Chapter 93: The Death of the King (1)

Richard, with his red hair, suddenly awoke from his bed.

Shawal invited as many important figures from the Christian armies as he could—kings, their vassals, nobles and lords who had come from afar.

But some people, perhaps due to excessive piety, personal preferences, or simply aversion to these tedious social obligations, refused the Saracen’s invitation.

Richard was one of them. Though his mother had always kept him close, he had never cared for the court’s ways—deceit, flattery, and scheming. He always said he preferred to be a knight rather than a king, and this was his truest, deepest thought.

The only expressions he could truly read were fear, and perhaps cowardice.

He preferred straightforwardness—everything clear and plain, like a knight’s sword: either you kill him, or he kills you—not this damned nonsense of speaking at length only to end up pointing to a problem never mentioned in the words.

In this regard, he admitted his elder brother Henry the Younger was better at it, and even his younger brothers, several years his junior, were superior.

Though he did not attend the banquet, he did not deprive himself—he even spent some coins to have his squires bring him roasted lamb and wine, feasted heartily, and fell into a deep sleep.

He thought he would sleep comfortably until morning, but when he awoke and turned his head toward the window, he saw the light still came from the moon—not the sun. He was puzzled; such a thing had rarely happened before.

Richard leapt from the bed, his bare feet hitting the floor, sending a shiver through him. He grabbed a long tunic and pulled it over his head—hesitated for a moment upon seeing the chainmail, then donned it, fastened his belt, hung his dagger and short sword from it, and stepped outside. A few paces down the hall, he collided with Blondel.

Richard gave him an unceremonious glare; Blondel could only shrug helplessly.

He knew the prince was furious and resentful at being “betrayed.” He was neither a courtier of Louis VII nor a retainer of Henry II; his lands lay hundreds of leagues from Aquitaine. How could he possibly deduce, from a troubadour’s few words and tales told by knights, that Richard was the son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine?

But from Blondel’s perspective, if he had suspected the truth yet never spoken it, and if Prince Richard perished during this crusade, he could not be sure he would not be blamed by the Duchess of Aquitaine. In crusading armies, knights from the same region instinctively clustered together—they were comrades, friends. If Richard died, for Blondel to claim no responsibility would be shameless evasion.

“What time is it now?” Richard asked.

Blondel turned to look at the sky. “Perhaps Shenzhengjing—between two-thirty and three in the morning,” he said uncertainly. Richard should have lodged in the Caliph’s palace—it had become the Christian king’s royal residence. But this young boy, always resentful of elder restraint, especially with two elders present—one of them his own cousin younger than him—could not bear it.

So he chose a clean little house near the marketplace. The king thus assigned Blondel a duty: to attend to Richard. Richard had his own squires and servants, but a prince without a few knights at his side would invite suspicion about his status and dignity.

“It’s still early before dawn. Won’t you return and sleep a while?”

“I don’t know,” Richard said. “But I can’t sleep at all.”

Blondel and he stared at each other for a moment. Blondel glanced around—the dim blue twilight illuminated the courtyard and rooms, but was far too weak for reading or chess. “Then… would you like music?”

People said Henry II’s second son, Richard, loved combat. Only a few who knew him well realized his mastery and passion for music were unmatched.

He had sponsored many troubadours and generously rewarded musicians, whether folk or courtly. He did not like Blondel much, yet Blondel remained by his side because this knight could play nearly every instrument as naturally as a fish swam or a horse ran.

He played but one small tune from Marseille before the king—and instantly won Richard’s heart. He even said that if Blondel had not sung such a moving melody, he might well have challenged him to a duel and knocked out all his teeth.

In truth, Blondel was not eager to serve Richard. He preferred to serve the gentle Prince Baldwin, or, once the war ended and merchants had appraised the spoils at a good price, to return home with honor, glory, and gold.

But if Louis VII or the Duchess of Aquitaine learned he had served Richard during the crusade, they would surely grant him a fine position—“Where is your lute?” Richard’s question shattered his pleasant fantasy.

“During battle, my squire lost it on the field. I doubt I’ll ever find it again.” He paused. “I could buy a new one from a merchant.”

“No need,” Richard said. “The Saracens love music. There may be a few instruments here. Let’s go look.” After all, he couldn’t sleep.

Perhaps because it had been said Richard would rest here, the original owner had merely been roughly driven out—no obvious blood or severed limbs remained.

“Who do you think lived here before?” Richard, bathed in the dim light, examined the room. He had come straight from the battlefield, washed briefly, collapsed into sleep, and upon waking, had only feasted and slept again—never noticing the room’s decorations.

“Probably a wealthy merchant,” Blondel said carelessly. The owner had fled in haste; everything remained as it was, as if they expected to return at any moment.

Fine silk tapestries hung on the walls, depicting hunting dogs chasing rabbits amid pomegranate thickets. Copper and earthenware vessels stood in the corners. Doors and windows were exquisitely crafted, resembling multi-leafed branches or multi-petaled flowers. Clearly, the owner lived on the second floor; the first floor served for entertaining guests and dining.

Richard found a metal ornament in the hallway—a hand, with an eye painted in its palm. Blondel glanced at it, his face twisted in disgust. He picked it up and threw it on the floor. “Don’t look, Your Highness,” he said. “It’s a pagan amulet.” He explained: “They claim it is the hand of the Prophet’s daughter, protecting them from evil.”

Perhaps it fell when the owner fled in panic. No one knows if he’s alive or dead now—the Prophet’s daughter’s protection is a cruel irony.

In a room behind the hall, they found a traditional Saracen flute, made of ordinary bamboo. Blondel picked it up, tried it, and found it utterly broken—unplayable. But if there was a flute, perhaps other instruments remained.

In another room, they found a small goatskin drum—but clearly meant for children’s play, not adults. Richard tapped it in his hand, frowned in disappointment. “Are there other rooms?”

“There’s a cellar,” Blondel said. “But I checked it—it only held oil and wine.”

“Wine?” Richard said eagerly. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? Let’s bring it out and drink our fill.”

“You already have plenty of wine. These are just their own brew—I opened a jar. It’s neither rich nor sweet.”

“Any wine is good for me,” Richard said. “Especially Saracen wine.”

Blondel could only lead Richard down into the cellar. As he descended the wooden ladder, his expression remained relaxed—the place had already been searched by knights, cleared of hidden assassins or schemers.

As soon as Richard stepped down, he saw the stacked clay jars, crowded on tiered wooden shelves—impressively numerous. “All wine?”

“Some oil too,” Blondel said. “Palm oil and olive oil.”

Richard had already opened one jar. Perhaps the owner had his own markings, but Richard didn’t understand them. He sniffed, his face fell. “Oil.” He turned to grab another jar, accidentally knocked over several others. They shattered on the floor, leaving it slick and slippery. Blondel sighed. “I’ll handle it. I know which ones are wine.”

Richard’s smile still lingered—then his entire body tensed. He smelled the oil—olive, palm—but also another scent, one he had only just begun to recognize since arriving here—“Petroleum!” he cried out. He immediately knelt, touched the greasy substance, put some in his mouth, and instantly tasted bitterness that shouldn’t be there.

Blondel was approaching him. Richard, still crouched, lunged forward. He reached the cellar entrance just as a jar and a torch were thrown down. The torch ignited upon the jar’s shattering, flames surging along the spilled oil, instantly engulfing the entire cellar—but Richard had already scrambled up the ladder and seized a Saracen’s ankle, hurling him into the inferno.

Two more Saracens waited outside. Seeing Richard, they fled at once. Richard hesitated, then leapt back into the cellar—Blondel was “Chosen,” but the Saint granted him little grace. The smoke from the burning petroleum choked him; he could not even pray. He guessed he would be badly wounded—or die.

But a large hand seized him and dragged him from the flames. Richard pulled him up, shoved him out of the cellar, then leapt upward himself. Just as his feet cleared the ladder, a violent tremor shook the ground beneath them. They collapsed onto the floor as flames erupted like venomous snakes.

Fortunately, Richard’s squires and guards had awakened. They searched the area, spotted Richard and Blondel, and pulled them out.

Richard’s hair had been half-burned off; a bloody wound, charred at the edges, marred his calf. His chaplain tried to treat him, but he refused. The red-haired youth took his helmet, boots, chainmail gloves, and long socks from his squire and dressed himself, ordering his men to bring his horse.

“Where are you going?” Blondel asked.

Richard gave Blondel a look as if to say, How can anyone be this stupid? “This isn’t random revenge,” he said. “It’s planned.” He had clearly seen the two Saracens carrying incendiary weapons. And how could a merchant’s cellar hold so much petroleum?

As if to confirm Richard’s words, in the stunned silence, points of light flickered across the night—countless, more numerous than stars and grains of sand.

“Oh God, oh God…” the chaplain murmured. “They…”

“No time to pray!” Richard barked. “Let’s go!”

Where? To the Caliph’s palace—now the palace of King Amalric I. Richard didn’t believe such a grand scheme could be anyone’s doing but Viceroy Shawal’s. If he had already decided to turn this city into a new hell, how could he possibly allow the king to live?

——————

Cesar stabbed the soldier engulfed in flames, then turned and shoved Baldwin, whose tears were nearly dried by the fire, trying to separate Shawal from Amalric I.

Shawal was dead, but his hands still clutched the king’s neck like a noose or a curse—this was why no one dared strike with sword or axe. Flames rose, smoke choked the air—who could be sure they’d cut Shawal’s arms and not the king’s throat?

Amalric I seemed already in hell—burned, devoured by jackals. He felt only agony. Blinded by smoke, he saw no one else. He prayed Baldwin would not be swayed by emotion, would not rush to save him—he felt someone trying to help him, futilely. He wanted to tell that person to leave—he was certain it was Baldwin.

No one loved him more, or would sacrifice more for him. Tears fell; his heart filled with regret. God had granted him a glorious victory—he should have repaid it with a purer, more devout “cleansing,” not trusted the sweet words of a pagan.

Suddenly, he felt a breeze—cold, gentle. It pushed Baldwin away, shielding his face and neck. The searing heat and pain receded—but in an instant, the breeze became sharp blades, piercing him, stripping his flesh, making his bones tremble in the air with unbearable agony!

“Master!” Cesar cried. He had torn Shawal from the king—but as Shawal had hoped, the king was nearly fused with him in the flames. Amalric I’s burns were catastrophic. Cesar dared not apply pressure, for blackened ash and charred lumps crumbled away at the slightest touch. He could not bear to meet Baldwin’s gaze.

Heraclius staggered over immediately. The moment he saw Amalric I, his face turned ashen.

Among the “Chosen,” there were those granted “Bestowal,” and those blessed with “Grace.” Those with “Bestowal” usually became monks or clerics. Except for those in the Knights Templar or the Knights Hospitaller—joining these orders meant becoming armed monks, and thus not subject to Church punishment.

But like “Grace,” “Bestowal” varied in strength. The weak, like Wit, could heal only minor wounds that would heal on their own. The strong, like the monks near the Pope of Rome, could cure grave illnesses overnight or reattach severed limbs. Heraclius’s power was stronger than an ordinary monk’s—but for Amalric I’s injuries…

Seeing Heraclius’s expression, Cesar felt despair. He had once been a physician; he knew well—such severe burns, across chest, limbs, face… even in his world, not all could be saved. Even if survival were possible for a time, how could he guarantee no infection or organ failure followed?

He lowered his head, clenched his teeth.

If only he hadn’t left the banquet…

(End of Chapter)