Chapter 25: The Unlucky Count Etienne (Part 2)

It snowed.

Geoffroy Fouché said, the white-haired Templar knight expertly touched branches, ground, and stones, “But even so, we must press on, or we won’t reach Azaz by night—staying out in this weather is death. Even if God protects us from darkness and cold, dampness will turn our legs into sticks.”

He pushed himself up on his knees, spat on the ground, and made the sign of the cross, “To hell with devils and infidels—let’s go!”

At his words, the few others who had received the Grand Master’s orders followed him out of the “Beehive House.”

This crude conical mud-brick hut, including its base, was only three royal feet in diameter (a royal foot being roughly two meters), about two royal feet tall, its walls and floor made mostly of earth, wood shavings, and dead leaves; aside from the low door requiring knights to bend low, it had only a small skylight at the top—really just a hole.

Cesar was the last to leave the house; he forced himself not to look at the corpses piled behind it like firewood… These bodies belonged to the Beehive House’s owners—by gender and age, likely a father and two sons, along with their wives—perhaps because there were three men in the household, they had been able to build such a mud-brick home—this was their precious asset, and the source of their doom…

Cesar’s group first encountered the youngest son and his mother, standing before a lightning-felled pine tree, scraping its bark with stone flakes to eat; the bark they took was not the outer, rough, hard layer, but the white inner phloem, thinly scraped off with sharp stones or knives—fresh phloem was crisp, tender, and slightly sweet.

As for how Cesar knew this, it was of course Baldwin—he had found such a delightful companion willing to leave his room that he longed to share every joy with him.

When Cesar saw the mother and son, he smiled—the joy of sharing phloem with Baldwin still lingered in his heart—until he heard Geoffroy roar: “Infidel unbelievers in Christ!” Simultaneously, two soldiers and Geoffroy’s squire shouted: “Enemies of the Son of the Virgin Mary!”

They spurred their horses toward the two miserable figures, yet did not immediately strike them with axes and clubs—was it mercy? No, they deliberately let them run; later, Geoffroy said, the mother and son were dressed neatly—though what they wore was hard to call clothing, they at least were not naked, and wore shoes made of bark, proving they had a shelter.

They had disembarked in Tripoli and ridden hard for days, exhausted; to spend the night in this wilderness without shelter was impossible.

The mother and son, perhaps never having encountered such a thing, or like hunted beasts having lost their wits, did exactly as the Templars expected—they ran toward their “shelter.” A man burst out of the house—the woman’s husband, the child’s father. Seeing the scene, he knew it was dire, dropped to his knees, arms spread wide, hands clasped before his chest in prayer.

Geoffroy struck him down with one axe-blow. From the house rushed another young man and his wife; the young man gripped a stone knife, crying out in anguish—but he was alone, how could he threaten these knights with years of battle experience?

The entire event unfolded in a few breaths. By the time Cesar caught up, all the original inhabitants lay dead in pools of blood—he was stunned, unable to move, until Geoffroy’s squire roughly shook him awake, ordering him to help gather the bodies; in this cold, blood quickly congealed, corpses stiffened in an instant—they dragged them behind the house. When they left, hungry beasts in the woods would follow the scent and devour them clean.

When Cesar entered the house, they had already lit the firepit—a hole dug in the ground. The soldiers found a clay pot, likely the family’s most valuable possession besides the house, placed it over the fire, melted snow to boil, and added their rations of grain, beans, and salted meat.

The barley gruel was soon ready. Since Templar knights were essentially armored monks, they ate in silence; someone had to recite scripture. This duty fell quickly to Cesar—the one among them with the most literacy, the clearest voice, and the least seniority.

Only after they finished did it become Cesar’s turn. He tried desperately to forget what had just happened, but every mouthful of barley gruel carried a thick stench of blood.

The soldiers exchanged meaningful glances. “Still a child,” Geoffroy said, watching him finish. “Do you pity those infidels?”

Cesar fell silent for a moment: “No… my lord. I was just wondering how you recognized them.”

Regardless of their faith, the peasants here dressed alike: a long robe, barefoot or wearing bark or wooden shoes, belts either frayed ropes or twisted scraps of leather; in winter, they wrapped themselves in every scrap they could find.

Geoffroy smiled, stroking his chin. Templars were required to shave regularly, overseen by brothers called “Robe Masters,” but his beard grew unusually fast—just days after leaving Arasal, it had sprouted thick, bristly stubble: “I’d like to tell you it was my sainted patron, Eulatus, who wiped my eyes with his sleeve, granting me sight to see scorpions hidden among bees, serpents coiled in bushes—but…”

He glanced at Cesar.

People often mistakenly believe all military power in Arasal belongs to the king and his vassals—this is untrue. Every Crusader knight’s origin lies in “fighting for Christ,” not for king or lord. They remain steadfast, under the protection and supervision of the Papacy, forever.

The Templar Order, having firmly supported Innocent II during a papal election, received greater honors and privileges than other orders: they could elect their own Grand Master, build private chapels, collect tithes instead of paying them, confer holy offices, and anyone who harassed them would be excommunicated… and more.

Naturally, the king could not tolerate such unchecked forces—indeed, several—within his realm. Amalric I cultivated good relations with the Hospitallers but had poor ties with the Templars. Just a few years ago, Amalric I clashed with the Templars over land in Transjordan—a vital frontier territory bordering Egypt. Amalric sought to claim it for Arasal while contending with Nur ad-Din, but the Templars refused.

Amalric I was forced to compromise, demanding the Templars hold one position at all costs. He never expected that days later, the Saracens seized it. Enraged, he ignored counsel and executed twelve Templars held responsible for the failure…

Because of this, though the Templars still supported Amalric I, their relationship was far from harmonious. So when Heraclius brought this child—everyone knew he had once been a slave, only becoming the prince’s squire by winning the prince’s favor—Geoffroy was reluctant, accepting him only reluctantly.

But like many, Geoffroy soon grew fond of the boy after only a short time. So when Cesar asked this question, Geoffroy did not slap him as he would any other squire, nor whip him—he first gave the expected answer, then, meeting those green eyes, spoke gently.

“The truth is, our messenger died. This is the first household we’ve encountered. We don’t know if there will be others, how far we must travel, whether the snow will grow heavier, whether we’ll meet wolves, bears, or Seljuks.”

“We need to rest well, eat well—these people… I can tell you they had no cross in their house, and when they saw us, they did not invoke the name of Jesus Christ—but these are trivial matters. Their greatest sin was simply being here.”

“Don’t say we could negotiate, could ask to stay one night—this place is too small; it can hold only us or them. If they were truly Christians, they would have sacrificed their home to us, God’s hand of aid, and stepped outside—then they’d face freezing or being devoured by beasts. Better to die by holy strike, and reach heaven faster… Of course, if they weren’t…” He did not finish. Nor was it necessary.

What could Cesar say? Unless he stood now and walked outside to freeze to death, he had to accept this bloody grace—but it was wrong, he told himself.

Early the next morning, as Geoffroy touched branches, earth, and stones to gauge temperature and dampness, sparse snow fell again from leaden clouds. Geoffroy had traveled many times between the Holy Land and mainland Europe (hence his assignment here) and knew this maddening weather well.

Low clouds, howling winds, swirling blizzards were terrifying—but this: a light snow, a clear day, a cloudy day, another light snow—this was deadlier. Snow fell, melted, then grew bitterly cold; if the next day remained icy, the melted snow would freeze into brittle, slippery ice—not hard, but treacherous. Their messenger had broken his neck because, in haste, he kicked his horse; the horse reared, stepped on ice, and fell.

Those who never lived in this era will never understand how vital a messenger was.

In this world, humanity was still far from nature’s equal. Between villages and cities, cities and cities, the dominant landscape remained wilderness, desert, cliffs, rivers, swamps, beasts, and birds. A person or group could walk for days, even months, without seeing another soul. That’s why, whether going to market, to work, or on pilgrimage, people traveled in groups—and always needed a messenger.

A messenger—more accurately, a guide—was a true artisan: excellent memory, great courage, bravery, and absolute loyalty (to avoid leading enemies to villages or castles). He knew where to go, how to go, pace and rhythm, what tools to carry, what clothes to wear, where to look ahead, where to rest and drink.

Such skills and secrets were passed only from father to eldest son, who passed them to his eldest son; even second sons were barred. Passed down generation after generation… If the line broke, it became a matter serious enough to draw the attention of stewards or lords.

When they left Tripoli, they had such a messenger to guide them to Azaz. But fate was cruel—the messenger broke his neck, leaving them stranded in an unfamiliar land. Had Geoffroy not known this route well, they wouldn’t even have known where Azaz was… let alone other villages or settlements.

——————

“What are you looking at? The snow?”

Baldwin turned. Heraclius stood behind him, the gaunt monk gazing at the prince, asking softly: “Are you thinking of Cesar?”

“Yes…” Baldwin said: “I even regret it, Master. The snow hasn’t stopped, and they’ve gone so far.” If he had voiced his request at the start, Cesar might have only searched Jaffa or Caesarea, perhaps reaching Acre—but by the third day, the Order’s men had spread across all of Arasal, heading toward Tripoli and Antioch. They could only place Cesar on the route toward Tarsus, leaving only Templar knights behind—if possible, Baldwin wished Cesar had joined the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre.

“Trust him,” Heraclius said. “He is doing this for you.”

At the same time, he sighed inwardly. He could understand why Amalric I feared such a small child. They had once guessed he might be a count’s son; now, even a royal prince might not possess Cesar’s vision, courage, and resolve.

Simply put, Wit was still a knight’s son when first sent to the prince’s side—he immediately sank into self-destruction. Those rat-like eyes saw only silver coins, roasted meat, barrels of beer, and pretty women. He never imagined that with the prince’s and king’s favor, his future could be boundless!

And Cesar? In Heraclius’s view, no one could have started worse. Yet this child, without even a surname, could go anywhere and make people like him. Any other man would have grown arrogant, intoxicated by it—but he remained composed, clear-headed.

He even knew his greatest weakness—and immediately acted to mend it.

When he returned from Golgotha, even Heraclius thought it enough. Perhaps Prince Baldwin did too—he joyfully took Cesar’s arm, treating him as another brother, presenting him to all. Indeed, through this asceticism and good deeds, he had earned the right to be a prince’s squire. But what if Amalric I died unexpectedly, and Prince Baldwin, as promised, became King of Arasal?

King of Arasal, Guardian of the Holy Sepulchre, Leader of the Crusades—this was not the same as a prince clinging to life. The difference was so vast it could make people forget their fear of leprosy.

Then counts, dukes, princes would flock—where would there be room for a mere squire?

So Cesar must go. He had no backing. His only capital was his bond with Baldwin.

(End of Chapter)