Giradin had lost track of the days he'd been on the road with Sir Emeric and the others.

During the day, they rode as hard as the horses would allow, but as soon as the horizon turned gold they set up camp, determined to have a fire going before night fell.

Each night, they'd sit around the campfire, exchanging stories. Giradin had expected the Templars to share stories from their days in the crusades, but they only ever spoke of saints long past. After a while of listening to these tales Giradin realized that something Shlomo had told him was right, saints' tales often ended in martyrdom.

After the sun had disappeared over the horizon, Giradin sat staring into the dancing flames. His ears caught the sounds of bugs, owls, and the distant howling of wolves.

"You look so nervous," Sir Emeric said, leaning toward Giradin. "Relax. God already protected you from the aschengeist and the plague. Do you really think He'll let you get eaten by wolves now?"

Giradin laughed. "You're right. It is silly. I just... haven't camped quite this much before. Even when I was on the road with the Crows we usually found an inn... or even a barn to sleep in." Giradin's eyes scanned the edges of darkness all around him, which shifted with the dancing flames. "Just... not used to being this... exposed."

"You feel exposed?" Sir Emeric said with a chuckle.

Giradin couldn't understand why, but his face burned at the Templar's question.

Sir Emeric stood from his spot on the ground and walked over to his horse, the reins of which were tied to the branch of a tree. From the saddle, he produced a wool blanket. He unrolled the blanket, revealing the Templar symbol on it, and wrapped it around Giradin's shoulders. The wool embraced Giradin, giving him a sense of security he'd not felt in a long while.

Having wrapped Giradin, Sir Emeric returned to his spot beside the fire. "You know of Emperor Constantine's vision one-thousand years ago? 'By this sign you shall conquer,' said the Lord. Well, if the Holy Cross will aid conquerers, then it will certainly protect you from whatever's out there."

Shlomo snorted. "Come now, we both know Emperor Constantine's vision wasn't that literal. Otherwise no crusader would have ever fallen in battle." The plague doctor had removed his mask, for once, revealing the black, tangled curls of his hair and his beard.

Sir Emeric shot Shlomo a piercing look. "No crusader was ever a saint."

Shlomo chuckled. "Fair enough. But, Giradin, here's another reason you have nothing to fear from wolves, and it's quite simple, really. Animals are afraid of fire. That's why God gave us fire in the first place."

Giradin nodded to Shlomo. "I'll be fine. I'm not really all that frightened. I've got three Templars and a good friend watching over me."

"Good friend..." Shlomo repeated with a satisfied grin.

Sir Emeric drank from a waterskin, then held it out for Giradin to sip. "So, I think all of us have shared stories except for Giradin. And Sir Philip, who never speaks anyway."

Sir Philip, his face still hidden behind his helm, grunted in displeasure and shook his head.

Sir Emeric patted Shlomo on the shoulder. "That one you told about the holy miser was a great one. I really didn't expect that ending."

Shlomo smiled at Sir Emeric, but said nothing.

The starry-eyed Templar turned back to Giradin. "So, Saint Giradin, care to tell us a story?"

"I... I don't really know any," said Giradin with a shrug.

Sir Emeric chuckled. "Of course you do! Maybe not any war stories, and perhaps you don't want to talk about what you've done as a plague doctor, but you must have something from your life worth telling."

Giradin thought for a moment. "There is one thing... I don't know, it might not be all that interesting."

"Tell us," Sir Emeric insisted.

"Yes," said Sir Cristoff. "It's your turn to entertain tonight."

Giradin took another sip from the waterskin and handed it back to Sir Emeric. "Very well, then. If this is terrible, just know that you asked for it."

He cleared his throat and began the story. "I don't think any of you know this, but my mother was a... you know... a harlot."

All three uncovered faces gave Giradin shocked expressions, but Sir Emeric's surprise soon faded into tenderness. "Go on," he said.

"Well, so, I never knew my father, and I suspect my mother didn't know which of several men he was either. I was never lonely growing up, I had many other children to play with, all sons and daughters of the women working at the brothel. But my mother... I could tell she was lonely. She'd talk with the other women working there, but none of them were ever really all that kind to her. I guess... umm... they all saw each other as competition, you know? And she used to tell me I was the only good man in her life when she tucked me in."

Giradin dared to look up at his audience, expecting to see their judging eyes. These were, after all, deeply pious men. But his eyes met Sir Emeric's, and he saw affection there.

So, Giradin continued. "So, one day, there was a merchant caravan coming through our town, and I saw a necklace that they were selling. I don't know what it was made of, but it was pretty, with a little crystal in the middle. And over the years I'd been getting money however I could. I'd collect coins that people dropped and forgot, I'd do odd jobs for people in town... whatever I could, and I kept the money in a little box I'd hidden away in a closet."

"So," Giradin went on, "when I saw... you know, the pretty necklace, I brought out my savings box and approached the merchant. I told him I wanted to buy the necklace for my mother, and I showed him all the money I'd gathered to ask if it was enough. I'll never forget the way he laughed at first. 'Some of those are buttons!' He said. And when I realized he was right I was so embarrassed."

"But then he said, 'Wait... so this is all you have, isn't it?' And I told him he was right. He asked me why I wasn't spending the money on something for myself, and I said, 'Because my mother doesn't have anyone else to buy pretty things for her.' And he told me that in exchange for every button in the box he'd give me the necklace."

Sir Emeric's serene smile at the story warmed Giradin's heart. "That's beautiful," said the Templar. "Did your mother like the necklace?"

"Oh, yes!" said Giradin. "She wore it every day, up to the day I left to become a cobbler's apprentice."

"Does she know that you became a plague doctor?" asked Sir Emeric. "More importantly, does she know that you're a saint?"

Giradin's heart sank at the question. "No... no, I don't think she does. I've not had a chance to go back there."

"And it's not as if you can write to her," said Sir Emeric. "So, how about this, after we're done in the Vatican we'll stop by your hometown and pay your mother a visit together. I'll tell her all about what a great young man her boy grew up to be."

"Really?" And, again, Giradin's heart soared. "Thank you so much, Sir Emeric! I love that idea!"

Shlomo chuckled. "That's sure to be a wondrous day."

"Then that's what we'll do," said Sir Emeric.

The group of them talked into the long hours of the night. Giradin wasn't sure just how late they stayed up after that, but at some point he recalled feeling a hand pull the blanket up over his shoulders again. He never saw who did it, but he felt certain it was Sir Emeric.

The next morning, Giradin awoke to the sound of a deep drumbeat. When he looked up from his spot on the ground, he saw the three Templars and Shlomo already on their feet, weapons drawn.

"Headless men..." Sir Emeric said. "I pray we don't have to shed blood this day..."