Day 6, Week 4

It is time I stop playing these games with you. You came here to take my will and testimony, but yet you stayed and talked with me. You probably want to know what I did, or if you already know that, why I did it. I am going to die today, Sir Recorder. I am to be executed at least three months earlier than they had planed. I want to have some absolution before I die, so my ghost will not return to haunt this place. I want nothing to do with France, or even Humanity anymore, so my death is of little consequence. But I feel, somehow, that it is for you Sir Recorder. This is what I did, and the reason why I am here

After Rachel's burning I didn't know what to do. I spent entire nights sitting in bed and crying, not knowing if I should just end my life and join her, or try to move on. I didn’t eat for days at a time, and I nearly spend every waking moment in the courtyard perfecting my sword. As I practiced my anger and sadness grew to a blind rage. I vowed that I would not rest till my blade tasted the blood of Claude Bourvonne and all of his kin...all of them.

At that very moment, a group of knights rode up to Jean-Luc's castle and called me to speak with them. They did not give their names, so I only referred to them as "friends". Their leader wore a bright red cloak, so I will just call him "Red Friend". They knew that Rachel was not really a witch, that she was murdered in cold blood because of her love for me. Some of them were relatives of Rachel; others were just bloodthirsty rouges out for a taste of death. But I did not care who they were. They were going to help me end my pain through the life of the man who made it, and for that, I really did see them as "friends"

Castle Noreveaux Claude's permanent home in France, lay on a small hill that was surrounded by the town of Noreveaux. It was a large town that provided the castle with all it ever needed, and perhaps some 700 people called Noreveaux their home. The castle itself towered above all the other shacks and tiny shops, and it was easy to see that it was the focus of the entire town. The front gate was too heavily guarded to enter through it directly. But Red Friend knew a secret entrance through one of his wine cellars at the far edge of the town. The only way for us to achieve our goal was to enter secretly through that cellar and proceed, with all stealth, to Claude Bourvone's chambers where we could end honorably end his life in the name of justice. As we entered the cellar, I remember that my arms were practically shaking from the excitement and the fear. I was finally going to do what I had dreamed of doing for years. But Red Friend told me that I could not fight if my arms were rattling so. So we drank some of the wine that lay in racks around us. We stayed in that cellar and drank for I don’t know how long. We drank as talked about how we would kill just as many soldiers as we would need to but spare the rest. We drank more as we talked about how we would kill his soldiers AND his servants but spare all the women. And we drank more as we realized that we did not care what neck our blade found so long as it was not our own.

Perhaps it was fortunate that a guard heard the clanging of the bottles and the whisperings in the secret passage that led to the castle. God only knows how nervous I was to even be there in the Bourvonne estate, and my friends would have drank themselves to a stupor had they been left to their own devices. Had that soldier not heard us I am sure our necks would be in Bourvone's nooses by the morrow. But he did hear us, and when that cellar door flew open to reveal that red faced mercenary, my heart tripled its beat. I was closest to the door, and if anyone was to silence him it was me. But the wine dulled my senses, and I could not tell at first if he was friend or foe. There was a time where I thought my sword arm, my precious arm that I had trained for years to make the perfect weapon had become useless from drink, and the guard would set upon me and effortlessly slice my throat. But instead, the guard opened his mouth and let out the most hideous shriek of terror I had ever heard. It was unbecoming of a soldier to cry like a child, and that...that noise that issued from his mouth angered me so. But with a twitch of my arm, and a flick of my wrist, that scream fell to a groan, which melted to a gurgle as the blood in his throat seeped to his mouth. I can still remember, even now the terror in his eyes. How they bulged red with fear and seemed to scream all on their own. And yet, looking into those fearful eyes made me grow...happy. But more than that I felt strong, and powerful. I felt just like old man Death, who with his grim scythe decides when those fragile little threads of life are to be cut. Disease, age, accidents in the barn, these are his normal tools. But on that night, he decided to use ME to end the life of a man whose time had come. I thought to myself, "If Death wishes to use me to do his happy work, then I 'shant disappoint him".

I turned to look at my friends. They were staring at me as well as the fodder I had just slain. And I gave them a smile as I lifted my armored foot, and crushed his head like a melon. My friends, seeing my willingness and my ferocity, gave a rousing cheer. It startled the few guards that were in that passage, and they charged to the passage to stop us. Red Friend ran ahead of me and cut those guards down like shafts of wheat. Their blood splattered on the walls and seemed to cast a red glare on the dimly lit stone. We charged behind Red Friend, felling all who stood before us and our goal. By the time we had reached the door that led to the castle itself, our blades were drenched crimson and not a bit of silver steel shone through anymore. And when we opened that door, we found to our delight fourteen fully armed soldiers ready to do battle with us. We slew them like the pigs that they were, and I laughed as we lopped off their heads and sent them screaming to the castle floor. But sadly, as we made our way through the main chamber, crossbowmen unloaded their salvos at my friends. Out of the twelve that undertook this with me, only two of them remained. And Red Friend, our leader, died along with them. I saw him as the crossbow bolt pierced his throat, and my fury grew thrice of what it was before. Needless to say, I delayed the sweet death of that particular soldier for a long time as I made him pay for killing Red Friend. But that was not enough; no it was not nearly enough. It was then that I took up my sword, and separated myself from the other survivors to extract revenge in my own...special way.

Even now as I sit and rot in this prison I long for the feel of flesh on steel. The satisfaction of a perfect hit as my blade bit through armor, meat, and bone all in one fell stroke cannot be compared to any mortal sensation! The power of holding life and death in your very arm! Knowing it was YOU that decided the mortal fate of the slain in front of you. I decided the fate of one hundred and sixty three mortal souls in that castle, and I remember every one. The sixteen soldiers in the armory, some not yet past their teens. Oh how they squealed when I sunk my blade across their shoulders! The twenty-four in the kitchen, the servants’ tunics gone from sodden brown to delicious ruby red. And there is no softer feel for the sword than the feel of baby-flesh. I almost regretted that there were only six of them in the nursery. That night my sword arm was at the very peak of its skill and I used it to its fullest. There was no stroke that I could not parry. There was no armor so thick that I could not find a weakness. My mastery was greater than all of the famed Eastern swordsmen combined! And I used it to end all those wretched lives. Every.... single.... last...one of them. The women...the children.... the animals...all of those miserable souls in Castle Noreveaux were slain by my hand. For all I know the other survivors of Red Friend's troupe, they probably died along with them. By that point I did not care, for there was one last survivor that I needed to address, and this was the disgusting pig Claude Bourvonne himself.

There was no mighty challenge. There was no great fanfare of battle between mortal enemies. All of his entourage, friends, and family all lay slain around his feet. He was an old man, or he looked so and could stand for face me properly for his shaking. Whether it was fear or illness, I do not know. He was small and frail, but he had the eyes of a pig. Those small, beady little eyes that reek of greed and are the trademark of such miserly old men. But he knew who I was, and he knew why I had come to his castle, even though he had never seen me before. I thought to myself, perhaps he saw all young, brash men as Francois de Toulouse, somehow waiting for me to come to repay what he had done to me and my father. He begged me, you see. He begged me to let him live, that he would live as a beggar the rest of his life and would never touch a piece of finery again so long as he lived. And the pitifulness of that small, frail man who I had come to kill almost allowed it. But those eyes told me the truth behind those lies, Sir Recorder. The eyes told me that he would lie, and cheat, and steal to regain the prestige that was lost in just a few short hours. And so Claude Bourvonne passed on surrounded by his loved ones, forever to rest in peace in the house he had built. And I thought, if even just for a little bit, that I could rest in peace as well.

But there would never be peace for me. Even after the death was done I dreamed it, I felt it, it was all around me! In my enemies bridal bed I dreamed of the Crusades! I was in the recently liberated town of Acre, alone in an entire city of captured Moslems, with orders to execute every last one of them for crimes against God. At first I hesitated, because the number of life that I would be responsible for was just too much. But then I felt my sword, the same sword I used to purge Noreveaux of Bourvonne and his kin. When I gripped that studded handle the blade began to bleed all on its own. It was a sign from above! A sign of God's commandment to purge them all in his holy name! And purge I did. I visited every house like the Angel of Death from the old stories. I emptied the marketplaces of humans with my blade. From door to every door I wandered as if a ghost, ending the lives of all who crossed me. Some tried to fight me, others tried to run away. None of them could best my superior skill with the blade. Finally the only place left was the mosque, the Moslem place of worship. There they were, the last living humans in the town, saying their daily prayers without a care in the world as if they were protected. But I was the one protected. ME! Not them. I showed them who was protected. I showed them who REALLY listened to the will of God! ME! ME! And I showed them ALL who God loved! I slew them all right where they were praying, and in their terror did they not even bat an eye or move a limb! I had fulfilled God's will and I was the savior of the Crusades! The savior of my people! THE SAVIOR OF THE WORLD!

But when I awoke...I was not in my enemy’s bridal bed. I was in the middle of the town of Noreveaux, laying there stark naked and freezing cold. I was dripping wet, but when I moved my lips I tasted salt. The wetness around me was salty and almost thick...and it smelled like iron.... it smelled like blood. My armor was in the middle of the street, tossed off and strewn across the town. At first I thought the townspeople found me out and beat me while I was sleeping. But I was not in pain...the blood came from somewhere else...and in my heart I knew where that Moslem town really was...and who those people really were.

I did not cry out in sorrow for the slain. I did not even move from the spot where I lay. I closed my eyes and hoped that perhaps the cold would take me before anyone found the town like this...I was not so lucky. A villager had stolen a horse and rode to the nearest town and told the guards what has happened. When they came for me I did not resist. I had hoped that they would kill me on the spot for my crimes. But they did not. They threw me in this prison, and here I am today, talking to you.

I had killed nearly a thousand people that day, if not more. Many of them could not, or did not know how to defend themselves. I am the biggest failure to the knight system, and a failure to the human race. An entire village and castle had disappeared because of me...the guards told others that it was a plague that made an entire section of France disappear, that no single person could have possibly achieved such a horrible feat. I stand, as living proof of those lies, though I will not be living for much longer.

My time is nearly up! But I must say this to you! As soon as you leave this prison, run! Do not look back at me, or stay for my execution. Run to another kingdom. Go to Prussia, or England, anyplace else but here. They will surely catch you and kill you if you do. Those guards will never let this story see the light of day or the blessing of human eyes if they can help it. My mortal frame may die, but this story must live on! Those people must not be just more victims of the consumption, or the Black Death. The truth is the most beautiful thing we have ever invented, and it must be told to as many people as you can find! So make haste, Dear Recorder! Make haste and never look back, for I will always be right beside you.

Recorder's Notes: After those words, Francois fainted onto his bed and did not speak again. I quickly called for the guards to release me, and I have since fled from France. Even as I am writing this I fear for my life, as the tavern talk has labeled me a brigand and an outlaw. From here I will go to Caen and board a ship for England, where perhaps I can keep this manuscript safe until there is some means for EVERYONE to read it. What Francois did...and what was done to him...is the epitome of the foulest sort of behavior I have ever seen or heard of in my too many years on this Earth. But for all the horror that I have heard and recorded in these pages, there is an innocence and a goodness here that I...cannot really understand just yet. And I probably wont until the day I die. If I do survive this journey to England, and if this manuscript is read by the eyes of the people themselves...perhaps there will be a person to understand it better than I have. Perhaps...there will be a person out there who can see the good that lives on in Francois, rather than the evil that died with him.

Fin