A Rescue Full of Twists and Turns

To outsiders, several of the decisions Cesar had made since coming here—not Holy Cross Castle, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or this pine forest, but since opening his eyes to find himself on a dry sandy slope—seemed exceedingly rash.

But only he knew that every decision had been made after careful consideration, never in a moment of impulse.

With the Isaacite merchant, he had felt no goodwill. No, it would be more accurate to say that there had not even been the cherishing of "merchandise" one might expect from a competent merchant. The man seemed already certain that Cesar would die and that this valuable "commodity" had to be discarded—whether from his own intentions or at someone else's bidding. So even if Cesar had been willing to endure that suffering and humiliation, he would not have survived!

And his request to Heraclius, asking to "cleanse" the entire Church of the Holy Sepulchre by himself as an act of asceticism and good works, had likewise come after much deliberation.

There were many forms of ascetic practice in this age: abstaining from food and water, kneeling in worship day and night, praying, scourging oneself, even going years without bathing...

But the first few would directly damage his body. Given the current state of medicine... wait, according to Baldwin, there were only monks who had received "bestowal," and no doctors.

For injuries sustained through asceticism, monks would refuse treatment, perhaps even fly into a rage—in their eyes, such treatment deceived not only the people but God as well. It was simply unforgivable.

As for the last method, not only did he lack that much time to squander, Baldwin and Amalric I would never allow a foul-smelling person to remain at the prince's side. That would be naked mockery—everyone knew that lepers, cast out by all society, seldom had the chance to bathe or change clothes. Whenever people thought of lepers, they imagined someone clad in rags, caked from head to toe in filth.

By comparison, cleaning the immense Church of the Holy Sepulchre was arduous but quite safe—apart from those assassins, though Cesar had not been wholly unprepared for them. Moreover, it gave him the chance to familiarize himself with this place, utterly alien to him yet the likeliest site Amalric I would choose for the "selection ritual." He needed to be prepared, so that whatever happened here, he would have the means and opportunity to respond.

And now, when he told these people he was willing to be tied to a rope and lowered down to find Count Étienne, he had not suddenly lost his mind either.

Holy Cross Castle and Amalric I were a great ship sailing through this turbulent world. He had luckily managed to squeeze aboard, but he was neither an important mast nor a sail, neither a sturdy cabin nor the helm that controlled its course. He was not even cargo—once this great ship was swept into a storm, he would no longer be able to command his own fate.

And no one in this world could know that he had attempted "rappelling" many times before, only in that place he could never return to.

Though descending into this fissure meant no headlamp, no safety rope, no trained personnel waiting below, no descender—not even a cow's-tail lanyard—he had tried rappels of twenty, thirty, and forty-five meters. He had accumulated experience and prepared himself for the possible dangers. Compared to those attendants, who knew nothing and could only fear the "Devil's Mouth," he was far better off.

After descending about seven or eight feet, when he estimated that the people above could no longer see him, Cesar tucked the flint and striker into his purse, pressed both hands against the rock wall behind him, and turned himself around.

In previous rappels, he had also hung suspended in empty air, allowing professionals to lower him inch by inch to the ground. But those had been cleared and prepared routes, with every safety measure in place: sturdy ropes and complete equipment. Here, he did not trust others with his life.

His movement stirred unease among the people above. Faintly, he heard several shouts, as though asking whether he was all right. He shook the bell hard. Its piercing chime immediately cut through the darkness, and after three breaths, he felt a jolt through his body as the rope continued lowering.

Facing the rock wall rather than empty void made Cesar feel much better. Fortunately, before descending, he had agreed with the knights that they could lower him only about one foot at a time. That allowed him to maintain a steady rhythm, climbing down the wall at an even pace instead of being forced to leap and fall.

He still wore the leather gloves the young attendant had given him. He had gloves of his own, but that attendant, his face streaked with tears, had insisted on giving him this pair and had even helped fasten their straps. These gloves would have been good enough for a knight. All the considerations made for knights in battle and siege now proved immensely useful in rappelling too.

The moment he put them on, Cesar felt warmer and drier. They clung snugly to every part of his palms and knuckles, soft yet tough enough to let him reach out and grasp whatever he found without fearing that something in the dark would sting or prick him. He was certain he had grabbed a scorpion, a nest of ground beetles, and a heap of sticky maggots.

They, along with crumbling dirt, sand, and tiny stones, poured down over Cesar's head like a flood. Even with the hood of his sheepskin cloak pulled up, he could not help shuddering, praying that no venomous insect would crawl into his clothes.

He felt along the uneven parts of the rock wall and pushed them away as best he could. He tested anything he was about to encounter with his toes, lest he slam into a jutting rock. Sometimes he could seize winding roots and borrow a little strength from them—but only a little. These roots, or tubers growing underground, were the finest deceivers. They were best at snapping the instant you thought you could rely on them.

Cesar kept counting time in his head. Roughly every ten feet, he shook the bell hard once.

In contrast to Cesar's steadiness and patience, the people beside the fissure grew ever more anxious and fearful—especially after all the rope brought by the count's party had been used up and they had begun tying on the Knights Templar's rope. "How can it be so deep?" one attendant could not help saying. The monk shot him a vicious glare.

Geoffrey had also been calculating the length of the ropes. As they rode across this vast land, they had encountered fissures and caverns that seemed to lead into hell before. But he had never seen one so narrow and so deep. As the rope was fed down bit by bit, he became more and more despondent.

When the saint he revered had given him a revelation and shown him Count Étienne's location, how elated and joyful he had been! It meant he could receive rewards from two kings, as well as reward and promotion from the Grand Master of the Order. If he no longer wished to fight the Saracens and returned to France, he could use this favor to seek a position in Sancerre...

But judging by the rope they had lowered, the distance from the ground to the fissure already exceeded ten royal feet. That was almost the height from a small chapel's bell tower to the ground. From that height, even a winged Cherub might be killed by the fall. Count Étienne was a flesh-and-blood mortal, and it was impossible for him to summon his visionary saint twice in such a short span of time.

A chill ran through Geoffrey's entire body. Perhaps it was not merely because he had given his sheepskin cloak to that child.

"Can you still hear the bell?" he asked the sergeant beside him. The sergeant had no particular strengths except extraordinarily sharp hearing. He was bent over the edge of the fissure, listening with utter concentration. When he heard the Templar's question, he nodded. Geoffrey then went over to where the rope was being lowered. The people had already tied the knot, and the two knights were moving away the stones securing the rope at the monk's signal.

The torchlight flickered. In that instant, the Templar's gaze froze, and terror appeared on his face. "Don't let go!" he rasped, but it was already too late.

The rope sprang into the air like a venomous snake leaping to strike. It went from slack to taut in an instant, then suddenly jerked upward again. Amid everyone's cries and scrambling hands, one end of the rope snapped back out of the darkness and landed on the ground. It bounced lightly only a few times, yet each bounce seemed to lash the hearts of everyone present.

The two attendants responsible for joining the ropes had instinctively stumbled back a step. One had even collapsed limply to the ground.

"God, God, Jesus Christ!" the monk cried in agony. He fell to his knees, trembling as he hauled at the rope, but what use was that now? He threw himself down to peer into the fissure, but it was only futile effort.

Geoffrey strode toward that attendant with a murderous expression. He had already made up his mind: this was no time to display mercy or tolerance. Since Cesar had pointed out the path for them, they would simply keep following it!

The child surely had no chance of surviving, but there were still people here, were there not?

In truth, Cesar had already prepared himself for the possibility of falling. When the sensation of weightlessness struck, his heart hammered wildly, but he immediately made the correct response. Rather than foolishly clutching the rope, he lunged straight for the rock wall.

He knew that such fissures always had recessed or protruding areas, as well as the roots and holes of insects and rodents he had mentioned before. All of these could be used to cushion his fall. Besides, he had already sensed increasingly heavy dampness. The bottom of the fissure might not be far away.

He clawed and kicked his way downward, slipping, falling, and rolling. Several times he smashed into something hard, though he could not tell whether it was stone or tree roots. Fortunately, Geoffrey had given him that thick sheepskin cloak. Otherwise, he would have broken at least several ribs.

Pain surged through him, and his head swam. Cesar struggled to make out the chaotic shapes around him—then he saw light. Very faint, but it was truly light!

Anyone who had driven knew that, in utter darkness, a glimmering place meant water. Water could not float in the air. He immediately curled himself up, turned sideways in the direction of his fall, and raised his arms to protect his head and neck. He hit the ground heavily. It was a bog, and the water and mud greatly slowed the impact, but for a time he could not move at all.

When Cesar awoke, he knew he had won again—he was still breathing freely, and his limbs were all intact. He took a portion of dried borage from his waist pouch and put it into his mouth—the monk had given it to him. Once the pain had eased a little, he groped around and recovered the torches that had slipped from his belt during the fall. One was broken, but the other was intact. He repeatedly struck flint against striker, lit a tuft of wool that had not been soaked through, and used the wool to ignite the torch.

The place where he had been lowered was where everyone estimated the count and guide had grappled and rolled down. Cesar considered whether he should go forward or back, then calmed himself and listened closely. It seemed there were sounds coming from ahead. He followed them, and after walking perhaps three hundred paces, he saw the guide.

The dead guide was hanging from a sharp rock, face turned upward, his gray-white eyes staring motionlessly above. His body was bent horribly, his feet almost touching his head. Though Cesar knew it was unlikely that the man would suddenly leap up, he still drew his short sword. This was, after all, not a particularly scientific world—who knew whether he might become a second Witt?

Clearly, there were not many fortunate souls like Witt. Cesar took another step forward and immediately saw Count Étienne. This nobleman, whose fate had been so plagued by either God's trials or Satan's mockery, was half-sitting, half-reclining not far from the guide. His large eyes stared at Cesar and the torch in his hand. Tears had streamed from them, yet he would not look away, and his lips kept mumbling something.

Cesar drew closer and listened. Ah, the count was praying in fits and starts. "...Holy Mother Mary, Holy Mother Mary...Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death...ah, forgive us, forgive us, Lord, have mercy upon us!"

"My lord?"

The count's prayer stopped. When Cesar moved the torch slightly away, he hurriedly cried, "Don't, don't, don't! Whatever sent you—angel or devil—please do not leave me, and do not take away the torch." He paused, then lifted his eyes and scrutinized Cesar carefully. "I remember you..."

What the count did next startled Cesar. He actually sprang up from the ground and seized Cesar in a tight embrace. "I remember you!" he shouted in delight. "I remember you! You are Prince Baldwin of Jerusalem's attendant! You were looking down from the top of the bridgehead together. You saw me, and I saw you!"

Compared to Prince Baldwin, whose face had been covered in white gauze, the black-haired, green-eyed attendant beside him had made a far deeper impression on Count Étienne.

Though he had come and gone in haste, during his time in Jaffa he had heard quite a bit about how "an angel helped a nine-year-old child cleanse the entire Church of the Holy Sepulchre," how "that child, beneath God's radiance, gave alms to the poor of an entire city," and how "he persuaded miserly clergymen to throw open the doors of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre for three days and nights," among other tales...

His monk had even said that they should buy some holy buckets and holy mops wholesale from the monks of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, then take them back to France and sell them to pious folk.

Only now could he be sure that what he had seen earlier was not an illusion, but a living person. While venting his joy through hysterical cries, he looked behind Cesar. "Where are the others?"

Cesar froze, then understood what Count Étienne meant. He thought he had merely fallen into a less-deep fissure, or that the others had found another way into it.

Cesar shook his head. "No, my lord," he said. "This fissure is very deep and narrow. They could not come down. They could only lower me by rope to find you. Oh, right." He untied the bell from his waist and shook it hard once. After waiting a while, he shook it again, then shook it a third time.

Leaving aside how those above rejoiced at the sound of the bell, so ecstatic they nearly danced, Cesar first led the count back to the place where he had rappelled down. "Oh, wait, do you have any herbs from a monk?" Count Étienne asked. As he spoke, he lifted his cloak. Cesar looked down and was startled. The count's entire right leg was twisted out of shape. Only after bringing the torch closer did he see that the dark marks were all blood.

Count Étienne had actually been able to jump up just now. The physical prowess and pain tolerance of these knights truly could not be underestimated.

Cesar gave him some borage. The count chewed it and immediately declared, "This is Anuncia's work." He had many questions to ask, such as how Prince Baldwin's attendant had come to this place and why he was with a group of Knights Templar, but the most urgent matter was returning to the surface. They could not linger in this hellish place.

The borage barely suppressed some of the pain. The count tried moving his leg. "No. I can endure the pain, but it is of no use at all anymore." He looked at Cesar. "Is the place where you were lowered far away?"

Cesar considered. "Please sit here first, my lord. I will go back and take a look." He pinched off some borage and put it in his mouth, then gave the count the entire packet of borage. He also lit the broken torch and planted it in the mud beside him.

When he returned to where he had fallen, he indeed saw a rope swaying there. He waved his torch, uncertain whether those above could see it, then shook the bell three times again. This time, the rope began jerking violently up and down. He grasped it and applied a little force, and the same response came from the other end.

Cesar let out a breath. He walked a few steps nearby and found the broken rope. He tied it to the rope that had been lowered afterward, then, looking upward, kept pulling it. The people above might not have understood what he meant, until he shook the bell three more times. Only then did they understand. They pulled the rope up and lowered it again, so there were now two ropes here—one of which could serve as a safety rope.

Count Étienne leaned forward, staring at that distant point of firelight. It slowly grew smaller, then larger again. He let out a long sigh. Truthfully, when he and the guide had fallen into this place, he had thought himself doomed. Thank God I had been anointed with holy oil was the first thought that leaped into his mind. Naturally, he had immediately afterward put survival first.

He had done everything he could to throw the guide beneath him. They struck something, then continued tumbling downward. There might have been two or three more impacts, perhaps even more. The fellow had fainted on the first impact—perhaps he had died—and could only be at the count's mercy. Count Étienne curled up and held him before himself like a shield, yet his thigh still broke in the final collision.

Before seeing Cesar and thus being misled by an illusion, Count Étienne had not placed much hope in the attendants who remained above, nor in the Knights Templar. Leaving the attendants aside, the Knights Templar might not be as virtuous and fearless as they boasted. He had seen the Devil's Mouth. He knew that those who fell into it could not survive, and even if they did not die on the spot, rescue would be difficult. He might be a count, but plenty of counts had died in accidents and war.

He had not been as calm and composed as Cesar saw him. During that time spent gasping in the darkness, he had been filled with terror. He had even thought of killing himself. He did not want to starve to death alive, nor did he want to be gnawed by insects, ants, and rats while still living...

"My lord?"

He raised his head and saw those green eyes.

After Cesar sent the bell signal upward, those on the ground fell into another dispute after their wild joy. The key was that Cesar had torn open his shirt, pulled out a strip of linen, and used a charred branch to write "Count, Vulner" on it. He tied it to the original rope. The monk took one look and knew the count was probably badly hurt and might be unable to move by himself.

The Knights Templar insisted on lowering another person. "That child is too small." Count Étienne was a knight, after all; his build and weight were not something a nine-year-old could bear. But the count's attendants worried that lowering another person would waste too much time. The count was injured. While a monk could treat his wounds, lost blood could not be replenished. If he lost too much blood, he would have to go meet God.

In the end, the count's attendants gave way. But helplessly, whenever those attendants were suspended in the air, they either cried and screamed or tilted their heads and fainted outright. Even Count Étienne's nephew was no exception—truly, this was terror that neither kinship, duty, nor wealth could overcome.

Just as the Knights Templar were laughing in exasperation and the count's attendants flushed crimson with shame, the bell sounded again from below.

Three hundred paces could not be called a great distance, but when Count Étienne and Cesar finally "walked" there, both let out a breath at the same time.

Cesar would not be foolish enough to carry the count on his back, and the count would not throw his entire weight onto a child. Cesar had enough strength to support him and serve as his other leg. The two slowly shuffled forward together for quite a while. Comfortingly, they encountered no more mishaps—no venomous snakes, falling rocks, or cave-ins.

"Can you manage, staying down there alone?" Count Étienne asked. "There are two ropes here."

"The other one is the safety rope." Cesar pulled the rope over and threaded it through the rings on the count's belt. Knights' belts in this era had many rings for hanging weapons, purses, and mail chausses. They were very sturdy, and the count immediately understood how the "safety rope" was meant to be used.

Once he was ready, Cesar shook the bell hard, signaling those above to haul the count up.

The wait inside the fissure was indeed tormenting, yet Cesar did not feel lonely.

Count Étienne kept shouting, "Heave-ho, heave-ho!" He had never rappelled before and did not know how to protect himself. With one broken leg, all he could do was brace himself against the rock wall with his knees and elbows, lest he smash his head bloody.

There were also faint shouts from above, as though someone was arguing over how much force to use and at what angle...

The instant Count Étienne emerged onto the surface, he was dragged up. He immediately urged everyone to lower the rope again and pull up that "good child." Before long, Cesar came up too. He had gone down neat and tidy, but he returned in a wretched state.

When Geoffrey stepped forward and gathered him into an embrace, Cesar was still explaining that once he returned to Holy Cross Castle, he would have a tailor make a brand-new sheepskin cloak to return to the Templar.

This sheepskin cloak certainly could not be worn again. As Cesar was slowly lowered, it had become covered in mud and sand. When the rope came loose and he fell, the cloak had been torn open in dozens of places, large and small. Later, it had fallen into the bog and become stained with blood where the guide had died...

"You should not, like those worldly people, forget the Order's true name." Only after the words left his mouth did Geoffrey realize that the child in his arms was not an attendant of the Knights Templar. Even if he joined a knightly order in the future, it would only be the Knights of the Holy Sepulchre, since his master was Baldwin. A pang of regret seized him. The Order needed clever and brave new blood like this.

"The Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of Solomon's Temple." At that moment, the count's monk came over and smilingly picked up the thread. He had already stopped the count's bleeding; beyond that, it was no longer something a monk like him could treat. It seemed they would have to remain in Jerusalem for some time.

The count urged him to examine this little brother's injuries. He had the Templar lift away the sheepskin cloak. When he lifted the second layer of clothing, he gave a slight "Er," but said nothing. He checked Cesar's bones and flesh. No bones were broken, though there might be a few cracks. The bruises, cuts, and swelling on his body looked terrifying, but they remained within the scope of what he could treat.

Despite the danger he had just faced, Cesar still felt this journey had been thoroughly worthwhile. He had seen "grace received" and experienced "bestowal." At Saint John's Monastery, monks had visited and treated him too, but he had been unconscious then and knew nothing. After coming to Baldwin's side, he had only dislocated something once while sparring with David. That was not an injury requiring a monk to pray to a saint for healing.

As the monk recited scripture, he placed his hands upon those unusually savage-looking wounds. Cesar first felt a chill—he was certain it was not cold brought by the wind—then a wave of heat. The sensation was less pain than strangeness, and it made him straighten his back involuntarily. Geoffrey gave a good-natured laugh and said that if a priest from the Order had treated Cesar, he would immediately be able to stand, run, and jump. This earned Geoffrey several fierce glares from the count's monk.

Afterward, Geoffrey explained the matter of the sheepskin cloak to Cesar. The Knights Templar—meaning the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of Solomon's Temple—had originally been established to serve the poorest faithful. Thus, at the Council of Troyes, the papal legate—at this point Geoffrey made the sign of the cross over his chest—and two archbishops, eleven bishops, and seven abbots had not only recognized the Order's legitimacy but also established the rules it must follow.

"This is what people call the 'Primitive Rule,'" Geoffrey said. "Worldly knights love luxury and display, but as monks, we ought to honor simplicity and equality. Therefore, every brother must abandon all private desires and possessions before entering the Order. Everything they need will be supplied by the Order. So when I return and truthfully explain the matter to the quartermaster, he will take back this garment, which symbolizes courage and loyalty, and issue me a new sheepskin cloak."

Though Cesar knew that people of this era placed great importance on the sacred or evil meanings contained in objects, hearing Geoffrey say this still left him somewhat... at a loss.

He stood up. Though Geoffrey looked down on the monk beside the count, his treatment seemed to have had some effect. Cesar was not immediately healed, but at least walking and mounting a horse posed no problem.

Count Étienne considered himself an honest man, but to speak frankly, he did possess something of a romantic temperament. Before they set off, he insisted on looking once more at the place where he had fallen. By then, the pale dawn light had illuminated everyone's faces, and more of the fissure could be seen. As the count peered down, he marveled, "Now I am certain that angels truly watched over me last night!"

He had fallen from fifteen royal feet and suffered only a broken thigh. Apart from having seized that human shield—the guide—it was because there were several protruding places there. Some were rocks, others tangled vines, and one was even the half-skeletonized carcass of a bear. No one knew how it had become wedged there. They had cushioned the count several times, allowing him to reclaim his life by sheer fortune.

Count Étienne stood for a long time at the place where they had lowered Cesar. The monk had not hidden the matter of how the two attendants had tied the knot improperly, nearly costing the child his life.

From another position, they could see clear marks of struggle somewhere about three men's heights above the bottom of the fissure—close to one and a half royal feet. The count drew in a soft breath and swallowed the words, This truly is a young Saint George. He had heard of Cesar's affairs and naturally knew that the child had originally been an Isaacite slave.

"Let us go." He was still somewhat dizzy and only wished to return to Jerusalem as soon as possible, where the monks could heal his thigh.

But before they had ridden through the pine forest, they encountered a group of Seljuks.

They had clearly come prepared. Every man wore armor, and even their horses were armored. Several at the front wore long chainmail that reached to mid-calf, along with gauntlets, mail trousers, and mail stockings. They were entirely different from the ordinary soldiers behind them, who wore lamellar leather armor and ring armor.

They also wore face-covering helmets—not the iron helms commonly seen on Crusader knights, but what looked like iron masks covering the entire face. Chainmail hung from beneath the masks, at the neck, protecting the vital area.

One among them was dressed with particular extravagance. Over a scarlet velvet tunic, he wore a long-sleeved cloak lined with bear fur. Its outer layer was black silk, trimmed in gold and silver embroidery. On the chest was embroidered a snarling lion with a crown upon its head.

Had the guide still been alive, he would surely have danced with excitement at the sight. But the Knights Templar, upon seeing him, would have been enraged beyond madness, for this man was none other than Mleh, the Armenian prince who had once come to Jerusalem, sworn before the crucifix and holy relics, and become a council member of the Knights Templar.

The man had looked distinguished and spoken with eloquence. Everyone had thought he would become a hero. Yet who could have known that his splendid exterior concealed a filthy soul? In one battle, he had faltered and fled. Since the Knights Templar allowed only death in battle, never surrender, the Grand Master and the other members had unanimously agreed that he should be held accountable. When Mleh learned of it, he left Jerusalem and went to the lands of the Turkic Seljuks.

There, he had become Toghrul II's hunting hound, a bandit who profited by robbing and extorting pilgrims. The Knights Templar had all sworn that whenever they saw him, they would challenge him and never rest until they had sent this devil back to hell.

Geoffrey had sworn it too. But now that he had truly encountered Mleh, he found himself in a difficult position. Behind him were the guest of the King of Jerusalem and Louis VII's envoy to the Holy Land. This also involved a scandal that had to be buried.

Mleh's gaze swept over him. Geoffrey had lent his sheepskin cloak to Cesar, and it had been ruined in the rescue. He had no choice but to put it away. As for the two sergeants and attendants, they could only wear black and brown cloaks. Though red crosses were embroidered on one side of them as well, they were far less conspicuous than white cloaks.

"May the blessings of Allah be upon you," Mleh said. His voice was distorted by the iron mask, making him sound like a devil whispering in the dark.

"Jesus Christ protect us!" the count's monk rode forward and answered loudly.

"May I ask where you have come from and where you are going?" Mleh asked. "For Allah's sake, might I have the honor of inviting you all to stay in my castle for several days?"

Though he said "stay for several days," they all knew that it was merely a pretty phrase for kidnapping and extortion. Geoffrey had never imagined that after all the twists and turns of the past few days, when all Jerusalem had been thrown into turmoil over this envoy to the Holy Land, when he himself had risen and fallen, tormented by fate, the result would still be the same... He would still be captured by Mleh.

The Templar briefly considered fighting Mleh, but he roughly assessed the balance between friend and foe. Count Étienne's side had only seven or eight people, including one unlucky fellow badly wounded. On Geoffrey's side, there was one knight who had been hungry and busy all night, two sergeants, one attendant, and a nine-year-old child.

The other side had more than thirty men, all clearly well rested the day before, likely well fed that morning, and fully equipped...

Geoffrey was worried about something else as well. If Count Étienne was captured, the most likely outcome was confinement and a demand for ransom. But once the ransom was paid, Mleh would not make things too difficult for him. Even bandits had to keep their word; otherwise, how could the next target of extortion trust that they would be released after payment?

But Knights Templar were different. Had Mleh not heard the oath they had sworn? If he captured them and discovered their identities, he would surely tie them behind horses and drag them to death.

Count Étienne no longer had the strength even to sigh. Just as he was preparing to ride forward, he saw a brown Peshir mare step out ahead of him.

Mleh stared at the child in surprise. He might have been only ten, perhaps even younger, but he rode a fine horse rare even for someone of his status. He wore a black sable cloak, from which hung a gold cross set with rubies, as large as a man's palm.

"Who are you?" Even Mleh's tone became somewhat gentler. "Child, I have never seen you before. You are beautiful, like a prince."

"If you say so, you would not be entirely wrong," Cesar replied calmly. "I am Abigail, the only son of Bohemond, Duke of Antioch."

Behind him, Geoffrey's breathing immediately grew heavy, while Count Étienne's eyes widened. They both knew Cesar's identity. The count had just watched him take off his cloak and put it back on inside out—only then did he realize that it was black sable, something fit only for a king or prince.

It must have been a gift from Prince Baldwin. But to avoid drawing covetous and jealous eyes, Cesar had worn it inside out. From the outside, it appeared to be merely a velvet cloak of good quality.

Cesar only felt a heavy weight around his neck. This gold cross was no ordinary ornament but a holy relic. It was said that Alfonso I, the former King of Aragon, had seized it from some monastery. It was the genuine article. Baldwin had insisted that Cesar carry it, so he could only keep it in his purse. At the time, he had never imagined it would be useful now.