Anyway I do need to do one for weapons and armour, since there may be some unfamiliar language used here.
Spoiler! :
Chapter 5
-July 21st 1204-La tour de sang-
The whistle of the wind and the crunching of rocks under Hans’ feet were the only noises to pierce the silence which filled the canyon. Occasionally the whinnying of a horse would rise up from the string of men leaving ‘De Sang’. Hans felt sickened by the ‘men’ around him. They stank of fear. Reaching down underneath his white Templar cloak, he felt the hilt of his sword. Ahead of him Robierre Leveque rode on his horse.
Godfrey’s eyes slowly cracked open. There was a hard crust around them and dried blood caked his face and hair. With a considerable amount of strain he blinked, the movement of his muscles aggravating his swollen face even more. Pain cut through his face. His nose had been broken in the night. Peering through his half opened eyes he realised, for he was still disorientated, that he was facing the ground. Rolling over onto his back, a sharp pain shot through his chest. His back arched and he let out a cry. It was his ribs. The memory of the guards boot came back to him. The guard! Ignoring the pain, Godfrey’s eyes shot around the tent. Where was the guard? Now the memory of the guard leaving the tent came back. And so did the words he heard; ‘The Templars have surrendered.’ Reaching behind him, he began to clamber across the tent.
The weight of his mail coat on his frail body pressed down on his chest, slowing his progress. He had to escape now. Despite his ribs, Godfrey was certain he could run, or at least walk, if he had to. His movements had thrown up dust into the air and he coughed loudly as his dry throat was choked. Pausing for a moment he scanned the tent to make sure his coughs hadn’t attracted any attention; they hadn’t. He continued to crawl. He bit his lip as hard as one of his nails came away on the stony ground. He winced with pain as dust invaded the wound and blood dripped onto the sand. Overcoming the pain momentarily, he grabbed the ground and pulled himself forwards. He had barely moved a metre when a flash from the tent’s main flap brought him to a stop. He hit the floor, the impact causing him to girn as the pain returned, overwhelming his weakened body. His eyes glazed over once again...
Several Hours Earlier
Hans tightened his grip on his sword and quickened his pace. His gaze was fixed on Robierre. Pushing past the men that shuffled about him, Hans felt the thrill of combat coming back to him. Blood surged through his arms and through the slit in his helmet his eyes focused like an eagles on the elderly commander. The dust, rising slowly up from the marching men slipped through this gap, and stung his eyes. Blinking only aggravated them, and his anger grew. Further ahead in the column were two of his accomplices. Behind there were three. The rest were still in the fort, waiting to cut down any men who attempted to run back. Those outside would attack anyone in their vicinity when the order came. Deep in his thoughts, Hans failed to notice a Templar in front of him slowing his pace. The two men collided. Curses ensued. The Saracens immediately reacted, with several guards rushing forwards into the column. Hans panicked, this was too early. He was still too far from Robierre. Grabbing the Templar who was still recovering from the collision, he thrust him into an oncoming Saracen. Hans now drew his sword and charged straight through the column. One Templar turned and attempted to stop Hans. Ramming his shoulder into the man’s chest, Hans’ attacker was knocked over.
Robierre was now only a few men in front of him. With shouts rising up from the column Robierre turned his horse to witness the commotion. He saw Hans ram into his horse and knock him over. The horse fell onto his leg, aggravating a previous injury, and he felt a loud snap and the bone broke. Grasping at Hans’ blade his hand was sliced and blood ran down his white mantle. Hans ripped the blade away from the old man’s hand and threw the blade into the commander’s chest. It was the last thing he did. Now both the Templars and Saracens descended upon him. A Saracen scimitar sliced across his leg and Hans fell to the floor. A Templar drove his foot into Hans’ arm, which had been twisted round in the fall. A longsword cut across his stomach and another scimitar, probably the same one, embedded itself into his throat. The perfect, blue, cloudless sky above Hans faded to black as his eyes shut, and the shouts around him trailed off into silence.
-July 24th 1204-The Temple, Acre-
Edmund stared at the darkness beyond his window. Below him he could hear the slapping of waves against the walls, and he could taste the sea in his mouth. He knew that the sea stretched all the way to Europe, and his home. With the painful memories of his divided homeland coming back to him, he tore himself away from the window, and gazed around his small room. Many candles, on both the walls and on his desk, lit the room extremely well and several scrolls lay open on his desk. His belongings lay strewn on his bed; water skins, fruits, scrolls and maps, a dagger and his sword and armour were all arranged on the thin sheet that covered the simple wooden structure. He slowly stumbled over the cold floor and ran his fingers over the sheath of the sword, closing his eyes with the haunting images that followed. The memories were unavoidable. Ten years ago his house, an ancient line of noble lords, had been slaughtered in a terrible battle. The Holy Roman Empire had been, and still was, made up of hundreds of family states. His family had ruled over a small city state close to Bavaria. After loosing a dispute with one of the local states they were required to hand over a considerable amount of land. His father had challenged this, resulting in a battle between the two states, a common occurrence due to the fractured nature of the country. After the defeat Edmund had been forced to flee the area to Saxony. As very few lords would accept a defeated and exiled noble into their court, Edmund joined the Templar order. It was his only way out of the poverty that had engulfed his family. Only his sister and mother had remained alive after the battle and he was left alone to support them all.
Although his Templar pay was good, it was not enough to support his shattered family. In any time that he had off from his Templar duties he would accept more underhand jobs from strangers he met in the many taverns. A Templar and a murdered. It was a strange paradox, but one that Edmund willingly embraced in order to put food on his sister and mother’s table. Several times Edmund had doubted his lifestyle. How many men had he killed? Did any of his victims actually deserve death? What if someone, one day, came for him? They all plagued his mind; it had been a daily occurrence for some time. Each day he had forced it to the back of his mind, assuring himself that it was what he had to do. But now the Marshall’s demands had again blurred the line between duty, and devilry. The deceit ran much deeper than Edmund had initially thought. One particular member of the fort’s garrison had been weighing heavily on his mind since he had seen the list of men stationed at the fort.
A knock at the door broke his moment of reflection.
‘You may enter’ said Edmund, his voice came out more confident than he had expected, considering that he had just been in one of his darkest moods for a long time. Through the doorway the figure of a small boy appeared. He was no older than twelve, a stable hand, born and raised in these parts. His dark, dry skin and sunken eyes suggested that he had not eaten well lately. The boy’s rags hung of his frame and his hair was matted with manure. Despite this the boy’s face was bright and his eyes gave no suggestion of his life as a stable boy. Edmund smiled at the familiar face.
‘Hello Mohammed, are the horses ready? Come.’ Edmund beckoned the child over and, without warning, tossed an apple at the boy. The boy was quick and caught the apple with both hands. His face lit up.
‘Thank you Sir Edmund,’ Mohammed bit into the apple, letting its juices flow down his chin, ‘The horses are all ready, yours is back from the blacksmith’s, its new shoe looks good.’ He bit back into the fruit, chomping loudly on its flesh.
‘That’s good,’ replied Edmund. He smiled at the boy enjoying his meal, he knew it was probably the first he had eaten in a while. He had known the boy for three years now. His family had been killed in their shop by a marauding band of bandits and the boy only managed to survive by hiding behind several large baskets. The elimination of this band had been one of Edmunds more honourable tasks. The boy had immediately taken a liking to the German, his accent and ways were fascinating to the boy. Edmund had arranged for the boy to be trained as a stable boy for the Temple, he felt a sense of duty for the boy, but also a sense of guilt. It was as if all the orphans he had made in Germany had returned as this one boy. Once again, the boy’s voice awoke him from his contemplation.
‘Thank you sir,’ went the boy’s voice as finished the apple and placed the core in his waist sack, it would make a fine meal for the horses. Edmund quietly dismissed the boy as he again turned to the window.
The guilt was sweeping over him in waves now. His murderer’s life, this new task, and the names of the brave Templars who he would be sending to their grave, all pressed down him until he could barely take it. Glancing over to the scroll that lay open on his desk, one name came to him through the chaos.
Godfrey.
The man who had changed his ways at the preceptory in Saxony. The man who, although many years younger than him, had inspired him to give up his days as a hired blade. One of Edmund’s few heroes.
Godfrey.
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