Chapter #21On Opposite Sides, part 1 by: Nostrum   Bertrand knelt before his cruciform sword as he made a small prayer. "Lord. I am invested in the armor of faith. Be the hand that guides my blade."
Then he stood and looked out over the battlefield, where the Muslim army, on camel and horse, the symbol of Islam as their standard, spread out to lay siege to the holy city of Jerusalem. Behind him, his brothers, clad in chain mail glistening in the sun, covered by the brown surcoat holding the red cross of the Poor-Fellow Soldiers of Christ and the Temple of Solomon, and the black-coated sergeant brothers mounted in impatient horses.
The horn sounded, and the cries of the Templars broke the silence of the desert. "Deus Vult!" they cried - "God wills it!" They charged, inspired by the words and promises of their superiors – of glory, of honor, of serving the All-Highest and removing the infidels from the Holy Land.
But to Bertrand de Rouen, his mission was different. He was to prove his devotion would matter more than his curse – that his birth would not impede his entry to Heaven.
The armies clashed in melee combat, the first casualties from skewering lances. Bertrand rushed into the fray, sword in hand, touching his companions. "You shall be well", he told his brother, "for God is with you". And, even if they suffered deadly blows, they stood up and fought with renewed effort, frightening the Muslims.
A side blow with a hammer numbed his senses. The ringing clash of metal on metal filled his ears, and he felt as if his force was fading. He closed his eyes, pleading God to lead him. He invoked all his might, and flipping his blade to strike with the cross guard, he made a brutal retaliatory blow to his attacker. The ringing ceased, and the offender fell to the ground, crying in fear. He uttered a dour warning, in his native French, careless if the enemy understood. "Seek the mercy of the Lord, infidel, or suffer the weight of your guilt!"
The soldier screamed in agony. He could not understand what he said, other than a few words that showed the soldier was devout. "Forgive me", he heard the soldier’s cries, as he pleaded for mercy.
When the horn blared again the enemy was fleeing. "No!" he commanded as a man near him began to chase after. "They are routed. Let them live."
"Bertrand, you fool! They shall return, and in greater numbers!"
"But we have shown them mercy," replied Bertrand with a very grave tone. "May they return us the same mercy should we be routed."
--
The soldiers returned to camp, and Bertrand moved straight to the tent of the wounded. He suffered greatly the pain of those who fought alongside him, and he often paid a visit to his fallen brothers, offering succor. Though he was no priest – and he made no claim to it – Bertrand took his duties as a monastic warrior very seriously, and that had earned him the respect of his peers. Though perhaps he was not the flower of chivalry that a knight was to represent, Bertrand nonetheless felt his adherence to the Latin Rule was his duty, to be an exemplar of piety and obedience to his fellow brothers. Yet, above and beyond his duty, he heard the words of the wounded and the witnesses of the dead, as if his true calling was to be a confessor and not a knight or a simple farmer as he had been back in Rouen. Perhaps it was symbolic, but his mere presence gave peace to his brothers.
And if not peace of mind, perhaps relief from their pain, as Bertrand often asked the nurses to pray for the ill. Laying his hands upon them, he prayed fervently to the Lord for health, and the wounded felt their strength return. He did it very sparingly, of course, and thus was the pain of seeing his brothers screeching in agony that he left with a very slow, reverential step, back to his own tent.
Such was the nature of his curse, he felt. Even as a child, Bertrand had a good ear, and often listened to the tales of his neighbors, and even of his own parents. He was unwise, though, and very often he sought the priest of his town, as he yearned to help them. Sometimes, his neighbors told him that listening was all they needed, but sometimes, he wished he could do more. And his neighbors were not the only ones.
One day, a stranger had visited the town. He claimed to be a scholar, but the most curious thing about him was the interest he evinced in Bertrand. They talked, and though Bertrand listened in silence, he felt neither friendship nor affinity for the man. He yearned for the life of a knight, fighting against brigands and the dangers of the unknown, and that made him a rough youth, often picking fights with people bigger than him in an attempt to defend an old lady, or a poor beggar. And, miraculously enough, his opponent ended up far worse for wear than him – as if God was leading his hand and granting him victory.
Then one day the stranger took Bertrand aside and spoke plainly with him, and it then Bertrand first heard of a group of "gifted" people, born with incredible talents – talents that the scholar claimed he and Bertrand both had – and he offered an apprenticeship to Bertrand.
Bertrand didn’t want to leave his parents, however, and steadfastly refused. Year after year, the stranger returned, asking if he was ready to leave – and, year after year, Bertrand refused. He was wary of the stranger now, thinking he was a sorcerer who would seduce him from the godly life his parents had taught him. And so, during his fifteenth spring, when the stranger appeared one last time, to offer Bertrand guidance and direction and guidance, Bertrand decisively rejected him.
"You cannot join us, brother," said the other, "for you are already one of us. You can only refuse our company."
"Then, I reject you and your false ways, for my heart and soul belong to the Lord."
With that the stranger left. Yet still his words echoed in Bertrand's ears.
For, why he always emerged victorious, even against all odds? And, why he always brought trouble to himself and those he cared?
And, why did he feel such a need to aid others, to the point he felt their pain? Was it one of those "gifts" the stranger claimed?
Bertrand became reclusive, choosing to live a simple life in his father’s small farm and aiding the aging priest in his duties. Long past were his days when he’d yearn to be a knight, as he realized they were no different than the brigands he used to fight – except of higher status, and thus believing themselves to be superior.
Until he heard the call. Henry of Marcy, under orders from His Holiness Pope Gregory VIII, called for brave men to reclaim the holy land of Jerusalem. Perhaps this was the destiny he was intended for, and after pleading with his neighbors for arms and alms, he joined those who gathered under the banner of the cross, believing that by his pledge, he wouldn’t be denied Heaven.
It was there, and after joining the ranks of the Poor-Fellow Soldiers of Christ, that he understood the nature of his gifts. He kept them a secret from all but God Himself, to whome he dedicated their use and pleaded for his permission and forgiveness – to exert penitent judgment upon the infidel, to turn back their ignoble blows and to claim the pain and wounds of his brothers as his own.
It was thus why he slept alone, and why in his sleep, he fell to his knees, sword before him, for his nightly prayer. "O Lord, giver of mercies, forgive me, for I have indulged in my curse." He felt the bruises, the cuts and deep gashes of his fellow brothers – the ones he healed by taking on their pain, their wounds manifesting as if stigmata – but that didn’t dissuade him. "May this sacrifice for my fellow brethren be sufficient penance..."
--
Several days had passed, and Bertrand felt as if someone was hounding him. First it was a beggar he kindly helped; then, a woman whose advances he rejected, and then one of the few Muslims that were allowed to live in Acre, despite his infidelity. Today, it was a fellow brother, by the name of Saul, who gave him the same dreaded warning. "On the eve of the full moon, at the twelfth ring of the night bell, see what our Order has become."
The brother-knight had disappeared from sight afterwards, but he could still feel someone following him. The thought filled his mind with disquiet. What has the Order of the Temple of Solomon has become?
And thus, at midnight during the eve of the full moon, as his fellow brothers slept, Bertrand – dressed in simple clothes and with a dagger for protection – traveled around the barracks, trying to calm his worries. He noticed someone dressed in black garb waiting for him in the drinking well, arms crossed.
"Who are you?" Bertrand asked, but the figure dashed away without answering. Bertrand pursued, dogging him without catching him, until they plunged into a dark tunnel. He lost the man in its twisting ways. But as Bertrand paused, listening for the other's running feet, he heard voices.
Bertrand followed the voices, dagger in hand, its guard touching his forehead as he muttered a small prayer to God. He saw a dimly-lit room from where the voices could be heard. He peered in.
Robed figures spat upon The Cross and stained its tabard with foul ichor.  You have the following choice: 1. Continue |
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