Dreamer: A Prequel to the Mongoliad (The Foreworld Saga) (4 page)

It
was not uncommon to see John of Brienne walking through the Christian camp.
Though he was King of Jerusalem, he had never sat in its throne. His marriage
to Maria of Montferrat had been one of political expediency, and his dowry had
been the privilege of leading the Christian Crusaders in their vain effort to
retake the Holy Land. Sir John governed from the ranks: listening to complaints
of the men-at-arms; attending to the needs of the landed nobility who made up
the bulk of the Christian cavalry; sitting and discussing tactics with the
noble lords from France, Frisia, and England; and strategizing the best use of
the diminishing number of knights from the three military orders. The Crusaders
all knew him by sight, and while he allowed them to show some deference, he
insisted on no title other than the one warranted by his numerous feats of
arms.

It
was curious then for him to present himself anonymously at the Shield-Brethren
camp, wrapped in a nondescript cloak and hood. Most of the Shield-Brethren were
drilling with the Templars, a mock display of martial readiness meant to
confuse any Muslim scouts that might be observing the Christian camp from the
south. Raphael and Eptor were engaged in the tedious but necessary task of
repairing maille when the mysterious figure approached. Setting aside his
tools, Raphael rose to greet the visitor and was shocked to recognize the face
peering out from within the shadows of the hood.

“I
am but a poor penitent,” Sir John admonished him in a low voice. “A nameless
wanderer, seeking to bless your company.”

“Of
course,” Raphael recovered smoothly. He made the sign of the cross toward John.

Sir
John was a dark-haired man, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He would make a
good king, Raphael surmised, if they were ever successful in their efforts in
Egypt and to the north and west. “I wish to speak with your master,
Calpurnius.”

“He
is…” Raphael stopped and turned, glancing toward the large tent that served as
the Shield-Brethren chapter house. Calpurnius should have been with the others,
engaged in the exercise with the Templars, but he suddenly recalled seeing the
Shield-Brethren master not long after the other members of the company had
departed. He had thought nothing of it at the time. Men came and went at all
hours within the camp, and the endless cycle of drilling and fighting and
waiting had become tedious. “I suspect he is waiting for you,” Raphael amended.

Sir
John offered him a slight smile. “I suspect he is,” he said.

“A
convenient distraction offered by today’s exercise,” Raphael noted.

“Yes,”
Sir John agreed. “Sometimes it helps to be the one who can arrange such
things.” Looking past Raphael, he caught sight of Eptor. “Is that the boy who
converses with the dead?”

“It
is. His name is Eptor.”

“Are
you his keeper?”

Raphael
shrugged. “Sometimes he keeps me. Today, for example. I am missing an
opportunity to train, yet again, with our Templar brothers. I fear I might miss
some brilliant new stratagem that is being concocted on the field.”

“I
suspect not,” Sir John said. “Join me, if you would. What I have to discuss
with your master may benefit from your insight.”

“Mine?”

Sir
John clapped Raphael on the shoulder as he started to walk toward the main
tent. “Yes. You pretend to be nothing more than your brother’s keeper, but your
exploits are known to me, Raphael of Acre. I hear the men call you ‘The
Thresher.’”

Raphael
blushed. “It is an unwarranted title, Sir John,” he said.

“All
titles are unwarranted, Raphael,” Sir John said. “Whether or not we live up to
them is what matters.”

Sir
John gestured that Raphael should follow him. After a passing glance over at
Eptor — ensuring that the simpleminded lad was well ensconced in the minute
work of repairing maille — Raphael followed the King of Jerusalem into the
large Shield-Brethren tent.

Calpurnius
was seated behind a rough-hewn desk that had been crafted from driftwood
rescued from the Nile. A large map of the Egyptian territory was laid across
it. Small chips of charred wood were arranged to indicate the physical terrain,
and clusters of colored beads stood in for troops. Calpurnius set aside the
tome he had been studying and stood as the two men entered the tent. “Sir
John,” he said, striding around the table to clasp Sir John’s outstretched arm.
It was the old style of greeting, one that had its origins in ancient Greece,
but was used among the Shield-Brethren as a way to indicate brotherhood.
Grasping the forearm allowed one to feel the initiation scars of another.

The
Shield-Brethren were quite strict in who they accepted into the order — the
initiates could not have any other ties that might compromise their vows to the
order — but they also took the sons of kings and lords under their tutelage. In
a flash, and feeling quite foolish for not having recognized it earlier,
Raphael realized Sir John had been one of those students.

“Old
friend,” Sir John said. “Our diversion with your men and the Templars will
afford us a welcome opportunity to talk freely. I am surrounded by sycophants
of the legate’s. They cannot think for themselves, and all they do is echo back
to me the ridiculous drivel spewing from Pelagius’s mouth.”

“He
still insists on taking Damietta, does he?” Calpurnius asked. He glanced at
Raphael briefly and seemed unconcerned about the young knight’s presence.

“Even
after our disastrous attempt at the beginning of the month,” Sir John sighed.

The
previous attempt to storm the city had involved a quartet of freshly arrived
boats from Christendom and an audacious plan to fill in the moat along the
southern wall. For a few hours, it seemed as if the Crusaders might prevail,
but the Muslims had only been waiting for them to get close enough. Fire and
rocks destroyed most of their ladders, and flights of arrows from the walls had
done the rest. They had lost more than a hundred men.

“The
legate has a new idea,” Sir John said, shaking his head. “He claims to have
proof of our victory.”

“Proof?
How?”

“Prophecy,”
Sir John said. “I know you have tried to suppress knowledge of your man’s
addled visions, but the camp knows of his…peculiarity.”

“It
wasn’t me,” Raphael protested, suddenly alarmed at the reason he had been
summoned to this meeting.

“I
have every confidence that it wasn’t,” Sir John said gently, “but no secret is
safe in an army this large and this desperate for good news.”

Calpurnius
had already discerned the root of John’s concern. “Pelagius wants to create his
own prophecy, doesn’t he?”

Sir
John nodded. “Aye, he does. Your man Eptor has given him a dangerous idea.” He
looked at Raphael. “Will you have the strength to say ‘no’ to a holy man?”

“Will
I?” Raphael looked at Calpurnius for guidance.

“This
is a dangerous game,” Calpurnius said to Sir John after a few moments of
thought.

“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.”

T
he
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.”