Chapter 1 — The Chains of Vengeance

Siege of Damascus, Levant, 1148

“Do you wish to live, Rollant?” An ethereal whisper wove through the din of battle, cutting through the clash of steel and the cries of the dying.

The whisper tickled Rollant’s ears like a wisp of wind carrying words not meant for the living. Rollant moaned through strained breaths and shattered lungs.

“Angel of death, take your enemy,” he rasped with unfocused eyes, searching the skies for God’s messenger. He assumed the origin of the whisper was divine—a sign from the heavens. But only fallen bodies strewn across the blood-soaked ground were in sight.

His gaze, blurred by the edge of death, drifted to the silhouette of Arnoul, his brother-in-arms, looming over him. The cries of the Saracen enemies echoed in the distance but faded to the slowing heartbeat in his ears. Rollant grasped at the fragments of the past moments, trying to piece together the fatal betrayal and pleading with God on why He let him fall to Arnoul’s blade. Arnoul, the man who had shared his food, his cot, his horse—the long years spent training, fighting, and saving each other—he was the one who struck him down?

Rollant’s mail-clad fingers, clumsy and weak, drifted toward the wound on his neck. Blood poured warm against his chainmail coif. Breath and blood warred within him—both desperate to escape his broken body.

“Forgive me, old friend,” Arnoul muttered softly, though too soft for the weight of his sin. He wiped his blade clean with Rollant’s surcoat, the sacred white stained red. “But your lands, your title—they were ever meant to be mine.”

Rollant wanted to scream, but his voice failed him. Life fled from him as the sun perched as a bloodied halo above the walls of Damascus. The ruddy sunlight cascaded onto the once-proud Crusader banners, now torn, ragged, and scorched by fire. The frayed threads fluttered in the smoky air as a last stand for God and the Holy Lands.

Memories of his beloved wife and precious daughter flashed before his eyes. Amée’s gentle touch warmed his cheek, and her laughter echoed in their home tucked away in the Chartreuse mountains outside of Lyon, France. Cateline’s tiny hand reached for his to walk by his side in their garden. Dread far deeper than the pain in his flesh pierced his heart at the thought of leaving them with traitors such as Arnoul.

“Do you wish to live?” The whisper came again, clearer this time—a woman’s voice, cold and thin. Not a messenger of God.

Rollant pushed through the blurry vision and focused on Arnoul’s voice that planted him in the brutal present.

“Do you wonder why I have cut you down?” Arnoul shook his head and gritted his teeth.

Rollant gasped for air but narrowed his eyes in hatred.

Arnoul nodded. “A knight as brave as you deserves an answer.” He leaned upon his heavy, engraved sword. “Our noble King Louis the Young sees you alone in all things. He has refused to favor the rest of us. Too much glory upon your head. Too much favor from the king.” Arnoul’s words wavered as though he struggled with what he’d done, but his eyes remained steady. He lifted his boot from Rollant’s crushed hand, the bones broken and useless from Rollant’s last desperate attempt to defend himself.

“God have mercy on my soul; His will be done,” Arnoul murmured. “But life shall be better without you to claim all the King’s favor. For now, I may have a chance to cause the King’s eyes to shine. For now, the King may greet me with a smile and remember my name.”

Rollant stared in disgust at the man who had once been like a brother to him.

Arnoul kneeled and placed a heavy hand alongside Rollant’s cheek—a cruel reminder of their false friendship and loyalty once shared on the battlefield. “Sorrow fills me, my friend. Be with our Lord, Rollant. I shall see that your wife and daughter be properly cared for, as is right.”

A spew of venom desired to leap from Rollant’s tongue into the cursed man’s face. His lips twitched with words unsaid. How dare Arnoul, a traitor, a betrayer, speak of honor and care? The twisted sense of righteousness showcased Arnoul’s greed and decay. How had Rollant not seen through to the envy beneath his mask? A choked, blood-filled gasp flew over Rollant’s lips.

Amée’s face, flawless in its memory, appeared before him. Pearl-white skin, her almond eyes gazing at him as they always had—full of love. He could almost hear her voice and feel the warmth of her hand in his. Cateline, too. She would grow into a woman without him. She would never again feel his arms around her in protection or love.

If a Saracen had struck him down, he would have surrendered his soul to the Lord, finding peace in the knowledge his death was in God’s honor. But not like this—betrayed by a selfish, greedy act. He was a righteous warrior for the crown of France, and he deserved an honorable death! Arnoul mocked him and stole it all.

Something feral surged in Rollant’s chest with a last, wretched pulse of life.