The Other Cheek

The candle’s feeble flame wavered silently in the darkness, dimly illuminating the dank room with an anemic, flickering light. The faint scratching of quill upon parchment filled the room, reverberating hollowly against the cold stone walls as if trying to drown out the faint cries that filtered in from without the structure’s stone ramparts.

A balding elderly man sat at the room’s only piece of furniture, a thick oaken desk. His brown haircloth robe clung to his skeletal frame like a drooping flag, and his face, though creased by the woes seen over so many years, seemed somehow tranquil despite it all. He calmly licked the tip of his quill and then reached toward the head of the desk where an ink pot sat amid several large leather bound tomes. Dipping his pen into the ink, he hunched over the sheet of parchment stretched before once more and in calm, smooth strokes began to write.

July 22th, 1206,

Assuming this missive reaches they hands of anyone beyond the children of God cloistered within this walled city, it would assuredly be safe to assume that our Lord has finally recalled His humble servant, Pierre des Vaux, to His side. I write, though it may prove futile, in an attempt to let all of the Lord’s faithful know what has happened to His flock. Untold multitudes have camped Beyond the walls of our city for days on end, and I fear our doom is close at hand—

There was a knock at the door. Des Vaux lifted his pen as he looked up toward the chamber’s portal. “You may enter,” he said in calm, level tones.

The door groaned open on protesting hinges before another figure clad in the brown robes of a monk stepped inside. This monk, though, was decidedly younger than des Vaux. His oily brown hair had been shaven in tonsure, and round pudgy face was creased with worry.

“Yes brother Clement?” Des Vaux asked quietly.

Clement wrung his hands nervously, “Abbot Des Vaux, if I may have a word?”

Des Vaux dipped his quill into the ink pot again before bending over his work once more. “What weighs on your mind, brother?” he asked, scratching out the rest of his letter as he listened.

The other monk licked his lips nervously. “The Crusaders grow restless. I fear they will soon begin their assault.”

Des Vaux nodded without looking up, “I thought as much.”

Clement looked around in pensive silence as the abbot calmly went about his writing. “So what are we going to do?” he finally asked.

“What does the Lord call us to do when enemies threaten us?” his senior replied.

“To trust in Him that he will deliver us.”

“And should that enemy strike at us?”

“We turn the other cheek,” Clement said quietly.

“So that is what we shall do,” Des Vaux said with an air of finality.

“But, the Cathars . . .”

The scratching of his quill stopped. Abbot Des Vaux straightened, turning to look Brother Clement in the eyes. “What of them?

“Lord Amaury says if we turn them over, he will spare us.”

Des Vaux scowled and turned back to his writing, “No. Out of the question.”

“But they arere going to kill us!”

“Perhaps.”

“Abbot Des Vaux, you do not understand. One of the runners heard Lord Amaury say, ‘Kill them all. God will recognize his own.’ Words like that do not leave any doubt for the man’s intent.”

“Then we will face our deaths without fear,” Des Vaux said calmly without looking up, “and know that our Heavenly Father will welcome us into his kingdom.”

“But the Cathars are heretics!” Clement protested. “Protecting them makes us just as guilty.”

Abbot Des Vaux stopped writing and looked up at Brother Clement. “The Lord calls us to love all of our earthly brothers and give sanctuary to those in need. These people have lived around us for years. You probably played with some of them as a child, Brother Clement. How could you even fathom turning them over to be slaughtered by the inquisition?”

“You sound like one of them. Perhaps you have been living among the Cathars too long,” Clement said quietly. “You have become tolerant to their heresies.”

“And perhaps you are too young to have read our Lord God’s word in depth enough to know that heretics or not, we are all children of Adam. The second greatest of all the commandments in Christendom is to ‘Love they neighbor as thyself.’ The Cathars are our neighbors, and as He commands I will do no less for them as I would for my own family. That is what Christ calls us to do, and that is what we shall do.”

Clement seemed to sober slightly. He licked his lips pensively before responding. “Pardon me Abbot, but what good could come of our deaths in the process? We need not stand with these people. We could run away. We could hide. We could do all manner of things beyond sitting here awaiting our own deaths.”

“We will not be cowards, Brother Clement,” Des Vaux said sternly. “The Lord commands us to be not afraid. Place your fear in the Lord, and the fears of this world become meaningless.”

Clement opened his mouth to respond, but suddenly there came a great crash from outside the monastery’s stone walls. The man visibly paled. “God help us. It’s started.” There was another crash, and then the sound of splintering wood reached their ears.

Des Vaux lay his pen aside and stood, folding the sheet of parchment twice before tucking it into the leaves of one of the books on the desk. The crack of splitting wood sounded once again before he was through, but still he calmly went about his task. Finally he folded his arms across his stomach and regarded Clement evenly. “Let us go greet our brothers in Christ.”

Brother Clement swallowed hard but stepped aside as Abbot Des Vaux breezed by him and out into the stone hallway beyond. He muttered a short prayer before following him down the hall toward the monastery’s large double doors.

Other brothers of their order had already gathered there, glancing among themselves with looks of doubt and trepidation much like Clement’s own. Des Vaux paid their obvious fear no heed as he flung the doors open, allowing the cold gray morning light to flood into the abbey’s darkened halls.

Outside the sky was overcast, a slight drizzling rain pitter pattering off of the muddy ground as if the heavens themselves were already crying for their fallen children. A dull cacophonous roar could be heard from beyond Beziers’ stone walls, the sound of a multitude voices eager for bloodshed. The courtyard was filled with peasants and villagers standing in small knots. Surely even more lay cowering inside the many thatch-roofed houses that filled the stone bailey’s interior. Of those remaining outside, some cried and consoled one another, and some looked skyward as if pleading for aid. Still others hardly showed any emotion at all. All they could bring themselves to do was stare in stoic terror at the walled city’s gate as yet another blow struck its weakening face. The wood cracked and twisted as one of the iron hinges popped off, and the whole door canted to one side.

“Come brothers,” Abbot Des Vaux said as he stepped out onto the soggy ground, “Let us pray.”

The other monks stepped out from behind the monastery’s sheltering walls, joining hands in a semicircle around Des Vaux as again the city gates creaked and groaned under the great impact. Another hinge gave a metallic sigh as it slipped from its fittings and the gate sagged still further. Abbot Des Vaux could see through the newly opened rents as masses of steel-clad bodies press forward against shattered gates. One more blow and they would be down.

But he purged such thoughts from his mind as he bowed his head and began. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

The other monks bowed as well, joining their solemn voices to his. “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

The final blow came, and with a creaking moan, the gate pitched forward to the ground. Before its wooden length had even settled into the muddy soil, the troops outside were surging around the battering ram and into Beziers. Panicked villagers broke and ran, but still Abbot Des Vaux stood motionless, his head bowed in prayer.

“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies,” he shouted over the rising din of war cries and thundering footfalls. “Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.”

His brothers beside him turned to run, but still Des Vaux remained as firmly planted in the ground as the rock upon which he had founded his faith.

As the tide of men and steel swept toward him, Abbot Des Vaux calmly raised head toward heaven as he spoke aloud, “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”