Grimbert

GRIMBERT HAD LEFT Jaffa in a bit of a frenzy, but at least he had thought about supplies. He had taken his horse from the stables, filled up his water skins, and checked his saddlebags to make sure that he had enough food for an evening meal. He then took to the road and headed north. He thought he might ride to Acre. It was a large port town, and he felt confident that he could blend with and fade away in the crowds.

The road was overrun with sand, which made for slow going. After the first Crusaders had swept through the area, many locals either retreated or were killed for their refusal to convert to Christianity, and as a result, much of the surrounding farmland had been sacrificed to the desert. As the ale left his system, Grimbert became increasingly groggy, and he soon decided to rest for the night. He could still see the evening lamps of Jaffa, a smudge of light down the coast. As he lay on the soft sand, he noticed that the moon was still bright. It was nearly as full and round as it had been on that fateful night he had killed the bandit and taken the necklace which he still wore, an albatross around his neck.

As he stared up at the stars, he found the same constellations in the sky as he had known all his life. Even though the land was strange, the sky was familiar. It made him miss home. He missed knowing his routine, coming home to his mother, having an evening meal, and sleeping in his own bed. He missed his nephews and his garden and spending time at the tavern. Those things would still be there when he returned, even if Richart would not be. And he had fulfilled his pilgrimage. Against all odds he had made it to Jerusalem. Maybe his mother would be proud of him after all. If she was still alive.

He suddenly had a strong urge to get home. To be back in the city of his youth, on streets that he knew, and surrounded by people who spoke his tongue. This land had become inhospitable. Even without this whole mess with the necklace, it was time to return. But how would he go? Could he travel overland all by himself? Was his horse even capable of such a journey. The beast had been with them since the beginning. Had carried Richart for thousands of miles. The thought of selling it gave him an unexpected ache in his heart.

He slept fitfully, the moon stared at him accusingly. His stomach was a ball of knots.

Once the sun rose, Grimbert returned to his trek, but he soon regretted not riding through the night. There were few shady places to stop and rest. Both Grimbert and his horse were sweaty with exhaustion by the time they reached Caesarea, which was only about halfway to his intended destination of Acre.

Caesarea had tall walls made of thick sandstone and a strong iron gate that he had to pass through. As he entered the city, Grimbert adjusted his collar to be sure there was no glint of gold, and he shook his hair forward to shield his face. The guards hardly gave him a second look.

Once past the gates, Grimbert couldn't help but stare in wonder. The streets were lined with palm trees. Citrus trees bloomed in courtyards, perfuming the air with the sweet tangy scent of oranges. The air was also filled with the gurgling sounds of fountains. Water seemed to flow in abundance, which stood out in stark contrast to the arid desert that lay just beyond the city walls.

Grimbert took the opportunity to refill his water skins and then he stabled his horse and started to walk through the city. After the excitement of the day before he could use a good drink.

He found a tavern near the port. Unlike the dark and dank establishments he was used to, this place had a wide-open front entryway that was covered by a red and white striped awning. Grimbert walked under the shade to take a seat, appreciating the fresh air. He got the attention of the barkeep and ordered an ale. The man was tall, lean, and moved with an almost feminine fluidity. Everything about this place seemed exotic. Grimbert glanced out at the rolling waves while the barkeep filled a mug for him. Maybe it would be best to sell his horse and purchase passage across the Mediterranean. "Do ships regularly sail between here and Christendom?" Grimbert asked as the man gracefully set the beverage on the counter.

"We get a lot of trade, yes," the man nodded, his voice was low and melodic. Dark bangs draped in front of his large brown eyes, and he casually brushed it back with a free hand.

"How about passenger vessels?"

"For pilgrims?"

"Well, yes." Who would travel here, except on pilgrimage?

"No, not directly. Ships do carry pilgrims up and down the coast, but they usually cross over to Venice from either Jaffa or Tyre." The man smiled pleasantly, "Excuse me," he said as he turned toward another customer who was calling for his attention.

Tyre. The word hit Grimbert hard in the chest. He felt it physically. Acutely. Gnawingly.

He ignored it.

But he couldn't return to Jaffa, could he? Not after he saw that reward sign.

He felt trapped.

Grimbert gulped down his drink and asked for a refill. And then another. His eyes glazed over and he stared back out at the sea. The waves undulated hypnotically. Clouds floated in a smooth and steady line.

Keeping his eyes unfocused, he let drips and drops of surrounding conversations land in his ears. "Reward," he thought he heard someone say. Grimbert jerked his head around. To his left stood a group of young men laughing merrily. Did one of them look over at him oddly? No, maybe not. He twisted his back to look further behind him. Two men sat with hooded cloaks, their backs to Grimbert. Who wore hoods in this weather? Maybe they were the bandits. What other explanation was there? He couldn't take his eyes off of them. And then he thought he heard someone say the word, "Necklace." Grimbert's eyes became frantic. They were on to him. He wasn't sure who they were, but he knew he was in trouble.

"Are you ok?" the barkeep's calm voice drew back Grimbert's attention.

Grimbert stood, "I, um, I just realized I left something in my saddlebags that I must retrieve. Thank you." He placed two coppers on the counter and quickly walked away.

Was he losing his mind? Grimbert wasn't sure, but he knew that he felt unfocused.

He wondered if there were more reward signs, so he walked down towards the docks. Lots of men were working busily, carrying boxes, rolling barrels, or repairing ripped sails. More men were sitting along the short stone wall that separated the wooden docks from the street.

The stone wall led up to a short one-story building that seemed to be used for storage. One of its walls was covered with postings. The papers were curled at the corners from the wind and older announcements were faded by the sun. Grimbert was too far away to read any of the signs clearly, so he inched his way forward. A group of sailors were standing idly in front of the bulletin board, commenting on the various advertisements.

Grimbert didn't have to search the board for long. There it was. "REWARD!" was painted brightly in neat bold handwriting and the same picture was drawn prominently in its center. But this time Grimbert couldn't rip it down because, just his luck, two of the sailors were pointing right at the sign.

"Did you hear that someone killed Sir Hugh?" bellowed a well-built man with a shaved head. Grimbert slowly shuffled closer to hear the exchange.

"You lie," his shorter and thinner companion exclaimed.

"No, it says so right here. Can't you read?" The first man thumped his thick index finger on the sign.

"Why would I know how to read?"

"Oh, by God's nails. Look! There is a reward for his murderer. Whoever killed him was dumb enough to take his necklace," he said, gesturing at the loose collar of his tunic.

"Did you say there was a reward?"

"How much wax is in your ears? Yes, a reward. A substantial one, I would imagine, knowing who his father is."

"That's the coat of arms of the House of Rallac. I would know that anywhere. I'll investigate every man's neck! We'll be rich." The shorter man's laugh was high and reedy and Grimbert's cheeks burned. He could outmatch that pipsqueak of a man any day. But if every sailor was eager for the reward, then he was definitely in trouble.

Maybe he should discard the necklace. That's what any sane person would do. But that would be like discarding Richart. This necklace was proof of his revenge. It was retribution, and it was his to keep. He could do a better job concealing it, but he wasn't going to give it up without a fight. It would be like losing Richart all over again.

Grimbert made a decision.

He couldn't stay in Caesarea, that much was clear. If the murder had taken place north of Tyre, yet posters were hanging in both this town and further south in Jaffa, then Sir Hugh's companions must have ridden down the coast with their signs. Therefore, it would make little sense to continue traveling up the coast to Acre, or anywhere else for that matter. He had taken the sign down in Jaffa, and boats traveled directly from Jaffa to Venice. So, back to Jaffa it was. It was a risk, but a calculated one.

Grimbert collected his horse from the stables and walked back through the iron gates whence he had come just a few hours before. They'd be spending another night out in the open, but at least the sand was soft. "This is our last ride together," Grimbert whispered to his horse as he mounted, "It's time for me to go home, and that means you will find a new home here."