Crusader - novel, chapter 2

Another chapter. This one is short. One to read while doing/meant to be doing something else. Like work! Again, I take no responsibility for any crap bits.

2

I always shock myself with the apparent ease I have at coming to terms with the fact that I just killed twenty-odd men. I can detach myself from my actions afterwards like I was watching at a theatre play and then quite happily float away from that part of me. A series of instants meshed together then pushed aside. I can’t tell whether it is something I struggle to hide away because personally ending someone’s life seems so horrific afterwards, or if the clarity is some sort of divinely granted strength for doing God’s work. And as much as I wish it were the latter, the days and nights of sickly, soul-sapping fog that always follows my deeds in battle tend to suggest the former is the case. But for all the darkness that enters my soul for my actions, I in turn am removing that darkness from the world. Like all saviours of God’s children I am a martyr. And yet despite my faith, in those darkest of nights when the hungry souls of the men I’ve killed rob me of my sleep and haunt my shadows, in creeps my deepest fear – what will become of my blackened soul?

Bohemond shook away the haze that had descended across his thoughts as he passed the threshold between open field and soldier’s camp. As though he had passed some invisible line the men under his command became instantly aware of his company. A jubilant cheer arose as the men gave thanks to their leader for victory. An unbidden grin cracked Bohemond’s face and he raised a fist in salute to his men-at-arms. He truly revelled in leading these men. Men who believed in him, followed him despite what fears and gripes they may hold. For them the killing was a job paid for by their Baron and they need not appreciate him nor respect him. That the fifty men now surrounding him, most of whom his senior, were showing something close to admiration filled Bohemond with an almost fatherly love.

The cheers died off and the soldiers directed their attention to their well-drilled tasks as Bohemond’s sergeant approached him with a grin that rivalled his own.

“We got the bastards Bohemond, every last one!” Robert de Guisard said through his broad smile.

“That we did Robert, that we did,” replied Bohemond as his still settling memories rumbled and groaned at the mention of every last one.

“As I always tell you, your father would be truly proud of you today; the church is that much stronger for what you did today.”

“That’s false praise and you know it Robert, it was you and the men who won us this day for God and the Church.” Bohemond didn’t notice Robert’s grin turn wry at the comment.

“Ah I won’t try to disagree with you, we both know you’re as stubborn as a mule with sword skills that put me to shame, Bohemond, and I would hate to flare your temper when your sword is in such easy reach!” Robert chuckled with feigned fear.

“Yes, and we both know you’re too old and grizzled for wounds to afflict you as your skin is so thick blows bounce right off,” Bohemond quipped to Roberts laughter. “Tell me are their many injuries?” Bohemond asked, instantly reverting to seriousness.

Just as quickly returning from the light-heartedness Robert replied, “No, My Lord. Peter de Guilies and Adam Truthsayer both received slight wounds, nothing incapacitating as the heretics were mostly farmers, sorry Milord – peasantry – and had few battle skills or real weapons. Those that did have weapons barely knew which end to point at us.”

“It was a massacre. Their leaders were fools to believe that they could face us in battle. I pray for their souls. Are Peter and Adam seen to?”

“Yes, Milord.”

“Have the men been assigned the watch?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

“And the evening…”

“Yes. My Lord the broth is already on the boil, after a bit of trouble I might add. And the horses have ample feed. And the surrounding woods scouted as you ordered.”

“And…”

“Yes! For the Almighty Lord’s sake everything has been seen to and is in order you pedantic perfectionist!” Robert growled through his laughter. “Now get along to your tent, the good Lord also knows there is someone frantically awaiting your return. At my last count she had asked for you seven times! Now be off with you!”

“As I always tell you Robert, if my father had no son you would be the commander of these fine men,” smiled Bohemond as he turned and walked away.

“I wouldn’t want it anyway! Too many Baronial ceremonies!” shouted the sergeant to his commander’s back.

“And I bet you would hate it too, you scarred vain veteran,” Bohemond retorted over his shoulder and was received with chuckling laughter.

Charlotte spun around quickly from the table by the centre pole of the large tent as she heard the heavy canvas over the entrance pulled away. The view arrayed before her shocked her to silence. She never believed the stories told to her of Bohemond The Great Warrior, though she was not naïve enough to think they were not true; Charlotte just refused to join the Bohemond who was her husband with the warrior standing at the entrance. Despite all her mental efforts to distance the two facets of the man what she saw now rudely forced each hard up against the other.

Bohemond stood, holding the tent flaps aside, silhouetted against the sunlight shining in around him like an angelic figure – the reality was obscene. His tall, broad frame normally regal and gentle was unforgivingly menacing. His body was covered in blood and dirt – dark curled hair matted with it, sun-tanned skin smeared with it, and cloth surcoat stained with it. His knuckles were smashed raw and finger nails were invisible under a coating of gore. With an implacable dread she looked to his face and met his eyes. Charlotte glimpsed a single moment of The Great Warrior within his blue-grey eyes – cruel, hateful, pained and violent. With an almost instantaneous reversal that veil was drawn deep within him and her Bohemond, The Bohemond, stood again before her. With total relief her body shuddered, fell to the ground and wept.