Sinner: A Prequel to the Mongoliad

“I was.”

“Once I would have given anything to have been a part of that host, to be in the thick of the fighting, but I have heard stories from men who returned from Damietta, and I lost all pleasure in seeking glory in that way.”

“And you are a better man for it, Andreas.”

Andreas shrugged as if he did not concern himself overmuch with such distinctions. He raised his tankard and took a long drink.

“Regardless of my experience in Egypt,” Raphael continued, “when I heard that Frederick was finally preparing to take up the Crusade, I meant to go with him. However, while preparations were still being arranged, word reached Frederick that Ludwig the Fourth, the Landgrave of Thuringia, had died of fever.

“Ludwig had come to Cremona to participate in the Diet, and he had been so taken with Frederick that he had pledged, on the spot, to go with the Emperor on his crusade. Frederick had thought to dissuade the young man-he had a very pregnant wife back home. Ludwig refused to hear any such talk and marched ahead of Frederick, saying that he would wait for Frederick along the coast of Italy-forever, if necessary.

“For Ludwig, unfortunately, forever came much sooner than anyone anticipated, and when Frederick learned of the young man’s death, he asked me to travel to Thuringia. He wanted his grief to be delivered by someone he could trust. I went, and that is how I met Elisabeth.”

Raphael paused, suddenly unwilling to share the rest of the story with Andreas. The memories were bittersweet, at best, and he did not deny the impact they had had on him, but they were his private sorrow. He was not the sort to parade his grief about and seek sympathy and solace from others.

However…

“Elisabeth,” he continued, his voice softer, “had already heard of her husband’s death before I reached her. She was deep in mourning, and even the joy of her daughter’s recent birth was not enough to dispel the despondency that had come over her. In her despair, she had turned to the Church for aid.”

“Ah, the Church,” Andreas said, a sympathetic note in his voice.

“Yes,” Raphael continued. “She turned to Konrad von Marburg. He had been her confessor, and after Ludwig’s death, his influence over her grew. She was very young, not yet fifteen when she married Ludwig, and the strain of her husband’s death-whom she loved dearly-as well as the strain of governing Thuringia was a great deal of weight for such a young heart to carry. She became…erratic…in Konrad’s eyes.

“She had always sought to lead the sort of life espoused by Francis of Assisi-helping the poor and sick-and Ludwig had tolerated her desire to offer aid to his subjects. Konrad, however, insisted her works were not enough- she had already assisted in the construction of a hospital at Wartburg Castle, and daily she offered ministrations to the sick and wounded housed there. He believed she should take vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience as well.”

“Chastity?” Andreas asked. “With her husband dead and her children not yet of age, Thuringia would have needed some sort of regent. A vow of chastity would disallow marriage. How then would the regent retain his authority?”

“The task fell to Ludwig’s brother, Heinrich, but as there was no opportunity for marriage, Heinrich was responsible for the kingdom but received none of its income.”

“Which frustrated him to no end, I am certain. Why did he not petition Rome?”

“He did. However, the Pope saw no reason why Konrad should not be Rome’s representative in the matter. The Pope named Konrad Elisabeth’s official Defender-in all matters concerning her soul and person. Konrad was the ultimate authority.”

Andreas shook his head as he glanced toward the closed door. “The poor woman,” he said softly.

“She refused to allow anyone to pity her,” Raphael said. “Even though her husband’s death wounded her greatly, her devotion to those in need was undiminished. She asked me to stay and assist her at the hospital at Wartburg Castle, which I did, and I was moved on a daily basis at the depths of her charity and constancy.”

Raphael paused and, deciding he had dwelled overlong on Elisabeth’s character, moved on to the end of his story. “When I returned to Germany a few years ago, she and her son had been exiled to Marburg. She was frail, her body ravaged by the strain of her heartbreak and vows, even though her spirit was as strong as ever. She was building another hospital, and she was overjoyed that I had returned to help her. But her joy was misplaced, because she thought I had only been gone a few nights and not three years. She had become somewhat…bereft of her sense of time’s passage. And it was not just my presence in yet another hospital that she was building that confused her. There were other…instances where she displayed a lack of awareness.”

“But she was compassionate and attentive otherwise?” Andreas asked, intuiting what Raphael was suggesting. “Her malady was not obvious to everyone?”

“Yes,” Raphael said. “It was only those close to her-myself and her household-who knew of her mind’s decay. To everyone else, she was-as you said-a generous soul, though a little forgetful.” He sighed and drank from his tankard. “Shortly after the hospital was completed, she became sick. She insisted on being near those who needed her most, and so we let her stay among the ill. I have some small skill as a physician, but I was unable to help her, and a few days later she died.”

“I am sorry,” Andreas said, bowing his head.

Raphael nodded in gratitude at Andreas’s compassion. “After her death, her companions spoke to me of things they had vowed to never speak of while Elisabeth was alive.” He put his hands around his tankard to keep them from shaking. “They told me of the abuses heaped on her by Konrad, both physical and spiritual-how he threatened to have her children sent away; how he beat her; how he accused her of not being pious enough.” His hands tightened, his knuckles whitening. “None of that would have happened if I had stayed. They did not accuse me of abandoning her, but…”

IRA

The door leading to the back room opened suddenly, bumping the man who was standing in front of it. Andreas, who had been shaking his head slowly as Raphael ended his narrative, grabbed his sword and leaped to his feet.

“No,” Raphael admonished. “Wait.”

Andreas ignored him, striding across the common room. The man at the door stepped forward, drawing the long knife from his belt, and Raphael caught sight of the other guard drawing his own sword as he crossed the common room toward Andreas.

The situation, already fraught with tension, was going to erupt in violence.

The inquisitor stepped out of the back room and stopped at the sight of the approaching Shield-Brethren. He stared at Andreas coolly, no hint of panic on his flat face. The guard who had been standing at the door raised his knife in a defensive position and readied himself for Andreas’s attack.

Andreas’s hand tightened on his sword, and though he kept it at his side, Raphael knew the guard was an excellent choice, both offensively and defensively. Andreas might look like he was not ready to fight, but such lassitude was merely an illusion.

The inquisitor’s gaze flickered from Andreas to Raphael and back. “I thought I made myself abundantly clear,” he said, his voice cold and authoritative.

“You did,” Raphael said as he stood from the table. “We were just leaving.”

The inquisitor raised an eyebrow but did not move otherwise. For all his bluster, he knew not to provoke the young man standing before him.

“Brother Andreas,” Raphael said. “We are leaving.”

The second man had paused halfway across the room, his sword drawn but not yet raised aggressively. Raphael measured the distance between them as well as the obstacle presented by the table and the distance between the man and Andreas. He would not be able to stop the man from attacking Andreas from behind, but he would be able to warn the Shield-Brother with a word.

Andreas stepped back and turned so that he could see both men and the priest. His grip did not lessen on his sword as he split his attention between both men, waiting for them to put their weapons away. The priest made a noise with his tongue and put his hand on the arm of the knife-wielder next to him.