| Nothing in this world of ours Flows as we would have it flow' What avail, then, careful hours, Thought and trouble, tears and woe? Through the shrouded veil of earth, Life's rich colours gleaming bright, Though in truth of little worth, Ye allure with meteor light Life is torture and suspense; Thought is sorrow - drive it hence! With no will of mine I came, With no will depart the same.
Vanity of Regret, c. 1100 |
It was one of those deeply philosophical questions that a man usually expected no answer to. But he had been asking such questions most of his life and saw no reason to stop now. It used to drive his master to distraction, until the elderly monk had finally instructed his pupil that a man could only find the answers within his own soul.
Josiah hefted another rock onto the wall he was building and continued to contemplate. How does a man get anywhere? By what roads must he travel, spiritually and in truth, to end up in a small heathen village as far from his land of birth as heaven was to his sinful soul? And what had drawn six other Christian men to stand in defence of these Moslem villagers.
He knew that his role in the chain of events had started with Nathaniel dragging him, once again, from a tavern in a state of near oblivion. He could barely remember it, but he did recall a vague awareness that, on this occasion, the Ethiopian had acquired some helpers for the task. It was not until much later that he had discovered Nathaniel had acquired these helpers at the end of a hangman's noose.
The memory brought on a familiar stab of shame. He had not had been there for Nathaniel, in his hour of need. So many times Nathaniel had been there for him and yet, when the time came, his friend had been forced to rely on strangers to save him.
And they were a strange collection, indeed. His gaze drifted to where Christophe de Lacey was directing some villagers, further along the makeshift wall. The Norman claimed to have once been a Templar knight, although now, with his dark and weatherworn clothing and armour, he looked more like a disillusioned soldier of fortune.
A few yards in the other direction, Vincenzo di Taranto was instructing some others in the basics of archery. When the enemy arrived, and it would be soon, a few well-placed arrows could mean the difference between victory and defeat. By all accounts, Vincenzo could certainly place an arrow well enough and, for Nathaniel, that had meant the difference between life and death.
Two days north of here, on the road to Damascus, the residents of another village had set their hearts on hanging "the black heathen devil", no matter how much Nathaniel had protested his Christian faith. His only friend had been in a stupor in the local tavern and he could not hope to stand alone against so many. But thankfully these two strangers had stepped in. Vincenzo's arrow had severed the rope, even as Nathaniel was falling to his death, and both men had drawn their swords against the mob to defend his life. Unwilling to take them on, the crowd had dispersed.
It was then that they had been recruited to fight their upcoming battle. Josiah's eyes sought out Ishmael. The young Moslem was among Vincenzo's archery students, seeming to hang on his instructor's every word. Ishmael would certainly do everything possible to protect his village. It had been he who had ventured out to seek help from outsiders and he who had approached "the black devil" and the two fearsome men with him, asking if only Christians could hope for such justice.
A bold man was young Ishmael. But his boldness had paid off. The men had agreed to come and defend his village against the bandits that were attacking it, renegade Christian warriors who had forsaken their Crusader oaths and turned to thievery instead. Nathaniel had taken them to drag his drunken travelling companion along also. Christophe had gone to pull another fighting man he trusted, Will, out of the local brothel. And then that boy had turned up, pleading to go with them too.
Josiah cast his gaze further toward the back of the village where William of Bucklin was instructing young Jean D'Avignon in the basics of swordplay. The older man was trying to teach the youngster basic defensive strokes, when all Jean seemed interested in was how to attack.
The boy was tenacious. They had tried both logic and intimidation to dissuade him from coming with them and resolutely left him behind. But he had still managed to follow them.
It had been Will who had discovered Jean trailing them, a day later. And despite all the his comments about the boy's idiocy, stubbornness and inability to take good advice, Josiah had noticed that Will never let the youngster out of his sight. It was as if he had made the boy his own personal responsibility. And despite Jean's evident courage and resourcefulness, the reckless way that he charged time after time, even during practice swordplay, indicated that he might do well to have a protector like Will.
And that was their motley contingent, all but one. Enrique de la Salle had temporarily disappeared from view. An elusive character, that one. Even his reason for joining them in defending the village remained unclear. He had claimed to be of French heritage, like young Jean, but Josiah doubted the man had ever really perceived himself as belonging to any nation or truly sworn fealty to any lord.
Enrique de la Salle had left that other township as precipitately as they had, clearly having outstayed his welcome. He did not deign to inform them of the reason for his departure, although the amused glance that Christophe and Vincenzo had shared suggested to Josiah that they may have had some idea of what it was. And he had obviously caused some unrest among the townsfolk, for when Christophe informed him of the dangers they would be facing, Enrique had calmly replied that he would find facing a battle preferable to being knifed from behind.
Still he had managed to evade the work that Christophe had planned for him in preparing the village for the upcoming attack. Enrique had persuaded them that he had devised his own stratagem to form part of their defences, and furthermore he appeared to have recruited the majority of the village children to assist him in the execution of it. The entire contingent had momentarily disappeared and Josiah was most curious to see the results of their efforts.
He was scanning the surrounding area when Christophe approached him from behind.
"So, where is he?" the soldier asked.
The monk shook his head. "No sign of him yet."
Christophe sighed and changed the subject. "The building of the wall is going well."
Josiah nodded. "A fair effort for less than a day's work. If we have another day before the enemy comes, the task should be completed."
"And what then?" A new voice spoke behind them and they turned to see Ishmael approaching. Vincenzo, William and Jean were not far behind.
Christophe turned to him. "Then we will catch your enemies unawares. They will come expecting an unprotected village they can sweep into and out of quickly, panicking and scattering the townsfolk as they attack and taking and burning what they want in the town. Instead, they will find a town with fortifications and villagers ready to fight. They won't be ready for a siege and hopefully will be forced to turn back."
"To look for easier targets nearby." Enrique's voice held a smug note of mockery in it. Christophe turned to see him on the other side of the wall, carrying an armful of twigs and branches.
"Easier targets?" Jean queried.
"Yes. If they have any sense, they will leave rather than expend time and fighting men attacking a village which is well defended when there are so many undefended towns in the vicinity."
"Towns just like ours was before you came and started building? They will be attacked because they are defenceless while our village is not?" Ishmael's voice had a note of accusation in it and Christophe flared.
"When you command an army, then you can plan to save all the villages in this area. Until then, be grateful if you can save your own families!"
Ishmael held his gaze defiantly until Will took a hold of his arm and gently but firmly pulled him away. Christophe redirected his searing glare toward Will but the other man refused to meet his gaze. To Josiah, it seemed to reflect an old hostility between them.
Christophe had introduced William of Bucklin as his oldest friend but Josiah had immediately sensed that Will had been a subordinate, not an equal. The gaze he directed at Will now was clearly that of a lord warning one of his retainers that they had overstepped their bounds.
But Will refused to meet that gaze. Instead, he led Ishmael back to where he had been teaching Jean swordplay. Jean directed a questioning glance at Christophe before following them.
"Fools," Christophe muttered under his breath.
"It is the curse of youth," Josiah said mildly. "You cannot prevent them being young."
Christophe glared at him. "It will probably prevent them from growing old."
Josiah shrugged. "If that is what is meant to be. You and I have seen enough young men die to know that sometimes it is beyond prevention."
Christophe gave him one more fiery glare and then stalked away.
Vincenzo and Enrique had watched the exchange in silence.
Enrique smirked. "That truth is undeniable but I suspect that it is also one that you yourself have not accepted."
Then he too walked away without waiting for Josiah to reply. He again picked up the load of branches he had been carrying and returned to where the children were building bonfires along the wall.
Vincenzo merely held Josiah's gaze for a moment longer, and then the faintest trace of a smile touched his features. He nodded briefly to Josiah and followed Christophe.
Josiah looked out beyond the newly formed wall. Somewhere out there an enemy was preparing to attack. Soon enough they would all face judgment.
And the dying would begin again.
Flies buzzed randomly from bush to rock to bush. Alighting a moment here, another moment somewhere else. Dragonflies hovered and dipped and chased each other over and around sun-bleached rocks. The drone of the insects could have heralded the onslaught of the devil's hordes it was so loud and ominous in the still air, and on this dry dusty day on this dry, dusty earth; it did.
Hands twitched to brush away the annoying bugs but were kept in check by the urgent need to stay hidden and silent even as the tharrump of war-horses thundered through the wadi.
Vincenzo di Taranto, arrow nocked neatly in bow and a full quiver on his back knew a moment of annoyed mockery at the lack of imagination the oncoming troop showed. He'd been watching their lance tips progress through the ancient winding riverbed for some time. Their flags, banners and the occasional unkempt plume of feathers were now also showing themselves to the sharp-eyed man. If Vincenzo hadn't been quite so focussed on waiting for Christophe de Lacey's signal, he might have sneered at the arrogance of the Christian knights. In deed, the Italian bowman thought, if it hadn't been for men such as de Lacey and his own benefactor, this day might have found him somewhere entirely different. Probably dead, he admitted to himself. He had no patience for men he did not respect, no matter what their station in life, and he had no respect for those who would kill and maim to satisfy their greed.
Vincenzo's eyes narrowed as he let his thoughts fade away and drew his bowstring back just a hare's breadth further. The rag he'd tied around his head to keep his hair back was soaked through with sweat. Shade in this old wadi was almost non-existent and it was a hot, hot day. Vin ignored the discomfit as he watched dust begin to spill into the wadi like a foreboding cloud.
The battle was begun.
De Lacey waited, the horse he sat astride as battle-ready as he. A silent rage simmered deep inside. The scouts he'd sent out earlier had returned reporting the approach of the renegade Christian army - small as Christian armies went but, to a poor village like this one, it might as well have been the entire Christian nations enforce. Disgust that professed Christian knights, Crusaders for Truth and Justice, could betray the oaths they had all vowed, fed the Norman's anger. They had no honour! Offering salvation with one hand while robbing and murdering with the other! It was simple, Christophe thought, you didn't kill the people you'd travelled so far to save.
Sweat trickled down his back and chest. The skin on his arms and legs was already sticky and irritated. What he wouldn't give for a cool oasis rather than the fly-ridden battlegrounds he seemed to forever find. His face remained as hard and unmerciful as the scarred helmet he wore.
The only entry to the wadi was becoming choked with dust, the echoes of marching men and horses louder. Christophe began to raise his sword. Behind him, a ragtag army of villagers and the few men he'd hired took a collective breath, held it and then, as the bandit knights began their attack and committed their men fully to the battle, the sword cut downward to point straight into the heart of the attacking force.
"Charge!!" de Lacey yelled. Arrows flew through the air as the sword took its downward arc and the collective breath behind him released in a full-throated roar of defiance. "Charge!!" he yelled again and his horse reared and screamed its own blood-curdling challenge. He leant forward in his saddle as his horse took flight and charged directly into battle.
Bucklin raised his sword and sent his steed into the fray behind de Lacey. He pounded against the forefront of the attack and sent it wavering back as his armoured war-horse ploughed through the first line of foot soldiers, kicking, biting, charging, stomping and crushing whoever came within reach of its ironclad hooves. William roared his anger at the bandits. His sword flashed in the sunlight and dripped bright red as he slashed it down again and again, chopping and stabbing at the enemy without mercy. The horses of the renegade knights pushed through the infantry. Two knights came at Bucklin, one landing a ringing blow on the tall man's shield that numbed his arm, the other feeling the bite of Will's longsword as it sliced through the gaps in the renegade's armour. The first knight pressed his advantage against Bucklin and delivered another blow to the shield followed by a blow from the sword's hilt to Will's head. The steel helmet dented under the impact and William began to slide, dazed and ears ringing, from his saddle. He freed his sword from the body of the second knight and caught his balance just as his feet hit the ground. The first knight continued his attack, striking blow after blow at the downed defender. Bucklin absorbed each jolt of his shield stepping back a little at a time until he had enough space to renew his defence.
Christophe saw his old friend go down, but there was nothing he could do. His horse reared as another knight approached, its hooves lashing out at the enemy horse and raking through leather and flesh and sinew. The screams of the dying horse rang out over the horrific noise of battle, met only by the triumphant call of De Lacey's stallion. The knight fell with his horse, his chest armour deeply dented and scored with hoof prints; his helmet was crushed. The battle seemed to pause for a moment as the foot soldiers drew back on a gasp of shock at the loss of one of their leaders. Christophe goaded his horse into renewed frenzy. Arrows thudded into the renegade ranks. The frontline of attackers surrounding Christophe dropped in a boneless wave of death as each of Vincenzo's arrows found their mark. De Lacey waded through them, striking those that didn't fall quick enough.
Behind him, the kindling bonfires that Enrique had erected with the village children burst into flame. Christophe knew to keep well clear of these. He also knew to keep well clear of other areas along the wall where small holes had been made. For on the other side of these holes, Enrique had armed the women and children of the village with sharpened stakes, long enough to impale an attacker on the other side of the wall as effectively as a lance.
It had been against Christophe's instincts to allow the women and children to be involved in such gruesome brutality. But Enrique had argued that it would be nothing compared to the brutality they would face if any of the attackers breached the wall. Several of the women and youngsters had also argued their right to do what they could to defend their village. And so the strategy was being enacted and Christophe knew that some of the astonished screams that he heard behind him were from attackers who must have felt as though the wood and stones themselves were taking vengeance against them.
There was another blood-curdling roar to his right, where Josiah stood with a double-headed axe in one hand and a flail in the other. When the former monk embraced battle, he seemed to do so with an unthinking fervour that was disturbing in its intensity. He truly went berserk, as if a great anger that had lain dormant within him had seized its chance to be released. Even though the enemy managed to land several blows on him, it did not slow his attack at all.
The axe, its blackened blade smeared with blood and gore, its seared wooden handle slick with same, swung in wide powerful arcs, hacking through shields, armour, flesh and bone. The flail whirled around the big man's head, out over the heads of the enemy and thumped down to pound and mash. The bandits had no chance against the man's strength and reach, but still they pressed around him - and met death.
Nathaniel flashed his twin scimitars, dancing from one foot to another as he wove a path toward Josiah, careful to be close enough to watch his back, but not so close as to be on the wrong end of the deadly flail. Josiah was unable to distinguish friend from foe in the middle of a fighting rage and the Ethiopian had no desire to join the growing pile of dead renegades at the former missionary's feet. He ducked an oncoming blow and with a single sharp clout with the hilt of his sword pushed the hapless bandit closer to Josiah. A dull clank of metal on metal and the bandit fell to the ground, his brains a soggy grey-red puddle oozing from his cracked helmet.
There was no time, however, to mourn a wasted life. Nathaniel had more immediate concerns. Across the other side of the barren wadi, Will had disappeared under a rush of bodies. De Lacey was separated from his former Sergeant-at-Arms by a ring of the marauders, a renegade knight apparently challenging Christophe to some sort of duel. Nathaniel couldn't help but grin as he saw de Lacey laugh in the other knight's face, nod in the man's direction and turn his attention elsewhere as an arrow winged passed to strike the offended renegade in the throat. The dark healer breathed a sigh of relief as Jean hacked his way to Bucklin's side and aimed a savage slice at the closest body.
Jean had been nervous waiting for the battle to begin, sweat stinging his eyes and his stomach churning. And then it had started - from one breath to the next - and his anxiety was forgotten as he bloodied his sword for the first time, and then the second and third. His whole world became the few feet of dirt and sand he defended, the echo of the battle around him, and the slash and parry of his sword.
The young swordsman stood his ground jabbing his short sword at his opponent -thrusting then cutting and drawing the sword across the man's torso. He warded off the weakening parries from the doomed man and finished with a solid kick to the man's chest sending him down to the ground.
The frantic fight had moved away from the main battle and Jean found himself alone on its edge panting heavily, the light of battle still glowing in his eyes. He scanned the conflict before him, sighting each of his new friends in the thick of the struggle, all except Will. At the edge of the youth's vision, the bowman Vincenzo stood and began aiming his arrows into a mound of squirming fighting marauders. Will! Then three bandits went flying as the sergeant-at-arms forced himself upright and used his armoured fist and the pommel of his sword to knock away the soldiers fighting to restrain him.
Jean rushed forward his sword gripped tightly in both hands as he threw himself into the fight. He kicked the back of the knees of the first bandit he came to, chopping down and hitting the man with the short edge of his blade then quickly bringing it back up to thrust into the side of the next bandit.
"Not all the cursed demon's spawn of hell will best me yet!" Will roared, a terrible smile on his lips as he and the youth cut the bandits down. "May the devil slake his thirst in their blood!"
A trumpet call came then, desperate in the hot air, and those bandits that could, retreated leaving behind those that could not to die or rot in the desert sun. William's mocking laugh and Vincenzo's arrows followed them out of the wadi.
Christophe, still mounted, came over to where Will and Jean stood side-by-side. He removed his helmet and eyed the bloody scene around them with a blank stare. Vincenzo began walking through the carnage removing his arrows from the dead and replacing them back into his quiver. Enrique walked along the newly erected village wall, followed by one or two of the children, and collected weapons from the bodies impaled upon stakes. Josiah knelt with one knee over the body of a man. His head was lowered in a moment's grief and guilt as he whispered a benediction for the departing soul. As the last words left his lips he ran a tired hand over his head and began to stand only to falter as he put all his weight on his leg. Nathaniel stood behind him, waiting and stepped forward to offer his hand to the injured Josiah.
"We survived," he assured the man, "and the village survived. We all get to live one more day."
Josiah nodded. The pain of his wounds, unfelt till now, etched deep lines in the big man's face. "And then we get to do this all again. This wadi will run with blood by the time it is over."
"As long as it is not ours," Vincenzo told them coming up to pull an arrow out of a gore-splattered helmet.
Josiah sighed. The Italian was right. In a battle such as this there was only 'ours' and 'theirs' and if blood should fall then let it be that of the men who would destroy the innocent to satisfy their greed - Let it be theirs.
The villagers had decided to celebrate their continued survival. Most of them were fully aware that their battle was not yet over. But they had resolved to temporarily forget what might come upon the morrow and, for tonight at least, rejoice in the fact that they were still alive.
Nathaniel marvelled at their resilience. His was a nature that found it difficult to let go of his cares and responsibilities even for an hour or two. But he did not begrudge them their celebration. Tomorrow, any number of them might be dead. They might as well be happy now.
They all had been truly fortunate that they had buried so few today. Nathaniel had no doubt that God had smiled upon their cause. Although the villagers would probably say it was Allah and Nathaniel would not contradict them. He saw no reason why the same benevolence could not be called by two or more different names.
There were a number of wounded and Nathaniel had seen to almost all of them. But now some of the women were tending to their kindred. The Ethiopian had felt that his assistance was no longer urgently required and had gone in search of other company and conversation.
As he approached the fires at the centre of the village, he saw Enrique de la Salle surrounded by a group of children, apparently entertaining them with some outlandish tale of adventure.
Nathaniel was somewhat intrigued by this. De la Salle had avoided his presence at every opportunity, as if he felt the Ethiopian was beneath his company. And yet he seemed perfectly comfortable amongst these Moslems, a people that he would have been raised to think of as his enemy. It was curious, and more than a little insulting.
But as he watched, Nathaniel quickly observed something else about Enrique de la Salle. Under the cloak he wore around his shoulders, he was favouring the left one, trying to protect it from being jostled. He had not come to Nathaniel about any injury, but of course he wouldn't have.
Nathaniel sighed. It was tempting to just let the fool suffer but, in his heart of hearts, he couldn't do it and walked over as Enrique finished his tale.
"Something wrong with your shoulder?"
Enrique looked up in surprise, and accidentally jarred the limb in question himself.
"No," he protested, even though he failed to smother a wince at the pain.
"I don't believe you."
"Really?" Nathaniel watched Enrique try to stare him down without success. Then, seemingly uncomfortable under the Ethiopian's scrutiny, he turned to his young audience.
"Well, my friends, I do believe that you all should be getting to your beds."
There was a predictable chorus of protests and he smiled. "No, I insist. Your parents will be looking for you and I too feel sleep beckoning." He stood and smiled at them. "I will see you all, on the morrow."
As the last of them bade him farewell, he turned to make his escape but Nathaniel was not giving up that easily.
"You stubborn fool! I know there's something wrong with your left shoulder!"
Enrique swung around to face him and again winced at the pain the movement caused. "I lost my footing in the battle and fell on it. It's a little bruised. That's all."
But Nathaniel had pulled the cloak from the other man's shoulder and what he saw told him a different story entirely. "Your arm's been pulled out of its joint! I know something to fix that."
Suddenly, fear was clearly discernible in the other man's eyes. "No!" he exclaimed as he again pulled his shoulder away and then gasped in pain.
Nathaniel decided that there was no point in arguing and just took hold of the arm in one hand and the shoulder in the other, explaining even as he did so.
"If you don't let me fix it, you'll lose that arm. Your hand and fingers are already going numb, aren't they?"
With a quick sure movement, he slipped the bones back into their proper alignment, which made Enrique gasp again. But then he immediately flexed the fingers of his left hand, marvelling at his ability to perform the movement without pain.
Nathaniel grinned. "See? Much better. Were you afraid that I'd work some evil dark magic on you?"
He saw Enrique's eyes flicker to look at the Ethiopian's face and then away again. That had been exactly what the man had thought. And suddenly Nathaniel was angry that a man such as this was judging him and his worth.
"What are you doing here, anyway, Enrique de la Salle? There's no fortune to be had here. I heard what you tried to do in that village north of here. They would have hanged you right after they'd finished with me, wouldn't they?"
The other man's eyes, which had been looking slightly chastened, flashed fire again. "Yes, that was a very inhospitable place. The company here is far superior, if not as wealthy."
"Good enough to die for?"
The question was greeted with a supercilious smirk. "I have no intention of dying here. And I have no intention of leaving empty handed. There must be something of value in this vicinity. Those bandits have probably accumulated a significant horde, if nothing else. This is ripe territory for a soldier of fortune."
Nathaniel snorted. "You might be disappointed."
"I think not." With that, Enrique de la Salle appeared to deem the conversation over and strode away.
Nathaniel watched him go, uncertain why the man's attitude frustrated him so much. Then he shrugged and turned away. But even as he did so, he caught sight of one of the village children following Enrique.
He almost called out to the boy, to warn him against taking up with such company, but then shook his head.
How did you reason with children and fools?
Jean D'Avignon wandered amongst the festivities. There was a distinct lack of wine or ale, as it was against the Moslem religion, but nonetheless there was much feasting and rejoicing and spirits were high.
He looked over to Christophe de Lacey who sat on his own staring into one of the fires. Yesterday, Jean had been just a nuisance to everyone else but today he had proved his worth in battle and surely they would now accept him as a warrior amongst them.
He tried to approach de Lacey. Maybe the knight would deign to converse with him for a while.
"A great victory today, my lord."
Christophe de Lacey didn't even look at him, just turned and walked away without a word.
Jean was hurt. He knew that he was just a common baggage train boy, beneath the notice of a nobleman such as de Lacey, but he thought that the knight had indeed taken notice of him in the battle they had fought together.
It was as if he was being punished and he didn't know why.
"Leave him be, lad."
Jean turned to see Will gazing at him understandingly. Suddenly, this sympathy annoyed him. He didn't want to be treated like a child.
He'd fought as a man today. Truth be told, he had been terrified. But nonetheless, he had done his part. And yet they still treated him as if he was not a soldier. But he was. He had killed men today in close combat. So close that he could smell their blood. So close that he could see in their eyes the exact moment that they died.
He felt the bile rise in his throat and took swig of his drink to wash it back down. He also managed to stumble slightly. Will put a hand on his arm to steady him and Jean angrily pulled away.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing, lad. Just making sure you're all right."
"Well, I don't need you to."
"Of course," Will spoke mildly but the amusement in his voice was unmistakable. Jean looked at him in annoyance but this only served to amuse Will further, such that he could no longer hide his smile.
"He's never good company after a battle."
"What?"
"The noble knight de Lacey. He's not much of a talker at the best of times but after a battle is the worst."
"Why? It was a great victory."
Will's eyebrows lifted slightly. "A great victory, eh? Well, I'll let you know a little secret, lad. Christophe de Lacey doesn't believe there is such a thing as victory anymore, and definitely not 'a great victory'."
"And how would you know?"
"Oh, I've known him a long time. Let me tell you a little story. Sir Richard de Lacey had two sons. One to inherit his lands and title, the other he intended to give to God. But he taught both the ways of the sword, with the intention that the younger, Christophe, would join the Templars and serve God in a holy crusade. And Christophe grew up quite happy with that plan. Then, when he was fifteen, he met Sarah..."
"So?"
"So the Templars are a holy order of knights with monastic vows. They aren't the type to allow their knights to get married. But Sarah wasn't the sort of girl Sir Richard would allow any son of his to marry, anyway."
"Oh?"
"She was a peasant girl from the local village. Good-hearted and virtuous enough but so far beneath Christophe in birth that any attachment between them had to be an illicit one. And Christophe was a dutiful son. He honoured his father's wishes and joined the order... but he wasn't as dutiful to his monastic vows... and, of course, neither was I."
"You? You joined the Templars?"
Will laughed. "Yes, I did. As humble sergeant-at-arms, not a great knight, of course. Same monastic vows though."
"Why?"
Will scratched his head, as if searching for an answer or perhaps considering what was best to tell the boy.
"Thought it might be fun. I'd served old Sir Richard for several years then. He'd been a customer of my mother's on more than a couple of occasions and before she died, she convinced him to take me into his service. I was a few years younger than you are now."
"And your mother died?"
"A few weeks later. She'd known that she was sick and once she knew that I'd be cared for, I think she just let death take her. I kept sneaking back to see her, during those weeks, and once Christophe caught me but rather than turning me over to his father, he demanded to come along. We continued to escape to the village in this way, long after my mother died. It was how he met Sarah."
"And how was that?"
Will grinned. "The lord's son saved her from a ruffian who was about to attack her and take her virtue. After that, she doted on him, even though she knew it was hopeless and before long, he returned her ardour. She was exceptionally beautiful. Her father didn't like it though. He knew that it could only mean disgrace for his daughter. But both Sarah and Christophe de Lacey were so much in love that they did not care. They even had a son together, called Adam."
"So what happened?"
"Well, when the time came for Christophe to leave home for the service of the Templars, Sarah told him that she could not bear to be separated from him, that she would follow him wherever he went. He told her not to be so foolish, that she and Adam would be safer at home in the village. She agreed to it and he left her there, loyally waiting for him even though she knew that it might be years before he returned, if he returned at all.
So we travelled to the Holy Land. For years, Christophe remained faithful to Sarah, while others among us partook of the exotic delights offered by some of the women of the East. We saw many battles, both victories and defeats. It was after one of those 'great victories' that he received terrible news from home. His brother had written to him the previous year and the letter had been waylaid several times before reaching him. It told him of a terrible fire that had devastated the local village, killing several villagers, including Sarah and Adam.
His first impulse was to return home. I and several others tried to reason with him. Sarah and Adam were more than a year in the ground. There was nothing he could do for them. The Templar commanders wouldn't give him leave to go - even if he told them of the death of his mistress and his bastard child, it didn't seem likely that they would be sympathetic to his cause. But he was determined to go even without their leave, and I could see no other course but to follow him."
"Why?" Jean asked, even though he knew the answer in his heart.
Will shrugged and smiled a sad smile of remembrance. "Hell, I only joined the Templar Order because de Lacey thought it was a good idea. I was more than happy to shake that dust off my boots, I can tell you, lad! Besides, he needed someone to look out for him. He was angry, grieving, looking to stare death in the face.
We never made it back to England, got as far as Malta before he came down with a fever that damn near killed him. The priest that came to give the last rites was a wily old goat. I didn't hear all that was said but by the end of it, we were heading back to the Holy Land rather than home to England. Still don't know how the old bugger did it. Christophe de Lacey didn't have a great deal of time for holy men by that stage and still doesn't.
Nonetheless, here we are, drifting from one battle to another, never signing on for any true cause, as far as I can tell. Just fighting when and where we are needed, as long as there is a little money in it... or, at least, food and a bed for the night.
And I know that he'd rather that even I didn't follow him around. He's threatened to kill me himself on a couple of occasions. So, if you're looking for comradeship, lad, I wouldn't go looking there. Anyway, some of the village girls are much more interested in talking to you."
"Really?" Jean wasn't all that convinced but he still allowed Will to lead him away.