Chapter 42: The Chosen One (Part Two) (Special Thanks from the Alliance Leader!)

Daybreak came.

The night before had seen countless events unfold, but unlike us today, the people of that time dared not casually go to “watch the spectacle.” They were like rabbits or guinea pigs with keen noses and timid hearts—upon the slightest rustle or breeze, they would draw their heads in, curl up in their nests, not daring to move.

But when the winds calmed and the weather cleared, they would eagerly stick their heads out to probe for news.

This temperament led to the “Leg” tavern—where the emblems of Saints Cosmas and Damian, along with a human leg, hung—being packed from early morning.

The tavern owner was a shrewd man; even as noises still echoed through the night, he roused his son, wife, and apprentice to haul empty barrels inside, adding narrow wooden planks as benches. True, there were already plenty of benches, but he insisted they weren’t enough—not enough, not nearly enough, more were needed.

Then, while all was still quiet, they erected a flagpole out front, signaling that this tavern not only served expensive wine but also had fine new malt liquor. “Father,” his son foolishly said, “the malt liquor isn’t ready yet.”

Malt liquor was a simple drink, easy enough for anyone with hands to brew—it used malt like beer, so many confused the two.

But malt liquor contained far less malt than beer; brewers typically added pungent vegetables or fruits to bulk it out, and often didn’t even bother to boil it with time and firewood—the final product was less a drink than water with a hint of alcohol.

Malt liquor that hadn’t fully fermented was essentially… water.

The tavern owner immediately seized a poker and silently beat his son until the fool stopped showing off his petty wit.

Meanwhile, the owner’s wife had lit the stove and boiled a pot of bran-and-meat soup, adding extra water until the entire hall was thick with steam.

This way, patrons couldn’t see the thick dust and grease on the tables, nor the food scraps, human and dog feces on the floor, perhaps even a finger, ear, or nose or two—drunken customers drew knives over trivial matters all the time.

Next, the tavern owner knocked on his neighbor’s door with a bottle of wine. The neighbor was a goldsmith who frequently dealt with nobles’ stewards and servants, and thus well-informed. The goldsmith, upon hearing his purpose, demanded two silver coins—one as payment, one as a bribe.

Those two silver coins were not wasted—the goldsmith actually found him a poet.

At first, the tavern owner was not satisfied.

The poet was white-haired, hunched, his eyes clouded, and he lost a few teeth when he spoke. His clothes were dull; the colorless velvet robe had passed through countless hands, and he carried only a small lute that made noise—hardly the sort one would believe served nobles.

But he claimed he could recite backward the tales of “the affairs of France,” “the affairs of Rome,” and “the affairs of Britain”—Charlemagne, Aeneas (founder of Rome), and King Arthur.

The tavern owner merely pursed his lips, glanced at the lute, and guessed that even if the man knew how to play other instruments, he couldn’t produce a harp or flute. As for singing… the owner thought his son’s screams during the beating were more melodious than that obviously smoke-blackened old ham.

“Can you do somersaults? Stand on your head?”

The poet looked at his skeletal arms and legs and shook his head.

“Can you imitate animals or perform puppet shows?”

“A old goat stands before you—what more do you want?”

The owner laughed: “Oh, you’ve a talent for jokes. I’ll give you a cup of malt liquor and call it quits.”

“I want thirty silver coins.”

“Even the Savior doesn’t cost that much,” the owner said disrespectfully. “Too expensive. I can’t afford you.” And he prepared to reclaim the two silver coins.

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

The owner raised his head, crossed his arms, and gave a look that said, “Try me.”

“I am one of Gérard de Le Defu’s attendants—he is a noble lord and a valiant knight. I read his letters and draft his charters…”

“For God’s sake, hurry up—I’ve other matters to attend to.”

“I know exactly what happened last night, for my master was one of the knights summoned. I followed him closely, missing nothing.”

The tavern owner’s face showed disbelief: “You’re certain?”

“If I lie, may the ground split open now and let the Devil drag me down!”

“If you speak truth, I’ll find thirty silver coins—even if I borrow from the Ishmaelites and mortgage the flesh from my chest—I’ll pay,” the tavern owner said, glancing at the golden glow swelling on the horizon. He no longer bargained. “But if you utter even one false word, I’ll beat you with a stick, and you won’t get a single coin.”

He immediately called his son and apprentice, sending them to spread the word. Before daylight fully reached the top of the flagpole, people flooded in. The tavern owner kept glancing at the poet, thinking: if he’s lying just to cheat money, he should be panicking by now.

Audiences had dragged performers off stages and beaten them to death for unsatisfying shows.

The poet showed no fear. Instead, he sat on the best, central table, close to the stove, and asked for a chair.

The tavern owner brought him a cloudy cup of malt liquor.

When the tavern was packed, he struck his lute sharply, making it ring clear and drawing every eye. He made no pretense, delayed no moment. After praising God, he said plainly: “Last night, a fierce battle occurred here.”

The crowd was startled—they had suffered no massacre or raid.

“Not all wars are loud and grand,” the poet explained patiently. “Sometimes, conspiracy is like a crossbow—despised and mocked—but its arrow strikes true and kills.”

“Was it the Devil? Or infidels?”

“Both,” the poet said. “On the highest hill, in the most radiant and glorious palace.”

“What did they do?”

“They attempted to assassinate the king,” the poet said. Everyone gasped, crying together: “May God protect him!”

“God protected him—they failed. Amalric I is Christ’s mightiest warrior, a furious beast who stabbed each assassin dead.”

“The cowardly accomplices, seeing their plan unravel, heard that the king’s son, Prince Baldwin, was undergoing God’s and the saints’ trial in the church. They fled past him, set fire to the temple, hoping to burn the child alive and break his father’s heart.”

The crowd gasped. Though the Patriarch claimed Prince Baldwin was guilty—and by extension, Amalric I was too—most still felt pity for the young prince. Even the hardest hearts would say: if his father fights for God, his sins should be lessened.

Even those who doubted Baldwin were countered: “But the ‘Little Saint’ of Arasal, who never left his side, was with him.”

Then others spoke of the priest who lost his hand and died. Strangely, no one believed Cesar harmed him. After all, this pious child was so merciful, so gentle—whole cities had benefited from him. Some even vaguely felt he had refused the Patriarch because of his noble character and unyielding will.

“Honestly,” a merchant spoke from the heart, “if the Patriarch—or even a mere priest—held out his hand and asked me to come to him, I’d go at once, without waiting for any lord’s invitation. No, I wouldn’t even need an invitation—if they’d just accept me, I’d crawl beneath their robes.”

Becoming a priest or monk might be the only path for these poor to rise in rank. Though Cesar was Baldwin’s attendant, everyone saw Baldwin’s position was unstable. If being a prince’s attendant still meant becoming a monk, better to serve the Patriarch.

With his looks and conduct, a rank above fourth grade was certain.

“So you’re still selling cabbage,” a craftsman jeered loudly, drawing laughter and mockery.

The Patriarch did command some respect in Arasal—but compared to the Pope in Rome, it was like a midnight firefly beside midday sun, utterly negligible. Whether commoners or knights, all trusted King Amalric I most.

The tavern owner brought the poet a clear glass of beer.

“Then,” the craftsman asked, “if the infidels set fire to the temple, did the ritual fail?”

His words silenced the laughter. Everyone knew: once the selection began and the doors closed, they could not reopen. If opened prematurely and the candidate hadn’t received blessing, the trial was wasted—with no second chance.

“But life matters more,” someone emphasized.

“I think the child’s presence beside him proves God’s favor still holds—he must be safe,” another said, clearly siding with Baldwin and Cesar, and finding such talk offensive.

“Indeed,” the poet struck the table hard before the two could argue further, pulling them back: “The nobles and their knights searched everywhere in vain, despairing, until they returned to the king. One of his monks thought a moment, then asked: ‘Are you certain you’ve searched every place?’”

"That poor child must have been terrified," said a burly woman; women were rare in the tavern, but there were exceptions—such as the butcher’s daughter, who, in appearance, was no different from a man, even more savage and robust, yet her heart remained tender: "They should be pulled out at once, wrapped in blankets, given a drink of wine, and fed a piece of warm lard."

“No,” the monk said, “you’ve missed one place—the most sacred of the sacred.”

They looked at each other. One said: “To reach that most revered place, three great doors stand. None are unlocked yet—it’s not time for worship. Who could have carried the two children inside?”

They didn’t believe it, so they went together to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The monks there had just finished morning prayer. Three noble pilgrims waited outside the pine door of the Place of Suffering—they would be the first, accompanied by priests, to enter the holy shrine. Seeing so many with King Amalric I enter, and hearing his humble request, they were astonished.

They said: “Let us be witnesses too.”

The priests opened the first pine door—they saw no trace of the two children on the Place of Suffering. They opened the second cedar door—people searched everywhere, yet found nothing. Finally, they opened the third ebony door—but the great hall remained empty.

As despair set in, a monk suddenly cried: “Look! Look! The Holy Sepulchre is glowing!”

They rushed to the tomb, like the holy women who came after the Sabbath to anoint Jesus’ body, falling to their knees. One bold monk lifted the woolen cloth covering the tomb—and as he did, flawless white light flooded the entire hall. They felt, in an instant, they had witnessed heaven descending to earth.

At that moment, a man leapt up.

He had once received the first ring from Cesar during the grand procession, and used the money from that ring to save over a hundred people—many his own relatives and friends.

Hearing the crowd spoke of holy light in the tomb, he shouted: “Is it the Little Saint?

It must be the Little Saint!”

(End of Chapter)

“So that’s how it was!” someone suddenly cried out in realization. “I was dragged up in the middle of the night, terrified—I thought I’d defaulted on my taxes, stepped on someone’s dog, or scared some noble with my ugly face.” When people looked, they saw his face was indeed hideously grotesque, and they burst into laughter.

But the man kept a solemn expression. “When soldiers dragged me out of my home, I was terrified—I thought I’d be hanged from the rafters next. Fortunately, they only searched my room.”

Oh, how terribly inconvenienced these masters must have been.

My room was filthy, broken, stinking, and tiny. If I’d known then they were searching for those two noble children, I’d have told them not to waste their time—my hovel couldn’t even fit one dog, let alone two children.”

“Could demons have taken them?” someone interjected.

“Ah,” the poet immediately cut him off, “do not utter such blasphemous words. This is the Holy City. Shouldn’t you believe it was the Lord who saved them, rescuing them from peril, rather than demons?”

“Tell us, tell us!” the crowd urged. “We can’t wait any longer.”

The poet readily continued, “The nobles and their knights searched everywhere but found nothing, deeply discouraged, and finally returned to report to the king. One of the king’s monks thought a moment, then asked, ‘Are you certain you’ve searched every place?’”

They replied, ‘Yes. We’ve been to every place—even the nests of birds and the dens of fish.’

But the monk said, ‘No, you’ve missed one place—the most sacred of all sacred places.’

They looked at each other in confusion. One said, ‘To reach that most revered place, there are three great gates. None are yet open, for it is not yet time for pilgrims to worship. Who could have carried those two children inside?’

They did not believe it, so they all went to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. The monks there had just finished morning prayers, and three noble pilgrims waited outside the pine door of the Plaza of the Passion—they would be the first to enter the holy sanctuary, accompanied by clergy. When they saw so many people crowding in with King Amalric I, and heard his humble request, they were greatly surprised.

So they said, ‘Let us also bear witness.’

The monks opened the first pine door; they saw no trace of the two children on the Plaza of the Passion. They opened the second cedar door; people searched everywhere, yet still found no sign of the precious children. Finally, the monks opened the third ebony door—but the great hall remained empty.

Just as they sank into despair, a monk suddenly cried, ‘Look! Look! The Holy Sepulchre is glowing!’

They rushed toward the Holy Sepulchre, like the holy women who came after the Sabbath to anoint Jesus’ body, falling to their knees. One bold monk lifted the woolen cloth draped over the tomb. As soon as he did, flawless white light flooded the entire hall—they felt as if they had suddenly beheld heaven descending to earth.

At that moment, a man suddenly leapt to his feet.

He had once received the first ring from Cesar during the grand procession, and used the money from selling that ring to save no fewer than a hundred people, many of them his own relatives and friends.

Hearing that the crowd had seen holy light within the Holy Sepulchre, he could not help shouting, ‘Is it the Little Saint?’

It must be the Little Saint!’

(End of Chapter)