LITTLE POOR MAN
The Story of Saint Francis of Assisi
Charles Rayner Kelly
Copyright 2011 Charles Rayner Kelly
Published by CharlesRaynerKelly at Smashwords
In memory of:
Father Charles Rayner Bradshaw, OFM
Father George Whitmier, OFM
Father Mychal Judge, OFM
And my beloved brother Joe
MAY THEY REST IN PEACE
1.
"I am done with what I was to do,” Saint Francis told his followers when lying on his deathbed. “You do also what it is that you must do.”
So it was that two men traveled together on a journey from France to Italy in the year twelve hundred and sixty-two anno domini. Both men were monks, dressed in the clerical garb of their respective orders. One was a priest, wearing the black and white habit of the Dominicans. The other was a younger man not yet a priest, who wore the brown Franciscan tunic, sandals and a rope around the waist.
Father Callistus was tall and physically strong with piercing gray eyes. He seldom felt the need to speak, preferring to keep his thoughts to himself, laconic and secretive. The younger monk was much more affable and approachable. Brother Rayner had three years of theology awaiting him before he was ordained. He was scholarly by nature and hoped to be a hagiographer one day, a biographer of saints. There were already three in the Franciscan order now – Francis of Assisi, its founder, Anthony of Padua and Clare of Assisi. The young scholar hoped to write the authentic life story of each one of them one day.
After a while, the old Roman road they were following took them across some low jagged mountains, where there were oak trees growing on both sides of the road. Then they crossed a stream with a sturdy Roman bridge and came to some flatlands where there were wide fields of grain. And the road went on, very straight with few people passing the other way. Then it lifted to a little rise, and on the right was a hill with an old castle and some buildings close around it.
After completing philosophical studies in Paris, Rayner was on his way to study in Rome. Franciscans rarely travel alone and typically journey in pairs, but he could find no one within his order to accompany him. So he was introduced to Father Callistus who was going as far as Perugia. It was agreed that they should make the journey together. From Perugia, Rayner would have to find another companion to continue his trek to Rome.
The two travelers crossed a wide plain and there was a river on the left, shining in the sun from between the trees. Up ahead in the distance, they could see the plateau rising, and a cathedral at its crest, and the broken skyline of other churches. Behind this plateau they knew were the mountains, and beyond them were other mountains. And they needed only to follow the road, which stretched out straight before them, to attain their destination.
The young monk looked forward to the journey which would take him through much of the Holy Roman Empire. Rayner was told of the magnificent vistas he would see along the way, the fecundity of the grape arbors in Champagne and Burgundy, the exquisite city of Lyon lying on the Rhone, and then the thrill of entering Italy where he would stay in Genoa and Florence. It promised to be an exhilarating experience which Rayner anticipated avidly.
They were now going through farming country with rocky hills that sloped down into the grain fields. As the road descended, the wind blew the grain which made it very dusty, and the dust hung thick in the air. The road then began its climb into the hills, leaving the grain fields behind. Now, there were only patches of grain amid stones and rocks.
It was originally planned that they would go the whole way on foot. However, within a week Father Callistus was able to negotiate a ride in the coach of an elderly Parisian dowager. She and her granddaughter were going as far as the city of Florence. Her coach was large and she agreed to take them as passengers. The granddaughter was pretty and extremely flirtatious. She kept glancing at Rayner in an inappropriate manner, considering his vows. On the evening the coach arrived in Dijon and stopped for lodging, the young lady whispered an invitation for a tryst in her room. Rayner was flustered and embarrassed, and didn't know how to reply. Of course, he didn't go.
She was the first woman who ever took an interest in the young man, and he would see her face in his dreams long afterwards. She had long auburn hair and green eyes and a budding maturity beneath her pink dress, which was made of expensive silk and rich embroidery. The old dowager snored through most of the long, tedious journey and the priest read his breviary over and over, so there was almost no conversation. The young woman kept casting furtive glances at the red-faced monk and moving her tongue across her lips in a most suggestive manner. Rayner was suffering from severe temptations of the flesh by the time they arrived at Lyons. He confessed his weakness and the young woman's coquetry to Father Callistus, which was not wise to do. He later learned that telling anything to Callistus was a serious mistake.
At last the coach crossed the Italian border, passing through the countryside of Lombardy afresh with fragrant flowers and awash with babbling brooks. Vineyards lined the hillsides owned by nearby manors where laborers toiled in the fields. When finally they arrived at Florence, the two monks bade the two ladies adieu and continued southwards on foot. The priest immediately set a brisk pace. Rayner struggled to keep up, lamenting his sandals which were in need of repair. Their journey to Perugia, a distance of over a hundred miles, was made almost entirely in silence and with few allowances for rest.
But now they were nearing the Duchy of Spoleto, where the communes of Assisi and Perugia were found. The young monk could scarcely contain his excitement. They were approaching Umbria, where Saint Francis was born and had lived. Rayner was elated. A dream was coming true. He had been captivated at any early age by the charm of Francis of Assisi. His mother was devoted to this newest of canonized saints and his uncle was a Franciscan friar. The Little Poor Man or Poverello, as the Assisian was commonly called, was raised to the altar some thirty years before. There were legions of admirers everywhere who took inspiration from his life and his values.
Rayner was eager to bask in the seraphic glow of Assisi. He could feel a mystical presence in the air with each passing mile, a graceful serenity, a sweet scent of sanctity lingering like yesterday's flowers. From the moment he had joined the order in England four years before, Rayner had hoped to visit the city made famous by his heavenly patron. Now as destiny would have it, it was a stop on his way to Rome.
He knew that the cobblestone road they walked upon was built many centuries before by Roman legionaries. It followed an uncompromisingly straight course crossing tall mountains and deep valleys, bridging streams and cutting through forests primeval. The two travelers slept in the open air beneath a waxing moon and ate over a campfire from their scant supply of food. Occasionally they met other travelers coming from the opposite direction, but Callistus would never greet them nor did he wish Rayner to tarry for a moment, insisting that he was in a hurry to get where he was going.
By this time, Rayner was starved for conversation. He had given up trying to engage his companion in any meaningful discussion. On the rare occasion when he replied to anything, Callistus revealed himself as extremely opinionated and intolerant of other people's views, qualities not conducive to pleasant social intercourse. Rayner was happy to be nearing Assisi for this other reason, he admitted to himself. He didn't want to be around Father Callistus any longer.
The journey by this time felt physically and spiritually wearisome. To make matters worse, the weather grew unseasonably hot and humid. After completing three years of rigorous study, Rayner had hoped to make the journey to Assisi more like a pilgrimage to a sacred place. His spirits were depressed and in need of an uplift, a renewal. He felt his inner life was as dry as his throat, which was parched at the moment. As they were passing over a brook filtering through a copse of beeches, Rayner suggested that they rest for a while.
"You should have joined my order," Callistus said amusedly, watching Rayner dip his entire head in the water, his brown garb wet with perspiration. “My clothing is made of thinner material than yours. It's more suitable for weather like this.”
The remark had a barb to it. There was a longstanding rivalry between their two orders, one which Rayner was not inclined to take seriously. “No thanks,” he replied after drying his face. “I'm satisfied with the choice I made. We're getting nearer to Assisi where I'll satisfy my real thirst. I'll drink deeply of that intoxicating brew that made Saint Francis so drunk.”
“Have you no shame!” the priest rebuked him sternly. “First you try to defile a young maiden as she sat next to her kindly old grandmother, and now you're speaking of drinking intoxicating beverages. What else do they teach in that damnable order of yours? It's becoming notorious for its unorthodox behavior. I warn you, don't be a fool like your brethren. Learn to yield to discipline and authority.”
Rayner was surprised and appalled. “I didn't try to defile anyone. She was the instigator,” he protested vehemently. “And I told you that under the seal of confession, father. You have no right to bring it up now. If I was trying to do something underhanded, it's not likely I would have confessed, is it? And the intoxicating beverage I talked about was only a silly metaphor. I merely meant to express my excitement about getting close to Assisi.”
“I think you'll find Assisi very dull,” Callistus replied, changing his surly manner abruptly. “The new cathedral is ugly but the old Roman temple to Minerva is somewhat interesting. Everything is set up to elicit money from ignorant pilgrims and naive wayfarers. People come from hundreds of miles just to visit the tomb of Saint Francis. Assisi is a merchant's paradise. The pious foolishness of the rabble is excellent for commerce.”
"I'm not interested in any old buildings or the commerce or the pilgrims. I'm interested in the old-timers who live here," Rayner said, subduing his irritation. He was surprised by Callistus' sudden willingness to talk. “I want to learn more about Saint Francis from people who actually knew him. I want to interview some of them during the time that I'm here. I have you to thank in part. Taking the dowager's coach instead of walking gave me a longer period for research than I originally expected.”
"Research! About Saint Francis?” Callistus questioned, his dark brows narrowing. “Why? Everything about the man has already been written. There's nothing more you need to know. Forget all that nonsense. There are better things you can do with your time.”
"But there must be something additional to learn surely," Rayner argued, zealous over the topic. "What's written about Saint Francis seems so capricious and fanciful. Important aspects of his life aren't recorded, and some things that are recorded don't make sense."
"That's not true," Callistus countered sternly. “We have all the important facts and there's nothing more to know. Francis was born wealthy and he gave up his riches to become poor. He asked the pope's permission to establish a religious order and it was granted, much to the annoyance of the upper clergy. He wasn't well educated, and the order grew so fast that he had to abdicate as its head. It was placed in better hands. He then went to the holy land, tried to convert the Sultan, and failed miserably in the attempt. He died when he was about forty-five years of age. Let's see, what more?” Callistus thought for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Well, there's also his relationship with Saint Clare. But those are the most significant facts. There's nothing more anyone needs to know."
“Those are the main facts, I grant you,” Rayner agreed, trying to be pleasant. “But there are parts of his official biography that just simply couldn't be true.”
“Like what?” Callistus wanted to know.
“Like birds supposedly opening their beaks, stretching their necks and bowing their heads whenever he spoke to them. I can't believe that! The official biography says that after he finished speaking, the birds would soar into the air, singing and beating their wings in jubilation. And then they supposedly flew away by dividing themselves into four parts forming the sign of the cross. That's a little far-fetched, don't you think? It tells me more about the biographer or at least his ignorance of nature. Take the account of when Saint Francis tamed a wolf...”
“If it's contained in the official biography, then the story is true,” Callistus insisted. “If it's approved by the Church's hierarchy, then it's not to be doubted. That means nothing needs to be added or deleted. Don't be like the other members of your order. Submit to discipline and authority.”
“I'm not trying to argue with you,” Rayner said, hoping to sound amenable. “But some of the accounts have to be metaphoric, you must admit. The official biographers gave free rein to their own whimsical fantasies in my opinion. I'd like to write a more factual life. Perhaps one day I'll write one for your order about Saint Dominic.”
“Don't waste your time on saints. They're all unbalanced in some way,” Callistus replied sarcastically. “You'd be better off studying something practical like canon law. That's where the future lies for anyone seeking an ecclesiastical career.”
“Perhaps you're right,” Rayner conceded. “Saints tend to marginalize themselves by adhering to other-worldly values. Sometimes they don't conform to social standards or expectations. No doubt they have extreme behavior. But I also think there's something to be learned from them. The memory of people who have achieved wholeness, which is what holiness means, remains vivid through the ages. Saints are witnesses to what can happen to those who are truly humble and pliable to the will of God.”
“I don't believe all that,” Callistus responded, shaking his head. “I think you're reading too much into them.”
“Oh, but it's true,” Rayner insisted. “A saint's life can astonish us and wake us up from our apathy and dormant selves. It's as though we're half asleep or maybe numb. The lives of saints are capable of shaking us and radically altering our hearts and minds. Their example can literally change our lives.”
“That's just an opinion. But tell me. What exactly do you intend to do when you get to Assisi?” Callistus asked.
“Some people may still be alive who knew Saint Francis. He's only been dead thirty years or so. I'd like to speak with them and write down their recollections. Time is of the essence when you're dealing with old-timers. They might not be around for long.”
“Don't do that,” Callistus said, warning him again. “I'll tell you something that I wouldn't tell most other people. Francis was lucky that he died when he did. Had he lived longer, he'd have been condemned by the Holy Inquisition and burned at the stake.”
“That's absurd!” Rayner protested. “I've read the official biographies. There's nothing to justify such a ridiculous notion. He was a model follower of Christ, perhaps the most perfect in history. How could he have ever run counter to the Church?"
"Be that as it may, I'd advise you not to carry out your plans,” Callistus rejoined. “The official versions include everything that's important. They've been approved by the hierarchy and anything else written is considered heretical."
“I'm not implying that the hierarchy was wrong in approving the biographies,” Rayner explained. “And I'm certainly not saying anything heretical. But there are nevertheless a lot of things that don't make sense as they're presently written. Maybe I can make them more comprehensible or put them into better context. If nothing else, I can corroborate the facts with people who actually knew Saint Francis.”
“You ought to listen better, my friend,” Callistus scowled. “I'm a lot wiser in these affairs than you are. You can get into serious trouble speaking like you do.”
“I've no doubt you're wiser than I am,” Rayner admitted. “But I've always been interested in Saint Francis, thinking him to be the contemporary of every age. His life expresses an important meaning. I'd like to interview those who knew him personally and write down what they remember. I've brought lots of parchment and ink for that purpose. How can there be any harm in doing that?”
“Don't you defy me,” Callistus snapped officiously. “You'll do as I say if you know what's good for you.”
Rayner was perplexed by his companion's reaction. “What harm can there possibly be in recording the memories of people who actually knew Saint Francis?” he persisted. “We'll never have an opportunity to know more when these old-timers are dead. I don't mean any disrespect towards you, believe me. But I've been planning this a long time and I fully intend to carry out my objective.”
Callistus grabbed him, threw him forcefully to the ground and held him by the throat. "You're a fool," he said through tightly clenched teeth. "I told you not to do it. Don't you dare defy me again." His powerful hand pressed deeply into Rayner's flesh and his eyes glowered with a fiery purpose.
Rayner was overwhelmed by such brute force. He couldn't pull himself away from Callistus' grasp, given his superior size and strength. “You can call me a fool,” he wheezed. “Saint Francis was called a fool too."
Callistus increased the pressure on his throat, so that Rayner could say nothing more. He smirked when his victim offered no further resistance. Finally, he let him go. "The official biographies are the only accepted versions," he repeated, pulling Rayner to his feet and helping to brush off his tunic. "All other accounts have been burned. No new ones will be tolerated."
The younger man steadied himself uncertainly. "I thought you would have valued scholarship more than that," he said, after taking a step away. “We should learn as much as we possibly can, I believe.After all, wanting knowledge isn't a sin.”
"It depends on the intent and the circumstances," Callistus replied. He lifted his knapsack to his shoulders to continue the journey. “I'm just warning you for your own sake. Watch out and mind your behavior.”
Rayner had no desire to argue any further. They were close to parting company and that was what mattered most. They continued walking until they came to a crossroads with an old wooden post and a sign. The lettering was badly weathered but still legible. It pointed to Perugia up ahead and Assisi to the east. Todi and Orvieto were to the south. No distances were given.
Up ahead, they saw horsemen and a wagon approaching. Thinking they meant to pass, Rayner got off the road to let them by. They were soldiers of the Holy Inquisition, he could tell, identified by their black and white uniforms. Inquisition soldiers made him nervous, he decided, feeling oddly uncomfortable around the Church's elite guard. They weren't in England or in France but only in the Papal States.
There were eleven soldiers in all, a sergeant and ten mounted troops behind the wagon. The wagon moved on ahead, so that Rayner could see that it contained five captives. Four men and a woman were chained together, looking miserable and poorly treated. He watched as the soldiers slowed down and finally stop. The sergeant in charge dismounted from his horse and walked towards them. He was swarthy and his face was badly scarred, giving him a sinister and evil look, not someone Rayner would have wanted to meet in a darkened alley.
The soldier approached and saluted Callistus. “We weren't expecting you so soon, Commander,” he said. “I'm glad that you're here. You've received a response to your query from headquarters, sir. Permission was granted.”
“Who are these prisoners?” Callistus asked, motioning to the wagon that had passed.
“Heretics, sir. Their neighbors informed on them,” the sergeant reported. “You'll be especially interested in the warrant we've yet to enforce. It's in my saddlebag, sir.”
The priest accompanied the sergeant to his horse to retrieve the document. By this time, Rayner had realized who his companion was. His mouth hung open in surprise. Father Callistus was an officer of the Holy Inquisition, and the soldiers all around were under his command.
2.
"Cecco, wake up!" It was Madonna Pica, Francis' mother who was calling him. Her son reeked of wine and he could scarcely come awake. "Get out of bed," she demanded, shaking him vigorously. "It's Sunday morning and time to go to church."
She didn't notice another man who was lying in a corner with a blanket draped over him. Giles watched as she picked up her son's shirt and tossed it disgustedly on a chair. "Where were you last night, young man? What time did you come home? Did you take your younger brother carousing with you? Answer me!"
Francis' fingers crept slowly over the sheets, rubbing his eyes sleepily and succumbing to a yawn. "I don't know anything," he said drowsily. “Maybe you should ask Angelo.”
"It's disgraceful," Pica scolded, picking up more of her son's clothing. "Look at the scandalous life you're leading, Cecco. You're wasting your father's hard-earned money with your extravagance, you and those other rowdies who follow after you. Someday you'll get yourself and your brother into big trouble. Then what will you do? You'll need your father to bail you both out again, another time. This isn't what we want for our sons. I don't want you to give bad example to Angelo."
“Angelo is a big boy, mother, and he does what he wants,” Francis retorted, sitting up and holding his aching head in his hands.
"Will you please answer me! Where did you go last night? Or will I have to find out from a neighbor like always?" His mother was fretful and spoke with a high raspy voice.
"I don't know exactly where we went," her son answered as she passed him a basin of water to wash his face. "We started drinking in one place. Then we left there and went somewhere else, and another place after that. I don't remember much about what happened afterwards."
"Baie! That's about all the information I ever get from you," his mother scolded. "And then I hear all about it from other people. Do you realize how embarrassing that is to me? And how it infuriates your father? Cecco, you're a scandal to our family."
Giles listened closely from where he was hidden. The lady's son was indeed known for his wild and reckless ways. He was a favorite among all the young people in Assisi, good-natured and jovial, a carefree wine-loving troubadour, singing of the exploits of Charlemagne and King Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table whom Giles especially admired. Sometimes he would sing bawdy songs, it was true, but always in a romantic atmosphere of golden youth.
For the past three years, Cecco was voted 'rex convivii' by the young people, the king of sumptuous banquets and the lord of playful jousts, reigning regally with a garland of leaves for a crown and a flowering branch for a scepter. It was known to Giles and many others that Cecco gave money to anyone who needed it. His father was immensely rich and could afford whatever his son wanted. Apparently what pleased his son most were good wines, adoring friends and pretty women.
"How much did you spend last night?" Pica asked. "Your father is going to want to know when he gets home. How much did you take from his money box?"
Francis sighed as he wiped his face dry. "I don't know. A purse or two of coppers, I suppose."
"A purse or two! That's a lot of money," his mother gasped. "Cieli! What will your father say to that? He's due home sometime tonight. Wait until he hears how much you've cost him since he's been gone. He and your grandfather worked hard to earn that money. They took many risks..."
"Yes, mother, yes. I'll speak to father myself," Cecco said, sounding irritated. "There's no need for you to get involved in my personal finances."
"Your finances! Since when have you contributed anything to the finances around here?" she said indignantly. “You don't add anything. Gnaffe! Your father claims that you subtract!”
"That's not true. I've accompanied father on many of his business trips," her son protested, carefully laying his heavy head down again on the pillow. His father sold fine cloths, silk and velvet fabrics, muslins and embroidered laces from as far away as Paris and Flanders. A portion of their family business was beneath them, occupying the ground floor of their spacious house, a shop filled with colorful brocaded cloaks, dresses, capes, vests, and furred hats and collars.
“Yes, you did accompany your father several times on his business trips,” Pica admitted. “And he says that you spent twice as much money as you earned. At night you caroused with anyone who would drink with you, your father told me, and during the day he never could find you to lend a hand.”
“That's because I got sidetracked with something else. I'm interested in architecture, that's why. There are some magnificent cathedrals being built, especially in southern France.”
“Euge! Then why don't you become an architect?” his mother said. “It's time for you to do something constructive. You're almost twenty-four, young man, well past the age when you should be doing something worthy with your life."
"Something worthy with my life," Francis repeated, stifling a yawn. "That would be a change, wouldn't it?"
At that moment his brother Angelo staggered into the bedroom, dressed in the clothes he wore the night before. His hair was disheveled and there were shadows beneath his eyes. He was wearing only a single shoe.
"And now you!" his mother said, turning her wrath upon her younger son. "Haven't I told you not to do as Cecco does? Look at you, you're no better than he is. Oh, what is your father going to say? I'm the one he's going to blame."
Angelo looked drowsily at his mother, as though he heard it all before. Then he looked at his brother and grinned broadly. “Cecco was the life of the party as usual,” he said, dropping on the bed and nudging his older sibling. “There would be no fun if Cecco wasn't around. He makes everyone laugh and be merry.”
"Life of the party indeed! What did you two do last night?" their mother insisted. "Must I hear about it all at church this morning? Tell me, what did you do?"
“I've already told you,” her oldest son said, his eyes closed shut.
“You've told me nothing, Cecco! Nothing as usual. Angelo, where did you two go?”
"Well, we started in the tavern near the west end of town," Angelo recounted. "We met Cecco's friend Bernard there. Then after an hour or two we went to another tavern, the one that's owned by a family from Genoa or somewhere, I don't remember. Then we continued making the rounds to other places. We got to five before I lost count."
"Oh, my God! Everyone must have seen you. And no doubt you were out on the streets like drunken troubadours, singing disgraceful songs at the top of your lungs," Pica moaned. “Tell me, is it true? Is that what I'll hear at church?” She held her hands to her ears, as though part of her didn't really want to know.
"I didn't do it," Angelo insisted, laying his head beside Cecco. "Older brother here is the singer in the family. It was he who insisted on serenading the daughters of Count Favorino."
"The daughters of Count Favorino!" Pica repeated with horror. "Oh God, what am I to do? What time of night was this?"
Angelo didn't know, but Giles who was hidden did. It was a little after three in the morning. Angelo could recall only a few vague details. "I remember Cecco singing and playing his lute. Bernard threw a wine bottle that smashed against the door. I recall being chased by the Count's guards."
"Chased by his guards!" Pica moaned. "Oh, this is too awful. Your father will burn the house down. You know how much it means to him that our family be respected and that we maintain our reputation in Assisi. And who will get the brunt of his anger? Me! He'll tell me that it was my responsibility to keep you two in line. I'll be the one guilty in his mind. Why of all the people in the world did you choose Count Favorino's daughters to bother?"
"Because Cecco has his eye on his daughter Clare," Angelo said, chuckling and nudging his brother again. "And he did it on a dare, bless him. Bernard bet ten silver coins that he wouldn't sing for twenty minutes beneath Clare's window."
"Heaven help us! On a wager, no less. What happened then?" Pica asked, falling into a chair before swooning.
"He did it!" Angelo said proudly. "Cecco did it. He sang his heart out but alas, not for twenty minutes. So I'm afraid you lost the bet to Bernard, old man. The guards came within five minutes at the very most. We ran away with them hard on our heels, out-distancing them somehow but I think they got Bernard. That's how I lost my shoe, I guess. Anyway, Cecco and I went to another tavern and drank some more after that, and I think I passed out about then."
"You certainly did," affirmed his brother. "I can't stand a man who can't hold his wine. I had to carry you home myself. Me and some other fellow."
Giles was about to reveal himself at this point, an opportune moment to make his presence known when Angelo commented: "I remember who that was now. Some guy who was hitting you up for money. He had a little sister who was sick or something. You were boasting at the time that someday you'd become a famous knight. Someday, you said, Giovanni Francisco Bernardone would no longer have to run away from guards, no longer would he be scorned as a reprobate and a drunk. Everyone would know that Francis Bernardone was made of finer stuff. Ha! Cecco stood on a table and told everyone in the tavern of his high and noble purposes," he said, falling into uncontrollable laughter.
"You, a famous knight!" said Pica derogatorily. "You'll be lucky if you're not locked up in prison for life. Oh, what will we do if the guards come here looking for you both? You'll be thrown in a dungeon. What in the world will your father say then?”
"I don't remember any of that," Francis yawned. "I guess wine makes me say odd things that I'd never say otherwise."
"You don't remember all that?" Angelo was genuinely surprised. “And what about your boast that you were going to marry the most beautiful woman in the world. Don't you remember that either? Obviously you were talking about your sweet little Clara.”
"No," Francis said. "I don't remember that either. I doubt that her father, Count Favorino, would approve of the marriage."
"The Count's daughter married to you! Oh Cecco, don't you see how foolishly you're behaving?" his mother said with a forlorn voice. She wrung her hands pleadingly. "You think you're better than you are. And when you get drunk, you try to measure up to your own fatuous pretensions and grand designs. Is that what you want to do with your life? To live a hopeless dream!"
"I don't know what I want to do with my life, mother," Francis said, shifting restlessly in his bed. At that moment, Angelo saw Giles.
"What the hell!" he said. "There's someone under that blanket over there. Who the blazes is that?"
Giles sat up quickly as Angelo reached for a dagger beside the bed and Pica recoiled in her armchair. "By your leave, madam. I helped carry the young master, your son, home last night," he said, peering sheepishly over the edge of the blanket.
"What is this... this man doing in my house?" Pica demanded. “Do either of you know him?”
"Master Cecco told me last night that he would speak with me in the morning," Giles tried to explain. “He told me he'd help pay for my little sister's medicines. She's very sick.”
"Cecco, how could you? Bringing a common vagrant to our house," Pica cried. “I want him out of here immediately.”
"Begging your pardon, madam, I may be poor but I'm not a vagrant,” Giles objected. “I live outside the city with my grandmother and my little sister. My sister is very ill and may die unless she gets the proper medicine."
"I remember now. This really is the guy who helped me get home,” Angelo said.
Francis scratched his head uncertainly. "I remember vaguely, I guess. I'm sorry, I'm afraid I forgot your name."
"Giles, sir. My name is Giles," he said, humbly and showing deference.
"Yes, Giles, alright. Well... and why are you still here?"
"You and I spoke for some time last night,” Giles answered, bringing the blanket from his face. "We talked of my little sister, who I told you was very ill. If she doesn't get proper medicine..."
"Yes, I remember now," Francis said, looking over at his mother. "You wanted money and I didn't have any at the time. I guess I was drinking heavily."
"Yes, you were, sir. But your mind was as clear as a bell. You seemed to understand misfortune in all its aspects and to take compassion upon all of God's creatures. You spoke like a prophet of the bible, a holy man, quoting the words of sacred scripture like they were written in your heart. I never heard a preacher speak the way you do, sir."
"Oh great! He's a preacher now," Pica moaned. “What in heaven's name will your father say?”
"I quoted sacred scripture?" Francis asked, puzzled. “I don't recall that. Do you, Angelo?”
“No, but I might have been leering at the tavern waitress at the time,” his brother replied.
“You certainly did, sir,” Giles assured him. “You were like a fount of wisdom. You made scripture come alive. Not like most priests and churchmen, begging your pardon, madam. You won me over, sir. You inspired me to become a better person. You also said you would lend me some money for my little sister."
"Money?" Francis said, looking again at his irate mother. He gritted his teeth and shook his head. "This isn't a very good time to ask for money."
"Indeed not!" Pica affirmed. "Oh Cecco, if you want to quote holy scripture, do it in a monastery. Your father would gladly pay the dowry for you to enter one, rather than to continue wasting our family's fortune like you do."
"Mother, I'm never going to join a monastery," Francis asserted. "Please get that idea out of your mind. I couldn't stand to be confined by cloistered walls. I'd feel the world was falling in on me. Nor do I think we need to trade our freedom for our happiness."
"Well, your happiness is costing entirely too much of our money. Stop spending like it grows on trees," Pica demanded. "When your father and I are dead, you and Angelo can split it all up any way you like. Throw it in the wind for all I care. But in the meantime, don't waste any more of your father's fortune."
Francis shrugged and looked resigned. He lifted himself slowly out of bed and to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said to Giles. "You'll need to be going now. As you see, we're getting ready to go to church."
“Yes sir. I too am going to church. But about my sick little sister, you said you would...”
“I know what I said,” Francis told him, looking aside at his mother. “But this isn't the time or the place. I'm afraid you'll have to go.
3.
Not long after Francis and Giles first met, there was trouble in their city. The common people of Assisi allied with merchants and artists rose up against the ruling class, demanding justice and an end to the tyranny of the nobles. Pietro Bernardone, Francis' father, supported the rebellion. The initial uprising caused a minimum of violence and allowed the nobility to flee to Perugia, a nearby city of thirty thousand about twice Assisi's size.
When Duke Conrad of Urlingen, the liege of both cities, called upon the aid of the Holy Roman emperor, the Assisians realized that all efforts to negotiate a truce would be futile. They knew they were in for a punitive war. Quickly mobilizing the young men and fortifying the defenses against a siege, they used the stones of a castle on Rocca Maggiore north of the city to make the walls as impregnable as possible.
The nobility hired mercenaries while the Assisians had only their sons to fight for them. Francis did his part and was wounded during a battle at the bridge of Collestrada. He was captured by the enemy who quickly recognized the son of the rich cloth merchant. They didn't kill him as they did many others of his comrades-in-arms. The prisoners were thrown into dungeons where they received ill treatment for their wounds. Though living only fifteen miles apart, the citizens of Assisi and Perugia hated one another. The former were considered radical revolutionaries while the latter were upholders of the divine right of kings, the sacred estate of the nobility to rule over commoners, and other traditional values. The war was ruthlessly fought with the Assisians easily routed. As in other wars, the people who lived in the countryside suffered the most.
Francis was thrown into the same dank dungeon as Giles and forty other prisoners. He wasn't hurt as much as some others were and his wounds quickly healed. Something deeper inside him was hurt much worse, Giles could see. He was distant and removed, and deeply despondent for having seen several of his closest friends needlessly slaughtered on the battlefield. He sat in a corner, sad and dismayed.
Amidst these powerful feelings, Giles could see that Cecco was embarrassed and humiliated. He wanted to be considered a brave knight and was willing to die proving it, or so he had claimed. He wasn't big nor was he very strong, being among the first to be knocked from his horse during the battle at the bridge which separated both cities. A blow on the head knocked him senseless. By the time he regained consciousness, the battle was over and Assisi had lost. His closest friends were lying all around him, hacked to death.
Francis was feverish from the wound to his head when he was brought to the dungeon. Giles nursed him to health, caring for him as he did his sickly sister. He also ministered to the other prisoners whose wounds were worse. Everyone was frightened and traumatized. Rumors were circulated by the guards that they would all be shod like mules before they were released. That's what Genoa did to Pisa, nailing horseshoes to the hands and feet of its prisoners before letting them go.
When his head wound healed, Francis began to minister to the other prisoners with Giles. His naturally ebullient and happy side gradually reappeared. Ever willing to help anyone in distress, Francis now shared his rations with whomever was most in need. Sharing one's food in a dungeon was unheard of. When first he saw this, Giles feared that it was a sign that Cecco had lost his will to survive. But then he began to tell funny stories and to joke to help pass away the time. He had an unlimited number of tales to tell and songs to sing, just as he had as the flamboyant rich man who regularly visited all the drinking places. Francis lightened up a naturally depressing environment, instilling confidence and assuring everyone that their misery would soon end.
“How can you be so sure?” someone asked him in a confrontational manner. “Even if we’re not all going to die here in prison, it's said that they're going to maim us like the Genoans did to their captives. They crippled them for life.”
Francis was attending at the time to a man who had a fever. He was cooling his forehead with a dampened cloth. “I don't know,” he replied. “I'd just rather deal with the present moment like it says somewhere in the gospel. 'Sufficient for the day are the cares thereof.' Jesus was counseling his disciples not to worry about tomorrow. That's all I'm saying too. Our worst fears may never happen.”
“That's easy for you to say,” the man said bitterly. “You have a rich father to pay a ransom. When you get out, you have a life of ease awaiting you. I'm as poor as dirt, so I have nothing to look forward to.”
Francis finished attending to the sick prisoner, making sure he was as comfortable as possible. Then he sat down between Giles and the man who was speaking to him to tell a story. “What I'm going to relate to you is true,” he began.
“There are two men that I know. One is very rich and the other quite poor. The rich man worries himself sick about being robbed by thieves, even though he's never once had anything stolen. He's always counting his money and guards it so zealously at night that he hardly sleeps. He has no close friends because he trusts no one, afraid that they might want to steal his riches. He suffers from a bad stomach ailment because he worries so much. I know this is true because he's my father.”
He scratched the stubble of his beard awhile and then continued. “The poor man on the other hand seems generally content with his lot. He's a wanderer of sorts and owes obedience to no man, relying solely upon God and the weather. Whether it be snow, sleet, rain, cold... none of these hardships seem ever to deter him. He's open to every whim of fate. He appreciates simple things which other people don't even notice. He accepts what he's given as though it were a gift from heaven. He's always whistling merrily, doesn't drink and children seem to flock to him whenever he's around. He makes them laugh.”
“He sounds like a pretty happy fellow,” the man replied.
“He has no home of his own yet he never seems to lack for shelter,” Francis continued. “Oftentimes, he sleeps in the forest. He eats sparingly but seems to have enough. Which of these two men that I've just described do you think is the best off?”
The prisoner thought for a while. “I suppose the one who is the most content with his lot,” he finally answered.
“I think so too,” Francis said elatedly. “It proves that being rich is mostly a state of mind.”
“Who's the man that's so happy, Cecco?” Giles asked him.
“You!” Francis replied with a laugh.
“Me! Do I do all those things?” Giles wondered.
“From what I see, you do. You seem to be the most aware of all of us, the most awake. You don't ask anything for yourself. You seem to understand naturally that all existence is transitory.”
“Transitory? I don't even know what that means,” Giles said. But Francis only laughed.
A short time later, a plague broke out in the dungeon and Francis was among the first to become ill. The Perugians feared that he might die in prison as many others were succumbing to the epidemic. Since they knew his family was wealthy, they proposed a ransom. His parents, Pietro and Pica Bernardone, readily agreed to pay the steep bounty in order to get their son returned to them. He was at the brink of death for many weeks with intermittent fevers during which he was delirious. Even when the worst was over, his convalescence lasted the remainder of the year. By early spring of 1205, he slowly began to recuperate and resolved to change his life. He would no longer drink or carouse as before, he promised his parents. But he was as ambitious as ever, still intent upon making a reputation as a courageous knight.
One night he dreamed that an angel led him into a palace where there was armor, saddles, shields, swords and spears. Everything he touched turned to gold or other precious mineral. He woke up certain that the vision was a divine endorsement to join an army and fight another war. He resolved to swear and uphold the knight's pledge: My soul to God, my life to my liege, my heart to my lady and honor to me!
Duke Walter of Brienne was fighting in Apulia at the time. He was leading the papal forces into the Kingdom of Sicily. When Francis had sufficiently recuperated, he wanted to join his army. He had his father pay a small ransom to free Giles and to make him his squire. Pietro bought his son a handsome suit of armor, a spirited horse and a sword and pike of the finest steel. He outfitted his squire as a well-attired footman.
"Are you sure you want to go?" his mother asked him before he could leave. “I'm so worried. You've just gotten over your illness and already you're putting yourself into harm's way. Won't you please reconsider?”
“Reconsider, hell!” objected Pietro, his father. “Not after I've just spent so much money for his armor.”
“No mother, I'm determined to attain glory like the knights of Charlemagne and King Arthur's round table. I'm destined to have a reputation for valor and bravery,” he told her. “My dream told me that if I was selflessly heroic, I would attain fame and fortune. Besides, Giles is here with me. Not only is he my footman and protector but he's my nurse too. If I get into any trouble, he'll take care for me.”
“You must always trust your dreams, my son, for they are visions sent from heaven,” Bishop Guido counseled. He was the bishop of Assisi who blessed Francis and Giles as they were setting out. “Just think of the many instances in the bible, Lady Pica, when God spoke to people in visions. Think of the dream that Jacob had, the dream of Solomon, the dream of Pharaoh, also the dreams of Abimelech and Laban. Think of Joseph, Mary's husband, when they fled into Egypt. Think of the dreams of Pilate's wife and Saint Paul.”
“Ach, that's too many to think about,” Pica complained. “It's my son that's my concern. Maybe dreams aren't as accurate today as they used to be.”
Francis smiled down at his mother from atop his horse. “I've always admired Duke Walter,” he reminded her. “He's the hero most trusted by Pope Innocent to lead the papal armies, someone who has achieved as much glory as any knight can possibly desire. It's my intention to learn from him.”
But by the time Francis and Giles reached Spoleto some twenty miles from Assisi, they heard the stunning news that the duke had been mortally wounded on the battlefield. Then they heard in graphic detail how his body had been mutilated. Francis fell suddenly ill. He had a vivid dream one night of the duke's body lying in the dirt with its guts bleeding out. The dream summoned him back to Assisi, where it promised that he would be told what more he was to do. Giles pointed out that this was contrary to the dream he had before, but Cecco was insistent. He was being told that he was to understand everything in a new way.
Francis returned to Assisi a different man. His father was aghast to behold his son so recently back. “The war isn't over,” he complained. “A new leader has been chosen to succeed Duke Walter. Why don't you join the papal forces under him?”
But Francis wasn't interested in fighting any longer. He returned the suit of armor and the charger to his father, gave over the squire's outfit and began to spend more and more time alone. He frequently went up to a cave on nearby Monte Subasio, where he stayed for long periods of time. Except for Giles who remained his constant companion, Cecco avoided contact with everyone else. He walked alone in the woods like a lost man, frequently praying in a partially destroyed church. The chapel was dedicated to the Mother of God to whom he had a strong devotion.
The bishop of Assisi took a fatherly interest in Francis at this time and served as his confessor. Bishop Guido suggested that he become a parish priest, but Francis wasn't interested. “I want to be as free as a bird with no one above me nor anyone below,” he told the bishop. “Besides, I like to be around women and priests can't do that.”
“You're right,” Guido agreed. “You'll simply have to follow your own inner calling, my son.”
Francis continued being generous to needy people. If he was asked for a handout, he'd give what he had. One day his father discovered some merchandise missing. It was a wonder to Giles that he knew, for Pietro was a dealer in fine cloth and costly fabrics, damasks, velvets, silks, carpets, and hundreds of gold and silver ornaments. How could he possibly keep track of it all, Giles wondered. Nor was it much that was missing, for Cecco had only taken enough to pay for medicine for his sickly sister.
Pietro suspected a petty thief at first, but then he learned the culprit was really his son. He flew into a tirade when he caught up with him. “You're coming home with me, young man,” he said, grabbing Francis by the ear. He put him into his wine cellar after ordering Giles to remove the casks. Their home had six large living chambers above their salesroom with a storehouse and wine cellar below.
Francis was locked in the darkness and Giles came daily to keep him company. They spoke to one another through the closed door. Cecco didn't seem despondent, the way he had been in the dungeon of Perugia. He seemed strangely content in fact, almost happy to be alone and in solitude. His mother ensured that he ate well and his only request was for a crucifix to pray before. That was when things got worse, when Pietro heard his son claim that he was hearing Jesus speaking from the cross.
4.
Rayner awoke to a woman screaming in the night. He was fast asleep when he jumped up with a start. At first he wasn't sure if he had been dreaming. Then he heard scuffling and shouting and another mutedscream. It was dark with little moonlight filtering through the trees. Everything was happening some distance away.
The noises were coming from near the prisoner's wagon, he realized, his mind still in a fog. The wagon was parked on the far side of the soldiers, where their horses were tethered. Rayner listened attentively but now there was only an eerie silence, as though the ears of all the denizens of the forest were on alert. He raised himself to see better, and he observed the glow of a campfire. Between him and the fire, he knew, were the soldiers who were settled for the night. Surely they must have heard the scream and would investigate.
Then the thought came to him that perhaps it was just some of the soldiers fooling around. But no, that was a woman he had heard and there was only one nearby. The scream could only have come from the lone female prisoner, he shuddered to think. He listened expectantly, more alert now but unsure as to what to do. There were no more sounds to be heard, only the night noises of the woods. He could hear the hooting of an owl far away and a nightingale in the bushes close by, and the gentle whispering of the wind in the trees overhead.
The campfire he was looking at grew steadily smaller, and nothing moved in the shadows. Rayner hoped it was over and felt his eyelids growing heavier. He was exhausted from the long day's journey on the road, and keeping awake at that hour was just too much of an effort. He fell into a deep sleep once again, only to be awakened by another scream, much louder this time, and coming from a man.
Again he awoke with a start. Bolting upright, he saw that the fire near the prisoner's wagon was brighter than before, and the moonlight filtering through the trees afforded him a view of what was happening. He could discern clearly some figures in the distance scuffling with one another. And then he could see that someone was struggling against four other men. He watched as they knocked the lone man down, then take hold of him by each of his limbs. He saw them lift the man and hold him outstretched over the fire.
“My God!” Rayner exclaimed, rising quickly from his blanket. “The man's being tortured by the soldiers.” He struggled with his tunic and was slipping on his sandals when suddenly he felt a cold hand upon his neck, a hand strong enough to hold him in place. He froze immediately, the grip too familiar.
“I suggest you go back to sleep,” Callistus said from behind him. The soft, menacing tone of the inquisitor's voice sent chills up his spine, and Rayner felt his body suddenly get weaker.
“What's... going on over there?” he asked, not daring to move lest the pressure on his neck be increased. “I just heard a scream... two screams. One was a woman.”
“It has nothing to do with you, so don't interfere,” the voice answered. “This is the discipline and authority I spoke to you about. It would be better for you to go back to sleep.”
“But what's happening? They're torturing that man.”
“He's a heretic. He doesn't deserve compassion or even pity. He has information we need and he's refusing to give it. So we're coaxing him to be more cooperative.”
“Coaxing him! That looks like torture to me,” Rayner said. “And it sounded as though the woman was being raped.”
The iron-cold fingers on his neck suddenly tightened. “Did you think heretics were only men?”
Rayner didn't resist nor could he have, had he wanted to, so strong was Callistus' grasp. The inquisitor forced him to the ground with little effort, as though he were a child. “Don't interfere with my men,” he warned. “And don't move from here until I return.”
He stood menacingly over Rayner for a few seconds longer, as though expecting some resistance. When he was sure there would be none, he turned to leave. The young monk breathed a sigh of relief as the inquisitor's figure disappeared in the shadows. He lay there, shaking with anxiety and fearful for his life. He wanted nothing more than to get away from all this horror, wishing the night would end quickly. He didn't sleep a wink and the screams continued unabated until dawn. When sunrise finally came, he heard footsteps approaching his way. He didn't dare look up, already knowing who it was.
"Get up! There's something I want you to do," Callistus ordered, kicking him with the toe of his boot. “There's an old man who lives nearby. He's a lay-brother of your wretched Order, and I want you to bring him to the friary in Assisi. You're to wait there with him until I come. I'll be in Perugia only a few days. Is that understood?”
“Alright, I can do that,” Rayner said, feeling relieved. He didn't want to spend another moment with these awful men. Trying his best to sound calm, he asked, “Did you say he's a lay-brother?”
"Yes. He's a heretic and I intend to arrest him as soon as I get to Assisi."
A shiver arose up Rayner's spine when he heard that word. "A heretic! Then I don't think I should be the one to g-g-guard him," he stammered. "Perhaps you should have one of your soldiers do it."
"No, you're the right one," Callistus insisted. "You won't disappoint me. Besides, the old man is practically blind. So get up on your feet, you don't need breakfast. I want you to follow me."
They mounted two horses and rode a narrow path which climbed steeply up a nearby mountain. They passed a sign which called it Monte Ripido. It was a long and arduous ascent for the horses over the gnarled roots of trees and around boulders, while climbing steadily higher. Rayner had been raised in the town of Oxford and hadn't been on a horse in several years. He rode unsteadily behind the inquisitor for an hour or more. But at last they reached a point near the summit where Callistus pointed to a wooded escarpment just below the skyline.
"There is where I hope to find him," he said. He dismounted and drank some water from a wineskin, not bothering to offer it to Rayner. “We'll go the rest of the way by foot,” he said, returning the skin to the pommel of his saddle.
Rayner scanned the ridge closely. There was no structure to be seen anywhere, only some trees and rocks and a glorious overview. "How can anyone possibly be living up here? I don't see any house," he said.
"The man's a recluse, a hermit," Callistus replied. “He's been living in a cave somewhere up here for years.”
"In a cave!" Rayner exclaimed. He found it almost amusing, were it not so frightening. "How can a hermit be a heretic? I mean, who would be around to know?"