Chapter 93: Death Of The King
Red-haired Richard suddenly woke up on the bed.
Shawwar invited all the important figures in the Christian army as much as possible, from the king to his vassal, from the lords and lords who came from afar.
But there were always some people who perhaps because they were too pious, personal preferences, or disliked these boring social engagements, refused the invitation from this Saracen.
Richard was one of them. Although his mother always kept him by her side, he was never interested in the intrigues, flattery, and sycophancy in the court. He always said he would rather be a knight than a king, which was completely sincere from the heart.
The only expression he could understand was fear, perhaps plus cowardice.
He preferred straightforwardness, speaking everything clearly and plainly, just like a knight’s sword—not you killing him, or him killing you, but not the damned talking a lot and finally pointing to a problem not even mentioned in the words.
In this regard, he admitted that his brother Young Henry did better than him, even his younger brothers who were several years younger than him.
Although he didn’t go to the banquet, he didn’t treat himself poorly either; he even took out some money and gave it to his escort, telling them to get him some roast lamb and wine, and he ate and drank heartily before falling into a deep sleep.
He thought he could sleep comfortably until the next morning, but when he woke up, he turned his head to look at the window and found that what was shining was still the moon, not the sun. He was a bit puzzled; this situation had rarely happened before.
Richard jumped down from the bed, his bare feet landing on the floor, immediately shivering; he casually grabbed a long shirt and pulled it over his head—when he saw the chainmail, he hesitated but still put it on, then fastened his belt, hung the dagger and short sword on it, and after walking out a few steps, he bumped into Blondel.
Richard unceremoniously rolled his eyes at him, and Blondel could only shrug helplessly.
He knew that this prince was angry and unwilling because of being “betrayed” by him. He was neither a courtier of Louis VII nor an attendant of Henry II; his territory was more than a hundred leagues from Aquitaine. How could he judge that he was the son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine just based on a few words from minstrels and things some knights had mentioned?
But from Blondel’s standpoint, if he had doubts but never spoke the truth, if Prince Richard unfortunately met with disaster and lost his life in this Crusade, it would be hard to say whether he wouldn’t be blamed by the Duchess of Aquitaine—during the Crusades, knights from the same place always subconsciously gathered together; they were companions and friends. If Richard died, for Blondel to say he bore no responsibility at all would be shameless evasion.
“What time is it now?” Richard asked.
Blondel turned around, looked at the sky, “Maybe around two-thirty to three in the morning（,” he said uncertainly. Originally, Richard should also have stayed in the Caliph’s palace. After all, it had become the palace of the Christian king. But a boy of this age was always the most annoyed by being restrained by elders, not to mention there were two elders there, one even a younger uncle; he couldn’t stand it.
So he chose a clean small building in the market not far from the Royal Palace, and because of this, Blondel was assigned a task by the king to take care of Richard—Richard had his own escort and servants, but for a prince, without a few knights following, it would inevitably make people doubt his status and bearing.
“It’s still early before dawn; won’t you go back and sleep a bit?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t sleep at all.” Richard said.
Blondel and he stared at each other for a while; he looked around—the dark blue sky light could illuminate the courtyard and room, but it was far from enough for reading or playing chess: “Then… would you like to hear music?”
People all said that Richard, the second son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine, liked fighting, but only a few who knew him understood that his attainments and love for music were unmatched.
He had sponsored many minstrels and was happy to generously reward folk or court musicians; he didn’t like Blondel much, but Blondel could stay by his side because this knight could skillfully play almost all instruments, just like a fish swimming or a horse running.
He had only played a little tune from Marseille in front of the king, and it immediately conquered Richard’s heart—he even said that if Blondel hadn’t sung such a moving tune, he might have challenged the former and knocked out all his teeth afterward.
In fact, Blondel wasn’t that willing to serve Richard either; he would rather serve the gentle Prince Baldwin, or wait until the war was completely over and merchants gave a good price for the spoils of war, then return home with honor, achievements, and gold coins.
However, if Louis VII or the Duchess of Aquitaine heard that he had served Richard during the Crusade, they would surely give him a very good position—”Where’s your lute?” Richard’s question interrupted his beautiful fantasy.
“When I was fighting, my escort accidentally lost it on the battlefield; it’s probably impossible to find now.” He paused: “I can go to the merchant to buy one.”
“No need,” Richard said: “Saracens like music a lot; maybe there are a few instruments here. Let’s go look together.” Anyway, he couldn’t sleep either.
Perhaps because it was said early that Richard would rest here, the original owner was just roughly driven out—at least there were no obvious bloodstains or limbs.
“What do you think the people who originally lived here were?” Richard examined the house by the sky light; after coming down from the battlefield, he had briefly washed and then collapsed to sleep; when he woke up, he just ate and drank heartily and slept again, not noticing the decorations and furnishings in the room at all.
“Probably a wealthy merchant.” Blondel said casually; the owner of this house had left in a great hurry, with almost all the furnishings still intact, as if they would return at any moment.
Beautiful silk rugs hung on the walls, with patterns of hunting dogs chasing rabbits and pomegranate bushes; brass and earthenware vessels were placed in the corners; the doors and windows were very exquisite, like multi-branched branches or multi-petaled flowers. It could be seen that the original owner lived on the second floor, and the first floor was for entertaining guests and dining.
Richard picked up a metal ornament in the hallway, a palm with an eye painted in it; Blondel glanced at it, his face showing disgust, took it away and threw it on the ground. “Don’t look, Your Highness,” he said: “That’s a heathen’s amulet.” He explained: “They say it’s the palm of their Prophet’s daughter, which can protect them from evil.
It was probably dropped when the people here left in a panic; who knows if he is dead or alive now—the protection of the Prophet’s daughter is truly ironic at this moment.
In a room behind the great hall, they found a traditional Saracen flute made of ordinary bamboo; Blondel picked it up and tried it, finding it completely damaged inside and unusable. But since there was a flute, there might be other instruments.
Then, they found a small sheepskin drum in another room, but that small drum was obviously not for adults but left for children to play with—Richard tapped it on his hand and regretfully pursed his lips: “Are there other rooms here?”
“There’s also a cellar.” Blondel said: “But I’ve checked there; it’s just piled with some oil and wine.”
“Wine?” Richard said happily, “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Let’s get them out and drink heartily.”
“You already have enough wine here; those are just what they brewed themselves. I opened one jar, and it’s neither strong nor sweet enough.”
“Any wine is good to me.” Richard said, “Especially thinking it’s Saracen wine.”
Blondel could only lead Richard down to the cellar; as he climbed down the wooden ladder, his expression was still very relaxed—this place had been searched by knights, ensuring no hidden assassins or ill-intentioned people.
As soon as Richard landed, he saw those stacked earthenware pots crowded on layered wooden frames, looking quite impressive: “All wine?”
“Some are oil too.” Blondel said: “Palm oil and olive oil.”
Richard had already opened a jar; perhaps the original owner had his own marks, but Richard certainly didn’t know; he smelled it and showed regret: “It’s oil.” He turned to get another earthenware pot but accidentally knocked over a few others; the jars fell to the ground and shattered, making the floor instantly slippery; Blondel sighed, “I’ll get them; I know which are the wine.”
Richard’s smile was still on his face when suddenly his whole body tensed up; he smelled the scent of oil, olive oil, palm oil, but also a scent he had smelled and was familiar with since arriving here—”Petroleum naphtha!” he shouted in shock, immediately crouching down to touch the oil on the ground; he put the sticky slippery stuff in his mouth and immediately tasted the bitterness that shouldn’t be there.
Blondel was walking toward him, but Richard had already rushed out in this crawling posture; as soon as he returned to the cellar entrance, he saw an earthenware pot and a torch thrown down from above; the firelight ignited with the cracking of the jar and burst inward along the flowing oil, instantly engulfing the entire cellar—but by then Richard had climbed up the wooden ladder, grabbed a Saracen’s ankle, and thrown him into the cellar.
Outside the cellar there were two more Saracens; as soon as they saw Richard, they immediately fled; Richard hesitated but jumped back into the cellar—Blondel was also “Chosen by Michael,” but the saint’s favor granted to him was not much; moreover, he was choking and coughing from the smoke of the burning petroleum naphtha, unable to pray; he guessed he would definitely be seriously injured, even die.
But a large hand yanked him out of the flames; Richard dragged him, sending him up the cellar first, then leaped up himself; just as his feet barely left the wooden ladder, there was a violent shaking below; they fell to the ground, watching the flames shoot out like venomous snakes.
Fortunately, at this time Richard’s escort and guards woke up; they searched around and saw Richard and Blondel, immediately pulling the two out.
Richard had half his hair scorched off by the flames, and there was a bloody wound on his calf with charred edges, looking worrisome; the monk by his side wanted to treat him, but was refused—the red-haired young man took the helmet, boots, chainmail gloves, long socks, etc., handed by the escort and put them on, while telling the escort to fetch his horse.
“Where are you going?” Blondel asked.
Richard glanced at Blondel with an expression of why some people were always so stupid, “This isn’t a random revenge,” he said: “It’s premeditated.” He clearly saw those two Saracens holding incendiaries used in war, and how could a merchant’s cellar have so much naphtha?
As if to verify Richard’s words, under people’s horrified gazes, points of light appeared one after another in the night, so numerous they surpassed the stars and grains of sand.
“God, God…” the monk murmured, “They…”
“No time to pray!” Richard shouted sharply: “Let’s go!”
Where to? Of course to the Caliph’s palace, now the palace of Christian king Amalric I; Richard didn’t believe such a grand scheme lacked the hand of Grand Vizier Shawwar; since he had decided to turn this city into a new Hell, how could he allow the king to continue living!?
——————
Caesar stabbed the soldier covered in fire to death with one knife, immediately turned to push away Baldwin whose tears were about to be dried by the flames, trying to separate Shawwar and Amalric I.
Shawwar was already dead, but his hands still wrapped around the king’s neck like a noose or curse, which was why people didn’t dare to cleave with swords; flames rose, thick smoke filled the air—who could guarantee they would cut off Shawwar’s arm and not the king’s neck?
Amalric I seemed to have already fallen into hell; he was burned by flames, gnawed by jackals; he only felt extreme pain; irritated by the smoke, he couldn’t see others; he only hoped Baldwin wouldn’t be controlled by emotions and recklessly come to save him—he did feel someone always helping him but in vain; he wanted to tell that person to go away—the king was sure it was Baldwin.
No one loved him more than Baldwin or was more willing to sacrifice for him; he shed tears, his heart full of regret—God granted him a brilliant great victory, and he should have repaid with more pious and pure “cleansing,” not lightly believing a heathen’s sweet words.
Suddenly, he felt a breeze, a chilly breeze that gently pushed Baldwin away, protected his face and neck; the intense heat and stinging pain receded, but in an instant, this breeze turned into sharp swords, stabbing him, peeling his skin and flesh, making his bones tremble in the air with unbearable agony!
“Teacher!” Caesar shouted; he had separated Shawwar and the king, but the problem was, as Shawwar had hoped, the king was almost fused with him in the flames; Amalric I’s burns were very severe; he didn’t even dare to use force, because with force, charred ashes and clumps would fall; he didn’t dare to look at Baldwin’s eyes.
Heraclius immediately staggered over; as soon as he saw Amalric I, his face turned ashen.
Among the “Chosen by Raphael,” there were those “Chosen by Raphael,” and those “Chosen by Michael”; those who received “Chosen by Raphael” generally became monks and priests, except for those priest knights in the Knights Templar or Knights Hospitaller, because joining these knight orders was equivalent to becoming a Martial Monk and wouldn’t be punished by the Church for it.
But just like “Chosen by Michael,” “Chosen by Raphael” also varied in strength; the weak like Witt could only treat minor wounds that would heal on their own; the strong like those monks by the Pope of Rome could even make the seriously ill improve overnight and reconnect severed limbs—Heraclius’s ability was certainly stronger than ordinary monks, but for injuries like Amalric I’s…
Seeing Heraclius’s expression, Caesar also felt despair; he had once been a doctor and certainly knew that severe burns like Amalric I’s—chest, limbs, face… even in his world not everyone could be saved; even if they could linger for a while, how could he guarantee no subsequent infection or failure?
He lowered his head and gritted his teeth.
If he hadn’t left the banquet…
