By Fenrir Van Gageldonk
Preface
The following is a fictional and stylised story that draws heavy influence from very real and very gruesome world events. There is explicit reference to the Second Crusade (1147-1150) and to the Third Crusade (1189-1192) as well as many principal actors involved in those events, though the story does focus on a fictitious character invented for the purposes of storytelling. I have made every attempt to be as historically accurate as possible with regards to the timeline of the events and the weapons of the era and keeping locale names as they were in the latter part of the twelfth century. I sincerely and humbly apologise for any glaring errors I might make as it is not my intent to romanticise the version of events.
This is a story that, for me, comes from a place of wonder and amazement. I have held a lifelong fascination with all things medieval and I find great joy in learning and talking about major events that shaped not only Western, but Middle Eastern and even Eastern history. Yet do not let such a fact distract you. This whole story, in its entirety is a wholly Western world construct, written and directed from that viewpoint. I will not lie and say I have made every effort to portray people as accurate as possible. No, I have endeavoured to tell the story from a singular perspective – a violation of my internal and personal rules as a writer. With all that said, the story is no less enjoyable due to the presence of these prejudices and biases, because every story is a product of its era. I have merely wanted to encapsulate the chosen era that Crusader focuses on.
Contrary to what many companies would have you believe, the best way to deal with prejudice and racism and sexism is not to ignore it or pretend as though it does not exist. Such a stance does more harm than good. For me, to deal with such complex and controversial issues, we must acknowledge them, for they are a part of our history. Trouble begins to arise when we romanticise and glorify such heinous actions. Therefore, I have done my best to not glorify or romanticise any aspect of Crusader.
As a final note, I would like to take this chance to acknowledge the countries in which this story takes place and pay my respects to the custodians of those cultures. I do not consider myself an expert, and I do not mean any form of disrespect to those who engage with this story. I sincerely hope you enjoy Crusader.
I. Call to Action
A lone bugle call shattered the morning peace. At the crack of dawn, it rang out across the sweeping fields and luscious forests I called home. Even the roosters dared not sound out against it, and I could imagine them tucking their heads under their wings as though a storm were coming. In a way, there was a storm coming. A storm I had long expected.
Moreover, the explosive call sent my estate into a frenzy. The shuffle of feet and the clamouring of voices began to rise with determined purpose. Even from my vantage point, high above the fields, there was no telling how far away London’s envoys were, and the servants thought best to be ready at a moment’s notice. Feet shuffled outside my door in hurried fashion. When I closed my eyes, I could see their bare feet, or their ruined shoes and I despaired. I knew such a sensation all too well. The ability to go barefoot saved my arse so many times the last time I went to war. Whether I snuck through the dense forests of the continent or navigating through the narrow streets of the Holy Land, the removal of any sound from my feet was nothing but a positive boon.
The voices of male and female servants broke through the oak threshold of my heavy chamber door with some form of clarity and brought me out of my memories. Some of the voices I recognised since they spent many long years in my service. Other voices were not so familiar to me. A major downfall of being a feudal lord. Yet, even with my lack of knowledge, I could tell that the clearest aspect to the voices of my servants was the level of excitement in the halls.
“Must be a new King on the throne,” said a female I did not recognise.
“Nay, that be a war horn,” Mister Becca replied.
“Oh, aye, it be something to be afeared of,” Miss Bonde interjected.
They were both right. Mister Becca was the master of the estate in my stead, so he knew all about the various sounds and calls and what they mean. The call on the distance was indeed a horn of war. Though, it carried more than a battle meaning with it, and the first female was righter than she knew. The sound indicated the party of the King amidst the envoys he sent. A sound I was more than familiar with since I heard the same sound forty and two years prior. The combination bugle call heralded a new quest. A new chance to cross the world. For a new Crusade had come, it seemed.
The light streamed in through a thin sliver in the massive cobbled wall. I took a deep breath. Perhaps the biggest I had taken in a long time. A dainty groan emanated from beside me and I craned my neck to the source. My wife, Amice, as beautiful as a midsummer dawn over the Channel, lay beside me, half-covered by the sheets. I ran a leathery hand down the ridges of her spine. Her muscles twitched under my touch and the motion stirred her from her light slumber. With a dopey roll, she turned her head to face me with a groggy grin. Her green eyes, innocent and pure, peered out from underneath a veil of red hair so long it touched her arse. I never thought of her as a great beauty, but I was grateful to call her mine. Even if she was half my age.
“Worry is not a good look on you, milord,” she said.
“Hard to not worry when I have so much on my mind. Now, it seems I’m off to war again,” I whispered.
Amice pushed herself up with a small grunt. She shifted herself enough to throw an arm across my body. Her breasts pressed against my side and I could feel her perky, chilled nipples on my ribcage. Amice lay her head on my chest after giving a flick of her neck and caused her hair to cascade down our bodies. I could spend hours upon hours worshipping every lock and I doubted if Amice would complain. We lay there on our massive, ornate bed in silence for a few moments.
“I will not let them take you,” Amice mumbled and squeezed me in a protective fashion.
“That is not an option. I have to do this. For England. For the Crown. For you.”
I cupped Amice’s chin and craned her neck up so she could see me smile as I said those words. Her nose was off-centre by a few degrees, but it suited her. Her eyes watered and my heart skipped a few beats as a tear slipped free of her eyelids. No man wants to see his wife cry. No man wants to see the woman that he loves with all his heart crying. So, I wiped her cheek with a fat, calloused finger and captured that lone tear in the process. A harsh rapping on the door interrupted our moment before she could respond or offer any kind of encouragement.
“Enter,” I boomed.
The door cracked open and Miss Bonde entered. She was a plain servant from a small village to the north of my estate. Well, I should say she was plain except for her quite buxom chest. But I would not let that distract me, nor did my other male servants. At least based on what I knew. I knew those not born into nobility played loose with the laws I followed. The Crown was a fickle mistress, yet one I was all too happy to serve, because I cared.
“Pardon me, milord, but the morning feast will be ready shortly. Shall I assist the lady with her dress?” Miss Bonde asked.
I gave a firm nod to Miss Bonde before turning to lay a sweet kiss on Amice’s forehead as another servant entered my chambers. Miss Bonde crossed the room to the archways that flanked either side of my bed. I shielded my eyes against the light that streamed in from them when as Miss Bonde pulled back the heavy velvet drapes. This was the only room in my estate with such a garish feature.
I sat up and turned to place my feet on the woollen rug under my bed. I dug my toes in for a few seconds as I savoured the sensation. I had no idea when I might have the opportunity to do so again. I proceeded to lift myself off the bed with a heavy groan and limped over to the window. The limp was the result of the last Crusade. I caught the blade of one of the Seljuks during the last days of the campaign. The apothecary tended to it as best as he could on my return to England, but the injury never healed the way it needed to.
At the window, I took a deep breath of fresh air. I could smell the pollen in the air and the beautiful buzzing of honeybees as they scouted and searched for the perfect flowers. My weary eyes gazed out over the fields that ringed my estate and disappeared over the horizon. Though I could not distinguish any details, I saw the figures of dirt-covered paissaunts as they worked the fields below and tended to a variety of animals. A funny word, paissaunt. The Romans used the descriptor plebeian to refer to their working class.
For me, the word paissaunt seemed like a derogatory term at first, but in my more recent years, I often took the time to walk through the shanty towns they used as their homes. Yes, they craft their structures and furniture from old scraps of wood and chunks of rock with old linen or a makeshift mortar made of mud, but they are never wanting for food. And as I walk through their villages and towns, all I get from them is an aura of joy and a sense that they are happy with their lot in life. A sentiment I have come to share.
Of course, my good relations with my paissaunts cause some of my lordlier neighbours to believe I am too compassionate toward those who serve me. Those same lords also happen to be the ones who look down upon me because I am not a noble by birth unlike them. I am proud of the fact I earned my nobility through my actions in the Crusade and I would not wish for it to be any other way.
“Ready my horse. I fear I will need it before the midday,” I said to no one in particular, but I knew a dozen servants would rush at the opportunity to do my bidding.
A gust of wind ruffled through my rugged facial hair. I looked to my left and stared at my reflection in the dull mirror. A myriad of scars cut through my left brow and nicked my upper cheek. A series of wounds, but each of them told a fantastic story about my first time in the Holy Land. As a contrast, a longer and far older cut marred the other side of my face. A relic of my childhood and the atrocities my father committed against his children and his wife. It was why I let the coarse, grey hair ringing my face grow to such an extent. It distanced me from him and I knew my father would hate such a thing. He spent his whole life wanting people to remember him. And here I was, doing all I could to prevent such a thing and I do not regret my actions, even if they caused me pain. Though, given the King was on his way, I had to do something about my facial hair. I felt it would be uncouth to present myself in a dishevelled fashion.
I took a moment to glance over to where Amice stood on the opposite side of the room. I had no real time to register my own lack of clothing as I witnessed quite the scene. I had to stifle my laughter as Miss Bonde struggled to lace my wife’s bodice. Amice did not have time to notice me before Mister Becca, bald as always, pushed into the room with his barber tools in hand. He gave a curt bow before he spoke.
“A shave, milord? It seems the King’s banners ride high on the horizon,” he said.
I sighed as I looked back out over the fields below, taking in the tranquillity of the scenario. In a way, I was glad there was another Crusade. Despite the comforts and luxuries it wrought, spending my life at court was not something I fancied for even my worst enemies. I was far more comfortable in the field with a sword in hand. If I focused hard enough, I could still remember the feel of a warhorse under me, the way every one of its muscles moved as I charged into battle alongside thousands of other Crusaders. I could remember, with great clarity, the feel of my steel carving through flesh and bone and the feeling of sand falling between my fingers. Sand! For me, there was nothing like it and I yearned to bury my feet in those particles one last time. But I had my own motives for wanting to return to the Holy Land. There was a task I set in motion during the previous Crusade and it was a task I needed to finish.
However, I had to deal with the present right now. So, I closed my eyes and let out a breath I did not know I was holding. I turned and gave a tip of my head to Mister Becca who, either out of courtesy or habit, gave another crisp bow and went to prepare his workspace. I grabbed and threw the nearest sheet around my body to make myself somewhat decent. It was poor form for the head of the estate to walk around with nothing on, though I will admit I put the rule in place as a reflection of my modest nature. Even if I did not have to walk far for Mister Becca’s shave, I was far more comfortable with something covering my scarred, muscled body. I was not the same specimen I was when I was a young soldier, but I maintained peak physical condition, or as close to my peak as I could get.
I stepped out into the high hallway, now bustling with activity. Paintings I did not care much for adorned the walls, whilst coloured streams of light criss-crossed the cavernous height through the stained-glass windows. A beautiful technique, but expensive to purchase and maintain. But the beauty above was not my focus. I retuned my gaze planetward and stared at the door across the hall from my chambers. It was the one place in my estate I reserved for my use only. None but myself and those I invited inside could pass the threshold and I did not extend the invitation very often.
One might expect my private room to contain a myriad of lavish decorations, but I chose to keep the décor simple. Inside, I maintained a cast iron tub for bathing whenever I felt the need to do so, which was no more than once a week at most. I made sure to keep a heavy curtain covering half the room to dress myself behind. There were a few well-crafted stools to accompany a heavy bench I often used as a workspace. I pulled out one of those stools and sat down on it with a grunt and a groan of pain. I gave a firm nod and Mister Becca set to work with a razor, his skilled hands cutting back my ragged beard with expert speed and precision.
We did not speak to each other as Mister Becca worked. I felt it was an unnecessary action and I believed there was a high likelihood words would distract Mister Becca. More than that, I thought perhaps a haircut would restore my youthful vigour and make me see myself in a better light, as I did when I was much younger. Perhaps I was of the impression a haircut and a shave would reinvigorate me and break me out of the monotony I found myself mired in. I kept my hopes low, however. I learned on my last Crusade not everything will go to plan. In fact, almost nothing ever goes to plan.
Yet, I took the time to appreciate how skilled Mister Becca was with a razor. Not once did he nick my skin or yank any hairs. He was soft as he worked, and it made the experience much nicer for me. Thinking about what lay ahead for me, it made me realise that having someone at my beck and call to cut my hair was one of the few luxuries I missed whenever I travelled on business or for matters of state. Indeed, before I knew it, Mister Becca finished my shave and was already laying out my clothes for the day when I noticed he was no longer circling me. I shook my head and turned my focus to Mister Becca, who gave another curt bow. I glanced at my reflection in a small mirror and gave a weak smile. When I gave my nod of approval, Mister Becca gathered up his tools, gave a flourish, and departed from the room.
This was another major reason why my lordly neighbours tended to vilify me, since it was custom amongst most of the nobility for servants to dress the lord, I felt that was not something I should subject those who served my estate to. Those who served my estate already did more than I wanted or needed them to do, so every chance I got, I tried my best to give them fewer tasks. As it stood, the ability to dress myself was about the sole thing I could do on my own. Though, I will admit it was a pain to squeeze into a doublet. However, every time I looked at myself in a mirror while wearing such clothing, I was appreciative of how well it hid the scars across my body. I was doing the final button on my clothing when a sharp rap emanated from the door.
“On my way,” I said.
My voice was more than enough to satisfy the servant in the hall. I smoothed out my shirt and straightened my back as I placed my hand on the heavy iron door handle. With a deep breath, I pulled the door open and stepped outside. The servant, a plain woman in my eyes, dipped low and seemed happy enough even as I struggled to remember her name. Miss Burnham? No, I remembered her as one of the cooks. Miss Burgh? No, I was wrong again. Miss Burgh was one of the stable hands and a damn fine one at that. Perhaps this was Miss Burns? Yes, yes, that was correct, I was sure of it. I brought her to my estate after her former lady discovered she was the mistress of her husband. Such an event was not surprising, given Lord Stanhope was notorious for sleeping with anyone he could. I was too loyal to my darling Amice to even consider adultery.
I followed Miss Burns along the expansive corridors of the upper level of my estate. Every surface had not a speck of dust, or if they did, I did not have the keen eyesight to spot such anomalies anymore. As one might expect, all the corridors led to a central area where the handcrafted stairs drew the gaze of anyone who entered my home. From the landing at the top, the stairs opened into the garish entry room and the towering ceiling defining the nature of my estate. It was not a design choice I had any say in making, given I received the lands and estate from a previous owner who did not look after the place too well. Miss Burns’ voice interrupted my thoughts.
“The Lady looks astonishing today, milord,” Miss Burns said.
“I’m lucky to have her,” I replied.
As we walked down the stairs, I ran my hand along the smooth mahogany of the railing. It was one thing I had a say in the make of and I made a decision that came from the heart. In contrast to the very Frankish nature of the rest of the estate, the stair rail was of a more eastern style, like those I encountered in the Holy Land.
Once we were at the bottom of the stairs, Miss Burns led me into the great hall. A room so ostentatious, I preferred to allow squatters to use it overnight as a place out of the elements, except when I used it for lavish feasts for all subjects in my jurisdiction at harvest time. So, when I entered on this day, my heart skipped a beat when I saw the two dozen soldiers lining the hall, clad in the finest armour I ever laid eyes. And above their heads at the rear of the room, the banner of the King hung from the wall. My eyes drifted down from that banner and across the long oak table, taking in every knot and blemish in the wood. I could see the years of cutlery nicks and the abuse taken by such a beautiful piece of furniture. But all that paled in comparison to the figure who stood at the opposite end of my table. The King himself. Richard I in the flesh and clad in what I could only assume to be silks from the far east. I was quick to remember my manners and I bowed low, even though it pained me to do so.
“Your Majesty. To what do I owe the pleasure?” I said.
“Three Kings. You have seen them all, known them all. You have spent long years of your life fighting for them. Many years serving them, Sir. The pleasure of this meeting lies with me. For ‘tis not often one can say they had the opportunity to meet a living, breathing Crusader. Well, I suppose we are all Crusaders now, aren’t we? Undoubtedly, you know why I am here. You know the reason for my visit. The Holy Land lies threatened by the enemy. And by the grace of God, we must take it back. Can I count on you to join me?” the King asked.
From what I knew and understood, no one dared to turn down a King’s offer. It was not something anyone dreamed of doing. Besides the prestige and honour such a personal invitation provided someone, given that this was the King himself asking me, it brought to light the fact it would be easy for him to label someone such as myself as a traitor and a turncoat. I knew I had to agree to go on the Crusade, if only to appease the Crown, but I did not want to do so under King Richard’s terms. A decision most would think twice before making, but for me, I had many long years to consider this. And I would not turn down the opportunity to speak my mind. I had to make sure King Richard knew I had business elsewhere in the world, not to mention how suspicious I was of the path the King’s men would take.
“I will fight for you, yes, but I will take my own path there. I am not as spry as I used to be, and the road will be hard for me. I must take my time and use a route suited to my current health. Do not fret, for you will have all the men you require, but I humbly request a dozen of my best as my own escort,” I said.
“Done.”
The feeling of tension and dread fled the room as the word left the mouth of the King. The corners of his mouth lifted into a subtle yet approving smirk. Something about it rubbed me the wrong way and I could not help but feel a little uneasy. Even as my servants brought out the morning feast, my eyes never left the King. Even as he and his guards sat down around my table and exchanged pleasantries with those hurrying around. I offered my own gratitude to my house servants but my focus remained on King Richard with exclusivity. I watched with keen interest as the King bowed his head and offered his thanks to those who served my house. The way his body relaxed and moved did not seem calculated and in fact, Richard seemed a genuine and nice person with every passing moment. That fact alone made the entire scenario seem stranger in my mind. And such a thing was worrying to me.
King Richard did not stay long after the grand feast I presented to him. I stood when he had finished, and he gave me a courteous and grateful tip of his head. I turned on my heel and began to escort him to the entrance of my estate. I tried my best to hide my limp, though my ears picked up on the murmurs spreading between Richard’s escort. They could say whatever they wished about me, for I knew I had the experience advantage over them. I suspect it was a major reason why Richard sought me out. I knew what to expect not only in the Holy Land, but on the way to the Holy Land. I had experience where most of his court did not. We paused at the main door to my estate and I think the King could sense my hesitation.
“You are doing a good thing. I know most of your peers look down upon you and they disregard things you might mention, but they do not understand the pain or suffering someone such as yourself underwent for this country. You embody and epitomise the meaning behind ‘For King and Country, and I am glad you are on our side,’ he said.
I nodded my head with a small degree of uncertainty before opening the door to the front lawn of my property. I smiled and gave a small gasp when I saw what awaited the King. The white steed that carried the King felt as regal as the man himself and that is no exaggeration. I always imagined how royalty carried themselves and now I had my answer as King Richard stood beside his mount.
Though, before the King mounted his horse, he cleared his throat and gave a stern nod to one of his subordinates. The sullen man reached into a rucksack strapped to his beast before he stepped forward with a jewelled scabbard and sword and presented them to the King with a low bow. King Richard took the items and ran a gloved finger over the untarnished pommel of the sword with the faintest of smirks.
“Before I leave, I have a gift for you. An acknowledgement of your pledge to England and her King. May it serve you well,” King Richard said.
The King spoke about the sword held out in front of me. He presented it to me with all the grace a King can muster. With a gracious bow, I took it in my hand and found myself surprised by the lack of weight behind the weapon. I drew the sword from its sheath and looked at the well-crafted blade in my hands. The blade, with a length of thirty-five inches, was long for a sword, even if the weight was deceptive. Of greater intrigue to me was the hilt and the representation of what it meant should I accept this call to action. The King wanted those on the Crusade dedicated to the task, so the hilt was a sign of what I was fighting for. It was a crucifix. My heart sank as I could no longer decline the King. I had no choice but to go on another long march from home and this one was not a march I would return from.
I gave a sharp nod and a pair of stable hands rushed over to assist the King into his saddle, gilded with jewels and minerals. The beast and the way in which Richard sat in the saddle served as a solid reminder of why I loved the thrill of combat. Of course, most knights of my status do enjoy the company of their equine companions, given the regularity of tourneys and fighting across England. Yet the horse of King Richard was something much different and it showed. Besides the fact that it carried a powerful man, the beast itself came from nothing less than horse royalty. I could see the distinct signs throughout the coat of the mighty steed and the way the prominent muscles of the great beast drew my eye showcased the sheer pedigree behind the creature.
With a whistle and another loud bugle call, King Richard spurred his horse forward and I watched the party of the King fade into the distance. I sheathed the sword in my hand and let out an anxious sigh. I lost myself in thought for a few seconds before I felt a soft hand touch my elbow. I blinked and turned to see Amice next to me. I turned my whole body to come face to face with her and all my children from both Amice and my first wife. It gladdened my old heart to see they treated Amice as their own mother, even if my eldest son, Wyot, was older than she was. As is custom, he was the first to step forward and without a word, he kneeled in front of me.
“Let me come with you, Father. Let me help you represent our house,” he said.
I was afraid something like this might happen. He was a strong lad, built like a bull and intelligent. In a way, he was identical to me when I was his age, though as was the case between generations, he was a lot more brash than I was. It was fine to have bravado, but perhaps Wyot took things a little too far sometimes. Still, I clamped a hand on his shoulder as I released a deep breath.
“No, son. You have a life to live. The world rests on your shoulders and I won’t see you wander across the world with me only to have you die before me. I won’t bear the responsibility of your death on my shoulders,” I said in a low voice.
It seemed that Wyot understood my words, even if the anger flushed through his face initially. But he took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes and relaxed his muscles. When he returned his attention to me, he was a different man. Still, that did not stop him from bowing his head with all the grace of a dead buck. I was smart enough to recognise it as signature of pain and sadness, though whether that was true or not I never found out. All I had to go on was my own experiences. So, all I could do was hope Wyot would come to recognise that I made this decision not out of fear, but out of love. Even if I seemed dismissive of his offer of help. Plus, all I could do was hope he did not do something he would regret after I left.
Once Wyot moved away and stormed off to the house, my other children stepped forward, but they were far less vocal about my departure. My eldest daughter, Eda, tried not to cry, but as she threw her arms around my neck, I saw the water forming in her eyes. I could hear her choke back a sob or two and I tightened my arms around her. Even though we shared no words, my gentle reciprocation of her affection was enough to reassure her of how proud I was of her and she was making her mother proud. My next three eldest children, aged seventeen, sixteen and fourteen, could not help but cry and wail as they threw their arms around me. That took me by surprise and almost threw me off-balance. I did not anticipate them to understand the gravity of the situation I was facing. But they were smart, much like their mother. And it meant they were far smarter than I.
Then there was the first child I had with Amice a couple of years back. Yes, she was still a toddler, but she was determined to hold onto my leg as she approached me with a babbling mouth. I picked her up in my arms and cuddled her close to my breast. I knew she loved that as, when she was a baby, I often held her close to my heart when she could not sleep. This time, she snuggled into my neck and babbled some unintelligible words. I kept my eyes open, trying my best to blink back any tears trying to form. I watched as a gentle breeze from the west blew through the fields. The stalks of grain fluttered in the distance, sending a wave of pollen rocketing into the air. The tail of the wind sent wispy strands of my daughter’s hair flailing into my face.
“You be a good girl and listen to your mama and your brothers and sisters. They will guide you and help you through these formative years of your life. I must go on a long trip and when I next see you, you will be a big girl,” I said.
Amice was the last to step forward. I handed our daughter off to her, much to the chagrin of the child, who screamed the instant I released my grip on her. I moved my hands to cup Amice’s cheeks and pressed my forehead against hers. Her eyes begged me not to go, but she knew that if I disobeyed the King, I would risk the lives of everyone in our care. I loved Amice for a myriad of reasons, but her selfless nature was something I adored above all else about her.
“I love you,” she said.
I grinned. “Not as much as I love you.”
“Milord, it is time,” Mister Burton, my steward, said.
I planted a kiss on Amice’s forehead and pulled back from her. She grabbed my hand before I could step away and I felt her slip something into my fist. I glanced down and saw the golden tinge of the locket she kept around her neck. I choked back a cry of anguish. It was my wedding gift to her, and I knew what receiving it back meant. She did not expect me to come back, and for good reason. She knew all too well I intended to make one final trek to the Holy Land before my death. And I told her it would indeed be the last thing I did.
“Is my armour there?” I said to Mister Burton.
“Aye, Milord. I sent messengers out this morning when I heard the bugle call. The strongest lads will meet us at the edge of your estate,” Mister Burton replied.
I nodded and stepped back from my family. I did not take my eyes off them until I felt the warmth of my horse, Boomer, at my back. Even then, I turned only to clamber into my saddle. A few of my house guards mounted up alongside me. I looked back at my estate, taking in the sweeping scale of the granite and the colour of the slate meshed within the gaps. The last thing I did was clip my new scabbard high on my side before I dug my heels into Boomer’s sides. He reared up and let out a protracted whinny. It sent adrenaline coursing through my body and the moment his front feet hit the ground, I spun him around and we took off in a gallop, my escort in hot pursuit. Only once did I glance back over my shoulder to see Amice’s hand raise in the air in one last farewell.
And I knew. I knew from that moment, apart from my dreams, I would never lay eyes on Amice again. A thought that scared me, but also brought me some degree of peace. I was not going on this Crusade for myself alone. No, I was going on this Crusade for Amice. And for my children. It was my love for them that drove me to want to fight. I wanted them to have freedom of faith and to show them some things are worth fighting for. The call to action came to me.
I have answered.
Fenrir's Lair 
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