New story. Through means to later be explained, one Hadrian James Potter ends up in the twelfth century. By the time of the story, his appearance is that of Raymond 'Tiberius', Count of Tripoli, Prince of Galilee and Tiberius from the film 'The Kingdom of Heaven'.
Most other characters take their appearances from the 2010 Robin Hood film.
The spoken language of the higher society of the Crusader States and England, amongst other lands at the time would have been Old French, but as I am neither fluent nor literate in the language or its modern counterpart, I shall not attempt to mangle it. To the same theme, the written language of the nobility would have been Latin, of which my comprehension is minimal.
May 1199, the Royal Palace and Fortress of the White Tower, London
"England is penniless! Richard spent all we have on his crusade. Then we pay thirty-seven long tonnes of silver to free him from a captivity that his own brash provocation brought about! Then he beings another crusade to regain lands lost in France as he rode across the Kingdom of Jerusalem!" thundered King John.
It had been but days since he had received the crown of England officially. His elder brother Richard, dead. That was a fate he did not wish on Richard. Imprisoned maybe, for his brother had lost much land in the Angevin Empire, had led a Crusade which had failed to regain Jerusalem, gained England, and himself many enemies. Then on his way to return he had fallen into the hands of one he had offended. It is true, he, John, had tried to extend his imprisonment, but Richard had been destroying Britain. Then his beloved mother had stepped in and ransomed Richard, once again at great cost to England. The only good thing his brother had done for the country was naming him, John Plantagenet, as his heir over their Geoffrey's bastard son. And then he'd ridden to subjugate the lands in France that had been lost through his inaction.
He was distracted from his chain of thoughts by the door slipping open and one of the fortress guards slipping in.
"Excusin' me Your Majesty, a man wishes to speak with you, he says he is a pilgrim returned from the Holy Land." announced the guard.
"Send him away!" snapped John, the stresses of his position almost physically weighing on him. His outburst had him receiving disapproving looks from several of his advisers, including the recently-elevated Geoffrey FitzPeter, the Constable of the Tower and Earl of Essex, his brother's former Chief Justiciar.
"Sire, should we at least not show charity by showing the pilgrim our hospitality, see him fed." asked FitzPeter.
"Then go Geoffrey, go and wash the feet of this pilgrim!" scowled the King, and when the Earl hesitated, stormed over to him; "I recall it was you who offered to play servant on my behalf, you haven't changed your mind, have you?"
"No Your Majesty. If I may excuse myself from your presence." bowed FitzPeter and swept out upon receiving a dismissing wave from his monarch.
Hadrian Potter only had to wait a few minutes before a servant bid he came into a room in one of the wings of the fortress, where he was to wash before being led to a place to eat. Smiling thinly, he glanced around the room, bare, not befitting of a nobleman. A small prank on his part. Lowering the hood on his dark robe, he walked over to a a burnished buckler placed over a stone basin to act as a mirror.
Jet black hair had began to fade to iron grey, a jagged scar tore across his right eyebrow and down the very edge of his eye before disappearing down his cheek. A gift courtesy of the hand of the Ayyubid Sultan Salah ad-din ibn Ayyub. The only man in the Holy Land who could match him in a fight blow for blow. The man was now dead, and indeed he had felt a twinge of sadness at the death of an old, powerful and respected adversary.
Shedding his dark robe to a stand, he drew a dagger from his belt and began to clear the sideburns that had grown down to meet the small beard that covered his his chin, meeting a simple moustache. There was a bare patch in the overgrown sideburns where the scar prevented anything growing.
Glancing over at the large leather bag which contained such possessions as he felt like carrying back from his castle in the Kingdom of Jerusalem.
A few minutes later, he'd suitably refreshed himself, and unbuttoned the rim of his bag. Inside was a sword, a dark-blue cloak lined with velvet, a simple leather jerkin, a hooded mail hauberk and a surcoat. He was already wearing his boots, simple black cotton trousers and shirt with another leather jerkin buttoned over it.
Harry shrugged off the leather jerkin, and with an almost undetectable gesture, applied a simple cleaning charm to himself, without using any kind of foci. Sighing slightly as he traced the long thin line across his neck which had come about when an assassin tried to cut his throat, he blinked before returning to what he was doing. Replacing the leather jerkin, he then pulled on the hauberk, which clinked loudly as it fell into place. The surcoat, a long, sleeveless coat which fell over the hauberk, he quickly pulled over him. Finally, he reached into the bag and drew out a sheathed bastard sword, with a belt attached to it, which went around his waist.
The surcoat was a deep, dark blue, with the four gold crosses, on the white background of a shield, between the arms of a final, larger cross, the arms of the Kingdom of Jerusalem on his left breast and his own coat of arms in the centre, a serpent encircling a sword bordered by a white Maltese cross on a black background in each corner. A Hospitaller. A crusader. A nobleman of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He had served in the immense hospital of the Knights of St. John himself as a healer on many occasions, even when he had his own fiefdoms and people.
Finally, he placed his signet ring on a finger as someone rapped on the door.
"Come!" he growled. The cut across his throat had ended any chances of him being a skilled singer, giving him all the vocal tonal qualities of two millstones grinding together.
"My lord the Constable bids that you-" began the servant, stepping into the room as Harry turned around to pull his cloak about his shoulders.
"Yes?" Harry barked impatiently.
"Bids that you share what domains you possess, and what title you wish to be addressed." lied the servant smoothly. The servant knew instantly that the man opposite him was not fooled by the lie as a thin smile unfolded on his face.
"I am Count Hadrian of La Bana, I possess amongst other lesser domains, four lieues communes east of Acre, a great fortress with a monastery controlling the settlement of Deir el-Asad and the most important road leading to the Sea of Galilee." Harry replied after allowing the servant to linger uncomfortably in silence for a few long moments.
"My Lord." nodded the servant; "If you will allow me to find whether your meal has been prepared. I will see that you are given suitable quarters to stay the night."
"You have my permission." Harry jerked his head to the servant before turning away to repack his leather bag; "And see that my horse is well-cared for."
"Of course my lord." the servant bowed and departed.
Reaching into the bag, Harry drew out a selection of over half-a-dozen daggers, which went into folds of his surcoat, the sides of his boots, folds of his cloak, even under the long sleeves of his hauberk. He had heard things, both good and bad of the new King of England, and he wasn't taking any chances.
Slowly seating himself on a cross-framed chair, he leaned back and waited. It took a few minutes before there was another rap on the door, to which he waited a few moments so as to give the person on the other side the impression he wasn't in any hurry, before rising to his feet.
"Enter!" he growled.
The person who opened the door was the same servant, but swiftly stepped aside to allow another man, noticeably quite young, maybe in his thirties, dressed in more opulent robes that signified a high station. Yet, the new man did not have the look of someone who had fought in the line of battle, carried sword or spear in anger or knowingly dispatched a man, watching the light in his eyes die.
"Count Hadrian, I am Geoffrey FitzPeter, Earl of Essex and Constable of the Tower of London. I am bidden to bring you before His Majesty to dine." introduced the man.
"Indeed." Harry nodded tersely, as no noble he had known in the Holy Land had not at one time or another raised a sword, to see a man who had none of the marks of a fighter in such a high position was not something he was used to. Yet it seemed it was something he would have to grow used to.