The Lone Cross
By Theodore Smith
1,746 Words
The knight took a step back. The knight was Sir Petyr the Daring. But he didn’t feel so daring at the moment. In front of him stood another man, also clad in the armour of a knight. He was a rather short man, his apparel was that of a knight of war. His helmet being removed, gave full view to his messy black hair. His usually sharp blue eyes were bloodshot and dull. Sir Petyr frantically searched the room for a weapon, any weapon. He glanced over the bed, the chest in the corner, and the window, until his eyes fell upon a dagger resting on a small table which stood opposite the bed. He looked back to his foe. He was Sir Petyr’s arch-nemesis, his greatest enemy. From boyhood they fought. Sometimes Sir Petyr would win, sometimes he would lose. Every time his nemesis won, something terrible would happen, either to Sir Petyr or to others. People usually dismissed or ignored it, but he could not. He knew that his failure to stop his foe had brought about the results. He and his enemy were always at odds. They would meet in distant lands, in the village, or even in the castle itself. Now they met in Sir Petyr’s own bedroom. He knew he must take action. And that is what he did.
Taking a quick step to the left, Sir Petyr snatched the dagger from the table and stepped back towards his enemy. He had the upper hand now, or so he thought. His foe also clutched a dagger. His hands clasped the dagger even tighter. His lips were pressed together so hard they turned the same white as his knuckles. Over and over again they fought through the years. He had to do something. He needed to do something to vanquish his enemy. After all these years Sir Petyr was fed up and would have no more.
The whole room shook violently, causing both to lose balance. To have to face your worst enemy was difficult enough, but during the siege of the castle the difficulty heightened to an unbearable extreme. People were counting on Sir Petyr out there. The town needed it’s veteran knight to protect it against the invaders. And here Sir Petyr was, dealing with a personal feud.
Sir Petyr raised the dagger over his head, his eyes growing wide as his eyebrows arched downward in anger. With a tremendous yell like a wild animal, he sent the dagger down towards his nemesis. His foe advanced with his blade as well; both weapons meeting in between. There was a shatter and pieces of glass flew everywhere. Sir Petyr loosened his grip on his weapon and let it drop to the floor. Stepping over the fragments of glass which now littered his bedroom floor, he sat down on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward and looked at his reflection in a large fragment of the looking glass he had just demolished. Sir Petyr’s unkempt black hair and blue eyes were often considered a handsome trait, but at the moment, he could not bear to see them. He gently pushed the broken mirror piece away with his booted foot.
Sir Petyr would never say such to anyone else, but through his years as a knight, through his conquests and defeats, and through all the villains he had faced in his forty years of life, he was his own worst enemy. He was often tempted. Tempted to take pride in all that he had done. Tempted to seize the wealth often offered him. Tempted to strike a filthy beggar that clung to him. And now, tempted to simply leave.
His room shook again as another boulder bashed into the castle wall from the trebuchets of the invaders. Sir Petyr looked out the small window in his room. Hundreds of soldiers fought out there, most were those who wished to conquer this castle and town, the Almoravids, the Muslims. This town was just another stop on their crusade into Spain and France. The rest were knights of this place, his friends. He could see them, fighting valiantly against the robed invaders with their long curved swords. He saw them fall under those curved swords. The knights were vastly outnumbered, but making a valiant defense nonetheless. He had defended off sieges before, but not like this. Not so outnumbered. He knew they would not stand a chance. If he fought with them, he would die with them. But he was not ready to die. If he left now, letting himself down from the least occupied city wall, he might have a chance to escape. He could go to another town, one that would have more of a chance when these Almoravids attacked them.
Sir Petyr rubbed his face with both hands, like he was trying to wipe away the very idea itself. He knew it would be terribly wrong to do so, but all the same, he wanted to try. Perhaps it wasn’t so wrong. Perhaps his presence at another battle would decide whether the Muslim offensive was pushed back. He knew these thoughts were empty excuses to save his own skin. He was terrified. Petrified of what would come. How could he fight these dangerous enticements? He knew he couldn’t sit any longer.
Sir Petyr stood to his feet and quickly walked from his room, leaving his helmet in the doorway. He went beyond the empty corridors of the castle. Everyone was on the walls, fighting the invaders. When he finally exited the halls of the castle he could see that even the townsfolk were making an effort to help. The children ran back and forth with arrows for the defenders, the woman boiled pots of hot water and tar to dump on the oncoming enemy, and every able bodied man was on the walls or outside of them. Except for Petyr.
Sir Petyr quickly strode by these scenes, frightened that they would see him and add to his shame. He walked by many houses, some caved in by large stones or blazing with the fire sent by their catapults or arrows. Finally he reached the church. It was a small church, but a solid one. Even the cross which stood on the raised steeple seemed to mock Sir Petyr. There it stood in the midst of siege and battle, yet it remained steadfast and resolute. Houses lay destroyed or burning all around it, but that lone cross on the steeple cared not. It stood there, defying the oncoming slaughter.
Sir Petyr lowered his eyes from the steeple and quickly stepped into the Church. The pews were lined like soldiers one after another all facing the stained glass window that was in the front. On it was depicted a golden cross with a circle of thorns resting upon it. To the right side of the stained glass was a wooden pulpit. He had heard the monk speak from it often. “The monk” was a nickname affectionately bestowed upon Martin. He was not really a Monk, though. He came one evening three years ago, travel weary and half starved. Because the priest who used to preach at the church had abandoned them before even Petyr came to the town, Martin supplied that shepherdhood need the town was left with. No one quite knew his full story, he only told them that after years of trouble and traveling he had promised to devote his life to God. Whatever his past was, the town loved him. He taught the words of the Bible to them and explained them with more scripture, eagerly and kindly, to the town. He spent most of his time simply reading the book.
“Sir Petyr?” A voice brought Petyr out of his reflections which tried to distract him from the problem at hand.
“Ah, Martin.” Sir Petyr responded. “I am struggling, my friend.
He would not delay, for he was worn and speaking to Martin was already an easy task for him.
“With what, Petyr?”
“For once I am afraid. I no longer wish to stay here.”
Martin paused for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. When he spoke, he did so slowly, as if carefully forming his words.
“Knowing you as well as I do, Petyr, I assume you have been fiercely battling your temptation with all that is in you, correct?”
“Yes, good friend, but I seem to always give in to my struggle eventually. I am so tired, Martin. I can’t do it myself anymore.”
“You must stop doing it alone. Petyr, my friend, you rely too much on yourself. Your independance is your downfall. The first people, in the garden of Eden faced the same temptation: the temptation for independance. The serpent said they would be like God, no longer depending on him. They fell. Don’t do the same.”
“How do you mean?”
“Petyr, you’re focusing on yourself. It was my downfall as well. Once, I was also a knight.”
Sir Peter did not reply as Martin drew a knight’s helmet from behind the wooden pulpit.
“You fight your temptation with the sword of the spirit, not with a sword of steel. I wish you could spend some time in it now, but you must aid your countrymen. Take this. Go, Petyr. Bear in mind that Christ never turned and ran. He could have called for the annihilation of his enemies, but his love for his people barred Him from His just wrath. Jesus bore the eternal punishment you deserve. Right now, men are showing the same love by dying and fighting for this town as you should be. Go aid them, remembering Christ’s sacrifice for you. Because of his sacrifice we need not fear death. You know well that as Christians, death is just the last stepping stone on the way home. Do not fear, Petyr.”
Sir Petyr took the helmet and turned toward the door. He knew well that the wrath of God is considerably worse than any invaders. He put on the helmet and raced out the door. As he ran from the church he looked back at that lone cross. There it still stood, a symbol of sacrifice and unwavering bravery. It no longer seemed to mock Petyr. Instead it worked like a rallying cry to him. He burned with the new initiative that had leapt upon him.
“Boy!” called Sir Petyr to a young man carrying weapons, “Hand me a sword.”
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