The Haunted Cathedral Read online

  Ox crept back to his place as though nothing had happened, winking at Xan as he passed.

  That faithless guard must have thought inflicting pain on Carlo would bring Xan pleasure. Actually it had. But that was the opposite of loving your enemies, like that Scripture verse taught.

  Guy and the monk returned a moment later, holding the quarrels in their hands. “Storm’s a-comin’,” Guy said. “Worse than yesterday. We gotta ride fast and hard.”

  They mounted the wagon, and Guy drove the horses speedily along the road.

  A bumpy morning passed as storm clouds gathered, the loud wheels crushing any peace within Xan. It really had brought him joy to see Ox hurt Carlo. Didn’t that make him as bad and faithless as that horrid guard? He took out his whittled cross and tried to pray again.

  Lord, please help me to understand. Make me be good like Lucy. And if the spirits of Mother and Father are with you, send them to help me find my uncle and his family.

  In his mind’s eye, his prayer left his head and floated to the sky, where it faded away like the dawn mist. Where had his prayer gone? Was God listening? Did He care? Ox didn’t think so.

  “Brother?” he said, voice low. “How are you so sure God listens to our prayers?”

  The monk peered at Xan a long moment with his blue eye. His swollen brown one had still not quite opened after Ox’s punch yesterday. “Faith helps me believe He listens to us.”

  “But how do we get faith? What is it?”

  Carlo cocked his head toward the conversation, while the wheels ground.

  Brother Andrew hesitated. “The Scriptures say faith is being sure of what we hope for; being certain of what we do not see.”

  That sounded like the kind of thing Lucy would say. Except it certainty seemed impossible. “But how do we know prayer isn’t just words that float off into nowhere?”

  A voice croaked out a single-word answer: “Anselm.”

  “What?” Xan turned to see who had spoken. It was Carlo. “Tell him of Anselm,” the bandit said to the monk, avoiding Xan’s glare.

  “By Adam, you know of Anselm’s argument?” Brother Andrew asked in surprise.

  Carlo nodded. “Did the abbot not speak of my past?”

  The monk shrugged. “He said your father was from the Norman Kingdom of Sicily. You grew up with your mother. You joined the Crusades while still a youth.”

  Carlo’s eyes grew soft. “Aye, that Saint Bernard moved my very soul with his words. But even ere the Crusade, my mother had taught me of faith; she wanted me to be a priest one day.”

  At that, the two guards spun their heads. Ox let out a laugh.

  “’Tis hard to believe, I know,” Carlo said. “In the end I chose a . . . a different path.”

  Brother Andrew nodded. “Greed can pull even a good man from the right path.” He turned back to Xan. “Anselm was the Archbishop of Canterbury almost a hundred years ago. He was a great and learned monk and philosopher who wrote excellent arguments about God’s existence.”

  “We can prove God is really there?”

  “Anselm would say it differently. We should not use proofs to seek our faith in God, but instead use our faith in God to better understand Him.”

  “The Fool says in his heart, ‘There is no God.’” Carlo spoke as though reciting a verse.

  Ox burst out in anger. “Monk, ya better stop that filth from hurling names at me.”

  “He calls you no names,” Brother Andrew said. “He quotes from the Psalm where Anselm’s argument begins. Anselm argued that the Fool in the Psalm could never say in his heart there was no God because when one truly ponders the living God, ’tis impossible to deny God’s existence.”

  Xan shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  The monk answered as the wind blew, swishing the trees before a darkening sky. “The Fool claimed he had pondered God in his heart, and yet the Fool had denied God’s existence. Logic proves that to be impossible. The Fool could not possibly have pondered the living God if he had concluded that God did not exist.”

  “But what if the Fool just lives his life without thinking of God at all?”

  “Then all that the Fool does is in vain.” Brother Andrew put his hand on Xan’s shoulder. “Without God, those we love have suffered and died for nothing. But”—the monk’s voice rose hopefully—“with God their suffering can be meaningful, and death is their passage to something beautiful and mysterious.”

  Even the Fool must have parents who would die someday. How would the Fool handle their deaths if he didn’t know anything about God and Heaven and saints and spirits?

  The rain started to fall in a drizzle around Xan. They were traveling now along a high passage with tall green hills. On both sides, the road dropped off into deep gullies.

  Over a clap of thunder, Ox yelled, “’Tis nonsense—all this talk of God!”

  Brother Andrew shouted, “Nay, ’tis a mystery. Our limited minds can barely grasp it.”

  “Hoy, you fools!” Guy screamed, as a flash of lightning filled the sky. “Shut up and open yer eyes! This cursed storm is spookin’ the horses.”

  Guy was right: the rain had increased, and the wind was punishing the wagon.

  “We’re trapped on this passage,” Guy said. “Nowhere to turn, left or right.”

  Sure enough, on both sides of the road the gaping gullies left no shelter for travelers, stretching down grassy hills and ending in thick trunks almost thirty yards below them.

  The sound of quickening hooves approached on the trail behind, barely perceptible in the storm. Carlo jerked his head to see.

  “Listen!” Guy said. “On the road, a rider draws near! Maybe that bandit coming to—”

  A quarrel sliced through the sky between the two guards, barely missing Guy’s head.

  The guard reacted in fear, pulling too hard on the horses’ reins. The poor animals panicked.

  “Lord, save us!” Guy screeched—the exact same prayer going through Xan’s mind.

  The back wheel of the wagon scraped off the trail with a clang and a thud. The whole cart seemed to be dropping out from under them, tilting and dragging the whinnying horses closer to the edge of the path. Closer to the steep gully.

  Then the sky turned upside down—then only air—then wet grass and rocks attacking him.

  All the world plunged down, down, down into darkness and pain.

  8

  Hard Choices

  Xan lay on his back, unmoving.

  He definitely wasn’t dead—rain was falling on his face. He lay in a grassy thicket not far from the top of a gully, drenched and covered in the musty smell of earth. How had he got there?

  Wait! Guy had screamed in panic; the horses had struggled to keep their footing; the wagon had flipped into the gully. The cart must have tossed him into the air near the top of the hill.

  Pain in his side and his legs and arms. His fists could clench; his toes could wriggle. He inched to his side. Nothing broken on him? Maybe Heaven had saved him after all.

  He stumbled to his feet. Who knew how long he’d been lying there unconscious.

  Below him lay the path the wagon had taken as it had toppled down the steep hill. At the bottom—thirty yards away—the wooden cart had splintered upon the trunk of a towering tree. The horses were nowhere to be seen.

  Brother Andrew! Was the monk still on the cart when it hit that tree? Xan had to find him.

  A moaning rose from the bottom of the gully, the cry of something wounded and in pain.

  “Brother?” Xan started down the slope toward the groans.

  “Boy.” The weak, scratchy voice came from behind, to his left. Xan turned to see Carlo sprawled on the grass mere feet away, watching him. “Are you hurt?” the bandit said.

  Like Xan, he must have been thrown from the wagon near the top of the hill, chained hand and foot with no way to cling to the cart’s side. The shackles had cut into his wrists and ankles, and his bearded gray face bore a bleeding gash.

 
“Boy, are you hurt?” The bandit grunted again as he pulled himself to a sitting position. What did it matter to the villain? All that mattered was finding Brother Andrew.

  “I’m fine,” Xan said, turning from the bandit and heading down the gully. Groaning still came from below. The monk might need his help.

  The rain had dwindled to a drizzle and the clouds had thinned, letting in more afternoon light. He scrambled down the wet hill toward the crash, slipping on grass with leather-shod feet.

  Why hadn’t Rummy—or whoever that other bandit was—taken advantage of the crash? Maybe he’d thought it too risky to climb down the slippery gully and possibly be outnumbered. He might be waiting for them to get back on the road by foot. Darkness would eventually come.

  Xan reached the bottom. The moaning grew louder and began to form words. “Help me. Here.”

  “Brother? Is that you?” He moved toward the voice. There was Ox! Half of the heavy wooden cart had crushed the guard’s left leg, which now pointed in the opposite direction from which it ought. He was bleeding from his neck again, and his teeth had turned red from blood oozing in his mouth.

  “Me leg is broke,” Ox said with a gasp. “Git this cart off me.”

  Xan hesitated, then grasped the edge of the heavy wagon. It wouldn’t budge. He lifted harder and the cart shifted, causing Ox to yelp. “Stop!” the guard ordered. “You’ll be the death of me. Find Guy.”

  He’d gladly leave Ox alone to do that. Maybe he’d find Brother Andrew too. After just a few steps along the edge of the trees, Xan stopped in his tracks.

  There ahead, Guy’s body lay crumpled on a great log—lifeless; head crushed horrifically. The wagon must have rolled over him before landing on Ox a few paces away.

  He’d never seen a dead person before. Maybe it would be like Brother Andrew’s painting in the library, with Guy’s ghostly soul separating from his body and looking down at Xan. A chill ran up his spine. Would he be able to see Guy’s spirit if it were standing right in front of him now? He started to shiver. Nay, he would draw no nearer to that body, ghost or not.

  There was nothing to be done for Guy, but Brother Andrew might still live. As Xan turned to go, he spotted a ring of keys: the ones Guy had worn on his belt, one of which fit Carlo’s chains.

  “Here!” a voice shouted from farther up the hill. Carlo had somehow risen to his bare shackled feet and trudged inch by inch down the side of the gully. Halfway down the hill now, he bent over a still figure: Brother Andrew!

  Xan grabbed the keys and sprinted to the side of the monk, who lay still and silent in the grass.

  Please, God, You’ve taken away so much already. Don’t take him away from me too.

  “His face is pale,” Carlo said. “Not good.” Indeed, Brother Andrew looked white and rigid, even under his beard. “Touch his forehead,” the bandit ordered. “My hands are chained.”

  Xan said nothing, but he did reach out his palm and place it on the monk’s brow. “He’s cold.”

  “He needs help, and soon,” Carlo said.

  “Boy, git back here!” Ox grunted from below. But how could he leave the monk like this? He couldn’t—not for Ox or Guy or anyone.

  “Boy!” Ox shouted again.

  “Go,” the bandit said. “I will look after him.” But could he trust Carlo to care for the man who had become like a father to him? The bandit had no reason to hurt the monk, though. In fact, he probably felt indebted to him.

  “Don’t you leave his side,” Xan said, as he turned and headed back to Ox.

  “Did you find Guy?” Ox rubbed his broken leg, massaging the pain.

  “Aye. He—he’s dead.”

  “Dead?” The guard’s eyes widened, for the first time revealing genuine fear. “Now what? Them horses run off when the hitch broke. I need ya to try again, boy.”

  Xan put his hands on the cart and put every ounce of strength into it. Nothing. “There’s no time for this!” he said. “Brother Andrew needs my help.”

  “The monk is seriously injured.” Carlo stood behind them, his voice as worn and ragged as his beaten body. Somehow he’d inched his way down the rest of the hill with his shackled feet.

  “I told you to stay with him!”

  Ox pointed to the road. “Run, boy; run and fetch help.” But where could he find help in the middle of nowhere with a bandit on the road?

  “You fool,” said Carlo. “We are miles from aid, and he does not know the way.”

  “And you do?” Ox said, spitting red from his bleeding mouth.

  “These are my lands.” Carlo gestured all around them. “I spent my childhood in these parts. And Lincoln has been my home for nigh on ten years now.”

  “Filth like you ain’t got no home,” Ox said.

  The bandit looked out over the grassy hill. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “Then tell the boy where to go.”

  Carlo frowned. “Nay, that I will not do. Boy, you must set me free.”

  A chill shot down Xan’s spine. “W-why?”

  “If you do not let me go, your monk will die. He needs healing and a warm bed. He will never survive a night in this chill air.”

  “He’s a liar,” Ox said. “Gimme that bow and go git help; I’ll take care of ’im.”

  “I see you have the keys,” Carlo said in a calm voice. “Free me. ’Tis your only choice if this monk means anything to you. Otherwise he will certainly die.”

  Xan looked from face to face; both were right. Carlo was a murderer, but Xan couldn’t lift the cart off Ox on his own and had no idea where to find help. But if he let Carlo free, he might kill them or run off. And the bruised old man might not be strong enough to lift the cart anyhow.

  “What will you do?” Xan said. “What will you do if I free you?”

  “I know of a small chapel, just inside the Lincoln gate, where an old priest still lives. I will carry this good brother to the priest there, where he will find healing.”

  “Ya cannot trust ’im!” Ox shouted, gasping from the pain. “He’ll murder us all!”

  “What about this guard?” Xan said. “He needs this wagon moved from his leg.”

  “With every moment you hesitate, the monk’s health worsens,” Carlo replied.

  Perhaps the bandit was trying to scare him into obedience. But if Carlo was correct—and Brother Andrew’s paleness did seem serious—then the monk’s life depended on immediate care. Alone, Xan could never carry him to safety. There would be great delay before help could arrive.

  He hesitated. What would Lucy say to him if she were here right now? Surely, she would agree he couldn’t trust the bandit.

  “But you can trust God, Xan.” That’s what she’d say for sure. Except so far God seemed content to let evil after evil come his way. “And then He’s brought good from it,” she would reply.

  Xan took from his pouch the tiny whittled cross and held it for Carlo to see. “Vow to me in the name of God that you won’t hurt us or run off,” Xan said, searching for any promise the villain might keep.

  “Filth like him don’t honor no oaths!” Ox cried.

  “Vow before God,” Xan repeated. “Promise you won’t escape.”

  Carlo’s bony shoulders slumped. His sunken face seemed sapped of all pretense. Even the pendant of the green-eyed dragon dangling around his neck appeared to hang low in surrender. “Nay, boy,” the bandit said. “I cannot make that vow. As surely as I live, I will escape if you set me free. Only death awaits me in Lincoln.”

  Ox was right. No promise would stop this fiend from doing evil.

  “But this vow I shall make,” Carlo continued. “So help me God, if you set me free, I will not escape ’til your monk rests safely in the priest’s cottage.”

  Xan studied the bandit’s eyes. There was no lie in them.

  If the ghosts of Mother and Father and Guy were here in this gully watching him, would they be angry that he might make a deal with this devil? Surely, they’d understand he had no choice.

  O
x groaned as Xan drew out the keys and unchained the bandit, first feet and then hands.

  Carlo stood immediately, his bent body straightening to full height—the gleam in his eyes now brighter than those on the dragon. He massaged the bruises on his wrists.

  “Ha!” The bandit gave a laugh. “Good! Good, boy!”

  “You made a vow,” Xan reminded him.

  Carlo had transformed from a wretched old man to a cunning fox. “I will fulfill it,” he said. “But I made no vow about this worthless piece of refuse.” The bandit strode to Ox’s trapped body and lifted the guard’s long iron sword from the ground where it had fallen. He pointed the tip of the sword at Ox’s throat.

  “You said you would kill me,” he said, “but now I will kill you.”

  Ox’s fiery stare blazed with hatred toward the evil old bandit—and with terror too. Carlo lifted the sword high. “Remember the words of the good abbot ere we departed: you will be treated the same way you treated me. Now I shall fulfill the abbot’s prophecy.”

  This was the natural way to handle one’s enemies, wasn’t it? Not to love them but to hate.

  “Stop!” Xan screamed.

  The bandit faced him, sword still in the air. “Killing this worm would be justice, boy.”

  “Nay,” Xan cried. “The abbot spared your life; why won’t you do the same?” His words seemed to cause Carlo inward strife. How many people had this bandit killed in his life? He’d seen war as a crusader and had attacked villages, even an abbey. If he could murder women and children, surely he’d see no reason to spare this vulgar guard who’d caused him pain.

  The bandit stared down at Ox, whose eyes had become only fear now. The sword fell to the dirt with a clang. Carlo sighed, weak again. “I will do this for you, boy, but only because I owe you much.”

  Ox also sighed but for once said nothing.

  Xan had saved the guard’s life, no doubt, but that victory might not last long if they couldn’t get the wagon off his body. And Brother Andrew might not survive either without a miracle. One day he might need to justify to Uncle William and his family in Lincoln why he’d teamed up with this bandit, for the moment at least. Saving the monk’s life—and that of the guard and even his own life—might be justification enough.