The caravan remained tense and on edge for the few days immediately after the incident with Bertrand. My actions in saving the young girl, Zara as I learned she was called the next morning, had, somewhat unsurprisingly, endeared me to the group.  The women of the caravan fussed over me like a favourite nephew, constantly checking I had enough to eat or to drink or that I was comfortable enough.  We (myself and Faisal) were permitted by the caravan leader to remain with them for the remainder of their journey.  The going was relatively easy and two days after my fight with Bertrand, during which time we travelled peacefully and without incident, we arrived on the outskirts of the Latin Christian settlement of Caesarea.

It was mid-morning when the walls of Caesarea first came into view, and at the sight of them my heart soared!  Not just because it was a Chirstian settlement and represented some kind of safety in normalcy, but because behind it, glittering under the morning sunshine, the waters of the Mediterranean sparkled.  Caesarea was a port, located between Acre and Jaffa on the levantine coast; whilst not a large port, and therefore being less likely to have any ships setting sail directly back to England, I should be able to find one to take me up the coast to Acre, where I had the greater likelihood of finding a vessel heading back to towards England… providing I could secure passage on such vessels of course.

After a routine check by the guards on the gate, half a dozen men armed with swords and spears who appeared short on humour who went about their business of inspecting the caravan in sullen silence, we were granted entry to the city.  I half expected to be recognised as a crusader by the guards, but dressed as I was, dusty and dirty and with no outwardly visible crusader markings, they did not even deign to give me a second look.  I remained silent, not wishing to draw their attention back to me; remaining anonymous as a vampyre in an unfamiliar city seemed, I considered, a prudent course of action.

Once through the gates and inside the city proper, the caravan picked its way through the multitude of inhabitants going about their morning business and made its way slowly to the central market square; whereupon the merchants began to unload their wares and set up stalls. I took this as the cue for Faisal and I to bid them farewell.  The caravan leader would not let us depart without thanking me profusely once again for saving Zara that night.  After much handshaking and clapping me on the back he insistently pressed a small pouch into my hand as a final thankyou and parting gift; the weight surprised me and the jingle of coins from inside was unmistakable. I felt honour-bound to refuse it, but the truth of the matter was all of the funds I had brought with me to the Holy Land I had left back in Acre before I set out that accursed morning.  It may still be there, it may have been sent back to Justine in England, most likely it had simply been absorbed into the crusading army’s coffers.  Whatever the case, I was lacking in coin and I would certainly need some for lodgings in the city and, hopefully, to buy a berth on a vessel back to England.  Reluctantly, therefore, I accepted his offering.

Parting ways with the caravan we explored the streets of Caesarea, working our way towards the quayside. A few streets away from waterfront we happened upon one of the many guest houses for pilgrims coming to the Holy Land that could be found throughout the Christian cities.  Enquiring within, I secured a room for the next few days; even if there was a ship intent on sailing for England, the likelihood of it being ready to depart immediately was slim.

After paying the lodging fee with a few coins taken from the pouch, and depositing our travelling baggage in our room, we ventured forth into the city once more.  As we left the guest house I experienced a peculiar sensation, a prickle at the nape of my neck and an almost animalistic sense I was being watched.  Looking about me I saw no obvious observer in the streets around us.  Attributing it to nothing more than unconscious apprehension at being in unfamiliar surroundings I put it from my mind and continued on my way, following the sounds of sailors busy at work towards the docks.

I spoke with several captains who had vessels of sea-going size in the harbour throughout the course of the day, but all to no avail.  Not a single one had plans to sail for either England nor Cyprus, most were trading vessels who intended to head on to Egypt or to Constantinople.  I had all but given up hope of finding direct passage back towards home and was beginning to ponder Constantinople and then maybe on to Venice; when the first mate of a trading skiff laden with good bound for Egypt asked whether I had yet enquired at the Templar compound.  I cursed aloud my memory for its failings at his suggestion!  The Templar’s maintained their own ships within their own compound away from the general flotilla of vessels in the main port.  Most significantly, these vessels frequently sailed between the Crusader territories on the mainland and the Templar enclave on Cyprus, bringing supplies, arms, men and money into the Christian lands in Outremer.  These provisions arrived at Cyprus on Templar ships from all across Europe, for the Templar network was spread throughout many countries. Many countries – including England!  If I could gain passage to the Templar enclave on Cyprus, I was sure to be able to find a vessel there departing for England without too much difficulty.

The Templar compound was an imposing sight, almost a mini-fortress in its own right within the city. I spoke to one of the brothers at the gate house regarding passage on a Templar vessel, he informed me he had no authority to make any decisions regarding granting berths on Templar vessels and that the Templar harbour master, from whom such permissions could be granted, was away from the compound on business.  He took my name and promised to let the harbour master know I had called after him, suggesting that I return in the morning to seek him out again.  Resolving to return tomorrow as the gate house brother had suggested, I turned to make my way back into the city.  It was as I turned I once again experienced the almost primal feeling that I was being watched.  The docks were busy with a bustle of people going about their daily business.  None however appeared to be giving me more than a passing glance, no doubt curious as to my business at the Templar compound. 

I was about to dismiss the feeling as nothing more than another bout of nervous paranoia when I saw him.  A tonsured head partially concealed behind a pile of shipping crates peered out at me from an alleyway opposite the Templar gates.  The black robes he wore, combined with his tonsured hair marked him out clearly as a monk of the Benedictine order.  Our eyes met across the wharf and, releasing I had detected him, he turned and fled into the alley.  I dashed across the quay to the alley entrance, but by the time I had arrived he had gone. The numerous branching connected alleyways between the buildings made it impossible to determine in which direction he had fled.  With no ability to pursue my stalker, I returned to the waterfront, satisfied I was not the victim of an overactive imagination but concerned as to the motives of my mysterious shadow.

WIth no prospect of talking to the Templar harbour master until the next day we spent the remainder of the day exploring the remainder of the city, listening to the gossips, the street preachers and browsing the wares available in the shops and markets.  Several times throughout the day I had that same sense of being watched, but every time I looked around no sign could be seen of the face from the alley.

Late in the afternoon we came across a bustling tavern in a street set back from the main road, a group of soldiers sat outside placing dice and drinking ale.  I recognised the game as Gluckshaus, a game I had learned from some Germanic knights also stationed in Acra before… before my change had taken place.  I stood and watched for a few rounds from the pavement across the street when one of the soldiers noticed and beckoned me over, enquiring if I’d like to join them for a game or two.

I considered the wisdom of being out in company for a moment, but it had been a long time since I had allowed myself to relax and I did have a little money to wager… with ever increasing enthusiasm I agreed to join them and pulled up a spare chair.  Faisal looked at me with concern before leaning forward to whisper in my ear, pointing at the mugs of ale on the table.  I suddenly understood – as a devout Muslim he didn’t feel comfortable in a tavern surrounded by gambling and alcohol.  I suggested he return to the guest house and waited for me there. Reluctantly he agreed and headed off alone back to our lodgings.

I lost track of how long I sat there rolling dice and drinking ale.  It felt good to be engaged in purely human pursuits after the previous few weeks.  My opponents were not particularly skilled and before I knew it I had a healthy pile of coin in front of me.  I reinvested my winnings into several rounds of all for my dice companions and we played and gambled for several hours until, eventually, one by one they made their apologies for running out of funds pushed their chairs back, content to watch and drink the ale I ensured remained well supplied.

Night had fallen by the time the dice game came to an end.  Bidding my companions good night I set off to make my way back through the dimly torchlit streets of the city to the guest house where our lodgings were to be found.  I felt uplifted after the evenings events, having engaged in normal, human, activities had been a welcome diversion.  I was lost in thought, reliving my evening’s victory when I turned down an alleyway and there, barring my path, was the Benedictine I had seen earlier down at the docks.  We stood in silence for a moment, each staring at the other, sizing the other up.  Then he spoke:

“I know what you are foul creature of the night!”

He spoke in English, but his voice was heavily accented with the unmistakable inflections of southern Spain. He was of average height and slightly stocky of build, not fat, but clearly no athlete or soldier.  As he spoke he reached inside his robes and withdrew a silver crucifix of roughly six inches in length and a wooden stake, a foot long and sharpened to a point at one end.  Before I could respond he lunged towards me, brandishing the stake before him and yelling at the top of his voice:

“In the name of God I will send you back from whence you came foul hellspawn!”

Without thinking, operating purely on instinct, I sidestepped the friar’s lunge.  He barrelled past me, staggering to a halt.  I had already spun on my heel to come about and face him before he had recovered his balance and turned.

“I do not know what you think I am”, I growled at him,

“But I can assure you I mean you no harm, unless you persist with this nonsense, in which case I will be forced to defend myself!”.

He fixed his eyes on me with an unbreaking stare, the fire of righteous fury burning brightly within them:

“Do not know what I think you are?” he hissed.  “The creature tries to deny his own nature… you are a vampyre and I have known it since I first set eyes upon you!” With that he lunged at me once more.  I sidestepped him once more and he tripped, going sprawling across the alley floor.

“You are mistaken friar”, I said as he raised himself to his knees.

“I will not be swayed by your lies! I shall send you back to hell from whence you dragged your black soul into the light of God’s world!” he stood as he spoke, readying himself for another strike.

It was clear that I could not convince him I was other than I was.  I considered turning tail and fleeing out of the alley, but before I could weigh up this course of action proper, the Benedictine broke into a run, coming straight for me.  He held the wooden stake above his head, as he came within striking distance he began to bring his arm down in a stabbing motion.  I watched the unfolding attack almost as if it were in slow motion.  For a fleeting moment I considered simply sidestepping his attack once more.  But I knew that this monk would not be deterred until either he had completed his, as he saw it, God assigned task, or he was rendered unable to continue with his course of action.  I could not permit the former, so I would have to bring about the latter.

As his arm arced down towards me I watched, waiting for the point at which all his momentum was committed and he would be unable to alter the trajectory of his attack.  At that moment I spun, rolling my body out of the way of the descending stake, twisting so I came up behind the monk, striking out at the back of his neck, the heel of my hand connecting firmly where the top of the neck meets the skull.  I felt the crunch and heard the wet snap, and the monk tumbled forward face first into the dirt, a strange gurgling sound escaping his lips for a moment and then he was silent.  

I stood motionless in the alley, staring dumbfounded at the body prostrate before me, numb with the realisation of what I had just done.  As my sensibilities returned I dashed to the side of the Benedictine, crouching down I searched for any signs of life, but I could find none.  I had killed him, killed a man of God! If it were not already then there was no doubt now that my soul was condemned to the darkest recesses of hell! 

I lingered for a moment, staring down at the body before me, before I turned and fled into the night, like the creature of darkness I was!

---