kingdom of nations

Chapter 93 The Death of the King (1)

Red-haired Richard suddenly woke up from his bed.

Chavar invited as many important figures in the Christian army as possible, from the king to his vassals, and lords and seigneurs from far and wide.

But there are always some people who refuse the invitation of the Saracen, perhaps because they are too pious, have personal preferences, or are tired of these boring social events.

Richard was one of them. Although his mother had always kept him by her side, he had never been interested in the courtly practices of intrigue and flattery. He always said that he would rather be a knight than a king, and that was completely true from the bottom of his heart.

The only expression he could understand was fear, and perhaps a touch of cowardice.

He prefers to be straightforward and explain everything clearly, like a knight's sword. Either you kill him or he kills you, rather than talking about something like that - talking for a long time and finally pointing to a problem that was not mentioned in the conversation at all.

In this regard, he admitted that his older brother Henry Jr. did better than him, and even his younger brothers who were several years younger than him.

Although he did not attend the banquet, he did not treat himself badly. He even took out some money and gave it to his followers, asking them to get him some roast lamb and wine. He ate and drank heartily and fell into a deep sleep.

He thought he could sleep comfortably until the next morning, but when he woke up and looked towards the window, he found that the light was still from the moon, not the sun. He was a little confused, as this situation rarely happened before.

Richard jumped out of bed, and when his bare feet landed on the floor, he shuddered. He grabbed a long shirt and put it on his head. When he saw the chain mail, he hesitated for a moment, but still put it on. Then he tied his belt and hung his dagger and short sword on it. He walked out the door a few steps and bumped into Blondel.

Richard rolled his eyes at him rudely, and Blondel could only shrug helplessly.

He knew that the prince was furious and unwilling to accept his betrayal. He was neither a courtier of Louis VII nor a retainer of Henry II, and his domains were hundreds of leagues away from Aquitaine. How could he have determined that he was the son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine based on a few words from a minstrel and some conversations with knights?
But from Blondel's point of view, if he had doubts but never told the truth, if Prince Richard unfortunately encountered trouble and lost his life in this Crusade, it is hard to say whether he would be angered by the Duchess of Aquitaine - in the Crusade, knights from the same place would always subconsciously gather together. They were companions and friends. If Richard died, Blondel would say that he had no responsibility, which would be a shameless evasion.

"What time is it now?" Richard asked.

Blondel turned and looked up at the sky. "Perhaps it's the morning of the 2:30 to 3:00 AM," he said uncertainly. Richard should have been staying in the Caliph's palace. After all, it had become the royal palace of the Christian King. But a boy his age always hated being restricted by his elders, especially with two elders there, one of whom was his younger cousin. He couldn't stand it.

So he chose a clean little building in the market not far from the palace. Blondel was therefore assigned a task by the king, which was to take care of Richard - Richard also had his own entourage and servants, but if a prince did not have a few knights following him, it would inevitably make people doubt his identity and demeanor.

"It's still early in the morning, don't you want to go back and get some sleep?"

"I don't know, but I couldn't sleep at all," Richard said.

Blondel and he exchanged a look. Blondel looked around. Although the dim blue light from the sky could illuminate the courtyard and the room, it was far from enough for reading or playing chess. "So... do you want to listen to music?"

People say that Richard, the second son of Henry II and the Duchess of Aquitaine, likes to fight. Only a few people who know him know that his attainments and interests in music are unmatched.

He sponsored many bards and was willing to generously reward musicians from the folk or court. He didn't like Blondel very much, but Blondel stayed with him because this knight could play almost all musical instruments as skillfully as a fish swims or a horse gallops.

He simply played a little tune from Marseilles in front of the king and immediately conquered Richard's heart - he even said that if Blondel had not sung such a moving song, he would probably challenge the former and knock out all his teeth.

In fact, Blondel was not so willing to serve Richard. He would rather serve the gentle Prince Baldwin, or wait until the war was completely over and the merchants gave a good price for the spoils, so that he could return home with honor, merit and gold coins.

However, if Louis VII or Duchess Aquitaine heard that he had served Richard on his crusade, they would definitely give him a very good position - "Where is your lute?" Richard's question interrupted his beautiful fantasy.

"When I was fighting, my entourage accidentally lost it on the battlefield. Now I guess it's gone." He paused and said, "I can go buy one from a merchant."

"No need," said Richard. "The Saracens love music. Perhaps there are a few harps here. Let's go look for them together." He couldn't sleep anyway.

Perhaps because Richard had said early on that he would rest here, the original owner of this place was just roughly driven out - at least there was no obvious bloodstains or body parts.

"Who do you think lived here originally?" Richard looked around the house in the daylight. He had just come down from the battlefield, washed briefly, and fell asleep. After waking up, he just ate and drank a lot, and then went back to sleep. He didn't pay any attention to the decoration and layout of the room.

"He must be a wealthy businessman." Blondel said casually. The owner of this house left in a hurry, and all the arrangements were almost kept the same, as if they were going to come back at any time.

The walls are hung with exquisite silk carpets depicting hounds chasing rabbits and pomegranate bushes. Brass and clay vessels are placed in the corners, and the doors and windows are exquisitely crafted, resembling leafy branches or multi-petaled flowers. It's clear that the original owner lived on the second floor, while the first floor was used for entertaining guests and dining.

Richard found a metal ornament in the hallway. It was a hand with an eye painted on it. Blondel took one look at it, a look of disgust on his face, and took it away and threw it on the ground. "Don't look at it, my lord," he said. "It's a pagan amulet." He explained, "They say it's the hand of their prophet's daughter, and it protects them from evil.

It might have been dropped by someone here when they left in a hurry. I don’t know whether he is dead or alive now - the protection of the Prophet’s Daughter is really ironic at this moment.

In the room behind the hall, they found a traditional Saracen bagpipe made of ordinary bamboo. Blondel picked it up and tried it, but found that it was completely broken and unusable. But since there was a flute, there might be other instruments.

Later, they found a small lambskin drum in another room, but that drum was obviously not for adults to use, but for children to play with. Richard took it and knocked on it, curling his lips regretfully, "Are there any other rooms here?" "There is also a cellar." Blondel said, "But I went to see it, and it was just piled with some grease and wine."

"Wine?" said Richard cheerfully. "Why didn't you tell me? Let's get some and drink it to our heart's content."

"You already have enough wine here. That wine is just their own brew. I opened a jar and it wasn't rich or sweet enough."

"Any wine is good to me," said Richard, "especially when I consider it is Saracen wine."

Blondel could only take Richard down to the cellar. As he climbed down the wooden ladder, he looked very relaxed - this place had been searched by the knights to ensure that there were no hidden assassins or people with ulterior motives.

As soon as Richard landed, he saw the piles of earthenware jars. They were crowded on the stacked wooden shelves and looked very impressive. "All wine?"

“And some oils too,” Blondel said. “Palm oil and olive oil.”

Richard had already opened a jar. Perhaps the original owner had a marking that only Richard recognized, but Richard certainly didn't know. He sniffed it and let out a look of regret. "It's oil." He turned to grab another earthenware jar, but accidentally knocked over several others. The jars fell to the ground and shattered, leaving the ground slippery. Blondel sighed, "I'll get them. I know they're wine."

Richard's smile was still on his face, but suddenly, his whole body tensed up. He smelled the aroma of oil, olive oil, palm oil, but also a familiar aroma that he had only smelled since he came here - "Petroleum naphtha!" He shouted and immediately squatted down to touch the oil on the ground. He put the sticky and slippery stuff in his mouth and immediately tasted the bitterness that shouldn't have been there.

Blondel was walking towards him, and Richard had already rushed out in a crawling posture. When he returned to the entrance of the cellar, he saw a clay pot and a torch thrown from above. The fire lit up with the sound of the clay pot cracking, and burst inward along the flowing grease, engulfing the entire cellar in an instant - but at this time Richard had already climbed up the wooden ladder, grabbed the ankle of a Saracen, and threw him into the cellar.

There were two Saracens outside the cellar. When they saw Richard, they immediately ran away. Richard hesitated for a moment, but still jumped back into the cellar - Blondel was also "chosen", but the saint was not willing to grant him much favor. Moreover, he was choked by the smoke from the burning naphtha and coughed continuously, unable to pray at all. He guessed that he would be seriously injured or even die.

But a big hand pulled him out of the flames. Richard dragged him to the cellar first, and then he jumped up suddenly. Just when his feet had just left the wooden ladder, there was a violent earthquake below, and they fell to the ground, watching the flames rush out like poisonous snakes.

Fortunately, Richard's entourage and guards were awake at this time. They searched everywhere, saw Richard and Blondel, and immediately pulled them out.

Half of Richard's hair was singed off by the flames, and there was a bloody wound on his calf with blackened edges, which was worrying to look at. The monks beside him wanted to treat him, but were refused. The red-haired young man took the helmet, boots, chain mail gloves, stockings, etc. handed to him by the squire and put them on, while asking the squire to bring his horse.

"Where are you going?" asked Blondel.

Richard glanced at Blondel with a look that asked, "Why are there always people so stupid?" "This is not an accidental revenge," he said. "It was premeditated." He could clearly see that the two Saracens were holding fire starters used in war, and how could a merchant have so much naphtha in his cellar?
As if to verify Richard's words, in front of people's horrified eyes, little by little, bright lights appeared in the darkness. Their number was so large that it even exceeded the stars and grains of sand.

"Oh my God, oh my God..." the monk murmured, "they..."

"No time to pray!" Richard shouted. "Let's go!"

Where to go? Of course, to the Caliph's palace, now the palace of the Christian King Amalric I. Richard refused to believe that such a grand undertaking had not been the work of the Great Vizier Chaval. Since he was determined to turn this city into a new hell, how could he allow the king to continue living!?
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Cesar stabbed the soldier covered in flames to death with a knife, and immediately turned around and pushed away Baldwin, whose tears were almost burned dry by the flames, and tried to separate Shawar from Amalric I.

Shawal was dead, but his hands were still wrapped around the king's neck like a noose or a curse. This was why people did not dare to chop him with swords. Flames rose and smoke filled the air. Who could guarantee that they had cut off Shawal's arms and not the king's neck?

Amalric I seemed to have fallen into hell. He was burned by flames and eaten by jackals. He felt only extreme pain. Because of the smoke, he could not see other people. He only hoped that Baldwin would not be manipulated by emotions and come to save him at all costs - he did feel that someone had been helping him but in vain. He wanted to tell that person to go away - the king was sure that the person was Baldwin.

No one loved him more than Baldwin, nor was he more willing to sacrifice for him. He shed tears, his heart filled with regret—God had given him such a glorious victory, and he should have repaid it with a more pious and pure "cleansing" instead of believing in the sweet words of a pagan.

Suddenly, he felt a gust of wind, a cool breeze, which gently pushed Baldwin away, protecting his face and neck. The high fever and tingling were receding, but in a moment, the breeze turned into sharp swords, stabbing him, peeling off his flesh, making his bones vibrate in the air, causing unbearable pain!

"Teacher!" Cesar shouted, and he separated Chavar and the king, but the problem was, as Chavar had expected, the king had almost merged with him in the flames. Amalric I was burned so badly that he didn't even dare to use force, because if he did, charred ashes and lumps would fall down. He didn't even dare to look at Baldwin's eyes.

Heraclius immediately stumbled over, and when he saw Amalric I, his face turned pale.

Among the "chosen" people, there are those who are "gifted" and those who are "blessed". Those who are "gifted" will generally become monks and priests, except for those priest knights in the Knights Templar or the Knights of the Charity, because joining these knightly orders is equivalent to becoming an armed monk and will not be punished by the church.

But just like "grace," "blessings" also have different strengths. Weak ones, like Witt, can only heal minor wounds that can heal on their own. Strong ones, like the monks around the Pope, can even make the seriously ill recover overnight and reconnect severed limbs. Heraclius's abilities are certainly stronger than those of ordinary monks, but injuries like Amalric I's...

Seeing Heraclius's expression, Cesar couldn't help but feel despair. He used to be a doctor, and of course he knew that even in his world, not everyone with severe burns like Amalric I - chest, limbs, face... could be saved. Even if they could survive for a while, how could he guarantee that there would be no infection or exhaustion later?

He lowered his head and clenched his teeth.

If he hadn't left the party...

(End of this chapter)