Chapter 481 - 342: Miracle in the Smoke

The Baron hurriedly asked what he meant. "Saint Andrew also appeared before me," he said.

"When?" the Baron asked him.

"This morning, sir. Saint Andrew told me to take a message to Lord Eric. And then to inform Brother John."

The devotion in his words and the fervor on his face—like a man returned from battle—made the Baron hesitate before deciding to hear him out. "Sir, I am not here to disturb him," said Stephen. "I was commanded by Christ the Lord."

The Baron stared at him, his mind filled with doubt. "Stephen," the Baron finally said, "Lord Eric is a very busy man. He carries the weight of the entire army on his shoulders. You must understand that he cannot be disturbed lightly."

"I am not here to disturb him, sir," replied the farmer named Stephen. "The Lord commanded me."

The Baron watched him, his gaze profound.

The eyes that looked back at him were no longer those of an ordinary farmer; they held an incomprehensible depth.

"Very well," said the Baron. "I will take you to Lord Eric. But if this is just madness, I will have you punished. Do you understand?"

He smiled at the Baron, revealing a gap-toothed grin. "I understand nothing now," he said. "Thank God!"

The Baron found him a mule. With Stephen the farmer in tow, the Baron navigated the winding streets of Hama and headed out of the city.

In the streets, soldiers were ransacking houses while citizens shouted their pleas or curses at the Baron as he passed.

Stephen rode silently behind the Baron, his face a mask of solemnity.

The closer they got to the city’s outskirts, the more the Baron began to question his decision to bring the man along.

It seemed a foolish decision, but something in the farmer’s eyes—a certain darkness—unnerved the Baron.

Outside the city, soldiers were hard at work building fortifications, mainly repairing the sections previously damaged by the Crusaders.

Beyond that, aside from digging the trenches deeper and clearing the moat, they did not know what else to do.

A highborn Baron accompanied by a ragged Armenian farmer drew many stares.

The first person the Baron ran into was Belem. Having knelt all night, Belem could barely stand, but he was still calmly directing the work on the fortifications.

He still greeted the Baron upon seeing him.

The Baron gave a brief report on the situation in the palace district. Then, apologetically, he told Belem that a man was requesting to speak with Eric.

"Speak with Eric?" Belem asked. "Your attendant?"

The Baron briefly explained Stephen’s situation, saying he had been buried alive in Hama two days prior and had since been experiencing visions and fits of ecstasy.

"My lord, he saw..." The Baron hesitated, not finishing his sentence.

"Oh?" Belem prompted.

"He says he saw Christ," the Baron said. "He has a message for Lord Eric and Brother John."

Belem stared at the Baron.

The Baron expected Belem to curse him out.

The Baron felt foolish himself for giving any credence to such an absurd story.

But Belem did not. Instead, he demanded the farmer be brought before him.

Belem gestured for Stephen to approach. To the Baron’s surprise, the farmer called out Belem’s name.

"The great Earl of Shrewsbury, Lord Robert Belem."

Soldiers pushing stones by had to step over him as they worked on the defensive line.

The Baron gruffly told him to get up.

"Oh no, sir," he answered with a smile of wonder. "This is just as Saint Andrew told me."

Belem was unimpressed, assuming the Baron had revealed his name. He frowned at the Baron. "You didn’t say anything about Saint Andrew."

The Baron shrugged.

"Never mind. What do you want to say to Eric? He’s busy today and most likely won’t have time to see you. You can tell me, and I’ll relay the message. You’re a farmer; I’m sure you have work of your own.

Christ would want you back in your fields, planting your crops, leaving the battlefield to the Nobility."

Belem dug a finger in his ear, looking impatient. ’Back in Normandy, I wouldn’t waste my time on a baseborn peasant like this.’

"No, my lord. Christ instructed me to deliver the message to Lord Eric in person." The farmer, Stephen, was stubborn, showing no fear of Belem.

Belem laughed, a sound devoid of humor. "Do you know what happened to the last farmer who spoke to me like that? He’s dog shit now."

"It is not I who speaks to you, it is Christ who speaks to you! My lord!" Stephen retorted, not to be outdone, roaring at Belem.

His voice was so loud that the word "Christ" caught the ears of those nearby, drawing their attention.

"What are you, a Bishop standing before me? The Pope of Rome? Do you know that for those words alone, I could have you burn—" Belem seized Stephen’s chin in a tight grip. He could have crushed the farmer’s throat in an instant, but he remembered Eric’s warning not to create conflict with the locals before a battle, and he restrained himself. "How many times have you seen Him?"

"I have seen Christ four times, my lord. And Saint Andrew, six times," Stephen said with confidence, oblivious to the fact that Belem wanted to kill him.

"What does He look like?" Belem asked. "The Savior."

"Like a statue, my lord. Only His hair is softer," Stephen replied.

"And Saint Andrew?" Belem pressed, wanting to make a fool of the farmer.

Surprisingly, Stephen turned and smiled at the Baron who had brought him. "Like this noble lord here."

The Baron was instantly pleased. Even though he thought the farmer was talking nonsense, he was still happy to accept the flattery.

Stephen continued, "Although Saint Andrew’s face is never so serious. Oh," he added, as if imparting a great secret, "and he has no beard."

"And Christ spoke to you Himself?" Belem asked.

"It was Saint Andrew, my lord," Stephen replied. "Our Savior always stood in the background, silent. He spoke to me through Saint Andrew."

"And what language did Saint Andrew speak?"

"Oh, Saint Andrew doesn’t speak," Stephen corrected him. "It’s more like the words are sent directly into my mind. It’s like looking at a flower—you don’t speak to it, you simply experience it. It doesn’t speak, but it’s all there, appearing in my head."

By now, a crowd had gathered. Stephen spoke with such earnestness and vivid detail.

They wanted it to be true.

Belem released his grip on Stephen’s chin.

"Very well," Belem said, his tone directed more at the Baron and the surrounding crowd than at Stephen. "We will take this matter to Eric. Especially in a situation like this, I would never stand in the way of divine intervention."

Belem took Stephen the farmer to the section of the defenses Eric was responsible for, but they couldn’t find him. Leif informed Belem that Eric hadn’t been there all day and was likely still resting in the Church.

Whenever the army made camp, if there was a Church, Eric always preferred to stay in it.

So Belem led Stephen back into the city and to the Church.

Arriving at the Church, Belem had Stephen wait at the entrance and went in first himself.

Eric’s room was at the highest point of the Church, right next to the bell tower.

The moment Belem pushed open the door, he was hit by a foul, rank odor, followed by thick, nearly suffocating smoke. The smell made Belem dizzy; tears and snot streamed uncontrollably from his face, and he could barely breathe.

He stopped in the doorway, forcing himself to take deep breaths, trying to adjust to the overwhelming sensation.

After a long moment, the smoke began to thin, and the foul, rank stench slowly faded. Belem suddenly recognized the smell. It was the scent of burning candles.

The candles were merely made of low-quality tallow from cow and sheep fat, which explained the awful smell.

When burned, these candles made of poor-quality tallow not only produced a rank odor but also an eye-watering smoke.

The faint light emanating from the room must have been from the candles.

’What in the hell is Eric up to?’

He edged forward cautiously, his mind filled with doubt. He couldn’t help but call out in a low voice, "Eric! Eric! What are you doing!? What in God’s name are—"

He stopped mid-sentence.

The sight before him left him stunned.

In the hazy mist, a sacred image he had never before witnessed gradually took shape before his eyes.

The image grew clearer within the room. Though the air was still thick with smoke, a beam of light pierced through it, and in it Belem saw—the image of Christ! In that divine radiance, the face of Christ was faintly visible, as if slowly emerging from a shroud of clouds.

Belem froze, trying to make sense of the strange sight, but his gaze was locked onto it.

It was not the figure of Eric, but a holy, otherworldly image.

Belem’s heart hammered in his chest as he realized this must be a miracle—an apparition of Christ.

He did not understand why he would see Christ under these circumstances, but there could be no explanation other than the will of God.

Belem fell to his knees. Tears welled in his eyes as he prayed in a low voice, "Lord, may Your will be done."

——————————

PS: Like the camera obscura at Peterborough Monastery from before.