Ganondork
goo
Hey guys. I haven't done much writing on here in awhile, and I got a burst of inspiration today. I plan to make a multi-chapter series about the Third Crusades. I hope you enjoy this as much as I have enjoyed writing it.
The great hall was lively, bustling with the revelry of the English noble class. Each man and woman was garbed in the finest silk. Every strand imported from the Chinese – a foreign land that few of them cared to even know existed. In each hand was a goblet filled to the brim with wine; the servants attended to this with great attention.
The hall itself was extravagant. Large tables lined the interior of the lavish room. Red tapestry lined the walls, the cross of the Catholic Church etched onto every fabric. Light shone through the spaces between the tapestries, illuminating the smiling faces of the guests.
On the far side of the hall, two steps led to what looked like something only royalty could be allowed to sit on. A large, red throne stood there, the long back of it towering over the room. Satin covered the oak wood that created the frame of the chair.
The sound of laughter rang through the halls, every man letting out a deep bellow as their stomachs fluctuated to and fro; every woman letting out a high pitched squeal of delight as intoxication slowly overtook them.
“To all who hear my words; be silent!” a voice bellowed. All heads turned to the voice, every mouth immediately shut. They looked up at the figure standing before them. He stood tall in front of the throne chair. He wore an ornate crown on his head. Red satin with gold trimmings concealed luscious brown hair on the top of his head. He was clean-shaven, his blue eyes studying his subjects.
He gestured for his subjects to sit down – they did as he commanded without hesitation – and took a seat on his throne. All ears in the room were pricked to listen to each word that their ruler uttered.
“Pope Urban III has spoken of another Crusade,” he began, a smile slowly creasing his face that boasted perfect complexion, “And perhaps this is what we need. Who told the Muslims that Jerusalem was their city? Why is it not ours?”
His smile faded, his face now curled back in a ferocious snarl. His hand, balled into a fist, pounded into the arm of his throne. Every soul in the room was captivated by his emotion, his compassion.
“I will be damned if I allow such heathens to continue their blasphemous practices in the city that our savior died in. They do not hold allegiance for Jerusalem except for their insatiable greed for more land. They will march to England next, and claim it for Allah.” He looked at his subjects, his teeth bared, his eyes growing wild.
“Are we to allow such godless beings to do that?” he roared. Cries of anger erupted through the hall. He held these subjects in the palm of his hand. He refused to relent now. “Fight with me, men. Bring forth your prayers, women. I would sell London if that means we claim back the Holy Land!” He stood up again, his fist in the air. Everyone in the room mimicked him, crying, “King Richard!”
The Third Crusade had begun.
Fourteen long months of preparation had passed until the King found himself marching on horseback. His horse, a black stallion, was well-built, muscular, and large. It was constantly compared to his rider. Far ahead of him, the Knights Templar marched. Close behind them were the common soldiers. Unlike King Richard, who was donned in steel plate armor, the peasant soldiers wore armor made of felt.
King Richard looked ahead, noticing the walls of the Christian city of Acre coming into sight. Recently fallen to the Saracen forces – the Muslims’ answer to the Crusaders – it was their first city to capture.
He looked on, a glimmer in his eyes. He had sold all that he owned – land, castles, towns, manors – for this Holy War. It had never felt so real to him until then. His hatred for the Muslims finally peaked, and he found himself lost in his own thoughts.
All he knew was the name of the man he knew he had to kill in order to take Jerusalem for the Holy Catholic Church; Salah ad-Din.
***
Chapter 1: King Richard I
Chapter 1: King Richard I
The great hall was lively, bustling with the revelry of the English noble class. Each man and woman was garbed in the finest silk. Every strand imported from the Chinese – a foreign land that few of them cared to even know existed. In each hand was a goblet filled to the brim with wine; the servants attended to this with great attention.
The hall itself was extravagant. Large tables lined the interior of the lavish room. Red tapestry lined the walls, the cross of the Catholic Church etched onto every fabric. Light shone through the spaces between the tapestries, illuminating the smiling faces of the guests.
On the far side of the hall, two steps led to what looked like something only royalty could be allowed to sit on. A large, red throne stood there, the long back of it towering over the room. Satin covered the oak wood that created the frame of the chair.
The sound of laughter rang through the halls, every man letting out a deep bellow as their stomachs fluctuated to and fro; every woman letting out a high pitched squeal of delight as intoxication slowly overtook them.
“To all who hear my words; be silent!” a voice bellowed. All heads turned to the voice, every mouth immediately shut. They looked up at the figure standing before them. He stood tall in front of the throne chair. He wore an ornate crown on his head. Red satin with gold trimmings concealed luscious brown hair on the top of his head. He was clean-shaven, his blue eyes studying his subjects.
He gestured for his subjects to sit down – they did as he commanded without hesitation – and took a seat on his throne. All ears in the room were pricked to listen to each word that their ruler uttered.
“Pope Urban III has spoken of another Crusade,” he began, a smile slowly creasing his face that boasted perfect complexion, “And perhaps this is what we need. Who told the Muslims that Jerusalem was their city? Why is it not ours?”
His smile faded, his face now curled back in a ferocious snarl. His hand, balled into a fist, pounded into the arm of his throne. Every soul in the room was captivated by his emotion, his compassion.
“I will be damned if I allow such heathens to continue their blasphemous practices in the city that our savior died in. They do not hold allegiance for Jerusalem except for their insatiable greed for more land. They will march to England next, and claim it for Allah.” He looked at his subjects, his teeth bared, his eyes growing wild.
“Are we to allow such godless beings to do that?” he roared. Cries of anger erupted through the hall. He held these subjects in the palm of his hand. He refused to relent now. “Fight with me, men. Bring forth your prayers, women. I would sell London if that means we claim back the Holy Land!” He stood up again, his fist in the air. Everyone in the room mimicked him, crying, “King Richard!”
The Third Crusade had begun.
***
Fourteen long months of preparation had passed until the King found himself marching on horseback. His horse, a black stallion, was well-built, muscular, and large. It was constantly compared to his rider. Far ahead of him, the Knights Templar marched. Close behind them were the common soldiers. Unlike King Richard, who was donned in steel plate armor, the peasant soldiers wore armor made of felt.
King Richard looked ahead, noticing the walls of the Christian city of Acre coming into sight. Recently fallen to the Saracen forces – the Muslims’ answer to the Crusaders – it was their first city to capture.
He looked on, a glimmer in his eyes. He had sold all that he owned – land, castles, towns, manors – for this Holy War. It had never felt so real to him until then. His hatred for the Muslims finally peaked, and he found himself lost in his own thoughts.
All he knew was the name of the man he knew he had to kill in order to take Jerusalem for the Holy Catholic Church; Salah ad-Din.
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