Just Outside Jerusalem, 12th Century - Second Crusade

Gilbert de Chevalier’s armor felt heavy on his shoulders, his sword cumbersome in the palm of his gauntleted hand. He glanced over his splintered shield, rent nearly in two by a Saracen blade, and discarded it-it was useless now, and he was glad to rid himself of the weight. He breathed heavily, issuing great hot puffs of air from his lungs, and peered through the narrow slit of his helmet’s visor, sweeping his gaze across the sandy battlefield.

Black pillars of smoke curled from the craters where balls of flaming pitch had been hurled by the siege weapons at the field’s edge, choking the light from the burning desert sun. The battle was almost over-more men lay moaning on the ground from their wounds than still stood clashing and crashing against each other in the bloody dance of war, and most of the Saracens had fled back into the desert.

A place on his thigh stung a bit, and he glanced down; an arrow protruded from the metal plate of his greaves, not quite piercing through to flesh. It was fletched with three feathers-two black, one yellow. Desert sun or no, he was glad for his armor. He would have to have his squire run the armor to the smith, though. He flicked his gaze across the battlefield again, across the field of mangled limbs and blood-soaked dust. Assuming, of course, that his squire was still alive.

He grasped the arrow’s shaft in one hand, and jerked it free of the metal, then cast the thing aside. Someone called his name, and he glanced up to the sight of a soldier approaching, hefting a bloodied spear. The man wore only a leather tunic, studded with metal rivets, and a cap made of tightly-woven steel rings. A gash bled bright on the soldier’s arm.

“My lord Gilbert,” the man said, saluting with his good arm.

“Report,” the knight said quietly, removing his helmet. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the cool rush of air on the hot skin of his face. He opened his eyes again and watched the soldier.

“My lord, the Saracens are in full retreat. We have held the city with minimal losses. Many of the men are eager to pursue them. Shall we?”

“Nonsense,” Gilbert replied. “They want us to follow, where they can fight us fatigued and weakened by thirst. Their wizards can conjure water from dry sands, but we would have only dust on which to slake our thirsts.”

The soldier saluted and turned to leave, but another voice spoke up.

“So you would let them escape to torment us again and again?” The grumbling voice belonged to a knight in green-plumed armor. Gilbert’s blue eyes sought out the man’s crest: a falcon clutching a rose was emblazoned on the man’s shield. Small bits of gore splattered the knight’s boots.

“Sir Humphrey.” Gilbert acknowledged the man with a nod. He turned slightly to face the other knight; Humphrey was, marginally, Gilbert’s second in command-loyal, perhaps, to the crusade, but only so far as it allowed the man to bathe his sword in Muslim blood and maybe cut out a parcel of land or two for himself on the way. Gilbert thought it prudent to limit his subordinate’s power as much as possible. “Day by day, Saladin’s attacks lessen in intensity and his numbers dwindle. It won’t be long before his army breaks.”

“Hmph. Saladin’s bitches breed more of the scum even as we speak. The bastard’s no fool; he wants us to think he’s weakened, so we’ll lower our defenses. I say we chase the sons of whores back to their base and cut every last one of them to the ground.” Humphrey pulled off his helmet, revealing a long face with a thick shaggy beard-his teeth, wide and blunt, reminded Gilbert of a horse. The man spat on the ground and Gilbert’s eyes watched the small glob of spittle where it landed-a waste of water, he noted.

“We cannot afford to move our army into the desert,” he replied, shaking his head. “We’d be dropping of thirst and heat within a week. Further, following them would require us to divide our forces. Who then would defend Jerusalem? Saladin is not the only Saracen leader in the region.”

“Hmph. He’s the only important one. The Saracen beast will falter if we but sever its head. As to water,” Humphrey said. He shrugged his wide shoulders, spat upon the ground once more. The waste seemed offensive to Gilbert. “Well, God will provide.”

“Faith alone cannot provide the sustenance needed for an army of our size,” Gilbert replied, shaking his head.

Humphrey smiled a horse-like grin. “Gilbert de Chevalier! Surely you do not suggest that God would fail to provide for His chosen crusaders? I wonder, does King Baldwin know of your impiety?”

Gilbert glared at the man, his lips tightening into a frown. Humphrey was trying to back him into a corner; Gilbert was, by decree of Baldwin, king of Jerusalem, commander of the city’s defenses-no doubt, a position Humphrey would kill to have. It was a tenuous position, easily stripped away. He suppressed a growl; he was growing impatient with this upstart knight, and his mood was further impeded by the discomfort of his armor.

His thigh itched, and he could feel something slick dampening the spot between his skin and the leather padding beneath his armor; his thoughts drifted back to the arrow-perhaps it had penetrated deeper than he had thought, but the wound wasn’t particularly painful. He pushed the thoughts away and returned to the matter at hand, sighing softly.

“My faith is a matter concerning myself and God, Humphrey. My orders stand; we will return to the city, regroup, and await…await the next Saracen attack.”

Humphrey’s smile seemed to widen, and he bowed slightly. “Of course, my lord. We are, no doubt, both fatigued and our tempers are flaring because of the sun. Once we have rested, perhaps we will pursue the matter more. Might I add, you look particularly taxed. Are you well?”

Gilbert’s leg was burning now, like fire in his veins. He could feel it all the way up into his hip. He felt feverish; his armor stifling, the armored gorget at his neck made breathing laborious. His tongue felt dry and sponge-like, his lips cracked, and he shook his head.

“Water…” he mumbled.

“Of course, my lord,” Humphrey replied, smiling; he turned and called out to someone: “You there! Bring water for Sir Gilbert!” Though Humphrey shouted the words, they seemed dulled and quiet to Gilbert, hollow; he thought, for a moment that he had forgotten to remove his helmet.

Someone pressed a tin water cup into his hands, and Gilbert lifted it to his lips, he couldn’t seem to get any into his mouth, and spilled the water along the front of his armor. His vision was blurred, and he squinted to the focus on the person that had handed him the water cup; Humphrey’s squire, a youth named Remy. The young man held a longbow in one hand; a quiver of arrows stuck out behind his back, showing the fletchings of the arrows-two black, one yellow. Somehow, that seemed like it should have been significant to Gilbert, but he couldn’t seem to recall why. There was a strange look in the young man’s eyes-expectant perhaps, before Gilbert’s vision blurred over again.

“Mm…Humm…phrey?” The knight reached out a hand, vaguely comprehended that someone had grabbed it.

“My lord, perhaps you should lay down. Boy, fetch one of the Hospitalers.”

Gilbert opened his eyes, but it hurt to do so-it was very bright, and he was vaguely aware that he was no longer standing upright. He couldn’t feel his left leg, but he groaned as his other limbs felt like they were burning. He gasped for air, sucking it in with shallow breaths, and tried to reach to loose his gorget, though he couldn’t be sure his hands were moving. A shadow blocked out the sun as it leaned over him; he thought he saw a horse smiling at him, its blunt teeth moving, but he couldn’t seem to make out the words.

The fire reached his lungs, and his breath turned to flames in his chest; there was a moment of lucidity, and he opened his eyes, wide and bulging, to stare up at Humphrey’s smiling teeth.

“B..b..astard,” he choked.

Humphrey’s smile widened and he patted the knight’s forehead with a cloth.

“So was Christ, my friend. So was Christ,” Humphrey replied. He left the Gilbert choking on the ground, and stood, sweeping a hand out over the battlefield.

“Treachery!” Humphrey bellowed, drawing the attention of God’s soldiers from across the field. “Saladin’s mongrels have mortally wounded Sir Gilbert, not in glorious battle, but with foul venoms!” His words hung in the air for a moment, and he let them sink in; by his feet, Gilbert choked out a last ragged breath, a death rattle in his lungs.

“Come, friends! Ready your swords and shields once more! Those Muslim devils will pay for the good Christian blood they’ve spilt here today! Into the desert!”