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 Brother Leo 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 any more. 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...’”
Brother Leo did not wait to hear Brother Francis’s reply.
Damietta, 1219
A storm brewed in the north, dark clouds fuming over the wind-lashed bay, and the only respite the Christian camp received from the summer heat was a sturdy breeze that tried to blow dust through the gaps in the canvas of the tents. Inside the legate’s expansive domicile, there was no dust; the wind billowed the walls of the tent, outraged that it couldn’t be party to the gathering inside.
Already, Raphael was wishing he could become a leaf, and the next time the heavy flaps were raised, he could escape on a curlicue of warm air.
The legate was an austere man, like a piece of driftwood—bleached by the sun and dried by the wind. Like all of the Crusaders, he had lost weight since arriving in Egypt, and his skin was stretched tight across his thick bones. He looked as if he did not enjoy the heat; none of them did, truly, but the Egyptian summer left him perpetually breathless. When he became agitated, he began to wheeze like an old hound.
“I am surprised you do not understand the gravity of our situation,” he said as he rose from the heavy oak chair he kept in his tent as a symbol of his position. He began to stalk back and forth across the wide floor of his tent, his red robes flapping about his lean frame. Raphael knew he was not unaware that the cloth made him appear as if he were drenched in blood. “I was led to believe that your master was a pragmatic man.” He paused to glare at Raphael before continuing to pace.
Raphael’s back itched. He wanted to look over his shoulder. To seek some sign from either Calpurnius or Sir John of how he should reply. But he didn’t dare. They had warned him already. Once they stepped inside the tent, they were witnesses. They were not allies. They could not be called upon for aid.
“Calpurnius is a knight initiate of my order,” Raphael said, repeating what the legate already knew. “He is the master of the company of Shield-Brethren that seeks to assist Rome in the matter of this Crusade. He leads us because he has proven himself worthy of that command.”
The legate whirled on him. “And what of me?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”