Reynard had lost track of time in the cell. Days blurred into one another until only one truth remained: he had been here too long.

  His joints had locked from disuse, his knees raw against the stone, oozing where the skin had split. The air reeked of rot.

  “Up. It’s time.”

  The guard rattled the door and stepped inside. “Your trial, Sir Reynard.”

  Reynard tried to answer, but his throat was too dry to shape words. Water. It had been so long since he’d tasted it that the thought felt distant.

  As the guard fumbled with the keys, Reynard’s strength finally gave out. His wrists slipped free, and he collapsed forward. The guard caught him before he hit the floor.

  “This too is your penance.”

  He hesitated, then met Reynard’s eyes.

  “You were a hero. They said you would rather die than see one of your men hurt.”

  The guard looked away.

  “It seems the stories were wrong.”

  He hoisted Reynard over his back like a sack of cargo and carried him from the cell. Light burned his eyes — the first he had seen in weeks. His throat itched. His body creaked at every step.

  As the guard half walked with him, half carried him more, he heard more murmurs of knights approaching; details like ‘look at him’ and ‘filthy traitor’ became all the more frequent. Until he heard a giant door creak open, and the murmurs became voices.

  He looked up and saw seas of Silver Sword knights, sitting in rows of benches and stands. Their faces told Reynard one thing—in their eyes, he was already guilty. And right in front of him, sitting on a slightly ornate chair, was the Marshal himself.

  Reynard’s hair hung over his face, rough and unkempt, but he could still make out flashes of white and blue — his fellow Crusaders watching him pass. Mocking. Pitying. Despising.

  His body had grown thin. The once-stocky frame honed by jousts and drills had wasted into something fragile, his cheeks hollow, his wrists narrow. The rags only made it clearer.

  Reynard the Captain was gone.

  Only Reynard the Accused remained.

  …

  “May all in attendance be seated,” Louis de Bergliez’s voice boomed throughout the hall.

  The knights all sat, murmurs growing ever louder as Reynard limped his way from his guard to the stand. Its wood was jagged and cold, and it lay beneath the Marshal’s stand, where he sat, attended to by Gandry himself. The First Company Captain just couldn’t contain his smile as he saw his former friend, starved and battered beyond belief.

  “Before us,” Louis began, “Lies the accused, Reynard Blackwood. Captain of the Third Company and a veteran of the Order.”

  More murmurs, Reynard’s eyes still adjusting to the light, he squinted and took in his surroundings. He spotted Crusaders he’d fought with for years, some with faces of disbelief, others with disgust. The other ten Company Captains sat in special rows, with their red cloaks on; they only wore those for roundtable meetings or special occasions.

  Reynard scoffed, as if the farce they were about to witness was a special occasion.

  “Reynard Blackwood is charged with conspiracy to assist in treason, the murder of a fellow brother…And violation of your holy vows.”

  “Gandry,” Louis turned to him, handing him a standard-issue Silver Sword Bible, “Hand Reynard a Bible, put him under oath.”

  Gandry mustered a meagre salute as he strolled towards his former friend. The Bible struck the stand like a hammer, echoing through the hall.

  “Repeat the words after me.” Gandry’s voice spat with hate as Reynard continued to look down, his tender wrists trembling as they placed a hand on the bible.

  “I,” they began, “do swear upon this Holy Scripture, before God and this Order, that I shall speak the truth, conceal nothing, and utter no falsehood, so help me God.”

  Reynard and Gandry spoke in unison. When they finished, Gandry sneered, “At least you can still utter a few phrases.”

  “Let us begin, now that the accused has sworn under oath,” Louis stated.

  …

  Gandry stood right next to Reynard throughout, peering down his spine with judgment and spite.

  “Reynard Blackwood,” Louis began, “For your first crime, conspiracy to assist in treason, do you deny this, before God?”

  Reynard paused. He saw the glares of men and women he once called comrades, fought with and bled with, turn towards him with some animosity, such hatred.

  “I do.”

  Gasps. Sneers and judgment broke loose as insults were hurled his way.

  Louis leaned back in his chair, “You deny it, do you?” Louis flicked through a few letters. Reynard still could not quite make them out. “Roughly three weeks ago, you filed a leave of absence for Aveline of Canterbury. Do you deny this?”

  Reynard shook his head; Louis let out a small smile.

  “Good, when you filed this request to me, you claimed she needed time to ‘spiritually heal’ from Ayyadieh. How then do you explain her actions at Iss? Do you claim not know your Deputy well enough? I doubt that.”

  Reynard went to interject, but he was cut off, “Aveline has always shown too much compassion for the Saracens. As her Captain, you must have seen this. If you knew it was a possibility she could defect, it was your responsibility as Captain to reject her request to leave, unless you secretly agreed with her actions.”

  The onlookers grew tense. Reynard could feel the pressure to respond; his fate could be decided by whatever his wits could come up with now.

  “Marshal, whilst it’s true, Aveline,” Reynard shuddered as he said her full name, he knew how much she hated it, “Shows compassion for her enemies, it does not get in the way of her performance, nor is it exclusive to the Saracens.”

  Reynard paused, taking in the crowd’s reactions; there was none, so he continued.

  “Time and again, Ava—” Louis gave Reynard a slight stare, “Aveline, has shown compassion to her comrades, to her fellow knights in the Third Company, to a young boy in dire need in Fiana, who else can we say truly embodies Christendom?”

  He paused, looking at his former comrades, for anyone to speak up for Ava, for him.

  “I cannot tell you why she killed our countrymen, but I know my deputy, and the decision must have pained her dearly, have we not considered why she might’ve done what she did—”

  “Silence, Reynard, that is for us to decide when Aveline stands trial,” Gandry cut through. Louis raised his hand, and Gandry backed down.

  “You speak of compassion, Reynard, yet your inaction nine years ago led to the death of your brother-in-arms. Shall we discuss loyalty before sentiment?” Louis began.

  “However, I can overlook that incident, for now. Reynard,” Louis placed a hand on his chin, resting on it, “But, your second charge is far less abstract.”

  A coffin was hauled in through the doors, carried by four knights, each resting it on their shoulders.

  “During your arrest, you resisted, and as a result, a fellow member of our Order, Brother Harken Mersey, perished by your blade; you do not deny this, do you?”

  As the coffin was dragged before Reynard, the memory he desperately tried to forget clawed its way to the forefront of his mind. If Reynard had not been starved for weeks, he would’ve certainly expelled any food in his system.

  His voice shook as he spoke, “I do not, I—I killed a fellow brother of our Order.”

  Traitor. Murderer. Scum. All the words he heard thrown around in the room, the words hung, as if they were being branded onto his very skin.

  Louis’ eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he continued, “As for your last crime.” He waved his hand, and Gwendolyn, Gandry’s Deputy Captain, came out from behind Louis’ chair, from behind him, through a back door, with a young woman thrashing in her palm, held by her hair.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Gwendolyn, stern as she always was, could not mask her disdain for the act she was performing, yet Reynard could only mutter her name in disbelief, “No, Margot no…”

  “You are accused of visiting a brothel, a site teeming with sexual immorality. What business did you have there?” Louis enquired.

  Margot’s face streamed with tears, and the knights watched with bated breath as Reynard looked at the Bible he had just sworn an oath to.

  He looked back at Louis, not with fear or reverence, like usual, but with wrath, cold and deep.

  “Yes, I did.”

  More whispers.

  “But I did it because of the man before me. If anyone should be on trial for sexual immorality, it should be you, Marshal Louis de Bergleiz.”

  A brooding atmosphere befell the court as Gandry was the first to speak, “You monster, you dare accuse our Marshal, you, who killed his own brother, and his Master before that—”

  Reynard continued, “I would not have had to visit the brothel if it were not for your treatment of my deputy. The woman Gwendoyln carries before her is the final piece of evidence I needed,”

  Reynard’s fists trembled, his joints still aching.

  “God sees you, Louis de Bergleiz. No throne of man will hide you from Him.”

  The court erupted, knights, mainly of the First Company, charged Reynard; others held confused faces, yet Reynard was protected by some of the other guards.

  “Reynard,” Louis’ voice hung low and steady, “You would accuse your Marshal before God? Do you have any proof? Has Aveline told you of any wrongdoing I have committed? Do you swear this information to be true before God?”

  Reynad fell silent, “No, she has not—”

  “Then I suggest you drop the matter, for your own sake.”

  Reynard’s bravado disappeared as quickly as it manifested. Louis’ eyes stared through his soul, through his loosely hanging blonde hair; despite his relatively light features, Reynard could see nothing but hate in those eyes. No matter how he tried to suppress it.

  “Third Company Captain Reynard.”

  Louis rose from his seat as he spoke.

  “I hereby strip you all titles, all accolades, all merits earned in the line of duty.”

  Nods and hums of agreement reverberated through the crowd; the occasional wail broke through, and it was promptly silenced by a barrage of shoves.

  “I, Louis de Bergleiz, Marshal of the Order, and right-hand man of the Grandmaster, hereby find you guilty of two of the three charges. You have been found guilty of the murder of Brother Harken Mersey and visiting a site of sexual immorality. Whether you are guilty of assisting in treason is yet to be decided; even if not, these two charges are enough to warrant the death penalty.”

  “Aye!” “Here! Here!”

  Shouts erupted in waves as the crowd burst out in a sea of passion. Reynard could make out Malcolm frantically trying to shove his way through, but his newly acquired injury made it too difficult; he was continuously shoved back.

  “However, out of respect for Brother Reynard’s nearly decade-long servitude.”

  Louis sank back to his chair and rested his head in his hand.

  “I will give him a chance to redeem himself.”

  “Marshal Louis?”

  Gandry began. Louis raised a hand.

  “Silence.”

  The Marshal turned back to Reynard.

  “The main culprit, Aveline, is still at large; we don’t know where she is, but he likely does…”

  Reynard’s hands began to be soaked with sweat and moisture, his eye movements accelerated, and a strong low beat emanated from his chest as Louis continued to speak.

  “Reynard, the choice is yours. Either assist your brothers in finding Aveline, or…”

  Louis waved for Gandry to draw steel; the First Company Captain could not have been more ecstatic. The blade was drawn with a sharp movement, inches from his neck; one fell swoop would be all it would take.

  “You join him.” Louis finished, “You say God watches me. Then go and join Him and watch from above.”

  Silence. For the first time today, the courtroom was completely silent.

  Despite the situation, all Reynard could think about was simpler times, his time spent with Malcolm and Ava, marching along the coasts of Cyprus, drinking games he’d play with Malcolm, drinking games he used to play with Gandry. Ava’s face whenever she’d see cheese, he knew, deep in his heart, what his choice would be, what it would always be.

  Reynard rose; he found the strength in his crippled body to do so. First, he addressed the sea of Silver Sword knights, men he’d once drank and laughed with in many a campaign.

  “Men, it’s been a pleasure. I’ve watched each one of you develop into fine knights, and men worthy of the title Crusader.”

  He pointed to a man in the stands.

  “Brother Daniel, how you’ve grown, from once wetting your britches before our skirmishes in the mountains of Cyprus, to helping a new recruit in calming himself in a village raid, it warms my heart.”

  Daniel could not even muster a laugh; in any other context, that would have been embarrassing, but everyone present knew the severity of war, and it deserved the utmost respect.

  “Brother Lucian!” Reynard shouted.

  A young knight with lavish, long brunette hair stood at attention.

  “Brother Lucian, what a fine swordsman you’ve grown into, and what a jouster too. It’s clear the combined training of Deputy Aveline and me has served you well. Once I’m gone, you’ll be in charge of sparring with the Third Company and teaching them proper jousting form whilst the Order is in the Holy Land.”

  Tears welled in the young man’s eyes; all he could do was salute.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  Reynard’s gaze finally dropped to the right next to him.

  “And as for you, the man I once called brother, the man I once would’ve taken arrows and steel for, and you the same for me, my former friend…”

  Gandry, despite his sneering, let his former friend continue.

  “Gandry, you asked me what my answer was for my cowardice nine years ago, well… I finally have an answer.”

  Gandry stood quiet, for once, his gaze towards Reynard was not filled with malice.

  “If given the choice, between only the sword or the knee, I will choose neither…”

  Gandry could not feign wrath much longer; his voice began to break. “What are you talking about, Reynard—”

  “Men!” Reynard shouted at the top of his lungs.

  “Follow who you must, live as your hearts dictate, but see, see now that one selfless act has the power to change the hearts of others!”

  Reynard finally stared at Louis, dead in the eyes.

  “If given the choice between the sword or the knee, I refuse both…”

  “I will not hunt my fellow comrade, I would rather die a painful death than be a coward once more.”

  …

  They’d kept him in that cell for days after his words at the trial. He wasn’t even permitted visitors. Malcolm occasionally heard it, though—the wails and screams from Reynard’s cell. It was horrific; even in wartime, he had never heard such screams of agony.

  It was a rainy day, near northwestern Acre, where the soil was firmest. The Order had chosen the ground carefully. Planks had been laid over the mud leading up to the gallows, and banners of the Silver Sword were fixed into the earth, their white cloth darkened by rain. Members of the Third Company were kept to the furthest edge of the square, penned behind a ring of lancers lest grief tempt them into folly.

  Gwendolyn, Gandry’s Deputy Captain, stood watch with her hands clasped behind her back, her face set heavy and still. The elite lancers around her shifted their footing, spear-butts planted in the wet ground. A young woman, no more than twenty-one years of age, thrashed helplessly through the crowd before two guards caught her by the arms and dragged her back.

  “Sir Reynard is innocent, you murderers! He’s a good man! He visited my establishment out of goodwill!”

  Malcolm lowered his gaze to the trampled earth, then lifted it to the grey sky. Beside him, Brother Daniel and Brother Lucian’s eyes welled as they took in the state of their captain.

  Cuts and bruises marred Reynard’s body, blood smeared across torn skin. His legs trembled beneath him, and the guards at his sides kept him upright when his knees threatened to give. Whatever they had done to him since the trial, Malcolm thought dimly, it might have been worse than death. He shuddered at the thought that this end could be a mercy.

  A missionary stepped to the foot of the scaffold, a small leather-bound book pressed to his chest. He murmured a prayer beneath his breath, then nodded once to Gandry. The signal passed quietly through the ring of guards. The square fell into a hush.

  “Knights of the Silver Sword!”

  Gandry, acting as executioner, bellowed from atop the wooden gallows, the haft of the heavy axe visible over his shoulder.

  “Before you lies former Third Company Captain Reynard Blackwood,”

  “He has pleaded guilty to the murder of a brother of the Order, and to acts of sexual immorality in defiance of his vows.”

  No reaction. Surely someone would put a stop to this—after the state of Reynard’s body, surely the message had been made clear. Surely he would not be put to the sword, after all he had done for the Order.

  Gwen was the first to speak.

  “Captain Reynard, do you have any last words?”

  Seagulls cried overhead. The salty sea breeze cut across Malcolm’s face, stinging his eyes as Reynard took an eternity to reply.

  “I…” he began, voice brittle. “My men, my loyal, righteous men—know that in my heart, I cared deeply for each of you. Your safety mattered more to me than anything. Which is why I could not quietly bend the knee to Marshal Louis…”

  Gwen moved to cut in, but Gandry raised a hand, allowing Reynard to continue.

  “This is my penance, and I will repeat my words to you all before—”

  “See now that one selfless act has the power to change the hearts of others!”

  A faint smile touched Reynard’s lips as his gaze found Malcolm.

  “I leave what little light I had with you now.”

  His head dipped, hair falling over his face, as Gandry and Gwen took their places.

  One of the missionaries, part of the clergyhood of the Order though not aligned with its military affairs, stepped forward and began the last rites.

  “By the grace of God, your sins are named, and your soul is commended to His keeping.”

  The priest paused, his eyes lingering on the ruin of Reynard’s body.

  “May the Lord forgive what men cannot. Amen.”

  Reynard’s body was shoved into the pillory, his neck forced down into the cold wooden groove. He offered no resistance—unlike his supporters, who strained against the ring of lancers, voices breaking as they were held back.

  The Third Company could watch no more. Malcolm saw Brother Daniel draw his longsword, fire in his eyes—Lucian and Malcolm already moving with him. A ripple of steel and fury passed through the ranks as rage surged, boots shifting in the mud, men pressing forward.

  “Men, for the love of God, do not intervene!” Reynard shouted, his voice tearing through the square.

  They froze.

  “Let me go in peace…”

  Gandry’s mouth curled into a thin smirk as the knights of the Third glared up at him, knuckles white around their hilts. At his hip, his sword hung heavy and rain-slicked, the pommel catching a dull glint of light. He did not reach for it. Instead, he slammed the hatch of the pillory shut, the wood clapping hard around Reynard’s neck, then set his feet and raised the axe high, rain sliding down the darkened haft.

  “Reynard, for what it’s worth,” he said, “if you hadn’t acted in cowardice that day… nine years ago—and if you had bent the knee today—you would not be facing the sword.”

  A faint smirk touched Reynard’s lips despite the blood on his teeth.

  “I know, Gandry. Have a drink for me, for old times’ sake, alright?”

  Gandry’s jaw tightened as he adjusted his grip.

  “Will do. Goodbye, Captain Blackwood.”

  …

  “Great jousting as always, Reynard,” Gandry said, half-mocking, the other half sincere praise of his brother-in-arms

  Gandry yawned slightly as the pair sat in one of many taverns they’d been in together over the years. Tripoli had the finest ales in the Holy Land, of that, he was sure.

  “Hey, Reynard,” Gandry perked his head up, his face red from ale and booze, “Someday, let’s retire from all this crusading, and the politics the higher-ups like Godfrey keep talking about, let’s settle as training instructors in Bayeux, get ourselves a nice barrel or two of ale, maybe even wine if we’re lucky enough… “

  Reynard’s face blushed an even darker red than Gandry’s. “Wine, someone’s a dreamer, to get some high-quality wine, you’d have to be a knight on the level of Lady Seraphine or Sir Florian!”

  Reynard continued to down his ale.

  “We’ll get some nice women from an abbey, and never have to ride in the awfully hot sun; we can leave that to old man Godfrey, he’ll be crusading until the end of the world…”

  Reynard let out a deep chuckle, then extended his fist out to Gandry.

  “Sure, if we can both survive this blasted sun, sure, a life full of drinking and sex with pious, devout nuns? What else does a man need?”

  The two bumped fists, their faces red as tomatoes as they cackled into the night under the comfort of the Tripolian tavern.

  …

  The axe fell.

  For a heartbeat, the square held its breath. Then the head dropped into the waiting box with a dull, wooden thud. Blood followed in a thick spill, darkened by rain, while Reynard’s body sagged and went slack, shoulders folding as the pillory held him for a second longer than life did.

  “Captain!”

  That day, the Third Company learned what the Order did to men who refused the knee.