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.

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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.

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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.

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"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.