Chapter 49: OF DAYS IN GREEK LANDS 12

After the sparring match, Remy withdrew without announcement.

There was little need to linger. The purpose had been served. Steel had spoken plainly enough, and whatever impressions had been formed would settle without his supervision. He left the courtyard as he had entered it, quietly, without drawing attention and made his way upward through the manor until the sounds of practice dulled into distance.

He found a place along the upper terrace.

It overlooked the rooftops of Constantinople, a layered expanse of stone and tile stretching toward the harbor where the sea pressed steadily against the city’s edge. The light had begun its slow descent, softening the sharper edges of the day. A jug of wine had been left upon a low table, already cooled by shade. He took it without ceremony and settled cross-legged upon the stone.

There, he allowed stillness to take hold.

The air carried salt from the harbor below. Voices rose and fell in uneven cadence, merchants closing their trades, laborers returning from their tasks, distant laughter threading through the more ordinary sounds of movement and routine. Somewhere nearby, a tree shifted with the wind, its leaves brushing softly against one another in a rhythm that did not demand attention, only presence.

He poured the wine.

The first sip was unremarkable. Cool. Slightly bitter. It did not distract him.

It had been a while since he had taken a loss.

The thought did not arrive with irritation. It settled instead with clarity. Not unwelcome. Not entirely comfortable either. It lingered somewhere between acknowledgment and reflection, refusing to be dismissed outright.

Sir Gaston had been correct.

Not in every regard, perhaps. But it's enough.

Remy let his gaze drift across the rooftops without truly seeing them.

Memory rose unbidden.

Another field.

He had been mounted then, seated atop a destrier that responded to pressure and rein with disciplined obedience. The ground had trembled beneath the charge, the sound of hooves merging into a single thunder that swallowed lesser noises entirely. Ahead, the enemy line had wavered, not broken yet, but strained.

He remembered the lance.

The weight of it. The alignment. The moment of impact.

It had pierced through mail with a resistance that was neither soft nor rigid, a brief yielding before splintering under force. The sensation had traveled up his arm, into his shoulder, into his chest. A shock more than a feeling.

Then the release.

The lance gone. Broken.

His hand had gone to the sword without hesitation.

Reins drawn. Horse turned.

The blade had found the neck of a boy.

The memory did not soften with time. It remained precise. The angle. The expression. The lack of experience in the way the boy had held himself. Not a soldier in any meaningful sense. Only present.

It had been his first kill in this life.

He remembered that clearly.

There had been another.

A man in poor armor. Rusted mail. A tunic worn thin by use. Not mounted. Not protected by anything beyond desperation.

The man had dragged him from the horse.

It had been a rough motion, lacking refinement but not lacking intent. They had fallen together, the ground meeting them without ceremony. The man had moved quickly, faster than expected, a knife in hand.

He had aimed for the neck.

The blade had found no purchase.

Plate held.

The man had adjusted. The slit of the visor. A narrow opening. Enough, if struck correctly.

Remy had reacted before the strike could land.

His fist had driven forward, not toward the weapon, but toward the body. It had found the man’s side with force enough to disrupt entirely. The sensation had been unmistakable. Soft resistance. Then collapse.

The man had faltered.

Remy had not.

He remembered his hand on the hilt. The motion. The way the blade had entered. The way the throat had opened under steel.

He remembered it clearly.

Another knight had brought his horse forward as he rose. There had been no pause, no moment afforded for reflection. He had mounted again, taken a fresh lance, and returned to the line.

They had charged.

Again.

And again.

The day had stretched not in moments, but in repetitions of violence.

When it had ended, if such a thing could be said to end, they had found a tree.

He remembered that as well.

The shade had been welcome. The ground beneath it was soft with grass that had not yet been churned into mud. Men had gathered there, some sitting, some lying back without care for propriety. The air had carried the scent of blood. Not overwhelming. Not distant either. Simply present.

He had not been accustomed to the weight then.

The armor had pressed differently. Plate itself was manageable, distributed across the body with intention. But the layers beneath, the gambeson, the tabard, had trapped heat, restricted breath, and introduced fatigue that came not from exertion alone but from confinement.

He had felt it then.

The exhaustion.

The unfamiliarity.

He had adjusted.

As he always did.

The memory faded, not fully, but enough to allow the present to return.

The rooftops remained where they had been. The harbor still breathed salt into the air. The voices below continued their indifferent rhythm.

Remy took another sip of wine.

He found that he had avoided many such encounters since.

Not by chance.

By design.

He understood people.

Not completely. Not in any absolute sense. But enough. Enough to navigate conversation, to read intention, to anticipate reaction. Through the tongue, as much as through steel, he had reduced the need for violence. Words, when used properly, prevented blood from being spilled unnecessarily.

He had fought in a war before this life.

A different one.

There, he had been a surgeon.

A man who brought others back from the edge of death rather than delivering them to it. The memory of that role carried its own weight. The urgency of it. The precision required. The understanding that failure did not simply end in abstraction, but in a body that would not rise again.

Two lives.

Two forms of service.

Neither entirely separate from the other.

He had taken this pilgrimage with intent.

Not convenience.

It would have been simple enough to secure passage directly to the Holy Land. A ship, properly provisioned, would have carried him across waters far more efficiently than the path he had chosen. It would have reduced time. Reduced exposure. Reduced uncertainty.

It would also have reduced meaning.

The oath had been made before the Pope and not lightly.

A pilgrimage was not measured solely in arrival. It was measured in the road taken to reach it. In the encounters. The trials. The choices made along the way.

To shorten it artificially would have been to diminish it.

He knew that.

Even if part of him found the inefficiency inconvenient.

Meeting Jehan had not been planned.

Nor had the company that followed Gaston.

They had attached themselves to the journey in ways that had seemed, at first, unnecessary weight.

That had been the initial assessment.

Additional responsibility. Additional complication. A slowing of movement that had no immediate benefit.

He had thought of them as baggage.

He recognized that now without resistance.

Gaston’s words had forced the acknowledgment.

Care.

Expectation.

Presence.

Remy let his gaze settle on a distant section of the city where rooftops dipped toward a narrow street. Figures moved there, indistinct at this distance, their individual concerns invisible but their existence undeniable.

He had chosen distance.

Observation.

It had served him well.

Yet it had also insulated him.

Jehan. He considered her separately. He had sworn to take her to the Holy Land. That had been the extent of it. A promise made. A path agreed upon. Beyond that, her future had been her own to determine.

That had been how he had framed it.

She would arrive. She would choose. He would depart.

Clean and simple.

He understood now that such simplicity was, perhaps, an illusion.

She had chosen to remain thus far.

Not out of obligation alone.

Trust had formed.

He did not know precisely when.

Nor had he encouraged it.

Yet it existed.

He had offered her the option to leave/ He had meant it.

She had chosen otherwise.

He exhaled slowly, setting the cup aside.

Perhaps Gaston had been right.

In part.

Remy had avoided them.

Not because they were incapable. Not because they lacked value. But because connection carried consequences.

Bond… expectation… loss.

He had a long life ahead.

That was the simplest truth.

Measured not in years alone, but in the accumulation of experience that would outlast those around him.

Six hundred fifty years, by his owbn estimation.

Enough to witness generations rise and fall. To see children grow, age, and vanish. To watch cities transform. To observe the slow erosion of what men believed permanent.

He would see it.

All of it.

He would watch wars unfold. Watch them escalate. Watch them consume what they claimed to defend. He had seen the end once already. Fire from the sky. Cities reduced to ash under the weight of accumulated arrogance.

He knew where such paths could lead.

And he would live long enough to see them walk again.

That knowledge did not grant comfort.

It granted perspective.

And perhaps hesitation.

He rested his hands lightly upon his knees, posture steady, gaze unfocused.

To form bonds in such a life was to accept their eventual end. To avoid them entirely was to accept something else.

.

He had chosen isolation, more often than not. It had been easier. Cleaner. Less burdened by consequence.

And yet he thought again of the courtyard.

Of Gaston’s measured instruction.

Of the men who had stood, fought, yielded, and listened.

Of Jehan, who had remained when given the option to leave.

He did not reach a conclusion.

Not fully.

But the certainty he had maintained before had shifted, if only slightly.

The wine had warmed in the cup.

The light had dimmed further, shadows stretching longer across the stone.

The city continued.

Indifferent to his reflections.

As it always would.

***

Remy woke before the city had fully stirred.

The light had only begun to gather along the edges of the horizon, a pale intrusion through the narrow window that cut across the chamber floor in a thin line. The air held the coolness of early morning, untouched yet by the heat that would settle over Constantinople as the day advanced. For a moment, he remained still, listening.

There was always sound, even at such an hour.

Distant movement along the streets. The muted creak of wood. A voice, low and indistinct, carried upward through stone and space. Nothing urgent. Nothing demanding.

He rose without delay.

There was no need to linger within the quiet. The decision had already been made.

He dressed with practiced efficiency. The weight of his garments settled into place with familiar distribution, neither burdensome nor entirely forgotten. Gloves. Cloak. The small adjustments that ensured readiness rather than appearance.

When he stepped into the corridor, the manor remained in partial stillness. A servant passed at a distance, offering a brief nod before continuing on her task. He did not stop her.

Sir Gaston was not difficult to find.

The man had risen as he always did, early, before most, occupying the courtyard where habit drew him. A blade rested in his hand, not for combat, but for repetition. Forms practiced not out of necessity, but maintenance.

Remy approached without announcing himself.

Sir Gaston noticed regardless.

The older knight lowered his sword, turning slightly as Remy came within speaking distance. There was no question in his expression. Only readiness.

“We leave the city,” Remy said.

The words were plain. No elaboration. No justification offered.

Sir Gaston studied him for a moment, measuring the weight behind the statement rather than the statement itself. Then he inclined his head once.

“Understood.”

There was no resistance.

No hesitation.

He moved immediately.

Sir aston stepped away, his voice carrying across the courtyard with a clarity that cut through the lingering quiet.

“Up,” he called. “We prepare to depart. No delay. Equipment checked. Mounts readied. You have one hour.”

The response was uneven at first. A door opened. Another. Movement followed. The company stirred from rest into motion, some quicker than others, but all responding to the tone rather than the words.

Sir Gaston did not repeat himself.

He did not need to.

Remy watched for only a moment before turning away. The process would unfold without his supervision. Gaston managed men well. That had been established.

There were other matters to address.

He made his way through the manor, descending toward the lower halls where the merchant who had secured the residence for him was known to frequent. The man had proven efficient, if not particularly subtle in his curiosity.

He found him near the entry, already engaged in quiet discussion with a servant regarding inventory. The merchant turned as Remy approached, his expression shifting quickly into something more attentive.

“Sir Remy,” he said, inclining his head with practiced respect. “You rise early.”

“I leave today,” Remy replied.

The merchant paused.

Not long.

But long enough.

“So soon?” he asked. “The arrangements here, if there is anything lacking, I can—”

“It is sufficient,” Remy said. “Your work has been acceptable.”

The merchant accepted that without offense. It was, in its own way, an acknowledgment.

“And you will return?” he asked, more carefully this time.

Remy regarded him briefly.

The question was not unexpected.

It carried implications beyond simple curiosity. Investment. Expectation. The quiet hope of continued association with a man who had proven capable of acquiring resources without strain.

“It may take some time,” Remy said. “The path is unclear.”

He did not elaborate immediately.

“There are routes to consider,” he continued. “And those routes pass through lands that are neither stable nor predictable. Saracen territories among them.”

The merchant’s expression shifted slightly at that.

Concern, though measured.

“There are alternatives,” the merchant said. “Safer ones. Ships depart regularly. With the proper arrangements, you could reach the Holy Land in far less time, and with far less risk.”

Remy had expected the suggestion.

It had been offered before, in different forms, by different men.

Efficiency, presented as wisdom.

“I am aware,” he said.

The merchant hesitated, then pressed slightly.

“The seas are not without danger,” he admitted, “but they are preferable to certain roads. Especially now. Tensions shift quickly. Alliances—”

“I will not take a ship,” Remy said.

“As you wish,” he said. “Then at least allow me to provide what assistance I can for the journey ahead. Provisions. Contacts along the route. Information where it is available.”

Remy considered that briefly.

Assistance, when offered without condition, was rarely without value.

“Provisions,” he said. “Sufficient for several weeks. We will resupply where possible.”

The merchant nodded immediately.

“It will be arranged.”

“Do not overcomplicate it,” Remy added. “We travel light.”

“Of course.”

There was a pause.

“Your residence here,” the merchant said, gesturing lightly toward the manor around them. “It will remain in your name. Maintained. Should you return.”

Remy regarded the space briefly.

“You may do as you see fit with it,” he said. “If I return, I will find another.”

The merchant hesitated again, as though weighing whether to contest the point. He did not.

“As you wish,” he repeated.

Remy inclined his head once, signaling the end of the exchange.

When he stepped back into the courtyard, the transformation was already underway.

The company had moved from rest into preparation with varying degrees of efficiency. Equipment lay arranged for inspection. Straps were tightened. Blades checked. Horses were being brought forward from the stable, their breath visible in the cool morning air.

Sir Gaston moved among them, not loudly, but with presence that corrected where needed and affirmed where appropriate. A hand adjusted a strap. A word redirected a man’s focus. There was no wasted motion.

Jehan stood near the edge of the courtyard, her armor already secured, her posture composed. She noticed him almost immediately, her gaze steady as he approached.

“We are leaving,” he said.

“I heard,” she replied.

There was no question in it.

Only readiness.

He studied her briefly.

“You are prepared.”

“I will be,” she said.

A simple answer.

He inclined his head once.

“See that you are.”

She did not respond further, turning instead to retrieve the remainder of her equipment. There was no hesitation in her movement.

Remy allowed his gaze to pass once more across the courtyard.

Men who had grown accustomed to stability are now returning to the road.

It would test them as it always did.

He stepped toward the stable, where Morgan had already been brought forward. The horse lifted its head as he approached, ears flicking in recognition. Remy checked the tack himself, adjusting the straps with measured precision.

The animal shifted once, then settled.

Satisfied, Remy took the reins.

By the time the sun had risen fully above the horizon, casting its light across the upper walls of the city, the company had assembled.

Gaston approached, stopping a short distance away.

“We are ready,” he said.

Remy nodded.

“Then we go.”

There was no speech.

No attempt to frame the departure with significance.

They moved.

Through the gates once more, past the guards who gave them only passing attention. The city opened briefly, then receded behind them as the road stretched outward.

Constantinople remained where it had always been. Unaffected by their leaving.

Remy did not look back immediately.

Only when the distance had begun to widen, when the sounds of the city had softened into something less distinct, did he allow himself a brief glance over his shoulder.

The walls stood as they had before.

Imposing and enduring.

For now, he thought.

Then he turned forward again.

The road awaited.