Spring had come to the city at last. The frost had retreated from the stones, leaving the courtyards slick with meltwater and new grass pushing through the mud as though impatient for warmth. The Danube ran fast and swollen, no longer sluggish beneath ice. In the palace, fires burned lower, and the servants wore thinner cloaks. Every corridor hummed with the restless energy of a season that insisted on movement. Remy felt it in his bones. Their stay in the city could not last much longer.

  He sat with the Archbishop in the smaller audience chamber, a room warmed by sun rather than fire. Light spilled through the tall arched windows and lit the polished tiles in pale gold. The Archbishop preferred this room for conversations he wished not to turn into ceremonies. His crozier rested against the wall, his robes were heavy but unadorned. The man looked less like an Archbishop of the Church and more like a tired scholar enjoying the last cool morning before spring swallowed the city whole.

  “I must admit, Sir Valois,” the Archbishop said, folding his hands on the table between them, “your time in this city is a reminder that there are people in this world who remain true to themselves.”

  Remy shifted slightly in his seat. He did not soften under praise. “You think too much of me.”

  “Do I?” A faint smile tugged at the Archbishop’s mouth. “Go down to the barracks. Walk the streets. They will speak of the French chevalier who fights like a lion, is educated like a scholar, preaches like a priest, and has the hands of a healer. A man of many talents. To see you gone from this city makes me wonder if you will ever return.”

  “You exaggerate,” Remy said. “Still, I must continue down the road. I do not wish to grow roots here.”

  The Archbishop chuckled quietly, but the mirth held a trace of sadness. “Then I suppose there is no point in trying to convince you, Chevalier Valois. In my years on this earth, I have not met a man who devotes himself to the Lamb of God and seeks neither power nor wealth. Some might call your actions foolish, perhaps even wasteful. I do not.”

  “It is because I have the means to do so,” Remy answered simply. “Without the capability to do good, a man cannot follow the deeds worthy in the eyes of the Lord.”

  “Indeed,” the Archbishop murmured.

  He rose from his seat and walked toward the window, leaning slightly on the sill as he gazed out at the courtyard. Below, servants were hauling out wet winter straw and spreading new sand. A group of young squires sparred beneath the shade of the gatehouse, wooden blades clacking in the morning air. The Archbishop watched them with an expression Remy had seen only rarely in powerful men, wistfulness.

  “We live in times that require deep pockets,” the Archbishop said, not turning from the window. “And though the heart and spirit wish to serve the Lamb of God, the means to do so often asks a piece of ourselves we may not recover.”

  His voice held no self-pity. It was merely the truth, uttered by a man who had climbed so high that every step forward endangered the ground beneath him. Remy watched him quietly. The Archbishop’s wealth was undeniable, he had land, servants, horses, influence and yet men circled him always, trying to siphon coin, favor, or protection. Such was the nature of power and it demanded constant vigilance, and vigilance demanded constant sacrifice.

  Remy understood. But he did not envy him.

  He believed, had always believed, that the capacity to do good was easy. It was the will to do so that was rare. And rarer still, the faith to keep doing it despite fatigue, danger, or the world’s scorn.

  “I will take my leave soon,” Remy said. “But there is still the matter of your promise.”

  The Archbishop exhaled, not heavily, but as though closing a chapter. “Yes. I have found a few men willing to accompany you to the Holy Land. They wintered here as well, and once they heard of your deeds, your need for companions, they came to offer their aid.”

  “And their terms?” Remy asked from habit and caution.

  “They have accepted the coin,” the Archbishop replied. “But know this, when you venture into foreign lands, your word will be valued above theirs. You speak the Saracen tongue. And a physician-knight bearing a Papal sanction and a noble lineage, well, few west of Byzantium can claim such a companion.”

  Remy nodded slowly. It was difficult not to accept such logic. Skill and language carried more weight than steel in an unfamiliar country sometimes.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Remy said.

  The Archbishop turned then, his expression clear, open. “No, Sir Lucien Valois. It is I who thank you for showing me that goodness still survives in this world. The doors of this palace, and this city, will always be open to you.”

  Remy stood, offering a small bow. “You honor me.”

  He left the chamber quietly, his steps soft on the polished floor. The palace felt different that morning. Perhaps it was the sun, finally free from winter’s fist. Perhaps it was simply the awareness that soon he would not walk these halls again. The air held the smell of thawed stone and damp mortar. A servant passed him carrying bundles of linens to be beaten clean of winter dust. From the kitchens came the faint aroma of baking bread and herbs.

  He made his way to the barracks where he had spent many afternoons. The stone building sat near the outer wall, a squat structure that housed restless young bodies and the noise that came with them. As he entered, a few squires stood abruptly, uncertain if they were meant to greet him with salutes or embrace. They settled awkwardly between the two, grinning like fools.

  “Chevalier Remy!” one of them blurted, Andras, a boy of fifteen with a voice that cracked each time he spoke too loudly. “You’re leaving.”

  “Soon,” Remy said.

  Another, broader and heavier, stepped forward. “You taught us things the other instructors never did.” His tone was earnest, without the bravado most boys carried. “You showed us how to fight without wasting movement. How to think with our feet.”

  Remy gave a faint nod. “And you listened better than most men twice your size. That is worth more than strength.”

  Andras flushed with pride.

  The young men crowded around him then, not loudly, but with the eager sincerity of those who had grown attached without realizing it. They asked when he would return. They asked whether the road south was dangerous. They asked what they should train next. They asked if they could come. Remy answered each question with the same steady patience he had shown them during their lessons.

  “Your footwork,” he said. “Your discipline. Your breath. Strength will come with time, but discipline must be sharpened every day. You do not rise to the occasion, you fall back on what you have practiced.”

  The boys nodded as though he had spoken scripture.

  He shared a few last words with the weapons-master as well, an older man who had watched Remy’s training sessions with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant admiration. The man clasped Remy’s forearm.

  “You work them hard,” the weapons-master said. “Harder than I would expect of a pilgrim.”

  Remy shrugged lightly. “A man who travels without discipline courts his own death.”

  “Hnh. Fair enough.” The master released his grip. “They won’t forget you. And neither will I.”

  Remy offered him a brief, genuine smile. “Train them well.”

  He moved next through the stables, where grooms hurried with spring tasks, oiling tack, trimming hooves, hauling out fresh straw. Morgan stood in his stall, towering above the stable boy brushing him down. The destrier snorted upon seeing Remy, stamping once as though displeased he had taken so long.

  “Yes, yes,” Remy murmured, taking the reins. “We leave soon.”

  The stable boy looked up. Morgan does not harm young ones, well, Remy had taught the horse not to. “Will you return, sir?”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Remy opened his mouth, closed it, then spoke with quiet honesty. “Perhaps. The road decides more than I do.”

  Outside, the sun had climbed high, scattering brilliance across the melting courtyard. A pair of guards passed him, nodding respectfully. One had been present the night Remy had dragged a drunken Norseman to the palace. The man smiled thinly. “The city will feel emptier without you, Sir.”

  Remy returned the nod but said nothing.

  Partings, he knew, were a constant in his wandering life. Faces blurred, names faded, but moments such as these rooted themselves in memory. He would remember these squires, these guards, these servants who spoke to him in simple gratitude. Their names would remain with him long after the city itself became a distant shape in the back of his thoughts.

  He did not forget. That was the one vow he never broke.

  As the afternoon waned and the warmth deepened, Remy stood on the palace steps, looking out across the city. The rooftops glistened with meltwater, and the market square thrummed with spring’s impatience. Jehan waited nearby, tightening the straps on her mare’s saddle. She did not disturb him. She knew his silence well.

  Remy drew a slow breath. The wind carried the faint scents of damp stone, wet earth, and distant bread ovens. A city waking. A season turning. A road calling.

  He would remember them all.

  But he would not stay.

  When Remy met the Company of the Cross-Borne Star, he understood at once why these men had chosen to follow. It was not merely wanderlust, nor the promise of coin, nor even the call of pilgrimage. It was Sir Gaston de Mireva, unchanged in posture and spirit despite the passing years, who stood before them with the same quiet authority Remy remembered from Provence.

  Gaston stepped forward with the easy gait of a seasoned knight who no longer needed to prove himself. He opened his arms as if to welcome a brother he had long expected.

  “My friends,” Gaston said to his men, though his eyes remained fixed upon Remy. “In my life, I have not seen a man who fought like a lion, spoke like a scholar, and had the hands of a healer such as this man. A shame, that Sir Valois is so wise that he did not think of becoming a King. Now, now, Sir Lucien, do not give me that look. It is a mere jest.”

  The smile he gave was one Remy had not seen since his youth. It was the same smile worn during the old campaigns, back when the world felt larger and the path ahead simpler. Gaston had always been a man whose presence made chaos a little more bearable. Remy had once believed the man incapable of aging, but now, seeing the streaks of grey in his beard, he wondered if such convictions had been na?ve.

  He remembered the banner well, the azure field, the silver tower rising between two golden lilies. He had marched beneath that tower once, a squire still honing his strength, striving to steady his eagerness. Gaston had been the first to teach him restraint, to demonstrate that a sword was held not for bravado, but for purpose. Gaston had been steady, thoughtful, and quietly commanding. The type whose mere word was enough to settle a company.

  “The world is smaller than I thought,” Remy said, though it came out softer than he intended.

  “Haha! Indeed.” Gaston clapped a gauntleted hand against Remy’s shoulder. “I had half the mind to search for you in the Holy Land, but the Lord is a crafty guide. When word reached me that a certain knight, showing such skill and piety to the Lord, wintering here, I knew He meant our paths to cross once more. The Lord truly destined me to walk this earth with you, Sir Valois!”

  They exchanged a few words, Gaston recounting their last campaign, Remy offering brief replies, as was his way. He found no need to embellish memories when Gaston remembered them vividly enough for the both of them.

  Then came the introductions.

  The first was Sir Aldred Hawkwell of England. The man’s expression was cool, almost bored, though Remy suspected it was merely Aldred’s manner. Dry-witted, stubborn, loyal in a way that seemed carved into his bones. Jehan, standing not too far behind, narrowed her eyes as if Aldred had offended her personally. The Englishman noticed but did not react and he carried himself with the confidence of a man who did not need to prove himself to the French.

  His heraldry was a green field with a stooping argent hawk clutching three arrows. A longbow was slung over his shoulder, worn and well-used. Remy sensed immediately that Aldred mistrusted nobility, yet respected competence. He also sensed that the man had heard enough of his reputation to forgo any immediate tests. That alone was a small relief.

  Next stood Sir Raimund von Falkenberg, a man carved as if from stone. From the Teutonic territories, he had the quiet discipline of a monk and the bearing of one who viewed every moment as an act of service. His surcoat bore a stark emblem—argent, a black falcon rising over a red cross pattée. His voice, when he inclined his head, held the gravity of one accustomed to vows.

  Gaston whispered that Raimund was skilled with the lance and had served as a fortress instructor. Remy believed it.

  Then Sir Marco della Torre stepped forward, smiling with the studied grace of a Milanese courtier. His gestures were fluid, his speech measured, though a hint of drama touched his every word. A man of letters, philosophy, and subtle maneuvering, one who knew Latin and Tuscan with equal ease. He tested Remy with a few questions, some in Latin, others in his own tongue. Remy answered as needed, and Marco’s grin widened.

  “Ah,” Marco said softly, “a man who speaks with the mind as well as the arm. Such men are rare enough in Italy, rarer yet upon the road.”

  He bowed, though slightly lower than might be expected from someone of his heritage. Remy wondered if it was sincere or calculated. Perhaps both.

  Sir Eamon ó Braonáin followed. A tall Irishman with a warm nature and sharp humor. His surcoat bore a green stag rampant beneath knotwork worked into the fabric with surprising care. He carried an axe that had clearly seen forests and battlefields alike. When he shook Remy’s hand, his grip was firm, honest.

  “Sir Gaston tells me you’re the sort who can stitch flesh as well as split it,” Eamon said with a grin. “That’s good. A man who can do both tends to live longer.”

  Remy found the man unexpectedly refreshing.

  Sir Henri de Montclar came next, French, earnest to the point of naivety, eyes bright with ideals. He looked upon Remy as if he were one of the legendary knights from the chansons. Remy felt faintly uncomfortable beneath the intensity of that admiration.

  Then Sir Bernat d’Urgel stepped forward from Catalonia. Calm, pragmatic, and unshakeable even with chaos nearby. He wore a simple heraldry, unadorned compared to the others, a field divided by diagonal stripes, nothing more. Gaston spoke of his reliability with logistics, winds, and stars. Remy understood the value of such a man more than most knights tended to.

  Sir W?adys?aw Grzyma?a followed, tall and broad-shouldered, speaking softly in Polish. Remy responded in the same tongue, enough to make the man’s somber expression break, if just briefly. Beneath the hard exterior, W?adys?aw carried a gentleness that seemed almost misplaced in a man built like a fortress wall.

  Then Sir Theophilos Rhakotos stepped forward. A scholar’s poise, calm eyes, and a mind that moved quickly behind them. His heraldry was purpure, bearing a double-headed. He spoke to Remy in Greek, Latin, Arabic, and even a touch of Syriac. Remy managed each, though Syriac proved the weakest. Theophilos smiled kindly at this, though the smile carried no mockery.

  “And what brings a scholar to the road?” Remy asked.

  “The same thing that brings a scholar to any place,” Theophilos replied. “Questions.”

  Finally came Sir Otto Kuhlbrandt of Saxony. A man of few words, and each delivered with a weight that left no room for interpretation. His expression seldom shifted, and speaking with him felt like speaking with granite. Yet when Remy spoke of his own unwillingness to seek the throne of France, Otto’s shoulders seemed to settle, as if reassured.

  Gruff, laconic, wary of power, yet protective of those without it. Remy understood him better than he expected to.

  Ten knights, each unique, each crafted by his homeland’s hardships and customs. Ten paths converging upon his own. And a single squire, little more than a boy, standing shyly behind Sir Gaston’s shoulder, clutching his pack with determination.

  Remy studied them all, seeing not their heraldry nor the armor they bore, but the long road ahead. Sand, heat, hostility, the weight of the cross, and the unending journey through lands where faith and steel met without mercy.

  He wondered what it meant that such men wished to follow him. Gaston’s grin made the answer seem almost obvious, but Remy did not allow himself to trust such simple conclusions. Reputation was a fragile thing, easily broken, and easily misunderstood.

  Yet he could not deny the strength gathered before him.

  Gaston stepped closer, speaking low so only he might hear.

  “You carry something rare, Lucien,” he said. “A path that men can follow without shame.”

  Remy said nothing. He had never believed himself worthy of such words. His pilgrimage was his own, born from a need he could not ignore, shaped by decisions made in his own solitude. That others wished to accompany him complicates matters, but that was the nature of paths. They entwined whether one willed it or not.

  He glanced once more at the ten knights. Veterans, scholars, idealists, pragmatists, each shaped by different truths, each bearing a different wound. And all had chosen the road to the Holy Land, the uncertain pilgrimage where the line between salvation and ruin remained thin.

  Fascinating, he thought, how the world gathered itself.

  How fate, or providence, or the weaving of men’s choices, could bring such a company to him.

  He felt the weight of it.

  They would be companions on the road to Jerusalem. Companions through foreign lands, past borders where neither heraldry nor lineage would matter. Companions in faith, or necessity, or perhaps simply the shared understanding that their steps led toward something greater than themselves.

  He inclined his head slightly.

  “Very well,” he said. “We shall walk the road together.”

  And with that, the Company of the Cross-Borne Star became bound to him, not by oath nor command, but by choice.