The Chosen One (Part 2) (Special Bonus Chapter in Thanks to the Alliance Leader!)

Dawn broke.

No one knew how much had happened during the previous night, but unlike us today, people back then did not dare casually go "watch the excitement." They were like rabbits or guinea pigs with keen noses and timid hearts: at the slightest rustle of wind or grass, they tucked in their heads, curled up in their burrows, and did not dare move a muscle.

But once the wind had stilled and the weather turned fair, they could not wait to poke their heads out and pry for news everywhere.

This temperament meant that the "Human Leg" tavern—the one bearing the emblem of Saints Cosmas and Damian, a human leg—was packed to the brim early that morning.

The tavern keeper was a shrewd man. While noises still rang out frequently in the middle of the night, he had roused his son, wife, and apprentice, and together they carried empty wine casks into the taproom, laying narrow planks across them as benches. To be fair, there had already been quite a few benches, but he only kept saying, "Not enough, not enough. More."

Then, while things were still quiet, they erected a flagpole before the door. This signified that not only did the tavern have expensive grape wine, but even freshly brewed ale was ready. "But Father," his foolish son said, "the ale isn't ready at all."

Ale was a weak drink so simple that anyone with hands could brew it themselves. Because, like beer, it was originally made with malt, people often confused the two.

But ale used far less malt than beer. Usually, brewers added strongly scented vegetables or fruit to pad it out, and they did not necessarily spend the time or firewood to boil it either. The finished product was less wine than water with a wine-like taste.

Unfermented ale was probably just... water.

The tavern keeper immediately seized the fire poker and silently beat his son until the idiot stopped flaunting his cleverness.

Meanwhile, the tavern keeper's wife had already lit the stove and set a pot of wheat-bran meat broth to boil, adding plenty of water until the whole hall steamed and fogged over.

That way, arriving customers could not see the thick dust and greasy grime on the tables, nor the scraps of food on the floor, the excrement of men and dogs, or perhaps one or two fingers, ears, and noses—drunken patrons drawing knives over trifles were everywhere.

Next, the tavern keeper used a bottle of grape wine to knock on his neighbor's door. The neighbor was a goldsmith, and because of his trade, he often dealt with the stewards and servants of great lords. He was also a well-informed man. After hearing what the tavern keeper wanted, the goldsmith demanded two silver coins: one as payment, and one for greasing palms.

Those two silver coins were not wasted. The goldsmith actually found him a poet.

At first, the tavern keeper was not very pleased.

The poet had a head full of white hair, a bent back, clouded eyes, and when he opened his mouth, several teeth fell out. His clothes were not splendid enough, and no one knew how many hands that velvet robe, its color impossible to make out, had passed through. He carried only a tiny lute that was fortunate to make any sound at all. It was truly difficult to believe that he was someone who served noblemen.

But according to him, he could recite "the Matters of France," "the Matters of Rome," and "the Matters of Britain"—that was, the deeds of Charlemagne, Aeneas, founder of Rome, and King Arthur—backward and forward.

The tavern keeper only pursed his lips critically and looked at the little lute. He guessed that even if the man knew how to play other instruments, he could not produce a harp or flute. As for singing... the keeper had to say that the cries his son made while being beaten sounded sweeter than that old cured meat, obviously smoked countless times.

"Can you turn somersaults or stand on your hands?"

The poet looked at his arms and legs, thin as dead branches, and shook his head.

"Can you imitate animals or perform puppet plays?"

"An old billy goat is already standing before you. What more do you want?"

The tavern keeper laughed loudly. "Oh, you have a little talent for jokes. I'll give you a cup of ale, and we'll call it even."

"I want thirty silver coins."

"Even the Savior was worth no more than that," the keeper said irreverently. "Too expensive. I can't hire you." He prepared to immediately retrieve his two silver coins.

"I need only one sentence to persuade you, you miser," said the poet.

The keeper lifted his chin, folded his arms, and wore an expression that said, "Go on, try me."

"I am one of Gérard de Ridefort's attendants. He is a noble lord and a valiant knight. I read his letters and draft his contracts—"

"For God's sake, hurry up. I still have things to do."

"I know everything about what happened last night, because my master was one of the knights summoned. I followed close behind him and missed not a single movement."

The tavern keeper looked incredulous. "Are you certain?"

"If I am lying, may the earth split open beneath me at once and let the Devil drag me down!"

"If what you say is true, then even if I have to borrow from the Isaacites and pledge the flesh on my chest, I'll produce those thirty silver coins," said the tavern keeper. He glanced at the rolling golden light on the horizon and stopped haggling. "But if you make up even one word, I'll thrash you with a stick, and you won't get so much as a penny."

He immediately called over his son and apprentice and sent them out to spread the news. Before sunlight had illuminated the entire flagpole, people had come swarming in. The tavern keeper kept glancing at the poet, thinking that if he was merely lying to cheat him of money, he ought to be panicking now. When audiences disliked a performance, it was common enough for them to drag the performer from the stage and beat him to death.

The poet showed no sign of alarm. Instead, he sat at the best table in the very center, close beside the stove, and even demanded a chair.

The tavern keeper brought him a cup of murky ale.

Only after the tavern had been crammed full did he strike his lute hard, making it ring out crisply and drawing everyone's attention. He neither played coy nor dragged things out. After offering praise to God, he said directly, "A fierce battle took place here last night."

The people were somewhat astonished, for they had not suffered slaughter or plunder.

"Not every war is waged with banners flying and drums thundering," the poet explained patiently. "Sometimes, plots and schemes are like a crossbow. They draw censure and contempt, but the arrows they loose strike true and can take lives."

"Was it the Devil, or the heathens?"

"Both," said the poet. "On that highest hill, within that most dazzling and glorious palace."

"What did they do?"

"They tried to assassinate the king." At this, everyone present gasped and cried in unison, "May God protect him!"

"Of course, they did not succeed. Amalric I is Christ's strongest warrior. Like an enraged beast, he stabbed the assassins dead one by one. When their accomplices saw that things had gone ill, they fled with cowardly and vile hearts.

"They saw the Temple and learned that the king's son, Prince Baldwin, was undergoing the trial of God and the saints within the church. So they set a fire, hoping to burn him to death and break his father's heart."

A cry of alarm rose from the crowd. Though the Patriarch had declared Prince Baldwin guilty, and Amalric I guilty as well, most people still held some pity for the young prince. Even those with hearts hard as iron would say that since his father fought for God, the boy's sins ought to be lessened for his sake.

Even if some still doubted Prince Baldwin, others refuted them, saying that Jerusalem's "little saint" had stood by his side from beginning to end and never left.

Then someone mentioned the cleric who had lost his hand and his life. Curiously, no one believed Cesar had harmed him. After all, that devout child was so merciful, so gentle, and an entire city had benefited from him—people even vaguely felt that he had refused the Patriarch because of his noble character and unwavering will.

"Truly," said a peddler from the bottom of his heart, "if the Patriarch—no, even a cleric—held out his hand and asked me to go to him, I would go at once. I would not need those lords to invite me. No, why would an invitation be needed? So long as they were willing to accept me, I would immediately crawl beneath their robes."

Becoming a cleric or monk might be the only path for these impoverished people to rise in station. Though Cesar was the prince's attendant, everyone could see that Prince Baldwin's position was far from secure. If serving the prince still meant becoming a monk, it would be better to go to the Patriarch's side.

With his looks and character, a clerical rank of fourth grade or above would be absolutely no problem.

"And that's why you're still here selling cabbages," a craftsman mocked loudly, drawing laughter and jeers.

The Patriarch did indeed enjoy a measure of respect in Jerusalem. But compared to the Pope in Rome, that respect was like fireflies at midnight beside the sun at noon—not worth mentioning at all. Whether common folk or knights, the man they trusted most was still King Amalric I.

The tavern keeper brought the poet a cup of clear beer.

"Then," the craftsman asked again, "since those heathens set the Temple on fire, does that mean the ritual failed?"

At those words, everyone's smiles faded. They naturally knew that once the choosing ritual began and the doors were shut, they could not be opened again. If they were opened beforehand, and the one undergoing the trial had not yet received his blessing, then the trial would have been wasted, with no second chance.

"Lives are more important," someone stressed.

"I think that child being at his side proves that God's favor must still be with him. He ought to be safe and sound." Another person clearly stood with Prince Baldwin and Cesar, and found such words grating.

"Indeed," said the poet. Before the two could begin arguing, he slammed the table again and brought them back to the matter at hand. "Amalric I was like a lion scattering a pack of wolves. The knights were like hunters, setting nets and traps, brandishing clubs and swords, leaving those terrified beasts nowhere to go. Seeing no path of escape, they set fire to the Temple's porch. Flames rose, and blood, thick smoke, and curses poured into the sanctuary..."

"That poor child must have been frightened," said a burly woman. Women rarely appeared in taverns, but there were exceptions. A butcher's daughter, for instance. In appearance, she was much like a man, perhaps even wilder and stronger than one, but her heart was still soft. "They should have been brought out immediately, wrapped in blankets, given some wine, and fed a warm piece of pork fat."

"Someone did make that suggestion." The poet let out a long sigh. "But the king said that perhaps this was the trial God had given them.

"Abraham once placed his eldest son upon the altar. Today, I too shall place my eldest son upon the altar. God is merciful. He could not bear to see Abraham's eldest son truly die, so He used a lamb in his place.

"I believe He will show my eldest son that same mercy."

The poet took out a feather and plucked the string once. "He refused. He merely stood guard outside the door. He did not open it, nor did he permit anyone else to open it."

At this, not only the knights and nobles who had surrounded the king at the time, but even the listeners now could not help knitting their brows in worry. They felt the two children ought to be safe—after all, God was so merciful. How could He bear to see His devout and valiant warrior suffer such heart-piercing pain?

There was another reason for everyone's silent consent.

Behind Temple Church—at the Omar Mosque we mentioned before—there lay a massive stone with a hollow in its center. Though the heathens claimed it was the mark left when their prophet rode his mount up to heaven, Christians remained firmly convinced that it was the altar upon which Abraham had offered his eldest son.

With such significance behind it, and the king's oath as well, no one could say, "Open the door."

They waited until the hour of morning prayer, when the doors were opened and people surged inside eagerly. But no matter how they searched, even knocking open walls and climbing onto roof beams, they could not find the two children. Where had they gone?

There had been a thousand pairs of eyes and a thousand ears here. Before the doors were opened, every witness had inspected them. The wax seals on the doors had only melted slightly at the edges; everywhere else, they remained intact. Upon them were neatly lined the names each witness had signed with an iron stylus.

Afterward, it had also been the keys drawn from the chests of the Templars' Grand Master and the chief priest that opened the doors together.

The king was frantic, and people scattered everywhere to search.

"So that was it!" someone suddenly cried in realization. "I was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night, trembling with fear. I thought I owed taxes, had stepped on someone's dog, or that this face of mine had frightened some nobleman." The people looked at him and, seeing that he truly possessed a face of spectacular ugliness, burst into laughter.

But the man said with a solemn face, "When the soldiers drove me from my home, I was terrified. I thought I would be hanging from a roof beam the next moment. Thank God, they merely searched every corner of my room.

"Ah, those gentlemen truly suffered.

"My room is filthy and broken, foul and cramped. If I had known then that they were looking for those two honored persons, I would have told them not to waste their effort. My little den could not hold even one extra dog, much less two children."

"Could the Devil have carried them away?" someone interjected.

"Ah," the poet immediately cut him off, "do not utter such blasphemy. This is the Holy City. Compared to the Devil, should you not think it far more likely that God saved them and delivered them from danger?"

"Go on, go on," the people urged. "We cannot wait any longer."

The poet readily continued. "The nobles and their knights searched everywhere without success. Their hearts were heavy, but they had no choice but to return and report to the king. A monk beside the king thought for a moment and asked, 'Are you certain you searched every place?'

"They said, 'Yes. We went everywhere, even to birds' nests and fishes' lairs.'

"But the monk said, 'No. There is still one place you have not gone: the holiest of all holy places.'

"They looked at one another. Someone said, 'There are three gates leading to that most venerable place. It is not yet time for people to worship there, and none of the locks on those three gates has been opened. Who could have sent the two children inside?'

"They did not believe it, so together they came to the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre. The monks there had just finished morning prayers, and three honored pilgrims were waiting outside the pine doors of Passion Square—they would be the first to enter that sacred hall under the guidance of clerics. When they saw so many people escorting King Amalric I inside and heard his humble request, they too were greatly surprised.

"So they said, 'Let us be witnesses as well.'

"The clerics opened the first pine door, but they did not see the two children in the square of the Savior's Passion. Then the clerics opened the second cedar door. The people walked everywhere, yet still could not find those two precious treasures. At last, the clerics opened the third great ebony door, but the hall was still empty.

"Just as they fell into despair, a cleric suddenly cried, 'Look! Look! The Holy Sepulchre is glowing!'

"They rushed toward the Holy Sepulchre. Like the holy women who had anointed Jesus' body with fragrant oils after the Sabbath, they all fell prostrate. One cleric boldly lifted the woolen cloth draped over the Holy Sepulchre. The moment he opened it, flawless white light filled the entire hall, and it seemed as though they had beheld the kingdom of heaven descending upon the earth in an instant."

At that moment, someone suddenly sprang to his feet.

He had received the first ring Cesar handed out during that grand procession, and with the money exchanged for that ring, he had saved no fewer than a hundred people, many of them relatives and friends.

Hearing that everyone had seen holy light within the Holy Sepulchre, he could not help shouting, "Was it the little saint?

"It was the little saint, wasn't it?"