“You are condemning Christians to a meaningless death,” Sir John said.
“I am achieving God’s plan,” the legate shouted. Realizing he had lost his temper, he composed himself, smoothing the front of his frock. “We will attack in two days,” he said when he had mastered his ire. His voice was hard and flat, the voice of papal authority. He leaned forward, staring at Raphael. “Give me a prophecy,” he said sternly. “Give the men a reason. They will fight harder. Lives will be spared.”
Raphael shook his head. “There is no prophecy,” he said, committing himself. “Eptor is a fool. He speaks nonsense, now and forevermore.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Eptor staring at him, a bright light in the young man’s eyes.
Raphael closed his eyes to blot out the sight of his brother’s boundless devotion.
Verna, 1224
“Have we met?” Brother Francis asked as he led Raphael to his private retreat at the peak of the mountain. He was shorter than Raphael remembered, bent like a piece of warped wood, and his robes were too big for him. His head protruded from the top of the voluminous cloth like a tiny mushroom straining for moonlight. The change in his eyes was the most startling difference, though. Naught five years ago, the priest’s eyes had been clear, glittering with both intelligence and resolution. Now they were crusted over with a layer of mucus and dried tears—crystalline formations that clung to his face like rough gemstones. Through narrow gaps in the crystals, Raphael could see the milky movement of the priest’s eyes.
“We have, Father—Brother Francis,” Raphael said, stumbling over his words. His face was still warm from the recent flood of his shame, and glancing once again at the monk’s distorted eyes, he wiped his hands across his own face, as if to wipe free the crusted starts of a similar buildup on his own cheeks. “Several years ago...” he continued, “when you came to Egypt.”
Brother Francis came to a halt, and he swiveled his entire body around to better position his face toward Raphael. Raphael stood awkwardly as the monk peered up at him. “You are taller than I remember,” the monk said when he finished his examination. “And sadder.”
“I’ve grown,” was Raphael’s response.
Brother Francis chuckled. “And your friend? The quiet one touched by God?”
“Eptor,” Raphael said. “He is no longer with us.”
Brother Francis lowered his head. “May his soul find comfort with God,” he said with heartfelt compassion.
Raphael nodded curtly, not wishing to speak otherwise, but in his heart he wondered if Eptor had not found solace in the arms of another.
“A terrible tragedy, Damietta,” Brother Francis said, continuing his slow shuffle toward the shack. “So many lost.”
“It got worse,” Raphael said. “After your mission.”
“So I heard,” Brother Francis said. His upper body twitched as if he were adjusting the immense load borne by his bowed shoulders. “Pelagius refused to open his heart to God, didn’t he?”
“Yes. Damietta wasn’t enough. After your departure from Egypt, the legate began to talk of marching on Cairo. Sir John and a number of the other lords abandoned the cause, but the legate kept many with him—held them captive with promises of God’s eternal reward. And then he discovered the prophecy. A lost book of the Bible, supposedly written by a man named Clement. It spoke of a great Crusader victory in Egypt. He held it up as proof that their mission was God’s plan. But it was a lie, a heinous fabrication, and the march on Cairo was an utter disaster. Al-Kamil took pity on the Christians after they floundered for several days in the Nile valley. Many thought he would slay them all. Pelagius too; I think he hoped for martyrdom.”
Brother Francis snorted. He rubbed one hand over the other, and Raphael noticed black streaks across the backs of both of the monk’s hands. Shadows of char that did not smear under Brother Francis’s ministrations. “The fool knows nothing of martyrdom,” he muttered. “He knows nothing at all.”
Realizing he had spoken aloud, he visibly brightened and changed the subject. “Here we are,” he announced, indicating the end of the path. “The closest you can get to God and still have your feet upon the ground.”
Brother Leo had warned Raphael that Brother Francis’s tiny cell was precariously constructed, but in Raphael’s opinion, Brother Leo had failed in his estimation of the true danger. The structure was not much more than a lean-to built from scraps of wood. Open at two sides, it sat on the very edge of an immense drop-off. One step too many, and a man would plunge a very long way to a rather unpleasant death. Fluffy clouds drifted close by, not more than a hand’s width or two above the peak of the shack, which was oriented in such a way that it never received direct sunlight.
His eyes, Raphael realized. The light pains him. How hard must it be for him to pray here, so close to Heaven, when the darkness of a cave would be so much more comfortable?
Brother Francis ducked into the misshapen shack, folding his legs beneath him. He knocked his walking stick about, rattling it off the walls and off the sides of a squat chest shoved in one corner. Once he was comfortable, he patted the bare ground next to him. “Don’t stand,” he said to Raphael. “It makes me nervous. God would not bring you so far and then have you stumble.”
Raphael didn’t need further prompting, and he stripped off his baldric in a smooth motion, holding his scabbarded sword in his hand as he tucked himself under the overhang. He arranged himself on the ground, his sword an impediment that he was tempted to throw over the cliff’s edge.
“There,” Brother Francis said once they were both settled. “Peaceful, isn’t it?” He cocked his head as if he were listening.