Lux Mundi: The Light of the World. Chpt I

The Third Crusade: Lux Mundi (The Light of the World)

Chapter I

France, year 1183, City of Paris.

This day, the streets of Paris were full. Full of joy, full of people, full of cheers, full of laughter, full of spiritual chants glorifying the King and the might of the Franks. The people of Paris had tried to clean the streets for the military parade of Philippe II and his men. The town criers were sending as much laudatory speeches as waves crashing on a cliff, each one creating a torrent of clapping and cheers stronger and mightier than the previous one. Children that had the luck of finding a window or a balcony were privileged spectators to see the column of men in heavy armour marching at a regular beat. Flags and banners were countless, old drums were resurrecting from the previous war, repaired by the craftsmen so that these magnificent instruments could claim with their loud and powerful beating the might of their king, the might of their soldiers and the might of their people; this people that firmly believed in the might of their both Lords: Their King, and God.

The column of armoured soldiers advanced through the street, led by Philippe II Augustus. His crown of gold was shining on his dark hair. The white horse’s rider was wearing a blue cloak decorated with signs of gold. His eyes looked proud and full of challenge, although Philippe II was a patient and wise man that favoured reflection rather than impulsive and reckless ideas. Behind him, thirty knights advanced slowly, their armours polished, their shields bearing their houses’ colours. The plated armours offered a splendid show to the population, as the sun was at its zenith.

After the knights were the men-at-arms and the crossbowmen. The men-at arms’ hauberks, mail coats and leather armours were much less good-looking than the knights, but the axes and swords firmly held in their grasp made children dream to become such heroes. After came some Knights of the Temple, the Templars. The red cross sewn on their white surcoat was their symbol that made the pride of every of them, a pride to fight for the poor and justice. At the rear of the column, there were some other knights either on foot or parading on their horse. Usually, the most wealthy knights went in front and those who had less money were at the rear to close the march. Those knights had mail coats instead of plated armours, but they offered a good show and a hope for the poor that could maybe dream to become such heroes. Then, some Hospitallers closed the march. Their flag with a white cross and a black background was brandished with pride and honour by the flag-bearer. When the Knights of the Order of St John and the rest of the column turned to another street, the cheers grew even louder, and so went the rest of the day.

A band of little kids had followed the column all-day-long and were discussing between themselves when the sun was fading away. Most of them were around ten years old, young kids without any noble blood flowing in their veins. Dreaming of a silly but magic utopia, they were seeing themselves as proud knights, Templars or Hospitallers fighting in the Holy Land… Nothing more but a young enthusiasm produced with their young naivety. A young boy that seemed to be the elder of the band was saying with a young and childish voice:
“-One day, the world will know my name; they will know that a poor kid became a noble and courageous knight, the nobles will know and fear the name of Charles.
-Of course, of course!” laughed a kid named Jacques. “And I will be a Templar! No, even better! The Pope!”
The conversation ended there with an explosion of laughter coming from the group of kids living through their pure childhood.

***

France, year 1186, somewhere around the city of Paris.

The old monastery’s gate creaked, discreetly being opened by a monk that had decided to see the rays of the morning sun. The man silently stepped out and looked at the sky. Grey clouds and cold rain… Like every other day of this week, Charles had been disappointed. “It seems that God has decided to hide his face with this scarf of clouds… I will have to pray twice as much, today.” he thought. He angrily slammed the gate and walked to the steeple’s stairs. He grimly looked at the cracked bell. He scratched his blond hair and grunted. He mumbled an annoyed “Mea Culpa…” as if he had blasphemed against today’s circumstances that had spoiled his daily pleasure. Charles walked downstairs and walked to the monastery’s Room of the Monks. His sandals made a constant “Clop! Clap!” until he reached the small wooden door. He discreetly looked for someone, scanned the dozens of beds, and his eyes met an empty bed. He closed his eyes, gently shaking his head as a sign of exasperation. He walked to another corridor and reached another room. On its small door was written in gothic letters: “Culina” (Kitchen). He opened the door with precautions, entered and looked around with a satisfied smile. He slammed the door as loud as his arms could allow him to. A man lying down on the floor brutally woke up, his panicked eyes looking in every direction.

Charles said with a bitter tone: “Jacques! It’s your turn to make the bell ring… remember? I’m sure you don’t!
-It was my turn?” asked the monk with a surprised tone in his voice.
-Yes, and you’re going to ring it right away! What are you hiding in your robe?
-Nothing, nothing! Come on, Brother Charles! You know me!
-That’s a wine urn, no? Tsk, tsk! What about your wish of being a good Christian?
-I just drank a few droplets! God can’t punish me for ten droplets!
-God doesn’t like drunkards and liars, my friend.
-I’ll agree with the fact that God doesn’t like drunkards when you admit that God doesn’t like stoolpigeons!
-You’re the worst monk I’ve ever known, Jacques!” said Charles with a frank and friendly laugh.

The two friends guffawed, rolling on the floor with this childish way of amusing themselves. They got up, crying with laughter. Jacques stumbled, his mouth having a cramp. He ran to the bell and pulled on the rope, the bell waking up the whole place with its powerful sound weakened by the fissure in the metallic bell.

The two young monks of around seventeen years old had been received in this monastery since their parents had been put in jail because they had stolen food from a rich and influential merchant. Jacques and Charles knew few things about their parents, having almost forgotten their appearance, their voice… their love. Charles and Jacques had lived through poverty and without their parents for years during their childhood, and had been barely able to eat by stealing. One night, they had not eaten for three days and had decided to let themselves die in the streets of Paris. Charles still remembered…

***

“Two young boys were shivering, their body merely covered by what seemed to be a blanket in rags. Their clothes were mended and patched pieces of clothes, “enriched” with a stinking odour. The elder of them seemed to have blond or chestnut hair (no one knew if his hair were partially brown because of the dirt and the grime accumulated with years into the boy’s hair) and blue eyes, while the other had black hair and a lightly tanned skin, embellished with sad, deep, brown eyes. The younger of the two kids was snuffling and coldly looking at the passer-bys. The other was trying to warm his frozen hands into a fresh manure heap. Indeed, it was disgusting, but it was still better than losing his fingers due to the cold. They both looked at each other, wondering why the world was still unfair towards them. And then, snowflakes began to come from the sky.

Charles looked at Jacques and said with a miserable voice:
“Hey, buddy… I think it’ll be our last night together…”
Jacques didn’t answer, gazing with an empty look at the paved ground.

Suddenly, when the two friends began to stop feeling anything, completely frozen by the cold temperature of this week of Christmas, Charles realized that a tall man was looking at them. He had a monk’s robe, and a brownish hood was hiding his face. The man had a greyish beard and had a wooden rosary necklace around his neck. He slowly advanced towards the dying children, mumbling with a soft voice…
“Poor kids… dying on Christmas Eve… The almighty Lord wouldn’t approve that… Don’t worry, children. There is also good in this world…”
The monk helped Charles to get up, supporting him with his strong arm. Jacques glared at him and noticed a smile on the stranger’s face… He nodded and followed behind him with hesitant and reluctant steps, a cold wind whipping his face. After a whole hour of walking, Jacques fell down, completely exhausted. The monk looked at him with a grim smile and looked at the panting kid. Jacques tried to get up, slipped and fell down. He sighed and grunted, trying to get up. The old monk said with a tolerant tone: “We’ll take a break here… One of my friends will arrive here in a few time, just be patient.”

A few minutes later, a priest arrived at the street corner in a cart. He gently pulled the reins, making the two horses stop. He saluted his friend and told him to get in. The monk looked surprised to see the two kids climbing into the cart, but said nothing. He looked at his friend with a suspicious glare and the old monk answered: “Come on, Brother. They were starving and dying…”
The man stood silent, thinking. Finally, the bearded man said to Charles and Jacques:
“My name is Jérémy. The cart’s driver’s is Bernard. We’ll take you to our monastery, all right?”
Charles nodded, while tears covered Jacques’ brown eyes.
“You will become Brothers of our community. You will be able to eat every day, educated, you will pray and love God for what he gave you…” said Bernard with a gentle voice. After another hour of journey, Bernard finally pointed at the monastery, a smile lighting up his face. During this hour, Charles and Jacques had slept, warming themselves in the soft blankets. The smile in their faces had brought them back to life, bringing a new hope of a better life. The two monks took the kids into their arms and brought them to the Room of the Monks. They put them in warm beds, tenderly looked at them, and realized something… The two kids were stinking so much that an amused grimace deformed Bernard’s face. “Where have you found them? In the sewers?”

Next morning, the kids woke up in their beds, greeted with the whole community of the monastery. They ate hot soup until their belly was about to explode, took a three-hours long bath (both of them were surprised to realize how good it feels to be clean) and swore the wishes of celibacy, poverty (it wasn’t a really difficult oath to do), and obedience. They had been granted of a “monastic” haircut, which resulted in the yells and screams of Jacques when he saw his head in a glass. A monk threatened him to “get rid what was left” if he didn’t calm down, which ended in the constant laughter of Charles, which had rarely cared about his hair. Still, a chaplain allowed them to make their hair grow but at the condition of cleaning them regularly and making sure that there weren’t any “little friends” seeking shelter there. The monks complained, but finally accepted, due to the fact that they never wanted to cut Jacques’ hair ever again… especially after their traumatizing experience to try to reason Jacques. Although, the same day, the whole community lost, due to a natural cause, its eldest member: The old grey-bearded called Jérémy. Charles and Jacques had never taken the time to thank their saviour, and he had already left this world. A whole week of sadness and mourning fulfilled the friary, and then Charles and Jacques, seen as the younger people in the monastery, began their education with Latin courses and the normal education that received a monk, being taught by Brother Bernard. Each day, Jacques and Charles prayed in front of Jérémy’s burial place, in memory of their saviour that had never been thanked for his kindness.”

***

Now, Charles and Jacques were seventeen, and had grown through their adolescence and the monastic life. Charles was a better student than Jacques, who had his own idea of how to serve God best. Charles was intelligent, brilliant, I could even say. He had learned Latin in a record time, learned to read and write, and was a good Christian. Jacques, on his side, was hot-headed, always ready for adventure. He had more the temperament of a soldier than the monk’s wisdom and moderation.

Charles and Jacques were studying into the monastery’s dusty and old library. Charles looked outside the small window, some drizzle lightly touching his face. Charles, Jacques and a dozen of monks were seated around a large table, some opened books decorating the oblong piece of wood. The pages yellowed with time showed some images, such as a great knight. Under it, a sequel of words was written with a clumsy handwriting: “Godefroy de Bouillon: Advocatus Sancti Sepulchri.” Jacques repeated with a strange accent “Defender of the Holy Sepulchre.”

Brother Bernard, who was the monastery’s best teacher, was a relatively young monk to teach students about the known History of the Franks. Bernard was a tall man, pious and honest above everyone. He was a man of knowledge, a man of letters, and a man of wisdom. He scratched his brown beard and cleared his throat:
“Today, we will talk about places farther than anywhere you’ve ever gone to: The Holy Land. Far, far away… Beyond Rome, Genoa… There is this city called Jerusalem that has been freed by Godefroy de Bouillon, the holiest warrior of our time. With his courage and determination, he has freed the Holy Sepulchre, and he gave several lands to those who had followed him, creating the Latin Kingdom. A piece of the Real Cross has been found, and it is now in the hands of the mighty Crusaders. I talk to you about this land because I have done a pilgrimage to Jerusalem during my youth. (He sighed) Know that Jerusalem is the most beautiful city in the world. One day, you will do your pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and you will be admiring for what will seem an eternity the beauty of God’s Kingdom. Many years of war have taken place in these lands… Roman blood has been spilled on this land… Jewish blood and Frankish blood have dried on the pale sand of gold… Pagans have caused bloodshed for several years with their arrogance and their fanaticism towards their false beliefs… but fortunately pagan blood has been purged and spilled on the soil of Christ, such as Saracens’ and Mussulmans’… Still, the knights of the Temple and of the Hospital are giving their lives for the Lord and their swords cut through pagan flesh in the name of the Lord! In nomine Domini!”

Bernard lowered his voice, as his soul had been taken by an old passion. He looked through the window: it was still raining.
“I dream of going to Jerusalem again… just one last time before my time is done. I have been waiting for a sign… for years… and yet nothing has happened. God gives us signs to help us to better his bidding. Remember that, Brethrens.”

Charles and Jacques left the library with their brethrens, already dreaming of accompanying their friend Bernard to the Holy Land as pilgrims. Jacques had this special taste for adventure and Charles was never going anywhere without his best friend, as if the childhood spent with him had united both of them in an indestructible friendship. Charles ran to the monastery’s gates and looked at the grey clouds… He mumbled between his lips:
“I hope this sign will come…”