Act IV: Under the Mask (Part 7)
seven
Three days passed. Life at the monastery was peaceful and steady, even faintly tinged with the joy of a festival. Even Pascal became distracted while on guard duty. No one heard the terrifying whistles of the Tatars again.
“Perhaps they’re afraid of von Brunel’s army and have already fled!” Yubi said. “We’ll set off again after Christmas!”
He wore a black wreath woven from withered branches, which he would occasionally take off and fiddle with, making it look like a crown of thorns. These past few days, following Sister Gianda's advice, he and Schumer had been in charge of decorating the prayer hall. Candles were lit in the hall, and the styrax and galbanum, which they had been saving for a long time, were added to the incense burner; basil water was also prepared in a basin. In the small monastery, everyone eagerly awaited the day when Lent would end—Sister Gianda had even slaughtered a sheep. She said that the Lord's knights could not be allowed to go hungry on Christmas Eve.
Even Yakov marveled at the peace of life and how his knowledge of caring for patients had grown. He thought that isolation from the world was truly tranquil. If he weren't such a pragmatic person and could genuinely believe in Christ, living such a regular and disciplined life every day wouldn't be such a bad idea. One day, Pascal even witnessed a newlywed couple—one of his sergeants had somehow developed feelings for the nun who was caring for him, and the two were constantly blushing and avoiding each other when they met, which made them the subject of much teasing.
"Shameless!" the young, handsome hospital knight lectured sternly. "After Christmas, you'll all go back to secular life! Even God's eyes can't stand it!"
Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves. But Yakov still understood. When people are in danger, all sorts of good wishes arise—everyone is afraid they won't see the sun rise again, so they do whatever they want, and their words are kind.
Except for Yubi. He thought. Vampires never need to worry about these things, a monster living in isolation.
On the morning of the fourth day, a light snow fell, blanketing the entire mountain in white. Yubi gathered the pine needles and holly leaves he had picked and laid out to dry, tying them together with thin hemp rope. The pale green tinged with glistening snowflakes was a sight to behold, a reminder that the holiday was approaching. He carried these back to the church, intending to show them to Schumeer, just as the nuns began singing hymns—they were rehearsing for Christmas Eve, their aprons stained with water and blood. The lepers lying in the prayer hall quietly watched this scene, their voices cleansing their souls and rising to the roof of the small church. Many decorative paintings had been added there—Schumel dared not paint portraits here, but he was adept at creating patterns and designs.
Yubi went to find Yakov and found him chatting with Henry. The atmosphere between the two was strange; Yakov lay there motionless, his shoulders trembling slightly.
"What are you making?" Yubi asked curiously. "Come and see the bouquet I made!"
Yakov pulled his arm and told him to sit down. "Henry, tell him the story again," the Slavic voice said, a rare hint of amusement in it. "This story is too interesting to be forgotten."
Lying on the bed, Henry raised his deformed, bandaged fingers and waved them happily. "Listen carefully, this is just a story, I'm not saying it's true." He cleared his throat dramatically. "In Blois there was a knight. He was handsome and virtuous. He was the second son in his family, without a fief, and from a young age his father sent him to live with a great nobleman as a novice knight—as for which nobleman, I have no idea. You know, young knights always fall in love with their noble mistresses, admiring their refinement and beauty."
“I feel like I’ve heard this story somewhere before…” Yubi stared at Yakov with wide eyes.
“Keep listening,” Yakov said.
Henry paused, then continued in his weak voice, “This knight is not the kind of person you think he is. He is reserved and wise, knowing how to control his affections and transform them into admiration and loyalty. But it is precisely this rare quality that makes his mistresses' hearts flutter—why mistresses? Because the lord the knight serves is already an old man, with only one daughter. In order to have a son to inherit the fief, he has married a beautiful young woman, who is about the same age as his daughter. I think it's something he had no choice but to do.”
"And then?" Yubi asked nervously.
“This knight was far too noble a man!” Henry recounted. “He received declarations of love and solace from both the lady and the young woman, and felt as if his beacon had crumbled, and the man he once admired had become utterly corrupt! So he had no choice but to flee, fabricating a reason for his departure to the lord, donating all his possessions, and going…”
"You went?"
“The Knights Hospitaller,” Henry said.
“The Knights Hospitaller?” Yubi’s red eyes darted around, then she suddenly gasped in shock. “You mean Pascal…”
“Who said it was him? It’s just a story!” Henry’s lips curved under the bandage, and he burst into laughter, attracting the attention of the nun. “Stop joking! Look, the bandage is bleeding again!” she scolded everyone present. But Yubi and Yakov continued to laugh happily, unable to stop, a cheerful atmosphere enveloping them. “Don’t tell him I told him, don’t tell him!” Henry was helped up against the headboard. “He’s the only one from my hometown in this group, he must know I told him.”
Yubi laughed and laughed, but suddenly a sadness crept into the story. He wondered, what had become of the lady and the young lady?
As if in response to this sudden surge of emotion, a sharp, drawn-out, and chillingly eerie sound came from the courtyard gate. The sound was like a wolf's howl or a falcon's cry, sending a terrifying shiver down Yubi's spine. Schumeer, who was painting by the wall, and the nuns practicing their singing screamed in terror, while Sister Gianda rushed out from the side door.
Immediately, someone outside brought news: "The Tatars are here!" shouted the soldier in black robes.
Yubi wanted to go with Yakov to see it. "What use would you be? Do you even speak Turkic?" Yakov instantly reverted to his usual stern and cold demeanor, as if he had shoved himself into a hard shell. "Stay here with Schumer."
He put on his gloves and longsword, then stepped out of the church, his iron boots leaving a trail in the snow. Pascal was already anxiously waiting for him halfway there. "A dozen men have come, all cavalry," the Frenchman said, exasperated. "We can't defeat them."
"Are there any wearing iron masks?" Yakov asked. "Some with mustaches carved on them."
Pascal's green eyes darted back and forth beneath his furrowed brow. "There is one," he replied after a moment's thought, "a man."
“The one wearing the mask is the commander,” Yakov said. “The old woman told me that their Khan is a woman, and this group may not be from the Khan’s command.”
They quickly walked to the courtyard gate. The ruins of the wooden door, once trampled by horses' hooves, had been removed and replaced with a sturdy barrier, but it still couldn't stop the cavalry. Yakov peered through the visor of his cross-shaped helmet and saw a small patch of pointed onion-topped helmets—this group of visitors was different from the last; they were fully armored, wearing fur hats under their helmets, and their horses were strong and tall—they were highly elite cavalry. The commander, wearing an iron mask, was hidden at the rear of the column, not clearly visible from a distance. Yakov broke out in a cold sweat. He wondered, why send so many men to a poor monastery?
Yakov instinctively turned his head to look around, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yubi still following him out, hiding in a corner and peeking at him. "Audacious...no, an indifferent vampire," Yakov thought angrily. "No one else can come back to life like him."
"Are you the knight who speaks Turkic?" A Tatar soldier with a goatee stepped out from the cavalry and asked in Turkic.
"What do you want?" Yakov replied. His voice became hoarseer than usual when he spoke Turkic.
However, the soldier immediately pulled on the reins, turned his horse around, and went to the back of the column, whispering something to the masked commander. The iron mask nodded, and the soldier turned back, his horse's hooves leaving a small, messy patch on the snow.
"Our Khan asks you," the Tatar soldier pressed aggressively, "why didn't you hand over twenty sheep last time?"
Yakov's thoughts raced. "The Khan who made the agreement with us said that we would only have to pay ten sheep a year to maintain peace. How can you prove that you are the Khan's man? And how can I know which tribe's Khan you are?" he asked sternly, puffing out his chest.
Upon hearing this, the Tatars on horseback turned fierce, each reaching for the hilts of their scimitars. The commander at the rear of the column, however, slowly raised his hand, signaling them to calm their tempers. The man with the goatee rode around once more, whispering to the commander for a while. Everyone in the courtyard whose clothes bore the mark of a cross held their breath. Finally, the man with the goatee returned to the gate.
"Which Khan is the one you made an appointment with?" The Tatar's face wore a strange, sinister grin. "And which tribe?"
“The Khan we made an appointment with is a woman.” Yakov felt everyone’s gaze on his helmet. “It can’t be the one in front of me.”
Unexpectedly, all the Tatars on the other side of the door burst into laughter, some even shedding tears under their fur hats. "A woman?" the goatee cried out, both angry and gleeful. "How can a woman be Khan?"
Yakov thought disappointedly that perhaps Granny Gianda hadn't figured out the titles of these Tatars, or perhaps the surrounding tribes had changed hands many times over. "What do you want?" he asked, spreading his hands as if to make it seem casual. "There's no money or treasure here, only knights and warriors. You'll only lose more than you gain by forcing your way in."
This didn't sound like something a Templar Knight would say, Yakov thought sarcastically, but the Latin speakers in the courtyard couldn't understand him. In reality, he was recalling the location of the stables in his mind. If anything changed, he would rather abandon Pascal and Gianta, abandon all the nuns and patients in the monastery, and escape into the mountains with only Schumacher and Ubi—or, just Ubi. The mark on his chest tingled warmly at this thought.
The Tatars opposite whispered among themselves. The man with the goatee turned back to the commander again and whispered something. He quickly turned back again.
“We want all the sheep.” He grinned, revealing a mouthful of dirty teeth. “Including that one.”
Yakov nervously turned around and looked in the direction the Tatar was pointing. In the shed in the courtyard, the sheep that Granny Gianda had slaughtered yesterday was laid out on the shelf, waiting to be butchered.
Yakov relayed the message back. His words sounded cold and indifferent, as if the matter had nothing to do with him, as if he had never lived in the monastery and had no friends in the church. Mother Gianda's weeping and wailing only added to his frustration. "How many sheep are left?" Yakov even grew impatient. He sounded less like a Templar Knight who spoke Turkic and more like a Latin-speaking Tatar warrior. "This is the best we can hope for."
“Insatiable greed!” Pascal cursed the enemy in French with anger and shame, “...They’re trying to cut off our path to survival!”
“What if they want the nuns and sell them to Damascus?” Yakov’s words were like snow falling. “That would be cutting off their lifeline.”
The poor sheep were driven out of the pen again. Yakov counted them; there were twelve in total. Including those that had been slaughtered, there were thirteen. "God help us, Mother Mary help us..." Mother Gianda's vision blurred, and she was about to faint. "What an unfortunate number. God, why have you arranged this? Where do you want us to go?"
The newly repaired gate swung open, and twelve sheep bleated frantically as they ran into the restless herd of horses. The thirteenth, gutted and tied upside down to a frame, was carried by Yakov and Pascal, who personally handed the Christmas Eve supper to the Tatars. The Tatars, mounted on their horses, mocked and insulted them, spewing the most vulgar words. Yakov thought that if the Frenchmen behind him understood Turkic, they would surely be unable to bear this humiliation and would draw their swords to take him down with them. But he remained indifferent, as if the words were not directed at him, but merely stuck into a transparent, hard shell that immediately softened and slid away.
Pascal's fingers trembled uncontrollably as they tied the butchered sheep to the horses. Yakov looked up and saw the commander in the iron mask scrutinizing his cross-shaped helmet from afar. A torrent of terrible memories surged forth, only to be forcefully suppressed.
Suddenly, the commander raised his chainmail glove, and the goatee-bearded soldier immediately spurred his horse to his leader. Quickly, the soldier returned and used his scimitar to cut the reins on the horse. The bound sheep carcass fell cleanly to the snow. It had been drained of all its blood; not a drop flowed.
“The Khan said that these thirteen sheep are a gift to you as a sign of respect for your gods.” His chin was held high, his sparse beard fluttering on it, and his lips twitched. “You should really kneel down and worship to thank the Khan for his gift.”
The Frenchman, who couldn't understand Turkic, just stood there staring with his green eyes, but soon, Yakov's iron gauntlet pressed down hard on his neck, forcing him to the ground. Before Pascal could even process what had happened, their hasty bowing was over. "We thank the Khan for his mercy!" Yakov shouted, once in Turkic, then again in Latin.
He heard a faint laugh coming from behind the iron mask. The commander raised his arm again, waving his hand, and someone in the ranks put the iron whistles hanging around their necks into their lips and blew them—the terrifying whistles echoed through the valley, quickly fading away with the wet hoofbeats on the snow. The Tatars came like a storm, and they left like a storm.
Yakov and Pascal got up from the snow, surrounded by flocks of sheep bleating softly.
The people herded the sheep back into the pen. The black-robed soldier and the nun embraced each other, no longer minding the presence of others, and the people no longer criticized them. Everyone was overjoyed at their survival, even Pascal and Sister Gianda felt as if Jesus had appeared to them, rushing into the church to hold up the cross and kiss and worship it.
Yakov watched these heartwarming scenes with indifference, feeling as if he were detached from reality, transcending human emotions, as if waking from a deep dream. Hiding behind his snow-covered cross helmet, he felt no emotion whatsoever, let alone tears or a desire to confide. He thought that perhaps it was time to sever these useless connections, return to the cold reality and loneliness, and revert to being a ruthless villain. He strode towards the guest room in the corner of his courtyard.
The vampire, adorned with a wreath of withered branches, stood silently in the snow, watching him from the middle of the road leading to it. His red eyes were like fire, like blood, like pure, unblemished gems, like empty statues, like a god judging sins and seeing into the human heart, like a devil seeking weaknesses and manipulating human nature.
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