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The Crusader Chronicles - Volume I: Deus lo Volt!

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"Sir, there is a man wandering aimlessly about, he requires your attention," the guard snapped sharply.

Awoken from his daze, Kazimierz seemed rather stunned, "What? Oh... yes, of course." Slowly rising from his chair, Kazimierz hauled himself out into the courtyard. Spotting the man, looking quite comical, he stifled a laugh. As the man approached him, it became extremely obvious he was unbelievably drunk. While Kazimierz was a military man, it certainly did not stop him from partaking in massive consumption of vodka. He could remember--well, not really remember, but his friends described it very well--times when he was heavily drunk. This man though seemed to have recently drunk of wine.

As the Frenchman spouted something about being a viscount and looking for a crusade, the Pole was bombarded by both the saliva and the rather toxic scent that eminated from the man. "My dear Frenchman, for the moment I shall allow you access to speak to Von Stark, but, he is quite busy at the moment, as our cavalry commander has just gone and died on us. You didn't happen to accidentally send some of your wine over, did you?" Kazimierz smiled at this, and the Frenchman, being drunk beyond comprehension, simply nodded and smiled as well. "I believe therefore, that you shall stay here for the time being, perhaps sober up a bit, and then we can summon Von Stark here to speak with you. By the way... might you have any of that wine left? Or perhaps some vodka?"
 
"Any left?" Jean-Claude mused a moment, taking his shield off his back, planting the twin teeth firmly in the ground where they bit down hard and held, creating a tall metal wall for him to lean on "I'm afraid not...I was hoping to restock on fine Italian vintages before we left." He leaned heavily on the shield, and tried harder to control his drunken spitting. No need to drown the man just for being a Pole. However, he was granted access to meet with someone named Von Stark...was this man important? de Langeais hoped so.

"Died on you, your cavalry commandeur? Well, I assure you, it was not my wine...a shame though." He was far more stable now that he was leaning on the shield, it had nearly completely eliminated his wobbling. "What happened to the man? Training accident? A shame, a shame, a shame. And good cavalrymen, they are so hard to find." Several steps back, the Frenchman's horse staggered a bit to the side, but managed to regain its balance fairly quickly. "Well, I hope that this Monsier von Stark can use another footman.

Yes, well, yes...let's meet with this Monsieur...he is the one in charge, oui? Well then, let us summon him. Perhaps telling him a personal companion of His Most Christian Majesty King Phillippe of France awaits him will help him find a little time in his busy day?" Jean-Claude smiled, then yanked the shield up from the ground with a mighty tug and slung it over his back. Giving a wave to his horse, which trundled over on unsteady legs, he reached into a saddlebag.

"While we are waiting" he said, moving a heavy and wicked looking mace out of the way that had been hanging from the saddle, notches carved all up and down the handle "perhaps we may have a drink? I know I said I had no wine...but I did not rule out brandy!" He pulled out a flask of the drink, and offered it with wobbling hands to Kazimierz. "From the distillery of a close friend...all the closer for the quality of his drink."
 
April 12, 1189 - Late Morning - Docks




Visant staggered off the ship soon after the gangplank had resounded off the wood of the Venitian docks. The sea did not agree with him, unfortunatly he only found this out after he had departed Tyre. Not surprising, he hadnt even seen the sea until he move with his mother to Tyre.

The events raced thru his mind as vomit raced from his mouth into the harbor waters.The news of Hattin had come, of his friends and kin dead, it was his father all over again. Alexandre was at Hattin to, and for the longest time he was counted amongst the dead. Then like a hot wind out of the desert word arrived, he lived, by the grace of god he lived.

Vistant had left Tyre after the fall of Acre, left to join Alexandre and his new army to retake the holy land. A new crusade had been called, a crusade his family had been fighting without pause for generations. It had cost them everything, now he was just another petty noble, with out retainers, with out horse. He had to scrape togeather to money to get him and his mother out of the holy land. She was in Rome now he had finnaly reached Venice.

Now he would set out to find his friend as soon as he stopped dry heaving.
 
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As soon as his body let him Visant continued down the warf deeper into the canals and streets of Venice. He had found a small chaple with a appropriatly small priest in it and he informed the young knight that they were gathering, training, and apparently fighting with the locals at a field on the mainland. Which ment another boat ride, Visants stomach sank.

While on the boat, a small dingy with and elderly oarsman which Visant had hire, he used all his resolve to keep what was left of how stomach contents right where they were. He was concentrating so much on it that when the two reached shore the impact of the bow on sand nearly knocked him into the water.

"You can open your eyes now, were here."

"Thank you good sir, here a extra pittance for your trouble."

"Oh thank you kind sir. Their over there."

He pointed over the reeds to a village of tents recently sprouted. He nodded to the boatsman and jumped on to dry land. As he approched the tents it became clear that it was ringed by sentries, something which he found quite strange, why would a crusading army need to protect itself thusly in christian lands? Surly the locals cant prove that much trouble. On the sea sure, they put him to shame, but this seemed a pointless waste of effort while on the land.

He put his mental comments behind him and walked briskly to a clump of men and a horse. One of the men holding a dark bottle and a horse were wobbling noticably. Drunk. Supposed crusaders drunk. So it was true, these crusades and their promiss of absolving of sins brought in as many devout as the late pentanent.

As he grew closer to the group their conversation stoped and they looked over this new arrival. With his white tunic emblazened with the Cross of Jersualem and the contrast of his dark skin he was hard to miss for the europeans even if he wasnt in a open feild.


"Bonjour! Another friend to join our crusade? Judging by your tunic your going the wrong way boy. Should have saved yourself the trouble and stayed in the holy land."

"Bonjour. Perhaps I should have, but I am here. I have come looking for Alexandre du Kayne. Hes a friend of my family and I wish to fight along side him as my father had."

The smiles of the men, save the frenchmen, disappeared. The drunk man blurted out one simple slurred word.

"What?"
 
April 12, 1189 - Late Morning - The Camp

"He's dead." A grim voice sounded out from behind Visant. Turning to see the speaker, the knight found himself facing Erik von Stark.

"How?" He asked in disbelief.

"I wish I knew."

"Go on," Visant said quizzically.

"He fell battling a rebellious trainee. His wounds, however, were not grievous enough to cause his death. Before he faded, he spoke of poison. But one of my sargeants believes differently."

"Disease?"

"Yes, a rupture of his innards."

Visant stood in thought for a moment, reflecting on the death of his old friend. Erik gave him a moment before speaking again.

"Now, tell me who you are and what has brought you to my camp."
 
April 12, 1189 - Late Morning - The Camp

It had been, by any measure, one hell of a morning. du Kayne dead, the knights in turmoil. Sir Henry of Tintagel had been jerked from side to side, first to round up the cooks (who all proclaimed innocence, to no one's surprise), then to find a priest. Deep inside, however, Henry knew the worst was yet to come. Once we are in the desert, we'll be losing men daily, he thought wanly. The Lord does not smile upon this expedition.

Frustrated, annoyed and saddened, he went over to his horse and brushed it down well. "du Kayne said mobility was the key in the desert, Merrick," he whispered to it. "He disdained the destriers. Well, boy, you're a coursier. You're fast. Faster then some bastard Saracen horses, eh?" He mounted up and trotted to one side of the field. "Let's practice our speed, boy. Be the wind." He dug his heels in hard to the flanks of the horse, and Merrick and his rider tore across the camp, tossing clumps of turf up in their wake.

As he rode, Henry could feel the angry and misery melt away. He was one with his steed, they were the winds, and for a moment he almost pitied any poor fool, Christian or Moslem, that got in their way.
 
It took a very very long moment for the magnitude of the discussion being held in front of him to penetrate Jean-Claude's drunken mind. This dead man must be the cavalry commander who the Poles had mentioned...and this fellow must be his friend. And the last one...the leader of the party? Perhaps, non?

He took a long drink from the bottle of brandy and leaned on his shield, still planted in the ground. He twirled the bottle in his hands a moment and watched Visant and von Stark converse...this leader-type-fellow had not yet addressed de Langeais, but he was confident that would change in good time. In the meantime, he would not waste his time sobering up.

Though his tunic no longer bore the distinctive cross of the Knights Hospitaller, his shield still did. Badly scuffed and worn, it was only barely distinguishable any longer, but a knowing eye could still discern it. The piece had been custom made while he was last in the Holy Land, and to have it painted over now...seemed foolish to de Langeais. Regardless of what he was now, he had once been a great Hospitaller...and he felt entitled to remember that heritage.

And so, the Viscount Sir Jean-Claude de Langeais, a man who had once earned the moniker of "the Bonelord" from his enemies, now leaned on his shield and waited for the leader of this crusade to address him, a goofy half-smile encircling his face.
 
April 12, 1189 - Late Morning - The Camp

He was dead. The news hit the only way such things can, like a ton of bricks. For a moment Visant wasnt sure if he could breath. As he reconstituted himself this nameless man, leader of the crusade spoke to him again.

"Now, tell me who you are and what has brought you to my camp."

"I am Visant Oliernomaili, I have come from the Kingdom of Jerusalem to join Alexan....the crusade. To return the holy land to its rightful owners. And some of my family's land to its rightful owners."

"Good. Foot or mounted?"

Visant looked at him puzzeled, the news of Alexandres death still weighing heavily on him.

"Do you fight on foot or horse lad?"

"Oh, foot sir. Castle walls dont lend them selves to much riding practice."

"Good. And you Hospitaller, what would be you're name?"
 
"Ah, former Hospitaller that is, I'm afraid..." Jean-Claude began, his eyes lighting up at the recognition he had finally received. Taking a deep unsteady bow with a flourish, he wobbled a bit and labored to return to an upright position. "I am Viscount Sir Jean-Claude de Langeais, personal companion and friend of His Most Catholic Majesty King Phillippe, Rightful Ruler of...well...everything, and all that, you know." He was obviously drunk, and the smell of wine and now brandy permeated his breath.

"I've come to lend mace and shield to this expedition, as well as my experience killing Saracens in the Holy Land. Every notch, another devil...soon I'll have to get myself a new mace." he slurred, gesturing to his shield and mace, both of which were decorated with an absurd number of notches, the shield completely ringed with them and the mace bearing a number up and down the shaft. Even his crossbow, still sitting on his mount, had a few carved into it.

He began to get increasingly animated as he launched into the next part of his introduction, swinging a fist back and forth to accentuate his points. "Captured thrice, ransomed twice, the bastards call me "the Bonelord"...'cause I smashes 'em!" At that point, he slammed his fist into his palm. "And I'm the best damn foot knight you'll ever meet...Monsieur. I even bring my own horse, my faithful pack mount Genevieve" At this, Jean-Claude gestured to his horse, who also looked unsteady on her feet. Drunk as well?

He bowed again, providing a flourish with his arm once more, and this time came very close to losing his balance entirely. He swung back comically and his weight hit his shield, which leaned a bit but remained planted in the ground and propped him up. He folded his arms and smiled, trying to make it look natural, but with the typical apathy regarding his looks that was shared by most drunks.
 
Lorenzo and Amerigo both nodded their heads as they heard another possible explanation on another possible reason of du Kayne's death.

Lorenzo turned to his companion," Well my friend, we have heard over 20 possible explanations and half of them say he could have died of natural causes. What do you think?"

Amerigo frowned, his face deep in concentration. With Du Kayne dead, Walker gone to fetch Von Stark, that leaves Amerigo nominally in charge as Walker had appointed him as his assistant earlier.

" The search of the men are nearly completed and we have turned up nothing so far, so it's possible that he might not have died of poison." Lorenzo was about to reply when a guard came running to them," Sir, we think we found something.", the guard said excitedly as he handed a packet to Amerigo.

Amerigo opened the packet and found some white powder inside. Lorenzo took a pinch of the powder and gave a sniff. His face turned grim as he said a word, "Poison."

"Where did you find it from?" Amerigo demanded of the guard.

"In the tent of Sirus and Petrus." came the reply.

Amerigo nodded, "Infantrymen. I remember having a word with them yesterday. They are all assembled in the field pending further orders."

"I think it's time we have a word with them." Lorenzo started walking towards the field. Amerigo quickly fell in beside him as they headed to the field.

*****************************************

It was Petrus who first noticed the group walking towards them. He gave a slight nudge to Sirus and nodded in Amerigo's direction.

Sirus stared over and he suddenly froze as he realised they were heading straight at them, "You think they found the poison?"

"I don't know but look at the knight beside Amerigo. There's murder in his eyes. I think they know."

"Wrong, they know" Sirus pointed at Amerigo's hand. He was holding on to a packet, their packet of poison.

Petrus took a quick glance at the end of the field. There was a fair chance they could make it out if the horsemen on the other end were not alerted in time.

Then his eyes widened as he saw Von Stark at the far end of the field near the tents talking to a few people. Could he reached there and stab him and get away with it? Petrus considered his possibilities and decided it was not worth the risk. He was paid to kill off du Kayne and Von Stark but he did not intend to die while doing so. No, he decided escape was the best way out.

Nearby, 2 horsemen were approaching as part of their patrol route. Petrus grinned as he saw his chance of escape approach. Not only that, he even might get a shot at Von Stark since he was right in his escape path.

Petrus gave a silent signal to Sirus and they prepared to make their moves.

*****************************************

Amerigo and Lorenzo were nearing the infantrymen when 2 men suddenly burst out and charged towards 2 nearby horsemen and knocked the surprised men off their saddles.

Amerigo cursed as he suddenly realised who those men were," It's sirus and Petrus!"

Sirus and Petrus got onto the mounts and turned them around and started galloping away at top speed, straight in the direction of Erik Von Stark, Lorenzo realised.

A quick glance told him there were no other horses nearby. He and Amerigo started sprinting in the direction of Von Stark though they know there were not much chance of getting there in time.

Lorenzo bellowed as he ran, "Erik von Stark! Watch your back! Assasins!" and hoped Erik and the group of men he was with heard his warning.
 
Henry's head snapped up as he heard Lorenzo bellowed "Erik von Stark! Watch your back! Assasins!" He looked around, still slightly caught up in his rider's reverie, and saw two inexpert horsemen charging across the field toward von Stark and company. Lorenzo and Amerigo were chasing after the assassins on foot, but couldn't catch them in time.

"But we can, right boy?," he shouted to his horse, and dug his heels in deep. Merrick came about in an tight turn and began to charge toward the two fleeing infantrymen. Henry and his horse thundered between Lorenzo and Amerigo, throwing sod up all around them. As they passed, the two knights could hear Henry spurring his steed on.

Still too far away. Henry took the bow from his back, settled into his saddle. Merrick felt the motion and slowed his charge slightly in response. Henry nocked an arrow, drew it back until the bow nearly bent double, and settled his eye on the leftmost rider. Just like hunting deer in Cornwall . . . but with larger, slower targets and less trees.

He let the arrow fly. It sprang across the widening distance and plunged into Sirus' lower back, buried almost to the feathers. The infantryman slipped almost gracefully from the saddle, dead before he landed.

Having felt the release of the arrow, Merrick sped up, back to a fast charge, as Henry pulled another arrow from his quiver. As he drew back, Merrick slowed. Henry sighted on Petrus, who was almost upon von Stark now. He held his breath, said a silent prayer, and let it fly.

Too low. The arrow slammed into the left hindquarter of the horse, which reared up in pain. Petrus fought to maintain control of his steed.
 
Out of the blue flew another arrow, catching the infantry man in the thigh causing him to scream in pain and surprise,

Henry looked about and saw the Norwegians gathered in a small cluster, several of them with arrows ready, but only one had fired.

Alv, their diminutive leader cocked a second arow while Henry watched, but did not fire.

Henry looked bewildered, the man had a clear shot. Then he noticed that Alv waited to see if the man would drop, and that his arrow was aimed not at the torso, but the other leg.

is he trying to catch him alive?
 
Amerigo felt a sudden rush of wind as a horse flew between he Lorenzo. The sudden rush made him jerk his hand back, before he realized he was still carrying the powder. It fell from his hand and scattered across the ground. He almost turned to scoop it up, but realized there were more important things going on. Namely, Henry.

The first arrow dropped the rider, it was an impressive shot. But he and Lorenzo were still too far away to be much help. By the time they reached the dead man, Petrus was already upon von Stark. As the second arrow flew, Amerigo realized it was over. There was nothing the hapless assassin could do against two well trained knights without a steed. Their justice would be swift, he imagined.

So, as Amerigo passed the dead man he slowed down, and turned to check on failed assassin. The arrow had sliced through the man cleanly. He was dead, no question. The horse had stopped its charge, and was walking nervously around. Amerigo kicked the dead man over, bringing his face to the sky. He wondered why. Who would want to kill a crusader?

Amerigo turned, to see if Lorenzo had stopped with him or kept on the useless rush to catch up to the two knights.
 
Henry drew up Merrick next to the Norwegians and Petrus in some embarassment as the Norwegians shot Petrus through the leg. Of course, you fool Henry, take them alive. Find out who hired them. This isn't a hunt where you want to kill the animal cleanly.

"Good thinking to take this one alive, sir," he said to the short Norwegian bowman. He turned to Petrus. "Perhaps von Stark will want to ask you a few questions." Henry drew another arrow and aimed it at the assassin's weapon hand. "Drop the blade, and don't be stupid. If you move wrong, you'll look like a porcupine."
 
"Oh dear" muttered Jean-Claude de Langeais as he turned about. Two riders were approaching him, von Stark, and Visant quickly...too quickly. They were bearing down, and Jean-Claude's arms were still several feet away on his horse. Had he his crossbow, he knew he could shoot at least one of the men straight out of the saddle...if the bolt went straight, that is. They had a funny tendency to wobble on him.

The first rider fell from his saddle as a well-placed arrow hit him in the back, and the horse quickly slowed. Two more arrows fell then, one hitting the second horse in the hindquarter and one hitting the still-living rider in the leg. At this point, the rider was nearly upon Jean-Claude. The wounded horse had slowed down considerably, but an arrow in the leg was not going to stop a mounted man. With the horse now limping towards him at a fraction of its former speed, Jean-Claude pulled his shield up from where he had planted it in the earth, staggered over into the path of the stricken horse, and stood there a moment, wobbling.

The second assassin was still trying to ride him down, but the horse would have none of it with an arrow in its flank, and as it approached the drunken knight, it turned, placing the would-be assassin face to face with Jean-Claude...except for the height difference between mounted man and foot knight. While the assassin, crazed and worried for his life raised his weapon to strike the Frenchman, Jean-Claude calmly reached over and gave the arrow in his leg a twist. Petrus screamed in pain and aborted his attack, and at that moment, Jean-Claude knocked him from his horse with a smashing blow from his shield.

Petrus lay on the ground moaning, still gripping his sword when another man rode up and drew an arrow, pointing it at Petrus' weapon hand and threatening him if he didn't drop the blade. Others seemed to be arriving quickly now as well, Scandinavians by the look of them...or Russians, or Germans, or sea people, for all de Langeais knew.

Jean-Claude turned to Henry, who was closest, and gave a little bow. "Pardon" he said, his breath carrying a heavy French accent and the smell of booze. As Henry and the others appeared capable of taking care of the situation and had questions to ask, Jean-Claude turned away and let them take care of their business. "So, Monsieur von Stark..." he began again, addressing the leader of the Crusade in a remarkably non-chalant fashion "do you think you will have a place for me in this petit endeavour?"
 
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