BY AVELLINA BALESTRI

Tom found himself in the manor chapel as the morning sky brightened from gray to gold, with rays of pale light shining through the stained-glass windows and casting rainbow prisms upon the stone floor. He was kneeling with hands clasped tightly together, and his sword lay unbuckled beside him, a testament to his surrender of the self.

He remembered making a similar gesture during the nightlong vigil in the Nottingham church before embarking for Palestine. The dazzling chain and spurs he had received distracted him from his prayers, and he had spent more time dreaming about the glories of the world than appealing to the mercies of heaven. But now, having finally returned home from his captivity among the infidels, he found himself delving into the mysteries of the interior life. Perhaps it took the Saracens to make a Christian out of him. 

Tom regretted that he had been slipping into sin with nearly as much frequency as he visited the chapel, drowning in drink and rolling with women to soothe the brutality of his nightmares, lurid with memories of being beaten and drowned and crucified as harsh voices demanded that he forswear his faith. Yet in spite of his impurity, Tom felt compelled to keep dragging himself back to the foot of the altar and gaze up at the image of his Dying God. It was like a shadow, pressed into his soul, and it burned him like the scars of war that would never heal.

He had nearly become a martyr in the Holy Land, tortured to the brink of death for his refusal to apostatize, but he knew that he was still so far from being a saint. He wrestled with his own carnality, even as he desired nothing more than to imitate the One who had become Incarnate for his sake. But when he prayed, he sometimes thought of the Muslims he had encountered and the manner in which they prayed. He thought of their own striving to deny themselves and serve the One, and it moved him to a compassion that even assuaged some of his desire for vengeance. Perhaps, he hoped, this kindled spark of love for his enemies was a sign of his conversion.

And indeed, Tom felt he was being converted, slowly, with much fear and trembling. He would have visions while sleeping in the arms of prostitutes that the holes in his hands were bleeding again. He would suddenly remember the honor and horror of bearing the cross upon his tunic, now stitched scarlet upon his soul, like the life-blood of his comrades who would never return. Then he would wake up screaming and push the harlots away. He felt rather sorry for frightening them with his terrors of conscience. Most of them were destitute and had no other way to feed themselves and their families. Some were born right out of the brothels and were bound to them like slaves. They did not deserve to be reduced to mere objects of his temptation.

He remembered the strange emotions that overcame him one night when lying alongside a prostitute with hair like amber wheat and eyes like freshly furrowed earth. He said she was the most beautiful thing, and she laughed at the flattery. But he had meant more than she understood, and kissed her lips with the sacredness of approaching a sacrament. He had seen her soul undilating through her body and was in marvel of it. He had felt the warmth of life flowing through her being and invigorating his own. He had even thanked the Creator for crafting her and blossoming such an intense desire for unity in his heart. Perhaps this too was a result of the scales of indifference falling away from his eyes.

But there was always a double edge to such encounters. He could see the worth of these women, yes, made in God’s image though the world saw them as only so much dirt, but it revealed more clearly the sinfulness of using them for his own pleasure. How could a purse buy the most intimate part of any human being? How could it absolve him of duty to the ones he unclothed? He thought back on the maidens he had deflowered in his rakish youth, a series of selfish conquests to prove his own manhood to himself. He realized now it made him less of a man, and he repented in his heart even though the weakness of his flesh remained.

In the end, Tom always craved more than any brothel could provide. He wanted to make love out of love, and receive it in kind. He sometimes found himself fantasizing about having a wife and doing little things like braiding and unbraiding her hair as she lay beside him in bed. She would embrace and kiss him because she enjoyed it, and he wouldn’t be plagued with nightmares anymore. They would have children, and he would tell them stories that made their great Crusade seem like a courtly romance, and maybe even convince himself that it was true. Maybe he would even tell them about his Saracen interrogator’s cat, because it was funny, and it covered over a little bit of the hate he still battled against in his heart. 

But all such dreams ended with the bitter realization that he was broken by his agonies, both physical and spiritual, and he could not bring himself to inflict his dark moods and hellish remembrances on any woman for life, much less the hideous imprints of torture upon his body, assuring that she would only touch him to joylessly fulfil her marital vows. Sometimes the despair became so intense he took to scourging himself with a small whip he kept in his chambers, an additional punishment for his unchastity. Then he would cry himself to sleep.

The only comfort he could find in the midst of his own longings and loneliness was in the chapel. He would close his eyes and imagine Christ’s face, stern and majestic, like in the great church of Byzantium, and then call to mind how it had been disfigured with blood and spittle during His Passion. Yes, this was his God, so much like his own soul, beautiful and shamed. And that was why he could not betray Him, in life or death, anymore than he could remove his own insignificant mark upon existence.

Christ understood him, yes, even him, with his muddied chain and tarnished spurs. And so he lay shaking and sweating on the chapel floor, overwhelmed by the greatness before him and the smallness of his own heart. He remained like that until his breathing calmed and his pulse stopped pounding, a peace beyond understanding pouring salve into his wounds.

He remembered a prayer recited by the Greek priests, wafting up to the ceiling of Hagia Sophia like incense, the perfume of holy wisdom. He whispered the words over and over again, like the blind man in scripture begging to have his eyes opened.

“Kíri Isú Christé, Ié tu Theú, eléison me, ton amartolón.”

Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Tom found it hard to imagine the High Sheriff ever praying before a cross, for surely no one could be so cruel to his even-Christians if they had given themselves over to its awful power. Surely no one could contemplate Christ gazing down upon sinners so mercifully and yet seek to crush their neighbors for personal gain. Perhaps the man had simply lost his soul and thus felt no guilt for enriching himself at the expense of disadvantaged knights. But there was still a glimmer in the Sheriff’s hard hawk eyes that seemed to speak of a smoldering grief beneath the layers of cynicism. Perhaps there was something worth saving in him after all. If it were so, Tom was certain Christ could achieve it, in His own good time.

Yet for now, the Sheriff remained in the shadows, and by his command, Tom would be facing death yet again, if not his own, then that of the man who had saved his life. He had agreed to the proposal to combat Robin Hood in exchange for the security of his family’s assets. The thought made his stomach churn. Yes, this was a highway robber, indeed, a prince among them; common or uncommon should have made no difference. But he had granted Tom mercy, bought him free from torture, brought him home to his loved ones. Besides, the knight felt paltry little ability to claim moral superiority while prostrating upon the floor for his own iniquities.

“Deus vult,” Tom murmured in Latin. “Raise me up to Thee, my Lord and my God. Then crucify my will and make me die to my base passions for the love of Thee.” He shuddered. “Oh, Lord, I am heavy-burdened this day. Thou knowest why. I do not wish to die. I do not wish to make Father and Mother to grieve, nor leave my sister to be unprotected. And I do not wish to kill, not anymore, not Christian or Muhammadan. Yet I cannot allow my family to be turned out of our home. I must buy it with this thief’s blood, for the law of blood has bought me…”

My blood has bought you.

He winced at the words he heard reverberate within him.

“I-I did not mean that…”

But I meant it.

Tom knelt up again, his scarred palms embracing. “Tell me what to do. Show me Thy will, and nail me to it, as Thou art nailed to the tree!” 

He picked up his sword and held it aloft, the cross of the hilt glistening in the rays from the nearest window. The glass was red and white, depicting a bleeding lamb and a paschal banner. His eyes burned from the brightness and crystal tears were born.

Behold the Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world. The Lamb conquers for us all, and the curtain is torn down the middle, and the gates of the otherworld are thrown open. The Lamb makes us poor sinners into brothers. The Lamb seals us with His blood. Yes, thieves and fornicators alike. We have seen His glory and have beheld the Face of God!

Tom crossed himself, once in the manner of the Latins, and then in the manner of the Greeks, praying that the chasm between the churches might someday be bridged, and they would once again be as two lungs in the one Body of Christ. 

“Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.”

Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end.

“Show me the way, Thou Holy Three, Thou Holy One,” Tom implored. “Give me a word, spoken or silent. But please, if I must die this day, may it be in Thy peace. And if I must slay this day, let that stroke sever no man eternally from Thee…”

For this story and other works like it, check out Tales of Chivalry: A Medieval Anthology, Fellowship & Fairydust Volume 17, no. 2 (Fall 2022).