The Road Ends, the Journey Begins
Venice was the end of the road. The long road that started in Cornwall, led across the fields and forests of France and Burgundy, through the high snow-choked passes of Helvetia, down into the broad plain of northern Italy, ended here, hard up against the Adriatic, wharfside in Venice. Sir Henry of Tintagel could have turned south, perhaps, down the boot of Italy, but he was out of silver, nearly out of food, and completely out of faith.
He sat on a rotting barrel on the quay, taking inventory of his meager possessions for the fifth time, in vain hope that something new had appeared.
One horse, stabled, no money to pay for its keep. One sword. One bow, some arrows. Chain shirt, rusting. One shield, the crest covered in sackcloth. Half an onion. Some moldy sour rye bread, size of a small fist. No silver. No place to stay.
He looked again across the street at the house marked with three golden balls. For the fourth time, he rose to cross over to it, and then sat down again. Sir Henry opened his leather bag, took out the onion and bread. He whittled away the mold with a small knife, and choked both down. His stomach whined for more.
No more food. And still no money. He looked at his covered shield. How much will the pawnbroker give me for this? My father's shield? Must I sell the symbol of my station to satisfy such a base need as hunger? His stomach rumbled its answer.
He murmured to himself and to God. "Oh Lord, if this is my punishment, to die in degradation piece by piece for my sins, then so be it. I deserve no better, but you are a merciful god, so I beg forgiveness." He looked up to the heavens, squinting into the sunlight. "Give me a sign, Oh Lord, of my path! Am I doomed to sink into the inferno, or may I seek some redemption?"
Suddenly, something wet and foul landed on his cheek. A seagull squawked as it flew past. Ruefully, he wiped the offal from his face. "A clearer message I could not have asked, Oh Lord," he said sadly. He rose and began to cross the street toward the pawnbroker.
The seagull, circling, squawked louder. He glared at it. "Begone, bird, or I'll spit you. Though I doubt you taste that good, if what came out is any sign." The bird swooped low, and flew off, alighting on a small tavern nearby. It squawked again, then began to preen its feathers. Drawn toward it despite himself, Henry found himself among a motley group of men outside the Bowstring Inn. He looked at the sign in surprise. Another sign?
He turned to one of the men. "What's happening here?"
"Looks like they're making Crusaders again. Poor fools. Idiots going off to die in the desert." The man spat and walked off.
Henry looked at the bird again, and laughed, the first real laugh he had uttered since that day in Cornwall. "Thy will be done, Oh Lord,” he shouted, as the men around turned to stare. “The abbot was right: you do work in mysterious ways." He entered the queue.
Minutes later, after waiting behind some Irishmen and some Germans, he was before the recruiter.
"Name?" The man looked tired and irritated.
"Sir Henry of Tintagel." Alexandre studied the man for a moment - worn, unkempt armor, covered shield, gaunt – probably on the ragged edge of starvation. A poor specimen of a knight.
On the run, probably. Well, any hand may be a useful one, I suppose, Alexandre thought. "Can you fight?"
Henry spoke quietly, without feeling. "I wield a fair sword, and a solid bow. I ride well enough, and bring my own horse.” Henry paused, coughed. “Does the Pope intend to absolve those who take the Cross of their past sins?" The desperation behind the question was clear.
Venice was the end of the road. The long road that started in Cornwall, led across the fields and forests of France and Burgundy, through the high snow-choked passes of Helvetia, down into the broad plain of northern Italy, ended here, hard up against the Adriatic, wharfside in Venice. Sir Henry of Tintagel could have turned south, perhaps, down the boot of Italy, but he was out of silver, nearly out of food, and completely out of faith.
He sat on a rotting barrel on the quay, taking inventory of his meager possessions for the fifth time, in vain hope that something new had appeared.
One horse, stabled, no money to pay for its keep. One sword. One bow, some arrows. Chain shirt, rusting. One shield, the crest covered in sackcloth. Half an onion. Some moldy sour rye bread, size of a small fist. No silver. No place to stay.
He looked again across the street at the house marked with three golden balls. For the fourth time, he rose to cross over to it, and then sat down again. Sir Henry opened his leather bag, took out the onion and bread. He whittled away the mold with a small knife, and choked both down. His stomach whined for more.
No more food. And still no money. He looked at his covered shield. How much will the pawnbroker give me for this? My father's shield? Must I sell the symbol of my station to satisfy such a base need as hunger? His stomach rumbled its answer.
He murmured to himself and to God. "Oh Lord, if this is my punishment, to die in degradation piece by piece for my sins, then so be it. I deserve no better, but you are a merciful god, so I beg forgiveness." He looked up to the heavens, squinting into the sunlight. "Give me a sign, Oh Lord, of my path! Am I doomed to sink into the inferno, or may I seek some redemption?"
Suddenly, something wet and foul landed on his cheek. A seagull squawked as it flew past. Ruefully, he wiped the offal from his face. "A clearer message I could not have asked, Oh Lord," he said sadly. He rose and began to cross the street toward the pawnbroker.
The seagull, circling, squawked louder. He glared at it. "Begone, bird, or I'll spit you. Though I doubt you taste that good, if what came out is any sign." The bird swooped low, and flew off, alighting on a small tavern nearby. It squawked again, then began to preen its feathers. Drawn toward it despite himself, Henry found himself among a motley group of men outside the Bowstring Inn. He looked at the sign in surprise. Another sign?
He turned to one of the men. "What's happening here?"
"Looks like they're making Crusaders again. Poor fools. Idiots going off to die in the desert." The man spat and walked off.
Henry looked at the bird again, and laughed, the first real laugh he had uttered since that day in Cornwall. "Thy will be done, Oh Lord,” he shouted, as the men around turned to stare. “The abbot was right: you do work in mysterious ways." He entered the queue.
Minutes later, after waiting behind some Irishmen and some Germans, he was before the recruiter.
"Name?" The man looked tired and irritated.
"Sir Henry of Tintagel." Alexandre studied the man for a moment - worn, unkempt armor, covered shield, gaunt – probably on the ragged edge of starvation. A poor specimen of a knight.
On the run, probably. Well, any hand may be a useful one, I suppose, Alexandre thought. "Can you fight?"
Henry spoke quietly, without feeling. "I wield a fair sword, and a solid bow. I ride well enough, and bring my own horse.” Henry paused, coughed. “Does the Pope intend to absolve those who take the Cross of their past sins?" The desperation behind the question was clear.
