Raphael, with whom the stricken farmer’s son had formed an unshakeable bond, was tasked with keeping his ailing comrade within the clutch of Shield-Brethren tents. While the Shield-Brethren did not abandon one of their own, regardless of his mental condition, there would be others in the Christian camp who would not be as tolerant of their brother’s disturbed speech. The last thing this morale-stricken camp needs is a rumor of witchcraft and demonic possession, Calpurnius had instructed Raphael. Keep him — and us — safe.
The task had been fairly simple at first, in that Eptor was more than happy to follow Raphael like a faithful dog. And then the priest — Francis of Assisi, the founder of the Ordo Fratrum Minorum — arrived, and his revolutionary exhortation for peace changed everything.
It was not uncommon to see John of Brienne walking through the Christian camp. Though he was King of Jerusalem, he had never sat in its throne. His marriage to Maria of Montferrat had been one of political expediency, and his dowry had been the privilege of leading the Christian Crusaders in their vain effort to retake the Holy Land. Sir John governed from the ranks: listening to complaints of the men-at-arms; attending to the needs of the landed nobility who made up the bulk of the Christian cavalry; sitting and discussing tactics with the noble lords from France, Frisia, and England; and strategizing the best use of the diminishing number of knights from the three military orders. The Crusaders all knew him by sight, and while he allowed them to show some deference, he insisted on no title other than the one warranted by his numerous feats of arms.
It was curious then for him to present himself anonymously at the Shield-Brethren camp, wrapped in a nondescript cloak and hood. Most of the Shield-Brethren were drilling with the Templars, a mock display of martial readiness meant to confuse any Muslim scouts that might be observing the Christian camp from the south. Raphael and Eptor were engaged in the tedious but necessary task of repairing maille when the mysterious figure approached. Setting aside his tools, Raphael rose to greet the visitor and was shocked to recognize the face peering out from within the shadows of the hood.
“I am but a poor penitent,” Sir John admonished him in a low voice. “A nameless wanderer, seeking to bless your company.”
“Of course,” Raphael recovered smoothly. He made the sign of the cross toward John.
Sir John was a dark-haired man, quick to laugh and slow to anger. He would make a good king, Raphael surmised, if they were ever successful in their efforts in Egypt and to the north and west. “I wish to speak with your master, Calpurnius.”
“He is…” Raphael stopped and turned, glancing toward the large tent that served as the Shield-Brethren chapter house. Calpurnius should have been with the others, engaged in the exercise with the Templars, but he suddenly recalled seeing the Shield-Brethren master not long after the other members of the company had departed. He had thought nothing of it at the time. Men came and went at all hours within the camp, and the endless cycle of drilling and fighting and waiting had become tedious. “I suspect he is waiting for you,” Raphael amended.
Sir John offered him a slight smile. “I suspect he is,” he said.
“A convenient distraction offered by today’s exercise,” Raphael noted.
“Yes,” Sir John agreed. “Sometimes it helps to be the one who can arrange such things.” Looking past Raphael, he caught sight of Eptor. “Is that the boy who converses with the dead?”
“It is. His name is Eptor.”
“Are you his keeper?”
Raphael shrugged. “Sometimes he keeps me. Today, for example. I am missing an opportunity to train, yet again, with our Templar brothers. I fear I might miss some brilliant new stratagem that is being concocted on the field.”
“I suspect not,” Sir John said. “Join me, if you would. What I have to discuss with your master may benefit from your insight.”
“Mine?”
Sir John clapped Raphael on the shoulder as he started to walk toward the main tent. “Yes. You pretend to be nothing more than your brother’s keeper, but your exploits are known to me, Raphael of Acre. I hear the men call you ‘The Thresher.’”
Raphael blushed. “It is an unwarranted title, Sir John,” he said.
“All titles are unwarranted, Raphael,” Sir John said. “Whether or not we live up to them is what matters.”
Sir John gestured that Raphael should follow him. After a passing glance over at Eptor — ensuring that the simpleminded lad was well ensconced in the minute work of repairing maille — Raphael followed the King of Jerusalem into the large Shield-Brethren tent.
Calpurnius was seated behind a rough-hewn desk that had been crafted from driftwood rescued from the Nile. A large map of the Egyptian territory was laid across it. Small chips of charred wood were arranged to indicate the physical terrain, and clusters of colored beads stood in for troops. Calpurnius set aside the tome he had been studying and stood as the two men entered the tent. “Sir John,” he said, striding around the table to clasp Sir John’s outstretched arm. It was the old style of greeting, one that had its origins in ancient Greece, but was used among the Shield-Brethren as a way to indicate brotherhood. Grasping the forearm allowed one to feel the initiation scars of another.
The Shield-Brethren were quite strict in who they accepted into the order — the initiates could not have any other ties that might compromise their vows to the order — but they also took the sons of kings and lords under their tutelage. In a flash, and feeling quite foolish for not having recognized it earlier, Raphael realized Sir John had been one of those students.
“Old friend,” Sir John said. “Our diversion with your men and the Templars will afford us a welcome opportunity to talk freely. I am surrounded by sycophants of the legate’s. They cannot think for themselves, and all they do is echo back to me the ridiculous drivel spewing from Pelagius’s mouth.”
“He still insists on taking Damietta, does he?” Calpurnius asked. He glanced at Raphael briefly and seemed unconcerned about the young knight’s presence.
“Even after our disastrous attempt at the beginning of the month,” Sir John sighed.
The previous attempt to storm the city had involved a quartet of freshly arrived boats from Christendom and an audacious plan to fill in the moat along the southern wall. For a few hours, it seemed as if the Crusaders might prevail, but the Muslims had only been waiting for them to get close enough. Fire and rocks destroyed most of their ladders, and flights of arrows from the walls had done the rest. They had lost more than a hundred men.
“The legate has a new idea,” Sir John said, shaking his head. “He claims to have proof of our victory.”
“Proof? How?”
“Prophecy,” Sir John said. “I know you have tried to suppress knowledge of your man’s addled visions, but the camp knows of his…peculiarity.”
“It wasn’t me,” Raphael protested, suddenly alarmed at the reason he had been summoned to this meeting.
“I have every confidence that it wasn’t,” Sir John said gently, “but no secret is safe in an army this large and this desperate for good news.”
Calpurnius had already discerned the root of John’s concern. “Pelagius wants to create his own prophecy, doesn’t he?”
Sir John nodded. “Aye, he does. Your man Eptor has given him a dangerous idea.” He looked at Raphael. “Will you have the strength to say ‘no’ to a holy man?”
“Will I?” Raphael looked at Calpurnius for guidance.
“This is a dangerous game,” Calpurnius said to Sir John after a few moments of thought.