Prelude to Heaven

Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the film. I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of putting them back.

Chapter 10: Mistakes

Thomas glanced westward, wondering what his best friend was doing. Dried dough caked his hands. He had been baking bread; not the soft fragrant loaves which he preferred, but the hard dry army fare which kept well and had to be soaked in water before it could be eaten. He sat on a tree stump and started picking the dough from beneath his fingernails.

A whinny and a shout made him look up. A bedraggled man, with torn livery and covered in soot and blood had ridden in. He fell out of his saddle. The sentries caught him. Thomas' curiosity piqued and he wandered over to see what was going on. The man was blabbering about something. Thomas could hear the words 'fire' and 'ambush' and 'death'. The sentries who had intercepted the rider looked at each other, and then one of them left, presumably to inform one of the commanders.

"Dead," repeated the man who had ridden in. He was covered in burns. His face was barely recognizable. "All dead. There was fire, and blood. And then, there was nothing. I rode, rode hard...didn't look back. Men screaming...dying...no more, no more!"

"What do you mean, they're all dead?' demanded Thomas, unable to contain himself. "What about Sir Auberon, and Balian? Where are they? What happened to them?"

The rider looked at him with one bloodshot eye. The other was a mass of clotted blood. "Sir Auberon died...shot...and the Peasant Knight..." The man's voice trailed off. His one good eye closed for a moment, and then slowly opened again. "I don't know," he said, licking cracked and bleeding lips with a parched tongue. "Fire surrounded us. They were everywhere, shooting, cutting. There was no way out."

"Dead?" said Thomas. He shook his head. It wasn't possible. No, not dead. Not Balian. Balian couldn't be dead. If this man could survive, so could Balian. But where was he? The cook's legs moved of their own accord. Balian was like a brother to him. He couldn't contemplate losing his best friend.

"Thomas!" he heard Arnaud shout. The one-armed groom's face was paler than usual. "I bumped into the sentry. What happened?"

"Sir Auberon's dead," said Thomas. "They were ambushed."

"Ambushed?" said Arnaud. "But what about Balian?"

Thomas shook his head. "Christ," said Arnaud. "You don't mean...surely, it can't be..."

"I don't know," said Thomas. "No one knows. I pray to God that he's alive."

Trees and hills; that was all Balian could see. That, and the pale lonesome face of the moon, the same moon which watched his friends and his family right now. How far he was from them. He didn't know where he was. The men looked to him for answers. He couldn't offer them any. He leaned back against the trunk of a tree. His armour lay on the ground beside him. The rough ridges of the bark dug into his back through the thin fabric of his shirt. He could hear snores coming from the men. With his eyes half-closed, he listened to the sounds of the night. He dared not sleep, just in case they were attacked. However, his body refused to obey him. His eyes closed.

The next thing Balian knew, someone was shaking him and the sun was glaring down. He opened one eye. Jean-Pierre stood over him. "Sir," he said. "What do we do now? Are we lost?"

Balian stood up stiffly. "Yes," he said bluntly. "We are." There was no point in lying to them.

"How do we get back home?" demanded someone else.

"If God intends for us to return home, he will lead us back," said Balian. "If not...all is as God wills it."

"I admire your faith, lieutenant," said a soldier whom he did not recognize. "But there is the problem of rations, as well as the enemy. Hunting is fine during the summer, but summer doesn't last forever. What if the enemy attacks us? We can't defend ourselves."

"Why would the enemy want to attack thirty bedraggled men?" said Balian. "That would be a waste of time on their part. We're worth nothing to them. As for supplies, we gather as much as we can during the summer months. We'll dry meat, berries, anything that can be preserved. I plan to be out of here before winter comes but if things don't go according to plan, at least we'll be prepared."

It had been almost a month since the news of Auberon's death had reached Reginald de Nièvre. There were no signs of survivors from the battle. All that remained of the contingent were charred bones. Balian's friends had given up the hope of ever seeing him again. In their minds, both Thomas and Arnaud were preparing ways of conveying the news of his death to his family. The main difficulty was telling his mother about it. How were they to tell Solange that her beloved firstborn was lying with a heap of charred corpses? Neither of them knew.

The destruction of Auberon's entire contingent did do one thing. It convinced Reginald de Nièvre and Roger de Cormier that they could not win the war, and so the lords planned to retreat back to their own lands.

A month and a half after Auberon's defeat and Balian's disappearance, four years since the boys had left to fight, they returned home. Their families rushed out to greet them. There were many tears, some of relief and many of grief. Arnaud caught sight of his parents. A grin lit up his face. He ran to them. "Papa!" he cried, feeling like a little boy once more. "Maman!" The carpenter turned. His face was lined, like a piece of wood left out in the elements for too long. When he saw his son, he didn't say anything. He couldn't. Instead, he took Arnaud in his strong arms and held him tightly. Arnaud's mother did not lack words. She threw herself at him, weeping.

"Oh, my boy," she said, drinking in the sight of him. "You're so thin! And look at you! What happened to your arm? Oh, darling, my poor darling."

"I was lucky to have only lost an arm," said Arnaud. "Many of the other boys didn't make it back. I have Balian to thank. He saved my life."

"Balian?" said the carpenter. "The blacksmith's boy? I remember him to be an awkward thing; all arms and legs and not a scrap of meat on him. What's that your sisters called him...ah, yes; an under-stuffed scarecrow."

"Don't talk about him that way," said Arnaud sharply, suddenly defensive of his absent friend. "He's a hero, the Peasant Knight. Without him, I'd be dead."

Arnaud's father was rather taken aback by his son's change in attitude. He remembered that Arnaud had once enjoyed tormenting Balian.

Arnaud looked around the sea of faces. Thomas had reunited with his family. The baker's wife seemed to be lamenting the fact that her son had not grown much vertically. "Where's Jocelyn?" asked Arnaud.

"She's with the blacksmith's wife," said his mother. "Solange has consumption, and I don't think she will last through the winter. She really misses that boy of hers. Where is he, by the way?"

"I...I have to go..." said Arnaud. Before his parents could say anything else, he had gotten Thomas' attention and they were both heading towards the forge.

Solange's bones ached. She couldn't breathe properly. Every intake of breath lit the smouldering fire in her chest. She shivered, even though Jocelyn had told her that it was warm. The gloom of the cottage seemed to close in on her. She was glad that the girl was with her, to keep her fears at bay. Balian had been right. The girl was an angel. The blacksmith's wife heard voices outside. "What's going on?" she whispered.

"The soldiers have returned," said Jocelyn, barely hiding the excitement in her voice.

"The...the soldiers?" Solange's breathing quickened as she grew excited. She tried to lever herself up with shaking arms. "My Balian..."

"Lie still, Madame," said Jocelyn. "I daresay he'll burst in through the door soon. He loves you so much."

"He loves you too, my girl," said Solange, settling back down on her mattress. Jocelyn was glad that the darkness of the cottage hid the colour of her face. It was awkward, talking about Balian's feelings for her. There had been rumours in the village that she had been deflowered. Someone had seen her returning that fateful day. She wondered what Balian would think if he knew. If he still loved her, she would marry him. A disgraced woman had very little choice.

She was saved from having to say anything when the door opened. The old smith came in, leading two young men. Neither of them was his son.

"Madame," said the taller of the two. "We have something to tell you."

"I'll leave you to it," said the old smith, going out of the cottage and closing the door behind him.

As they drew closer, Jocelyn recognized the speaker as her brother Arnaud. He had grown older and one empty sleeve hung limply by his side. Her hand flew to her mouth. She was too shocked to do anything except stare.

"Balian?" said Solange.

"Balian's a hero," said Thomas.

"Where is he?"

Arnaud and Thomas looked at each other. How were they going to tell this obviously dying woman that her beloved son had gone before her?

"Say something, Arnaud," said Jocelyn, her hazel eyes wide with intense desperation.

"He...he's with God and the saints," said Arnaud, looking at the ground. He heard a sharp intake of breath form Jocelyn. Balian's mother was strangely quiet as the news slowly sank in.

"My son," she whispered. Her eyes were distant and unfocused. "My little boy..."

She felt numb, except for the hollow pain in her heart. Her Balian, her solemn and innocent son, was gone, cut down by ruthless bits of metal. "What happened?" she asked. Her voice shook.

"Balian was a brave man," said Arnaud. "He lived to defend others, even if it meant sacrificing himself..."

"The commander had him flogged once from trying to defend some boys," cut in Thomas. As soon as that left his mouth, he regretted it.

"My baby boy...flogged?" said Solange. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe through the emotion which seemed to wind itself tightly about her neck. Jocelyn glared at Thomas. Balian's mother didn't need to know that her son had been beaten like a beast of burden. The girl's heart ached for the older woman, for the selfless Balian, and for herself. The boy who had loved her was gone, and she hadn't even had the chance to tell him that she did not scorn him anymore.

"We called him the Peasant Knight," said Arnaud. "If he had not been common born, he would surely have been knighted. He was better than any of the heroes in the stories."

"Did he receive the proper rites?" whispered Solange.

Thomas started to speak before anyone could stop him. "The scouts found only charred bones," he said. "We couldn't...ow!" Jocelyn had stepped on his foot, hard, but the damage was done.

"Please," said Solange. "I wish to be alone." The three young people looked at each other, then down at the older woman. Jocelyn nodded finally, and she ushered the two young men outside.

"How could you say such things?" she demanded of them, glaring especially at Thomas. "She didn't need to know that he was whipped...or...or that you couldn't find his body and give him a decent burial."

"What? Would you have me lie?" said Thomas.

"Well, yes! It would have been better!"

"Lying is a sin, Jocelyn," said Arnaud.

"And breaking an old woman's heart is not?" demanded his sister. "She had no need to know all those things. She loves him, and she already grieves for him. Do not cause her more pain by adding more horror to Balian's story."

"It pains me too!" said Thomas. His voice quavered. "He was my best friend, almost a brother. He saved my life during our first battle! Do you really expect me to think clearly in a time like this?"

"Peace," said Arnaud. He could sense that things were about to get ugly. His sister had a fiery temper. "I don't think he would have wanted us to argue like this."

"No, he wouldn't have," agreed Thomas, wiping the moisture from his eyes with his sleeve. "He hated arguments."

"I shall go and see Bishop Gavin now, and ask him to say mass for all those who...didn't come back," said Jocelyn quietly. Her legs felt as if they were made of wood as she went to the church. All she could see was the look on Balian's face when he had declared his love for her. It felt so unreal. She couldn't believe that he was dead. Almost any moment, she expected to see him running up the dirt path to the forge, with his hair looking as if a rat had decided to nest in it. The hammer and anvil remained silent.

Balian gazed at the silver cross in his hand. He knew every bit of it. The young man smiled as he imagined the face of the young woman to whom he would give this cross. A leather thong now dangled from the small cross. He kissed it and replaced it where it belonged; around his neck and resting on top of his heart. Nearby, a deer was being roasted on a spit over a fire. Fat and juices dripped into the flames, making the fire sizzle. They had found plenty of game in the woods. Strips of meat were being smoked, hanging from branches.

Jean-Pierre and some of the other men were looking at him with grins on their faces. "What?" he asked them.

"What lucky girl has claimed your heart, lieutenant?" asked a soldier by the name of Marc.

"What makes you think that?" asked Balian. His face began to grow hot.

"You're blushing, sir," said Jean-Pierre. "And you had that dreamy look on your face when you were looking at that cross. I don't think you were praying." The other men laughed.

Balian tried to change the subject. "Is the deer done? I'm starving."

A/N: Well, Balian's friends sure aren't too intelligent— Thomas isn't anyway. Please review. The war's over now. Balian just doesn't know.