Friday 22nd May 1019


Jozef stood at the gunwale of the Halabarda as the small galley ploughed its way northwards through the Bothnia Gulf, his eyes fixed on the horizon as the sun sank into it. The sky was tinged a light orange and the furled sails fluttered lazily in the breeze. Though it was only maj there was a bitter chill in the air, a biting cold that Jozef found unsettling despite the fact he knew it was only natural this far north. He pulled his fur mantle tighter around his shoulders and tried to concentrate on other things.

The galley was unusually small for its kind, though its Western builder had designed it to be more robust so as to make it better enduring of the rough waters of the North. Oars lined either side, each manned by two grown men, and a single stout mast rose from the lowered cargo hold at the centre of the ship. The crew rowed in unison despite the lack of a drum, their heavy breaths seeming to keep up a steady rhythm between them and sending them into an almost trance-like state. Jozef soon lost himself in this, his head slipping slowly into his hands and his eyes half-closing.

In those moments the only things in existence were the water as it lapped gently at the side of the vessel, and a single faded image in the back of his head. The image was of a young girl, half his age, staring blankly at something unseen in the distance. Only her face was visible, though her features were blurred and sad, as if Jozef was seeing her through a rain-spattered window. The image, Jozef knew, was the single thing left of a long-lost memory; a sullen, dejected shard of a time he remembered not. That thought more than anything brought him sorrow - that he could not, for some reason, remember.

His stupor was broken abruptly by the slamming-open of a door and the sound of heavy, uneven footsteps. This heralded something which was by now familiar to him. Yet even if he should have felt fear at that moment, fear of what he knew was about to follow, he didn't. Instead he closed his eyes and waited. The footsteps came nearer, became louder. The boards beneath him shook. A shadow loomed over him. A large hand grasped him by the shirt and pulled him sharply to his feet. His fur mantle slipped from his shoulders as he was half-dragged, half-herded away.

The door slammed shut and Jozef opened his eyes. He was in the cabin. It was dark save for an oil lamp on the desk before him, though this afforded him no warmth. He shivered. He fixed his eyes balefully on the man who had dragged him here, who had let Jozef go and was now pacing unsteadily back and forth. Suddenly he turned and stomped toward the boy, who was stood demurely by the cabin door with a defiant look on his face, wobbling precariously on his feet as he came. Jozef could smell the alcohol on his breath as he leaned in close; could taste it as he opened his mouth to speak.

"Everything I have done for you," he whispered, his voice faltering; then louder: "After everything I have done for you, you repay me like I am filth!"

Jozef remained calm, his expression unfaltering. The captain turned imperiously, oblivious to his silence, and continued.

"What have you done, you say? Well! You are a thief! You have been stealing from the hold. And how do I know, you say? Because you are the only one treacherous enough on this ship to do such a thing!"

"I have stolen nothing," said Jozef quietly.

He flinched as the captain swung round suddenly and backhanded him savagely across the face. His back slammed into the cabin wall and he winced in pain.

"You are a liar!" screamed the captain. He staggered back, murmuring drunkenly, "Everything I did... everything for you."

Jozef kept silent until the captain had slumped himself down in his chair, and then asked composedly, "May I go?"

His uncle looked up at him then, and for the first time Jozef thought he saw pity in his eyes. Pity and regret. Quietly, averting his eyes, he said, "Get out."

Jozef reached for the door. As he stepped outside he heard the footsteps, quick and erratic behind him, and knew the drunkenness had returned. The door slammed shut behind him, though his foot caught and he went over.

He remained sprawled on the deck for some time, staring impassively up at a dark and starless sky as the rain began to fall.

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"He doesn't know what he's doing," said Lukesz, carefully examining the bruises. Jozef stared at the floor. The rain had quickly stopped, though it had left the air more bitterly cold than before, and around them the crew were becoming increasingly weary.

"He did lose everything," continued Lukesz, "it's only understandable he tries to forget every night."

"I am as much a victim as he is," said Jozef quietly. "Perhaps more so because of this."

Lukesz tried to smile sympathetically, though Jozef found it patronising. His cousin dabbed at one of his face bruises and he winced. You still have your family, thought Jozef, grief brimming inside him. A tear welled in the corner of his eye, though whether it was caused by the grief or the pain he did not know. He looked away, his eyes fixing on the dark horizon.

Lukesz studied his friend for a moment and stood up. "I should probably get back to my post," he said, "My father might actually kill me if he found me down here." There was silence. He opened his mouth to speak again but decided there was nothing he could say, and walked off in the direction of the prow, leaving Jozef alone by the gunwale.

An hour or so passed. Torches were lit around the vessel as the crew members continued their arduous labour. A low, rumbling sound came from the cabin, a sign that the drunken tyrant had succumbed to slumber. This made Jozef feel more at ease. Thoughts and memories, most of them dark as the uncaring sky, slogged through his head. The darkest of them were always the most drawn out and painful. Eventually he managed to lose himself again, the heavy breathing sending him back into his trance-like state. The girl returned.

More time passed, though in his stupor Jozef did not feel it. The boat was making headway down the gulf, a feat the drunk captain had proclaimed was of the topmost importance. The sailors would not receive their due reward, however - that wasn't how it worked. The water lapped at the galley's sides and Jozef gazed into its callous black depths, challenging it with an almost childish curiosity. He felt the pull of sleep, and slowly, wearily, succumbed to it. His eyes fluttered shut.

It was not the usual sound of heavy footsteps that woke him, nor that of a slamming door. It was a low crunching sound, a deep rumble that shook every beam in the vessel and set the sailors' teeth immediately on edge. A sudden cry came from the prow of the ship.

"Reef!"

Jozef blinked twice as the ship swung to the left, his slumber not yet completely shaken off. It was still night, he noticed. Suddenly the ship listed violently and Jozef was thrown from where he sat. He struck the gunwale and a stab of pain shot up his spine. Then he was slipping, rolling away. The murky water came up fast before him.

A cold surrounded him immediately. It chilled every inch of his body and his bones felt as if they were about to shatter. The impact with the water emptied his lungs in a single brutal second. He found himself wanting to gasp for air, but the water was all around him now. He was sinking, sinking into the callous black depths of the ocean. Forgotten. Uncared for.

He blinked, and the water stung his eyes. A huge dark shape moved above him, blotting out his view of the sky. The boat. They hadn't even noticed he had gone. It was as if he'd been erased, in those vital few moments. Like the mistake he was. His vision blurred and he felt death close in. Heavy, uneven footsteps pounded in his ear. The blurred young girl appeared in the water before him. Staring not at something distant, but at him. He knew who she was. He could not deny it any longer. Maria...

Fearfully he gazed up at the dark form above him, imploring it to stop, to save him. He released the last of the air in his lungs. And suddenly he knew that he was going to die. A peace came over him. He let himself slip slowly downwards, down into the depths. He closed his eyes. He was ready.

A large hand grasped him by the shirt. Then suddenly he was rising, like an angel towards heaven. He broke the surface and gasped, devouring the air. There were voices all around him. Some of them sounded worried.

He stared gratefully up at the dark, unwelcoming sky as he was hauled over the side of the boat and knew, in that moment, that it was not God that had saved him. His uncle appeared at his side. The cold water had sobered him and now there was fear in his eyes.

For a long time the two remained there, gazing into each others' eyes. In those of the captain there was the same worry, the same regret Jozef had thought he'd seen earlier in the cabin. In Jozef's own there was a newfound profoundness, as if a new world had been opened up to him. And it was a world of love and adventure and happiness.

It was a world of hope.

Thursday 20th July 1021


It was a hot summer's day for the citizens of the city of Regensburg. The sky was a soft blue and completely void of clouds and the sun beat down in all its majesty. Niklaus von Geslau hoisted himself out of the Danube which ran through the city and rolled over, exhausted, on the riverbank. In his hand he clutched a small silver brooch in the shape of a lion, its metal head reared imperiously. He was soaked through; the water dripping from his clothes pooled around him.

After a moment Niklaus sat up and reached for his boots. They had been all he could afford to take off before urgency made him dive into the river. Their weight was comforting; they made him feel solid and stable again. He felt the brooch in his hand and smiled.

The riverside was quiet today. Niklaus knew this was mainly due to it being market day, and so everyone would be closer to the centre of the city. On other days, however, it was common for people to sit beside the river in small groups or alone and watch the barges as they passed through the city. Niklaus preferred the quiet, though occasionally a trip to the market lifted his spirits. When he was in the city, that was.

His master was away on important business - but Niklaus found it hard to fathom just what such business could be, that the man did not want his own squire to accompany him. Sir Bernd was a knight, the greatest that Niklaus had ever met. Niklaus himself had been poor and unhopeful before Sir Bernd had found him and taken him in, and the boy was ever-grateful for the kindness he had displayed. Since then he had gone on countless ventures with his master and seen many places and things. As was considered only proper, Niklaus would accompany Sir Bernd wherever he went. But not this time.

Sir Bernd had been gone for two weeks, and beneath the concern and the curiosity Niklaus felt forgotten. He was confined to the city now, his orders coming from a stricter comrade of his master's, a knight called Sir Konrad. These orders were basic chores, like tending to horses and fetching certain supplies. Niklaus was bored. He wanted to explore, to see the world again. He wanted to be free of stone city walls.

That day had begun with the usual prayers and meal. Niklaus had returned to his chamber after breakfast to write a letter to his mother. He always felt some small degree of guilt when he wrote to her telling her of his adventures, and he wished sometimes that he could share it with her properly. Sometimes, on darker days, he told himself that he had abandoned her. He had left her behind, forgotten her - just as he felt Sir Bernd had recently done to him. Her return letters always reassured him, however. She seemed bright and cheerful when she wrote about the new animals she had purchased, and about how Niklaus' younger brother was developing into a playful little boy. He was satisfied that she was living the life she deserved, as he was.

When he had finished the letter he paid a messenger to deliver it, and then walked through the city to the crafter's workshop where he had left Sir Konrad's brooch. The small trinket was a family heirloom, he had been told, and Niklaus had been tasked with finding and paying a skilled crafter to fix the pin on the back, which had come loose. It seemed that the young squire had found the right man, as the brooch was now in perfect order. He left the workshop and made his way to the riverside, where he decided to take a stroll. Half way back to Sir Konrad's dwellings, however, the pouch on his belt which contained the brooch had fallen open, and the brooch itself plunged into the river. Panicked, Niklaus had shed his boots and plunged after it.

Half an hour of desperate searching later and Niklaus was continuing on towards Sir Konrad's dwellings, brooch held tightly in hand. He kept a small distance from the water this time, nervously contemplating what it would be like if he had to dive back in.

Soon the majestic form of the Regensburg Cathedral rose up nearby, and as he passed it Niklaus heard a sound. It was a curious sound, gentle and yet somehow sad. He looked around and his eyes came to settle upon a girl of about his age, sat on the riverbank with her bare feet dipped in the swirling waters. Her head was bowed, and Niklaus realised suddenly that she was crying. He froze.

What do I do? he thought to himself, suddenly very self-conscious. Does she know I'm here? In those moments he visualised several different scenarios, many of which did not end particularly well. He found himself completely confounded. Then a thought suggested itself to him. It wouldn't be chivalrous to walk away, would it?

Taking a deep breath, he tried to look courageous and determined. Then he walked over to the girl, faltered for a second, and then sat nervously down beside her. She didn't look up at him.

What now? thought Niklaus, becoming a little flustered. His cheeks burned as he realised he did not know what to say. He tried to clear his throat, though it turned instantly into a small cough. Then he said the first thing that came into his head.

"So what's your name?"

Her head swung round and she threw him a stony glare. He immediately shrank back, terrified. She maintained her gaze for a few seconds longer, and then her expression softened, a fresh wave of tears forming in her eyes. She looked back down at her feet in the water. For a long moment there was silence.

Then, meekly, she said, "Elisa."

Niklaus stared at her, realising for the first time how beautiful she was. Then, realising she had spoken, he regained himself and stammered his own name in reply.

"Why are you crying?" he said after another long moment.

Elisa was hesitant to reply. "I think..." she began, "I think I've heard something I shouldn't have."

Niklaus relaxed his shoulders a little as the words began to come easier to him. "What is it?" he asked. When she did not respond he added, "I'm the squire of an important noble. I'm sworn to secrecy about many things."

There was a pause. And then Elisa began to talk.

"I was hiding... from my little brother, we were playing a game. I was hiding in an abandoned old storehouse behind some crates. And then two men came in..." She bit back a sob. "Two men came in and started talking. I didn't get a look at them, I was too scared." She turned to Niklaus as if realising for the first time that the person sitting next to her was an actual human being. Tears fell freely as she went on, "They were talking quietly, but I heard them. I think they were planning on killing someone!"

Niklaus stared at her and, realising she probably expected him to be shocked, feigned a look of complete surprise. "Really?" he said, intending to keep up the façade, but it came out sounding more patronising than surprised. Elisa frowned at him. She wiped away the tears and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Well," said Niklaus, sounding slightly cocky now, "there was this time... Me and the master needed to enter this little French town near Lourdes, discreetly. I was told to hide in the cart of a couple of merchants along with some vegetables, and I swore then that the merchants looked completely innocent. Completely normal and harmless, just like your average merchants. Anyway, we were nearing the town and it turned out one of the men had recently deserted his wife. You honestly would not believe some of the things he said about her..."

There was a pause. And then Elisa laughed.

It was a small, strange little sound, though Niklaus thought it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard. He laughed too then, and when they both stopped there was silence between them again.

Elisa had stopped crying and wiped away the last of the tears. She sniffed, and then frowned again. "You smell," she told Niklaus.

Niklaus sniffed too and realised that she was right. "I had, err... I went fishing." He held up the brooch so that Elisa could see. "In there," he added, gesturing at the Danube. Elisa immediately withdrew her feet. Niklaus smiled.

As the day drew on they sat there, occasionally exchanging words and looks, and eventually they entered into a deep conversation. It was when the sun began to set and the air turned slightly cold that Niklaus decided that he should get back to Sir Konrad with the brooch.

"I should go," he told Elisa. She nodded and they both stood up. There was a moment of awkwardness between them as they stood there.

"I live just west of the cathedral," said Elisa, "in case you have more stories."

Niklaus smiled, nervous again. "I shall remember that," he said. "Goodbye then."

He turned and walked on towards Sir Konrad's dwellings, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He looked over at the cathedral as he passed by it and realised just how uninteresting it was compared to the one image now imprinted on his mind.

Maybe it isn't so bad I've been forgotten, he thought to himself.

Sunday 21st December 1012


The sky was dark over Paris, but there was not a cloud to be seen. It was a mild winter's night; a gentle breeze laced through the streets, making the lanterns sway and the trees shiver. On the Ile de la Cité the bell of the Paris Cathedral chimed, marking the start of the twelfth hour.

Pierre de Bezonvaux stood before the Hôtel-Dieu, the bell chime loud in his ears. The Ile was quiet, the calm sweep of the Seine the only noise once the bell had subsided. The young boy of thirteen gazed up at the dark façade of the hospital to where a window shed light into the street. In his head he visualised what might be happening beyond: he saw his father examining a sleeping patient, his eyes rimmed by dark patches and his posture slouched. He imagined this with a mix of sympathy and admiration. That man, his own father, was working tirelessly for the benefit of his family.

Pierre's mother was bed-ridden, a victim of an illness that left even a physician such as Pierre's father clueless. Pierre looked after her in their tiny house in a bourg outside the ville, while his father worked endlessly in the heart of the city earning the little money that kept them going. But the money was not nearly enough.

Pierre had felt as if he had been charged with a great responsibility. For three years he had fended for his family; hardly ever in that time had he laid eyes upon his father. He did not know why he felt the urge to come here ever night, to the place where that great man worked. He reasoned that it was maybe some form of penance for what he did, some sort of counsel - though not once had he ever felt guilty about it. What he did was unchristian, immoral maybe. But he did it to survive. He did it so that his mother could survive.

He was certain that he had a conscience. It was just something about what he did that seemed to justify his actions. Besides, he often mused, the people from whom he took most likely did not notice a thing.

There was one other thought that kept the young Frenchman going: the conviction that his mother deserved better. And so it was that, as the forty days of St. Martin began to draw to a close and the Western peoples prepared feasts for the day of Christ's Mass, Pierre decided he would prepare his mother a feast of her own.

He turned and left the Ile de la Cité, not stopping to look back.

The streets of the ville became gradually quieter as Pierre moved away from the Seine. He kept to the shadows out of habit, preferring the cover of darkness. It was where he worked, after all. He decided he would first head home to check on his mother, to ensure she was well. On a good day she would be able to stand, and maybe walk so far as the water basin in their small house for a drink. Pierre liked to check in regardless, however, for he knew how rare a so-called good day was.

Pierre left the ville through one of the large gates in its surrounding wall. The sentries on guard did not notice as he slipped past them. Soon he entered the district called Le Beau Bourg, so named by its residents, almost a village of its own on the outskirts of the city proper. Despite the general poverty of the people who lived there the bourg was fairly well-maintained; the houses, though far from impressive, stood upright and stable. The young Frenchman felt some small amount of pride as he passed through. They were reduced to poverty, but they would not be reduced to shabbiness.

Before long Pierre stood in front of his house. It was completely silent now, and Pierre noted contentedly that most would be asleep. No-one had to know of what he was soon about to do. The young boy sighed, thinking of the long night ahead, and then started forwards toward the house. The door closed silently behind him.

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Twenty minutes later Pierre came back out into the street. His mother was in her bed, fast asleep. She was content. Smiling inwardly to himself, he turned away from the house and began to walk off.

"Le Goupil."

He swung round.

"Come now, don't you recognise my voice?" A boy moved out from the shadows, the lantern light falling upon his dark hair and mottled face. Pierre relaxed as he recognised the figure, who was about his age and height.

"Fabrice. Out hunting, are we?"

Fabrice smiled and stepped towards him nonchalantly. "No, actually. I happened to spot you as you left the ville, and thought you might be." He paused. "So are you?"

"As it so happens. I'm preparing a feast for maman." He peered hard into the shadows. "Where are the others tonight?"

"Bohémond's with me," said Fabrice, gesturing vaguely where Pierre was looking. Suddenly a small boy, a little over nine years old, stepped tentatively out of the shadows, a half-eaten apple clutched in his hand. The light played over his dark blond hair and startling blue eyes. "The other two..." Fabrice shrugged. "I think Simon's with his papa. Maurice is probably raiding the local refuse."

Pierre walked slowly over to Bohémond and ruffled the small boy's hair. Pierre had never once seen the boy talk - and neither, apparently, had any of the others. Fabrice watched him. "So what is it you've found exactly?" he asked curiously, eyebrow raised.

"Just a storehouse. It's in Le Nouveau Bourg de St. Germain. Belongs to a Robert de Châteauroux, I believe."

Fabrice nodded interestedly. "I may know it. Actually I think they guard it now."

"They thought you were getting too close with it?" teased Pierre.

"I may have been a little... conspicuous," Fabrice replied innocently. "Doesn't happen too often." He sniffed. "So can we come?"

"I suppose."

Fabrice grinned. "Right then. Let's not waste any time. Lead the way."

Without waiting for Pierre to do as he had said, Fabrice headed off in the direction of Le Bourg de St. Germain. Within seconds he was out of sight again.

Pierre looked down at Bohémond and smiled. The small boy stared back at him, taking a bite out of his apple. His wide eyes betrayed his excitement.

Without a word, they both darted off into the shadows.

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

Pierre peered warily through the gloom at the unguarded doors to the storehouse. Something deep inside him told him that there was something not quite right.

A shape moved in the shadows.

Fabrice.

Pierre sighed in relief.

With Bohémond close at his heels, the young Frenchman went over to join his comrade.

The doors to the storehouse were locked. Pierre drew his knife and fumbled around for a few seconds, quickly becoming worried the lock was too complicated. There was a click. He relaxed. Slowly, excitedly, he and Fabrice prised back the large wooden doors.

The three of them slipped through into the darkness, tugging the doors shut behind them.

The storehouse was not completely dark, thanks to a missing beam in the roof which allowed in a shaft of moonlight. Pierre looked around. Crates lined the room, piled high into towers which threw shadows into the corners. A relatively large space was left clear in the centre where the moonlight pooled. The place was ominous, but Pierre was too excited to feel apprehensive. The crates would provide him with all the food he would need to give his mother the feast she deserved - and who knew, he mused, maybe he might even get a choice.

The other two were already searching the crates lining the left wall, so Pierre hurried over to those on the right. He selected a crate which was close to the floor and, with his knife, prised it carefully open. His heart sank a little as he saw what was inside.

Vegetables.

Unperturbed he looked for another crate, in his mind picturing some of the exotic-looking fruits that were sometimes available at market.

The storehouse doors swung open.

Pierre's heart almost stopped in his chest. His instincts took over just in time, however, and he shrank back into the shadows just as a dark figure strode into the room. The figure looked around warily. Then he stepped into the pool of moonlight. Pierre stared at him in awe.

The man was tall and of broad build. Dark hair framed a pale face, and his features exuded power and piety. The man wore chain mail, over which was a startlingly white surcoat. Upon the man's chest was emblazoned a large red cross.

Pierre had seen knights before, but the attire and composure of this one was unlike that of any he had laid eyes upon. Curiosity mingled with his awe as he wondered how and why the owner of the storehouse had come by such an impressive-looking guard for his goods. His body tingled with excitement.

Caught up in the moment, he saw it too late.

His knife, which he had left balanced precariously on the edge of the crate, toppled to the floor with a clink.
The knight turned immediately towards the sound.

Pierre was suddenly full of alarm. He was sure the man hadn't seen him, buried in shadow as he was, but it was only a matter of time...

He panicked. His instincts flared.

In a single moment of complete rashness he broke his cover; and ran straight at the knight.

Surprise, he had told himself in that moment of worry, was his best method of survival.

The knight sidestepped the charge with a deftness Pierre had not thought possible. It was as if he had known all along; as if he had heard the young boy's thoughts. Pierre stumbled, stunned that he had not struck anything. His legs gave way beneath him as he lost his balance.

Then a sword was at his throat.

"What are you doing here?" The knight spoke French perfectly, his accent betraying his nationality. His face was a stony mask.

Pierre did not answer, his words lost in a mix of fear and awe. His eyes flitted between the cross on the knight's chest and the blade of his weapon, which gleamed in the moonlight.

The knight repeated the question. The sword point pressed into his throat.

"I am poor," Pierre blurted suddenly, unthinking, "My mother is ill and we have no food!"

The knight's expression softened suddenly, his grip on the sword loosening. A look of understanding and sympathy adorned his face. A moment passed in silence as he seemed to consider, before he decisively sheathed his sword.

"What of your father, boy?" he asked sternly as he helped Pierre to his feet. Pierre risked a fleeting glance at where Fabrice and Bohémond had been as the knight posed the question. They were nowhere in sight.

"He is a physician at the Hôtel-Dieu on the Ile de la Cité. He is paid very little and hardly ever returns home." Pierre relaxed a little, though he was still unnerved by the knight's stern gaze. Another thought nagged away in his head: had the others got away, or were they relying on him as a distraction? He hoped for the former.

The knight seemed to be pondering. "This is Templar property," he said, indicating the crates. He looked indecisive about something.

Pierre nodded humbly, still awed by the knight. He stared at his feet.

"But I feel it is my duty to help those in need."

Pierre looked up suddenly, his eyes wide in disbelief. His heart pounded excitedly.

The knight turned to the doorway and beckoned to someone unseen. Almost immediately a shorter, younger man with a beard hurried into the storehouse. He wore a black tabard, upon which the impressive red cross was extolled.

The knight gestured to a nearby crate. "Richard, help this young boy here with that crate. He will take you to where it needs to go."

The man complied instantly.

Pierre stared, wide-eyed, at the two men. He could scarcely believe what was happening. He had been caught stealing, yet he did not even have to escort the loot himself?

The knight turned to him, his gaze penetrating. "Go, boy. Remember this deed. And also remember, it is sinful to take that which is not yours."

Pierre nodded obediently and went after the man with the crate. He took one last look at the knight as he turned into the street, feeling the wonder build up inside him.

Pierre led the man through the dark streets, thoughts racing through his head. Most prominent was the question of just who these men were. They were truly unlike anyone he had ever seen before. As he wound his way on that thought faded a little, and was replaced by another. He glanced at the crate of food and felt a surge of triumph and hope. He had done it. He had succeeded.

In just a few days time, he and his mother would feast like royals.

Wednesday 19th August 1024


It was one year to the day since Robert Graye had been imprisoned. For nearly nine months he had woken to the sight of the same stone wall, cold and unrelenting in the darkness. He had been forced to eat the paltriest of meals, drink the most dirtied water. The memories were cruel and chilling. Yet here he now was, on the journey home. The French countryside was cool and free, and the sky blue and unending. It felt like a dream come true.

In the darkest of his days Robert had imagined such a scene as the one now before him. It seemed as though the world was endless, open; anything was possible. He had endured, and survived. Now he would reap the rewards. Now he would be free.

That was how he had once seen it.

Now, just as that place of hope and happiness had appeared to him in the cold, murky confines of his cell, his prison and the memories reappeared to him then. The scars they had left remained. The wounds they had inflicted still throbbed. Robert looked about him at his companions. Their faces were pale and gaunt against the sky; their bodies still thin and worn with malnutrition. Some had fared worse than others: some had simply not been able to cope, and had perished.

Then Robert saw himself and felt guilty. He had fared well: his body had not been changed much by the malnutrition; his wounds had healed quickly and well. Even his mind was not too impaired, or so he deemed. His sanity remained almost completely intact. It seemed to him that God had punished him, but only by forcing him to watch destruction, not suffer it. It was as though the world had been falling around him, consumed in pain and fire, and he had merely been made to watch. He felt cheated and humbled.

And he felt so very alone.

Again Robert looked round at his companions. They too had been humbled, and it was clear on their faces. But they had suffered for their sins, and had the marks to bear it. Robert himself had only memories. He had no proof of his suffering. Sometimes even he doubted whether he had ever suffered at all. And that, he thought, was his ultimate punishment.

Who knew, maybe he was mad.

Robert fixed his eyes on the first man he came across, a Polish serf by the name Mikolaj. Mikolaj walked by himself near the back of the group, his eyes downcast and dark-rimmed and his face deathly pale. He looked to be in fairly good shape; no doubt years spent ploughing fields had strengthened him against the lack of food. Robert recalled the day when the man had been thrown into the cell with the rest of them. He had not been alone then.

His wife had accompanied him. Their pagan captors had seemingly shown little extra respect for their female prisoners, as she had been manhandled roughly into the cell after her husband. Robert remembered all too distinctly the pang of deep sympathy as he first laid his eyes upon her; and upon her swollen stomach. She had been with child.

The pregnancy had ended no more than two weeks later. Both mother and child perished.

Robert could not begin to imagine what it was the man was going through. He thought of his own family back home, and of how, if anything were to befall a single one of them, he knew he would not be able to live. Mikolaj was just a little older than Robert. In many ways the two were similar.

Except they weren't, thought Robert miserably; he still had everything the poor man had lost.

The hurt became difficult to bear then, and Robert forced his gaze to another of his companions, this time a family. It was not a large family: simply a mother, a father and two children; although Robert struggled to recall a fifth member, possibly an aged grandparent, who had passed away not long after Robert himself had been introduced to the prison. The Englishman looked at them with a sad smile on his face. They were managing well, much better than many of the others in the group. They laughed and smiled at each other, reminiscing some time or another before their recent ordeal. Their faces were full of colour and life, their gaits relaxed and joyous. They seemed happy.

They had survived because they had each other. They eased each other's burden; each other's pain. They reminded each other of the good in the world and staved off the darkness with the strength of their faith. Robert was sure of it.

That was the difference between them and the rest of them. And there were so many of them, all pale and haunted. Everyone else had had to survive alone, cold and frightened in the dark.

There were of course those like Robert, those in between the haunted and the unscathed. He had survived on memories, images and recollections of his family and the times he had spent with them. There was his wife, Maria, whom he had met on a trip to London when he was just fifteen. She had been serving as a handmaiden to an important noblewoman in the royal court, a life her parents had chosen for her when she was just a small girl. Robert had spied her from across the palace dining hall one day when he and his father, a wealthy baron, had been visiting. He had instantly fallen for her. In the darkest hours of his life he had recalled the first time he had talked to her, her voice gentle and soothing; he recalled the time he first kissed her, her lips warm and soft on his. She had unknowingly given him hope; had restored in him his passion and his fury. He had found the strength to want to survive, when he had thought of her.

There were also his children. His three beautiful children. There was Emily, the oldest, who was wise beyond her years. He remembered the time when she had made for him a chain of daisies, and had come running into his solar to place it around his neck. She had kissed him on the forehead and run, giggling, back off to play. She gave him courage.

Then there was Connor, his only son, with whom his unfulfilled ambitions resided. Robert recalled when they had their first play-fight, and Connor had bruised his shin so badly he was limping for a week. He remembered how amusing his son had found it; remembered his laugh full of joy and frivolity. Connor gave him hope.

Lastly there was Grace, his youngest. The sound of her very first word still resonated in his mind, a word she had uttered so softly, so lovingly, just a few days before Robert had left on his ridiculous venture. Every time he recalled her shining face he felt a fresh wave of regret, for leaving her and for risking never hearing her speak again. She reminded him of love.

As Robert once again recalled those he loved more than the very earth itself he realised the irony of everything that had happened. It was a bitter irony.

He left his family because of his faith. He left because he believed that his love of God was far greater, far more important than his love for anything worldly, and that he should go on a pilgrimage to prove it. But it was God Himself who had punished him for his love. A day from Jerusalem he had been taken by raiders, plucked off the road like a stone. He had never even glimpsed the holy place. He did not know exactly where he had been taken; for the most part, when he and the others escaped, he had merely stumbled along behind, unseeing and uncaring of where he was and what was happening. All he had known was death and guilt; and he felt so cheated. What sin had he committed? What pain had he inflicted? He felt as if God had betrayed him. And yet he had been so loyal.

As the daylight had returned his senses to him in the months that had followed Robert had time to contemplate and consider. Part of him felt rage: an unquenchable fury aimed at the world around him and at God, for doing this to him. He wanted to tear the trees from the earth, to rip down the sky as if it were canvas on an easel. And still there was another side, a side that grew gradually more and more prominent. That side was motivated by the memories of his family, by his courage and his hope and his love. That side calmly told him that without God he was nothing, and that he should either take this as a sign or as a punishment - or simply just let it fade.

That side told him that somewhere his family was waiting for him.

And he refused to keep them waiting any longer.

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

Later that day Robert stood among his companions on the cliffs overlooking the town of Honfleur. The town stretched out below him until the port, where it fell away. The sea then stretched on until the horizon.

Beyond that was home.

As Robert stood there thinking longingly of his family, a lump in his throat, he swore something to himself. He swore he would not forget what had passed. What had happened was God's will; he would learn from whatever mistakes he had made. He would remember his lesson, and try to become a better man for it. He owed that much to his family.

His family.

How he missed them. They were everything to him, his world and his faith. Never again would he put God before those who mattered most. Never, he swore, would he ever leave his the side of his beloved wife and children. Never, until the day God chose to end his life.

Whenever that day would come.

But now the sea was calling to him. And beyond, his family waited.

He wiped away the tears, and started onwards.

Monday 9th November 1024


Jacobo de Castilla unravelled a large sheaf of parchment and laid it out on the desk. He then took a quill and drew a vague outline in the centre.

He glanced across at his audience of four, to check they were paying attention.

"This is our situation; the forest. And here," he said, drawing a rough circle within the outline, "is us."

Again he looked up. The flickering candlelight played across the faces of his audience, illuminating their expectant expressions. He continued.

"This here is the enemy's route," he said, sketching a line through the left half of the outline, away from the depiction of the camp. He finished the line with an arrowhead, pointing north. "They arrived at La Teste," he said, indicating the south-pointing tip of the arrow. "And now they are heading north. This much we know."

Jacobo paused, as if confirming to himself that the plan before him was accurate. Silence permeated the command tent as he did so. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Bueno. It is confirmed that this is the route the pagans shall be taking through the forest. And so we shall be ready for them. We shall have the element of surprise."

"We are to ambush them?" questioned one of the men opposite him.

"Yes, Aurelio." He looked his captain in the eye, finding a slight look of uncertainty therein. He guessed it sourced from the man's inexperience: not in the face of battle, but in the face of leadership. Slowly he turned to regard each of his other captains. To his relief he met only approving gazes.

"We are to ambush them; the trees shall be our cover. I have prepared further plans," he said, poising the quill once more. "They concern each of you."

The tent flaps pulled back, letting dappled sunlight into the entranceway. A figure ducked under the opening, at first a silhouette; but as he rejoined the flaps and the occupants of the tent relaxed their eyes, it became clear who the newcomer was. He moved into the candlelight and bowed awkwardly.

"Pío," said Jacobo, a hint of surprise in his voice. "What news?"

The figure, whose gangly composition and dappled complexion betrayed his youth, regained his breath. It was apparent he had been running.

"Los paganos..." he breathed, "we have one hour at most until they arrive."

Jacobo's expression turned grim. He had imagined they would have at least twice as much time to prepare. Now they would surely have to rush.

"You're absolutely sure, boy?" he asked sternly.

For a split second the young man looked uncertain, likely in reaction to his master's tone. Then he nodded. "Sí, señor. They will be due west of our camp shortly."

Jacobo sighed. It was an unexpected turn, but one they would deal with.

"Gracias, Pío. Keep watching them, and inform us of any other developments."

Pío nodded, bowed again, and left the tent.

There was a pause.

"Mis camaradas, this is the plan."

He dipped the quill, and pressed it to the parchment. The ink flowed down and pooled; the end result was a black blotch just to the right of the line.

"This is where ten of my men shall be hidden. Fadrique," he said, looking up at his lieutenant, "you shall be in charge of them. Each man is to be equipped with a bow and at least three arrows, along with their hand-to-hand weapons. Comprendes?"

Fadrique nodded, his hazel eyes alight with anticipation. Jacobo had not given him such responsibility before, and he was excited.

"Bueno." Jacobo dipped the quill again and made another blotch on the opposite side of the line, and then another just below it. He indicated the topmost of the two first. "This is where I shall be, with my four remaining men. We, too, shall carry bows." He then pointed to the other blotch. "This is where you shall be, Aurelio."

He looked up again at his young captain, trying to convey some reassurance. Aurelio smiled nervously and nodded.

"You shall have your six men with you there; and again, each of you shall carry a bow."

Next he moved the quill down to the south-pointing tip of the line, and marked on another blotch. "Ignacio," he said, glancing across at the oldest of his captains, "this is you and your seven. You are to move your men into position once the enemy has passed, and cut off their escape. Whichever weapons you deem necessary are at your disposal, of course."

Ignacio inclined his head obediently. His battle-worn face betrayed neither excitement nor fear.

Jacobo drew on the last dot at the top of the line, just beneath the arrowhead, and looked across at the remaining captain. "Tomás. You and your men are to line the road up here until you hear the sounds of the enemy dying; then you are to move in and cut off their escape. Comprende?"

Tomás also nodded.

"Bueno," said Jacobo, taking one last look at the map. Everything seemed in perfect order. "You all have things to be doing; you are dismissed."

The four other men left the tent without a word, leaving their commander alone to contemplate the coming fight.

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

The ongoing war between the Spaniards and the Irish was a burdensome affair for both nations. To a large extent it was not money or supplies that were the problem - it was the predicted intensity of their battles, which could turn the tide either way. The war seemed to be reaching its peak, or to be about to. The Spaniards were in high spirits.

The first of the important battles was expected to take place within the week upon the plains of Guyenne. The Irish would stand alone on one side; and the Spaniards would stand alongside their Christian brothers, the Templars, on the other. Rumour had it that the Irish outnumbered the Christians. It would surely prove a memorable fight.

But as it was with war, the battles themselves were not the only tide-changing factor. They were what was remembered, yes: but what went on beforehand was perhaps equally as important. Jacobo and his men would likely not join their fellow Spaniards on the battlefield, at least not for the coming fight; they had been tasked with a much more imperative mission.

Just five days previously the Spanish army had received vital information from a local peasant who had been witness to something that, had it gone unseen, could have damaged the Spaniards' hopes at victory permanently. The nervous man had been escorted through the camp on the plains northeast of Bordeaux to the command tent, where he uneasily recounted what he had seen. It was not good news.

Boats had landed on the coast south of the town of La Teste. Their occupants bore no crest, but carried weapons; undoubtedly they were enemies.

Scouts were quickly dispatched to track the enemy's progress. They estimated at around forty men. The group had entered the Forest of Landes, which covered the entire region to the southwest of Bordeaux, and were moving slowly northwards, towards the rear of the Christian army. Their aim soon became clear: to attack the Christians' supply train, and sever their hopes of success.

Jacobo, who had heard both the account of the peasant and the scouts' reports, volunteered himself and his men to take care of the problem. Ignacio and Tomás, experienced in warfare as they were, quickly pledged the services of their men to the cause. Aurelio had also joined them, at his brother Fadrique's request. They set out that same afternoon on horseback.

Now here they were.

The first few pagans appeared on the road. Jacobo shrank back against his tree and breathed in in anticipation. Slowly he knocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring to halfway. He glanced up at his four men and across at Aurelio, who were doing the same nearby. Across the dirt track he hoped Fadrique and his other men were doing likewise.

He peered around the tree.

Half of the pagans were between the two central groups now, with more following behind. It was not enough. He waited.

Aurelio looked anxiously across at him, questioning him with his eyes. Jacobo shook his head. Espera, he mouthed. Wait.

He risked another glance around the tree. Almost all of the pagans were between them now. He flicked his gaze to the trees lining the other side of the path. There was no sign of life. He relaxed slightly, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, it was time.

He swung round the tree, drawing back the bowstring to full length. There was a rustle as his men copied him. And then a hiss as twelve arrows flew from their bows.

Screams went up from the group as the arrows found their mark.

Jacobo crouched and drew another arrow from the ground, just as ten more arrows sprayed into the other side of the group. He pulled back the bowstring, and fired.

His arrow struck a young man of no more than twenty years in the neck. The man stiffened and then slumped to the earth, blood gushing from his wound. The scene distracted Jacobo, and he forgot to knock another arrow. There was hesitation from the rest of the Spaniards, giving the enemy time to draw their weapons.

Suddenly there was a cry from the opposite line of trees. Fadrique burst from the shrubbery, his sword brandished above his head. The ten men he commanded jumped after him.

Jacobo regained his senses, shaking the image of the young man from his head, and drew his own sword. He loosed a battle-cry, which was quickly taken up by his and Aurelio's men, and then leapt in to join the fray.

The fight was short and bloody. At first it seemed the enemy had the upper hand; and the blood of the Spaniards mixed with that of the pagans who had fallen to the arrow storm. But then had come Ignacio and Tomás, to cut off their hopes of triumph. Soon the enemy was completely surrounded, and the Spaniards were felling them like trees.

Within a quarter of an hour, the forest of men had fallen.

Not a single pagan lived.

Jacobo cleaned his sword and surveyed the aftermath of the fight. He had lost half of his men. His other captains had only a few losses, though there were many casualties. He realised someone was missing.
There was a heavy cough nearby. Fadrique lay on the ground, struggling to sit up. A knife was buried in his stomach, and blood spouted from the deep wound.

Jacobo ran over, suddenly fearful.

Fadrique looked imploringly up at his master, as if he couldn't understand the pain. Jacobo didn't have the heart to put his fear into words; his eyes said it all. Fadrique was going to die. He grasped the man's hand.

The young lieutenant opened his mouth. "Tell... my brother," he croaked. It was clearly an effort to speak. "Tell Aurelio that I am proud."

Jacobo nodded, fighting back the tears. The last face this man saw had to instil courage; both of them had to be strong.

"And... thank you," Fadrique continued, his face contorting in pain, "you were like a father..."

His eyes glazed over and his head slumped back, and Jacobo knew he was gone. He slid the man's eyes shut.

For a long moment he remained crouched beside Fadrique's body, gazing at it half in disbelief. Then, slowly, he stood up, and turned towards his captains, who were stood watching him sadly a short distance away.

"He was a good man," he said quietly. "As was every Spaniard who fell today, and every Spaniard that is destined to fall in the coming battle defending what is right and just. Remember that."

He then sat down again beside his lieutenant, the most loyal man he knew, and began to clean the man up. War would not defile him. He was a good man.

And tonight, he would get the burial he deserved.

Saturday 14th October 1010


The night was calm and still. The clouds parted in the dark sky to allow the moon to shine down on the trees and the countryside, and turn the gentle waters of the Truyère River a milky white. The village of Marsonne was quiet, but the atmosphere was tense, as though something was about to happen.

Guylain Joubert felt this with unease as he hefted a lump of wood and fed it to the flames. The beacon flared anew, throwing light onto the grass before the village wall and dancing shadows into the darkness beyond. Guylain rubbed his hands contentedly and crossed to the other side of the wall, where he rested his arms on the parapet and looked out over the village.

It was not yet late; the seventh hour was yet to pass. The village people would be taking their evening meal, saying their prayers of thanksgiving. Later they would retreat to their beds to sleep off the day, and begin again the next day.

Guylain's life did not work as such.

His job required him to be nocturnal, a man of the night. This did not fray him. He had no family to return to, no one to care for or to love. Instead he found his solace protecting the village people from harm; in making sure every child had parents to care for them, and a comfortable home to live in. That was his life. Besides, there was something strangely satisfying about being out at night, alone with his thoughts.

Most nights were uneventful.

But tonight, there was something in the calmness of the air that told him eerily that something was yet to come.

The faint sound of horse hooves on stone reached Guylain's ears, confirming his thoughts. Gradually it became louder, and the Frenchman crossed the wall just in time to see a lone rider ride out from the shadows at a canter. The canter became a walk as the figure got closer to the gate.

Guylain discerned instantly that the newcomer was a man, from his build and the way he sat upright in the saddle. He looked curiously at the flaming torch the man carried in his right hand, finding it strange how the horse did not react to it. Never had he seen a horse who was not the slightest bit perturbed by fire.

The man dismounted with a practiced manoeuvre. He seemed not to have noticed Guylain standing above him, but he did not start as the village guardian called down to him.

"Bonsoir mon ami. Je peux vous aider comment?"

The man did not look up; his gaze seemed to remain fixed on the gates before him, though his eyes were hidden beneath the tongue of his hood. When he spoke his voice was low and monotonous, betraying no expression whatsoever.

"Je dois parler avec les propriétaires de cette propriété-ci."

I must speak with the owners of this property.

Guylain looked surprised. "You want to speak with Monsieur François?" The de Montpierres hardly ever received visitors at this time of day.

The figure hesitated for a split second. "Yes," he said, the vaguest hint of puzzlement in his tone.

"May I ask why?" asked Guylain. He peered harder at the dark-clothed figure, trying to discern his features. Had he seen this man before?

"I have important information."

"Can I pass this information on?" replied Guylain. "Only, the de Montpierres are unlikely to want to be disturbed."

"No," answered the figure quietly. "They must hear everything I have to say tonight, from my mouth only."

There was a long moment of silence as Guylain considered. A mysterious dark stranger arriving alone on horseback in the middle of the evening, demanding an audience with the owners of the estate, to whom Guylain was most loyal? Surely he should tell the stranger to wait until the morning?

And yet there was something about the man. Maybe it was something in the way he spoke, or in the way he moved or looked. Guylain felt compelled to grant the man his audience; to give him what he wanted. Was it a sign from God? In his mind he told himself that it would be absurd to let the man do as he wished; a voice told him firmly that it could not possibly be a good idea. Yet some small part of him told him to trust his gut feeling, to let the man pass.

And in a moment of decisiveness, he decided he would.

"Very well," he said finally. "I will escort you through to the manor. But just one thing, out of curiosity..." He paused. "Who are you?"

The man looked up at him. Shadow covered most of his face, but his mouth was visible. He was smiling.

"You have made your decision already," he said in his deep, accent-less voice. "Would it really matter if you knew my name?"

Guillaume lay back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. The wood was dark; pitted. Yet it brought him great comfort. He explored its every detail with his eyes, following each twist of the grain and searching every dark cavity.

It stirred memories of his childhood. This was his room, his bed. This was where, for the first ten years of his life, he came to find peace and solace; to escape the world. In those moments it felt as if nothing had changed: he was a simple noble's son with not a care in the world, and all the time to relax.

And yet it made him realise just how much things had changed.

He looked down at the length of his body. At the jet-black tabard with the large red cross above his heart. This was his life now. His world was centred elsewhere, far to the east. It was governed by rules and regularities; routine and order. For the most part he welcomed the structured life. But he could not help but miss such carefree days, away from the boundaries and restrictions of adulthood.

That was another thing. He was different. Any other boy of his age would still be in that relaxed period of their life, but his decision to join the Temple had taken him down a different path. The Temple had changed him, matured him. He had responsibilities now, and he did not have the ability to cast them aside even for a moment. He lived with one hope in mind - that someday, all of this would pay off. For the moment, that day would be the one when he shed the black mantle for the white.

He lived for that day.

In the meantime, however, he would continue with his life of routine and discipline. And on the odd occasion when he was afforded a break from his life - such as now - he would relish every moment.

The bell of the village church chimed in the distance, announcing the eighth hour.

Guillaume closed his eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. Then it came.

From downstairs came a shrill little sound like birdsong, the product of a much tinier bell. It was right on cue.

Guillaume smiled at the familiarity of the odd little occurrence. It warmed him to know that things had not changed in the four years he had been away.

He rolled off the bed and stood up, straightening his tabard with his hands. He then checked himself in the mirror, and turned to leave the room.

The salle à manger of the manor was quite small in comparison to some of those Guillaume had seen within the manors of other lords during his travels. He always found that it made the room more inviting and snug; not brilliant for a stately banquet, but more than adequate for a quiet family dinner. The sconces lining the furnished walls filled the room with a deep warmth which was enough to vanquish the chill of even the coldest of French winters, and which always sent a shiver of delight down Guillaume's spine upon entering. That and the age-old mahogany dining table filling most of the room made this particular chamber the very heart of the de Montpierre household.

As Guillaume went to take his usual place on the centre chair of the east-facing side of the table a great variety of delicious smells assaulted his nose and made his senses tingle. For a second he paused and just stood there, taking everything in.

Then he smiled. He was home.

"Brother."

Guillaume turned. Standing in the doorway was Luc, his older brother, hardly recognisable behind his close-cropped beard. Guillaume's heart soared. He had not seen his brother in four years.

"You're back!"

Luc laughed deeply. "I've been gone a week, little brother. To Paris. Où t'étais passé?" Where the hell have you been?

Guillaume grinned. "I've been busy," he said.

"So I can see," said Luc, eyeing the cross on his brother's chest. "I like the clothes."

Guillaume grimaced distastefully. "Have you ever seen a real Templar?"

Luc smiled. "Perhaps I will, soon." He paused. "Come, brother, let us sit," he said, turning towards his own designated place at the table. Guillaume followed suit.

As the two brothers sat down to face each other others began to enter the room. Guillaume smiled warmly at his mother as she came through the doorway, helped along by Guillaume's uncle François. Close at their heels was a boy of four years, bouncing excitedly on his toes. Catalina, the family nurse, appeared in the doorway last, clearly trying to keep up with the boy.

There was a comfortable silence as everyone took their places.

Then, when everyone was settled, the waiter entered the room with the first platter.

It was perfect. As the evening drove on and the family talked, Guillaume felt more and more at home. Everything was how it used to be. They laughed and cried, remembering old times and recounting new ones. They talked about anything and everything, and it felt natural and warm. At last, the de Montpierres were a family once more. Even if that was to be short-lived.

The family worked their way through dinner, and by the time the bell for the tenth hour struck the table was clear once more. The room seemed dimmer now, as if the increasing weariness of its occupants was subduing the flames. Soon the day would end and they would all retire.

There was a knock at the door.

The room went suddenly quiet. François raised an eyebrow curiously, glancing across at Guillaume's mother. When he spoke his voice betrayed his puzzlement.

"Entre."

The door opened to reveal Pierre, the steward of the manor. He had a troubled look on his face.

"Master," he said, nodding his head respectively. "I am sorry to disturb you on such an occasion, but Guylain has brought you a visitor."

François' face creased with exasperation. "You know we don't accept visitors this late, Pierre. Why have you brought this to me?"

"He said it was a matter of great importance, sire. I was going to turn him away, but..." Pierre frowned.

"Go on," said François impatiently.

"He told me that if you would just agree to see him for a moment... He said he'd wait at the door."

François stared impassively at his steward. Everyone else was silent, glancing between the head seat and the door in anticipation. Eventually, François nodded. He rose slowly from his chair and headed towards the door.

"This had better be worth it."

When he left everything remained still. Guillaume looked across at Luc, who looked back with matching curiosity. Léo yawned sleepily and sank into his chair. Guillaume's mother stared at the door.

Many long minutes passed before the door reopened and François came through. His face was suddenly gaunt; pale. He moved with a slight awkwardness. His voice was blank; emotionless.

"Catalina," he said, not looking at the nurse as she stood up, "take Léo upstairs."

Catalina obeyed instantly, shaking the young boy awake and leading him towards the stairs. They disappeared out of view.

François waited until his son was out of earshot, and then he moved out of the doorway towards his seat. He didn't say a word.

There was a rush of breath as everyone turned and looked at the door.

At the dark figure who stood there, observing them from beneath his hood.

There were many moments of complete silence, before the figure stepped fully into the room and closed the door. Four pairs of eyes remained fixed on him as he did so.

"I expect you're wondering many things."

Guillaume jumped at the voice. It was not the voice of a seemingly middle-aged man, but that of someone much younger. And yet... there was so much wisdom in his tone.

The figure indicated the chair to Guillaume's left. "May I sit?"

He didn't seem to be asking anyone in particular, as in the silence that followed he dragged the chair round to the head of the table, directly opposite where François sat, and sat himself down. He leaned back and placed his hands modestly on his lap, all the while being observed by the family he had intruded upon.

Guillaume's eyes flicked across to Luc as his brother broke the silence.

"Who are you?" he said, anger in his tone. "What did you say to my uncle?"

The figure remained still; composed. Then, slowly, he reached up and pulled back his hood.

Guillaume had been right in thinking that the man was middle-aged. The rest, however, he could not have expected.

The man was blind. His eyes were blank; a perfect, milky white. Yet they were intelligent, wise; somehow seeing. His hair was silver-grey and short, the crop impossibly symmetrical. His face, though slightly wrinkled with age, was otherwise flawless. Not a single scar adorned it.

The man spoke again, and Guillaume was taken aback at how mismatched the voice and its owner should have seemed, but didn't.

"By instruction I go by the name Aquilo," he said, looking at Luc. Guillaume saw his brother shrink back slightly, clearly unnerved by the man's strange gaze.

"What do you mean, by instruction?" asked Luc shakily.

The man - 'Aquilo' - smiled. "That is of no importance tonight."

Luc shook his head. "What did you tell my uncle?" he repeated.

The man's smile vanished, though he did not become serious. "I told him the truth. And I told him what he needed to hear, which is what you all need to hear also."

Everyone's eyes again fixed on the figure. There was an anticipated silence.

"What is that, then?" asked Luc meekly.

'Aquilo' looked squarely ahead, past François at something beyond the wall. His words were calm, though somehow blunt and chilling.

"I told your uncle that his brother, Jacques de Montpierre, is dead."

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

"No."

Guillaume barely heard the word leave his brother's mouth. It echoed in his own mind. No. He was rooted to his chair; every muscle in his body had gone rigid. Every bone in his body began to ache. He stared at the stranger, who sat there so calmly and indifferently. The man could have been his own father, the way he sat there... In his mind Guillaume saw his father's face, the angelic visage he had treasured as a young boy, twist and contort. It was smiling disdainfully; pitifully. How could he have been so foolish, to ever have hoped to see his father again? Flames flickered around it, and it faded away. Guillaume felt cold.

The world was a different place now; far-off, distant. The only thing in existence was that one tiny room. Guillaume was suffocating. His throat was constricting. Despair flooded his mind, and a wild hunger for air, for space. He was trapped. Then he saw his father's face again. And his mind filled with rage. How could he have left? How could he have so callously just abandoned them all? He wanted to tear out his father's eyes, to rip out his throat, so that he could feel the pain he had inflicted on his own family. But that urge suddenly scared him. How could he want that for his own father? He felt suddenly very cold again.

It was like drowning. It was slow and painful, and the sky - the world - seemed very far-off. And yet he was not dying. There was no moment of absolute peace, no moment of blissful release. He would stay here forever, consumed by the pain. Buried under the surface; condemned to live a life of misery and memories.

And then, ever so slowly, the world began to bleed back into existence.

It was like the aftermath of an explosion. Guillaume was dimly aware of voices and movement, but his senses were blurred and dysfunctional. His vision converged on one person, her gaunt face swimming into focus. His mother. Isabel.

Guillaume could not think coherently; his mind was a churn of emotions. For her he felt deep pity and sorrow. She had spoken seldom the past eleven years, ever since Jacques had left. Only God knew if she would ever speak a single word again. Guillaume could not imagine what unfathomable pain she must be going through. It put his own grief into perspective, and he sobered a little.

Next Guillaume became aware of his brother shouting. He could not make out the words, they were too incomprehensible, but it was obvious they were spoken in a fit of rage. Guillaume saw François move over towards Luc, say something about upsetting his mother. Luc would not listen. Savagely he fought against his uncle's grip but to no avail, and he was led flailing from the room.

François returned seconds later, though it could have been minutes or even hours. He moved stiffly across the room and sat down in his chair. He took Isabel's hand in his own.

"Tell us what happened."

They were the first words Guillaume could fully hear, though at the same time the last. The man began to talk. Guillaume did not know what he said, nor did he care. For what now seemed like hours he stared at the pitted table, following each twist of the grain and searching every dark cavity with his eyes. He poured his hope, his ambition into every dark hole. He would never see his father.

That was all that mattered.

Some time later Guillaume became aware that the man had stopped talking. He saw François rise from his chair and move to help Isabel do the same. He guided her carefully to the stairs.

His words drifted slowly back to Guillaume as he disappeared from view. Show the man out.

Guillaume turned his head. The man was staring at him with those blank, all-seeing eyes. Suddenly it felt unnatural to look at him, and Guillaume wanted him gone. He was obtusely aware of himself rising from his seat and taking the man's arm; leading the stranger like a dog towards the door.

The night was warm, but Guillaume shivered. The moon was startlingly bright. The man tried to disengage his arm as he walked through the doorway, but Guillaume held it firmly. Then he let it go. He spied the tattoo on the stranger's wrist as it fell to his side: the outline of an open eye.

Then the stranger was gone. The night was replaced with wood. Guillaume was left alone.

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

Guillaume made his way back through the house to the dining room, navigating by instinct. He passed through the tiny room without a second's thought, the customary shiver of pain sliding down his spine. He located the stairs, and began to ascend.

A minute later he was lying on his bed. His black mantle lay on the floor beside his sword, which had fallen with a dull clunk as Guillaume brushed past.

He stared at the wall.

And then he broke down. Every emotion poured out all at once, a torrent of despair and anger and confusion.

The hot tears cascaded down his cheeks, as the church bell tolled for the twelfth hour.

Tuesday 17th June 1029


"My Brothers."

Guillaume regarded each of his seven companions, their faces lit by the dwindling flames of the campfire. Before that night he had known them only as Templar Knights; brothers-in-arms. But now, looking at them, it was as if he knew them completely.

They looked at him in the same way.

"My Brothers," he repeated, liking the tone of respect with which he naturally said the words. "This night holds great significance for me."

He said this as if realising it for the first time; but really, he had been thinking about it all the time.

"This day marks ten years since my life changed."

He looked at Symeon beside him, who looked back knowingly. He, too, had known all along.

"This day marks ten years since the day I was given a daughter."

Eloise.

He remembered her face: her small, round eyes; her jet-black hair. Ten years ago he had looked upon her for the very first time. Now, he thought sadly, she would look different. She would be somebody now, her own person, and it pained him to think that he did not know her. Part of him told himself that she did not need him; that no good could come of meeting him. Perhaps Luc had not told her she wasn't his child - perhaps she did not even know of Guillaume's existence. Perhaps the Guillaume she knew was simply Thephilos, the Patriarch of the Holy City, the same as any other person would.

But then he had remembered. He had remembered what it was like growing up without a father, what it was like to lose one. What if she did know about him, and someday it was her and her family being approached by a dark stranger and being told of his death? Could he really risk putting her through that?

He had not known his father, not really. And so he knew how dreadful it felt to lose one, even one who on the surface was just a stranger.

He could not put Eloise through that. She was his daughter.

And he had to see her.

"My Brothers," he said for the last time, "I have made my decision. I am to leave for Pisa at dawn tomorrow and shall sail west to France. I am going to see my family."

"What of us?" asked Lorenzo.

"You are all Templar Knights. You are not subordinate to me, nor are you to anyone. You included, Lorenzo. You may do as you wish."

He turned to Symeon.

"You, on the other hand..." he said, and his face broke out in a smile.

Nothing more needed to be said.