Malcolm twirled the King in his palm as the sun crept into his blinds. It was around midday, when the sun shines brightest. The Shatranj* board Ava had given him as a gift made for a perfect distraction, a perfect distraction for the additional work she had made for him.

  It had been a little over a week since Ava had departed, and the rookie, Thomas, had disappeared, too. Reynard told him they’d gone on a pilgrimage to a cathedral in Tyre, but honestly, Malcolm couldn’t muster any care for that. What he cared for was having to stand in for the Deputy.

  He sighed as he placed the King down on the Shatranj board, which lay on his desk, and glanced at the wall of paper that surrounded his quarters. He scoffed. For all the work expected of him, he didn’t get private chambers? Did they treat Ava like this, too?

  Details of Richard the Lionheart’s plans, supply logistics, and financial analysis of the Order’s expenditures all piled onto him, creating a mountain full of paper and ink. Thank God he wasn’t going to be Deputy for long; all this writing was more exhausting than swinging his axe.

  Malcol began to clear up the board, and as he went to pack it in his bedside chest, it collapsed to the floor, pieces scattering everywhere. He grunted in frustration as he bent down to pick them back up. That’s when he remembered.

  His arm.

  Another grunt escaped his lips as he cleaned up the mess; the absence of his arm felt all too real. Malcolm could not escape it. His stump throbbed as he bent to pick up the scattered pieces. The absence of a limb felt sharper now than ever. After he had cleared up, his eyes were drawn to his quill once more, and his mind towards home…

  When Reynard had told Malcolm he was to be Deputy Captain for the time being, Malcolm did everything in his power to dissuade him, he berated Reynard, called him a drunk, signaled his lost arm, how Malcolm did not inspire hope in the hearts of the Company like Ava did, yet nothing could be done, Reynard and Ava had decided long before he even knew.

  Malcolm sank into his chair, his mind racing, going back to days bygone, to the days of tilling the fields with his parents and his older brother. No matter how he tried, he was always the second son, and the title of Deputy brought back bad memories.

  “Well, now’s as good a time as any, haven’t written to them in a while…” Malcolm said as he tipped his quill into the ink pot.

  Malcolm wrote:

  Dear Mother, I hope that you are well, that the cows are lively, and the sheep nice and fat for harvest. My apologies for still not coming home; I trust you understand why. Roderick will keep you safe, God willing. Dear Father, you will be happy to hear I have been promoted to Deputy Captain, even if for a short time, which still means I can send more money back to the farm; it’s the least I can do for your years of tolerating a wayward son such as me. And to Roderick, how your grin at Easter still gets on my nerves… brother, look after our parents, tending to animals is not kind to those of advanced age…

  He caressed the stump he now had to call for an arm, and continued the letter:

  Farm life is no longer possible for me, you will see, when I return. I cannot say when I will return, but I will, and upon my return, I will bring all sorts of exotic spices from across the sea. I’ll even let you folk wear my battle armor! You won’t believe the things I’ve seen in this thing. There’s a Knight I fight alongside, she’s crazy enough to write messages to her allies in blood, and another one, he’s fresh from the farms, I tell you, boy gets so scared he doesn’t even want to drink ale!

  With that, he dropped the quill with a sigh and inspected his arm once more; the bleeding began again.

  “Well, guess it's time, where did my bandages go?”

  …

  Sleeping in private quarters didn’t do Reynard’s insomnia any favors.

  Reynard woke in the comfort of his quarters, bottle still in hand, his eyes covered in sleep crust and moisture. The drink had the same effect it always had; his head throbbed, and the world spun where it should be stationary. Reynard knew it was going to be another long day.

  His thoughts went to the events of the week so far; somehow, he’d managed to get Louis to authorize Ava’s absence. He thought of telling him about Thomas, but, frankly, Thomas was still low-ranking; he doubted Louis would care about his disappearance.

  Yet still, something unsettled Reynard, about Ava and Louis, how Louis seemed to be different around her, he was always stern, a little cruel sure, but around Ava, he seemed to revel in her suffering personally, and Ava, Reynard’s fierce deputy, his right hand for four grueling years, could never talk about the Marshal without closing up.

  He knew something was up.

  He began to change from his night clothes. Reynard had business to attend to, proper business. He valued Malcolm dearly as a soldier, but Reynard just didn’t have the time, or care, to handle the fourth report this month on the Order’s expenditures on grain. He had a more pressing matter to attend to.

  Reynard ruffled his hair down, where he normally had a fringe; he would prefer to be covert for the place he was about to go, visiting a brothel wasn’t exactly praised upon in the Order, even if you had valid business reasons to be there.

  He donned black pants, loosely fitting around the waist, with a dark blue shirt, he purposefully left all items identifying him to the Order behind, in his private quarters, and just carried his key with him.

  Reynard’s eyes glanced downwards, to beneath his bed. To Silveredge. Its faint glimmer felt like judgment from the Brave beyond the grave. The veteran knight exhaled sharply. It was time to go.

  …

  He knew immediately when he’d reached his destination. The air was thick with sweat, cheap incense, and the lingering sourness of too many bodies in too small a space. Reynard shoved down the reflex to gag. He had smelled worse on the battlefield.

  He knocked sharply, twice, then once more for good measure. Hood still drawn, he scanned the street, every instinct set to caution. When the door finally creaked open—

  “Hi, mister~.”

  A woman stood in the doorway, dressed in a faded wool gown of dull red, the hem darkened with old stains. Her hair was uncovered, loosely tied back, her expression practiced rather than inviting.

  She closed the distance between them, her breath tickling Reynard’s mouth,

  “Oh, you poor thing, I can tell by your eyes, you’re a soldier, aren’t you?” Her hand slid down near Reynard’s belt, “Are you here to ease your burdens? I can do that for you, I’ve healed many a man’s sorrows~.”

  Reynard did not look her up and down. “I’m not here for that,” he said flatly. “I have some questions. I am happy to pay you for your time, of course.”

  Her face went through an array of expressions in an instant, yet she quickly recomposed, “Of course, Sir Knight, please, do come in.”

  …

  Reynard took in the sight with quiet disgust.

  He followed behind the woman. Every step she took was practiced, rehearsed, as though she were performing on a stage before an audience that never stopped watching. The sway of her hips, the slight bob of her head, the way her loose hair was allowed to fall and catch the eye, none of it was accidental. It was a routine, refined by repetition.

  The brothel was divided into narrow booths. In some, women sat alone, shells of their former selves, weeping quietly on their beds, untouched and waiting. In others, women stared ahead with vacant eyes as men took their fill, their bodies present while something else had long since withdrawn.

  One of them met Reynard’s gaze. He looked away.

  When Reynard had reached the woman’s booth, he made a silent prayer.

  “Sir Knight, as one of the head mistresses here, I have an extra private booth, please, sit, I will close the door behind us.”

  He followed her lead; she closed the door with a practiced grace, not a wasted movement, as she began to slip her clothes off.

  “I told you, none of that, but please, make yourself comfortable.”

  The mistress raised her eyebrow, “Ah, my apologies,” she let a ever so slight smirk out, “Are you one of those sodomites*? I do not judge my clients; everything is strictly confidential.”

  Reynard let out the faintest laugh, “Ha, that was a good one, I didn’t know whores could have a sense of humor, maybe I’ll invite you to my next visit to the tavern, I could use a new drinking buddy…”

  The mistress sat on her bed, hands resting on her lap, “So tell me, Sir Knight, what should I call you?”

  Reynard stroked his chin as he thought of an alias, yet none that sufficed came to mind. He would not disgrace the name of Godfrey by using it in a brothel.

  “Reynard, I am Reynard.”

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The mistress smiled softly as she poured a wine into a cup on the table beside her; the smell seemed to pair with the room’s odor. He knew that everything in this room was planned and tailored specifically to keep patrons returning.

  “Well, you may call me Margot, the women and I here have been working as mistresses across the Holy Land for years now, we move where the wars are, where men need a soothing touch.”

  Reynard sighed as he brushed her approaching hand from his chest.

  “Margot, I have some questions about the men who… enjoy your services.”

  She nodded, “Yes, what would you like to know? Many men ask, a lot of them worry they will not live up to what I have seen…”

  She stifled a soft giggle as Reynard recoiled.

  “The men that come here, if they ever see one of the women they’ve um, fornicated with, how do they act?”

  Margot sat, sipping more wine, then continued, “Frankly, they treat us like we’re dirt on the bottom of their boots; we mistresses exist to grant them pleasure, it’s temporary and fleeting, once they’ve done that…”

  She played with strands of her hair, her air of professionalism dropping for an instant, “We are disposable to them, the moment they let out that sigh of ecstasy, we might as well not exist for them, God forbid they find out we are with child.”

  Reynard paused, letting the silence stretch. He was only beginning.

  “I see,” he said at last. “Then what drives these men here, beyond the act itself?”

  Margot shrugged. “Hard to say. Many patrons are married. Some come for novelty. Others—” She hesitated. “—for power.”

  Reynard’s brow furrowed. “Power?”

  She met his eyes. “Once a man has paid, he believes he owns what stands before him. I saw it often in my earlier years. Some men fed on it. Their eyes lit with hunger—not for flesh, but for control. They smiled when the girls cried. When resistance gave way to apathy.”

  Her fingers tightened around her cup.

  “For the worst of them,” she said quietly, “the pleasure is not the act. It is domination.”

  Reynard’s stomach turned. His hangover stirred, sour and insistent, as the image of the girl in the booth returned to him.

  “And if those men met the women again?” he asked.

  Margot set the cup down. Her expression hardened, piece by piece.

  “That answer costs more,” she said. “Three additional dirhams.”

  Reynard leaned forward, his voice low, controlled. “You will be paid. But I did not come here to bargain away the truth. Tell me what happens next.”

  Margot finally turned to look Reynard in the eyes. Her gaze was cold and vacant.

  “They would come again,” Margot said. “And again. Always asking for the same girl by name.”

  Reynard’s jaw tightened.

  “They fed on it,” she continued, her voice flattening. “At that moment, she realized who stood before her. On the way, fear returned to her face.”

  “How did they show it?” Reynard asked.

  Margot closed her eyes. Not briefly. Not in thought. In refusal.

  When she opened them again, the mask was back. The smile, measured and practiced. She reached up, fingers brushing Reynard’s hair, light and deliberate.

  “Sir Reynard,” she murmured, “surely all this talk grows tiresome. You strike me as a man who prefers action. I wager you are heroic on the field—”

  He caught her wrist. Not roughly. Firmly.

  “How did they act?” he said. “Do not make me ask again.”

  Reynard caught a slight tremble on Margot’s shoulders.

  “Some would breathe rapidly, others would tremble, some would freeze, their bodies would turn as stiff as stone…”

  That was it, he knew what was going on now, but her let her continue.

  “The girls, they would usually joke about what happened, say that those men couldn’t resist their charms, that’s why they kept coming back, others would completely shut down at the mention of them, but we knew, we knew the truth…”

  Reynard began to speak, “I’m so sorry—”

  “Sir Knight,” Margot stood with a smile, “If that’s all, I think our hour is coming to an end. I hope you’ll visit again soon, and maybe we can use our mouths in a different way~”

  Reynard face-palmed as he sighed, “Margot, are all the mistresses here as eccentric as you…”

  She grinned as she poked at Reynard’s nose.

  “No! That’s why I’m one of the heads of the brothel!”

  He laughed, a true, genuine laugh, one that he did not expect to make in this place.

  “Thank you, Margot,” he gave her 10 dirhams, 2 extra than required, “Use it on whatever you wish, I may return, maybe some day you could come to the tavern with me, I know the best drinks.”

  She smiled as he exited the room, “Sir Reynard! Thank you!”

  …

  It was a pitiful sight.

  The once-great city of Acre lay in ruin, torn apart by war. Louis de Bergleiz had heard the stories—how it held relics, even fragments of the True Cross—but from his vantage, none of that grandeur remained.

  He leaned against the window frame, the Praecepta Militaria half-open on his chest. Below, his men swarmed the streets like headless chickens, slaves to their beliefs. Live for them. Die for them. The thought made his stomach twist.

  Beyond the chaos, Acre struggled to rebuild. Broken walls, tattered banners, half-restored towers—all of it mirrored another ruin. His family estate.

  A flash of memory: light auburn hair scattered across the floor, screams echoing through the night, the futile embrace of someone he had loved. All useless now. Weight pressing down, relentless.

  Two sharp raps, then a slower third, broke his reverie. Gandry, his First Captain.

  Louis sighed. Gandry only ever brought news worth his time. Smart, capable, loyal—but blind in the most infuriating way. He thought Louis didn’t see. He was dead wrong.

  “Come in. Make it quick, Gandry.”

  The door creaked. Gandry stepped inside, carrying a stack of papers and a Silver Sword Bible. His expression was a mix of perplexity and pride.

  “Lord Marshal,” Gandry said, bowing slightly. “I have received a report from Iss. May I—”

  “Yes,” Louis interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “This had better be worth it.”

  Gandry shut the door, taking in the ornate room. Louis’ chambers: exotic fruits, fine bedding, decorations from across the seas. Gandry’s awe didn’t escape him.

  “The report, Sir, concerns a raid on Iss. Their merchandise was stolen.”

  Louis glanced at the Bible in Gandry’s hands. Flecks of dried blood, especially on the Book of Proverbs, caught his eye. He flipped through the pages, then, calm and deliberate, bit into a grape from his table before speaking.

  “Tell me everything.”

  Gandry swallowed. “Roughly a week ago, survivors reported the attack. No one saw the attacker. Two crossbow bolts were recovered—one in a soldier, one in a lock securing the merchandise.”

  Louis leaned back, voice quiet but sharp. “Surely there’s only one Knight this could be. You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”

  Gandry shivered. Louis fought a quiet chuckle. The First Captain had a long way to go.

  “The Third Company Deputy Captain,” Gandry admitted.

  A pause. Silence.

  “Aveline of Canterbury,” Louis continued, his tone precise, “requested leave from your former partner, Reynard—”

  “That coward is no partner of mine,” Gandry snapped.

  “—Blackwood,” Louis finished. “The number of knights killed, the worn pages in Proverbs, her disappearance—Iss is en route to Tyre. She said she would visit the cathedral.”

  Gandry could only nod.

  “Aveline orchestrated this. As for the crossbowman, check with the quartermaster. Determine who purchased bolts last; from there, we deduce the culprit.”

  Louis strode back to his chair, chin stroking.

  “And what do we do now?” Gandry asked, tense.

  “I order the arrest of Sir Reynard Blackwood,” Louis said, voice cutting. “Charged with conspiracy and treason for authorizing Aveline’s departure.”

  Gandry bowed, a slight, satisfied smile betraying him. “Yes, Sir.”

  He left swiftly, leaving the report papers scattered across the desk. Louis exhaled, heavy and measured.

  “Aveline,” he muttered, lips curling in a faint smirk, “you never cease to make problems for me.”