To my tiny legion of fans (I have fans, w00t!),
Thank you all for your marvelously kind reviews, I'm sorry I haven't been able to update lately. It's tragic. It really is. I have so much schoolwork since the term started again, and right now I'm plowing through the mother load of assignments. Thank goodness it'll all be over in a few weeks and I'll have eight WHOLE weeks in which to finish my story unhindered by the evils of the educational system. In other news, I've been told I should do a Masters degree in creative writing by the head of the Humanities department at my school, yay! I'm stoked! To appease all you wonderful people, I'll just post random bits of my work for you to read that unfortunately are not related to POTC . Just as a bit of a distraction until I can get around to finishing Chapter Four.
Huggles to all! Missy (aka Ms Critique) ^_^
PS: I turn 17 in November, please give me lots of lovely reviews as presents! There is one short story in this post.
Compensation piece: A short story that I finished a few days ago, set during the Third Crusade (1191) in the Christian stronghold of Acre.
Onward Christian Soldier
"Too long!" Richard roared, slamming his palm down violently against the bare wooden table in front of him.
A murmur of assent rose from the group of men seated about him. Only one did not vocalize his opinion.
Sir Thomas Godfrey tilted back in his chair, his long fingers steepled together and leaning lightly against his lips, his brow creased with thought. The negotiations of the return of the Holy Cross to the Christians and the delay on the part of the Saracen leader Saladin had taken its toll on Moslem-Christian relations. Richard was growing restless as the third crusade wore on. Throughout the city, rumours were spreading like wild fire that the English king feared to do so much as send an envoy, should he incense Saladin into withdrawing from the settlement altogether. Other street-talk spouted hope that the Holy Cross had indeed been spotted within the ranks of the Moslem army. But, mused Thomas, they all had come to nothing, all had been mere froth with no substance. Richard the Lion heart spoke again, his voice ringing with unquestionable authority that would surely dispel such thoughts from the minds of his men.
"We must take action against the unbelievers! For too great a time have they kept us waiting for what they promised!"
The noise level in the room increased, as each man debated with his neighbour the possible 'action' that their king spoke of so surely. Richard's voice shook with sincerity; his fair English complexion was patched with varying shades of crimson.
"Under no circumstance can we show ourselves susceptible to Saladin's meaningless trinkets and extravagant words! Therefore, we must behead all the prisoners he was to regain, for if he shall not honour his end of the agreement, than neither shall we!"
A wave of deafening chatter crashed through the room, men's voices boomed like the firing of canons as each expressed his opinion on the King's declaration. There was much nodding and mutterings of general agreement, but something balked in the mind of Thomas Godfrey. Slaughter, mass slaughter. There were roughly two thousand seven hundred Moslem prisoners that were to be exchanged with Saladin, and according to Richard, all were condemned to death. Their souls would be damned to the fires of hell for all eternity. A wrinkle formed in the center of Thomas' forehead, an outward indication of his inner turmoil.
"Soldiers of God!" Richard's voice calmed the roiling ocean of heated speech, and silence fell over the assembly. He stood at the head of the table, his hands planted firmly on either edge. He emanated an aura of sheer supremacy; his strong frame seemingly swelled and filled one's vision. A plain circlet of gold gleamed proudly against his light hair, marking him a ruler of the uppermost order. Thomas saw the English king at the height of his power, but in his opinion, that immaculate gold crown had just been irrevocably tarnished. Massacre! Carnage! Death! Those poisonous words dripped and oozed through his consciousness, causing Richard to shrink to the detestable stature of a snarling, vengeful barbarian. In his mind's eye, Thomas watched the stately crown blacken and shrivel, saw Richard's gaze narrow, recoiled in disgust as his king's stained teeth gnashed menacingly whilst he bellowed out his instructions.
"Four days from now, at midday, you are all to take a contingent of twenty of your best men to assist in the crushing of the unbelievers outside the city gates. Let this be a lesson to Saladin and his followers, to all Moslems, that the one and only Christian God rules over the Holy Land!"
This met with a rousing cheer from the rest of the military elite present, but elicited a shudder from Thomas. He allowed himself a fleeting glance at his comrades, and what he saw temporarily stopped his heart and churned his gut. All present congregated around Richard, offering their congratulations to the king on his resolve. Bile rose in Thomas's throat, and his cheeks drained of what little colour still remained. His once respectable fellows stood about, committing themselves to idle chatter that centered on the imminent mass murder that would 'surely teach those Turks a lesson'. Imagine it! They talked of the lives of thousands of men like they were mere flies! His vision blurred, and for the first time, Thomas felt truly alienated from this tight-knit group that had taught him the fundamental rules of war. Could they not see? Had they not his eyes? He pressed his forehead to the wall and inhaled deeply, his shaky breath rattling in his lungs. The room began to close in on him, slowly encroaching on his quaking figure, choking off the air. He had to get out, now!
Thomas managed to escape the lavish building unmolested in the wake of Richard's hideous declaration. He plodded wearily upstairs towards his own quarters and seated himself in a rickety wooden chair by the window, the ancient piece of furniture groaning heavily under his weight. Streaks of pink, orange and gold crept over the horizon, creating a breathtaking canvas of unparalleled beauty that was herald of the sun's retreat. Thomas rubbed his temples; he found them suddenly tense and tight with an unbearable pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against the barrage of gore- ridden images that threatened to overcome him completely. Visions of men falling, screaming, blood gushing in rivers, endless, putrid rivers that soiled the glimmering sand. Flies swarmed about their bloated bodies, their lifeless faces frozen in expressions of everlasting horror. Panicked cries for help tore at his memory, too much death, far too much death, far too much death . Why take life so senselessly, then, as Richard had proposed? Surely these men, albeit unbelievers, had anxious loved ones waiting? Was he, as a lad, not taught to show mercy on those less fortunate in his Sunday lessons? Good Lord in heaven, was he not told that God loved all men? He had joined the Crusades to seek fulfillment and reclaim for the Christian faith what was rightfully theirs, but if the constant war, the continual death, had shown him anything at all, it was the value of life. And here was Richard, his king, undermining the value of the lives of two thousand seven hundred Moslem men! He could not, he would not destroy life in such a manner! A moan of despair ripped free from his throat and weariness inundated his aching bones. Richard was disastrously misguided in his decision! But a poignant issue still remained: What was to be done?
His men! Perhaps he could persuade them not to take part? But if what he had seen at the meeting that evening was any indication . dear God! His hands bunched into tense fists in exasperation; how thwarted he was! Frustration boiled his blood and fuelled his temper. He had never felt so thoroughly torn in his entire life! Flooded with despair, he speared a hand through his unkempt, dirty blonde hair and stared listlessly at his dust- coated feet. His swimming, muddled head lightened and spun giddily, as a new and daunting insight came into focus. A quick drop and a short stop. The slang phrase rung and reverberated in his head. A quick drop and a short stop . That was what awaited those who refused to obey orders, especially those given directly by King Richard himself. Thomas snorted in disgust. Richard, king of all England. Leader of the Third Crusade. Liberator of the Holy Land. The shallow valleys of craggy skin around his eyes crinkled and a throaty, bitter laugh wracked his frame. Such inconsistency! Richard spoke of freeing what was linked to eternal life, yet he did so by slaying countless thousands on a whim! Surely he held the Bible in one hand and a sharpened dagger in the other! The fit of laughter subsided, and Thomas shied away from the decision that pressed insistently on his mind. What was to be done? He would not force his men to follow his example, he would not hold them back . not when it would result in their death. But then how, by God, how?
Such thoughts needled at his mind for hours, and a surprisingly cool desert breeze fluttered the tattered curtains of his lodgings before he came to his conclusion. He would not take his men to those heaving sand dunes that lay slithering and shifting about ominously before the city gates. He would try to convince them of the contradictions inherent within their orders, but it would ultimately rest with them whether or not they heeded his words. He would stop just within the walls of Acre; it would be their own option as to the course of action they took. He was again reminded of the consequences he faced for blatant disobedience, but he preferred a collar of splintering rope to the rejection of God on judgment day. His resolve strengthened as he gazed up at the infinite expanse of thousands of tiny, sparkling lights that dotted the heavens, and prayed that his decision was just in the eyes of God. Bathed in the luminescence of the watery beams of moonlight, Acre lay flung out before him like an ethereal kingdom of childhood fantasy. It baffled Thomas that such evils and brutalities could take place amidst such tranquil beauty. His last sleep-free thought and desperate hope lay with the unbelievers, and it was his deepest desire that by some miracle their blood would not stain the sands of Acre when the sun reached its zenith in four days time.
~*~
Horses snorted impatiently, their shod hooves pawing at the loose sand beneath them as they jostled about, awaiting the familiar build-up of nervous excitement. The merciless noonday sun pounded down upon the armored group of men and beasts, sweat glistened and slid down dappled flanks, dripping into the billowing desert abyss at their feet. Grains of sand blasted into the helmets of the Crusaders, and curses carried on the wind out onto the dune-dotted plane beyond the city's formidable fortifications. It was here that the captives stood, shackled tightly together. A constant stream of unintelligible, optimistic, babbling voices issued forth, their owners straining to catch a glimpse of the much-anticipated arrival of Saladin's army, and their subsequent salvation.
Sir Thomas Godfrey reined in his mount, the polished metal of his armor gleaming brilliantly in the dazzling sunlight.
"Men!" He cried, his commanding tone filled with the heavy knowledge of his message.
"The matter of which I spoke to you of earlier this morning still holds. You may stand true to your faith, and not take up your sword to needlessly take the lives of these unbelievers. You may show mercy, and make your peace with the Lord your God in heaven. Or you may follow your king, Richard, and cut down these prisoners where they stand. The choice is yours. Take it as you will."
Thomas shielded his eyes from the intense sun with his hand, and heard the devastating, lone trumpet blast that signaled the charge. The cruel finality echoed ominously over the dunes, indicative of the crushing blow Richard was about to deal his Moslem counterpart. There was a most brief moment in time, suspended in uncertainty, where all lay still for Thomas's company of twenty. That moment was swiftly shattered. Without warning, all horses but one were wrenched decisively into motion, startled whinnies scratching at the ears as the painted animals plunged towards the mass of humanity beyond the bounds of Acre's black, looming gates.
~*~
The Moslem scout mounted the crest of the last dune in his path, the loose ribbons of his turban whipping sharply behind him in the light breeze. His dark eyes widened in unabashed horror as he tried to take in the spread of carnage that suddenly overwhelmed his vision.
Desperate, strangled cries filled his ears; he could do naught but helplessly watch the diamond-bright figures of the Crusaders darting in and out of the dull mass of his countrymen like sleek silver fish. Wavering, burbling pleas for mercy went unanswered, and the towering metal giants continued their blind, deadly rampage amongst the defenseless captives. The unsteady figures of the slain stumbled and plowed into the ground, their own blood pooling, trickling, gurgling in thick streams of rancid pollution. The bodies fell over three deep and the contaminated river of blood flooded the dunes, creating a grotesque oasis of shimmering scarlet liquid. The piercing whistles of swords rent the heavy midday atmosphere, the sickening connection of steel on flesh chilling the young man to the bone. Offering a quivering half-bow to his fallen comrades, he turned his mount back towards camp and made for the safe shelter at break-neck speed, flinging clouds of sand up behind him in his haste.
~*~
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul .
Richard cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels, regarding the man in front of him with barely leashed loathing.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
"So, you admit that you DELIBERATELY disobeyed orders?" The king spoke through gritted teeth, his hands flexing in and out of tightly balled fists.
Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
Thomas merely nodded, his blue eyes glazed over and absent.
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
Fury bubbled over for the English king, and wrath poured from his mouth in a lion-like scream of rage.
"You are NO CRUSADER! How dare you blaspheme our Saviour in this way?! It's the noose for you, I hope Satan has prepared a place for you in the deepest belly of hell!"
Your rod and your staff,
they comfort me .
~*~
Saladin buried his turbaned head in his hands and gave a groan of anguish. Dark circles rimmed the eyes that observed the shivering wreck of the young soldier that stood before him.
"All of them?" The broken monarch whispered, his aging shoulders slumping under the weight of the news that had just been delivered to him.
"It seems that way." The youth seemed scarcely able to hold himself together. Pale flesh edged his tanned jaw line and a wild, frightened look dwelt in his eyes. His declining condition did not go unnoticed by the Moslem king.
"Richard the Lionhearted has disgraced himself this day," Saladin's troubled gaze travelled to his young companion, pity and compassion etched in every line of his face.
"But I need not tell you that. You may leave." The youth bowed gratefully and scurried away from the depressing confines of his leader's tent.
~*~
Thomas stepped up to the small, elevated platform, his hands bound crudely behind his back. The hint of a scandalous whisper rippled through the crowd, but silence descended as the abrasive loop of rope was lowered ceremoniously over his head.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
The crier by his side began to read out Thomas's list of offences, which caused an ironic smile to curve upon the lips of the convicted and condemned. He had always imagined, in vivid detail, dying for his faith. But the fearsome spinnings of his imagination had never conjured the scenario of which he was now a vital part. Dust stirred unassisted in the motionless street, the assemblage of soldiers remained eerily quiet.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
"Sir Thomas Godfrey, for these crimes you have committed against the Crown and God, you have been sentenced to hanging by the neck until you are dead."
Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
A drum roll broke the unnatural stillness, and the crier opened his mouth to utter the last earthly words that Thomas would ever hear:
"May God have mercy on your soul."
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
A/N: You like? I hope you find it within your hearts to forgive me; I'll try to get Chapter Four up soon, but no guarantees.
Huggles, Missy ^_^
PS: For those who need to hear this: Don't steal any of my personal works used in this post, they are ALL copyrighted. I own them. Stealing is a crime. So don't do it.
Thank you all for your marvelously kind reviews, I'm sorry I haven't been able to update lately. It's tragic. It really is. I have so much schoolwork since the term started again, and right now I'm plowing through the mother load of assignments. Thank goodness it'll all be over in a few weeks and I'll have eight WHOLE weeks in which to finish my story unhindered by the evils of the educational system. In other news, I've been told I should do a Masters degree in creative writing by the head of the Humanities department at my school, yay! I'm stoked! To appease all you wonderful people, I'll just post random bits of my work for you to read that unfortunately are not related to POTC . Just as a bit of a distraction until I can get around to finishing Chapter Four.
Huggles to all! Missy (aka Ms Critique) ^_^
PS: I turn 17 in November, please give me lots of lovely reviews as presents! There is one short story in this post.
Compensation piece: A short story that I finished a few days ago, set during the Third Crusade (1191) in the Christian stronghold of Acre.
Onward Christian Soldier
"Too long!" Richard roared, slamming his palm down violently against the bare wooden table in front of him.
A murmur of assent rose from the group of men seated about him. Only one did not vocalize his opinion.
Sir Thomas Godfrey tilted back in his chair, his long fingers steepled together and leaning lightly against his lips, his brow creased with thought. The negotiations of the return of the Holy Cross to the Christians and the delay on the part of the Saracen leader Saladin had taken its toll on Moslem-Christian relations. Richard was growing restless as the third crusade wore on. Throughout the city, rumours were spreading like wild fire that the English king feared to do so much as send an envoy, should he incense Saladin into withdrawing from the settlement altogether. Other street-talk spouted hope that the Holy Cross had indeed been spotted within the ranks of the Moslem army. But, mused Thomas, they all had come to nothing, all had been mere froth with no substance. Richard the Lion heart spoke again, his voice ringing with unquestionable authority that would surely dispel such thoughts from the minds of his men.
"We must take action against the unbelievers! For too great a time have they kept us waiting for what they promised!"
The noise level in the room increased, as each man debated with his neighbour the possible 'action' that their king spoke of so surely. Richard's voice shook with sincerity; his fair English complexion was patched with varying shades of crimson.
"Under no circumstance can we show ourselves susceptible to Saladin's meaningless trinkets and extravagant words! Therefore, we must behead all the prisoners he was to regain, for if he shall not honour his end of the agreement, than neither shall we!"
A wave of deafening chatter crashed through the room, men's voices boomed like the firing of canons as each expressed his opinion on the King's declaration. There was much nodding and mutterings of general agreement, but something balked in the mind of Thomas Godfrey. Slaughter, mass slaughter. There were roughly two thousand seven hundred Moslem prisoners that were to be exchanged with Saladin, and according to Richard, all were condemned to death. Their souls would be damned to the fires of hell for all eternity. A wrinkle formed in the center of Thomas' forehead, an outward indication of his inner turmoil.
"Soldiers of God!" Richard's voice calmed the roiling ocean of heated speech, and silence fell over the assembly. He stood at the head of the table, his hands planted firmly on either edge. He emanated an aura of sheer supremacy; his strong frame seemingly swelled and filled one's vision. A plain circlet of gold gleamed proudly against his light hair, marking him a ruler of the uppermost order. Thomas saw the English king at the height of his power, but in his opinion, that immaculate gold crown had just been irrevocably tarnished. Massacre! Carnage! Death! Those poisonous words dripped and oozed through his consciousness, causing Richard to shrink to the detestable stature of a snarling, vengeful barbarian. In his mind's eye, Thomas watched the stately crown blacken and shrivel, saw Richard's gaze narrow, recoiled in disgust as his king's stained teeth gnashed menacingly whilst he bellowed out his instructions.
"Four days from now, at midday, you are all to take a contingent of twenty of your best men to assist in the crushing of the unbelievers outside the city gates. Let this be a lesson to Saladin and his followers, to all Moslems, that the one and only Christian God rules over the Holy Land!"
This met with a rousing cheer from the rest of the military elite present, but elicited a shudder from Thomas. He allowed himself a fleeting glance at his comrades, and what he saw temporarily stopped his heart and churned his gut. All present congregated around Richard, offering their congratulations to the king on his resolve. Bile rose in Thomas's throat, and his cheeks drained of what little colour still remained. His once respectable fellows stood about, committing themselves to idle chatter that centered on the imminent mass murder that would 'surely teach those Turks a lesson'. Imagine it! They talked of the lives of thousands of men like they were mere flies! His vision blurred, and for the first time, Thomas felt truly alienated from this tight-knit group that had taught him the fundamental rules of war. Could they not see? Had they not his eyes? He pressed his forehead to the wall and inhaled deeply, his shaky breath rattling in his lungs. The room began to close in on him, slowly encroaching on his quaking figure, choking off the air. He had to get out, now!
Thomas managed to escape the lavish building unmolested in the wake of Richard's hideous declaration. He plodded wearily upstairs towards his own quarters and seated himself in a rickety wooden chair by the window, the ancient piece of furniture groaning heavily under his weight. Streaks of pink, orange and gold crept over the horizon, creating a breathtaking canvas of unparalleled beauty that was herald of the sun's retreat. Thomas rubbed his temples; he found them suddenly tense and tight with an unbearable pain. He squeezed his eyes shut against the barrage of gore- ridden images that threatened to overcome him completely. Visions of men falling, screaming, blood gushing in rivers, endless, putrid rivers that soiled the glimmering sand. Flies swarmed about their bloated bodies, their lifeless faces frozen in expressions of everlasting horror. Panicked cries for help tore at his memory, too much death, far too much death, far too much death . Why take life so senselessly, then, as Richard had proposed? Surely these men, albeit unbelievers, had anxious loved ones waiting? Was he, as a lad, not taught to show mercy on those less fortunate in his Sunday lessons? Good Lord in heaven, was he not told that God loved all men? He had joined the Crusades to seek fulfillment and reclaim for the Christian faith what was rightfully theirs, but if the constant war, the continual death, had shown him anything at all, it was the value of life. And here was Richard, his king, undermining the value of the lives of two thousand seven hundred Moslem men! He could not, he would not destroy life in such a manner! A moan of despair ripped free from his throat and weariness inundated his aching bones. Richard was disastrously misguided in his decision! But a poignant issue still remained: What was to be done?
His men! Perhaps he could persuade them not to take part? But if what he had seen at the meeting that evening was any indication . dear God! His hands bunched into tense fists in exasperation; how thwarted he was! Frustration boiled his blood and fuelled his temper. He had never felt so thoroughly torn in his entire life! Flooded with despair, he speared a hand through his unkempt, dirty blonde hair and stared listlessly at his dust- coated feet. His swimming, muddled head lightened and spun giddily, as a new and daunting insight came into focus. A quick drop and a short stop. The slang phrase rung and reverberated in his head. A quick drop and a short stop . That was what awaited those who refused to obey orders, especially those given directly by King Richard himself. Thomas snorted in disgust. Richard, king of all England. Leader of the Third Crusade. Liberator of the Holy Land. The shallow valleys of craggy skin around his eyes crinkled and a throaty, bitter laugh wracked his frame. Such inconsistency! Richard spoke of freeing what was linked to eternal life, yet he did so by slaying countless thousands on a whim! Surely he held the Bible in one hand and a sharpened dagger in the other! The fit of laughter subsided, and Thomas shied away from the decision that pressed insistently on his mind. What was to be done? He would not force his men to follow his example, he would not hold them back . not when it would result in their death. But then how, by God, how?
Such thoughts needled at his mind for hours, and a surprisingly cool desert breeze fluttered the tattered curtains of his lodgings before he came to his conclusion. He would not take his men to those heaving sand dunes that lay slithering and shifting about ominously before the city gates. He would try to convince them of the contradictions inherent within their orders, but it would ultimately rest with them whether or not they heeded his words. He would stop just within the walls of Acre; it would be their own option as to the course of action they took. He was again reminded of the consequences he faced for blatant disobedience, but he preferred a collar of splintering rope to the rejection of God on judgment day. His resolve strengthened as he gazed up at the infinite expanse of thousands of tiny, sparkling lights that dotted the heavens, and prayed that his decision was just in the eyes of God. Bathed in the luminescence of the watery beams of moonlight, Acre lay flung out before him like an ethereal kingdom of childhood fantasy. It baffled Thomas that such evils and brutalities could take place amidst such tranquil beauty. His last sleep-free thought and desperate hope lay with the unbelievers, and it was his deepest desire that by some miracle their blood would not stain the sands of Acre when the sun reached its zenith in four days time.
~*~
Horses snorted impatiently, their shod hooves pawing at the loose sand beneath them as they jostled about, awaiting the familiar build-up of nervous excitement. The merciless noonday sun pounded down upon the armored group of men and beasts, sweat glistened and slid down dappled flanks, dripping into the billowing desert abyss at their feet. Grains of sand blasted into the helmets of the Crusaders, and curses carried on the wind out onto the dune-dotted plane beyond the city's formidable fortifications. It was here that the captives stood, shackled tightly together. A constant stream of unintelligible, optimistic, babbling voices issued forth, their owners straining to catch a glimpse of the much-anticipated arrival of Saladin's army, and their subsequent salvation.
Sir Thomas Godfrey reined in his mount, the polished metal of his armor gleaming brilliantly in the dazzling sunlight.
"Men!" He cried, his commanding tone filled with the heavy knowledge of his message.
"The matter of which I spoke to you of earlier this morning still holds. You may stand true to your faith, and not take up your sword to needlessly take the lives of these unbelievers. You may show mercy, and make your peace with the Lord your God in heaven. Or you may follow your king, Richard, and cut down these prisoners where they stand. The choice is yours. Take it as you will."
Thomas shielded his eyes from the intense sun with his hand, and heard the devastating, lone trumpet blast that signaled the charge. The cruel finality echoed ominously over the dunes, indicative of the crushing blow Richard was about to deal his Moslem counterpart. There was a most brief moment in time, suspended in uncertainty, where all lay still for Thomas's company of twenty. That moment was swiftly shattered. Without warning, all horses but one were wrenched decisively into motion, startled whinnies scratching at the ears as the painted animals plunged towards the mass of humanity beyond the bounds of Acre's black, looming gates.
~*~
The Moslem scout mounted the crest of the last dune in his path, the loose ribbons of his turban whipping sharply behind him in the light breeze. His dark eyes widened in unabashed horror as he tried to take in the spread of carnage that suddenly overwhelmed his vision.
Desperate, strangled cries filled his ears; he could do naught but helplessly watch the diamond-bright figures of the Crusaders darting in and out of the dull mass of his countrymen like sleek silver fish. Wavering, burbling pleas for mercy went unanswered, and the towering metal giants continued their blind, deadly rampage amongst the defenseless captives. The unsteady figures of the slain stumbled and plowed into the ground, their own blood pooling, trickling, gurgling in thick streams of rancid pollution. The bodies fell over three deep and the contaminated river of blood flooded the dunes, creating a grotesque oasis of shimmering scarlet liquid. The piercing whistles of swords rent the heavy midday atmosphere, the sickening connection of steel on flesh chilling the young man to the bone. Offering a quivering half-bow to his fallen comrades, he turned his mount back towards camp and made for the safe shelter at break-neck speed, flinging clouds of sand up behind him in his haste.
~*~
The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
he restores my soul .
Richard cleared his throat and rocked back on his heels, regarding the man in front of him with barely leashed loathing.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name's sake.
"So, you admit that you DELIBERATELY disobeyed orders?" The king spoke through gritted teeth, his hands flexing in and out of tightly balled fists.
Even though I walk
through the valley of the shadow of death,
Thomas merely nodded, his blue eyes glazed over and absent.
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
Fury bubbled over for the English king, and wrath poured from his mouth in a lion-like scream of rage.
"You are NO CRUSADER! How dare you blaspheme our Saviour in this way?! It's the noose for you, I hope Satan has prepared a place for you in the deepest belly of hell!"
Your rod and your staff,
they comfort me .
~*~
Saladin buried his turbaned head in his hands and gave a groan of anguish. Dark circles rimmed the eyes that observed the shivering wreck of the young soldier that stood before him.
"All of them?" The broken monarch whispered, his aging shoulders slumping under the weight of the news that had just been delivered to him.
"It seems that way." The youth seemed scarcely able to hold himself together. Pale flesh edged his tanned jaw line and a wild, frightened look dwelt in his eyes. His declining condition did not go unnoticed by the Moslem king.
"Richard the Lionhearted has disgraced himself this day," Saladin's troubled gaze travelled to his young companion, pity and compassion etched in every line of his face.
"But I need not tell you that. You may leave." The youth bowed gratefully and scurried away from the depressing confines of his leader's tent.
~*~
Thomas stepped up to the small, elevated platform, his hands bound crudely behind his back. The hint of a scandalous whisper rippled through the crowd, but silence descended as the abrasive loop of rope was lowered ceremoniously over his head.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
The crier by his side began to read out Thomas's list of offences, which caused an ironic smile to curve upon the lips of the convicted and condemned. He had always imagined, in vivid detail, dying for his faith. But the fearsome spinnings of his imagination had never conjured the scenario of which he was now a vital part. Dust stirred unassisted in the motionless street, the assemblage of soldiers remained eerily quiet.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
"Sir Thomas Godfrey, for these crimes you have committed against the Crown and God, you have been sentenced to hanging by the neck until you are dead."
Surely goodness and love will follow me
all the days of my life,
A drum roll broke the unnatural stillness, and the crier opened his mouth to utter the last earthly words that Thomas would ever hear:
"May God have mercy on your soul."
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD
forever.
A/N: You like? I hope you find it within your hearts to forgive me; I'll try to get Chapter Four up soon, but no guarantees.
Huggles, Missy ^_^
PS: For those who need to hear this: Don't steal any of my personal works used in this post, they are ALL copyrighted. I own them. Stealing is a crime. So don't do it.
