Chapter 93: The Death of the King (1)

Richard of the Red Hair suddenly awoke from his bed.

Shawar had invited as many important figures in the Christian army as possible, from the King to his vassals, and from the lords and barons who had traveled from afar.

But there were always some who, perhaps due to excessive piety, personal preference, or simply being weary of such tedious social obligations, refused the Saracen's invitation.

Richard was one of them. Although his mother had always kept him by her side, he had never been interested in the ways of the court—the deceit, the flattery, and the fawning. He always said he would rather be a knight than a king, a sentiment that was entirely his own heartfelt, honest thought.

The only expression he could truly understand was fear, perhaps coupled with cowardice.

He preferred things to be straightforward, where everything was stated clearly and plainly, much like a knight's sword: either you killed him, or he killed you. It was not like that hellish business of speaking at great length only to point toward a problem that had never been mentioned in the conversation at all.

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

Although he did not attend the banquet, he did not treat himself poorly. He even took out some money, gave it to his squires, and told them to get him some roasted lamb and wine. After eating and drinking to his heart's content, he fell into a deep sleep.

He had expected to sleep comfortably until the next morning, but when he woke up and turned his head toward the window, he discovered that it was still the moon casting its light, not the sun. He was a bit confused; such a situation had rarely happened before.

Richard jumped out of bed, his bare feet hitting the floor, which made him shiver instantly. He grabbed a long shirt and pulled it over his head—he hesitated when he saw his chainmail, but put it on anyway. Then he fastened his belt, hung his dagger and short sword from it, and walked out the door, only to bump into Blondel after a few steps.

Richard rolled his eyes at him without ceremony, and Blondel could only shrug helplessly.

He knew that this Prince was angry and resentful for being "betrayed" by him. He was neither a courtier of Louis VII nor a follower of Henry II; his own lands were hundreds of leagues away from Aquitaine. How could he have judged that he was the son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine based merely on a few words from a troubadour and some things the knights had said?

But from Blondel's perspective, if he had suspicions but never spoke the truth, and Prince Richard were to unfortunately meet his end or lose his life during this crusade, it was hard to say whether he would be blamed by the Duchess of Aquitaine. During a crusade, knights from the same region always subconsciously gathered together; they were companions and friends. If Richard died, and Blondel claimed he had no responsibility, that would be a shameless evasion.

"What time is it roughly?" Richard asked.

Blondel turned to look at the sky. "It is probably None (between 2:30 and 3:00 AM)," he said uncertainly. Originally, Richard should have stayed in the Caliph's palace, as it had become the residence of the Christian King. But a young man of this age was always most annoyed by being constrained by his elders, not to mention that there were two elders there, one of whom was a cousin not even older than himself. He could not stand it.

So he chose a clean little building in the market not far from the palace. Blondel was therefore assigned a task by the King: to look after Richard. Richard had his own squires and servants, but if a Prince had no knights following him, it would inevitably make people suspicious of his status and bearing.

"It is still a long way until dawn. Will you not go back and sleep for a while?"

"I do not know, but I cannot sleep at all," Richard said.

Blondel and he looked at each other for a while. He looked around; although the dark blue sky light could illuminate the courtyard and the room, it was far from enough for reading or playing chess. "Then... would you like to listen to music?"

People said that Richard, the second son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine, loved to fight, but only a few who knew him well understood that his accomplishments and love for music were also peerless.

He had sponsored many troubadours and was happy to generously reward those musicians, whether folk or courtly. He did not like Blondel much, but Blondel remained by his side because this knight could play almost every instrument as skillfully as a fish swims or a horse runs.

He had played only one little tune from Marseille before the King, and it had instantly conquered Richard's heart—he even said that if Blondel had not sung such a moving song, he might very well have challenged him and knocked out all his teeth.

Blondel, in fact, was not so willing to serve Richard; he would rather serve the gentle Prince Baldwin, or wait until the war was completely over and the merchants had valued the spoils, so he could return home with honor, merit, and gold coins.

However, if Louis VII or the Duchess of Aquitaine heard that he had served Richard during the crusade, they would certainly give him a very good position. "Where is your lute?" Richard's question interrupted his beautiful fantasy.

"When I was fighting, my squire accidentally lost it on the battlefield. It is probably impossible to find now." He paused. "I can go find a merchant and buy one."

"No need," Richard said. "The Saracens love music very much. Perhaps there are a few lutes here. Let us go find one together." He could not sleep anyway.

Perhaps because it had been said early on that Richard would rest here, the original owners had only been roughly driven out—at least there were no obvious bloodstains or severed limbs.

"Who do you think lived here originally?" Richard looked around the room by the light of the sky. He had come down from the battlefield, washed briefly, and collapsed to sleep. After waking up, he had only eaten and drunk, then slept again, never noticing the decorations and layout of the room.

"It should have been a wealthy merchant," Blondel said nonchalantly. The owners of this house had left in a great hurry; all the furnishings remained almost exactly as they were, as if they were about to return at any moment.

On the walls hung exquisite silk carpets with patterns of hunting dogs chasing rabbits and pomegranate thickets. In the corners stood brass and earthenware vessels. The doors and windows were crafted very delicately, like leafy branches or multi-petaled flowers. It could be seen that the original owners lived on the second floor, while the first floor was where they entertained guests and dined.

Richard picked up a metal ornament in the hallway; it was a hand with an eye painted in the palm. Blondel took one look, a look of disgust appearing on his face, and took it away and threw it on the ground. "Do not look at it, Your Highness," he said. "That is a pagan amulet." He explained, "They say this is the hand of the daughter of their prophet, which can protect them from evil harm."

It was probably dropped when the people here left in a panic. One did not know if they were dead or alive now—the protection of the prophet's daughter was truly ironic at this moment.

In a room behind the hall, they found a traditional Saracen flute made of ordinary bamboo. Blondel picked it up and tried it, only to find that it was completely broken inside and could not be used. But since there was a flute, perhaps there would be other instruments.

Subsequently, they found a small lambskin drum in another room, but that little drum was clearly not for adults to use, but left for children to play with. Richard tapped it with his hand and curled his lip in regret. "Are there any other rooms here?"

"There is a cellar," Blondel said. "But I have been there to look; it is just piled with some grease and wine."

"Wine?" Richard said happily. "Why did you not say so earlier? Let us take them out and drink to our heart's content."

"You already have enough wine here. Those wines are just what they brewed themselves; I opened a jar, and it is neither mellow nor sweet enough."

"To me, any wine is good wine," Richard said. "Especially thinking that this is Saracen wine."

Blondel could only lead Richard down to the cellar. When climbing down the wooden ladder, his expression was still very relaxed—this place had already been searched by the knights to ensure there were no hidden assassins or people with ulterior motives.

As soon as Richard landed, he saw those stacked jars, crowded onto layered wooden shelves, which looked quite impressive. "All wine?"

"There is also some grease," Blondel said. "Palm oil and olive oil."

Richard had already opened a jar. Perhaps the original owner had markings that only they recognized, but Richard certainly did not know. He sniffed it and showed a look of regret. "It is oil." He turned to take another jar, but accidentally knocked over a few others. The jars hit the ground and shattered with a sound, and the floor instantly became slippery. Blondel sighed. "I will get it; I know which ones are wine."

Richard's smile was still on his face when, suddenly, his whole body tensed up. He smelled the fragrance of grease—olive oil, palm oil—but there was also a scent he had only smelled and become familiar with since he arrived here. "Naphtha!" he shouted, instantly crouching down to touch the grease on the ground. He put some of the sticky, slippery substance into his mouth and immediately tasted a bitterness that should not have been there.

Blondel was walking toward him, but Richard had already rushed out in that crawling posture. He had just returned to the entrance of the cellar when he saw a jar and a torch thrown down from above. The fire ignited with the sound of the jar shattering and burst inward along the flowing grease, instantly swallowing the entire cellar—but by this time, Richard had already climbed the wooden ladder, grabbed a Saracen's ankle, and thrown him into the cellar.

Outside the cellar, there were two more Saracens. As soon as they saw Richard, they fled immediately. Richard hesitated for a moment but jumped back into the cellar—Blondel was also "chosen," but the favor the saints were willing to bestow upon him was not much, and he was choking so much from the smoke of the burning naphtha that he could not pray at all. He guessed he would certainly be seriously injured, or even die.

But a large hand grabbed him out of the flames. Richard dragged him, sent him up to the cellar first, and then leaped up himself. Just as his feet barely left the wooden ladder, there was a violent shaking of the earth below, and they fell to the ground, watching as the flames shot out like a poisonous snake.

Fortunately, Richard's squires and guards were awake by then. They searched everywhere, saw Richard and Blondel, and immediately pulled them out.

Richard had half his hair singed off by the flames, and there was a bloody wound on his lower leg, the edges charred, which looked worrying. The cleric beside him wanted to treat him, but was refused—the red-haired young man took the helmet, boots, chainmail gloves, and stockings handed to him by his squire and put them on, while telling his squire to fetch his horse.

"Where are you going?" Blondel asked.

Richard glanced at Blondel with an expression that asked why some people were always so stupid. "This is not an occasional act of revenge," he said. "It is premeditated." He had clearly seen those two Saracens holding incendiary materials used in war, and how could there be so much naphtha in a merchant's cellar?

As if to verify Richard's words, in the eyes of the horrified people, one point of light after another lit up in the dark night. Their number was so great that it even exceeded the stars and the sand.

"God, God..." the cleric muttered. "They..."

"No time to pray!" Richard shouted sternly. "Let us go!"

Where to? To the Caliph's palace, of course, which was now the palace of the Christian King Amalric I. Richard did not believe that such a grand undertaking could be done without the hand of the Grand Vizier Shawar. Since he had already decided to turn this city into a new hellfire, how could he allow the King to continue living!?

——————

Cesar stabbed the soldier who was covered in fire to death with one blow, then immediately turned to push away Baldwin, whose tears were about to be scorched dry by the flames, attempting to separate Shawar from Amalric I.

Shawar was already dead, but his hands were still wrapped around the King's neck like a noose or a curse. This was why people dared not use swords to hack at him; flames were rising, and thick smoke was filling the air. Who could guarantee that they would cut off Shawar's arm and not the King's neck?

Amalric I seemed to have fallen into hell; he was being burned by flames and gnawed by wolves. He felt extreme pain, and because of the irritation of the smoke, he could not see others. He only hoped that Baldwin would not be manipulated by emotion and come to save him at all costs—he did indeed feel that someone had been helping him, but it was in vain. He wanted to tell that person to go away—the King could be sure that the person was Baldwin.

No one loved him more than Baldwin, or was more willing to sacrifice for him. He shed tears, his heart full of remorse—God had granted him an incomparably brilliant victory, and he should have repaid it with a more pious and pure "cleansing," rather than lightly believing the sweet words of a pagan.

Suddenly, he felt a gust of wind, a breeze with a chill. It gently pushed Baldwin away and protected his face and neck. The high heat and stinging pain were receding, but in an instant, this breeze turned into sharp swords. They stabbed at him, peeling off his skin and flesh, making his bones tremble in the air, producing unbearable, excruciating pain!

"Teacher!" Cesar shouted. He separated Shawar and the King, but the problem was, just as Shawar had hoped, the King had almost merged with him in the flames. The burns Amalric I suffered were very serious; he did not even dare to exert force, because with any force, charred ashes and clumps would fall off with a rustle. He did not even dare to look at Baldwin's eyes.

Heraclius immediately stumbled over. As soon as he saw Amalric I, his face turned ashen.

Among the "chosen," there were those "granted" and those "blessed." Those who received the "granted" generally became clerics and priests, except for those in the Templars or the Hospitallers, because entering these orders was equivalent to becoming an armed monk, and they would not be punished by the Church for it.

But just like the "blessed," the "granted" also had strengths and weaknesses. The weak, like Witt, could only treat small wounds that would heal on their own. The strong, like the clerics around the Pope, could even make the seriously ill recover overnight and reconnect severed limbs—Heraclius's ability was certainly stronger than an ordinary cleric, but for an injury like Amalric I's...

Cesar saw Heraclius's expression and could not help but feel despair. He had once been a doctor, so of course he knew that for a severe burn like Amalric I's—chest, limbs, face... even in his world, not everyone could be saved. Even if he could linger for a while, how could he guarantee that no infection or failure would occur later?

He lowered his head and gritted his teeth.

If only he had not left the banquet...

(End of chapter) ===== CHAPTER 94 =====