Act Three: The Laws of Engaging with the World (Seventeen)
Seventeen
Lord von Brunel didn't sleep well tonight, half excited and half worried. He thought, Christmas is almost here. Perhaps it was a divine intervention, a reward for his work building the church and providing shelter for the monks, that sent this white-clad messenger with money. He couldn't let this prize slip away; he couldn't let those bald churchmen steal it. He thought, the Lord is so venerable and lovable, but why are his servants all so repulsive?
He emerged from his room, half-asleep, to find dawn breaking. He poured himself a glass of wine, not wanting to be disturbed. He loathed the woman who prayed daily in his bed. He thought about all the things he had to consider: the Tatars, the Wallachians, the Church, the King, and now, a knightly order. Rather than being a lord of a small town, he longed to be like many famous heroes, donning armor, leading an army eastward, slaying the Saracens, making pilgrimages to holy cities—fame would be wonderful, but more importantly—to earn money from the Greeks, Venetians, and Saracens, to conquer more territory, and perhaps even become a king… he thought. But he was old; his prime had passed.
Von Brunel was lost in his grand ambitions. Until Conrad came knocking on his door.
"Sir, are you awake?" Conrad asked cautiously. "Our guest..."
"Why are you so reserved?" von Brunel asked, slightly drunk. "You always think I'm domineering, don't you?"
“My lord,” Conrad said solemnly, “the Templar guests killed a servant and ran away with the money.”
von Brunel sobered up considerably. "Are they still in town?" he asked, staring wide-eyed, liquor spraying from his beard.
Conrad nodded.
Lord von Brunel loathed the highland winter; the cold wind and snow sobered him up completely. He walked down the corridor, fastening his belt, and felt his belly seemed a little fatter than before.
"Which servant died?" von Brunel asked.
“A kitchen helper, with no relatives or family,” Conrad replied.
Von Brunel breathed a small sigh of relief. "The city gates will not be opened today. The entire city will be searched." He washed his hands in the basin of rosewater carried by a maid. "If anyone is caught, he will be condemned in the church and his money will be confiscated."
“My lord, today is market day,” Conrad said, bowing his head. “You promised the Tatars that they could come into the city to sell their horses.”
"Then add more guards to the city gates, and don't let a single piece of luggage escape!" von Brunel threw a basin of water over the butler's head. "Do I need to teach you that?"
The bells rang outside, the curfew ended, the city gates opened, and Brasov returned to its vibrant, bustling state. The lord felt the strange looks people gave him on the street, chatting in a language he couldn't understand, with a kind of disdainful pity. He didn't have the energy to think about it; he only hurried to the tower of the new church—the best spot overlooking the entire city, where he could see everything happening on the city walls. In the snowstorm, long queues formed again at the city gates. Tatar caravans arrived, leading large herds of horses, squeezing into the crowd. Arguments frequently broke out at the gate over tolls, making entry extremely slow. It wasn't until noon that the horse market was set up—but von Brunel felt that today's horse market was different from previous years. The fierce Tatars led their horses straight to the church, and soon surrounded it.
"What's going on?" he asked Conrad in alarm.
Conrad gestured to reassure his master and called someone to ask. That person then called another person. After going around in circles and changing languages several times, the words finally reached von Brunel's ears.
“The Tatars say they have never killed your son, nor have they demanded a ransom,” Conrad whispered.
A bead of cold sweat broke out on von Brunel's forehead. "I never said that!" His eyes darted around, avoiding eye contact with the crowd below the tower. "Where did this rumor come from?"
“My lord, this news has spread throughout the city this morning,” Conrad said. “People say that your youngest son was killed by the Tatars, and they are demanding two thousand gold coins as ransom for the body.”
"...This is just a lie that came out off the cuff, how can anyone believe it?" Von Brunel closed his eyes, his head throbbing with anger and resentment. "...What do they want?"
“They’re going to open the city gates, so the Wallachians, Tatars, and Slavs won’t have to queue to enter, and they’ll even get tolls waived.” Conrad tried to soften his tone, “…of course, only during market days. It’ll take effect today.”
“You speak Latin and Turkic,” Schumacher murmured. “It’s really strange.”
Yakov put his helmet back on, burying his face beneath the cross. He adjusted Yubi's cloak, pulled up the hood, and tucked in the beaver fur trim. "That'll keep you warm," he said.
“It looks awful, it makes my head all wrinkled!” Yubi pulled out his little Venetian hand mirror again to look at himself. He reached out and tried to smooth out the fur there.
"Look, the guards at the door are gone!" Schumacher looked out the window. "Get up!"
It was afternoon, the snow had stopped, and the time for the city gates to lock was fast approaching. Lord von Brunel sat atop the city gate, scrutinizing the faces of each person leaving the city. He recognized the squire and the young master, and remembered the knight's tall, muscular build. He thought, even if he couldn't get the two chests of gold, he would arrest them for murder, imprison them, and summon the Grand Master to negotiate! The flow of people leaving the city grew thinner and thinner; even the Jewish caravan had rolled up their bedding and boarded their wagons. Suddenly, he spotted a familiar face in one of the caravans, riding a donkey and chatting with someone.
"That's him!" von Brunel shouted in German, "The knight's squire!"
His shouts puzzled the soldiers at the city gate. Hesitantly, they rushed forward to grab the man with two small braids on the donkey. The entire Jewish caravan erupted in chaos, grabbing their fellow Jewish men's arms to prevent him from being taken away, all shouting in Hebrew. "Sir, you must be mistaken!" a soldier replied. "That's a Jew, how could he be a Templar squire?"
Von Brunel closed his eyes. He had arrested several people by mistake today, causing quite a bit of trouble. He thought wearily that perhaps he had mistaken someone again for someone who looked similar, and this time the mistake was particularly egregious. He waved his hand, signaling the soldiers to let them pass, and glanced at the sun. A little while later, the church bells rang, and the city gates were locked. Almost everyone was leaving the city.
Just then, a series of clear hoofbeats came galloping from the depths of the street. Von Brunel suddenly stood up. "Form ranks!" he shouted, but the weary soldiers, forcing themselves to stay alert, swayed precariously, none willing to stand in the way of their neurotic lord. Von Brunel thought that the knight's horse was heavily laden and couldn't run fast; perhaps he himself was just too tense, so he sat back down.
Until he saw two horses galloping towards the city gate.
"Stop them!" he shouted hoarsely. "The city gates! Raise the city gates!"
Unfortunately, both commands came too late.
One was a chestnut-colored Norman horse with a black mane, carrying two full chests, ridden by a tall Templar knight; the other was a jet-black Turkic horse with snow-white hooves, shorter at the shoulders, but ridden by a young nobleman carrying two more full chests. Both horses were in their prime, strong and healthy. They leaped up together at the city gate, their snorting breaths tearing through the cold air. Von Brunel felt as if the wind had brushed against his cheek and vanished in an instant.
He couldn't say anything, only turned to watch them leave the city wall and disappear into the distance. The sun began to set, and in that instant, he felt himself grow old beyond measure.
Tbc.
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