the room. Oh… Excuse me, Father Jerome, he said, I have come to clean the room for Father Claude. I did not know you were here. I can return at some other time. While he waited for the abbot’s response, he did not take his eyes from the face of the old monk on the bed.

Claude smiled slightly at the man and said, You have been kind to me, Noel, for so many years that I do not know how I would have managed without you. He held out his hand and touched Noel’s fingers while Noel promptly knelt at the side of the bed and recited a brief prayer for the ailing monk. Without another word he rose and went out of the room.

He heard the abbot’s suggestion as the door closed behind him. Maybe tomorrow, Noel. Maybe tomorrow.

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Chapter 2

"One of the earliest recollections I have of my family was in the year before my seventh birthday. We lived nearby, in the village of Cloyes, where almost everyone spent their days farming. My father, Henri Bellin, was a serf who tilled the soil for Baron Giscaud, a man of quick and ruthless temper.

One day, as my mother, father, brother Alain, and I were weeding the cabbages in the ten acres allotted by the baron, I stopped to watch this man who had given me my name and cared for me so lovingly, though at times, so sternly. The tunic hung from his body like moss from a sorrowful tree. After thirty years of stooping, hoeing, planting, weeding, and harvesting, my father had developed a permanent curvature in his tall frame.

‘They’re mine, for now,’ Father declared proudly.

Mother heard the comment and acknowledged agreement in her usual way, a gentle smile. She rarely found the need to talk, and if a question arose that didn’t require approval or disapproval, she simply smiled or nodded. She was a huge woman, ample in every dimension, and her presence alone was sufficient to fill the void of silence.

We heard the sounds of footsteps and turned in unison to see Baron Giscaud, who owned the village, approaching. A clumsy man, he kicked over the heads of several cabbages as he came close, yelling at Father from twenty paces away. ‘You’ll never make your quota, Bellin, if you keep gazing at me. Get back to work!’

‘Yes, my lord, my father said, masking his anger. I only stopped to see who was coming.’

‘Well, I’ll be quick about it, for I certainly do not want to hear about shortages at harvest time.’

Father shifted his hoe from one hand to the other, a sure sign that Giscaud’s attendance was already becoming an irritant. ‘My lord honors me with his presence. How may I be of service?’ I was amazed how he could be so angry at someone and at the same time be so subservient.

‘As you know, Bellin, next Monday is the time for our annual report on the treasury, and all serfs will be asked to contribute grain and taxes to support the village during the coming year. I expect you to be there.’

Father said nothing. In fact, he seemed to be focusing on the footprints Giscaud had made on the way, and the five useless cabbages now lying between the rows.

‘Bellin, I don’t think you’re paying attention!’ Giscaud followed Father’s gaze.

Father then looked at us staring at him in absolute ignorance of what he or the baron was talking about. Maybe Mother knew a little, but Alain and I had no idea what taxes were, or even if they were things to be sold or eaten. We had never used the word in our house, and since our entire existence was divided between our house and this field, you could appreciate our dumbfounded expressions. Alain was not quite ten, and I was three years younger.

‘I did not know of the report on Monday, Sire,’ Father said.

‘Didn’t you see the notice posted last week?’ Giscaud asked.

‘I did not see the notice, my lord.’

‘And why is that?’

‘I cannot read.’

‘You blasted fool! Do you peasants know anything? See here, Bellin, even if you can’t read, you must remember that each of us bears a responsibility for the protection of our village from outside invaders. We cannot keep an armed force in readiness without everyone pulling his weight.’

Alain and I knew that something was wrong. Nobody called our father a fool—even if it was the baron, and especially in front of his family.

‘Oh, yes,’ Father said as he bowed lower and dropped his hoe in his haste to apologize. Unfortunately for Giscaud, the long handle traveled with unerring accuracy in a divinely inspired arc, coming to rest squarely upon the bunion of Giscaud’s right foot. Alain and I had to turn our faces to conceal our uncontrollable laughter. The baron’s squeals merely added to our rudeness, and it was only my mother’s slap across our heads that brought us back to the seriousness of the moment.

‘Good heavens, you blasted idiot! Is there nothing in that head of yours worthy of redemption?’ He skipped and hobbled about in a wide circle while attempting to avoid my father’s helping hand. ‘Don’t you dare touch me, Bellin!’ He swore something under his breath that nobody understood, but the rage in his eyes needed no interpretation. ‘You’ve done enough for one day.’

He limped away, retreating toward the sanctuary of the castle. He had gone only a few paces when he remembered that he had not completed the directive. ‘Make it nine o’clock Monday morning,’ he called over his shoulder.

‘Yes, my lord,’ my father answered.

Father had no idea how to tell time, but since he rose with the sun every day, he was sure that whenever he got to the castle would be in plenty of time. He picked up his wayward hoe and his eyes followed the limping figure until it was out of hearing distance.

‘You miserable turd!’ Father called against the wind, sure that his sound would reach only our ears. ‘You are nothing but a mistake from the bowels of a pig!’ He cleared his throat, gathering the spittle in his mouth, and spat in the direction of the man who held his fate so precariously in his noble hands. ‘You are but a vile curse to the memory of your father!’

‘All my life, I have done nothing but grow vegetables for this man and his family, as my father and his father did before him. After forty years of this, he thinks my first name is Blasted. And for what? All I’ve got to show for it is a curved back and these twisted hands.’

My mother, Elaine, moved to his side and spoke in a tone she never used with me or Alain. ‘Now, Henri, you know you will always have us.’ She tossed her head slightly to one side in our direction and winked at us, but I was too young to understand winks. Alain was older and seemed to grasp the invitation. He pulled me along and we went to our father, wrapping ourselves around his legs and looking up into his face, unable to imagine the words needed to soothe him.

‘And what does his privileged lordship have to show for it, Elaine?’ He was agitated now and there was no stopping him. ‘He’s got his comfortable castle with servants to provide for his every whim, a fat behind, and nothing to do but eat my rye and cabbage, and drink the wine from my grapes. Leeches, the whole lot of them! Is there a nobleman anywhere who doesn’t spend his life sucking the blood out of serfs?’

From my humble viewpoint, Father Jerome, Father didn’t have to say another word. I would have settled comfortably on that lifestyle myself—given the chance.

After a few minutes of silence, my brother and I thought it best to go back to our weeding. My mother returned to the cottage to cook the next meal. She was always doing that—cooking the next meal, which meant gathering the little sticks to place over the straw and then the stouter branches to make the fire last longer. After what seemed like forever, she actually got around to the food. It was always the same, or at least it tasted like that: flour balls, onions, water, barley and rye. She tossed in scraps of chicken or lamb: if we were lucky. She scoured the area for bits of sage, which she dried and mixed for added flavor. On Sundays she ground the barley and rye into a powder, threw in some water and made bread, without leavening. It was simply awful and as hard as the bottoms of our sandals. We did not grow our own wheat, so that kind of flour was out of the question. At least we never had to wonder what was going into our stomachs. Until I came to the monastery, I thought those were the only foods known to man.

My father was his family’s firstborn and, under the rule of primogeniture, was given the family farm to continue the tradition of two hundred years of servitude to the Giscauds.

That day after weeding, and with our assistance, Father spread the collection of human and animal manure he had been given at the castle at sunrise. He had loaded it onto the cart that the donkey pulled obediently, day or night, any day, even on the Sabbath.

‘Can I get some help, here?’ he shouted at us. Father shouted—Mother slapped. It was the usual method of communication. I stepped forward quickly but was immediately yanked back by Alain.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked him. I was surprised to find myself suddenly walking in Alain’s footsteps.

‘I’m older than you,’ he reminded me. ‘You should know by now that I go first.’

I kicked some loose dirt on his sandals and by the time we reached Father’s cart, we were smiling as though nothing had happened. Using our hoes we began pulling the fetid pile onto the ground, spreading it liberally over the part of the field that Father was preparing for the following year’s planting.

‘Not too much over there,’ Father cautioned. ‘A little bit of humus, plants like; too much and they die. Come; let’s get on with it now. There is much work to be done before sunset, and your mother is preparing a delicious cabbage soup for supper. We will enjoy it more if we work hard during the day, and sleep hard during the night.’

‘Does that mean,’ I asked, with total disregard for my safety, ‘that you really don’t like it, but after a day of hard work, anything tastes good?’ Suddenly, I was on my back, writhing in the dirt, looking for daylight as I rubbed my eyes. I could only guess that a blow from Father’s powerful, deformed hand had put me there.

‘You must never say such things about your mother’s food, you ungrateful cockroach!’ The muscles in his face were bulging and twisting as he straddled my limp body. I had lost my eagerness to respond, or inquire, or get up. I found myself wondering what it would be like to live without being slapped or punched. Maybe it was different for the people who lived inside the castle. Maybe it would have been easier for me if I were the older brother, instead of Alain.

‘Yes, Father,’ I agreed readily, eager to bring an end to the confrontation that I had lost without realizing it had begun.

‘Now, get up!’ he snapped.

My brother watched me slowly drag myself away from Father’s legs before I attempted to rise, the dust billowing from my tunic like dust from a desert storm.

‘Now spread this dung!’ Father barked.

My filthy face was streaked with the tears that silently left their tracks of humiliation and pain. I tried to ignore them, keeping a watchful eye on Father’s hand. I didn’t want to be surprised again.

‘The next time I want you to do something,’ the voice boomed into my ear, ‘just do it without a lot of talk. Talk means no work; no work means no cabbages; no cabbages means the baron will take our farm and give it to someone else, and we...we will have to live in the streets of the village, as beggars. Do you want that?’

‘Er...no, Father.’ I was confused, not to mention, petrified. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. An extra word at this moment could earn me further punishment. I eagerly offered a compromise. ‘Whatever you say, Father.’

Alain seemed shocked by the entire affair. I suppose he thought that only he could exert such a swift and traumatic influence upon me, since Father seldom struck either of us in anger, or in love, for that matter. Hitting was almost entirely my mother’s domain. ‘What is it, Father?’ he asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

Father spat again. ‘No, I’m sorry, boys. I did not mean to do that. It was that jackass who lives in the castle.’ He pointed his finger in the direction of the castle.

Alain twisted his head to follow Father’s gesture. ‘I wonder why the baron is so cruel. Doesn’t he have a family of his own?’

‘He is nothing,’ Father said. ‘Nothing for us to fight about and destroy ourselves for, except that he doesn’t fail to remind us that we are like the manure we spread and that only he breathes the air of the Gods. Come, boys, let’s put our minds to our work and forget this man.’

Alain and I were puzzled by this, but not wanting to infuriate Father even more, we quietly distributed the enriching substance until the cart was emptied."

§§§§§§§§§§§§§§§

Chapter 3

Father Claude, permit me to interrupt a moment, Father Jerome and Father Robert exchanged glances before the senior member continued. I do not want to appear anxious, but can you tell me if this is related to the gold Cross of Charlemagne that disappeared from the monastery many years ago? He noticed the smile creep across Father Robert’s face at this question.

Yes, of course it is, but I can’t separate it into such small Fragments like that. I must tell you everything.

All right, so be it.

"The next day was Good Friday. After Bishop Aubrey conducted the morning services, the baron gathered the serfs of the village to hear his pronouncement on taxes and forbearance.

‘We are indebted to our good Lord who died in rapture before His own people,’ the baron said, ‘for the opportunity to extract from this rich soil, the lifeblood for our province in this, the twelve hundred and seventh year since His birth.’

My father bent over to whisper to Alain and me, ‘This is where he’s going to ask us to bleed for the pope, boys. Watch his eyes. If they stay on the ceiling, our taxes are going right up there with them.’

Of course, from that moment on, that’s all I paid attention to: his eyes. I didn’t hear another word the baron with the sore bunion said. He droned on for what seemed like a frog’s life and my father was right—the man never looked at us at all. He must have been counting the stones that arched so gracefully from one side of the chamber to the other. I marveled at how he could do that and speak at the same time.

‘Here it comes, now,’ Father mumbled.

‘...And King Phillip Augustus, the Lord’s personal emissary to France, has determined that the excellent work which he began during his courageous crusading journey to the Holy Land has depleted the royal treasury, and that we shall have to increase our annual contributions to further the battle for Christianity.’

That got a lot of people excited. All the serfs and their sons appeared terribly disturbed, but nobody was anxious to speak up. Baron Giscaud eyes quickly shifted from the ceiling and settled on the agitated peasants in front of him. His arms crossed, face