The turbulent winter the people of Rapale had endured was in its death throes, though Lorenzo felt none the better. Snow still adorned the buildings and the round tower, and there was a bitter chill in the air; this being common weather for the region at such a time. What had been unusual, however, was the people's course of action throughout.

Normally in wintertime, the people of Rapale would take to their homes and beds. The market would be closed throughout most of the week and the large storehouse sealed off, and transport to and from the village would be scarce, with the stable master and hands resting at home. Even Fuscolo, the gatekeeper, would tend to stay indoors. This winter, however, had been spent by most in the village courtyard, listening to the stories of a Templar.

He had returned the previous November, much to the silent relief and satisfaction of many in the village. The sun had nearly set when was sighted ascending the hill and though he had not appeared tired, he kindly refused Gianpaolo's request to have him tell his story that evening, instead retiring to his quarters. No-one then saw him for a week. When he emerged from his lodgings winter had begun to take hold, and he walked into the courtyard with snow falling lightly on his mantle. But despite the cold and to the surprise of the villagers, who watched curiously from their windows, he simply sat down at the head of the courtyard, and began to talk.

What came from his mouth were not the ramblings of a madman, nor the talk of commoners or even of kings. Instead what he said was holy - for it was not in French or Italian or Greek. It was in Latin. The Templar Patriarch had begun to recite the Scriptures. His intention was clear; to reacquaint the villagers with the texts of the Holy Book, so that they might sit with him and recite them together. But at first no-one came.

When Gianpaolo returned from a trip to Arezzo, a week into the Patriarch's daily recitations, he had immediately sat with him and begun to listen. Then, by his example, the villagers had come one by one out into the courtyard, and too sat down to listen. So by the time the winter turbulence was well under way, the Patriarch had before him the entire population of Rapale, their renewing Faith shielding them from the driving winds as they listened, day by day, to his teachings. All had come - except for one person.

Lorenzo lay on the roof of the village church, his back to the wall of the bell tower. He pulled the blanket tighter around his huddled form as a frosty breeze passed by, though he could not help but shiver. He turned his head to look down into the courtyard, which started at the base of the church, and saw the villagers clustered there, his mother and brother among them. A voice carried on the wind, the voice of the messenger of God, and Lorenzo tried to discern what it said. The words, he found, were familiar, though the dark void in his chest repelled them. He turned away.

He could not close his eyes, for fear of the face coming back to haunt him. Even with them open he could sometimes see it; the desperate eyes, the lips half-curled into a scream. As the sword came down, again and again. And yet when he had done it, committed the ultimate sin, it had felt so right. He had put the murderer in the place of the victim, and taken the sword into his own hands. He had found retribution for all his misery. An eye for an eye.

He inwardly cursed himself. He couldn't allow the messenger's words affect him; weaken him. He had to be strong.

The wind had died down some hour or so later, and the words of the Templar were now loud and clear. Too tired to move to suppress the sound in his ears, Lorenzo listened.


...great multitudes accompanied him; and he turned and said to them, "If any one comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple. Whoever does not bear his own cross and come after me, cannot be my disciple. For which of you, desiring to build a tower, does not first sit down and count the cost, whether he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation, and is not able to finish, all who see it begin to mock him, saying, 'This man began to build, and was not able to finish.' Or what king, going to encounter another king in war, will not sit first and take counsel whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand? And if not, while the other is yet a great way off, he sends an embassy and asks terms of peace. So therefore, whoever of you does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.


The courtyard went quiet as the villagers were left to ponder the parable, Gianpaolo's translation of the Patriarch's words echoing in their heads.

"Salt is good; but if salt has lost its taste, how shall its saltness be restored? It is fit neither for the land nor the dunghill; men throw it away. He who has ears to hear, let him hear."

Lorenzo finished the chapter in his own head, surprised at how vividly he remembered the words. He had spent most of his life as a Christian in Andretta, attending Mass and praying. Only since that fatal day, over three years ago, had he been faithless.

He again berated himself, but this time found it hard. He didn't want to suppress the words anymore. They called to him, and he found peace in them. Ignoring them would not fill the void within him, would not vanquish the darkness that swirled and tore at his soul. He wanted to listen.

On the roof of the church he carefully rose, and climbed down the bell tower. And as he pulled the blanket around his shoulders and walked out into the courtyard to sit with his family, the Templar began to speak once again.


...And the Pharisees and the scribes murmured, "This man receives sinners and eats with them."

So he told them this parable: "What man of you, having a hundred sheep, if he has lost one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness, to go after the one which is lost...

28th February 1021

The sun shone, heralding the coming of a long-awaited spring with its brilliant radiance. The snowfall and winds of the receding winter had subsided, and the trees were once again beginning to blossom, giving the region of the Florentines colour and life once more.

Lorenzo da Foggia, the boy of fourteen bad years, had decided that his fifteenth year might not be so bad after all. And all thanks to a Templar, a figure who he once would have felt hatred for, he mused. It had been a week since he had succumbed to the sermons' lure, and he felt better for having done so. In the words of the messenger, the gates to salvation were open before him. With his momentous change of heart had come a rush of strange emotions and feelings, some new to him and some oddly familiar, and they broiled inside him, slowly wearing away his hardened exterior. In his dreams and thoughts he saw the True Path before him, and was astonished at how close it gradually became, though it was always just out of reaching distance. Time would bring him closer though, he was sure. And until that time, he had life to enjoy once again.

Of course, there were still shadows in his mind. The things he had rejoiced at before, the terrible sins he had committed, also raged within him, coaxing him and drawing him away from the Light. The face still haunted his dreams. Repentance, he was sure, would ease his worries, but he found something new holding him back. It would mean talking to the Templar. Now he was afraid; terrified of meeting eyes with the sage, who still, in his head, belonged at a distance. Of how he might lose himself in his iron gaze. Guilt, he found, was a poisonous emotion, one that had to be run from for fear of being overcome by it. And he couldn't stop running.

But all of this fear and doubt could be ignored, he found, or at least for a time. To escape he simply merged himself into his surroundings, lost himself in the beauty of nature as spring blessed the world with its presence. He would lie beside the brook on the hill of Rapale and listen to the birdsong and the trickling of the water; would shiver in delight as the cool liquid caressed his hand, and smile as the breeze ruffled his hair. Here he felt no fear or anxiety, no guilt or shame. Here he could do anything he wanted. And so today beside the brook, he found his solace.

The sword he had found in the earth by the stream all those months ago now rested in his hands. He gazed down at the dried blood he had never washed from the blade, fought back the image of how it had come to be there and the wave of bitter guilt that would surely follow. He suppressed a shudder. Then, laying the sword down on the bank of the brook, he began to dig a hole.

Using his hands took him a good hour, but through the tiredness he felt at the end he felt fulfilment. The hole was little over a half-foot deep, and at matching length to the weapon beside the brook. Satisfied, he took up the sword once again, and then carefully lowered it into the stream. He worked for ten minutes to wash the blood from the blade, so that the metal shone anew in the sunlight. Part of his conscience felt cleaner too, as if the blood before had stained it. When it was clean, he withdrew it from the water and began to dry it on his shirt, not wanting it to rust, before slowly and carefully lowering it into the hole he had dug. He then decisively closed his eyes, pressed his hands together, and prayed.

QUOTE:
Lord,

By this weapon I have sinned greatly, and the blame now lies upon my shoulders alone for having done so. So be it not that the true owner of this weapon, who no doubt now resides in Your mighty Kingdom, should take any guilt for that which his weapon has accomplished in his absence; and let him instead rest in peace, in the safe knowledge that no more wrongdoing might yet be done by it.

I ask this not for myself, Lord, as my actions must yet be judged, and by thorough means. My only repose lies in the knowledge that no harm shall come to the innocent I have involved in my sinful actions.

I thank You, Lord, merciful and right as You are.

Amen.

Lorenzo felt absolute calm wash over him, and slowly he opened his eyes. He then began to fill the hole before him, watching as the sword and a part of his guilt was buried beneath the earth. It took him until the whole was filled in to realise that he was not alone.

"A worthy prayer and a respectable deed. But you do not repent for your actions?"

Lorenzo was startled, but refused to turn. He already knew who the stunted Italian had come from - he had been listening to his sermons for a week, after all. Shakily, he replied.

"No. I do not feel I am ready. I must first be judged by the Lord."

"I understand. But do you not believe that the judgement of the Almighty proceeds the repentance - that you can only be judged, when you have first forgiven and been forgiven?"

Not fully understanding, Lorenzo remained silent. Then, decisively, he turned to regard the Templar, who sat studying him by the brook just a meter or so away. His face must have displayed some emotion, whether confusion or fear, for the man smiled, not unkindly, over at him.

"What is your name?" he asked.

Lorenzo studied him back before answering meekly. How could he be so composed? I killed your friend, he thought. I killed him on an altar right before your eyes, like a sacrifice to God, and then left his body at your feet so that you could rot together in the darkness. The voice in his head was desperate, and became a shout. Why do you not hate me?!

The Templar turned away and sighed, examining his reflection in the water. "To be forgiven you must first forgive," he said, as if reading the boy's thoughts. "Forgive yourself, or first find the means to do so. Then you will be judged by the Lord."

"So you have forgiven me? For all that I did, you have forgiven me?" Lorenzo stared, astonished, at the Templar.

"What else could I have done? Had I felt anger for a moment longer than I did, then I would have gone down a path that would lead me to sin - and then where would you and your people be now?" Suddenly he laughed, a deep, rich sound that made Lorenzo jump. "Already we talk of forgiveness, and yet we have not yet begun at all."

"Begun? Begun what?"

The Templar turned and looked directly into his eyes, a warm smile still on his lips. Lorenzo, calmed by the expression, was taken aback by what the man before him said next.

"So, Lorenzo - why is it you hate me?"

He thought a moment. "I- I do not hate you. Not you. I mean, I thought I did."

He expected the Templar to look puzzled at this, but saw only understanding in his features. He relaxed at his voice.

"We did not attack your village. Yet you attacked us. Us being Templars."

"The hatred is - was - shared by everyone in the village. All of us have been affected by their presence in these parts. I always pretended to be so strong, yet I was weak. I was blinded by my anger."

The Templar nodded. "War is never a good thing. Not just because of all the death and pain it causes when people die, and villages are razed. But also because of the fear and the hatred and the guilt that it leaves in its wake. I have killed once, in these lands, and to this day I remember the face of the man that fell before me. The guilt will never leave me, but I know that the Lord has forgiven me - so I rejoice, at least a little."

Now Lorenzo understood. I know that guilt, he thought. Maybe there is hope for peace...

"So," said the Templar. "Why do you hate us?"

The answer came to Lorenzo all too quickly, and the images he had fought so hard to keep at bay came flooding back. Tides and tides of them crashed down again and again, the same faces and sounds and feelings bombarding at his crumbling defences. He found that he had screwed his eyes shut. But then he remembered, where he was and who sat before him; remembered the birdsong and the water on his hand and the breeze in his hair. His eyes snapped open. The Patriarch was there, with his kindly smile and understanding eyes. The images slowed in his head, and he remembered. Though this time he did not fear what he saw. Taking a deep breath, his eyes locked with those of the Templar, he spoke.

"It was three years ago. We were living in a town south of here when we heard the news of the knights. Four armies had arrived by ships bearing a red cross; an unmatchable force, even for the Vatican. The Templar Knights immediately began to spread out across our shire of Campania, though my family didn't know why. From what I heard when I arrived in Florence about a month after, the take-over of the region was quite peaceful, with resistance only from a few peasants and from the militia of the land. There was a lot of resistance in Andretta, my hometown - but I saw that for myself.

"When the knights came to our town I should not have been there. My father sent my brother up north with me and my mother when he heard the news of the ships, so that we would be safe. But I hid at home so they would not find me. The knights came and they met resistance, from peasants and a few members of the militia who were stationed there - my father among them. There was fighting, and I watched from my home. But we stood no chance against the knights from the east with their red crosses, and our town was destroyed and all who put up resistance were killed; my father included. I watched from my burning home as my father was cut down before my eyes. And so I ran from the town with one image in my head, an image that burned with hatred inside my mind and erased all my faith in the world - a knight with a red cross on his chest."

There was silence as Lorenzo finished his account, and a new profound sadness in the eyes of the Templar. The understanding in his features was now much graver.

"I was there. In Andretta - I was there. I too have bad memories of that fight. And I also know what it is to lose a father, though admittedly not in such a horrific way. It would be hard to share your pain, my friend."

There was again silence. Then he seemed to consider for a moment, before getting to his feet. He spoke down to Lorenzo. "Come to me in the village church after daily Vespers, starting tomorrow."

Lorenzo looked up at the Templar, now framed by the golden light of the sun, now setting on the horizon, and felt respect for this man. He had just shared his pain, something he had been afraid to do for so long, and it felt strangely but wondrously good. The Patriarch had begun to walk away before Lorenzo realised what he'd said. He jumped to his feet.

"Why?" he called.

Without turning back, the Patriarch replied:

"So that we can begin."

The air was afire with shouts and screams, and thick dark smoke as the town choked and burned. Fleeing men and women filled the streets, flittering around blindly as they tried to escape the onslaught. There were bodies lining the roads.

A figure staggered through the smoke in the heart of the town, nostrils flared and eyes streaming, desperately looking for an exit. There was none. Nearby a house was burning, tall and grandiose even in its last hour, lighting a path through the choking fog. He stumbled towards it. Unseeing. Unknowing.

He must have turned into a new street, for now there were people and voices. Their voices, so insignificant besides the roaring of the flames, came to him. The people were angry. And stumbling towards them, he could see why.

One man, taller than the other two, was a broad-shouldered Italian. He shouted curses as he lunged at the two young sergeants, no more than fourteen years of age each, with a large infantry falchion. There was skill in his steps, evidently, despite the severity of his surroundings. He had to have belonged to the elite militia.

All at once the large man had gained the upper hand, and with one long sweep of his sword cut down both of his opponents. Anger swept like wildfire through the spectator. Without stopping, to see through his rage, he started towards the aggressor, his axe sliding free of its frog as he ran. Nothing stood in the way of retribution.

In seconds he was upon the man, hacking and spitting like the devil himself. There was fear, unimaginable fear in the man's eyes as he died, pleading for forgiveness and for mercy. He would give him none.

When the demon was lying dead at his feet, he rose up, a smile spreading across his face. He raised his arms to the heavens, his eyes blood-red with triumph. And then he began to laugh.



Guillaume jolted awake. Sweat beaded his forehead, and there was fear in his eyes as he rolled off the pallet onto the hard floor of the chamber. Shaking, he knelt, and pressed his hands tightly together. He shut his eyes tight, but the images would not stop coming.

In the darkness, the only words the Templar could muster spilled uncontrollably from his mouth.

Deus me ignoscat, Deus me ignoscat, Deus...

God forgive me...

-----------------------------------

"I shall be leaving soon."

Lorenzo looked up from the Scriptures on the desk before him and regarded the Patriarch, a pit opening up inside him at the man's words. Trying to hide his shock, he put on an inquisitive look.

"There is trouble in the East, that concerns both my affiliations," Thephilos said, catching both of the boy's expressions. "I feel I must return and help."

Lorenzo thought for a second, turning back to the Scriptures. "What about your daughter?" he asked, drawing the subject away from him. He knew, though, that the Patriarch would see through him.

Thephilos paced the dais casually. Glancing over, Lorenzo noticed that the man's eyes were almost half-closed, and suspected that he'd had a bad night. "She is safe with my family."

Lorenzo nodded, keeping his eyes fixed to the Book. Among the text on the page before him was the Lord's Prayer, which he began to recite in his mind, to keep away the thought of loneliness if nothing else. He couldn't bear to think what life would be like without the Patriarch, after he had come so far from the cliff edge these past months. Only now did he realise how much this figure of hope meant to him, when he announced that he would be leaving. Deep down, Lorenzo had known the day would come - when the Patriarch left taking his new, better life with him. But now that the day, when those words would leave his mouth, had come, he found he couldn't really believe what was happening. The pit in his stomach grew deeper.

Lorenzo looked up to see the Patriarch before him, his back to the desk and his eyes on the stained glass at the head of the chapel, and realised that he was praying. For a while he stared at the mantle on his back, losing himself in the redness of the cross thereon. Then the Patriarch broke the silence.

"Have you forgiven yourself, Lorenzo?"

The question took Lorenzo by surprise. Instantly he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, and he settled for remaining silent.

"Six months ago, by the stream, I told you that to be forgiven you must first forgive." Thephilos did not turn from the window. "You told me that you did not feel ready to repent. So have you forgiven yourself?"

"I..." Lorenzo trailed off. In shock he noticed how the question had never once occurred to him, in all the six months of the Patriarch's teachings, as if subconsciously he had buried it out of fear. And now he had no answer. He bowed his head in shame.

"Lorenzo, for six months I have helped steer you towards the Path. I have seen you grow alongside your faith in the Lord, and now I feel you have become close to your goal. You are willing to accept the guidance of the Lord, and willing to forgive and respect others - your friends, your family; even strangers. But you still do not accept yourself." The Patriarch sighed, long and deep. Then he turned to face Lorenzo. "So I'm going to tell you something."

Lorenzo watched as Thephilos slowly stepped forwards, his dark form framed against the light from the window. As he neared the features on his face became clear; his dark blond hair, cropped and scruffy; his angular jaw, spattered with stubble; his azure blue eyes. There was so much emotion in those eyes, Lorenzo noticed; so many thoughts and feelings. There was happiness, excitement, serenity, affection, and even fear and doubt and shame. There was guilt there also, burning on the whites, for reasons Lorenzo could only hope never to discover. But nowhere, Lorenzo found, was there so much as one tiny spark of anger.

Gazing into the Patriarch's eyes, Lorenzo steeled himself for the words to come. Nothing could have prepared him.

"Lorenzo - I believe I killed your father."

-----------------------------------

The change was instant. His gaze unwavering, Thephilos witnessed as a rush of new emotions swept through the boy before him, transforming him. He could see - almost feel - the anger in the boy's eyes. Suddenly Lorenzo rose.

Thee be the judge now, Lord. Guide him well.

Thephilos stared at the empty chair as Lorenzo paced behind him. He knew that the boy would only be able to hold back his anger for so long, but refrained from preparing himself. If this happened to be his own day to die, then so be it.

The footsteps ceased abruptly. He did not close his eyes.

"Fight me."

The voice was laced with hatred, the words of a flaming demon. Spoken in vain. Thephilos remained calm, and still, his gaze never leaving the empty chair. He would see this to the end.

The boy stormed suddenly past the Patriarch moments later, the doors to the chapel exploding at his touch. He disappeared into the square outside, blindingly bright in the hot summer sunlight, and the world once again went silent. The scream came seconds after.

"FIGHT ME, YOU COWARD!"

This was it. Thephilos began to move, slowly, towards the waiting doors.

A small crowd had gathered in the courtyard outside, watching bemusedly the boy who now stood nearby, testing a sword in his hands. The boy stared, his eyes aflame with hatred, at the Patriarch who now approached, whose own hands now bore a sword and whose cross-adorned mantle shone in the sunlight, as the shadows of the chapel slipped from his shoulders to pool humbly at his feet. Again the pair's eyes locked.

As the demon rushed suddenly forwards, its sword swinging savagely out before it, Thephilos studied its face. But he saw no anger. There was only fear in his eyes, oceans upon oceans of desperate, ravaging fear, built up over such a terribly long time - fear that had been ripping away at him before he had buried it, but been awoken at the Patriarch's words. Lorenzo da Foggia, he knew, was beneath all that fear. The lost boy of fourteen bad years, whose life had taken too many bad turns. It was his mission to save him.

The swords arced and came together, and then swung back and clashed again. The boy was not trained in the art of swordsmanship, and so his skill was poor; but Thephilos had no intention of harming him. Their battle raged for many long minutes more, until the Patriarch saw fatigue in the boy's steps. He retreated a few steps. This was it.

All at once Thephilos let his sword hand go limp, al-Horayya slipping into a relaxed seconde. Lorenzo's blade smashed into it a moment later, and the Saracen weapon went flying. Thephilos sank to his knees. The sword tip came to his neck.

"Kill me."

There was a hint of surprise in the boy's eyes at the Patriarch's words. His shoulders seemed to relax slightly.

"I deserve it, do I not? An eye for an eye? You saw me, all those years ago, on that street in Andretta, enraged by my belief in that phrase. Three men died that day, before our eyes. Look at all the pain it caused."

Lorenzo shifted a little, and the sword point dropped to the Patriarch's chest. He looked about to cry out with frustration. Hot tears began to fall on his cheek.

Thephilos closed his eyes.

Guide him well.

There was silence.

Thephilos flinched as the sound of metal on concrete echoed back to him. His eyes flashed open. Lorenzo stood above him, the sword a few metres away; his hands limp at his side making no effort to stop the tears. Shakily, he spoke.

"Retribution is all I've lived for, since my father died. I tried so hard to bury my feelings, to stop it from controlling me, but I was too weak. I feel it fading now. I realise, that it won't help. It will not bring back my father; it will not better my life. It is passed, and I must look to the future. I realise that. To give an eye for a lost eye, you must leave an empty socket, and more suffering will be caused by it. But why, when you can forgive, and feel no pain?"

"And do you forgive?" Thephilos pressed, hopeful.

Lorenzo considered, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Yes. I killed that innocent man, and I shall forever bear the pain to show it. But I must not dwell on it, for that should cause more suffering - and the Lord did not design us to that end. I forgive. Now I must pray, that I be forgiven, and judged fairly by the Almighty."

A triumphant smile tugged at the corners of the Patriarch's mouth as the young Italian boy knelt before him, and began to pray.

-----------------------------------

The sound of hooves came as the sun began to set, and the rider appeared on the hillside. At the top of the hill, Thephilos of Jerusalem greeted the newcomer.

"How was your stay?" asked Symeon, dismounting and moving to clap his friend on the shoulder.

"Pleasant." Thephilos beamed suddenly, and clapped his protector on the shoulder, twice as hard. "I think, we might even have an addition to our two-man party. Here he comes now."

The Italian boy sprinted suddenly out of the gate tunnel, and looked frantically around the hillside. He spotted the Patriarch and his companion and a look of relief passed across his face. He jogged over.

"Master," he panted, "I was thinking..."

Thephilos laughed suddenly, and clapped the young boy lightly on the shoulder. "Yes, Lorenzo. You can come."

Joy spread over Lorenzo's face, and he bounced excitedly on his toes. All trace of the fear, Thephilos noted quietly, had subsided. Suddenly the boy frowned, and looked up, a question on his lips. "I have packed my things. But my mother..."

"I have spoken with her. She agreed that you should come with me, after seeing the incident in the courtyard." He turned to Symeon. "We'll leave immediately, I think. I have said my goodbyes. Lead your horse for a while."

The Cypriot nodded, taking the reins. Then, grasping the shoulders of his companions, Thephilos turned them all towards the base of the hill. They began to walk.

"I think we all have stories to tell tonight," he said.

On what should have been a more typical winter's day, little more than a week having passed since the Lord's new year had begun, the sun, blazing hot in the sky, shone down on the city of Barcelona and bathed it in warmth and light. The trees, though stripped of their majesty, stood unusually tall, as if grateful for the gift, and the birds dared venture from their nests with a new energy in their songs. From the rolling plains outside the city walls there came the sound of clashing metal, as two combatants lunged and parried, stamping back and forth on the hardened terrain with sweat drenching their foreheads and stinging their eyes.

The swords whirled, their blunted edges smashing together and then pulling apart, only to come together again as new opportunities opened. The younger of the two fighters, with nearly eighteen years on his shoulders, was sweating profusely, his undershirt drenched beneath his leather armour. His attacks were large and tiring, his sword sweeping huge arcs as it came in to meet its target, a feat it never did manage. The boy's master, taller and sturdier in comparison, remained composed and skilful in the face of his tiredness, his attacks coming small and swift into the gaps his student left open in his defences. The boy's sword swung in, only to be deftly repelled by a mere flick of his master's blade.

The battle raged for minutes more, exhaustion seeping into the boy's features. His arm ached, the sword becoming like lead in his grip, and he attacked all the less tactfully as the fight progressed. He watched in a mixture of fear and awe his master's face, which betrayed no emotion as the older man parried his every swing and buffeted him with small, quick blows in between. Eventually, the sweat making his eyes water and his sword arm about ready to drop off, he gave in. As his master prepared to disarm him he dropped his sword, sinking to the ground and raising his arms painfully in defeat.

"Vinci!" he gasped. You win.

The older man's face betrayed no joy for his victory as he lowered his sword and came over to sit by his student in the grass. He laid down the blunted weapon and turned, and then waited for the younger boy to catch his breath before speaking.

"What did you do wrong?"

The boy, his breaths still coming short and fast, met his master's gaze with an anguished expression.

"I... tired myself..." he breathed.

"How?"

"My attacks... too big. I didn't wait to look for your openings."

The young boy sighed and shook his head, the disappointment showing on his face. It was then that his master displayed some emotion, a smile cracking over his lips. He patted his student on the shoulders.

"You are not... disappointed?" the boy asked, though he already knew the man's answer. Two and a half years in his service had taught him that this man was almost impossible to displease. Often it had become quite frustrating.

"Lorenzo, you know I'm not." He picked up his sword from the grass and laid it on his lap, absently tracing the blunted edges with a finger. "You recognise your mistakes, and so it will only be a matter of time before you get past them. You must learn not to simply opt for the most obvious-looking options, as looks can be deceiving. Make your attacks smaller, more subtle. Less obvious."

Lorenzo nodded. Still aching from the fight, he lay back on the grass and looked up at where two birds were circling each other, high above.

Satisfied, his master rose silently and moved over to the horses, grazing in the shade of a tall tree nearby. He picked up the blunted swords on the way, and once there slid them into the leather sheaths hung from the saddle of his horse, near to where his own sword hung. For a moment he stood there and admired the weapon's hilt. It was carved out of polished bone, of which animal he did not know, and wrapped in unmarked leather, which had been ridged for better grip. The sword, called al-Horayya (Freedom) by its Saracen maker, had served its master for over four years now, and rarely had it lost him a fight.

The master moved away, to the other side of his horse's saddle, where a leather canteen hung amongst the saddlebags. He weighed it in his hands to see how much water remained and, satisfied, took a long gulp of the cold, clear liquid, relaxing as it mercifully wet his parched mouth and slaked his thirst. When he was done he returned the canteen, now much lighter, and leant against the nearby tree, relishing the coolness of the shade.

Though a hot day such as this, especially in the cruel depths of winter, would cheer up a more simple man, such as a farmer or a merchant, it did little to boost the mood of a Templar knight. Bound by certain rules, a Templar was obliged to keep on his armour throughout the day, regardless of the weather, and always have his mantle upon his shoulders, even during the sleeping hours. Thus, he often found himself sweating, smelling, and with his head spinning in the heat. Sometimes winter seemed like a blessing.

The shade of the tree relieved such a knight somewhat for a few moments, but the relief was short-lived. For their suddenly came the sound of shouting, and a sharp cry of pain, further out on the plain.

The Templar jolted into action.

He jogged over to his horse and quickly untied the saddlebags, until only his sword and the blunted practice swords remained. He then launched himself into the saddle and kicked his steed sharply in the side, spurring him in the direction of the sound.

The horse started at a canter towards what seemed to be the end of the immediate grassland, where the earth started down in a steep slope towards the plain below and the horizon beyond. At the head of the slope the Templar stopped his steed and surveyed the grassland below. It took only a moment to locate the source of the cries: about sixty feet from the bottom of the slope a fight was ensuing, two burly men against one smaller man; more an ambush, in the eyes of the Templar. He briefly examined the grassy slope, and then once again spurred his horse into action.

This time they galloped.

Straight down the slope they rode, at full tilt, the Templar bent purposefully over the pommel of the saddle with the reigns in hand. His cloak billowed behind him and his surcoat rippled over his clinking armour, the large red cross on his chest billowing terrifyingly. In a matter of moments they had reached the bottom of the slope and now they rode menacingly fast towards the squabble before them.

-----------------------------------

The two men turned at the sound of hooves. Only thirty feet away, a blurry mix of horse and man was galloping towards them. At ten feet they saw the red cross on his chest, and the sword in his hand. They began to panic.

-----------------------------------

At ten feet the Templar reached back, his hand hovering over his sword. Then it passed over it, and he drew one of the blunted swords from further back. He did not slow his horse.

The men soon realised that the horse would not be able to stop, and the Templar caught their astonished expressions as he thundered straight past them and came to a slowing stop nearby. Then, his blunt sword in hand, he calmly dismounted and strode over to where the three men now stood gaping, in confused awe. He smiled cheerfully at them as he came and stood in front of them.

The two men were large and burly; shorter than the Templar, but much more broad-shouldered. Evidently, they were brothers. The other man, cowering behind, was no doubt a man of the cloth, dressed in the simple garb of a common priest and clutching the small silver cross at his neck. Nothing on him was of any worth, though the cross did look like it was worth at least a few coins. Apparently these robbers weren't terribly bright.

The Templar lowered his sword to his side and addressed the two men. "Greetings, my friends!" he said in fluent Spanish, a tongue taught to him by his mother, a native of these parts, "a fine day, no?"

The robbers nodded bemusedly.

Still smiling cheerfully, the Templar motioned vaguely at the three before him. "Carry on."

The priest, still clutching his cross, stared at his supposed rescuer in amazement. But the robbers' expressions, a mixture of fear, confusion and awe, were utterly priceless. Slowly, nervously, they turned back to the priest.

A moment later, one fell, and then the other, at a blow from the pommel of the blunt sword. The Templar stepped carefully over the bodies and stooped to help the priest to his feet, the man's expression laughable. The Templar did laugh.

"They won't feel so good about themselves in the morning, I assure you," he told the priest, who had let go of the silver cross. He looked at their limp forms, and winced. "Bit unorthodox, I admit." He sniffed. "But they needed a good lesson."

The priest then spoke, his voice shaky and uncertain. "Master Templar, you have done me a great kindness. I regret I have nothing worthy to give you as a reward, but, please, request anything. If it is in my power, it shall be granted to you."

The Templar smiled again, and looked pensive for a moment. "I think..." he began, "that my horse here needs a name." He gestured to his horse, who had taken to grazing nearby. He had bought the young charger three days ago, already trained and disciplined well, from a stable master called Federico within the city. After the death of his old nag, Saphir, he had wanted to find a younger, more commanding steed. And having bought this charger from a Spanish city, the very capital of Spain, no less, he had wanted and struggled to give him a fitting Spanish name. He told this to the priest, who nodded, he himself looking pensive.

A minute passed in silence before the priest's face brightened up, and he spoke quickly and excitedly.

"Master Templar, I believe I have found just the name for a companion such as yours. No doubt he will be as much of a protector of faithful as you yourself are in his coming years, and so I believe that the name Custodio befits his duty. If you agree, of course," he added, bowing his head humbly.

"Custodio..." said the Templar, as if testing the word. He grinned then and clasped the priest on the shoulder, making the small man jump. "It's brilliant. Thank you."

The priest smiled weakly and watched as his rescuer turned and regarded the robbers' limp bodies in the grass nearby. The man seemed to think for a moment, before kneeling and positioning the bodies.
"So, my friend," the Templar said as he worked, "have you ever been to Jerusalem?"

"No, unfortunately. Though I have often thought of making a pilgrimage there." He paused. "Assuming that you have, Sir Knight, may I ask if it is how the legends say?"

The Templar chuckled. "No streets of gold or glittering towers, I'm afraid. But yes, it is certainly the most holy place on this Earth. To walk the Via Dolorosa in the footsteps of Our Lord... truly, it is magnificent." He rose suddenly and walked to his horse, pulling out two short chords of rope from under the saddle before returning to the bodies. Seemingly absently, he then said, "Would you like to go soon, before age withers you? No offense intended, indeed, but we all age differently."

The priest did not need to think before he answered. "Most certainly. Of course, yes, I would. But I fear that my lack of coin might hinder me, and cast me to the streets. I fear then I would not be able to survive."

"Only that holds you back?" asked the Templar, moving on to bind the second of the two men's wrists. "That is no reason to be held back from experiencing the Holy City, especially if your health is in good order, as yours is. So here is what you must do. Go to Jerusalem, the Holy City, and seek out the palace of the patriarch on your very first night. You should be taken to the steward of the palace. Tell him you are the guest of the patriarch himself, and he should give you quarters."

The Templar finished the bonds with a sharp tug and walked back over to his horse, not seeing the confused expression on the priest's face. Calmly he mounted, and walked Custodio over. He reached down to shake the priest's hand.

"My friend, I haven't asked. What would be your name?"

The priest looked up with a sudden unease, realisation dawning on his face. "Ju- My name is Juan de Capolat, pastor of the Church of Sant Serni de la Torre." Shakily, he then asked, "And what might yours be, Sir Knight?"

The Templar smiled warmly down at him, his gaze strong and unwavering. "I am Guillaume de Périgord and Thephilos of Jerusalem. Otherwise known as Patriarch of Jerusalem. Or, simply, the Defender of Zion."

And with that he spurred his horse, riding off up the slope to the city, the priest of Capolat left shaking in his wake.

-----------------------------------

"Come, Lorenzo. We must leave."

Guillaume shook the boy awake before going off to tend to the horses. They would need to slake their thirst before the long ride ahead.

After a few moments Lorenzo stumbled over, ruffling his raven black hair and wiping his face on his sleeve, covered in sweat. "How long was I asleep?" he asked, taking his surcoat and mantle from the saddle of his nag and pulling them on. The end result was a fully-clad sergeant-brother of the Knights Templar Order, taken under the tutelage of the Commander of Polis.

"Long enough."

Lorenzo would miss the sun the Spaniards so luckily enjoyed. He had marvelled that morning at how God must love them, giving them such weather in the very midst of winter. A story he would have to tell his mother, who right now would be enjoying the icy rain and biting winds of Florence in the tiny village of Rapale. And how soon that would be.

A visit home, though mainly just a setback to his greater adventures, might be pleasant after two and a half years in the sole company of Templar knights. Who knew where God's plans would take him and his master then, whether back to the lands of Spain or some other land.

That was the future, and it looked promising.

Crouched behind a wall of shields, each and every one bearing the large red cross of the Order of Solomon's Temple, Guillaume was remembering why he so hated war. On the half of the field on which the Christians held their ground the air was light and cheerful, despite the paleness of the day, as the battle clearly held in their favour. Where the pagans stood opposite them, however, the air was rent with screams and howls as many arrows found their mark. Guillaume, trying vainly to ignore the sounds of pain, turned his head away from the battlefield to seek comfort in the eyes of his protector.

Symeon had grown by at least foot since Guillaume had sent him away. During his recent time in the Holy Land, the young Cypriot had seen fit to grow a short beard, and his hair had lengthened quite considerably when Guillaume met him in Italy. One look from the Templar had suggested to Symeon that this extra hair was not entirely befitting, and so he had reduced it to a length just slightly longer than his old one, and left a speckled stubble in the place of his beard. The end result was a man whom Guillaume barely recognised as the young boy he had sent on an errand only half a year before. His gentle gaze, however, a gaze that betrayed only flickers of feeling, had not changed at all.

Seeing the pain in his master's eyes as he looked back at him, Symeon let a soft smile curl his lips in assurance. His master's features softened, although a moment later his face distorted in something Symeon immediately recognised as actual pain. Guillaume fell slowly forwards, to reveal the arrow shaft protruding from his left shoulder. Symeon sprang forwards, a slight panic rising.

The arrow had gone all the way through the knight's chain mail, though only half of its cold iron head had pierced his skin. Blood rimmed the hole which it had bore, but Symeon guessed that it had done no serious damage, and that the wound would be quick to heal. He pulled the arrow out with bated breath. Guillaume cried out sharply as the arrow pulled free, and rolled painfully onto his back, blinking in the white of the sky. Symeon exhaled deeply, relieved.

"Close one?" asked Guillaume, shifting his gaze to his protector knelt at his side. Wincing, he sat up.

"In the shoulder," said Symeon. "No harm done."

The Templar nodded, then seemed to think for a moment. "The arrows have stopped."

The arrows had indeed stopped. Before, wave upon wave of arrow clouds had rained down on the Christian half of the battlefield, just as iron in equal measure had been thrown back at the opposing pagans. All the while skirmishes had been waged on the battlefield proper and to the flanks of the two armies, which in the earlier stages Guillaume too had taken part in. Both the arrow storms and the skirmishes had now stopped. Now it was time for God to decide, in the final stage of the battle.

The call of the Templar Marshal came suddenly, ringing in the ears of the Christians. Cavalry, prepare to charge. Without hesitation, eleven Templar Knights, along with protectors, squires and honoured sergeants, picked up their shields and went to mount their steeds. Guillaume found Custodio fully armoured amongst the small sea of horses and swept himself deftly into the saddle while his protector did the same with his nag nearby.

Within minutes, the cavalry was ready.

The bulk of the Christian force was Templars. They formed the front line and the central column of the army atop their powerful steeds, looking proudly to the confanonier and the Beauseant at their head. The flanks of the Christian army consisted of the Spanish, their red and yellow pennants snapping in the chill breeze. It was a small force, smaller in size than the Irish one that opposed them, but certainly a reckonable threat.

A mile away, across the field, the pagans suddenly cheered. They, too, were being rallied. A long second of silence then passed, before the thundering of hooves began to sound across the plain as the Irish knights charged.

The Christians needed no more encouragement. The voice of the Seneschal echoed back along the ranks, and suddenly all the Templars were intoning with him. The Spanish flanks started to move out. Then the time came. Guillaume slammed his heels into Custodio's sides as the Templars began their charge, and suddenly the entire Christian force was riding at full speed towards the pagans and their victory.

Deus vult, thought Guillaume as he rode amongst his brothers.

Deus vult.

-----------------------------------

Sword and spear smashed together as the last of the pagans refused defeat. Guillaume parried the weapon deftly, though the exhaustion from the battle was beginning to show, becoming more and more obvious with each manoeuvre. He deflected three more blows as the Irishman jabbed desperately at him, before he found to his dismay his body refusing to continue. The spear came in hard. Al-Horayya spun from Guillaume's blistered palms, and a slightly surprised look crossed the pagan's face as he found his attack not repelled. The look turned to triumph as his spear struck.

Through the tears of pain that came automatically when the cold, cruel iron sliced into his side, Guillaume saw a vague form appear behind his opponent, and then another. Within a moment the pagan lay still on the ground. Then Symeon was there, too, and many others who bore the red cross on their chests. As the pain overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees, the darkness edging in around him, he knew that God had favoured them and that the battle had been won.

On the southern edge of the pagan shire of Touraine, stretching out from the Château de Chaumont for a quarter-mile in every direction, lay the camp of the Christian army. For over a month it had marched, since its glorious victory on the plains outside Saint-Vaize, through the Spanish region of Marche-Limousin until it reached the borders of Touraine. And there it stopped.

The battle in Guyenne had done little to lower the spirits of the men, though the reports the spies now brought back were becoming worrying. The region was flooded with pagan militia, for one. Every village for miles around bore the Irish crest, emblazoned on the tunics of well-trained, well-armed soldiers. What was more, the pagans now had reinforcements. The Christians had tracked the beaten army to the region of Touraine, but what they found were two armies, both of which, incidentally, were going by the same name. The combined force had settled in the north of the shire, near the city of Tours itself, waiting for the Christians to move in.

The Christians were outnumbered; the tide of war had turned.

-----------------------------------

Guillaume had not let the darkness take him. It must have been God who had granted him the strength to resist, who had pushed images into his head. Visions of his most cherished entities, most beloved memories played out before his eyes. He looked down into a crib, into the youthful eyes of his daughter for the very first time, and she stared back up at him lovingly. Her name fell easily from his lips, and then he was standing upon the roof of the holiest of churches, his own words sounding powerful in his head even as the world blurred and changed around him. He spoke his own name, a God-given name, and as he knelt to pray he found himself sprinting across a lush green plain, a plain he had run across so many times before. Périgord, his beloved childhood haven, from which he had taken his worldly name, was spread out before him, and a youthful sensation burned in his chest, pulsing through his body with every pounding heartbeat. And then the blue sky turned to white, and he found himself blinking up at his protector, drinking in the worry in his dearest friend's gaze.

Slowly, painfully, Guillaume had been led from the body-strewn battlefield.

For the next two weeks he and Symeon had rode amongst their Christian brothers up into new lands, which to Guillaume seemed vaguely familiar. On the back of Custodio most of his wounds had seemed to heal, though in the Templar's hazy state of mind he could not tell whether they actually had healed, or were being replaced by the pain of new bruises. The pain in his side from the last, near-fatal wound, however, had never once faded. With every small mound and burrow that Custodio had cantered over, it had seared anew with pain. Guillaume had found himself wishing that Zacharias was with him, knowing how strangely familiar his friend was with curious Eastern medicines. Eventually, though, the pain in his side dulled, and the perpetual expression of agony on the Templar's face subsided into his usual pensive grimace as he surveyed the surrounding countryside.

The arduous journey soon ended. As the Château de Chaumont rose up before the Christian army in the half-light of a chill winter's evening, almost a month into its march, the word went around in tired whispers that this would be their camp. And that meant one thing. The pagans had also stopped their march. Now another battle was imminent.

Some might have thought that such an important campaign, a God-given one, no less, could be postponed until the spring when the world would be warmer. This was what Guillaume thought, as he pulled the rough blanket tighter around his shoulders. He shifted his hands across the small table towards the short candle tasked with illuminating his tent, finding little comfort in the warmth on his numbed skin. He stared at the sheaf of parchment which lay blank on the wood before him, and the ink-dipped quill which lay next to it. As his mind came slowly back into focus, he leant over the table and began to write.

When he stopped and laid the quill down, the candle was his only source of light left. The sun had dipped low in the pale sky and vanished, leaving the world in a veil of darkness - and a further layer of cold, much to the dismay of the Christian soldiers. Guillaume pulled the blanket back up around his shoulders from where it had slipped down to his waist. No longer oblivious to the world, he once again felt the biting chill of the winter's night.

The Templar sat there for many long minutes more, staring at the three letters that now covered his small desk. Absently he fingered the scar on his thigh, reliving as he did so the fight that engraved it there. He shuddered as the cold iron came in, again and again.

Then Symeon's voice broke the silence, and shattered the Templar's reverie. He was calmly and diligently explaining to someone that his master was probably sleeping, and that he was not to be disturbed. Guillaume smiled at his protector's efforts. The young Cypriot had taken it upon himself to always guard the entrance to his master's tent, despite Guillaume's protests, having guiltily admitted that he had nearly failed after an assassination attempt in the Holy Land, an event he now awkwardly referred to as 'the incident at Rafiah'. The Templar knew how much that had affected him, and tried not to talk of it too much, instead admiring his protector's honesty and courage. After all, he would be dead many times over were it not for his young friend.

Symeon tried to explain to the visitor for a minute longer in hushed whispers, before the visitor purposefully raised his voice. That voice made Guillaume bolt upright.

Surely, it can't be? he thought, awe and excitement building inside him. Suddenly he remembered the face of a young boy, no more than seven years old, complete with wavy dark hair and freckled cheeks, and a huge, indestructible grin. He saw a dark night with a roaring campfire, and hundreds of tiny fireflies drawing spirals in the air as they darted in and out of the spiralling smoke. The nostalgia made him dizzy.

He rose slowly from his chair and stepped furtively towards the entrance, as if someone had come knocking in the dead of night. He opened his mouth to speak, but what came out what barely more than a shaky whisper.

"Foulques?"

The tent flaps were pulled back. The man who then stepped through into the tent was tall and of slim build. Half-illuminated by the candlelight, Guillaume saw that the freckles were long gone, replaced, perhaps, by a short and straggly beard; and though the shock of curly dark hair remained, it was tidier and better kept. The mans eyes still bore that same youthfulness the Templar remembered so well. Back in the days of carelessness, when the disputes of grown men seemed so pointless and far-off, when he would ride out with his father across the estates of Marsonne and sprint so fast across the plains of Périgord while his mother picked fruit from the trees; the young Guillaume would almost thrive on that look of sheer excitement and joy, and let himself be caught up in whatever had caused it to appear. It almost felt as if nothing at all had changed, as for the first time in over fifteen years he found himself looking once again into that face full of hope, and of happiness.

But so much had changed. That fact was hard to ignore.

The two men stood staring at each other for a long moment, before they ran together and embraced. Guillaume bit back the pain in his side as his friend thundered into him, and nearly pulled him off his feet. For a further long moment they stood there together, before they pulled apart. Then, speechlessly, Guillaume gestured to a low straw couch in the corner of his tent and went over to make a drink for his old friend. Soon they were idling lazily on the rough straw, each with a goblet of wine resting on one knee. A long silence ensued, as neither man knew exactly what to say. Finally, Guillaume spoke.

"So what brings you here, of all places?"

Foulques smiled, sipping his wine. "A certain red cross. Bit hard to miss, actually. I heard you'd joined the Order and I couldn't resist coming to find you."

Guillaume nodded. "That was, what, seventeen years ago? Two years after you left for England? That I joined the Order, that is."

"Yes, I believe so."

There was a pause.

"So, what was England like?"

Guillaume's old friend grinned his widest of grins, filling the Templar with a familiar warmth.

"Nothing like France."

That was all he said, before he took a long swig of his wine and launched into a very detailed account of his most exciting adventures in England. Guillaume studied his old friend as he talked on for an hour or two, the time slipping quietly past. He was quietly amazed at how a person so full of vibrancy could have changed so little, have dulled so little. Surely, there must have been a catch, something he was hiding behind this ever-boisterous outer layer. But then he realised that this did not have to be the case, and berated himself for being so paranoid, so old. He realised that this was one of those chances that only God in His wisdom could give him, a chance to be truly happy. Now, in the calm before a storm that could so easily end his life, he decided he needed to live a little; to embrace this chance.

And so, when his beloved kinsman had finished his tale, and despite the lateness of the hour, Guillaume himself launched into the tale of his own life, both before and after that time he had stood on the hill by the sea and watched his friend's ship sail off to a foreign land. He talked of his father's departure from the family home and his mother's subsequent descent into perpetual silence, and of how, six years after, he had travelled with a man called Bouchard to the eastern lands of the Order and joined its ranks as a sergeant, just eleven years of age. He told of how he led an army into Syria on his first mission as a fully-fledged Templar Knight, and how soon after he had marched on Cyprus and risen to the esteemed rank of Commander. Soon he was also recounting his journey to the holy city of Constantinople and his acceptance as the Bishop of Cyprus, and, not longer after, the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Slightly drunk by this point, he called in Symeon to help him recount the events in the Holy Land following the Temple's campaign against the warrior pope, and how their company then travelled to Italy with Guillaume's new daughter, Eloïse, and what subsequently occurred there. Finally he spoke of the conflict between the Russians and the Byzantines, the initiation of his sergeant, Lorenzo, into the Order and the Order's sending of aid to the Spanish, and the Christian victory outside Saint-Vaize.

There was a long silence as Guillaume finished his story, just hours after he had started, and as he and his visitor drained the last of the wine. By now he could barely keep his head from lolling sideways, and through his blurred vision he found himself wanting to laugh and cheer. Never had he been so drunk. His visitor, however, clearly had.

Foulques appeared to already be laughing and cheering. And soon, Guillaume, too, was caught up in it. He turned and stood, wobbling momentarily on his feet. And then he saw it.

Another cask of wine, covered by a blanket in the very depths of his tent.

-----------------------------------

The first thing Guillaume noticed when he woke, besides the clashing of hammer on anvil in his head, was the cold. It bit at him through his blanket, making his bones ache and his skin crawl, as if a witch or a hag or Satan himself were lying next to him. He could tell he was in his tent because there was no wind, though how he had ended up back there he did not know. Images of him parading through the Christian encampment in the dead of night flashed before his eyes. He groaned. A patriarch, a man of God, drunk and so openly showing it?

He once again wondered how he had ended up back in his tent, and, more curiously, on his pallet, with his blanket pulled over him. Then he heard Symeon's voice nearby, and smiled into his pillow. Groggily, he raised his head.

Foulques was sprawled out on the straw couch, snoring noisily. Symeon was stood by the entrance to the tent, talking quietly with some unknown person outside. Seeing his master awake, he bade the man goodbye and came over, clutching what appeared to be a letter in his hands.

"How are you feeling?" His voice, though soft, roared in Guillaume's head.

The Templar pulled his hand out from beneath his chest and held up his thumb. Symeon smiled and continued.

"This, is a letter from Lorenzo in Italy. I haven't opened it. Oh, and I sent off those letters you wrote last night, after I salvaged them from the... mess... your friend made." He gestured to the table, which Guillaume saw was upturned. Slowly, the Templar nodded.

"What's the situation?" he said as he sat up on his pallet, nodding in the direction of the tent entrance.

Symeon shrugged. "Let's find out?"

Twenty minutes later, having changed his undershirt and breeches and donned his surcoat and mantle, Guillaume was picking his way through the Christian encampment with his protector at his side. Being careful not to trip on the web of taut guy ropes spanning the spaces between the tents, they made it, eventually, to the front of the encampment, where the tents gave way to a yellow-green plain which rolled into the distance. Several Templars stood at the makeshift barricade that protected the Christians from the plain. Guillaume walked over.

"My brothers," he said in Latin, as they clearly were not French, Spanish or Greek. "What news?"

The Templars turned and one, a large man from a Northern country, replied, grave-faced. His words added a chill to the air that not even the natural cold could block out.

"Our scouts say that the pagans are moving. South, towards us here. They will be upon us by nightfall."

Ne iudicet moribus suis in terra; sed iudicet integritate cordis sui. Et requiescat in pace, in saecula.

Let him not be judged by his mortal ways, but by the purity of his heart. And may he rest in peace, forever.


Guillaume crossed himself and rose from the body. He had closed the man's eyes and cleaned his wounds, and laid his arms across his chest and his hands on the pommel of his sword, which marked the place where his heart had once beaten. Then he had prayed in God's holy language for the poor man's soul. He knew not whether this man was a Christian, defined as he was only by the Irish insignia upon his chest. But for him, and most of the other lifeless pagans that now littered the blood-stained battlefield, Guillaume had sought God's fair judgement just as he would have for a Christian, and hoped that they might find redemption in the arms of the Lord.

Now they would see the truth about the one they so easily denied, after all.

The final battle had been won. The courage of the Christians had wavered at first, as the green banners of the pagans had appeared in the distance. It had been like watching a forest grow, the trees moving inexorably towards them. And then, at last, on that chill winter's evening, the battlefield was set.

The Christians had dispensed with complex tactics, and chosen to ride as a single wide column with God's brute might as their strength. On one half there were the Spaniards. It had been a different force from the battle at Guyenne, though its prowess was by far greater. The Templars made up the other half of the column, resplendent in their blazing white mantles with their fiery blood-red crosses. At their head sat the Marshal and the Seneschal of the Order, both atop jet-black chargers. And beside them sat a man who instilled hope and faith in them all, a man renowned for his wise leadership and fearsome courage. With the Spaniards was the King of Spain.

At the head of the force two banners snapped in the breeze, one red and gold and the other black and white. And then the leaders drew their weapons and made their words ring in the heads of the men, and echo on the wind, and then the Christians were charging to their fates once more.

The battle was long and exhausting. It raged as the sun set on Touraine and as the snow began to fall, and then on into the early hours of the morning. By dawn God had decided.

As the Christians had looked out across the plain while the sun began to rise on the horizon, they saw that the forest had fallen. Everywhere the green insignia was littered. The survivors of the pagan army were being rounded up and prepared for the journey back to Tours, where they would be imprisoned in the city donjon. The air on the plain, though chill, was afire with the pride of the Christians' victory.

Guillaume felt that fire, but did not share in it. After Prime he had wandered the Christian ranks searching for a cleric to aid him in his task, but had found none. And so he had walked out alone onto the plain, now almost devoid of Christians, and begun. He remained pensive as he worked, rejecting the glory he knew he wanted to feel. This task was God-given, and God would not want him distracted.

And so the Templar Patriarch of Jerusalem worked on through the day, pausing only to acknowledge the Hours of Terce, Sext and None, preparing the pagans for their meeting with the Almighty.

Guillaume stepped away from the body and looked up, searching for the next one. It lay nearly ten feet from where he stood. As he started towards it he noticed a something oddly familiar about the position in which the soldier lay. He was curled up, twisted inward as if someone had punched him in the stomach. A sword tip glinted from where it protruded from his back. It was then that Guillaume realised.

He had killed the man.

-----------------------------------

The forest had teeth. All around, the figures in green were whirling, their weapons flashing and spinning. On occasion a tree fell, felled by a sword-stroke or an axe-swing from one of God's warriors. But it was almost as if God Himself was willing new trees to grow, as no seeds were planted before new teeth came to the fray.

In the very midst of the fighting, a Saracen sword spun and stabbed as its master fought for his life. Guillaume's vision was limited by his helmet, his only eye-holes two angry thin slits in the front of the fearsome steel mask. He longed to be free of the metal prison as he spun and parried, but the opportunity never came. So, through his exhaustion, and with his limited vision, he fought on.

Suddenly, a pagan appeared in front of him. Guillaume flinched as the axe came in, and felt the shock as it connected with his chainmail but did not go through. Then the pagan had kicked him to the floor and was bearing down on him.

Guillaume rolled away from the axe-swing. The blunt iron thudded into the earth.

Though the Templar could not see his attacker, he quickly guessed at where the axe had fallen and swung out with his sword. A moment later, there was a cry of pain. Guillaume did not wait. He reached up and ripped off his helmet, and then rolled back onto his feet, holding al-Horayya out before him.

He had caught the pagan on the thigh. The helmet-clad man, a member of the Irish elite militia, stumbled back as he saw his opponent rise, one hand clutched to his leg. His eyes were now filled with doubt and fear.

Guillaume raised his sword, and slashed downward. With a look of agony the militiaman pulled his hand from his wound and gripped his axe with both hands, just managing to raise it as the Saracen blade cut towards him. But he was too slow.

Al-Horayya glanced briefly off the axe shaft and flicked down below the line of the parry. Not waiting for a counter-parry, Guillaume then lunged forwards. A look of complete surprise crossed the militiaman's face as the Templar lunged, running him through.

It never left him as he sank to the earth, and died.

-----------------------------------

Guillaume gazed into the cold, dead eyes of the pagan, feeling the guilt and regret as he immersed himself in the man's look of fear and surprise. These feelings were too familiar to him, it seemed, for now he had learnt to embrace and accept them. It still pained him, to know he had killed. But lately God's plan had driven him down the same path many times, and he was beginning to grow accustomed to the feelings. He found he could live with himself.

Bending down, Guillaume prepared the body as he had done the others. He closed the man's eyes and rolled him onto his back, pausing to draw his sword carefully from the man's chest. He then crossed the man's arms and laid his hands over the shaft of his axe, and then knelt and bowed his head. It took him a moment to find the right words.

QUOTE:
Lord, forgive me my sins. I beseech Thee also; wipe clean my blade, so that I may use it again for the doing of Thy Will. And as I have asked so many times this day, for all the men laid upon this ground that have both loved Thee and denied Thee; forgive this man of all his wrongdoings, and judge him not by his ways but by the mission of his heart. And if Thou hast also the love to do so, Lord, protect and guide his soul in Thy Kingdom for all eternity, I beseech Thee. Thank You, Lord. Amen.

He kept his eyes shut tight for a long moment more. Then, satisfied, he rose. He picked up his sword and sheathed it, and went over to retrieve his helmet, putting it under his arm. Then he looked around for the next body.

-----------------------------------

An hour later, only a short while before Vespers, Guillaume rose from the last body. The sun was once again low in the sky, and the closing of the day reminded the Templar of his day's work. He had seen many faces today. He would remember them all.

Someone called his name.

Guillaume looked out across the plain to where a figure was coming towards him and in a second recognised the man. It was Foulques de Pons, his oldest friend, and his close comrade in the latest trial of his life. He smiled.

Then, decisively, he turned to a nearby Templar sergeant, who had been tasked with searching the bodies of the pagans. He caught the young man's eye and ushered him over.

"You are to gather up your fellow sergeants immediately," he said, a sternness in his voice. "Tell them that it is God's wish that all these men be buried, here tonight."

The sergeant frowned. "What of our other orders?"

"They are not to be forgotten. Search the bodies as you dig their graves. And do not make the graves shallow. You are to work until every man on this field is at least three foot under. Go until dawn if you have to, though do not forget the Hours. I will send a knight-brother to help you when I get back to our camp."

The sergeant nodded grimly, ungrateful for the extra work. Nonetheless, he would obey without question. He turned to walk away.

Guillaume called after him. "This is God's Will, sergeant. They may not have loved him as we do, but they deserve no less than us in death. Remember that."

The sergeant nodded again and jogged off.

Guillaume turned back to the figure in the distance, and then looked back across the plain and the sun on the horizon. The armour of the fallen glinted, affording the wearers one last moment of glory. The Templar smiled sadly.

"Et requiescant in pace, in saecula," he murmured, before he turned once more and walked away.

Guillaume drew his sword and turned to face his invisible opponent. He stood and thought for a moment, testing his weapon's weight in his hands. And then he lunged, feinting towards the right hip. At the last second he swung upwards, smashing a quillon into his opponent's armoured chin. He then stepped swiftly back, swept low with al-Horayya, and lunged once again, running his opponent through.

The Templar quickly regained his composure, sheathing al-Horayya with a stab. He then regarded his metal-clad hands, nodded, and slipped off the gauntlets. He turned to place them atop the rest of his armour, piled neatly on a crate to the side of the small tent.

"A gift, you say?" he asked quietly. He knew what that meant.

"Yes," said Foulques from the tent entrance, "a gift."

There was a long silence as Guillaume came over and seated himself on a crate full of supplies. He looked up at his friend, searching his expression.

"So where will you go?"

If the Frenchman was surprised at the Templar's perception of the situation, he did not show it. Instead he moved back into the tent, chose a crate, and dragged it back to the entrance. He sat down, and met Guillaume's gaze.

"I'm not quite sure yet. But I have fought by your side against my own kinsmen, and that does not lie easily on my shoulders. I have to leave, before I cause more pain than I can bear."

Guillaume nodded knowingly. "I understand you, my friend. I feel the same, even now. Were it not my duty to God, if not to fight than to uphold honour in these good lands, I would probably do the same as you."

Foulques grinned. "Ever the lost one, weren't you?"

"My brother tells me the same thing."

There was a moment of silence, before the two friends burst out laughing. And as they laughed, the joy that had been born at their meeting, a brilliant, youthful joy, came back to them and filled them, and with it came the despair that they would yet again part ways. The two wanderers had been joined again by God's will, perhaps to reawaken this buried emotion, only to be separated by Him. A lesson as much as a gift had been granted to them by that reunion. One they would never forget.

But silently, in their minds, the two friends vowed that they would never let that joy be buried. Guillaume especially, who had rarely let a soul get so deep in his life. It was unbound by God's law, that all things born must die, and so they vowed never to let it fade into nothingness. That was the promise they made to themselves, to each other and to God, as they sat there laughing that early summer's day.

When the laughter faded, Guillaume felt like a changed man. There was a new purpose in his life, one that could only die with him. Suddenly the warmth that had filled the tent seemed less of an unearned pleasure, and he basked in it. The brief silence that drifted over the tent was not uncomfortable, but contenting, as if words were no longer needed between the oldest of friends.

"So when will you be leaving?" The words were not laced with anxiety or sadness, but acceptance and contentment.

"At dawn, tomorrow. I will head south at first, perhaps towards Marsonne."

Guillaume nodded, a thought occurring to him. "If that is the case..." he said. He rose from his seat and moved back into the tent, searching around in the shadows. When he found what he was looking for he returned to his crate and seated himself. He then held out his hand to Foulques. Nestled in his palm was a small wooden cross, crudely carved out of the bark of an oak. Foulques raised an eyebrow, and took the small charm.

"It was Eloïse's mother's. It was the only thing she had when the hunters found her."

Foulques studied the cross, then looked up at Guillaume. "I will give it to her. Do you think she will understand, though?"

"Luc tells me that she was quite intelligent for a five-year-old. Besides, it was her sixth birthday little over a week ago. Whether she understands or not, it is my gift to her."

Foulques smiled and pocketed the wooden cross. "I will make sure she gets it, my friend."

On an impulse the two friends rose and embraced, the connection between them becoming almost physical by that simple act. It did not fade as they pulled away from each other.

"So, my friend," said Foulques, smiling. "We have one last evening."

Guillaume also smiled. "Much of this region is grassland, I believe. We could take horses."

Foulques' smile turned into a grin. He slammed an arm around Guillaume's shoulders. "How good do you reckon your Templar friends are at riding?" he asked, as the pair then walked from the tent.

-----------------------------------

Guillaume had always thought, albeit a little jokingly, that life could only take away the things that mattered, and was full of sad departures. Sure enough, he had once before seen his best friend leave, while he stood on the beach watching. He had watched his own father depart from the family home, and endured the pain of never again seeing or hearing from him. Then there was his own departure. He had walked out on his youth, his old life, with a tired old traveller at his side, to pursue a new life of his own, with a red cross upon his chest. He could have regretted that decision, were it not for the sense of purpose it eventually gave him.

But there would be no more sad departures. No more regrets. As his oldest friend once again departed, he would not be standing alone atop the forlorn rock on the beach. Because he could see now. He would never be alone. He had Symeon, his protector, and Lorenzo, his sergeant. He had a brother and three nephews, and a beautiful young daughter. He had Zacharias and the Archbishop, and Stephanos in Polis. He had a mother, and maybe, somewhere, a father. He had hundreds of Templar brothers. And he would always have God.

And then there was Foulques before him, and he realised that this was not the end. His oldest, dearest friend would not be gone from his life forever. They would meet again, and that would be a joyful day.

The Templar and the wanderer embraced affectionately, their intertwined shadows thrown far down the hillside by the waking sun. After a long moment they pulled apart, and shared a few quiet words. Then Foulques turned and began down the hillside, south towards home.

Guillaume watched him go. The single tear so characteristic of the old him threatened to fall, to stain his cheek, and he struggled to hold it back. But then Symeon was at his side, and he was no longer alone atop the hill. The tear never fell.

He would be seeing his friend again, after all.

Tuesday 17th June 1029


Deep in the Italian countryside, a few miles west of the town of Ferrara, there lay a derelict hamlet. It had been that way for a century or so; abandoned by its former occupants before civilisation had ever touched upon the region. It had not seen life for decades, becoming forlorn and desolate in the wilderness: until that night. It was nearing the day of the summer solstice, though the darkness told of the lateness of the hour. At the heart of the hamlet burned a small campfire, and around it sat eight grown men. Seven of them bore a red cross upon their chests.

For a long while the men said nothing; the only sound was the crackle of the fire. The man who did not belong among his fellows occasionally looked around, squinting up at the half-existent stone buildings and into the sea of darkness beyond the tiny settlement. He said nothing of his uncertainty, though his master, whom he sat beside, sensed it with a smile. It was upon his master's insistence that he joined the other seven; in truth he would much rather have gone to keep watch. He obeyed unquestioningly, however.

The seven men exchanged gazes in a manner that the man who did not belong could never understand. It was as if words could be unspoken and still retain their meaning among these people. He could only guess what words. One thing he did notice was that not one of the men could hold the gaze of his master for too long. They seemed to look at him more with reverence and submission, and to each other with mutual acceptance. He could sense his master's discomfort at this. Sometimes this simple man from France could be overwhelmed by the importance of his God-given position in the world - and Symeon knew this better than anyone.

More time passed and Symeon fought down his impatience. After a while, his master cleared his throat.

"Brothers, we have been brought here out of safekeeping. Bandits roam the roads when darkness falls; and while it is ironic that darkness has caught us out, on this day of all days, we must shelter here till it leaves. So let us waste no time.

"Each of you before me must tell a tale of your life. It may be of your choosing, and suiting of any mood. Perhaps, in addition to learning of each other, we may learn something that benefits ourselves."

There was a moment of quiet as each Templar considered the game. Then, in a calm voice, Guillaume said, "Are there any among you who wish to start?"

Wednesday 4th September 1028


Lorenzo da Foggia woke on the most important day of his life to the familiar sound of clanging bells. Matins. Groggily the young sergeant rolled off his pallet and climbed to his feet, just as twenty other sergeants did the same. The chamber was still dark, though a shaft of light peering in between the window shutters was enough to see by.

As Lorenzo traipsed sleepily towards where his sergeants' tunic hung on a peg nearby bleary thoughts began to enter his head. This was it, he thought. The day his life would change. By sunset he would no longer be the lost, unimportant peasant boy he had always been. Even now that person seemed alien, as if that life had been lived by someone else. Soon he would be Lorenzo da Foggia, Templar Knight and server of the Almighty. A new man.

As he pulled on his tunic, the coarse black material scratching at his skin, another sergeant opened the shutters, revealing blue skies outside. Sunlight burst in, spreading warmth and light through the chamber. Lorenzo smiled as he blinked it in. I suppose, he thought as he walked off in the direction of the chapel, a few more hours couldn't hurt.

-----------------------------------

Six hours later Lorenzo left the chapel, the words of the Pater Noster echoing familiarly through his head. He had just left Sext, the fourth of the day's Hours. Sweat clung to his forehead, and he was suddenly grateful for the open space and fresh air of the outdoors. Sergeants bustled around him, heading off in various directions to attend to various duties: some would head for the preceptory's training grounds for weapons practice; others would head into the town for provisions. Lorenzo himself was headed for the stables, but unlike his fellow sergeants he walked at a relaxed pace. Today, after all, was his day: he would take it as he pleased.

With that in mind he decided he would take a detour. He left the preceptory and headed for the port, taking the more tranquil streets through the city. Ancona was the port city of the Marche, and Lorenzo had the sudden urge to smell the sea air. He had always had a fondness for the sea, ever since his days as a small boy on his father's boat exploring the coastline of his home region. It felt fitting that he reminisce some of his earliest childhood memories, now that he was about to leave that life behind.

Lorenzo reached the coastline and began to walk along the beach. He remembered as he walked: his mother stood beside him with his hand in hers, their feet embedded in the soft golden sand. The sun was setting on the horizon when his father's boat appeared, the vague form of his father silhouetted on the prow. A glowing warmth filled his heart at the sight of that man and he grinned, waiting for the boat to ground itself in the sand and for his father to jump down and run towards him; relishing the thought of yet another of his tales of exploration and adventure. The memory brought a stab of pain for Lorenzo, pain for lost time and pain for his father. Perhaps, he thought, he would miss those days, those carefree days before death and destruction entered into his world. Perhaps not all of his childhood was bad; perhaps some deserved to be remembered.

Lorenzo continued along the beach until the Duomo di San Ciriaco appeared on a hilltop ahead. Then, thinking concededly of his duties, he turned around and headed back to the preceptory. He stopped outside the stables at the sound of an unexpected voice, the owner of which was in conversation with another familiar figure. Lorenzo edged closer, curiously picking up the snatches of conversation.

"...a ship bound for Acre," said Guillaume, his French accent unmistakable. "The captain was kind enough to allow an extra passenger free of charge."

"And it leaves tonight, as I asked?" said the other figure, whom Lorenzo perplexedly recognised as his own brother, Bartolo.

"Soon after your brother's initiation. I requested the captain wait, but he insisted."

Bartolo sighed. "I had hoped to stay a while longer. Does he know I am here?"

"No, I don't think so." Guillaume paused. "You are sure about this, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Bartolo, "I want this. I feel like I need to do something meaningful, to explore the world a bit more. You taught me many things in Rapale, and not all of them were to do with faith."

"This is evidently a momentous decision for you."

"Yes, it is. But my brother is out there fighting battles and defending the faith and I ask myself, what am I doing? And besides, what is left for me here?" There was another pause before Bartolo added, "They are expecting me, yes?"

"Yes," replied Guillaume. "I sent word to Agostino Saggi, the Master, when you first came to me. You are to become the apprentice of Ottavio Castelli, the first Italian Knight of Zion and a truly formidable fighter. You will learn well from him."

Lorenzo heard his brother breathe hard.

"Allora," said Bartolo after a moment, "I am ready. When is my brother's initiation to start?"

"In an hour. And seeing as he has failed to tend to my horse, I can only assume he is preparing for it now. Come, I shall show you where you will be hiding during the ceremony. Unfortunately only Templars get the best seats."

Lorenzo leaned back out of sight as the two men left the stables and headed off in the opposite direction. Many thoughts raced through his head as he contemplated what he had just heard. It seemed that he was not the only one who would be beginning a new life that day.

-----------------------------------

Lorenzo stared humbly at the floor before the altar, the same thoughts still racing through his head. He knelt on the cold stone of the chapter house in nothing but his hose, the eyes of twenty or so Templar knights boring into his bare back. Among them would be Guillaume, and somewhere, observing the ceremony through a crack or crevice in the wall would be his older brother Bartolo. That thought restored some warmth to him.

Lorenzo had already made his vows, the vows that bound him to a life of servitude and obedience. They were his hope, his future; they were all that bound him now. The priest continued to pose questions to him, and he returned them with rehearsed answers. Eventually the moment he had been waiting for came.

A Templar whom he did not recognise stepped forward, a pure white mantle folded neatly in his arms. Lorenzo rose shakily and accepted the garment, pulling it tentatively around his bare shoulders. It fitted perfectly: the red cross on the front nestled comfortably above his heart. The knight went off and returned a moment later with a sheathed sword. Lorenzo accepted it and fastened the belt around his waist.

"I absolve you," murmured the priest, stepping closer, "of all your sins. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

The priest then stepped back and in a louder voice said, "In the words of our Order's founders, I tell you that a man of the Temple is a fearless knight, safe from all sides, who, as the body is covered by iron, so is the soul by the defence of the faith. Without doubt, fortified by both arms, he fears neither demon nor man. Nor indeed, is he afraid of death. We behold you, Sir Lorenzo da Foggia, Knight of the Temple. Go, and may God make of you a worthy man."

-----------------------------------

As the sun set that day, Lorenzo da Foggia, Templar Knight, stood with his brother on the dockside. The merchant vessel La Fortezza bobbed patiently in the water beside them as its captain loaded on the last of his cargo. The brothers stared at each other for a long time, the words catching in their throats. It was Bartolo who spoke first.

"My brother," he said, "a Templar Knight. I am so proud of you, Enzo."

"I am moving on. But what about you?"

Bartolo laughed uncertainly, "Well how about we both be knights? Seeing you... it reminds me of our father. I need to do the same. I need to move on."

"And mother?" asked Lorenzo, feeling the tears begin to well.

"She's living in Firenze now. With a man called Burcardo, I believe?"

They both laughed.

"Take care of yourself, brother," said Bartolo, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder.

Lorenzo wiped the tears from his eyes and smiled bravely. Bartolo returned the smile, and then turned and boarded the ship. Half way up the gangplank Lorenzo called after him.

"He would be proud of you."

Bartolo paused, turning back. Now there were tears in his eyes.

"He would be proud of both of us."