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Harsh, bright morning light pierced through the windows as Godfrey stirred in his bed. Turpin rapped at the door to Godfrey’s room, and muttered something Godfrey barely understood as he opened his eyes. Scowling, Godfrey groggily got to his feet and dressed. He’d slept little that night, and something hollow gnawed at his insides. When Godfrey opened the door, Turpin had already left. The chaplain had gone downstairs on some important business for the impending funeral, if Godfrey understood right.
Arrangements for Regana’s funeral had already been made. Godfrey suspected his father had known for some time it would come to this. He simmered at having had this knowledge withheld from him for who knew how long. He was not a child anymore. Did they think he could not handle it?
Making his way to the castle’s chapel without breakfast, Godfrey said nothing to anyone who crossed his path. Incense wafted up to the chapel’s vaulted ceiling from censers hung throughout the chamber. Godfrey hated the stench of the incense, and his loathing did not diminish, no matter how many rituals he attended that required the substance. At least that was what he told himself now. His mood was sour. Nothing could comfort him.
He sat in the front pew next to his father in the castle’s chapel. Ulric’s expression was distant. He had not commented on Godfrey’s decision to go on crusade, or said much of anything, for that matter. Godfrey’s anger with his father still simmered just under the surface. Shifting in the pew slightly, he wanted to put a little more distance between himself and his father, even if it was only a few inches. It was a passive-aggressive act he doubted his father even noticed, but that thought only caused him to grind his teeth.
Regana’s body lay resting in a dark-stained wooden casket in front of the altar. A shaft of light penetrating the chapel through the main window fell across her lifeless form. It all seemed so cold to Godfrey. This was not the mother he remembered from years ago.
The chapel was filled with attendees for the funeral, but most of them were those either already at the castle or were Ulric’s nearest vassals. Funerals and weddings were both like that. No matter how meticulous the preparations; something would not go according to plan, and people would choose not to show up.
On the altar, Turpin stood in a plain but clean habit, and somberly read the funerary liturgy. The chaplain only gave the slightest hint of distress in his voice. Godfrey hardly listened to it. What comfort could words bring?
When they removed themselves to the family cemetery at the rear of the castle grounds, Godfrey contemplated the freshly dug grave. An icy wind had swept the previous day’s clouds away, sending shivers through Godfrey. The pallbearers, Sir Rodair, Karl the Hammer, Sir Euric, Sir Malbert, Sir Guy, and Borani the Bull, set the casket by the grave, and after Turpin gave a brief benediction, the coffin was lowered into the earth. A couple of serfs bearing shovels covered the casket with dirt. Once the hole was filled, the servants patted the dirt down until it was firm.
Turpin’s cloak rustled as he turned away from the sight. He left without another word. Others began to disperse as well. Some offered condolences to Ulric and Godfrey on their way from the grave, but Godfrey ignored them all. Soon it was just the father and son remaining.
That was it. The whole funeral had gone by so quickly. Godfrey’s stomach sank as he realized this was the end.
“You will see her again,” Ulric said to Godfrey as he looked at his wife’s gravestone.
“In the afterlife.” Godfrey rolled his eyes.
Godfrey’s contempt could not be understated. He knew the doctrines of spirits, the afterlife, and related teachings meant to bring comfort during such times. Yet none of those teachings reassured Godfrey, now that he was here.
Ulric tugged at his son’s arm. Frowning, Godfrey met his father’s eyes. Ulric’s expression was resolute as steamy breath billowed from his nostrils.
“Yes,” Ulric affirmed. “We will see her in the afterlife. But the gods have not called us there yet. There is much for us to do still here.”
“But,” Godfrey began to protest.
“Get your things ready.” Ulric pointed back to the keep. “It is time to work now.”
***
A few weeks later, Godfrey returned to Fuetoile Keep from his patrol with little of interest to report. His men had killed a few wargs in the woods. An old brigands’ camp had been discovered, but it was long abandoned. It was all such a waste of time. Turpin returned two days after Godfrey with similar news.
“No word from your father?” Turpin asked at the conclusion of his report.
Godfrey shook his head. The two stood near the fire in the great hall. Letting out a long sigh, Godfrey watched the flames dance across a crackling log in the hearth. A few serfs busied themselves with chores, passing in and out of the hall while Sir Euric and Sir Malbert sat at a table at the far end of the hall to enjoy a hot meal. Everyone was looking for an excuse to get out of the cold. Godfrey hardly blamed them.
“Don’t worry,” Turpin reassured Godfrey. “Your father is a zealous man. He’s not afraid to chase shadows in the forest.”
Godfrey grimaced. He knew he should be preparing for the crusade, but his father still had not said a word about it to him. Though small, the weight of the griffin pendant around Godfrey’s neck constantly reminded him of both his vow and his mother’s death. He tried not to think about either the pendant or the vow, so that he would not have to think about his mother’s last night alive. Trying not to think of those things only left emptiness.
“Father is just trying to stay busy so he doesn’t have to think about mother.” Godfrey’s accusation did not appear to move Turpin.
“You’re wrong,” Turpin’s reply came tersely. “You need to stop wallowing in self-pity. Don’t lash out at your father for doing his duty to the Duchy.”
“So he can just go out to work without spending any time grieving?” Godfrey’s rage began to boil.
“He has been grieving every day.” Turpin pointed a finger at Godfrey. “And he will continue to grieve every day for the rest of his life. He loved your mother more than anything. I know. I knew them when they were young, and I’ve known them ever since.”
The truth in Turpin’s words stung Godfrey. He struggled to find something to say, but his mouth gaped open uselessly. He blushed in embarrassment at his outburst. Turpin’s expression softened as if he were about to apologize for being too harsh in his rebuke, but he stopped himself. Godfrey’s hand began to shake. Turpin was too tough to admit he crossed the line.
“Some chaplain,” Godfrey muttered under his breath.
The withering scowl Turpin gave Godfrey made him instantly regret what he had said. Godfrey himself could hardly believe he’d let those words slip from his mouth. With the sting of Turpin’s backhand blow burning across his face, Godfrey only realized the chaplain had struck him as he stumbled back into a table. For a brief moment, the great hall fell silent as Godfrey and Turpin stared each other down.
“Insulting your elders is the last mistake you’ll make today.” Turpin grabbed Godfrey’s arm, pulling him to his feet. “Get over yourself. You have duties to perform, and the world won’t wait for you to realize that people you love can die too.”
Everyone was looking at Godfrey. The embarrassment hurt far worse than being hit. There was no way to save face here, not in front of Ulric’s retainers. Godfrey was in the wrong on every count, but he could not admit it. Fighting back tears, Godfrey stormed off to his room.
Another three days passed with no sign of Ulric’s return. Godfrey spent most of his time brooding in his room. He hardly ate. His conversation was rarely cheerful, and few bothered to disturb him. Corbin de Ghend once bumped into Godfrey as the two passed each other in a hallway, and the dark look Godfrey gave the page made the boy squeal in terror as he ran back the way he had come.
On the morning of the fourth day, Godfrey heard a herald announce that Ulric and his knights had returned to the castle. Turning over in his bed, Godfrey could not summon the will to get up. He put his pillow over his head, blocking out the morning Sun. He knew his father would come up the stairs at any moment. He did not want to be confronted about moping around the castle for so long. Part of him knew this was not how his mother wanted him to spend his days, but part of him was still upset about how unfair it was to lose her. Turpin’s gruff advice and sharp reprimand had not helped anything either, and Godfrey avoided the chaplain. He had prayed his mother would not die. The gods were supposed to answer prayers.
Ulric did not come up to Godfrey’s room that morning. The whole time, Godfrey had been thinking of what his father would say and how he would respond to it. By early afternoon, Godfrey’s stomach finally got the best of him. He had not eaten dinner the previous night, and had not eaten breakfast that morning either. Aside from that, he had finally grown tired of his father’s voice berating Godfrey within his own mind. After dressing, Godfrey made his way downstairs to the kitchen.
Descending the stairs, Godfrey saw Ulric stood in the hall alone near the stairwell. Ulric looked directly up at Godfrey. Paralyzed, Godfrey realized he had no options. His stomach squirmed, and he knew he could not avoid his father any longer.
“Godfrey.” Ulric gestured for his son to come to him. “Turpin tells me your patrol did not come across any more orcs.”
“That’s right,” Godfrey said as he came to the bottom of the stairs.
“Mine did.” Ulric indicated a new scar on his forehead. “It was a small camp; less than a hundred. We took prisoners.”
His mind racing to keep up, Godfrey’s depression was pushed to the back of his thoughts. He suddenly felt an urgency he had not felt since his mother’s death. He had a desire to do something again.
“We learned the orcs up in the Black Iron Mountains had something of a succession dispute,” Ulric continued. “What we have come across were simply exiles that were cast out of the fortresses. I sent out another patrol to finish off the last of the orcs.”
“That’s a relief,” Godfrey said, gesturing his thanks to the gods.
For a moment Godfrey almost forgot his bitterness. Then, with his sorrow returning, he turned away from his father. He was not sure what to say. He did not want to say anything. There was a long pause. As Godfrey started to leave, Ulric cleared his throat.
“You’re thinking about your mother,” Ulric said.
“How do you not?” Godfrey asked his father accusingly, turning back to face him.
“I do.” Ulric smiled humorlessly. “More than you know.”
The daggers had not left the young knight’s eyes. Ulric gave a heavy sigh. Gesturing for his son to follow him, the old Duke began walking down the hall. Godfrey followed his father’s heavy footfalls. Ulric stopped in the great hall just long enough to grab a pair of cloaks, and tossed one to Godfrey.
Putting their cloaks on, the father and son soon found themselves crunching through the snow in the courtyard. It was freezing out, and the sunlight did nothing to warm Godfrey’s face. He realized they were heading towards the cemetery, but he kept following his father anyway.
“Here...” Ulric indicated a gravestone. “This is your grandmother. She died giving birth to me, and I never knew her.”
Ulric pointed to the gravestone next to the first.
“And this here is the maiden my father married after my mother died.” Ulric frowned. “The plague took her when I was ten years old. She was the only mother I have ever known. My father died the following winter. Do you know why his body is not here in the cemetery?”
Godfrey shook his head. He had never asked much about his grandparents. They had died before he was born, so he was never too interested before now. Maybe Godfrey’s father and mother had told him at one point, but he was too wrapped up in himself to care at the time. He felt foolish for not remembering.
“He disappeared in the forest traveling alone.” Ulric gestured to the woods beyond Fuetoile Keep’s walls. “Did bandits kill him? Was it a great beast? We will never know.”
Godfrey shifted uneasily in the snow. His nose and ears started to burn with cold. Ulric stood in front of him and gripped him by the shoulders.
“My uncle raised me as regent of the Duchy after that,” Ulric gently reproved Godfrey. “You are lucky to have had your mother for as long as you did. Turpin can be tactless sometimes, but he’s right. You can’t stay like this forever.”
“How do you make the sadness go away?” Godfrey asked.
“Time, mostly,” Ulric confided. “In time, the pain dulls even if it never goes away, but staying busy helps too. Speaking of which; we have a crusade to prepare for.”
Godfrey nodded pensively.
“Word is that ships are being prepared to go north in the spring even as we speak,” Ulric added. “Bishop Clovis should be coming by within the next few days to further discuss the preparations.”
“Why did mother want me to go on crusade so much?” Godfrey raised the griffin pendant from his chest up to his face, examining it.
“Crusading runs in our blood.” Ulric smiled wearily. “My father and uncle both went on crusade in their younger years, and your great grandfather went on two crusades. Your mother’s ancestors went on the first crusade to Azgald and settled there. Her family especially knew how important crusades can be.”
Pride swelled in Godfrey at hearing this. He had been told before when he was much younger, but Fallard did not often remind Godfrey of the family history when he was his cousin’s squire. Fallard was unmarried and had no children of his own, and probably did not think much about those types of stories.
“But your mother really wanted you to go on crusade for one reason only.” The Duke pointed his finger at the pendant on Godfrey’s chest. “You already promised you would go.”
What was it Godfrey’s mother had said the griffin represented? Vigilance and strength was it? Those were the sort of values stories like the Tale of Cheldric were supposed to teach.
“Will you come with me?” Godfrey implored.
Ulric shook his head with a sad smile. Godfrey’s heart sank. His feet crunching through the snow, Ulric began walking back to the keep. Godfrey followed.
“No.” Ulric’s voice was low and somber. “No, crusades can last for years at a time. That is just too long for me to be away from the Duchy with orcs in the forests and mountains, and... intrigue here at home.”
Ulric’s voice trailed off. He stopped for a moment. The wind picked up, throwing back Godfrey’s and Ulric’s cloaks. Stopping to catch the Duke’s eye, Godfrey suddenly realized just how old his father was getting. The wrinkles on his face looked more defined than before. His hair was becoming more white than grey.
“I want to make sure you have a duchy to come back to when this is all done.” Ulric patted Godfrey’s shoulder.
***
Bishop Clovis arrived at Fuetoile Keep almost a week later. He met Godfrey, Ulric, and Turpin in the great hall accompanied by one of the Knights of the Silver Sun. The Silver Sun was a grizzled man Godfrey guessed to be in his mid-forties. A web-like scar covered half of the man’s face, and he carried a flanged mace on his belt. As the two parties grew nearer, Godfrey recognized the Silver Sun from Clovis’ sermon back at Harv.
“This is Morgan the Bloodied,” Clovis introduced his companion. “He is Grand Master of the Knights of the Silver Sun.”
“A pleasure.” Morgan curtly nodded.
“Likewise.” Ulric gestured to one of the long tables in the hall. “Please sit. We have much to discuss.”
Morgan and Clovis sat on one of the benches, and Godfrey, Ulric, and Turpin took their seats on the other side of the table. The Bishop’s expression was genial though Morgan’s was stoic. Morgan reminded Godfrey a lot of Turpin, except Morgan wore his hair down to his shoulders, while Turpin kept his cropped close to the head. Morgan was also a thicker build than Turpin, but the two shared much in their near-constantly grim expressions.
“Food?” Ulric inquired as he was about to call a servant.
“No.” Morgan raised a hand. “But thank you.”
“Right.” Ulric gave a slight frown.
“Godfrey,” Clovis beamed at him. “Once again you amaze me. What a sacrifice, pledging to go on crusade.”
“It seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” Godfrey meekly replied, straightening up on the bench.
“Aye,” Clovis replied. “It is going to be a long and difficult journey. The Knights of the Silver Sun have pledged to make this as easy as possible for the crusaders, but it will still be a great sacrifice for all involved.”
“We are prepared to offer transport across the Freezing Sea,” Morgan said, looking to Ulric. “We have ships mustering in various ports. Colaigne up north will be the closest for you. After the ships disembark, they will rendezvous at the island of Kalscony. The Baron of the island is friendly to Azgald. What we need from you is a donation to the Order to help cover the costs of transporting your son and those who will be accompanying him.”
“You’ll have the money,” Ulric assured Morgan.
“How many of your men will be going?” Clovis asked.
“So far almost eight hundred knights have volunteered to go,” Turpin answered. “A levy of six thousand men-at-arms and two thousand crossbowmen will be ready by spring. I am seeing to their preparations myself.”
“Excellent,” the Bishop replied. “It looks like Bastogne has not lost its crusading fervor.”
“What of the other duchies?” Godfrey asked.
“Conrad the Wolf has pledged three hundred knights and six thousand footmen and archers in addition to himself,” Clovis said after thinking for a moment. “Baldwin de Ghend is coming with two hundred knights and three thousand infantry.”
“Who are Conrad and Baldwin?” Godfrey furrowed his brow.
“Conrad succeeded his father as Duke of Errans last month,” Clovis explained. “He is actually just a couple years older than you, Godfrey. Baldwin de Ghend is the son of Sigismund, Duke of Ghend. He is also a young knight going on crusade with his father’s blessing.”
“Most of the duchies are contributing between one and six thousand men,” Morgan added. “The other kingdoms of the Ostlands are also contributing what their counties and duchies will allow. In all, we could have a force of more than forty thousand crusaders.”
“That will really help out Azgald.” Godfrey whistled in amazement.
“It’s probably overly optimistic.” Turpin scowled.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a chaplain?” Clovis reproached Turpin. “Where is your faith?”
Turpin huffed disdainfully in reply.
“What of King Wilhelm?” Ulric leaned forward on the bench.
The Bishop closed his eyes for a moment. Scratching his nose, Godfrey found the pause unsettling. He knew whatever the Bishop was going to say was not going to be good. Straightening his robes, Clovis gave a heavy sigh.
“There is an ongoing dispute between King Wilhelm and the King of Gothia.” Clovis shrugged. “King Wilhelm says he does not feel that his Eastern realms are safe, and that he must remain in Lortharain to protect them.”
“What a fine example to his subjects, eh?” Turpin grumbled. “He sure knows how to show his people what a champion of the gods he is.”
“Enough,” Ulric cut in.
“To be fair,” Clovis mused. “How many kings have pledged to go on crusade, yet never did? At least Wilhelm is being honest from the start.”
Turpin quietly smoldered. Turning to face Morgan, Godfrey saw the Silver Sun was also ruminating. Blinking, Godfrey cleared his throat.
“What other preparations should I be making?” Godfrey asked, changing the subject.
“You will need to bring money to buy food for yourself and your soldiers once you get to Azgald,” Clovis disclosed. “It will have to be enough to last for the duration of the crusade.”
“How long will it take?” Godfrey inquired.
“To be honest,” Clovis confided, “a clear objective has not been decided upon yet. Killing the Clans’ High King, Alvir, is a top priority. If he dies, we suspect the Clan threat to Azgald will be greatly diminished. His leadership is what unites the Clans right now. Retaking the County of Fhunlan would also certainly be a great boon. Then again, there are a number of fortresses that have been lost along Azgald’s northern borders in recent years. If even a few of those could be liberated...”
Clovis thought for a moment.
“The most ambitious target, however, would be the silver mines in the Wyrmwind Peaks,” Clovis speculated, scratching his chin. “Now that would be a prize that could breathe new life into Azgald.”
“The Wyrmwind Peaks are perilous,” Ulric said, shaking his head. “The Nordsmen have held it for generations. All manner of dark creatures live up in those heights.”
“The Eastern Marches were held by the Silver Suns for over two hundred years.” Morgan leaned forward against the table. “That area has some of the best farmland in all the Nordslands. I think the crusade should aim to recover the marches for the Silver Suns.”
“Well nothing is decided yet for certain.” Clovis folded his arms.
“Who is building all the ships to even bring the crusade to Azgald?” Morgan slammed his fist against the table.
Godfrey stared at the Grand Master with wide eyes at the sudden outburst. Grimacing, the Bishop held his tongue. Turpin rolled his eyes in contempt. Morgan made to stand, but Ulric raised his hand.
“What I think the Bishop means,” Ulric said evenly, “is that the crusade should seek to do what is best for Azgald overall when it arrives. There are still a couple of months before spring, and a lot can happen before that.”
“Of course,” Morgan grumbled, regaining his composure. “Well, I think that settles our business for now. Your crusaders are to assemble at Colaigne by the first week of spring. I will send someone by to collect your donation for the ships within the next few weeks.”
“I am proud of you, Godfrey.” Clovis smiled and got up from the bench.
Godfrey also got up and clasped arms with the Bishop. Turpin and Ulric followed suit. Morgan nodded respectfully to Godfrey, Turpin, and Ulric. Then, he followed the Bishop out of the great hall. Godfrey could tell from the light in the window that it was getting to be late afternoon. Suddenly tired, he stifled a yawn. There was so much to think about.
“The cost of transporting almost nine thousand men with horses and equipment across the sea will almost empty the treasury,” Turpin noted.
“I know.” Ulric frowned as he looked at the chaplain.
“And bringing enough coin to feed them all for any length of time will finish off whatever we have left and then some.” Turpin scowled.
“Are you just now thinking about this?” Ulric sardonically asked.
“I thought it would be a good time to bring it up,” Turpin admitted.
“We could raise a toll on the roads throughout the Duchy,” Godfrey suggested.
“There are not many travelers in winter, but I like the idea,” Ulric said, nodding approvingly. “We could put a tax on the larger towns. If it were expressly for financing the crusade, they should agree to it.”
“What about a tithe from the shrines and temples?” Godfrey’s thoughts were racing.
“Yes...” Ulric considered the thought. “A tenth of all the temples’ and shrines’ earnings should go to the crusade. The clergy should be keen to use sacred money for sacred causes.”
“We might want to consider renting out some of your estates as well,” Turpin added.
“We may end up needing to sell some of the smaller ones,” Ulric said with a grimace. “But how could we begrudge any sacrifice for such a holy cause?”