Adhemar POV ***

Count Adhemar stood before the tall vanity in his tent. To no great extent, he felt his tent seemed "insufficient" a word he would use to describe what it was he stood in, yet, that all may know what it was, a tent it shall be called.

 

The roof is high and shaped like one of the many domes in Italy. Rather than plain material, there’s the pattern of a lion with its right foreleg raised embroidered in gold thread all over the tent. Soft, plush rug cover the floor of the tent. A lantern hung from the center pole, as with every of the tent poles that hold up the round wall of the tent.

 

Other things to be found in the tent include a bed large enough for the comfort of five men, bottles that look like they’re worth a fortune themselves lay empty on the floor.

 

He sniffed, the man called Count Adhemar.

 

He’s tall and lean, has dark auburn hair that rolled in thick yet soft curls, clean shaven face, deep-sunken gray eyes that seem to bore into the soul of those they glare at, and a chin permanently raised in honor, or on the extreme, arrogance.

 

“Tell me, Germaine,” Adhemar said, examining his cheek and neck in the mirror for any sign of hair. “Did old Roger beat his man? I’m tired of having to fight him every time. He’s a loser, that one, and all the rest of them.”

 

Germaine squinted at the scroll in his hand. “It would seem that Roger won, sire,” he said in a high-pitched voice.

 

“Ah, is that so?” Adhemar said, sniffing. “Have my armor polished when you’re done.”

 

“Yes sire, ah, sire…” Germaine said, wiping the cold beads of sweat that’d formed across his forehead.

 

Count Adhemar scowled and turned to face his squire with a face full of wrath from hell. “You have made a mistake again, have you not?”

 

Germaine bit his lips, for they were beginning to tremble as though he had a bad case of the flu. “Yes, my lord. I read the result upside, you see.”

 

“Hmm, is that so? And what must you do?” asked Count Adhemar, turning to face his squire.

 

Germaine shuddered, closed his eyes, and puffed up his cheeks so they swelled like balloons on either side.

 

It came hard and fast. It’s been seven years, and Germaine found he was still not used to the pain of being smacked across his face.

 

He opened his eyes; two red, wet, twitching balls. His cheeks looked as though they were on fire, or like there had been a bruise there and the doctor added salt to them.

 

“Now,” Adhemar said calmly, almost as though it was not his hand that struck another man’s face less than a minute ago. “Who won the race?”

 

“Sir—”

 

“Germaine, before me, no man is a sir,” Count Adhemar said, coldly.

 

“Ulrich von Liechtenstein, sir,” Germaine quickly corrected.

 

“He’s new,” Count Adhemar remarked. “What do you know about him? Does he have history I should know?”

 

Germaine shook his head. “Save that he’s from a distant Gelderland, nothing is known of him sir.”

 

“He’s new then, a small fish in big waters,” said Adhemar, wiping his hands with a handkerchief.

 

“In this water, every fish is small sir,” said Germaine, “except you.”

 

“Oh, you are sensible sometimes,” Adhemar said, chuckling. “Do not forget to polish my armor, or I’ll be forced to wear my gauntlet the next time I… correct you. And find out what you can about this new fish.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” said Germaine, bowing low. “Yes, my lord.”

 

William POV ***

William hurried through the crowd at the tournament ground with Wat and Roland behind him, hastening to make the sword fight in time. They made their way round the tents of other knights, magicians, and all sorts. It just happened that everywhere the eyes turned to look, there was a tent or a stall there, and a man or woman shouting to deaf ears for patronage.

 

“Roland, this armor feels loose,” William said without stopping.

 

“Where?” asked Roland, half jogging behind.

 

“The pauldron on the right,” William patted the piece of armor covering his right shoulder.

 

“Wait a second, must be a loose strap,” said Roland, hurrying up to catch William from behind. He grabbed the offending strap and pulled it tight. “Well? How does it feel now?”

 

“Too tight,” William exclaimed. “I’ll never be able to block an overhead attack. It was a big mistake going for two events, I should never have gone for the sword competition.”

 

“Why not? Sword is what you’re best at,” said Wat.

 

“Yes, but jousting is the bigger competition. Both in prize and prestige as well as…”

 

A men with a sinister smile stood before William, and when he tried to go round him simply moved to block him.

 

“Are you Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein?” the man asked.

 

William regarded him with great suspicion, as did Roland and Wat.

 

“Yes, and who are you?”

 

“Oh, I am Simon, the Summoner,” he replied with a stately bow. This Simon fellow was round, and had a face as smooth as wax and thin, high eyebrows.

 

“Good for you,” said William, “now if you don’t mind. I am overdue at the sword ring.”

 

“I am bid to be detain you on behalf of your herald,” Simon said quickly when William tried to brush past him.

 

And it… worked.

 

William allowed Simon the Summoner to lead him for one major reason. If the herald was Geoffrey Chaucer, which was the only herald that it could possibly be, then he risked being uncovered.

 

Simon led them to a blacksmith shed where they found Geoffrey the same way as when they’d first met him – as naked as a baby just out of its mother – only this time, his hands were tied in front of him like those of a war prisoner.

 

There was a larger man in a coat and a hat standing beside him. The said man took off his hat when he saw William approach behind Simon.

 

“I take it this is Sir Ulrich von Liechtenstein. I am Peter, the Pardoner,” he said. “A humble pardoner and a purveyor of religious relics.”

 

If ever there was a similarity between Simon and his partner, Peter, it was the sinister devilment in the way they both smiled.

 

Geoffrey stood with both hands covering his privates, dirt on his head, face pinned to the ground in shame.

 

“You were never robbed, were you?” asked William, clenching his fist.

 

Geoffrey shook his head without lifting it. “No,” he said. “I… uh… have a wee bit of gambling problem. And sometimes, when all other funds are exhausted, I give my clothes to the highest bidder.”

 

“Okay,” said William, nodding. “So what do you expect us to do about it?”

 

Peter, the Pardoner cleared his throat for attention. “This man here assured us that you, his liege, will pay his debts to us.”

 

William closed his eyes briefly and sighed. “How much does he owe you?”

 

“Ten silver florins,” Peter declared, simply.

 

“Ten silver florins?!” Wat cried in pure incredulity. “You piece of shite!”

 

“Calm down, Wat,” Roland said, holding him above the elbow to keep him from clawing at Geoffrey.

 

“Let me at him, Roland,” Wat said, yanking his arm from Roland’s grip. He grabbed Geoffrey in a headlock and began to rabbit punch him on the head.

 

“Get off me!” Geoffrey cried out.

 

It took the combined strength of William and Roland to pull Wat from Geoffrey.

 

William faced Peter. “What would you do to him if we refuse to pay his debts?”

 

Geoffrey’s head jerked up at this, and for the first time, he allowed the fear in him creep into his eyes. He never muttered a word, but in those wide, scared eyes of his, it was easy to read the “save me” they screamed.

 

“We sir,” said Simon, answering. “We, on behalf of the lord God will take it from the flesh of his back, that he may know gambling is sin and depart from it.

 

“Please… Will – Will you Sir Ulrich...?” Geoffrey said quickly. “I will do anything you ask, will you help me?”

 

Roland was just in time to stop Wat from jumping at Geoffrey again.

 

“Take the flesh from whatever part of him you want!” Wat screamed.

 

“Enough, Wat!” William snapped, before turning to Simon. “I don’t have the money—” Geoffrey closed his eyes in defeat. “I don’t have any money… now. But cloth and release him and you’ll get your money.”

 

“Done,” Simon said, and Peter the Pardoner pulled out a small knife and cut Geoffrey’s bonds with it.

 

“You have a heart of gold beating within you, Sir Ulrich,” Geoffrey said.