St. Francis - An Instrument of Peace

St. Francis - An Instrument of Peace

Wendy Mason


GBP 11,50

Format: 13.5 x 21.5 cm
Number of Pages: 256
ISBN: 978-3-99064-376-1
Release Date: 25.10.2018
This historical novel explores the journey of St. Francis of Assisi, blending fact and fiction as it delves into the heart of the questions - who was Francis the man before he became Francis the Saint, and why is his inter-faith message so relevant today?
CHAPTER ONE
CHILDHOOD IN ASSISI

I heard Mother sigh with relief at the town-crier’s announcement. The merchants’ cavalcade had been spotted earlier, on the road between Spoleto and Assisi. Since then she had cleaned the house from top to bottom, prepared Father’s favourite meal and made everything perfect for his return. He was expected any time now.
The smell of freshly baked bread wafted down the stairs. My tummy rumbled.
‘Francesco, do you see your father yet?’
I smiled. ‘How many times, Mother? No, not yet.’
‘Let me know the instant he arrives, Francesco.’
‘Yes, Mother. I said that I would.’
‘Or if any customers want serving. Call me at once. Do you hear, Francesco?’
‘Yes, Mother, I promise – Father, customers, gangs of robbers – I swear to call you.’
She let out a low chuckle.
I listened to Mother’s footsteps tip-tapping on the ceiling above me. They crossed the room, passed the dining table, and paused beside the cooking range. The oven door clunked as she checked on the bread. The chain rattled on the cooking pot hanging over the open fire. She must have stirred the stew because I could now smell the heady fragrance of the lamb ragout. Mother’s footsteps moved over to the comfy benches where we sat in the evenings.
I imagined her plumping up the heaps of brightly coloured cushions, made with leftover scraps of material from my father’s shop.
I turned to Angelo, who at three years old barely reached the height of my seven-year-old chest. ‘Angelo, stay here while I climb the tree to get a better view.’
‘Angelo come too?’
‘You are too little. Keep watch, and warn me if Mother appears.’
The highest branches of the poplar tree made the perfect lookout for me to see over the wall and into the street that led to the Piazza. There was no sign of Father yet, but I spotted Enricho, his best friend who lived two houses down from us.
‘Enricho!’ I waved my arms to attract his attention.
‘Francesco.’ He returned my wave. ‘Take care not to fall.’
‘I am like a cat.’ I grinned and waved both arms high above my head.
‘So I see. I hear your father will soon be home.’
‘Any moment now. Mother is frantic.’
‘Then I will see you all tomorrow for supper when I might have a little something for you boys.’
‘Is it the camels?’
Last year Enricho had built Angelo and me a wooden ark and had since carved us a number of toy animals. On his last trip, Father met a spice trader from Africa who gave him a picture of a strange exotic creature called a camel. We gave it to Enricho and begged him to make us a pair for the ark.
I shuffled forward on the branch to catch his reply.
‘You must learn patience, Francesco. You will see soon enough.’ He waved again and wandered off in the direction of the Piazza.
I do not remember life without Enricho. Mother said he had been grief-stricken when his wife died in childbirth. Already slight in build, the f lesh had melted from his bones. Father, fearing his friend might die, invited him to share our evening meal. Now he dines with us every Friday; he is a part of our family, an uncle to my brother and me.
‘What can you see, Francesco?’
I looked down between my feet, through the branches and still further to where Angelo was struggling to climb the tree. Shafts of sunlight shone through the leaves onto his angelic face. Little wonder he was my father’s favourite. Angelic by name and by nature, his dark brown almond-shaped eyes, framed by thick black lashes, shone with the excitement of the climb. Even his nose was handsome. How could Mother have produced the two of us, one beautiful in looks with such a sunny personality, and the other so plain and disappointing?
‘Be careful, Angelo, you will fall, and it will be my fault. Remember, I am supposed to be taking care of you.’
Too late, I heard a branch snap. Angelo tumbled backwards. He turned a complete somersault in the air, grabbed at a branch and missed, crashed through a few twigs and landed in a crumpled heap at the base of the tree.
‘Angelo, are you alright?’ I yelled.
Dear God, let him live, or my parents will never forgive me.
Confirmation that my prayer was answered came with a loud wail from Angelo.
Mother rushed from the house just as I reached the ground. ‘Angelo, darling, my baby. Francesco, whatever were you doing? He is far too young to climb trees. He could have been killed.’ She cradled Angelo in her arms and rocked him until his sobs settled down to an occasional sniff. ‘Let me look at you. Oh dear, a grazed knee and this red mark on your arm will no doubt become a colourful bruise by tomorrow – but otherwise, I think you will live.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘Do you want to come inside and help me to get things ready?’
Angelo sniffed and mumbled, ‘Stay with Francesco and wait for Father.’
‘Then no more climbing.’ Mother patted his head and glowered at me. ‘Neither of you, do you hear? Stand on this doorstep, and do not move from it.’
‘I could go to the Piazza,’ I offered, in the hope of distracting Mother’s attention from my failure. ‘That way we will know how close they are.’
‘You will stay where you are and look after your brother. Remember to shout up to me if any customers want serving. I want to make sure that your father’s meal is on the table the moment he arrives.’
I looked around the shop and sighed. Racks of shelving lined the walls, filled with bolts of richly coloured textiles. Each one had a corner turned back, so that customers could see at a glance the colour and pattern of the cloth. Towards the front entrance was a large bench where the material could be unrolled and examined in greater detail. I stroked the nearest cloth, hoping to find more pleasure in it than I usually did.
Hearing the steady clip-clop of horses’ hooves, I looked eagerly towards the gate.
‘Here he is, Mother!’ I yelled.
Father was a large man, not fat, but tall and thickset. As he rode into the yard, I noticed that his black hair and beard had grown during the month he had been away. He smiled broadly and waved.
‘Mother!’ I shouted again.
She arrived, out of breath, as Father dismounted.
‘Pica, my dear, you look as lovely as ever.’
‘And you, Pietro Bernardone, are full of charm, as usual. Little wonder I was swept off my feet and enticed away from my beloved France.’
‘No regrets?’
In answer, Mother threw herself into his arms. Angelo and I shuffled our feet and blushed as Father hugged her tightly, then kissed her passionately. Eventually, she made her escape, and he turned to us.
‘And who are these fine young men?’
‘It is I, Father, Francesco.’
‘And I, Angelo.’
‘Heavens above, how you have both grown. I did not recognise you.’ He grinned and ruff led our hair. ‘I have a gift for you, boys.’
Father took a bundle of cloth out of his pocket and peeled aside its layers to reveal two gold rings, each set with a shiny black stone.
‘They are jet stones,’ he explained. The rings will be too large for you now, but you’ll grow into them soon enough. Until then,’ he dangled two leather strings, ‘you may wear them on these.’
Before Angelo had even grasped his ring, I had threaded and knotted mine onto the cord and draped it proudly around my neck.
‘Thank you, Father,’ I beamed.
‘Let me help you, Angelo,’ Father said.
Two of Father’s men entered the courtyard, leading two large horses, each one pulling a trailer bursting with huge bundles.
‘More than enough to pay the Duke his taxes,’ Father nodded at the loads, ‘and plenty left to see us through the winter. Take note, Francesco, we must always be sure to pay Duke Conrad his share if we wish to live peacefully in Assisi.’
‘But why should we pay taxes to a German Duke?’ I asked.
‘It is his reward for services to the Emperor.’
‘But that is so unfair. Everybody hates him.’
‘That may well be, but it is the law, and the law must be obeyed.’
I did not agree, but I knew better than to argue with my father.
Father turned back to his men. ‘Well done my fine fellows.’ He handed them both a leather pouch. ‘Now, would you unload these trailers and put the material into the store shed, all except for these few bolts wrapped in muslin, which I need in the shop.’ He patted the horses, dug into his pocket and gave each one an apple. ‘Look after these horses; they have served us well. Wash them down and then turn them out into the large paddock.’
We waited, and our patience was rewarded when he returned his attention back to us.
‘Come on, boys, let us go and see what your mother has prepared for us.’
He swung me onto his back, scooped Angelo into his arms and carried us into the shop. I ducked my head to avoid the door frame and nuzzled into my father’s neck. I rarely got the chance to get this close to him. I breathed in his distinctive smell – a mixture of sweat, horse and leather.
Father climbed the stairs to the large hall, the main room of our home, and gently lowered each of us to the floor. Before we could scramble into our seats, my mother placed four steaming bowls of stew on the table and handed my father his golden goblet of wine.
After we had eaten, Angelo and I changed into our nightshirts and snuggled together at Father’s feet. Bathed in the soft glow produced by the log fire and candles, we listened to the exciting stories he had harvested from those he had met on his journey – tales of faraway places and brave knights with noble causes. His voice was soft and gentle, full of admiration for these brave men. I vowed, then and there, that one day I would become such a hero and win my father’s affection.
Father lifted us into his arms, elbowed aside the colourful tapestry curtain and carried us up the staircase to the sleeping areas, where he and Mother shared one room, Angelo and I the other. I forced myself to stay awake so that I could take comfort from the way he tucked us in, kissed our foreheads and left us cocooned in our warm blankets.
I loved it when my father returned; being away seemed to make his heart grow fonder of me. I drifted off into a deep sleep and I dreamt that I was a brave knight, just like the ones my father spoke so highly of. All night long I fought dragons and rescued fair maidens.
The next morning, I was awake long before Angelo or my parents. Thinking it would please my father; I snuck downstairs to the shop and began to unpack some of the bundles of cloth he had bought. A dark green velvet fabric, with a pattern of gold thread, fell to the f loor and unravelled. I lifted one end over my shoulder and paraded up and down in front of the mirror, every inch the rich and noble lord I longed to be.
‘What do you think you are playing at? Give it back at once!’
Father pounced, grabbed the fabric from my shoulders and pushed me to the ground. I heard the fabric rip and realised with horror that my robe had snagged on the corner of the bench. Father held up the velvet. I could see the ragged slash in the cloth where it had torn as he wrenched it free.
‘I am sorry, Father.’ My voice shook as I scrambled to my feet. ‘It was only a game. I was pretending to be Lord Francesco, dressed for my victory ball after defeating Duke Conrad and rescuing the town from rebels.’
Father’s face twisted with anger. ‘Your head is full of romantic rubbish.’ He raised a hand and slapped my face: a stinging blow that knocked me back to the f loor in a heap.
‘Pietro. Please, leave him be.’
Mother ran towards me, but Father placed a hand on her arm and stopped her from reaching my cowering body.
‘This is your fault, Pica. You spoil him outrageously.’
‘He is a sensitive boy, Pietro. He needs–’
‘What he needs is discipline, and by God, I will see that he gets it.’ He turned to me. ‘Just look at this fabric. How am I going to sell it now?’
‘I am sorry,’ I whimpered, shaking under his fury.
‘See?’ He turned to my mother who hung her head and refused to look at me. ‘See how he whines like a dog? What kind of son will he make if I allow this to go on? No, Pica, do not interfere.’ He pushed my mother away. ‘You do him harm with your pampering and misguided belief that he is special. No more. The boy must learn.’
He reached down and pulled the leather string from my neck. ‘I will sell this ring to pay for some of the damage you have done.’
He grasped my arm, yanked me to my feet and hauled me out of the door. My cheeks f lamed with embarrassment as he dragged me down the street and into the church, then pushed me onto a pew.
‘Wait here while I find out which priest is confessor for today.’
My hands trembled as I awaited my fate. Perhaps Father would change his mind. He must realise that I was only playing. Surely he would have had fun with such games when he was a boy?
I prayed that the priest taking confession would be my old friend, Father Tommo: I knew that he would treat me kindly. But no, it was the senior priest, Father Tiberio. He was also a teacher at our school, where we boys called him the Dragon.
Father Tiberio showed us into the vestry. I sat on a stool with my head hung in shame while my father explained the wilful destruction of his valuable material.
‘And what do you have to say about this, Francesco?’ Father Tiberio demanded.
‘Please, Father, it was an accident.’ My eyes sought out my father’s, but he fixed his gaze on the priest. I fought back tears. ‘I meant no harm.’
‘It was theft,’ Father Tiberio snapped. ‘You deprived your father of goods that belonged to him. What does the good book say? Thou shalt not steal.’ He came nearer and bent down, his face so close that his spittle speckled my face. ‘You disrespected your father. Again, what does the good book say? Thou shalt honour thy mother and thy father. Wicked. Quite wicked.’
Shame burned through me as a few tears escaped and rolled down my cheeks.
‘It was a game. I did not mean to be wicked.’
‘You need to beg forgiveness, learn obedience and mend your ways, my boy, or you will die a sinner and burn in the eternal flames of Hell.’
I shook with fear. The thought of burning in Hell terrified me. Tears flowed unchecked down my face. My father shook his head, his obvious disappointment in me more painful than a thousand slaps. I sniffed, and then wiped away my tears with my sleeve.
Father Tiberio turned his back on me, walked across the room and sank to his knees. His mumbled prayers for my sorry soul destroyed any hope I had for mercy.
‘I am very sorry, Father,’ I whispered. ‘I meant no harm.’
‘You never do, do you, Francesco?’ My father kept his gaze on the bent shoulders of the priest, whose mumblings grew louder.
‘I beg your forgiveness, Father.’
‘Stop snivelling, Francesco.’
‘Kneel beside me,’ Father Tiberio demanded.
Hastily, I crossed the room, dropped to my knees, hung my head and placed my hands together for prayer.
‘Well, speak, boy. God is listening.’
‘Bless me Father for I have sinned.’ My voice shook. ‘I am heartily sorry for the offences I have caused.’
‘Is that all you have to say for your wickedness?’
‘My God, I detest all of my sins, because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because I have offended You, my God, who is all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance and to amend my life. Amen.’
The priest gave me absolution and forgiveness, but his voice remained harsh and cold. He did not sound as if he meant it. I stayed on my knees while I waited for him to tell me my penance. It was usually a prayer, or at worst, a few, so his next words came as a shock.
‘You will stay here today and make copies of the Ten Commandments until the evening service, when your father will return to collect you.’
‘But what of breakfast?’ I blurted out, my growing hunger overcoming my good sense.
Father Tiberio glared. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father hang his head with the weight of his shame.
‘You will not eat again until you leave church this evening.’ Father Tiberio rose to his feet. ‘Come with me.’
I followed, without looking back at my father. I did not want him to see my tears.
The priest led me away to a small dark room with no window. The only light came from a candle. He gave me a copy of the Ten Commandments, a few sheets of parchment, a pen and inkwell and then left me on my own. I knew I was supposed to feel regret, to repent my wicked ways, but I was hungry, cold and angry. This was so unfair. I gripped the pen and scribbled the commandments in a hand so heavy that the paper ripped. I hated writing, I hated Father Tiberio and I hated my father.

My friend Dimitri lived next door. His father made leather goods; belts, shoes, and horses’ tack. His mother sold the items from their shop, which, like ours, was on the ground floor of their home. We played together all the time, along with Angelo and another friend, Elias.
Elias lived in a small village a few hours walk from Assisi. His parents were farmers who worked every hour of daylight, harvesting their crops. Elias must have been even more of a disappointment to his father than I was to mine. If he went anywhere near grass or flowers, he would cough and sneeze, his eyes would stream with tears and he would find it difficult to catch his breath. His father decided it was best for Elias to spend summers with his aunt. She did not have any children and enjoyed his company. As did we.
Elias and I were the same age, but he was always the quiet, thoughtful member of my gang. Obviously, with Dimitri two years younger and willing to follow me anywhere, and with Angelo four years younger, it was always left to me to make the decision about which game to play.
‘We will be soldiers today and rescue the town from the evil Duke and his supporters, those pesky Perugians.’
‘Can I be the leader today?’ asked Angelo. ‘Please, Francesco, please say I can.’
‘You are too little.’ I turned away so I did not have to watch those big beautiful eyes fill with tears.
Before long, I had all three boys lined up, armed with sticks, and marching up and down the yard in time with my instructions. ‘One two, one two, halt.’ The ragged group came to a stop. ‘About turn,’ I commanded.
Angelo turned the wrong way and caught Dimitri with his stick.
‘Angelo, you ass.’ Dimitri rubbed his shoulder. ‘You are supposed to turn to your right.’
‘I am sorry, Dimitri. I got muddled.’
The next attempt was much better, and for once Angelo turned to his right.
‘Perfect, now we are ready to face our enemy,’ I declared. ‘Charge!’
We raced across the yard to a bag of sand tied to one of the lower branches of the poplar tree, then stabbed and whacked at it with our sticks.

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