The Reversed Hierophant

Chapter 91.1 Disagreement Part II

It took Leshert some time to suppress the strange, inexplicable emotions that had surfaced in his mind. He walked over slowly, stopped before Rafael’s recliner, and knelt on one knee, bowing his head to the Pope: “Good day, Your Holiness.”

Rafael didn’t ask him to rise immediately.

This was unusual. Rafael had always been considerate and gentle, without any particular fondness for watching people kneel before him. Even when etiquette dictated him to accept such a gesture, he would always help the person up as quickly as possible.

Leshert kept his head bowed. Beyond confusion, a trace of anxiety, long absent, crept into his heart.

Leaning back in his recliner, Rafael gazed silently at Leshert, finally offering a faint smile and saying softly, “Please rise, my knight. You have sacrificed so much for me. What brings you here so urgently, with your body not yet fully healed? I remember giving you a long leave—long enough for an ordinary man to find a wife to spend the rest of his life with.”

He ended with a light jest.

The Grandmaster, who usually easily blushed at such jokes, did not awkwardly avert his eyes this time. Instead, he cleared his throat and answered solemnly: “Upon entering the Order, I swore an oath to the Holy Lord to remain faithful and chaste to Him for eternity.”

“Oh, as expected,” Rafael commented.

As the atmosphere eased slightly, the Pope gestured toward the chair across the small round table. Leshert stood up, but instead of following the Pope’s guidance, he sat on the marble edge of the fountain pool.

The fountains in the Papal Palace were undoubtedly of the most elegant design; the circular, three-tiered structure flowed with clear water day and night. Each tier was edged with snow-white marble, which felt slightly warm from the sun. It was indeed comfortable to sit on, and compared to the chair, it was very close to the Pope—close enough that their knees could almost touch.This seemed to be the first time the ever-composed and dignified Grandmaster had explicitly refused his instruction. Though it was a trivial matter, Rafael’s first reaction was one of slight surprise.

Too close.

That was the thought that hit him once he realized what had happened.

It was truly a bit too close.

In high society, where privacy and social boundaries were strictly observed, no one would suddenly move this close without reason unless they were lovers. Even parents often remained poised and polite, caring for their children while surrounded by nannies and servants, rather than pressing so close together. Such proximity was viewed as undignified.

Nobles always preferred to prove their “nobility” through such impersonal and troublesome ways. Over time, Rafael had unconsciously been influenced by this. Of course, the main reason he disliked others approaching him without cause was primarily due to his own frail health.

Though he never showed it openly, or perhaps not too strongly—it was undeniable that he harbored an instinctive yearning and envy for a healthy body.

Leshert was so close to him now. Even though the knight commander was injured and not as healthy as before, his excellent physique still granted him agility and strength surpassing ordinary people. When he sat beside Rafael, the Pope could even feel the steady warmth radiating from him. This primal surge of vitality shamelessly declared its own power, making the cold-sensitive Rafael feel a mix of fear and an irresistible urge to draw closer.

It made Rafael feel restless.

He was accustomed to predicting the behavior of others, yet Leshert’s actions had slightly defied his expectations. It was like a cat tilting its head waiting to be petted on the brow, only to have its back stroked suddenly. This anomaly wasn’t a major event, but it was enough to make an oversensitive cat turn around indignantly to bite the offending hand.

Rafael quietly raised his guard.

“How is your health?” Rafael decided to take control of the conversation—even though Leshert had requested the audience.

“The doctor says I am recovering quickly.” The taciturn knight commander answered every question. At this moment, he looked excessively honest again, a sharp contrast to his earlier choice to disregard the Pope’s instruction without hesitation.

“I haven’t thanked you yet,” Rafael said thoughtfully. He reached for a cup on the table, but Leshert beat him to it, lifting the gilded porcelain pot. A stream of crystal-clear, ruby-red liquid flowed from the long, swan-neck spout, the tea splashing against the white porcelain walls in small whirlpools.

“Without you, Florence would likely be preparing for a new papal election right now.”

Leshert silently picked up the cup, tested the temperature, and then carefully placed it into Rafael’s open palm. Their coordination was seamless—a tacit understanding forged during their flight from Calais. After setting down the teapot, Leshert belatedly realized his behavior might have seemed overly “attentive.”

“It is my duty as Grandmaster. My mission is to protect Your Holiness,” Leshert answered somewhat distractedly.

Rafael lowered his head to sip the tea. Hearing this, he paused for a moment. His eyelashes lifted slightly, and his pale violet pupils shifted under thin eyelids to settle on Leshert. A hint of doubt, unperceivable to anyone else, flickered in his expression.

“…Actually, I was planning to see you regarding recent events,” Rafael continued, Leshert failing to notice the subtle change in Rafael’s form of address. “I believe you’ve heard about the matter concerning my parents.”

Leshert’s attention was immediately drawn back. He unconsciously straightened his posture. “Yes.”

After a pause, the knight commander added, “Lord Julius confirmed it was true.”

Rafael admitted frankly, “Indeed, it’s true. My mother was Her Majesty Queen Amandra, and my father was the former Pope of Florence, Vitalian III—perhaps you’ve met him.”

Leshert lowered his eyes, the words triggering more memories. “I did meet His Holiness. I had only recently joined the Order then and was occasionally assigned to guard the gates of the Palace. His Holiness would go to the Holy Thorn Cathedral to preach every Thursday and Saturday afternoon. Apart from times he had to attend to affairs at the Palace, he would visit churches across Florence or go to monasteries in the lower city to offer comfort.”

Recalling the past softened the knight captain’s tone. “He was a most diligent Holy Father.”

“Diligent…” Rafael repeated, then chuckled. “It sounds like you thought highly of him.”

Leshert stated honestly: “He was indeed a very excellent Pope. Devoted to his duties, devout and compassionate, and always committed to safeguarding the peace of the Papal States.”

Rafael watched the small ripples forming in his teacup. “Committed to safeguarding the peace of the Papal States…”

He smiled silently and asked abruptly: “Is that your way of cautioning me?”

Leshert was startled.

He didn’t know why he had inexplicably blurted out those words just now. Perhaps his subconscious was indeed resisting the war initiated by the Pope—he loathed plunder and aggression—but the word “cautioning” was a bit too harsh.

Leshert instinctively wanted to deny it. He quickly knelt before Rafael again: “My apologies, Your Holiness, I did not—”

He wanted to explain, but didn’t know what to say. He could only close his mouth helplessly, his deep green eyes, like a lush forest at dawn, looking at Rafael with a mix of pain and expectation.

He was waiting for Rafael to understand his meaning—Rafael could always do that. This Pope was young and wise; back in Calais, even if Leshert said nothing, Rafael could grasp the meaning of every gesture and glance in the shortest time.

But this time, Rafael didn’t look him in the eye.

“Peace, justice,” Rafael murmured softly. “These are all very important.”

He seemed to be merely stating a simple fact.

And that was indeed what Leshert thought.

“I remember… when you succeeded as the Grandmaster of the Templar Order, was it during the reign of Leo VI?” Rafael suddenly brought up an entirely unrelated matter.

Leshert paused. There was nothing to hide; the appointment documents still bore the signature of Leo VI.

“Yes. At that time, Pope Vitalian III had just passed away, and Florence was in chaos. The old Master was unable to handle affairs due to severe illness, and I was nominated by the knights. The results of the Papal election had not yet been announced.” Leshert added a few details.

Rafael fell silent. He recalled the Templar’s low-profile, almost non-existent policy during the time of Leo VI, and also in his own previous life… back then, the Knights Templar had no presence at all. Aside from the annual Grand Prayer of Florence, Leshert had only sought audience with him a mere two or three times—once for signing the renewal of his tenure as Grandmaster, the other times for official business that absolutely required the Pope’s attention.

Rafael pondered slowly. Back then, had Leshert been truly loyal to him? Or was it that until the day he died, this Grandmaster never truly viewed him as his sovereign?

But perhaps that wasn’t right either. Leshert had carried out his orders faithfully, and the Templars had never shown any inclination toward anyone else. Years ago, Leshert had quite obediently pledged his loyalty. This upright, honest, and pious Knight could never break his word; Rafael was certain of this. Not only because of his trust in Leshert’s personal character, but also because Julius would never have allowed a military faction with wavering loyalties within the Papal Palace.

The reasoning seemed somewhat laughable—relying on his understanding of Julius to judge the credibility of these past events.

Thinking of this, Rafael set the cup back on the table. He suddenly remembered that before Leshert came here today, he had gone to see Julius—and it was Julius’s secretary who had requested the audience on Leshert’s behalf.

What was Julius trying to tell him?

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