MILES CHRISTI

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

The road was a ribbon, unfolding as if by magic beneath the pilgrims’ feet. It dipped and twisted for no apparent reason, at times turning back on itself, but the grading rose ever higher through the naked, open ground. The road was hard regardless of appearance and rolled like a ball beneath their feet.

Three weeks from Lyons and still in the foothills. The Alps raced before them and refused to be caught. Yet, when the pilgrims looked behind them, it was a dizzying vista, the road cascading like a mountain stream to be swallowed by the valley below. If one should fall, they’d tumble for hours. For the folk who’d never journeyed from their villages, the earth itself seemed to stretch and bend. How could this be? Till they realized that a land first traveled has different time and space. So it is with newfound faith, great insight with little progress.

Not all endured: a soldier might be limping on the side of the road, or a puer crawling due to bloody feet. Some were carried. Some were left. Even the most vigorous men could become suddenly weak when mixing with pilgrims from other regions. Ten could share a meal, nine would sleep happy and the tenth dead in the morning. The sick were placed at the side of the road as the column marched by. Soldiers would call: “Bless you, brother!” “Pray for us in Heaven, brother!”

Priests heard their confessions while others dug their graves. “It is a glorious thing to die on the way to Jerusalem,” the priests proclaimed, their eyes all teary and administered the rites. “Just a little pain, then Paradise.” And they would pray deep, draining prayers, for the soul before them, for at that moment, was the only one on the face of the earth; if they’d been the sole human being, the only soul in existence, Christ would’ve come and died for them. Some of the dying had visions crossing over; they smiled an otherworldly smile and lifted their open hands for the Blessed Mother to grab them, or to some saint coming to greet them. For the very few, Jēsu, Himself, received them. What great hearts they must have had – these nameless members of the unwashed masses known only to their families, who themselves, would remain unknown. Though not all died so well. Nor in glory.

Marin gravitated to these. They cooled him. No need for wineskins when laying on hands. For there was only that soul, that clinging, ignorant soul doing him as much good as he did them. What could they receive other than his duty? It was duty. Marin need not have the heart for it. The same as one who kills dispassionately. The victim is just as dead. The dying needed a priest rather than the man, Marin. That it was him, they didn’t care. In truth, Marin no longer Marin but a vessel of Christ’s mercy.

How good it was not to be Marin . . .

And in the column marching by, Tìbald not Tìbald with his lance upright. Himself upright. Miles Christi.

He held the lance steady till his shoulder went stiff. Penance. A little thing. For by the side of the road every few miles or so, a soul going up to heaven. That God took them so soon. There must be a reason, for all the hairs on their heads are counted, so their deaths must be part of His will. Might would they lose heart on the road and Christ plucked them when their faith was ripe? If so – a mercy.  

That Tìbald not require such mercy.

The Nothing, his abrupt thought to make his stomach quivered.

The Devil’s trick. Make my arm strong for war, he prayed. Make me brave. Don’t let me fall by the side of the road . . . Make my arm strong for war . . . What, then, is God?

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” he whispered.

What, then, is---

God is majesty. God is power. God is just---

He looked to the roadside – Marin with a pilgrim, a Breton spearman who huffed and puffed while raking his chest. Marin over him, droning out the prayers and making the Sign of the Cross every few moments. And every few moments, the Breton would scream and throw back his head. That he die, just die. For he was alone even with Marin, even if touched by a hundred loving hands – alone, as he separates from this world.

He needs not our touch, but our prayers, thought Tìbald. Our touch cannot hold him. The sacraments, he thought as Marin performed his office. As he did with Ivo, with Rainald, the pilgrim Tìbald killed . . . The pilgrim he murdered . . .

“Ego te absolvo,” pronounced Marin as the Breton fell silent.

He’s gone, thought Tìbald. And in his mind, the faces of those he had slain. He saw them in periphery like the rocks and trees. Cloudy faces. Had the Breton in his dying raised them? No matter. They were killers and their end justified. Save one.

His grip on the lance tightened.

Ego te absolvo.

Did he believe it?

No matter. The sacrament is the sacrament and belief does not matter. Must one believe in water to be wet?

To what benefit?

To great benefit.                                                                                     

Little had Tìbald fathomed in Sainte Cecilia, though somewhat more he fathomed now, like so many others, his faith endured on manifestation, the little hints and wonders. Isn’t it logical, manifestation, a hallmark of faith’s reward? No need for grand miracles, only coincidences, Divine coincidences, a sign – portentum, présage, zeichen, kakós oionós. ‘Our Lord is telling me something – I should go there, I should go here, the road is dry, the harvest is plentiful this year – our Lord working in my life. Things happen for a reason. That I have faith in His Hand and He will provide for my good.’ And the proof they will know this ‘good’?

Manifestation.

But such is faith’s enemy. By it, we’re blown by the wind. And Tìbald’s the more common deception – manifestation in the soul – a gnosis. Not the formal gnosis of the heretics of old, but subtler personal knowledge. And while it be framed in doctrine with the proper words . . . nay, even if unspoken, it is profanation . . . Be it only a venial profanation, still, it’s a mustard seed not without effect. True faith will not brook it. Faith is a contrarian.  Only it can sooth when in the clutches of silence.

Silence, Tìbald mused. In the Nothing is silence. Silence – the absence of God’s voice . . . But when did he ever hear God’s voice? If he had, he would’ve fallen down dead. God’s silence is not Nothing.

For behold, the Lord passeth, and a great and strong wind before the Lord overthrowing the mountains and breaking the rocks in pieces; the Lord is not in the wind, and after the wind an earthquake: the Lord is not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake a fire: the Lord is not in the fire, and after the fire a whistling of a gentle air. And when Elias heard it, he cover his face with his mantle.

Tìbald wagged his head. There is no Nothing. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” he whispered again. And there – a knowledge---

A trill of whistling raced back over the column. A band of backsliders had turned around for home. Jeers and catcalls harried them. The dying on the side of the road by their very presence hounded them. “Cowards!” “Repent, brothers, for the sake of your souls!” “There’s a place in Hell for you!” “What is more glorious than to die for Jerusalem?”

Tìbald’s warhorse snorted as they passed by. How easily it could sense an enemy.

Tìbald reined in tight, for the warhorse would surely take a bite, or give a quick kick to the back of a backslider’s head. That would be a wonder – a message from God so the rest might turnaround. Why even that? Just pull his sword and give one a hack. He reached over to grab the sword hilt. Wouldn’t that stun fair Aile riding close to him in iron? Had she ever seen him kill a man before? Many dead she’s seen, the course of life, but at the very moment by his hand? No priest would pray for the backslider. Down to Hell they would go. And Tìbald, as judge, sent them there. No prospect for their change of heart. And Little Peter’s beggar in his mind’s eye . . . He eased his hand.

Ugo and Fulk booed with great humor, whistling, laughing: “What’s more glorious than to die for Jerusalem? . . . To die sotted in bed!” Ugo and Fulk – green apples.

Tìbald whirled on Ugo within his reach and clouted him. He hit the boy again, his lips pursed. Fulk darted away while Aile reared back, her mouth agape, but little did anyone notice as pilgrims succumbed on the side of the road and the backsliders retreated amidst the hooting and calling.

“Enough,” Aile scolded, Ugo reeling.

“Never speak that way again,” Tìbald huffed, recovering his senses, yet still tempted to raise his hand. “Never,” and glared at the cowering Fulk. “Both of you.”

“Tìbald!” Aile cried and he turned on her with a fist. “Mother of God!” She spurred her mount away. “Have you lost your wits?”

“Am I not seigneur?” Tìbald growled.

“Repent brothers,” the pilgrims called. “Rot in Hell,” others shouted.

Marin over another sufferer, making the Sign of the Cross.

“Have I not the right?”

“Forgive us, dómini.” Fulk pathetically.

“Come here,” he ordered. The boy creeped back only to have Tìbald cuff his ear then looked to an aghast Aile. “Should I let their words kill them?” None dare answered. “There was this puer from Ghent,” his speech pressured and the words coming fast, “who complained about the long march not two days ago and how he wanted to go home. He scoffed at his holy vow. Well, as he tended his seigneur’s horse, he walked behind the mount to look in the direction of home. ‘Christ,’ was his profane sigh, and at that moment, the destrier kicked him dead . . . Think yourself fortunate to have only your master’s hand strike you. Be grateful you’ve been struck. And to others, grateful not to have been struck.” He need not look at Aile. “Rainald died from such words, unconfessed.”

He motioned the boys closer and handed them his water pouch.

Ugo took an obligatory sip.

“Drink more,” Tìbald’s voice easing.

“Thank you, dómini.” And took an even smaller sip.

***************

The sun on the hillside, yet darkness ahead enveloping the mountains – snow squalls above the treeline. Sharp, craggy peaks jutting up like the earth’s broken teeth – the ridges, shoulders, and lodge, the road an ever-rising slope to the passes beyond. The passes up in heaven. What terror to the lowland pilgrim who’d never crested a summit . . .

“We’re to scale that?” Aile said, beholding the enormity.

“That we move quickly,” Tìbald said.

“Yes,” Marin said with some knowledge, watching the column snaking up the path. “The passes will be closing soon.”

“How would you know that?” Tìbald asked.

Marin referenced the clouds. “We left late in the year.”

“I think you prefer the passes be closed.”

“Better to be caught here than there.”

“You’ve crossed these mountains?”  

“Yes, dómini.”

“You’ve been on pilgrimage before.”

“Yes, dómini.”

“Then why not say so?”

Marin shrugged with a hand to the wineskin over his shoulder.

“Keep your secrets then,” said Tìbald agitated.

“No secrets, dómini.” Marin bemused. “Pilgrimage is a very common thing. I had journeyed to Rome. The road held many dangers and I did not find it profitable.”

“Before your Holy Orders?”

“As penance, just like now . . .” Marin sighed. End the game. “When I was a man-at-arms in Odo’s levy.”

“In Odo’s levy?” Tìbald quipped. “I did not know that. And your pilgrimage was for penance? What did you do?”

Marin stroked the back of his neck. “The sins that soldiers do.”

“No sin in killing an enemy,” Tìbald said and instantly knew better.

“How did you become a priest?” Aile jumping in.

“I asked Bishop Odo to make me so.”

But still the game. Tìbald tired of the game as are you . . . His face hardened. “You are arrogant to your very soul. Your humility is arrogant. Your forgiveness is arrogant. Yours is of constant judgment which you do not own.”

Marin with a cheerless smile. “Oh, I own it, dómini.”

“Why would Odo make you a priest?”

“A reward for my service.”

“Priesthood isn’t a reward,” Tìbald scoffed. “It’s a sentence.”

“I was no longer suited to be a man-at-arms.”

“And you’re suited to be a priest?”

“It’s an easier life,” Marin’s glib answer.

“Priesthood should be a calling,” Aile said.

“And you chide me for my worries,” Tìbald’s reaction.

“Dómini, life has enough suffering without our adding to it. Then again, does one worry about the right things?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tìbald’s voice rising.

“It is better to do nothing,” Marin again sighed. “Let the world do what it may. It is easier to surrender. It is easier to comply. God will settle things in His own good time. Our amends are vanity and make matters worse.”

Compliance. Tìbald wagged his head. “You comply very little. You’d be burned as a heretic if you believed what you say.”

“But I am compliant, dómini. I am here though I’d rather not be.”

******************

Winds buffeted them. On the heights above the tree line, the air grew thin and sky lost colour amidst a thickening fog. The road vanished beneath snow. As far as to be seen – a monochromatic vista, cold white and the saw-tooth peaks vanished. No one turned for home, not on the high passes. None dared to disbelief. They prayed that God affirm them and keep them safe. Every step a victory. Every descent to be praised.

As they crossed between mountains, they marveled at the rolling dales . . . A common landscape the dales. Yet how soft the earth with an air of peace so gentle, as if God had placed it there for them. Manifestation. Still, their eyes strained at the wall ahead seemingly impenetrable. How minuscule they felt . . . All things are possible through Christ. They traveled an ancient road well known to armies since the pagan Hannibal’s time. Why shouldn’t they complete the passage?  But the road now teamed with spiritual warfare as Satan would thwart their every move. 

They descended to the Aosta Valley, passing through mountain villages going back to Roman days and into the Piedmont ruled by the Count of Savoy, a supporter of Pope Urban’s war. Then along the Via Francigena, the old Roman road to Toscana, a paradise – orchards and vineyards under an iridescent sky. “Pillars of fire!” a priest shouted at the sight of golden poplars. “They mark our way. We are the new Israel!” “We are Israel!” the pilgrims shouted.  “God’s chosen people! We come to work His might!” 

The bishops proclaimed in camp that night, “You have descended from the White Mountain like Moses aglow with Holy Light. In not too many days, you will have a great privilege. You will stand before the Vicar of Christ. He too is a wandering pilgrim – humble, obedient, the least among men, but in him the authority of St Peter conferred by Christ to bind or loose the world. Lest any of you wonder or doubt, hearken to Our Lord’s words:

‘Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam et portae inferi non praevalebunt adversum cam. Et tibi dabo claves regni caelorum et quodcumque ligaveris super terram erit    ligatum in caelis et quodcumque solveris super terram erit solutum in caelis.’”

‘That thou art Peter; and upon this rock I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it. I will give to thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven. And whatsoever thou shalt bind upon earth, it shall be bound also in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth, it shall be loosed also in heaven.’”

Pope Urban had bound them.

******************

“Can you see him?” Aile trilled with excitement. She stood on her tip-toes next to Tìbald, her hands on his shoulders to lift herself over the heads blocking her view. 

“Not yet,” Tìbald replied, he’d think she would know as they gathered among the cohorts before the gates of Lucca, Pope Urban inside with the bishops.      

Let him be good, Tìbald prayed as he, himself, stretched to see. The Vicar of Christ. Let him be faultless . . . No man is faultless . . . But be a great man. A bishop’s virtue resided in his authority, but the Vicar of Christ, must be worthy of the call. Not all bishops are worthy of their call . . .That he be greater than I imagine. Not Odo de Lagery from Châtillon-sur-Marne. Not the monk. Not the prior of Cluny Abbey, but Urban II – Odo transformed. Odo, another Odo. How could one be so right and the other so wrong---

The gates of Lucca opened. The curia came out and ascended to the dais. Fat Odo of Bayeux in their company, a priest on each arm as he climbed and wheezed. The papal banners fluttered from a strong Aegean breeze. Then Urban appeared, a stately man, tall and steady, resplendent in his papal vestments with crosier in hand. Less a monk but a seigneur.

A shout and the pilgrims surged forward. Aile rumbled with a cry, the pilgrims behind her trodded up the back of her legs. Tìbald turned and grabbed her. More shouts of joy and a crush. The soldiers unsheathed their swords and held the hilts skyward. “Deus lo volt! Deus lo volt!” “God wills it! God wills it!” 

Tìbald hollered clutching Aile to his side, “God wills it!” as loud as he could.

Aile recovered and pulled herself loose to join the shouting. “God wills it!”

God wills it! God wills it! God wills Tìbald’s redemption. God wills Aile’s peace of mind. God wills the spread of the Gospel. God wills they prepare for the return of Christ. God wills the Church be one. God wills Jerusalem be free. God wills not a sparrow fall from the sky without His knowledge. God wills forgiveness. God wills punishment. God wills . . . God wills . . .

Urban held his arms out to them with tears in his eyes. So many, so very many caught up by the Holy Ghost’s fire. Not for riches or land, but to free Christ’s tomb. 

The cohorts cheered to exhaustion.

Urban with his hands orant, cried to heaven, “See these, oh Father, Thy faithful ones!  See the love they have for Thee and bless them with heavenly grace! Protect them on their journey, so that those who give up their lives for Thy Sepulchre, may be in battle with the Saracen who mocks Thy glory!”

Urban blessed them and the army dropped to their knees. “Little children, it is glorious to die for Christ. For at that moment, be it on land or sea, by the hand of the Saracen, or by the hand of nature, as you are on the road to Jerusalem, you shall be alight with Christ’s glow. As the light of this world dims in your eyes, so they will be filled with a brighter light.  As your body falls asleep, fear not. Fear not how violent comes the slumber. Your soul shall be alive and will be welcomed into the mansions prepared for you. And no pain you endure can match the ecstasy to be given. See this world with spiritual eyes. See in each other His light. The Lord walks among you and knows your names. Not one of you is a stranger. Therefore, have faith. You must act when all the world is against you. Know when all appears lost, that is when the miracle is at hand. You must all walk out upon this ocean storm to Christ coming to you. And He is coming to you. He strides upon this world’s crashing waves as He walked upon the Galilee. A thousand years the Church has reigned and with this new millennium, He is near. Look! There! To the East! To Jerusalem! There in the sky! He may be upon the next cloud.”

They gasped and strained their eyes. Is this now the time?

“He shall come when least expected. Anti-Christ shall be thrown down and the prince of this world put in chains.”

And there Tìbald with the pontiff in plain view. Urban the wanderer and a pilgrim like himself, but with majesty. How kindly his voice. How loving his manner. If they should meet, Urban would treat Tìbald like a favoured son. To Urban, Tìbald need not explain his trials. They did not matter. “It is a beautiful thing to die . . .”

See this world with spiritual eyes. What a joy it will be to die for Christ. A joy to avenge Him. Not from malice. Not from anger. But from right. Because it is right.