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Please, do not worry. There are some things I have not shared with you, and even Stephen would not dare do me any harm. Write the King, Hugh. Make your triumph true. I will do my part.
This was so cruel. My eyes welled with stinging tears. I could not lose her. Not now, after so much had happened. I swallowed hard, struggling to read the end:
You have been my true love since I saw you that very first day. I know I shall say that to you when we see each other again. I hold up my palm. Remember the words,
In all the world…
Emilie
[342] A sharp pain lanced through me, bleeding out the joy and triumph of all that had taken place. I had won the day. But I had lost the woman I loved.
Chapter 118
“WHO IS THERE?” a cranky voice barked from behind the door. “Speak to me!”
Emilie hunched inside her dark hood. The familiar testiness was like an old friend, and it made her smile. “Have your wits become as dull as your jokes, Norbert?” she called back.
Slowly the door to the jester’s chamber cracked open. Norbert peeked out, his tunic open to his chest and his hair tousled and awry.
At first, he regarded the huddled shape suspiciously. Then, as she removed the hood, his eyes opened wide. “Lady Emilie!”
Norbert glanced down the corridor to make sure she was alone, then spread his arms and embraced her. “It’s a beautiful sight to see you.”
Emilie squeezed him back. “It’s good to see you too, jester.”
Norbert hurried her inside his room. He shut the door, then frowned. “It’s a beautiful sight, my lady, but not necessarily to see you here. You’ve taken a great risk to come back. But tell me quick-you’ve been with Hugh?”
Emilie brought him up to date. First, on the raid on Veille du Père and the existence of the lance. “The very staff you sent to Hugh.” Then, of the incredible events that followed. The townspeople who had risen up with him. Treille. With each piece of [344] news, the jester’s eyes grew more incredulous, his cackles of delight more unrestrained.
When she told him of Baldwin’s capture, he danced around and fell back on his mat, kicking his legs with glee. “I knew that boy was a gift from God, but this…”
He lifted himself back up, his laughter subsiding. He studied her face, the rosy cast of her cheeks. “But tell me, my lady… why are you here now?”
Emilie lowered her eyes. “For my mistress. It is my duty.”
“Your mistress! Then you have traveled a long way and at much risk for no end. Things are much changed here. The duke dreams of killing Hugh with the zeal of a dog slobbering over a cooking roast. Does anyone know you have arrived?”
“I mingled with a party of monks returning from pilgrimage. I came to you first.”
“That is wise. Your last ru
Emilie’s face lit up. “I knew she would be true. I was right about A
Chapter 119
IT TOOK SEVERAL DAYS to completely secure Treille. There were a few stubborn knights still loyal to Baldwin. And word of a purported reprisal from one of the duke’s supposed allies. But no reprisal came.
Treille was ours.
Now there was the matter of what to do with it.
There was the issue of the duke’s treasury, which had been fattened on the backs of those who now occupied his city. And vast stores of grain and livestock had to be redistributed fairly.
A debate raged between those who had been with us from the start and those who joined later about what to do. Georges said give out the keys to the grain holds. Let each man leave with a sack and a hen. Alois said why stop there. Raid the treasury. Redistribute all the money. Put a noose to the bastard!
I wished Emilie were there. I had no skill to govern, nor the urge. I did not know exactly what to do, or what was right.
It was only a matter of time before I would lose my army. The ranks were growing impatient. They wanted to go back to their homes. “It’s harvest time,” they said. “When do we get what we were promised?”
And not just food and money. They needed laws to protect them. The right to choose: where to live, whom they would serve. If a man was pledged to a lord, need his children and [346] their children be bound by the same pledge? Someone had to rule on such things.
One night, I found a sheaf of paper, Baldwin’s seal, and a vial of viscous, red-tinged ink. I sat down and started to write the most important letter of my life.
To His Majesty, Philip Capet, Ruler of France,
I pray God grants me the words by which to write this, for I am a humble townsman. A bondman, in fact, thrust into a larger role.
I am said to be the leader of a group of brave men. Some call it a rabble; I call it an outpouring. An outpouring of farmers, ta
I write from Treille, Your Majesty, where I sit at Duke Baldwin’s own table, his lordship held prisoner, while I await word from you as to what to do next.
We are not traitors, far from it. We bound together to fight cruel injustice, and only when it threatened our safety and well-being. We bound together to demand laws, so that rape and murder could not be committed on us freely, and property destroyed without cause. We bound together to free ourselves from a servitude without end.
Is it such an incredible dream, Sire, that all God’s men, common and noble alike, should be governed by just laws?
Many who marched with us have served Your Majesty in wars, or taken up the Cross of His Holiness in the ongoing struggle against the Turk. We ask only what we have been promised for such service: the right to a fair tax; the right to grievance and recompense for harsh penalties forced upon us; the right to face an assailant at trial, noble or not; the right to own land, fairly paid to our lord, for years of labor and toil.
[347] We have done all this with little bloodshed. We have acted in peace and respect. But our ranks grow weary. Please send us word, Your Majesty, of your conviction on such matters.
In return for your judgment, I offer you the only tribute I have-but, I think, a worthy one: the most holy treasure in all of Christendom, thrust into my possession in Antioch.
The very Lance that pierced the Lord Jesus Christ upon the Cross.
It is a treasure worth having, yet amazing as it is, it is not nearly as great as the hearts of these men who serve you.
We await your answer,
In faith, Your humble servant,
Hugh De Luc, I
I waited for the ink to dry.
A tightness pulled at my chest. So many had died. Sophie, Matthew, my baby son. Nico, Robert, the Turk. All to get me here?
The lance was leaning against the table. What if I had died in that church at the hands of the Turk? I thought. What if none of this had taken place?
Finally I folded the parchment and bound it with the duke’s own seal. I saw that my hands trembled.
A most miraculous thing had just taken place. I, a bondman, a jester by trade, a man without a home, without a denier to his name…
I had just addressed a letter to the King of France.