Circa 1098, near present-day Istanbul
His face was spattered with blood and sweat, his hair glazed over with an unpleasant sheen of perspiration beneath his helmet and sticking in his eyes. The Turkish sun was brighter than anything he had ever met with in his own lands, and hotter too. His armor was hot to the touch and made it more difficult to run in, despite his skill in battle. As soon as the threat of death was less evident, lingering on only with the few soldiers left on the hillside with their limbs still intact, the young lord from Toulouse pulled off his helmet and carried it under his arm.
Guillaume found himself a small hillock to climb and gaze down upon the battlefield. The landscape was solemn with fallen horses, swords buried to the hilt in infidel flesh bathed in the grime of battle, faces grimaced with death and inevitable end. Smoldering ashes left plumes of smoke carried across the acres of men bowing to victors in painted red crosses, being led off in chains of the Christians. Blood like rivers soaked the pads of scrubbed earth dried from the lack of fresh rain. He could see his brothers in tattered arms limp through the ruins of a small village settlement. Somewhere women were screaming, raped by their new conquerors and masters. His throat felt dry as he looked upon the graveyard, his lips and face now chapped by a foreign sun.
“Guillaume, son of Michel.” Before he could turn there was a heavy hand on his shoulder, pressing his armor down. He turned to see the beaming face of Raymond de Toulouse, his count and master. “Is it not glorious? Our enemies slain and our passage to Jerusalem restored! My brave cousin, you have fought well and we are the owners of the day!”
“Yes, Uncle,” Guillaume responded in his quiet way that war had never stripped him of. “We are one step closer to returning home.”
“Home is a distance from here, my boy. My young friend, only one winter has passed since your leaving the abbot. Your father would be proud of all that you have done in the name of our Lord. You fought most bravely today and tonight we feast upon the spoils of our battle!”
He gave him a small genuine smile, wiping his hair and dirt from his eyes, and said nothing more. He too was glad that the battle was over.
A cavalry soldier for the Turks had caught him hard in the chest, making it hard to keep his breath. A lance had struck him hard in the leg, biting into the flesh in the crease of his armor and Guillaume came to realize how much pain he was actually in. He needed water and food as well as a surgeon so with no less ease in his mind as when he had gone into battle, he left his place on the hill to find the men of his company, to see the damages to his finest knights and soldiers.
He had found his horse Clothilde, a beautiful beige mare, shaken from battle wandering the ruins looking for him. With a loving hand he greeted his old friend and comforted her before stepping back up and into the stirrups from which he had fallen. Together they trotted through the carnage looking for his comrades, both suffering and slain. It was still his compulsion to pray over the bodies of those fallen in battle, but held his tongue and sent his thoughts of salvation to the Creator above.
“How many dead for you, my dear nephew?” Raymond asked of him when he pulled aside the curtain and let himself into his family’s tent.
“Two score and five, sir.”
“Not a terrible show, my boy. Most of my soldiers have lost more than three score! You’ll prove to be a great general one day!”
Young Guillaume said nothing more to his uncle, his thoughts on the contrary.
“You need a surgeon, nephew. Go to your chambers and rest. You’ve fought hard and Lord God looks kindly on good soldiers who do his will.”
The young boy thanked his uncle and left with a salute of respect to him before retiring to his own dwelling before he would kneel and care for his own physical wounds.
