The sun was setting over Acre, casting a red glow over the sea, and the towers of the battlements gleamed magnificently. Citizens, most of them, began to retreat back into their homes for the night, shuffling along innocently.
Conrad de Montferrat felt his namesake abandon him. All his father had stood for, his son prepared to set ablaze once the bells tolled for sunset. It was not an easy decision to come to.
In the meantime, he sat atop the roof of the cathedral. In the spirit of resourcefulness, the Siege Lord had climbed up scaffolding and the pitted outer walls of the building until he reached the archers' balcony. The archers had received orders from him to concern themselves elsewhere at nights, closer to the ground and certainly far from where he was. A painfully obvious tactic, a plot most unfitting for a man of his station, but he was feeling uncharacteristically reckless. Desperate, almost.
He was certain that, this time, he was not followed. The moment before he left the battlements, he had absolutely forbidden Garrick from pursuing him again. It was an oddly pleasant sensation, the feeling of being alone. He even had to admit that he envied the assassins; their freedom allowed them to find solitude if they wanted, to reach the highest places without fear, to move without necessarily being seen. Although Conrad was alone, atop the cathedral, it was only due to the fact that he had driven any possible opposition away from him.
Bundled in a thick cloak, he sat underneath a Templar flag, on the edge of the roof, and gazed down at his people. A dull anger welled within him, thinking of his father and his zealous treatment towards his people, and of the Templar who may or may not have still resided in the cathedral, who spoke of control and utter Templar supremacy. That was a world that Conrad wanted no part of and, had he the ability to do so, would do everything in his power to fight against.
He pulled the cloak around his shoulders tighter as a cool breeze passed, and he gazed down at his people. Dark intuition hovered over him as he scanned the crowds for white robes or silvered armor. There was only one man whom Conrad wanted to witness his act.
The night came, and the Siege Lord stilled. The streets emptied. A chill ran down his spine. He was being watched.
Perfect.
With a flick of his hand, the instruments he brought along with him flared to life, and the flag fluttering above his head ignited brilliantly. It spread quickly, reaching the pole in moments, making the flag lighter than air for a second, then swaying with the wind in a chaotic, inflamed struggle to stay aloft as the fire began to weigh it down.
Still, Conrad sat and smiled lightly. The Siege Lord and his burning effigy for enemies most cunning. The reaction was delayed, as he had hoped. He sat beneath the blazing flag, crackling as the red and white cloth chipped away from its holding. There were no worried shouts or frantic movement. Not yet.
A bold statement he was making. The moment he decided he was going to go through with his plan, he realized he was cutting off his own nose to spite his face. He needed to oppose the Templar, that much was true, but to do it in such a noticeable manner, he would certainly die because of his audacity, leaving him in no state to battle against them again.
Slowly, his deed was noticed. A lone guard shouted and pointed to Conrad from the streets. Conrad was not worried; the robe kept his form obscure and he was well able to escape in time.
"Fire! Fire on the cathedral!" someone cried. A Templar knight emerged and swore loudly in a language Conrad was not entirely familiar with. He took that as his cue.
He slowly moved out from under the flag, crossed the roof with nervous, but confident footing, and ran to the edge of the top tier. Grabbing the edge, the swung off the top tier and dropped onto the archers' balcony. The shadows drew him in, allowing him time to work his way down from the balcony, using pits in the wall and jutting stones to reach the street. The shouts of the Templar Knight, still barely intelligible, were louder, closer, and then the Siege Lord became worried.
His hands shook as he did his best to climb down safely, but he was finding it harder to grip what little space the wall would give. Inevitably, he fell.
He met the ground on his side, sustaining most of the damage from the fall in his shoulder and hip, making it a painful endeavor to push himself to his feet, and even more agonizing to break into a run.
The route back to the battlements rushed by him in a blur. And, thank the Lord, he could no longer hear the enraged knight.
Having already prepared an excuse for his stiffness and strained movement, but not at all prepared yet to use it, he hid from his men as they moved from the battlements. They seemed to be following the shouts of "Assassin!" coming from the cathedral.
As he was about to emerge from the shadows to slink his way back into his quarters, a faint, almost indistinguishable figure caught his eye near the gate. He was robed, but too small to be the man from the cathedral. The figure turned, looking all around him, and then stopped in the direction of the Siege Lord.
Conrad found himself too stiff to retreat. In his wounded, tired state he closed his eyes against the threat, only hoping it was not the Templar Knight returned to redeem his broken dignity. Instead, a heavier cloak fell over his shoulders.
"My Liege, you should be more careful."
Pressure on his bruised shoulder sent a wave of warmth along the rest of his arm, but it triggered the waning strength in his legs to give completely. As he slid down along the wall next to the massive gates, gently assisted by a hooded Garrick, he watched as the small fire he began by igniting the flag raged along the cross that topped the cathedral. It was a sight both horrific and splendid.
Garrick sat down next to him with a heavy clang. His cloak shifted to reveal Conrad's blade, taken from its stand in his quarters. "A bit much, would you agree?"
"Yes," he said flatly. "A message, turned into heresy. I have literally set the house of God on fire." He put his head in his hands. "A grave underestimation."
Garrick observed the Siege Lord and his limp right side for a long moment. "Did you fall?"
"I did. One of the Templar's Knights was skulking around the cathedral. I sent the archers away for the night."
"You refused to tell me where you were going and what you were doing when you left, and now you openly confess to me what you have done to cause so much uproar. Never before have you been so indecisive."
"I have acted brashly out of indignation and faulted out of fear. It may be too late to fix this, but I cannot stop at this point."
"Do you see the fires? You need to desist."
Conrad shifted positions with a hiss, putting most of his weight against his left hip. "The fires are exactly why I cannot," he said, gesturing to the distance. "I have gone too far."
They sat in silence, watching as footmen ran about, chaotic, and as the cathedral continued to burn. They could not see the area around the cathedral from where they sat, but they could see its relentless destruction clearly. Fortunately, the two were hidden in the shadows cast by the high walls of the battlements. Conrad's men, still streaming past them, would not hesitate to notice their Siege Lord huddled injured so near to them, but notice was the last thing Conrad desired.
It had been several minutes since Conrad had closed his eyes and let his head fall back, utterly exhausted. He felt cool moisture hit his face; it gradually turned into a downpour. Garrick laughed from his side.
"It appears the Good Lord has found himself in a forgiving, helpful mood."
"Garrick," he snapped, grasping the wall behind him in the process of awkwardly pushing himself up.
Garrick, reflexively, rushed to aid him.
"Disregard the men, I need to lie down. Help me to my quarters."
The wind howled past Conrad's window as he sat on his bed and forsook sleep for thought. He thought of how foolish he had been, thinking he could take on the Templars himself, so soon. Brutish tactics and uncoordinated methods was no way to win a battle, that he should know, but pure desperation drove him to forget all he was taught in his adolescent years and act on instinct. His oddly misguided instinct. No wonder his father thought him a failure.
In his hands he held a letter from his beloved, Isabella, whom he had left to oversee Acre. She was pregnant. His recklessness then seemed even more atrocious. By making himself an enemy of the Templars, he put not only himself at risk, but also Isabella and their child. She lived away, comfortably afar, but she was nowhere near any sanctuary. It had already been made clear to Conrad that the Templars cared little for the laws of the King.
The scent of smoke drifted in through his window, more strongly than the previous hour, meaning the fire had finally been extinguished. Conrad wondered if all the hardship had been in vain or if the assassin had seen his message.
The letter from Isabella disintegrated in the flame of a candle. Conrad brushed away the ashes and forced himself to lie down and relax for a moment. Inside, a dull anger still boiled. Acre was his city, damn it. Not the Templars', despite what they wanted to believe.
He brushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes; hair like his father's, but kept long, traditional, and not cut short along the sides as if he were one of Richard's footmen. In the few weeks he had been in Acre acting in his father's place, his appearance had grown progressively more disheveled. His hair longer than necessary, his stubble ignored, dark circles under his eyes. If anyone judged him for it, they did not do so publicly.
Bringing himself back to his original dilemma, there was one thought he would rather fall asleep not hearing inside his own head. So, he simply turned his head and stared into the shadows of his quarters, too exhausted to feel anxious, his shoulder and hip throbbing too much too acknowledge his fears.
His closed his dark eyes and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of luck and mercy.