Chapter One
A fresh, cool wind brushed a sweaty strand of dark hair from Andre’s face as he hunched over, planting the seeds with care. He glanced up at the bright blue sky; once again clear from any clouds. Sunshine had kept the workers warm for nearly seven days now, and Andre hoped it would last and that it would not freeze over as it had the year before.
As he placed the seeds in the cool, freshly plowed dirt he could hear another worker start up a song. He joined in quietly, thinking as he sang the love song that his mother once sang when his mother’s eyes had still shined and she had smiled. The song she had sung before his father had died.
Sans fausser, car mi penser
Without falsehood, for my thoughts
My memories, my pleasures
And my desires are perpetually
En vous que ne puis guerpir
‘entroublier
Of you whom I cannot leave
Or ever briefly forget
“Andre!” a cheery but deep voice called his name, taking him from the beautiful thoughts that swirled in his mind as he sang the song.
Andre stood up, taking in the sight of his friend, Jacques who was now striding towards him, his footsteps equaling five of Andre’s. “Jacques, you should get back to work,” Andre said as his friend towered over him. Andre leaned down, nestling another seed into the rich, brown soil. “You remember what happened to Edmond when he was caught not doing his job.”
Jacques smiled a crooked smile, the only part of him that would always remind Andre of the four-year-old orphan he had first befriended. “Always worried. Don’t be. It will be fine, I just wanted to speak to you for a moment.”
“About what?” Andre asked, standing straight and grabbing a few more seeds from the small pouch on his belt.
“Well, I hear that one of the shepherd boys was going to court today,” Jacques said, eyes full of excitement.
“So? What for?” Andre ran his thumb across the smooth surface of the small grains of wheat he held. He looked down away from the joyful gaze of his friend, wondering what a small shepherd boy would have to do with him, a worker of the fields.
“He says he’s seen the Son of Mary himself!” Jacques bursted out, making a few men look in their direction.
“Shh,” Andre said, trying to quiet his friend before one of the over-lookers saw the two conversing. Andre pulled his friend down, ordering him to plant seeds as he spoke. “And what do you mean, ‘The Son of Mary himself’?”
“He saw Christ! I am telling you the truth Andre, or at least what the other boys told me. Rumors goin around sayin that he is going to ask the king this very day if the youth of this land can go fight those damn infidels in the Holy Land!”
Andre’s eyes widen and he paused, the grain firmly in his hand. He bit his lip and wiped away the sweat that was beginning to gleam on his forehead with his free hand. Another crusade? One for the youth, one for Andre. “If,” he paused, thoughts beginning to mush together in excitement, or was it fear? “If the king allows it, will you go and fight?”
Jacques nodded eagerly. “Yes, of course! Anything to get out of this retched place.” He sighed, glancing at the workers hunched over in their work, old and young alike. “Andre, I told you that someday I was going to leave this place. I have no family, and I want more than this.”
“Then, if King Phillip allows it, I will go with you.” Andre smiled weakly, his thoughts concentrated full on his father, of how he had died in the last crusade years ago. He would fight for his father, for revenge.
Jacques let out a small groaning sound. “What about your mother?” he asked, gesturing towards the direction of the far field where his mother was most likely planting other crops.
Andre bit his lip and slowly lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I suppose that when we find out whether or not we are leaving I will tell her.”
“She is not going to let you leave,” Jacques said, raising his eyebrows. “You know that right?”
Looking at his friend and slightly glaring, Andre began to lecture Jacques. “If you think she won’t let me go because of my father you are wrong. He is the reason I would be going.” Andre fingered the seeds as he continued to speak. “My father died because of those bloody savages, and I will kill as many as I can to regain his honor.”
Jacques nodded, knowing that he should never have said anything to dampen his friend’s spirit and bring back the harsh memories and teasings. Jacques sighed as he stood up, brushing the dirt off his knees. “I best get back to cutting the fire wood,” Jacques whispered and turned, leaving his friend in the dirt, still fingering the seeds in his hand.
* * * *
Andre ate his cold meat slowly, chewing the tough, dark meat for a matter of moments before forcing a swallow and taking another bite. His stomach growled as he looked at the small remainder of bread he had left. He ate better than many of the workers, only because he never disobeyed orders.
His mother ate a slice of bread, her eyes not leaving Andre’s face. She never smiled anymore and her eyes were dim and full of hidden regret. Andre knew that she wished his father had never left, that he had never died. He also knew that sometimes late at night his mother would leave for a strong drink to wash away the pain. Not that it ever did. When she would come back she would hobble to the small bed of hay and wrap a moth eaten blanket around herself, tears running down her face and her sobs keeping Andre awake.
He would hate to leave her like this, if the rumors proved to be true. He took a drink of water, lost in his thoughts. His heart pounded as he thought of the men who had killed his father in the Holy Land, and the men in his own land that had snooted about how he died a traitor, how he believed it to be wrong to kill those who did not share the same faith.
They are liars, Andre thought, taking another bite of his hard bread. My father did not die a traitor. I will die with honor as he did, and everyone shall know that we are not traitors, not threats to this land.
The sound of drumming footsteps took Andre from his silent thoughts. He looked towards the small doorway where a thin cloth hung as a door, hardly shielding the wind in the winter.
“Andre!” Jacques’s voice called and he burst into the small hut; sweat shimmering on his forehead and his breaths coming out in quick pants. “Andre,” he said his friend’s name breathlessly, placing his hand on his heaving chest. “The king did not care for the shepherd’s idea.”
Andre’s heart slowly began to sink, but at the same time floated, like a stick drifting through a snaking river’s rapids. He let out a sigh, one of relief or despair he did not know.
“But,” Jacques continued. “It doesn’t mean that the shepherd boy, Stephen, won’t lead us to the Holy Land.”
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