The promised fields of Albi

The promised fields of Albi

In 1209, Pope Innocentius III called a crusade against the heretics in southern France, who were called the Albigensians, due to their city of origin, Albi. Displeased at their refusal to follow the doctrine of Rome, the pope called the knights and lords of France to rise up against their heretical neighbors, promising them that any land they took from the Albigensians, they would be allowed to keep. As one, the nobles of northern France mobilized and started marching south, with the approval of their king, Phillip II, who was called Augustus. Thus began a civil war which would last for twenty years, and which would end in the complete and utter annihilation of the Albigensians, to the point that it now no longer is considered a crusade, but genocide. Before this war began, however, there were two boys who had grown to become close friends: one, the third son of a minor noble in northern France. The other, a merchant’s son hailing from the city of Albi.

This is their story.

Chapter One – Beginnings

18th of December 1204

During the 12th and 13th century, trade in Europe was centred around an annual cycle of fairs held in six different cities in the Champagne region in Northern France, allowing for close contact between Europe and the Mediterranean.

Merchants from far and wide flocked to these trade fairs, eager for a chance to sample wares from faraway lands, making contacts and forging relations as they did. Wine and coin flowed in equal measure, and the Counts of Champagne watched with glee as their coffers were filled with each new season. They afforded the merchants quite a lot of freedom, as long as their own pockets remained fat, and the general peace was kept.

One such a merchant was a man by the name of Jacques Bruno, who hailed from the city of Albi in southern France, home to the Albigensians, or Cathars as they were sometimes called. Jacques was one of the few men in the city who, despite not being of noble birth, was still sufficiently wealthy enough to be fat, to the point that merely climbing the stairs in his own lavishly decorated home was enough to have him sweating and huffing as if on the verge of collapse.

The reason why Monsieur Jacques had become so wealthy was a combination of good business savvy and plain good timing. Living in the south of France, in a city with close ties to the diminished Byzantine Empire in the East, meant that Jacques sometimes received news a couple of weeks earlier than his northern neighbours did.

So when in 1188 he heard that the infamous sultan Saladin had retaken Jerusalem the year before, he set out to gather as much hardy armor and quality steel as he could get his hands on. Once he had amassed an enormous amount of weaponry, he set off towards Paris, just in time to hear Phillipe II make his declaration: he and his former enemy Richard the Lionheart would march with the German Emperor Frederick Barbarossa upon the Holy Land, in order to liberate the city of Jerusalem and strike down the heathens, calling to arms all those who would follow them on this King’s Crusade, as it was soon called.

Jacques managed to sell the entirety of his stock in a single day.

Now, years later, he once again prepared to travel to northern France with profit on his mind, as he did every time the annual Champagne trade fair was about to be held in Lagny-sur-Marne, since that was the only one of the six cities that was accessible by river, making travel much easier and shaving off a few days of travel time.

However, despite the fact that Jacques Bruno was a very excitable man who gained a gleam in his eye whenever he thought of making money, he wasn’t, in fact, the person in his household who was looking forward to the Champagne fair the most.

That would be his twelve-year old son, young Phillipe Bruno. Phillipe was a little boy, with bright blonde hair and a slightly chubby physique, and he was currently almost dancing in place next to his father in excitement, as they watched the cargo being loaded onto their caravan, standing on the edge of the crowded town’s square of Albi, bundled up in thick robes against the biting chill of winter, though in his current mood, the boy hardly even noticed it.

He had begged and pleaded with his father for the whole year, trying to convince the man that he was finally old enough to join him on his travels. His mother had cried of course, saying that he was too young to go off to faraway places for more than two whole months. The travel to Lagny-sur-Marne would take two weeks, even as they travelled over well maintained Roman roads, and the fair itself would last for six weeks, after which they would be once again travelling two weeks in order to return to Albi.

Young Phillipe, however, was deaf to his mother’s cries: to him, the trip to Champagne meant more than two whole months of adventure, away from the prying eyes of his dour teacher, Nestor.

Nestor, like all men called Nestor, was a tall, greying old man, with a hawkish face, which Phillipe had yet to see smile even once for as long as he had known the taskmaster, which was practically all his life. The dour man was both Phillipe’s teacher, as well as Jacques’ chief man servant. While the merchant was well off, as his rotund stature showed, he wasn’t wealthy enough to support a large staff, so old Nestor ran the day-to-day business of the household in-between lessons on writing and calculus with Phillipe, while Jacques himself handled both the books and the actual trading.

Phillipe had once asked his father just what his mother’s role was within the Bruno household, but his father had just let out a good-natured bellow, slapping his son on the back as he did, nearly sending the boy face-first to the floor.

“Spending my hard-earned coin, mostly!”

At the moment, however, young Phillipe couldn’t care less about the intricacies of the inner workings of his ancestral household, far too enraptured with watching as the trade caravan slowly finished up assembling. While they didn’t live in the Iron Age anymore, where the lords, without any strong Kings to keep them in check, ran roughshod over the peasantry, and roaming bands of hungry mercenaries stalked the roads, there was still safety in numbers, and like each year, Jacques set out as part of a large group of other merchants, artisans and entertainers from the surrounding regions of Albi.

And it was especially this last group that Jacques’ wide eyes were constantly drawn towards, fascinated by the garish colours of their clothing, the acrobatic leaps that they made, the unknown tunes they were loudly singing. Despite growing up in the wealthier part of Albi, travelling troubadours still caught the youth’s fancy.

If he didn’t fear the smart rap of Nestor’s ruler across his knuckles, he’d have told the dour man off long ago during their lessons in numbers and letters, citing that he too wanted to be a troubadour instead of a merchant like his forefathers had been for ages.

Still, he knew enough about the world to know that life as a merchant offered much more security than the life of a travelling singer, exiting as it may have turned out to be, so when his father placed a meaty hand on his shoulder and led him towards their now filled wagons, he dutifully, if not wistfully, tore his eyes away from the colourful display at the other end of the column.

‘After all, there will be plenty to see in Lagny!’ the boy thought to himself, a wide smile on his cheeks which were red from the cold.

As the column prepared to move, the local high priest of the Albigenesians, a man who Phillipe knew he should know the name of as Nestor had drilled it quite forcefully into his head, but with all the excitement he had honestly forgotten, moved to the front in order to say a few words of prayer, blessing their endeavour but reminding them sternly that it was not coin that was man’s greatest treasure, but the love of God, for in this sinful world, only God was without sin.

It went on in this vein for quite a while, long enough that even despite looking forwards to his first adventure, Phillipe couldn’t help but feel his eyes start to droop in boredom, an expression that old Nestor had been forced to look upon quite a few times during their lessons.

After a dutiful ‘Amen!’ arose from the gathered people on the square, snapping the boy from his daze, young Phillipe saw quite a few of the merchants giving each other discreet eye-rolls, whereas his father merely let out a fond bellow of laughter. Then, finally, the caravan started moving towards the gate and the road that would lead to Champagne.

And hopefully, profit.

//

26th of December, 1204

In the training yard of a small keep a day’s travel away from the city of Troyes in northern France, a young child was dutifully hacking away at a wooden post with a blunted training sword, sweat covering his body, making his head appear to steam in the cold winds that blew through the open space with abandon.

Off to the side stood a grizzled giant of a man, clad in dented armor and sporting a bushy beard, which due to its size and unkemptness appeared more like tangled shrubbery than mere facial hair. The warrior kept a keen eye on the training youth, but hearing footsteps behind him, he straightened, turning to greet the newcomer.

Despite only reaching the giant’s chin, the approaching man couldn’t be described as anything other than tall, with a lanky frame that belied quite a lot of strength. A great moustache sat proudly on the man’s drawn face, and silvery grey liberally shot through his trimmed hair. This was the Lord of the keep, Sir Luc Saubin, and as he neared the training yard, the commander of his meagre forces, a gruff German man by the name of Berthold, gave him a bow of his head.

“How is he doing?” Luc asked grimly, his face impassive as he gazed upon his twelve year old son, young Louis Saubin.

Louis Saubin had all the marks of growing up to resemble his father greatly, just as both of his older brothers had turned out to. Tall for his age, with pitch black hair, he was usually seen with a serious expression on his face in a mirror to Luc himself, though its effect was somewhat ruined by his youthful appearance.

“Your son is doing good, M’Lord. Just needs practice, so he can be better.” Berthold rumbled in passable French, his accent mangling the words slightly, though not to the point that they were indecipherable.

Despite being a mercenary for the Lord Saubin for the past fifteen years, his German accent was very pronounced. Due to his rough appearance, however, there weren’t very many people who decided to point it out to the giant.

Those who did, usually only did so once.

Luc merely gave a nod at the man’s words, his face as impassive as it always was. When he had been a younger man, he had been far more open, but he had changed ever since he had gone on two crusades, the first one being the King’s Crusade under Phillipe II back in 1189, from which he returned a quieter, but content man, regaling all who asked with wonderful tales of the Holy City, and the valor of their King and the splendor of Jerusalem.

But last year he had returned from yet another crusade, now withdrawn and morose. He told no stories of the failed attempt to reach Jerusalem through the north of Egypt, and all who lived in the keep pretended not to hear his sobs at night, nor did they ask questions when they found him wandering the hallways under the light of the moon.

He had not smiled ever since.

“Good. Tell him to freshen himself up. We’re travelling to Troyes today and we shall be riding hard, I hope to reach it before nightfall. From there, we shall take the Via Agrippa to Lagny-sur-Marne.”

It was unusual for Luc to travel to one of the famous trade fairs, given that he was a stern man who did not care much for worldly possessions, concerning himself only with the upkeep of his castle. The castle had been in the hands of the Saubin family even before the Iron Age of the early 11th century, and they had fought tooth and nail to keep it that way. 

The peasantry of the surrounding grounds said that there was more Saubin blood flowing through their fields than water.

Still, fighting in two Crusades, despite only the first one being successful, had done good things for the Saubin family name and wealth, the most prominent being the fact that Luc had received a proper title from Henry I, the Count of Champagne and the man that Luc had fought under during the Crusades. Granted, it wasn’t an impressive title, and he was now only a minor Lord of a small keep and some unremarkable farmland, but it still meant that he was now part of the Court of Champagne.

So when the Count of Champagne called together his Court, it meant that Luc would have to honor the summons of his lord. Currently, his lord was the four year old Theobald IV, the grandson of Henry I, due to Henry’s only son dying tragically young four years ago, a week before his own son was born. Because of Theobald’s young age, it was the child’s mother, Blanche of Navarra, who held the Regency, but Luc had to heed her call all the same.

There was also another matter of some urgency that had to be dealt with in Lagny-sur-Marne.

“I wish to see an old friend of mine, and he’ll surely attend the Champagne fair being held there. We will not be late.” Luc ordered in a scratchy baritone voice, once again getting an obedient nod out of the German warrior.

“As you say, M’Lord.”

But Luc was already heading inside his keep once more, leaving Berthold and Louis alone in the training yard.

“Boy! Enough! Go wash, we leave today!” the giant bellowed, causing the youth to slump over with a grateful sigh of exhaustion, his sword still firmly gripped in his calloused hands.

When he had been younger, during his first training session with the target pole, which involved swinging the blunted steel in various stances at the chipped wood over and over again for four straight hours, he had tiredly dropped the sword in the mud of the training yard after he had finished with his exercise.

The tanning he received from Berthold that day meant he had trouble sitting for the rest of the week. He hadn’t dropped his steel ever since.

Having gathered his breath, Louis straightened and quickly made his way over to the rack that stood on the edge of the field, holding swords of several sizes, a couple of spears and even a warhammer, though it was about as tall as he was, and only Berthold used it.

Wiping the steel off with a cloth, he placed it in its appropriate place on the rack, before turning back towards Berthold, shoulders squared, feet apart and hands clasped behind his back, just like he had been taught, awaiting the man’s critiques.

While this would usually involve a detailed explanation on all of the little things he had inevitably done wrong during training, delivered with such zeal that the other residents of the keep had jokingly referred to it as Berthold’s sermons, this time the giant merely shook his bald head.

“No time. Go. Wash. Pack your things and prepare your horse. We ride for Troyes.” The giant rumbled in his accented voice, but Louis, having grown up with the man, had no trouble understanding the mercenary’s words.

“Sir! May I ask a question?” Louis ventured, and receiving an approving grunt from the warrior, he quickly pressed on.

“Troyes? Why are we going to Troyes?”

“Not going to Troyes. Rest in Troyes. We go to Lagny, to the trade fair.”

Seeing the excitement dance in the youth’s eyes caused the giant to let out a huff of laughter, lightly cuffing the child over the head with a smile.

“Go! Quick! Or we leave and you stay!” the German said with a grin and a wagging finger, causing young Louis to bolt to his room, where he quickly took off his drenched tunic, and washed the grime from his body with the jug of water the servants had prepared.

As he straightened, taking a soft cloth to wipe himself off, his eyes went to the small window in his room, and to the lands he could see beyond the walls of the keep, thin rays of light piercing the soft mist that clung to it like a blanket spun from the brightest silver. It was a sizeable amount, the child knew, though it paled compared to the high lords of the country, and a large part of it was farmable, though there was a small forest over to their eastern border, where they gathered the lumber they needed.

It was a good place to grow up, and Louis could understand why generations of Saubin men before him had bled and died to keep it theirs, even though he himself would probably not see all that much of it when he reached adulthood.

The keep and most of the surrounding lands would be inherited by his eldest brother, Charles, who was a squire for the nephew of the famous Baldwin of Bethune. It had been four years since Louis had last seen him. His second eldest brother, Jean, had joined the clergy, and was currently working in the Cluny Abbey in Burgundy, a week travelling away. Jean had visited his childhood home two years ago, but he had only stayed for a few months before returning to his work, and Louis had found him very much changed from the pleasant boy he remembered from his childhood memories.

Louis, being the third son of a minor noble, would squire under his own father, and once his eldest brother inherited the keep and lands, he would either become his brother’s knight, receiving a small part of the surrounding lands for his own, or he would need to go into the world and try to find his own fortune.

Born only a year after his father had returned from the King’s Crusade, he had grown up with fanciful tales of Crusades and valiant knights, his head filled with a longing for adventure. The past year, however, this longing had been tempered somewhat after his father returned from the Fourth Crusade. Louis had hardly recognized the gaunt man that had come back as his father, and his haunted look whenever someone asked about the last Crusade gave Louis chills.

Quickly shaking off the morose thoughts, Louis threw a clean tunic on himself, clasping a decorated belt around his middle to keep it in place. A smile came to the boy’s face as he ran towards the stables, mind set on the journey ahead.

‘I bet there’s loads to see in Lagny!’

//

3rd of January 1205

Sitting on a small stool in his father’s booth, Phillipe reflected that yes, there had indeed been a lot to see in Lagny-sur-Marne. People with skin-colors he had never seen before, types of clothing he hadn’t even dreamed of, wares and spices that he didn’t know existed.

And this was just the first day.

Merchants from all over Europe had come to the first Champagne fair of the year, not deterred by the grisly weather and the snow, and all of them appeared to be in a good mood, if the cheerful expressions Phillipe saw everywhere were any indication.

His father had had a few talks with a couple of them, but he had been busy mostly with selecting which wares he would put on display in his stall. The rest of the cargo would be kept secure in the caravan under heavy guard, just to be safe.

Knowing fully well that coin was most easily made in times of peace, the lords of the Champagne allowed the merchants a great deal of freedom to make that coin, but they were very harsh in delivering punishment on those who would upset that peace. It meant that the trade fairs were largely safe, but you could never be too sure, so Jacques was making a selection in what to show to potential buyers.

It had to be intriguing enough to draw in customers, but it shouldn’t be opulent enough that thieves thought there was easy money to be made by breaking into the booth in the dead of night.

Frankly, it all went over young Phillipe’s head, who had been delegated to the task of keeping the books, under the watchful eyes of his father, who had decided that his son should start getting a feel for the family business, and to make himself useful.

So far, he hadn’t had to write all that much, considering that his father was mostly just brushing up on all of his old contacts, extracting promises that during the following six weeks they would come to buy their good friend’s wonderful stock and sample his excellent wares.

Still, as boring as it was to sit in the back of the booth with a heavy tome on his lap as he watched his father smile expertly at equally fat merchants from faraway lands, Phillipe couldn’t be happier. Every time he looked outside he saw something he had never seen before in all his life, and the whole day long, various tantalizing smells drifted over towards their booth.

And that was just the merchant side of things! The nobility would be arriving in full force as well, since the Regent of the Champagne, the mother of the current lord or something, Phillipe had been far too distracted by a man covered from head to toe in colorful cloth to pay attention to his father’s explanations, would hold Court in Lagny-sur-Marne.

There was even talk of a tourney!

The moment he and his father had been told about the tournament, Jacques had turned to look at his son, already knowing what he would find. Sure enough, young Phillipe was looking up at his father with comically wide eyes, hands clasped underneath his chubby chin.

It had taken him a mere hour of pleading before he had weaseled a promise that they would go see the tourney out of his father, the man giving a great bellow as he told his son that, should he apply such tactics to his merchant business, he would be wealthier than his father within the year.

It was almost midday when his father was approached by a tall knight with a carefully groomed moustache, followed by the largest man Phillipe had ever seen, and a tall boy around his own age. As the trio came to a stop in front of Jacques’ booth, stern expressions on all of their faces, Phillipe nervously turned on his seat towards where his father was bent over, rummaging through a lockbox, though his vast girth made this endeavor somewhat complicated.

“Father. Father, there are men here to see you.” Phillipe whispered as he tried to be subtle, which of course meant that the three newcomers had heard him clearly, if the amused look in the giant’s eyes was anything to go by.

Straightening with a huff of effort, his father, completely red in the face, turned to the front of the booth, though when his eyes fell on the three men, his expression turned into an enormous grin.

“Luc! How wonderful to see you again, old friend!” Jacques called out, his arms stretched out wide as he quickly approached the tall knight with a great smile.

Luc, as was apparently the knight’s name, didn’t react to the exuberant greeting beyond raising a single eyebrow, but his expression did soften, and he walked around the counter to greet Jacques with a hug, both men clapping each other heartily on the back.

“Jacques. It is good to see you, it has been too long. There is much I have to discuss with you-“

“Wonderful! Truly wonderful! That means that you shall be having dinner with me and my boy then!”

Giving a surprised blink at the sudden invitation, Luc raised his hand as he gave a little frown.

“Ah, that’s not what-“

“Do you remember my son, Phillipe? It has been so long since you saw him last, I doubt you’d even recognize him these days! Phillipe! Phillipe my boy, come here and greet an old friend of your father’s!” Jacques said with a great bellow, one meaty hand clasped firmly on the tall knight’s shoulder, the other beckoning Phillipe to approach.

As Phillipe got up from his stool and somewhat shyly walked over towards the newcomers, he saw that the knight had given up on trying to go against his exuberant father, merely looking down at the young boy with a resigned expression.

Giving a small bow, just like Nestor had drilled him to, Phillipe politely greeted the man, though his voice came out very soft and with a small tremor of nervousness.

“Good day to you sir. A pleasure to meet you.”

Nodding in greeting, Luc stroked his moustache a few times, looking Phillipe over with a critical eye, before his expression softened, though he didn’t quite smile.

“Your father is right boy, you have changed quite a lot since I last saw you. Of course, you were merely a babe then, it has been so long ago. I would like you two to meet Louis, my youngest son. Behind him stands Berthold, a mercenary who has accompanied me on the Crusades, and a loyal friend.”

“Of course, of course! Any friend of yours is a friend of mine! Welcome! Welcome! The both of you are of course invited to my tent tonight as well!” Jacques said with a bellow of laughter, fearlessly striding towards the giant, taking the warrior’s enormous paw into his own two meaty hands and giving a vigorous shake, before ruffling Louis’ hair with a grin.

Still standing behind the counter, Phillipe gave a small wave to the enormous warrior, though he peered curiously at Luc’s son, only to find the other child looking back at him in equal curiosity.

Placing a hand on Jacques’ shoulder as the man was trying to sell Berthold a brand new battle-ax which he claimed came straight from Damascus, though Phillipe knew for a fact that it had come from the smithy four streets down from their house in Albi, Luc gained the fat merchant’s attention again.

“Very well. We shall dine in your tent tomorrow evening. I’m afraid that I have other engagements for the day, so I only came by to greet you before I need to be off to join the Court, where a great feast shall be held, which I am obliged to attend. I had originally meant to converse with you before the feast began, but the things I wish to discuss… it might be better that my words are to be spoken in a place where they can not so easily be overheard.” The knight said in a flat voice, his eyes forcefully staring into Jacques’, who quickly caught on.

“Have no worries, old friend. In my tent you shall be able to speak freely.” Jacques promised with a more serious expression than Phillipe had seen on his father ever since they had set out from Albi.

Nodding at Jacques’ reassuring words, the tall knight let go of the merchant’s shoulder, his eyes roaming over the few displayed trinkets that his friend has stalled out on the counter. As Phillipe’s gaze slid from Luc’s stern face to the man’s son Louis, he could see that the boy was studying Jacques with equal intensity.

As if knowing that he was being watched, Louis turned to face Phillipe, and a little unsure what to do with himself, Phillipe just ended up giving a little wave at the other boy. For a moment, Louis seemed taken off guard, before he too lifted his hand, both boys giving each other tentative little smiles.

Meanwhile, Jacques had cornered the giant Berthold, the German mercenary looking distinctly uncomfortable at the gleam in the fat merchant’s eyes.

“So, about that Damascus-made battle-ax I mentioned…”

//

4th of January 1205

A few hours after the sun had gone down, Phillipe was in their tent, seated at the long side of the table, across from the entrance at Jacques’ right side, who himself was seated at the head of the table, which was covered with a rough but clean cloth in front of them as they waited for their guests to arrive. Though the child was exited at meeting these mysterious friends of his father, his enthusiasm was somewhat dampened by his tiredness.

With most of the merchants having trickled into the fair by now, trading had begun in earnest, and Jacques, who had spent the last few days hunting down his contacts and strengthening his relationships with potential buyers, had been busy like a particularly overzealous bee all day long, selling and buying stock almost as fast as Phillipe could write.

It was a very tired twelve year old who gratefully slammed the great ledger closed when Jacques finally announced that they were done for the day, the bleak winter sun having begun its journey towards its resting place underneath the horizon. There was light provided by a sea of lanterns, of course, but Jacques disliked doing business when the light was low.

“It becomes too bloody easy for people to slip in counterfeit coins when it’s getting dark out. My eyes aren’t what they used to be, you know!” Jacques had laughed when a hesitant Phillipe had asked why he had closed the curtains of their stall, despite the fact that there were still potential buyers walking outside.

Having packed all their goods away in secure lockboxes, with a rotating guard looking over their caravan, Phillipe and his father had retreated to their large tent. It didn’t quite equal the great pavilions Phillipe had seen set up from a distance for the coming nobility and their tourney, but it could still comfortably house a dozen people and a grand dining table, though it was made from rough-hewn wood.

Which is what the cloth was for, of course.

The cook was still roasting a pig on the spit outside when their guests arrived, tall Sir Luc Saubin the first to enter their tent, having to bow his head a little in order not to brush against the entrance flaps. His son Louis followed him in on his heels, and the enormous Berthold was the last to enter, the giant mercenary having to duck in order to fit through the entrance.

Despite the fact that the tent could house twice their current number, when the German entered it suddenly felt rather crowded.

With a great beaming smile, Jacques sprung up from his comfortable chair, his enormous belly shuddering at the sudden movement, as the fat merchant approached his tall friend with wide open arms.

“Come! Come! Sit! The cook should be done with the pork any minute now! It shall probably pale in comparison to the feast you enjoyed last night, so I’m afraid the company shall have to compensate for the deficiency!” Jacques said with a great laugh, clapping Luc on the back as he did.

Again Phillipe noticed that the knight didn’t quite smile, though his enormous moustache gave a small twitch to indicate the man’s humor.

“Enjoy is a rather strong word for last night’s event, I’m afraid. At least the company shall be infinitely better, old friend.” Luc said in a gruff, though not unkind voice, prompting another bellow of laughter from Jacques, as he guided the tall knight sit at the other head of the table.

Louis, after giving a quick, searching look around the tent, came over to take a seat across Phillipe, with the enormous Berthold sat at the same side to Louis’ right, taking position between father and son. Phillipe thought it rather weird, but he supposed that it was probably for security purposes or something like that, since now Berthold could reach either Saubin equally fast.

Not that they had to worry about that here in the middle of the sprawling camp, but you could never be too careful of course.

It was why his father had hired a small group of guards to protect the caravan after all.

As all the men were finally seated, a serving girl quickly came inside to fill their cups with wine, though Phillipe and Louis only received watered down versions. Not that Phillipe minded, considering he didn’t quite like the taste of wine all that much, and Louis didn’t give any outwards sign of caring either way.

Jacques thanked the serving girl in a warm voice, to which she gave a small smile and a quick bow, before she bustled out of the tent, probably to help the cook with the spitted pig. Turning to face Luc, Jacques gave out an easy grin as he leaned back in his chair.

“Well, my friend, it is a welcome surprise to meet you here, but a surprise nonetheless. If I may ask, what brings you to Lagny-sur-Marne this time of year? You are not one to stick around fairs like this: should you require something, and if it’s something beyond the skill of your blacksmith or mason, you usually just put in an order with one of the guilds. So why have you come here? Perhaps you needed some exclusive wares only your old friend Jacques Bruno could provide for you, eh?” the merchant asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows, once again prompting a small twitch from Luc’s moustache.

Phillipe was starting to wonder whether that was the only part of the man’s face that was capable of expressing emotion.

“If only that were the reason. It would have been a far more pleasant trip if I were to have made it solely for the purposes of the Saubin household, or merely to visit a friend of mine I have not seen in far too long. Alas, it is duty, not pleasure that brings me to these parts.” Luc said in a somber tone, and Phillipe could see his father sit a little straighter in his chair at the words.

Any further discussion was temporarily put on hold as the cook entered, holding one end of the spit in his hands, the serving girl from before holding the other end, though she was clearly somewhat struggling with the weight. They placed the cloth-wrapped pig on the middle of the table, before the cook cut the strings keeping them closed with a proud flourish of his knife.

As the grease-stained cloth fell away, the scent of rosemary and garlic filled the room, and Phillipe saw that pig had been stuffed with herbs and been glazed with its own fat. The sight and smells made his mouth water, even as he heard a soft growling sound come from the stomach of the boy sitting opposite him.

With expert strokes, the cook cut off great flanks of meat from the stuffed pig, placing them on the slabs of bread that were used as plates. He quickly served everyone, starting with Luc, due to him being the guest of honor, then Jacques, as the host, then Louis, being the nobleman’s son, then Phillipe, as the host’s son and finally Berthold, who, despite clearly being more than a mere mercenary if Luc allowed the giant to sit at his side, was still a man of common birth, and as such was served last.

Once everyone had gotten their slab of meat, the girl filled up their cups again, and then both servants left the tent after a quick bow.

“Luc! Maybe you wish to say a quick prayer before we begin? Surely, our meal shall be blessed when the knight who fought in the King’s Crusade does the honors!” Jacques said with a beaming smile, though both he and Phillipe noticed the quick flash of anguish that crossed the elder Saubin’s face when the merchant mentioned the Crusade.

Still, the aged knight gave a quick nod, before he straightened and bowed his head, the other occupants of the room quickly following his lead, though from beneath his lashes Phillipe saw that Berthold looked somewhat uncomfortable at the ritual.

Paganism had been eradicated by the Church centuries ago, but there were rumors that the old faith hadn’t quite disappeared as much as Rome thought that it had. Regardless of whether those rumors had any truth to them or not, Phillipe thought it best not to press the giant warrior on it.

After a few brief, but sincere words of prayer, Luc raised his head, a firm ‘Amen!’ falling from his lips, which was quickly followed by the other occupants.

“Well! Dreary thoughts and serious conversation can wait for later! First, we eat!” Jacques said jovially, and with great gusto, he and his guest dug into their meal.

Twice more the cook was called in to cut the rest of the pork, until more bone than meat was left of the animal, and the serving girl made sure to keep everyone’s cups filled. Conversation flowed easily between Jacques and Luc, the exuberant merchant gradually managing to draw the tall knight from his surly shell. 

Even Phillipe and Louis struck up an awkward, halting conversation, though it went much smoother once both boys discovered their shared love for adventure, Louis regaling the enraptured Phillipe with the tales of the King’s Crusade he had grown up with, told by his father when the knight had been a happier, less haunted man. But where Louis dreamed of following in his father’s footsteps, sword in hand and with honor as his shield, Phillipe dreamed of softer, more fanciful things. He dreamed of the colorful life of a troubadour, instead of following his forefathers in the merchant business, and Louis listened with equal attention to Phillipe’s tales of the acrobats and jesters that he had travelled with on the long road from Albi to Lagny-sur-Marne.

Berthold was more interested in sneaking peeks at the servant girl, who blushed prettily under the warrior’s attention, though he sometimes chimed in when Luc told Jacques about the day to day running of the keep, since the German was largely responsible for training the few armed forces of Saubin Keep.

Finally, all men had filled their bellies, the servant girl this time filling their cups with a very sweet wine, though Luc politely declined Jacques’ offer to have dessert brought out, citing that he was already sated and could not possibly eat another bite.

As a lull came into the conversation, contentment hanging heavy in the air, Phillipe surreptitiously stole a piece of left-over meat from his grease-filled slab of bread, holding it underneath the table when he thought no one was looking.

There was a very faint sound of sniffling, before a wet snout pressed against his hand, and after a lick from a rough tongue over his fingers, the piece of pork disappeared into the dog’s gullet. Guinefort was the dog of the Bruno household, and was yet one more sign of Monsieur Jacques impressive wealth, since most commoners were forbidden from keeping the noble canines.

Still, Guinefort was old, and these days kept to sleeping underneath tables, waiting until Phillipe ended up feeding her the left-overs of his plate.

“So, now that we are all fed and watered: what is this grave matter that you so urgently needed to speak with me about?” Jacques asked, his chubby cheeks glowing red with the pleasant warmth that wine brought with it.

For a moment, Luc remained silent, merely staring as he swirled his cup around, before he placed it on the table with a weary sigh.

“I came here, to warn you, old friend.”

Phillipe’s head shot up at those words, and he could tell that Louis was surprised as well, though the stoic boy hid it better, clearly trying to emulate his father in keeping his emotions from showing on his face. It was impossible to tell what Berthold was thinking, given that the enormous warrior appeared to have fallen asleep in his chair.

“Warn me? About what?” Jacques asked with a confused tone as he raised an eyebrow in question.

“Everything, I suppose. You are not in a favorable position my friend. You have enemies, even if you do not know it.” Luc said gravely, prompting an incredulous chuckle from the fat merchant.

“Enemies? Who would want to be my enemy? Sure, I might have overcharged a few people here and there occasionally, but-“

“This isn’t about you being a merchant, Jacques. This is… bigger.” Luc cut in, making Jacques fall silent with a frown.

Seeing that the merchant didn’t quite understand, Luc gave out a low growl as he clenched his fist, his face drawn and his eyes gaining a haunted look.

“Jacques. You hail from Albi. Hailing from that city means that you have ties to Constantinople, and as a merchant from the south, you are known to have connections with the Venetians. During the last Crusade we… we…” Luc slowly trailed off, furiously blinking his eyes as Jacques looked at his friend in worry.

“The Crusade ended badly, Jacques. We did not reach the Holy Land, we did not find salvation. All we brought was death and misery. The Venetians tricked us, my friend. Tricked us into doing horrible things, things that will surely have left a stain upon our souls for eternity. They are regarded with distrust ever since, and I do not see the returned crusaders look upon them more fondly as time passes. I fear the opposite shall prove true. And as a merchant with ties to Venice, this growing hatred shall be pointed in your direction as well, eventually.”

Jacques gave a nervous laugh at his friend’s dark words, though Phillipe could tell that his normally jovial father had been rattled by the ominous warning.

“Are you certain of this, my friend? After all, I have been here in Lagny for a few days now, and business is good! Clearly the people of the Champagne appreciate my wares, Venetian made or not!” Jacques tried to reassure both his friend and himself, but Luc merely gave a shake of his head.

“Had it only been your connection to Venice, I might have braved to share your optimism, Jacques. But now I fear that it is misplaced. It is not merely your connections that threaten you: where you hail from is another matter entirely. It is dangerous these days, to come from the south, especially from Albi.” Luc warned, making Jacques frown.

“Surely things are not as bad as you portray them to be, Luc? I know that Rome holds no love for the Cathars in Albi, since we do not follow their doctrine, but this has always been so. I am no Saracen, nor a Jew! I am still Christian, I have accepted Jesus as my savior, just as you have, and just as the pope has!”

“You think that matters these days?!” Luc suddenly roared in response, slamming his clenched fist on the table, nearly toppling their goblets, and making Phillipe and Louis jump in their seats, while Berthold was visibly shaken from his slumber.

“You think the pope will only call people to arms in order to strike down the heathens?! Venice may have tricked us, but it was the pope who approved of what we did! And we did not slay the Ayyubids, Jacques, not a single spawn of Saladin fell beneath my blade! It was solely Christian blood that was spilled that day, drawn by their Christian brethren! If Constantinople falls before the displeasure of the pope, then what hope holds Albi!?” Luc seethed in a loud voice, barely managing to keep it in check so that it remained inaudible to those outside of the tent, its thick walls making his speech muffled to any potential eavesdroppers.

For a moment, silence fell across the tent like a thick, constricting veil, only broken by the heave breaths of Luc as he tried to regain his composure.

“Luc… my dear friend… what have you done…?” Jacques asked in a sad, tired voice, but Luc sharply lifted his hand, giving a shake of his head as his expression closed off once more.

“I will speak of this no further, Jacques. As I have said, my deeds on that holy mission will be a stain upon my soul I shall carry with me to beyond the veil of death. As such, I shall keep them to myself, and share them with none, so do not ask any further about them.” Luc rumbled, only somewhat managing to mask the hidden pain in his voice.

After a long considering glance, Jacques gave his friend a slow, acquiescing nod, before he shifted in his chair, concern now plain on his face.

“Very well then, my friend. Those burdens shall be yours to keep then, until the day comes their weight becomes too much to bear, and you wish to share them with another. I promise you, upon that day, I, Jacques Bruno, shall be there to offer you my shoulder.” The fat merchant stated gravely, gaining a grateful look from the tall knight across from him.

Again silence fell, though instead of the cloying feeling of before, there was now an air of subtle dignity, and Phillipe found to his surprise that he was sitting straighter in his chair than before.

Picking up his cup and draining it in a single gulp, Jacques let it rest on the table again, peering at Luc with a worried glance.

“So. People from the north will look at me in distrust because I deal with the Venetians. But more importantly, the people loyal to Rome will look at me with hate because I hail from Albi. But, there must be something that can offset this wretched situation, at least until the people’s feelings settle some more? I deliver wares that are in high demand and present a chance to make significant amounts of coin, surely in time this will sway people to see me in a more pleasant light once more? You clearly fear the power of the pope, but our King Phillipe-“

“His eye is fixed upon the south as well.” Luc interjected in a wary voice, halting the fat merchant in his tracks.

“Just last year, he has finally achieved total victory on the English. He has taken Anjou and Normandy, and Bretagne has revolted against their King John, or Bad King John, as he is now called. Phillipe’s role in the King’s Crusade means he holds favor with Innocentius III, and he has now consolidated his power in the north. His ambitions have turned to the south now. It is no secret he has long despised the influence that Raymond VI has as the Count of Toulouse, and the protection he offers the Cathars. A papal decree is all the excuse he needs to have his nobles march upon the wealth in the south.”

Slumping in his chair with a defeated look upon his face, Jacques gave his friend a long look, before he let out a deep sigh.

“What does this all mean, Luc? You have warned me there is danger on all sides, even from our king, yet what is it that I and my family should truly fear?”

Luc seemed to struggle with his words for a long time, before he slowly rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed as he answered his friend’s desperate question.

“Phillipe’s wife hails from the Champagne. As such, his influence here is amongst the strongest in all the lands under his control. If… no, when he calls his followers to arms, many here would not hesitate in following him, since they are sworn to both him and the family of his wife. Jacques… that includes me. I fear that someday… I shall be ordered to march upon Albi, and once I am, I will have no other option than to obey. I am sorry.”

Silence deafened the tent after those ominous words, and Phillipe looked wide-eyed between Luc and his father, not entirely comprehending what was being said between the two men, but understanding that whatever grave matter they had just talked about, it didn’t bode well for him or his family.

Looking across him, he saw a similar look in Louis’ eyes, though the taller boy squared his chin when he saw Phillipe looking at him, hurriedly mouthing ‘later!’ at the merchant’s son, before Jacques slowly began talking, drawing all eyes to him.

“Clearly, you no longer see yourself as one… but during all the time that I have known you, I have seen you as nothing but a man of honor and dignity. Should your bonds of loyalty force you to take up arms, then you must do so. I may not believe in God in the same manner as you do, but we both do believe in the same God and as such, I feel that in the end, justice shall prevail.” Jacques proclaimed gravely, drawing a slow shake from Luc, though once again the man’s moustache twitched slightly in wry amusement.

“I wish I could share your optimism, old friend, truly I do. Then again, during all the time that I have known you, you have ever been a man of bright conviction, no matter how wrong that conviction turned out to be.” Luc said warmly, causing Jacques to chuckle, before both men fell silent.

It was eventually Louis who broke the silence, as he gazed between the two adults.

“Excuse me, sir, but may I ask a question?” the child asked politely, and Phillipe was slightly envious of how the taller boy’s confidence, barely even seeming nervous at all.

“Of course you may, young Louis! I did not invite you merely to keep that seat warm and to eat my food for me! Come then, ask your questions! Mayhap it can bring the darkened thoughts of two old men onto more pleasant matters!” Jacques said with a bright smile, though Phillipe suspected he was the only one who knew his father well enough to see that the man’s smile did not quite reach his eyes as he spoke.

“It’s just that… I was wondering… how do the two of you know each other? It appears that you have been friends for a long time, yet I do not know how you two met.” Louis asked as politely as possible, prompting a great laugh from Jacques and yet another twitch from Luc’s moustache, though a bit more pronounced this time.

“Well, maybe it is best that your father tell this particular tale! Luc, if you will please?” Jacques said with an enormous grin, and the tall knight dutifully nodded as he straightened in his chair.

“It is quite an odd tale, child. You see, this magnificent scoundrel here, he fleeced me out of a great deal of money. I was not the first and I am certain I was not the last, but there was something particular about the time that he swindled me.” Luc said, and Phillipe noticed that as the man was weaving the tale, his tone of voice was getting warmer, leaving behind the morose man of before.

“Why was it particular, sir?” Phillipe asked, making Luc turn to look at him as he prepared to answer his question, but he was cut off by a loud scoff coming from Jacques, who mock-glared at his son as he waggled a ringed finger at the child.

“What’s this? Not even going to defend your old man’s honor when his earnest merchant self is grossly mistaken for a swindler?!”

Without even blinking, Phillipe merely stared at his father with a flat expression on his face.

“No.”

While Jacques appeared crestfallen, Louis nearly sprayed his watered down wine through his nose in laughter, and even Luc showed a particularly large twitch of his moustache.

“Smart move, boy. You see, when Phillipe II called off the war with the English and declared that he would personally go on Crusade to take back Jerusalem from the mighty Saladin, everyone who could swing a sword, and indeed, everyone who couldn’t as well, wished to join him on his quest. Including me. As I wandered the markets of Paris in search of supplies for the long journey ahead, I stumbled upon a stall of a young man whose stock was absolutely filled to the brim with weapons and armor. Intrigued, I started questioning this mysterious man, who told me he was named Jacques Bruno. I engaged in conversation with this Jacques, telling him that I was to embark upon a heroic quest to the Holy Land, and lo and behold! Jacques pulls out a garishly colored doublet from underneath his counter! And he swears to me, that this awful looking thing was in fact the same piece of clothing that Raymond IV of Toulouse had worn during the First Crusade, blessed by pope Urbanus II himself no less! Naturally, a gullible young lad like myself fell for his talks, and donning the strangely stiff doublet, I proudly wore it back to the encampment of the forces I would operate with. My commander, Henry I of Champagne, took a single look at me, and promptly fell from his horse with laughter!”

Wide-eyed at the tale the knight was spinning, Phillipe leaned forwards in his chair, the move mirrored by Louis.

“Why was he laughing, sir?”

“Because what I had been sold was not, in fact, blessed by the pope, it had not been worn by Raymond IV, as he had been dead for more than eighty yeas, and it wasn’t even a doublet! What that scoundrel had sold me was a wrongly cut, leather jerkin that he had simply painted over!”

As Luc said that, Jacques let out an unabashed bellow of laughter, and despite the words, Phillipe could tell that Louis’ father was equally amused, even if he didn’t really show it as openly as Phillipe’s own father did.

“Then why do you consider him a friend, if he cheated you so father?” Louis asked with interest, and Luc’s eyes, filled with mirth, shifted to his son, his expression softening.

“Because it saved my life. You see, I had bought this so-called doublet mere hours before we were set to depart from Paris, and my lord Henry did not permit me to return to the market in order to try and find Jacques again. To this day, I believe he did that mostly because the sight of me clad in those garish colors amused him to no end. And so I left, with only a thick, painted, leather jerkin as both my battle attire, and regular clothing. It chafed like mad, but Henry merely advised me that I should take this as a lesson for those who are foolish with their coin, and so I persevered. And then one night, after we had crossed into the East, past the borders of Byzantium, we were ambushed. Many of the men had removed their armor for the night, but for me of course, this was not an option. And thus I found myself in the middle of the camp, surrounded by half-dressed men running around in panic, unsure of what to do… when an arrow hit me, right in the chest!” Luc said dramatically, slamming his fist to his chest for illustration, again making both boys jump, though they looked at the knight with wide smiles.

“But here’s the thing: those Saracens, they don’t have the mighty longbows that we do. They have much smaller bows, and they are skilled with them, especially on horseback. But they don’t perform proper volleys such as we do, and their arrows have difficulty piercing our armor. One of them probably thought that I was easy pickings under the low light of the moon, since I appeared to be dressed in regular clothing. But when his arrow struck me, it found not cloth, but boiled leather, and it was halted in its tracks, right before it could pierce my heart. And so it was that the merchant I had cursed ever since my feet had left Paris, ended up saving my life. After we had driven the muslims from Acre in August of 1191, we followed our King home while Richard the Lionheart remained locked in battle with the sly Saladin. All of the knights who fought under our Lord Henry were invited to a great feast in honor of our victory, and so it was that instead of travelling to my keep near Toulouse, I ended up in Lagny-sur-Marne instead, right as the Champagne fair was being held. And who else do I see there, but that same merchant who sold me that ‘doublet’ of his!”

“Then what did you do?” Phillipe asked in awe, hearing fond chuckling coming from his father.

“I’ll tell you what he did: he walked right up to me and knocked me to the ground with a single punch, that’s what he did!” Jacques said with a laugh, prompting an approving rumble from the quiet Berthold, who had been listening to the tail with equal rapt attention as the children had been.

“Of course I did. And then I picked you up, dusted off your clothes, and hugged you as I kept thanking you for saving my life. You see, mere days before, my third son had been born, and you had a hand in making that possible, even if you did not know it. If it hadn’t been for you, young Lois would not have been here today.” Luc said, and as he looked at his son, Phillip saw the knight smile for the first time since he had met him.

“After that, I took you out for drinks, and we got so drunk that neither of us remember how the rest of the night went, but I woke up in just my trousers in Lord Henry’s tent, while young Jacques was found during midday in the stables of the castle! From that moment on, we kept in contact during all those years, and our friendship had been forged, never to be broken.”

Giving a smile at the memory, Jacques lifted his cup with a fond look.

“To friendships!”

The other two men and the two boys quickly followed the merchant’s expression, Phillipe and Louis looking at each other with smiles on their faces.

“To friendships!”