1.

When I first laid eyes on Maxmillius Crowe, it was in Vatican City -- the year was 1433.  I was but a tender thirteen-year-old seminary student, naive, trusting, and gullible.  Even then it seemed he turned his mind towards me, though I cannot be sure.  That memory, like the rest, seems like a faded dream --another time.  In any case, I saw him, and I’m sure he saw me.  From that moment, my life, if that is what it can be called, has never been the same.

Maxmillius was Venatore, a secret society within the Catholic Church.  Venatore, or AHunters@ in the Queen’s English, were specially trained seminary graduates and monks with a charter from the Pope himself, to travel the far reaches of the world fighting the evil enemies of the Church.  Hunters had thrown down kings, assassinated nobles, and turned the tides of wars, all in the name of God.

The Venatore were an often-whispered secret in the seminary I attended, rumor I was never sure I believed until I saw Crowe.  It was then I knew the truth.

What a glorious life it seemed that must be.  To stride through the world as one of the righteous -- fighting evil in the name of God.  After all, fighting for what was right and holy was surely an even more noble application of the word than just ministering it.

As I said, I was naive, and Crowe’s dark visage intrigued me; his black armor, his long flowing hair, his sharp dark features, the very arrogance of his bearing as he strode through our seminary without concern of being chastised by the monks.  I wanted power.  I even convinced myself that I coveted that power to serve the Lord.  And when I finally did become Venatore some five years later, I imagined myself a dark angel – the vessel of God’s wrath.  Nothing could have been further from the truth.

My name is William McCraggen, son of Ireland; proudly I was christened Sir Knight and High Protector of the Vatican by his holiness Pope Eugene IV in the year of our Lord 1438.  I was become Venatore, the sword God, and oh how I rue that day.

At last I put this story to paper not out of pride, but of fear.  Fear that these memories, like the others, will be wiped clear by the scouring of time -- already I can feel it happening.  It must be told that my intentions were good, even pure.  Pure as a naive boy throwing an errant rock that shatters a window, pure as a gullible young man taking up arms in the name of God and country.  Yes, my intentions were pure; it was my soul that was tainted.

 

2.

Upon christening I was dispatched straightaway to England.  There was little time to query about the man I had seen that day in my seminary.  At the time I still had no idea of his name, but I was curious about him.  After all, he was the reason I had become Venatore, his stern visage was the impetus that had kept me struggling through the demanding years of training, the terrible beatings the monks ministered on us, and the castration that was our initiation to this secret society.

You see upon our initiation we were to become monks -- eunuchs, free of impure thoughts arising from sexual desire.  Yet I wonder these days if I have a thought rattling around in this head of mine that could be considered pure.  Perhaps age has done this to me, perhaps something else.

I traveled to England in the company of two other newly christened Venatore on the merchant ship Angelina.  The Angelina was the property of an Italian named Sylvio Calbrise.  Sylvio was a devout member of the church, and provided passage for missionaries free of charge.  He was however, curious about our strange raiment and weapons, and asked many friendly questions of our charter.  We, of course, remained tight-lipped.

The Knights Venatore are a secret society, it has been so since the downfall of the Knights Templar.  And it will always be so.  Our first edict of training was; to never discuss our existence or charter with someone not directly affiliated with the Catholic Church.  Little did I understand the importance of this commandment, or how our existence depended on it.

The trip was a nightmare of boiling seas, vile crewmen, and self-imposed isolation.  We kept to ourselves -- silent shadows drifting among this roguish crew.  Soon we found that the raucous laughter died, and suspicious eyes turned our way when we approached.  It was the first time I felt entirely separate from the world around me.  A feeling I am now so accustomed too, it is simply part of my existence, but one that never ceases to depress me.  My only solace was my companions, whom I had known since our days of training.

One of my Hunter companions, a rakish lad from Southern Italy named Antonio, kept us partially entertained with Italian folk tales from his homeland.  The other, an older fellow of Spanish decent named Juan, said little to nothing, but occasionally laughed at Antonio’s boyish tales of adventure from his homeland.  Antonio was close to my age, and I grew affection for him on that voyage.  Juan I never learned to trust until the day he died in my arms.

How I regret not placing my trust in him sooner.  How I regret ever doubting his purity -- me, with my own purity being akin to that of muddy water.

 

3.

We arrived at Portsmouth, greeted by the gloomy English sky, and a light rain.  Our thanks to our ship’s Captain were brief, as the crew watched from the rails distrustfully – watching our every move. They did not appreciate us, our manner, our raiment, our weapons.  I never became used to the bigotry I encountered in my life, those distrustful looks are something that still stir embers of anger in the marrow of my soul.

Our charge was to travel to Northern England and report to the Cathedral of St. Peter in the city of York.  There we were to meet a bishop named Godfrey.  This bishop of St. Peter had written a disturbing letter to the Arch Diocese in Canterbury, that letter that had since been forwarded to the Vatican --a plea for help.

I loathed England, even before I had stepped foot on her shores.  It was a deep-seated prejudice that had been instilled in me as a wee lad, a hatred given life by years of listening to old gaffers in my home of Ireland.  This mission was distasteful to me, but I had not commented as such to our Cardinal at the Vatican.  I was anxious you see; ready to test my skills against the dark might of evil.  Though now I think I was chosen for the English that was my mother tongue, rather than my prowess.

These lands did not look so different from those I had grown up in, but the people of England were never my friends, and they spotted me at every turn.  We found it difficult to purchase horses for our trip, and it soon became clear that while I could speak English, my Irish accent was more of a hindrance than any foreign tongue could have been.

At last we found the horses we needed to speed us on our way, but it was not easy, and the horses were no bargain.

 

4.

Our trip inland went quietly.  Henry IV, King of England and France at the time, was still strong, and villainy was not tolerated on the roads of this country.  It seemed we should have traveled faster, but the weather turned fair, slowing us to a leisurely pace rather than speeding us on our way.

My friendship with Antonio grew as the days passed, and in no time we were like brothers.  Juan I think knew the dangers of this.  He, better than Antonio or I, knew the world and her perils.  Once, as we camped for the night, I asked Juan of the dark knight I had seen that day in my seminary. It was then I learned the name of that beautiful warrior.

“He is Maxmillius Crowe, an Englishman,” Juan told us.  “He is the first and greatest of the Venatore.@

I pondered that, even his name sounded musical in my ears -- Maxmillius, a name of power and prominence.

“Where is his charge?” I asked, my boyish infatuation showing clearly.

“Here,” Juan told me, his dark eyes boring into mine.  “Right here in his homeland, though they say he has traveled everywhere.  Some even say he has battled the Black Cossacks in Siberia, and the wild heathens South of Egypt.  But his charge is England now, for over four years.”

The question nagged at me, if he were supposed to be in England, what were we doing here, and where was he?  Surely, a knight as powerful and experienced as Crowe would have more than made up for three raw knights barely out of training.

“I would like to meet this knight of renown,” Antonio spoke up, a boyish smile on his olive hued face.  “Perhaps we will cross paths on this journey?”

Juan snorted and looked into our lowly burning campfire.