As the warrior guided his horse back home, he pondered what the future might hold. His steed seemed to know they were returning home and trotted lively, without the need of spurs. But how eager was he to be back? Who might still be alive? Was the mansion still standing and habitable, in these insecure times? All he had heard during those three long years was that his wife had delivered another daughter. Another dowry to pay! Five daughters and still no heir! When he received the news, he was about to strangle the messenger- but what good would it do? It certainly was not the poor man’s fault….
Knight Alan was awakened from his reverie when the hooves reverberated on the wooden bridge. Two more days to ride…. Laughter and loud singing touched his ears from the village inn. ‘I’d better spend the night here,’ Knight Alan thought. ‘I’m tired and hungry. And who knows, maybe I can find out something about my family!’ He dismounted, threw the bridle to the stable boy and entered the tavern- low, smoke-blackened ceiling, the stench of sweat and beer. Lots of noisy men. He almost regretted having entered. The lonely ride had been so peaceful….
The innkeeper, dirty as all the rest of the people, swished a towel of indistinguishable color over one of the benches and bade him sit down. How clean were the hostels in Damascus! But there was his beer dumped in front of him, unasked, together with a lump of bread. No coffee, no rose water to wash his hands after the journey…. Well, well, this was home. He’d better get accustomed sooner rather than later. His mind switched to the present as he swallowed the first draught of beer. He looked around, searching for a familiar face- nothing. All were strangers to him. He finished his beer and bread and got up. “Give me a bed, good man. And wake me at day break!” The innkeeper led him upstairs. It was almost as cold as outside. Brr! How he longed for the Mediterranean! But they had lost the war. Even their strongest fortress, St. Jean d’Acre, was lost to the enemy. Well- enemy? ‘Why can’t we be friends and learn from each other?’ he thought. ‘I’m glad I traded my armor for perfume. I don’t feel like fighting anymore.’ He touched his pockets- there were the two bottles. Half of one would buy him a new armor, if ever he had to use one again.
There was his bed. Bed? Rather four planks on top of two trestles. He sighed. ‘Send me my saddle bag!’ he shouted after the man, who nodded while descending the stairs.
There was a small window, not much wider than a fire slit. He peered outside- darkness had fallen. No light except for the night watch’s lantern. Even heaven was denying him light- the sky had been overcast all day.
Of course he had to sleep in his clothes again. Oh those nightgowns of the Levant! And their baths! He had been accompanying his Lord for peace talks with the Sultan, and, as the negotiations were dragging, they remained three weeks with their hosts. Had all this been just a dream? Or was he dreaming now? How could people live such different lives? But, well, his own peasants were sharing their huts with their sheep!
Knight Alan turned over with difficulty. ‘Good Lord! If my wife is alive, help me to beget an heir, please! And if she’s dead, help me to find another wife, but soon! Maybe my son will be able to make a difference to change this world into a better one!’
When the clouds shifted, the moon peeped down to the inn and saw a tired knight, covered with sheepskins, smiling in his sleep….