Chapter 42

Dawn has broken.

I do not know how many things happened the night before, but unlike us today, people back then did not dare to easily go "watch the excitement." They were like rabbits or guinea pigs, keen-scented yet timid; at the slightest sign of trouble, they would shrink their heads and curl up in their nests, not daring to move a muscle.

But once the wind died down and the weather turned fair, they would impatiently poke their heads out to scout for news.

This temperament led to the "Human Leg" tavern—the one with the sign of the two saints, Saint Cosmas and Saint Damian, and a human leg—being packed to capacity early in the morning.

The tavern keeper was a shrewd man. Even while things were still stirring in the middle of the night, he had called up his son, wife, and apprentice to help move empty wine barrels into the hall and add narrow wooden planks to serve as stools. If one were to ask, there were already plenty of stools, but he only said it wasn't enough, not enough, they needed more.

Later, while it was still quiet, they erected a flagpole in front of the door, which meant the tavern not only had expensive wine but also freshly brewed ale. "But Father," his son said foolishly, "the ale isn't even ready yet."

Ale is a simple, weak wine that anyone with hands can brew. Because it uses malt just like beer, people often confuse the two.

But the main ingredient of ale, malt, is much less than in beer. Usually, the brewer adds some strong-smelling vegetables or fruits to make up the volume, and they don't necessarily spend the time or firewood to boil it—the final product is less like wine and more like water with a wine-like smell.

Ale that hasn't fully fermented is probably just... water.

The tavern keeper immediately picked up a fire poker and silently gave his son a beating until the idiot stopped showing off his cleverness.

Meanwhile, the keeper's wife had already lit the stove and boiled a pot of wheat bran broth, adding plenty of water, which filled the entire hall with steam.

This way, customers couldn't see the thick dust and grease on the tables, nor the food scraps, human and dog excrement on the floor, or perhaps even a finger, ear, or nose or two—drunken customers drawing knives over trifles was a common occurrence.

Immediately after, the tavern keeper used a bottle of wine to knock on his neighbor's door. The neighbor was a goldsmith, a well-informed person who often dealt with the stewards and servants of the nobility. The goldsmith heard his intent and asked for two silver coins—one as payment, the other for greasing palms.

These two silver coins were not wasted; the goldsmith actually managed to find him a poet.

At first, the tavern keeper was not very satisfied.

This poet had a head full of white hair, a hunched back, cloudy eyes, and when he opened his mouth, a few teeth fell out. His clothes were not clean, and that velvet robe of an unrecognizable color had passed through who knows how many hands. He only carried a small lute that could make a sound, which was barely acceptable; it was truly hard to believe this was a fellow who served the nobility.

But according to him, he could recite the "Matter of France," the "Matter of Rome," and the "Matter of Britain"—that is, the deeds of Charlemagne, Aeneas (the founder of Rome), and King Arthur—by heart.

The tavern keeper just pouted critically, looked at his small lute, and guessed that even if he knew how to play other instruments, he couldn't produce a harp or a flute. As for singing... the keeper had to say, the sounds his son made when getting beaten were more pleasant than that of this old, obviously smoked-to-death piece of meat.

"Can you do somersaults or stand on your head?"

The poet looked at his arms and legs, thin as withered wood, and shook his head.

"Can you mimic animals or perform puppet shows?"

"An old goat is already standing before you; what more do you want?"

The keeper laughed: "Oh, you have a bit of talent for wit. I'll give you a cup of ale, let's call it even."

"I want thirty silver coins."

"Even the Savior wasn't worth that much," the keeper said disrespectfully: "Too expensive, I can't afford you." And he prepared to go immediately to reclaim the two silver coins.

"I only need one sentence to convince you, you miser," the poet said.

The keeper held his head high, arms crossed, showing a "go ahead and try" look.

"I am one of the attendants of Gerard de Redefort. He is a noble lord and a valiant knight. I am responsible for reading letters for him and drafting contracts..."

"For God's sake, hurry up, I have other things to attend to."

"I know everything about last night, because my master was one of the summoned knights. I followed him closely and didn't miss a single movement."

The tavern keeper showed an expression of disbelief: "Are you sure?"

"If I am lying, may the ground immediately split open and let the devil drag me down!"

"If what you say is true, I will come up with these thirty silver coins, even if I have to borrow money from the Isaac-people and use the meat on my chest as collateral," the tavern keeper glanced at the golden light surging on the horizon and stopped haggling, "but even if you made up a single word, I will beat you with a wooden stick, and you won't get even a penny."

Afterward, he immediately called his son and apprentice over and sent them everywhere to spread the news. Before the sunlight had illuminated the entire flagpole, people swarmed in. The tavern keeper glanced at the poet from time to time, thinking that if he were just lying to cheat money, he should be panicked by now.

It was common for audiences dissatisfied with a performance to drag the actor off the stage and beat him to death.

The poet did not show a hint of panic; instead, he sat down at the best table in the very center, right next to the stove, and even asked for a chair.

The tavern keeper served him a cup of cloudy ale.

Only when the tavern was packed did he strike the lute hard, making it emit a crisp sound to attract everyone's attention. He did not play mysterious, nor did he drag things out. After praising God, he said straightforwardly: "A fierce battle took place here last night."

The crowd was somewhat astonished, as they had not been subjected to slaughter or plunder.

"Not all wars are grand and spectacular," the poet explained patiently: "Sometimes, a conspiracy is like a crossbow, which people criticize and despise, but the arrow it fires is solid and can take a person's life."

"Was it the devil, or the pagans?"

"Both," the poet said: "Right on that highest hill, in that most brilliant and glorious palace."

"What did they do?"

"They plotted to assassinate the King," the poet said. Everyone present could not help but gasp and shout in unison: "May God protect him!"

"God protected him, and they did not succeed. Amalric I is Christ's strongest warrior; he was like an angry giant beast, stabbing the assassins to death one by one.

Those cowardly and despicable accomplices saw that things were going poorly, and hearing that the King's son, Prince Baldwin, was in the church undergoing the test of God and the saints, they fled from before him and set fire to the sanctuary, wanting to burn the child to death to break his father's heart."

People let out a cry of alarm. Although the Patriarch said Prince Baldwin was sinful, and Amalric I was also sinful, most people still held some pity for this young prince. Even those with hearts as hard as iron would say that since his father was fighting for God, his sins should be reduced for him.

Even if there were still those who questioned Prince Baldwin, others retorted that the "Little Saint" of Al-Azar had stood by his side from beginning to end without leaving.

Then others spoke of the cleric who had lost his hand and his life. Strangely, no one thought he had been harmed by Cesar; after all, this pious child was so compassionate and gentle, and a whole city of people had benefited from him—people even vaguely felt that his refusal of the Patriarch was also because of his noble character and firm will.

"Honestly," a merchant spoke from the bottom of his heart: "If the Patriarch, no, even a cleric, reached out to me and asked me to go to his side, I would definitely walk over immediately. I wouldn't even need those lords to invite me—no, where would I need an invitation? As long as they were willing to accept me, I would immediately crawl under their robes."

Becoming a cleric or a monk might be the only way for these poor people to jump classes. Although Cesar was the prince's attendant, everyone could see that Prince Baldwin's position was not stable. If being a prince's attendant still meant having to become a monk, it would be better to go to the Patriarch's side.

With his appearance and character, a holy office above the fourth rank would be absolutely no problem.

"So you are still here selling cabbage," a craftsman mocked loudly, causing a burst of laughter and ridicule.

The Patriarch did indeed have a bit of respect in Al-Azar. But this respect was like a firefly at midnight compared to the midday sun of the Pope in Rome, completely unworthy of mention. Whether it was the common people or the knights, the one they trusted most was still King Amalric I.

The tavern keeper served the poet a cup of clear beer.

"Then," the craftsman asked again: "Since those pagans set fire to the sanctuary, did the ceremony fail?"

As he said this, the crowd's smiles faded. They certainly knew that once the selection ceremony began and the doors were closed, they could not be opened again. If they were opened prematurely and the person being tested had not yet received the blessing, this trial would be in vain, and there would be no second chance.

"Life is more important, though," someone emphasized.

"I actually think that having that child by his side indicates that God's favor must still be there, and he should be safe and sound." Another person was clearly on the side of Prince Baldwin and Cesar, and felt irritated hearing such words.

"Indeed," before the two could argue, the poet struck the table heavily again, bringing them back to the original topic: "Amalric I was like a lion, scattering the wolf pack. The knights were like hunters, setting nets and traps, waving clubs and swords, leaving these terrified beasts nowhere to go. Seeing no way to escape, they set fire to the sanctuary's porch. Flames rose, and blood, thick smoke, and curses poured into the hall..."

"The poor child must have been frightened," a stout woman said. It was rare to see women in the tavern, but there were exceptions, such as a butcher's daughter. In terms of appearance, she was similar to a man, even more savage and robust than a man, but her heart was still soft: "They should have been taken out immediately, wrapped in blankets, given a drink of wine, and a piece of hot lard."

"Some people did suggest that," the poet let out a long sigh: "But the King said, perhaps this is the trial God has given them.

Abraham once placed his eldest son on the altar. Today I will also place my eldest son on the altar. God is merciful; He could not bear to see Abraham's eldest son truly die, and replaced him with a lamb.

I believe He will surely treat my eldest son with the same compassion."

The poet took out a feather and plucked the strings. "He refused, only guarding outside the door. He did not open the door, nor did he allow others to open it."

Now, not only the knights and nobles surrounding the King at that time, but even the listeners could not help but look worried and full of concern. Although they felt that the two children should be safe and sound—after all, God was so merciful, how could He bear to see His pious and valiant warrior suffer such heart-wrenching pain?

There was another reason for the crowd's acquiescence.

That was behind the Sanctuary Church—the Omar Temple we mentioned earlier—where a huge stone was displayed, with a depression in the middle. Although the pagans said this was the mark left by their prophet when he rode a horse to heaven, the Christians still firmly believed that this was the altar where Abraham sacrificed his eldest son.

With such significance, and the King's oath, no one could say: Open the door.

They waited until the time of the morning prayer, the door was opened, and people rushed in eagerly. But no matter how they searched, even knocking on the walls and climbing the roof beams, they could not find the figures of the two children. Where did they go?

There were thousands of eyes and thousands of ears here. Every witness had checked before the door was opened. The wax seal on the door had only slightly melted at the edges, and the rest was intact, with the names signed by each witness with an iron pen neatly arranged on it.

Afterward, it was the Grand Master of the Templars and the Chief Priest who took the keys from their chests and opened the door together.

The King was extremely anxious, and people scattered to search everywhere.

"So that's how it was!" someone suddenly realized and shouted, "I was called up in the middle of the night, terrified, thinking I owed taxes, stepped on someone's dog, or that this face of mine had frightened some noble." People looked, and sure enough, he had an incredibly ugly face, and they laughed out loud.

This person, however, said with a serious face: "When I was driven out of my home by soldiers, I was terrified, thinking I would be hung from the roof beam the next moment. Fortunately, they just looked around my room.

Oh my, it was really a grievance for those lords.

My room is dirty, broken, smelly, and small. If I had known then that they were looking for those two noble people, I would have told them not to waste their effort. My nest couldn't even fit an extra dog, let alone two children."

"Could it be that the devil snatched them away?" someone interjected.

"Sigh," the poet immediately interrupted him: "Do not utter such blasphemous words. This is the Holy City. Instead of the devil, don't you think it's more likely that God saved them and freed them from peril?"

"Hurry up, hurry up," people urged, "we can't wait."

The poet continued gracefully: "The nobles and their knights searched everywhere without success and were very frustrated, but they had to report back to the King. The monk beside the King thought for a moment and asked, are you sure you have searched every place?

They said yes, we went to every place, even the birds' nests or the fish's nests.

The monk said, no, there is one place you haven't been to, and that is the holiest of holies.

They looked at each other in dismay. Someone said, there are three gates leading to that most venerable place, and now it is not yet time to receive people's worship. Not one of the locks on the three gates has been opened. Who could have sent those two children in?

They didn't believe it, so they came to the Holy Sepulchre Cathedral together. The monks there had just finished morning prayer, and three noble pilgrims were waiting outside the pine door of the Passion Square—they would be the first to step into this holy hall accompanied by the cleric—seeing so many people crowding in with King Amalric I, they were quite surprised after hearing his humble request.

So they said, let us be witnesses too.

The clerics opened the first pine door, but they could not see the two children in the Passion Square; the clerics opened the second cedar door, and people walked everywhere, but still could not find the two precious treasures; finally, the clerics opened the third ebony door, but the hall was still empty.

Just when they were feeling disappointed, a cleric suddenly said, look, look! The Holy Sepulchre is glowing!

They rushed to the Holy Sepulchre, like the female saints who anointed Jesus' holy body after the Sabbath, and prostrated themselves one after another. A cleric boldly lifted the wool cloth covering the Holy Sepulchre. As soon as it was opened, flawless white light filled the entire hall, and they felt as if they had seen the Kingdom of Heaven descend to earth in an instant."

At this moment, someone suddenly jumped up.

He had received the first ring handed over by Cesar during that grand parade, and with the money exchanged for this ring, he had saved no fewer than a hundred people, many of whom were his relatives and friends.

Hearing that everyone had seen holy light in the Holy Sepulchre, he couldn't help but shout, "Is it the Little Saint?

It must be the Little Saint!"

(End of chapter)