Текст книги "The Road to Jerusalem"

Автор книги: Ян Гийу

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   Worst of all was the fact that they were playing right into Nur ed-Din's hands—soon the carrier pigeons began flying in every direction, and all of Nur ed-Din's brothers and other allies set off with large armies from the north, from the south, and from the east.

   After laying siege to Damascus for only four days, the Christians were surrounded by an army many times larger. They had also chosen to make camp in the least favorable place, on the south side of the city where there was no protection, and where the Damascenes had filled in all the wells in good time. The commander of the Knights Templar could see that this tactical positioning was so obviously idiotic that the only possible explanation was bribery—either King Louis or King Konrad must have been paid to lose.

   The Christian positions soon proved indefensible. It was not a question of even setting up any siege engines; it was a matter of fleeing for their lives.

   When the Christian army broke camp and began their retreat to the south, they were attacked by the light Arab cavalry which, always out of reach, rained arrows down on the fleeing troops. The losses were unimaginable, and the stench of death lay heavy over large parts of the Holy Land for several months.

   And so the Second Crusade ended.

   King Konrad of Germany, as usual in extreme disagreement with King Louis, took the land route home, proceeding cautiously along the safer Mediterranean coast of Asia Minor.

   King Louis no longer had a large army, so he chose to take the sea route from Antioch toward Sicily. On the way his fleet was plundered by the Byzantine navy. After that both King Louis and King Konrad remained forever uninterested in new crusades.

   King Louis quite rightly received derision from his wife when he returned home. The Second Crusade was a calamitous fiasco. Nur ed-Din would soon take Damascus without raising a sword or firing a single arrow.

   Logically, the Christian empire should have been doomed. There was nothing more to hope for from Europe. None of Europe's big countries would send a new expedition after the disaster they had just witnessed, no matter how eloquently Bernard de Clairvaux and others spoke of salvation and the forgiveness of all sins for anyone who joined the Holy War. And yet it would be a long time before Jerusalem was liberated by the faithful. And it would not be granted to Nur ed-Din to cleanse the holy city of the barbaric and bloodthirsty European occupiers.

   That would depend on an order of monks. The Knights Templar shared the same religious origin with the Cistercian order; it was Bernard de Clairvaux himself who had written the cloister rules for the Templar knights. From the beginning this order was conceived primarily as a sort of religious police force to protect Christian pilgrims, above all on the roads between Jerusalem and the River Jordan. Arabic robber bands had found this constant stream of pilgrims on the way to bathe in the Jordan both easy and profitable to rob. But the idea of warrior monks, at first something that must have seemed like a paradox, quickly spread far beyond the Holy Land, and many of the best knights in Europe heeded the call. But few were chosen. Only the best of the best, and the most serious in their faith, had a chance of being accepted as brothers in the order. The Knights Templar created the best force of knights that ever rode with lance and sword in the Holy Land. Or, for that matter, in any land.

   The Arabs in general had no great respect for Western warriors. Often they were too heavily armored, rode poorly, and had a hard time coping with the heat and staying sober. But there was one kind of European knight they avoided, unless they had a superiority of ten to one. Sometimes even then, because victory could be very costly. The Knights Templar never surrendered. And unlike other knights, weaker in their faith, they did not fear death. They were unshakably convinced that their war was holy and that the instant they died in battle they would enter into Paradise.

   These knights wearing the white mantle with a red cross and carrying the white shields with the same red cross were now the only hope of the Kingdom of Jerusalem.

On the day when Arn's voice had changed so much that he could no longer sing, and everyone noticed, he was convinced that God was punishing him severely and yet the cause was incomprehensible. He had obviously committed a great sin deserving of such harsh punishment. But how could he commit a great sin without knowing what it was? He had obeyed, he had loved all the brothers, he hadn't lied, he had tried hard to be truthful in his confessions with Father Henri, even about the things he was most ashamed of. Without grumbling or cheating in any way he had performed the penance that Father Henri had imposed on him for self-defilement. But each time Arn had received forgiveness for his sins. Why would God punish him so sternly?

   He prayed to God for forgiveness for even asking such a question, which might be interpreted as suspecting that God's punishment was unjust. Then he added that he would like to know what his sin had been so that he might improve his ways. But God did not answer.

   Yet the music master at Vitae Schola, Brother Ludwig de Bêtecourt, took a surprisingly sanguine view of the matter. He consoled Arn by explaining that what had happened was part of God's natural order, that all boys sooner or later lost their soprano voice and for a time croaked like a raven. It was no more strange than the fact that boys grew up to be men, or that Arn was growing taller and stronger. But when Brother Ludwig could not guarantee that Arn's voice after this metamorphosis would ever be good for singing again, even at a lower register, the boy refused to be consoled.

   Singing had been his most important task at Vitae Schola, to such an extent that it was through his singing during mass that he felt he was doing the most good, and that his efforts had some meaning. Naturally he had been useful when the church tower was being built, but it was through singing that he accomplished something that others could not. In everything else he was only a little boy who had to learn from all the others. His other work was such that it provided sheer joy for either body or soul, like the horse or the books or Brother Guilbert's exercises, but he felt it was of more use to himself than to the brothers. And since he loved the brothers as the rules prescribed, he longed to be able to reciprocate by making himself deserving of the brothers' love. Singing had been the most effective way of accomplishing that, or so he thought.

   Now he could no longer sing, even though the song was still inside his head and he could imagine each note correctly voiced before his lips released it so falsely. It was like suddenly losing his sense of balance and being unable to walk or run or ride. Brother Ludwig had explained that he was no longer needed at mass, and Arn deemed this harsh punishment for his failure.

   Father Henri felt a certain impatience that something so natural should be so difficult to explain to the boy. It obviously wasn't enough, as he first believed, simply to explain that his voice breaking was something that happened to all men. It surprised him that not even the simple and, as he thought, easily observable fact that men sounded different from boys seemed to have any effect on Arn's reason. What troubled Father Henri was that Arn's apparently unwarranted worries might actually be expressing something else, a great loneliness. If he had been able to grow up with other boys, either inside or outside the cloister walls, he might have had an easier time seeing himself as what he was: a boy and perhaps a future brother, but not yet a brother.

   The fact that Arn could not accept the fact that a breaking voice existed somewhere between birth and death, and with the same inevitability, was a warning sign of his immaturity. On the one hand, the boy was more educated than any grown man, at least up here in the barbaric North. Presumably he could also handle weapons better than anyone outside the walls.

   On the other hand, he was completely innocent when it came to the base world. He wouldn't be able to sit at table with his countrymen without feeling disgust. He couldn't stay out there even for a day without seeing that people lied, and that most of the seven deadly sins, which Arn apparently understood as some sort of theoretical moral example in a cautionary tale, were committed daily by each and every person in the outside world.

   In all probability Arn did not understand what pridewas, unless he took examples from the Holy Scriptures. What glut tonywas he could presumably not even imagine; what greedwas he no doubt didn't understand at all; wrathhe knew only as God's wrath, which would stir up the concept of sin quite literally for him. Envy, as far as Father Henri could see, was something altogether foreign to Arn, who felt only admiration for the brothers who could do more than he could, and boundless gratitude that he was allowed to learn. And sloth; how foreign would that concept seem to a boy who always jumped with eagerness to be allowed to dash on to the next of the day's tasks or lessons?

   Only lustpossibly remained, although Arn seemed to possess both a somewhat exaggerated concept of young boys' sinfulness when it came to self-defilement, as well as immunity to admonitions in that regard. Father Henri suddenly recalled with a certain irony how Arn in one of his remorseful moments had associated his breaking voice, or "God's punishment," as he viewed it, with terrible sins, which in his case were quite mundane. The boy had prayed to be allowed to keep his voice if he did much penance; at the same time he prayed to be free of the itch that made it so hard to refrain from sin.

   Father Henri, as usual rather amused behind his stern mask, had then let his words get ahead of his thoughts. Suddenly, to his own astonishment, he found himself bantering about the problem by assuring the boy that there was indeed a simple method that would both secure his high voice and do away with that itch, though this means of penance was not to be recommended.

   Arn had not understood what he was getting at, and then Father Henri sat there embarrassed at his own thoughtlessness, and tried to explain that for a number of reasons they did not castrate boys in monasteries, even though their voices were enchanting. And consequently and finally, Arn's breaking voice was not a sin but part of God's natural order.

   Yet Father Henri was convinced that God really did have a definite plan for young Arn. And until God made His intention clear, it was Father Henri's duty to prepare Arn for the calling that would be his one day. He had tried to do his best, he could honestly say that without boasting, but now it seemed that all his efforts were still not enough. Sooner or later Arn had to learn what God's less beautiful world, the one outside the cloister walls, actually looked like. Otherwise he would remain as innocent as a child, even when he became a man, and such a man would more often than not become a foolish man. And that could not be God's will.

When the autumn storms began to pound the west coast of Jutland it was time to go salvaging. People in the fishing villages on the long sandy coast had always reckoned that salvaging from shipwrecks was their ancient right, but King Valdemar had now forbidden anyone from seizing salvaged goods except the monks from Vitskøl. The monks were in a much better position than anyone else to know what to salvage and then see to it that what they found was put to good use. This would appear to be a wise new order from the king.

   But not everyone along the coast found it fair or right to give up customs they had followed since ancient times. There were those who said that the monks behaved like a swarm of Egyptian locusts over every wreck they found, leaving not even the tiniest scrap visible at the site. There was truth in such claims, but also envy. For the monks at Vitskøl usually did not hurry with their work, except when haste was dictated by the forces of weather. The monks carried home everything they found to their Vitae Schola, chopping up the timbers for wood, and using whole deck planking and masts as building material for their own boatbuilding. They found wool for their own spinning mills, seed for their fields, or rye and wheat to sell. They salvaged skins and leather for their tanneries, iron rods for the smithies, tackle and lines for scaffolding, and jewels and valuables to be sent to Rome—they could find a use for everything. But they also did something that the old scavengers on the coast never would have bothered to do. All the dead they found were given a Christian burial.

   A salvage expedition like this from Vitskøl might take up to ten days. Most things were transported on heavy oxcarts, and the great loads usually made the trip back take twice as long as the journey out. Brother Guilbert always went along on these forays, not only because his great strength often came in handy, but also because on horseback, together with Arn, he could cover great stretches of the beaches in a short time. When the entourage from Vitae Schola arrived at the sandy beaches on the coast, they set up camp and then Arn and Brother Guilbert rode in opposite directions to scout which way they should go the next day. Brother Guy le Breton also came along, of course, because nobody at Vitae Schola knew as much about the sea, its dangers, its fruits, and its weather as he did. Otherwise the brothers had to take turns according to a schedule drawn up by Father Henri. Almost all the brothers were eager to take part in these expeditions to the sea, because it was a completely different sort of work and because the water was so beautiful. It was exciting to see what God with one hand took from the seafarers to give with the other hand to those who toiled most assiduously in the garden.

   Arn was doubly grateful that he was always allowed to come along. He had a chance to ride as fast as he liked on Khamsiin along the endless sandy beaches, preferably just above where the waves broke. There the sand was hard-packed and smooth so that Khamsiin had a good foothold and a clear view and could fly along in a straight line, giving Arn a chance to do what he loved best.

   During Arn's second year as a scout on the salvage trips, something unheard of happened. In the sparse pine forest about a mile from the sea the column from Vitae Schola was attacked on its way home by drunken robbers. They were probably no highwaymen, but frustrated wreck-plunderers who had been sitting in one of the nearby villages, drinking too much ale and working themselves up over the fact that fat monks were now stealing what rightfully belonged to the people who made their living from the sea. But they were armed with lances and swords, and one of them, riding a short and stout Nordic horse, made threatening swings with an old-fashioned battle-axe in his hands.

   The heavy oak wagons with steel-rimmed wheels stopped with a screech. The monks made no move to flee but lowered their heads in prayer. The man with the battle-axe clumsily maneuvered his horse toward Brother Guilbert, who was riding at the head of the column with Arn behind him and off to one side. Arn at once did as Brother Guilbert did, sweeping off the hood of his cloak and lowering his head in prayer, although he wasn't sure what he should pray for. But suddenly the man with the battle-axe yelled at Brother Guilbert for everyone to move away from the wagons, because here came those who rightfully owned the harvest of the sea. Brother Guilbert did not reply, since he was still praying. This made the man with the battle-axe both uncertain and angry, prompting him to say in very coarse language that no prayers were going to help here, because now the goods had to be unloaded from the wagons, and double-quick.

   Then Brother Guilbert replied calmly that naturally he was not praying for something as simple as salvaged goods. He was praying for the souls of these misguided men now that they were about to make themselves unhappy for the rest of their earthly days. At first the man with the battle-axe was surprised, but then he became even angrier, and he spurred his horse forward to aim a mighty blow at Brother Guilbert.

   Arn, who was sitting on Khamsiin only a few yards away, now knew instinctively what Brother Guilbert was going to do, and at least in the first moment Arn was right. The drunken wreckplunderer raised his battle-axe, gripping it with both hands and directing the blow at a downward angle, a blow that would have killed if it struck home. But Brother Guilbert made two almost imperceptible adjustments with his legs that made Nasir move quick as a snake, taking one step to the side and one step back. The man with the battle-axe struck into thin air and was dragged from his saddle by his own momentum, flipping a half turn in the air before he thumped to the ground on his back.

   If this had been an exercise session with Brother Guilbert and Arn had been crawling there on the ground, at the next instant he would have felt Brother Guilbert's foot land on his sword hand, his weapon would have been taken from him, and then he would have been roundly rebuked.

   But now Brother Guilbert sat with his hands clasped before him, holding Nasir's reins in a light grip between his little fingers.

   The humiliated robber crawled to his feet. Swearing, he grabbed his battle-axe again and now attacked on foot, which ended the same way. He ran at Brother Guilbert, aimed a mighty blow, and then found himself again striking at the air. He fell to the ground from his own weight. His fellow criminals couldn't help laughing, which made him even more furious.

   When he gripped his battle-axe a third time Brother Guilbert held up his palm to stop him and explained that no one would prevent the robbery if that was the only reason for the attack. But he wanted to warn the man one last time against repeating his attempts at assault.

   "You have a choice," he explained calmly. "All of you steal what you came here to steal. We neither can nor will stop you by force. But think on this, that then all of you will have sold your souls to the Devil and become criminals who can expect a severe punishment from the king. Or else you can repent and go home. Then we will forgive you and pray for you."

   But the man with the battle-axe didn't want to hear any such talk. Like a fool he repeated that the salvage goods since ancient times had belonged to the people on the coast. The men behind him shook their lances, pitchforks, and a few swords in agitation, and one of them suddenly threw a lance straight at Brother Guilbert.

   It was a heavy, slow lance with an old-fashioned broad-bladed point, so Arn had plenty of time to picture what would happen. Brother Guilbert leaned lightly to the side in his saddle, grabbed the lance in the air, and then pointed it at the mob, as if for a brief instant he considered attacking. Arn saw the robbers' eyes widen and gleam with fear. But then Brother Guilbert quickly turned the lance over his knee and broke it in two as if he were snapping a little twig. Contemptuously he flung the bits to the ground.

   "We are the Lord's servants, we cannot fight with you and you know it!" he shouted. "But if you absolutely want to make yourselves miserable for the rest of your wretched earthly lives, then steal what you want to steal. We can't stop you from such foolishness."

   The mob deliberated for a moment. The man with the battleaxe staggered back to his followers and a vehement argument ensued. Brother Guilbert gathered his brothers and Arn around himself and said that if it came to violence, each of them should save himself by running from this place. There was nothing else to do. Arn was sharply admonished to stay at a safe distance from all the robbers and, should things turn violent, ride home at once to tell everyone what had happened.

   The robbers' problem was that they thought they could certainly steal whatever they wanted from the heavy load. But they wouldn't be able to kill all the witnesses, as they before had killed all the unfortunate seamen who survived a shipwreck to wash ashore, thinking they were saved, only to discover at the last moment of their lives that they had been rescued by wreckplunderers. But here the robbers would never be able to kill the two monks on horseback. They decided to take what they wanted anyway in the hope that, since no one was killed, no royal revenge would befall them just because there was a little less weight in the fat monks' heavily loaded wagons.

   That's how the matter was settled. The robbers took what they could carry and anything that seemed valuable, while the monks stood back and prayed for their lost souls. When the robbers had finished plundering the wagons and, loudly bellowing, left the scene, the monks repacked their loads and continued home to Vitae Schola.

   When they arrived, Father Henri wrote a letter of complaint to King Valdemar, whose royal command had been flouted. Shortly thereafter soldiers were sent out to arrest the guilty parties, which proved a simple matter. Most of the goods that were stolen were returned to Vitae Schola with the soldiers. The robbers were all hanged.

   The event had made a big impression on Arn, giving him much to think about. He felt sorry for the robbers, who were affected with the deadly sin of greed, which had led them so rapidly into perdition where they were now suffering eternal torment. He could understand that they felt their rights had been subverted. It was true that plundering shipwrecks had been their ancient right as coastal dwellers, and it must feel wrong for for eign monks to take that income away. And besides, the men had been drunk. Even though Arn didn't know much about intoxication, a couple of brothers sometimes drank too much wine, hence proving quiet clearly that where wine went in, wits went out. Afterwards they had to do penance for months on bread and water. So Arn thought he grasped that a person who was drunk didn't really fully understand his responsibilities.

   But Arn could not comprehend why Brother Guilbert had acted the way he did. The men who attacked them were fishermen, after all, who knew nothing about the weapons they were holding in their hands; at least that's what Arn believed. Brother Guilbert could have taken their weapons from them and sent them fleeing. Then the theft would never have taken place, and the royal soldiers wouldn't have had to track the men down and hang them. Didn't love for one's fellow man mean trying to ameliorate his stupidity if one could?

   Arn had hesitated to discuss the matter with Brother Guilbert. Since the monk had acted as he did and had not saved the lost men from their own stupidity, he must be convinced that he had done the right thing.

   But Arn did take up the problem with Father Henri, admitting that he was still praying for the souls of the hanged robbers.

   Father Henri had no objection to Arn praying for the souls of those wretches. He viewed such a response as a demonstration of the boy's strong empathy with the example set by Jesus Christ for the way life should be lived on earth. He saw only good in it.

   But it was more disturbing that Arn obviously did not understand why it was impossible for Brother Guilbert to use violence. Thou shalt not killwas a commandment that was utterly without compromise.

   Arn argued that the Holy Scriptures were full of commandments that were unreasonable. Take the fact that Brother Guy le Breton had so far failed to get the Danes to eat mussels. Out in the fjord the mussel beds had rapidly grown as soon as Brother Guy had come to Vitae Schola. But so far it had led only to the brothers themselves feasting on mussels prepared in one peculiar way after another, because the Danes around Limfjord believed that "whatever does not have fins and scales you shall not eat; it is unclean for you." According to Deuteronomy 14:8 or whatever it was.

   Deuteronomy 14:10, Father Henri corrected him. 14:8 prohibited the eating of pigs and rabbits. Which basically illustrated the same problem, or at least the reverse of the problem, since the Danes certainly had nothing against eating pigs or rabbits. Nevertheless, and Arn ought to know by now that there was a big difference between various small prohibitions of that sort and more serious prohibitions. If one searched for small prohibitions in the Holy Scriptures one could find many that were downright ridiculous—for instance, the hair should not be shorn in a certain way when in mourning—as well as things that were unreasonable and un-Christian in their severity, such as: he who contradicts his mother or father shall be stoned to death.

   But once again the important thing was how one learned to understand the Holy Scriptures, and the guiding principle in that respect was of course the Lord Jesus himself. Through his example he had shown how the text should be understood. In short, killing was among the most forbidden of actions.

   But Arn refused to yield. He now claimed, using the logic in argumentation that Father Henri had personally pounded into his head for most of his life, that a letter could kill as easily as a sword. By writing to King Valdemar, Father Henri had sealed the fate of the unfortunate and unsuccessful robbers, since the outcome was never in any doubt the moment the king received the letter from Vitae Schola.

   In the same way one could kill through omission, by notusing force. If Brother Guilbert had knocked two or three of the un successful robbers to the ground, wouldn't he have committed only a comparatively littlesin?

   Arn was astonished that Father Henri did not interrupt him or scold him, but instead moved his hand in a gentle circle as a sign for Arn to continue his argument.

   So, if Brother Guilbert committed a littlesin, for which he easily would have been able to do penance for a month, by giving a couple of robbers a beating and thus scaring off the others, the result could have been good. The robbers wouldn't have turned into robbers but merely drunkards out on a foolish foray. They would have been prevented from committing theft, they would not have been hanged, their children would not have been fatherless, and their wives would not now be widows. Weighing the pros and cons in this equation, one would probably find that Brother Guilbert, by employing violence without anger, would have served a good purpose. And so he probably wouldn't have done anything evil, would he? After all, this was a theme that Saint Bernard himself often repeated.

   Arn fell silent. He was so astonished by the priest's silence that he could not go on with his argument: Father Henri sat deep in thought with his brow furrowed in a way that usually meant he didn't want to be disturbed, because he was trying to crack a hard nut.

   Arn waited patiently for a long time, since he had not been dismissed. Finally Father Henri looked up at Arn and gave him an encouraging smile, patting him lightly on the hand and nodding in agreement as he prepared to give an explanation, preceded by much clearing of his throat, as usual. Arn waited tensely.

   "Young man, you surprise me by showing such acuity in an area which was perhaps not one of your best," he began. "You have touched on two problems, although they are related. Your argument that a little sin from Brother Guilbert could have obviated something worse than a little sin is formally correct. And yet it is false. When Brother Guilbert had to choose between using violence, the worst sin he of all people could commit, or acting as he did, if he had known at that moment what the result would be, thenbut only then would your reasoning be valid. Without being unkind to you, however, I must point out that the formal way in which you have set up the argument, although Aristotle himself would have approved it, still presupposes that Brother Guilbert is not the man he is—a mortally sinful person—but rather that he is God and can see the truth and all that is to come. But it's an uplifting example, because it so clearly shows how clumsy we humans can be even when with a clear conscience we try to act justly. A very uplifting example, indeed."

   "Not especially uplifting for the poor devils who were led further into sin, were hanged, and now must suffer eternal torment in hell," Arn muttered crossly and was instantly given a sharp rebuke to pray ten Pater Nosters for his impertinence.

   Arn obediently said his prayers, and Father Henri was grateful for the respite, which he spent thinking further, and not without a certain amount of guilt. He found to his shock that he was no longer sure of his counterargument.

   Wouldn't it be exaggerating to say that Brother Guilbert would have had to be God to foresee that measured violence, without anger, could in that situation have done a greater good than the usual peaceful response enjoined by Christ?

   Wasn't it true instead that Brother Guilbert had once lived a life in which, with God on his side, he could smite anyone who attacked him when he was protecting the church's property? But afterwards he had imposed on himself such strict penance for sins he'd committed in the Holy War that he had to refrain from violence in any situation. Wasn't it simply that Brother Guilbert was now closed off, or had closed himself off, from any sort of intellectual examination in such a context and blindly followed his self-imposed penance?

   In that case Brother Guilbert was certainly pure and without sin with regard to the way he had acted. But little Arn had also for the first time shown proof of theological acumen and, what was even better, a genuine insight into the faith.