The screams of his underlings blurred into an innocuous roar across the city of Acre. The barracks of the Order lay far from the gallows, but the sudden silence told him all he needed to know.

  Reynard, that fool, had met his end.

  He sighed and looked up at the sky. It was raining, a modestly rare event compared to Rouen. At the Bergleiz estate, all he could remember was rain.

  The Praecepta Militaria lay half-open on his desk, face down, pages splayed across the table. Louis ruffled his hair, remembering the days when it had fallen to his shoulders.

  “Marshal Louis, sir!” a knight called. “May I come in?”

  “You may.”

  The door creaked open. The Seventh Company Captain, Renault, an older and more seasoned knight, stepped inside.

  “State your business, Captain.”

  Renault bowed. “Lord, we’ve received word that the Grandmaster—Grandmaster Hughes—will be arriving shortly. By your discretion, may I—”

  “You may. Now be off. I have matters to attend to.”

  Louis waved a hand without looking up. Renault bowed again.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door creaked shut.

  Louis exhaled. That old man. Those old men, all of them. Especially Hughes. Whilst he respected the Grandmaster, and was indebted to him for bringing him into the Order and keeping his darkest secrets quiet.

  He could not wait for him to die.

  His death would all but guarantee Louis’ claim to succeed him as Grandmaster. Hughes already had one foot in the grave, given his age. Yet he clung on all the same.

  Was it spite? Did he truly not want Louis to succeed him that badly?

  The rain continued to hammer against the stone, each droplet a quiet echo of his mother’s tears as they had fallen without reprieve at the Bergleiz estate.

  ...

  Rouen, Normandy — 1167 AD — The Bergleiz Estate

  Louis never understood why things were the way they were.

  Why some nights were filled with screams and shouting, with the dull thud of fists and the crash of shattered crockery. Why the walls of the estate seemed to hold their breath, as if even the stone feared what came after dusk.

  He did not understand why his mother, who was nothing but gentle with him in the light of day, would sometimes go still when she looked at his face. Why her gaze would falter on his hair, so like his father’s, as though it dragged her somewhere she did not wish to be.

  Once, she had gripped his hair too tightly as she pulled him close. Not in cruelty, but in a sudden, frightened reflex. Her hands had trembled. Her eyes were wet, unfocused with something he was too young to name.

  Last night was one of those nights. One of those nights with banging, with screaming, he heard parts, but not all.

  He’d noticed patterns, how Mother never slept with his Father in the same room, whenever he’d been on walks with Mother to the city square, that seemed like the norm, but in the Bergleiz mansion, he’d never seen that.

  Mother seemed to run from Father.

  As he rubbed sleep from his eyes, he heard the same soft voice, the voice that tried so hard to smile and always just missed the mark.

  “My sweet, good morning…”

  His mother lay beside him, holding him close. When he looked down, he saw his shirt was damp against her shoulder. Louis could only guess where the wetness had come from.

  “Mother, I—how are you?” Louis began. “I—”

  He faltered. The same arms that held him so gently were bruised from forearm to shoulder, dark marks blooming beneath pale skin. And still, she smiled.

  “Come,” his mother said. “Let me braid your hair. You said you liked it, didn’t you?”

  …

  The mansion was always too big for Louis’ liking.

  Apparently, his Father was important; the maids and butlers always said so. They talked of heritage and nobility. Words like that meant nothing to him, but he understood in parts that his Father was important.

  The Bergleiz estate was like a maze to the young lord, corridors twisted and turned, and servants zipped through in a hurry, as if being late would result in hellish punishment. The servants varied; some looked like him, skin pale, nose a certain shape, hair of similar texture. Others had darker skin. When Louis squinted, he saw that one had a scar on both ankles, circular, that cut through nearly to the bone.

  Even in the chaos of servants buzzing, Louis heard whispers.

  “Lord Bergleiz, his vices are only getting worse.” One servant whispered to another in the halls, even when no one was watching, they were careful, as if the walls themselves had ears.

  “The Bergleiz family is nobility, yet they lie on the verge of bankruptcy. Lord Bergleiz relies on his proclivities too heavily.”

  Louis walked through more halls. He was hungry, and the lady at the end of the hall always fed him well. He didn’t know her name, but she knew his.

  “Ah, Young Master.” The young lady began.

  Louis smiled. She was always kind; her brightness was only second to Mother’s. When he asked for food, she would go the extra mile to get him anything he wanted: meat, bread, oats, even cheese, but he wasn’t really a fan of cheese.

  But, like all the same, her brightness vanished when Father came by. Her smile turned to a look of fear, the same look his Mother made.

  “Young Master!” the young lady said, “Try some of this!”

  She produced a plate of chicken pie, and Louis could see the steam still rising from the food. Delighted, he took a bite.

  “Thank you!” he exclaimed, “Um…”

  He twirled his long blonde hair. He never really learned names; he just knew Mother and Father, and the servants.

  “Alys.” She smiled, “I’m a humble servant of the Bergleiz family, and my mother was before me, and her mother before her.”

  She petted Louis’ hair.

  “Now go on, go eat in the dining room, your mother is likely waiting for you.”

  She crouched to whisper in his ear.

  “She told me she’s got something fun for you!”

  …

  Louis sat down, his plate of chicken pie hot and steaming. His mother sat quietly across from him, her hands folded in her lap, every motion practiced and careful. Louis shot her a smile, then a wink, anything to bring her warmth back. But as footsteps approached from the master bedroom, his mother jolted, sweat beginning to bead at her brow. “Sigune.”

  There it was, his father’s voice, low and demanding.

  He stumbled into the room, his footing slightly off, but mostly firm, with that same bottle in his hand.

  Louis did not understand why he loved that drink so, it was bitter and grim, and left a bad burn within his throat, yet his Father could not stop drinking it, the few times Louis had snuck into his Father’s room, it was filled with bottles of it, the stench heavy and oppressive.

  His father found his way to a chair.

  “Servants!” He yelled, “Food! Hot! Now!”

  “Yes, Lord Bergleiz!”

  Louis knew that voice; it was Alys, and he could hear in her voice the same terror all the servants had of his Father.

  Father eased into his chair, his hair unkempt, his grip on that bottle as tight as possible. After some groans and mutters, his head rose, staring Mother dead in the eyes.

  “Sigune.”

  “Yes, Victor—”

  “It’s Lord Bergleiz to you!”

  His mother jolted and reached for Louis’ hand, there it was again, her palms greasy and wet.

  Father composed, his back loosening.

  “At the ball, three days ago, why did you do that?”

  Mother paused, her grip adjusting and tightening Louis’ hand.

  “What, Vict—no, Lord Bergleiz?”

  He paused, looking her up and down before continuing.

  “Why did you smile at that feudal lord? Do you pride yourself on embarrassing me?”

  Mother shook her head, “No, Lord, just, I thought that, a smile would—”

  “Well, you thought wrong, damn it!”

  Alys had just walked into the dining room as Father threw the bottle in his hand on the floor, shattering it on the floor, scattering shards everywhere, and one caught Louis’ foot at the bottom of the table. Her eyes met Mother’s, and after Mother nodded slightly, she left the doorway and headed back to the kitchen.

  “Ow…” he yelped.

  Mother turned to face him, her face red with worry, then a flash of anger at Father.

  “Damn it, Victor, why? What if Louis gets infected from that cut, huh? What then? You would endanger your legacy over a smile!”

  “What did you say to me, woman?”

  The room fell awfully silent, and Mother slowly let go of Louis’ hand.

  That was never good; that could only mean one thing.

  Victor rose, his hair swaying wildly, and walked across the table to stare her dead in the eyes.

  Thud

  Father’s fist flew wildly into Mother, her hair, light auburn, scattered as she fell.

  “Never speak back to me again.”

  Louis did what he always did: he tried to stop it. To make it stop, the screaming, the hatred, his mother’s tears. He shoved his father with all his might, tugging at his thighs, banging, thrashing.

  “Get off, Mother! Stop it!”

  Father stared at him coldly.

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  “Go to your room, boy, don’t bother yourself with this whore.”

  Father kicked him, just like Mother; he did not have the strength to resist.

  “Servants, tend to Sigune’s wounds, I want her fit and ready for next Mass!”

  …

  His foot throbbed.

  As he lay in bed, ready to sleep, flashes of earlier came back to him. Flashes of his father’s rage, flashes of her hair sprawled on the floor.

  Alys had tended to his foot in the spare room, she poured that same bottle father always drank on it, it stung and burned, but Alys said he would thank her for it later. When she was done, her face was dark and filled with sorrow as she went to talk to Mother.

  Louis had followed them and heard whispers, ever so quiet, but he heard.

  Mother was sobbing, that sound, the sound of her throat reeling, it was a sound he was all too familiar with.

  “My Lady…” Louis heard through the walls.

  “You just have to endure it a bit longer, I’m so sorry…”

  More tears.

  “God willing, Lord Bergleiz will die; all we can do is pray that day comes.”

  Louis turned over in his bed, which was lavish and excessive. Louis guessed he could fit three more people of his size in it. Yet for how large it was, he never felt at ease; he never felt at home.

  A bang came from across the mansion, then another, and two more. It would be tonight again. Tonight would be another night with no end.

  Mother typically slept in either one of two spare rooms, the one on the same floor as Louis and Father slept on, or downstairs. Usually downstairs.

  Louis heard the steps of his father creep into the first spare room.

  “Sigune, Sigune, God damn it, where are you?”

  Louis heard the door close with a slam, followed by heavy footsteps that led downstairs.

  Silence, the silence sat ominously. Louis turned and grabbed a pillow filled with feathers. Alys always talked about how they were a luxury, how, outside the Bergleiz estate, they were a rarity men would die for.

  Alys didn’t know, during nights like these, it was the only thing that kept Louis safe from the horrors he heard. If only partially.

  Louis heard his father tug at a door. It must have been locked. That meant mother was in it.

  “Sigune. Open the door.”

  No reply.

  A loud thud came from downstairs.

  “Victor…”

  He heard his mother’s voice, filled with fear.

  “Please, not again.”

  No response.

  Louis clutched at his pillows harder, trying to block out the terror, the screams; his mother kept repeating the same words.

  No. No. No.

  Louis didn’t understand what was happening, but whatever it was, whenever it was this.

  Mother never smiled the morning after, and her tears lingered for days on end.

  …

  Morning came.

  Louis knew the routine. After nights like last, smiles in the house were fleeting; they came and went, if they even came at all. Louis looked for Mother in the room she always went to; she called it her ‘haven’, he didn’t know what that word meant, but he knew it was important to her.

  As he walked in, he didn’t understand. There was blood on the bed, but when he looked at his mother, she seemed fine; the bruises from the other day weren’t from last night, but whatever Father did to her clearly hurt her more.

  Mother saw him in the doorway, and her tears fell even more.

  “Mother…”

  Louis’ eyes, too, began to swell.

  “My son, my dear Louis…”

  Louis ran to her and hugged her tightly.

  “Mother! I don’t understand!” Louis cried, “If Father loves you, why does he hurt you so?”

  His mother stared blankly into the distance, “Your father…”

  She paused, holding her abdomen in pain, “Loves us very much, in his own way…”

  His mother seemed to question the validity of her own words.

  “It’s love.” She repeated.

  “In his own twisted way…” she spat out, “This is his love…”

  …

  “Alys.”

  The young maid turned, her cheery expression vacant. Of course it was, Louis knew he would not see a smile for a long time now. Not after last night.

  “Why do Mother and Father live together?” Louis began, “If Father hates Mother so, why does he not send her and me away? Where could we live in peace?”

  Alys bit her lip, tears swelling in her face.

  “It’s… a complicated matter, young master,” she said, “Lady Sigune—my apologies, young master, your mother and her family, they would not take kindly to her leaving the mansion, it’s a volatile issue, do not fret the politics.”

  She looked away.

  “Your father, he has hurt your mother and me in that way, so many times… I pray to God daily that you do not end up like him.”

  Alys wiped tears off her face, “Why not go to your room for a while? And play?”

  Louis nodded, and he proceeded to go towards his room.

  “Why—”

  There was shaking, rhythmic bumping in between speech.

  “If—if you hate your wife so much, why stay with her—”

  More, more of that same sound, all Louis ever heard from his Father’s room was either slurred speed or that same sound.

  “Just, leave her to rot, throw her away—”

  “Silence!”

  Louis heard it again. With his curiosity piqued, he peered through the door.

  “Shut your filthy mouth, you mistake your place!”

  His father had his hand around a woman’s throat. Louis didn’t recognise her; it wasn’t Mother, and it wasn’t Alys.

  “My—my apologise… lord—”

  “You could NEVER compare to Sigune. Never, so be quiet, just be quiet. Please, be quiet.”

  …

  Three Months Later:

  Louis awoke, the Bergleiz estate as looming as ever, even without his father nearby.

  As of late, Father had been busy; he’d been taking more trips across Normandy, managing affairs. He still occasionally came home to sleep, but the banging and screams had stopped.

  For now.

  Mother was still frail, she was still weak, and her smile was never truly free, but she was doing better than before. When Father would do that thing, we would do it in the night. With the banging and screaming, where Mother’s bed would be bloody in sheets.

  “Louis, my dear?” Mother called out.

  She opened the door to his room, her face, whilst not happy, was not wearing its usual expression, one of longing, one of pain.

  “Good… good morning, my son…” Mother did her best to put on a faint smile.

  With Father’s absence as of late, Mother was the person the servants looked to for guidance, they all seemed happier with it like that, Alys especially, her smiles returned too.

  If everyone were happier, why wasn’t Mother the head of the household?

  As Louis and his mother walked throughout the mansion, Louis noticed something, for just an instant.

  A particular servant, the one he recognised with the scars on his ankles, the one with brown skin and darker hair, the one who was just a slight bit slimmer than the other male servants.

  He and mother shared a look, a look Louis had not seen on Mother’s face for a very long time.

  If ever.

  “Louis, dear,” his mother beckoned him, “How about you go play, maybe with Alys, or in the lounge?”

  Hesitantly, he obliged, keeping track of where Mother and the servant went.

  …

  “He’s a wicked man, all the servants agree, Lady Sigune…”

  “But my son is here, and I can’t leave him; it’s my duty to endure. The marriage between Victor and me secured my family’s lineage. I’m the youngest daughter, I’m practically worthless to my father…”

  “Sigune, listen to me, Victor does not deserve you as you are. When they took me in chains to this cold, damp country, he laughed at me as I was whipped. I did not understand your language then, but I do now. His cruelty runs deep.”

  “Min, I—I care for you, I do, those nights, when he’d rape me, you and Alys, you were my only comforts…”

  Louis heard through the walls of stone, his heart broke, did he not comfort Mother? Did his smile only hurt her? They paused for a while.

  “But, I can’t, I can’t do this, if Victor finds out, what will he do to me? What will he do to you, what will he do to Louis?”

  “Let him try, next time he tries anything, I will slit his throat in the night.”

  Silence, Louis heard more fumbling, then a laugh.

  “Hehe, Min, stop it~ we can’t do this!”

  Mother. Laughing.

  Why? Louis had tried so hard to make her laugh, to make her smile, yet he failed every time.

  This man, who looked nothing like him, who wasn’t her son, could do it with ease.

  …

  Six Months Later:

  Mother was getting better, of that, Louis was sure.

  She occasionally clutched at her stomach; occasionally, she would speak of her back, how it weighed heavily on her, but aside from that, she was much happier than before. When Father stayed for longer periods of time.

  He’d been back in the mansion for about two weeks now, yet he seemed to fully ignore Mother and him. Whenever Louis would try to talk to his father, he would brush him away, with a look of malice in his eyes.

  “Get away from me, you’re the son of a whore.”

  Whore? What did whore mean? The hate that came from Father’s mouth made Louis wonder, Mother had only ever treated Father with kindness.

  It was he who was the whore, Louis thought.

  “Oh, Louis!” his mother yelled, “Look at the sun, so bright today,” she patted him on the head, “The sky, so blue, would you like to go on a walk with me?”

  Louis scoffed, “Mother, you said your back is hurting? Why?”

  She hesitated, then smiled, “Don’t worry about that, you’ll see why soon, one day, this place will be a place of fond memories.”

  Her hand fell to her stomach, “For you… and for him…”

  Louis shrugged, “Mother, sometimes you confuse me so…”

  …

  Louis and his mother walked across the gardens of the Bergleiz estate. The flowers, ever tended to, bloomed in careful rows; by whose hands, Louis could not say.

  But someone always tended to his needs here, as if by magic.

  His mother’s hair, long and brown, flowed in the wind. She held his hand dearly, and though she often clutched at her back, her smile was there. Of that, there was no mistake.

  Louis ran off ahead, drawn by the colour and scent. Low white lilies bowed beneath the weight of their own petals. Clusters of violets clung to the edges of the stone paths, small and stubborn. Roses, pale red and thorned, climbed the trellises near the walls, and further along, patches of lavender hummed softly with bees.

  He crouched among them, fingers brushing the petals with careful curiosity. The thorns pricked him once, and he yelped, more in surprise than pain, before grinning to himself.

  He plucked a single rose, stem and all, holding it as though it were something precious.

  “Mother!” he called, running back to her, holding the rose tightly, “Look! Maybe Father will like this!”

  His mother stopped. She did not follow. She only watched him go, her smile faint but genuine, her hand resting lightly at her stomach as the wind stirred her hair.

  It was days like this that Louis treasured the most.

  However, days like this would be his last.

  …

  Skipping with glee, Louis’ hair, long and blonde, fluttered as he ran down the pavement towards the front entrance of the Berlgiez estate. He and his mother passed fountains and statues on their way, taking in the sight of it all.

  “Father!” Louis cried, “We’ve returned!”

  Louis looked upwards at his mother, “Mother, I’m going to Father’s chambers to give this to him.”

  She smiled with a wave, “You go and do that, my dear, I’ll be waiting for you~”

  Louis held the red rose tight as he climbed the stairs, walking with muscle memory to Father’s room, yet usually the stench of that drink was enough to guide him.

  Strangely, Louis did not smell it now.

  “Father!” Louis began as he creaked the door open. “We’re back—”

  No.

  Not this.

  Anything but this.

  “Mother!” Louis screamed, his voice breaking apart. “Mother!”

  Sigune ran up the stairs. “Louis! What happened—”

  The scream tore from her as she saw it.

  She fell to her knees, hands shaking, breath hitching into sobs she could not stop.

  Father’s body lay hanging lifelessly like a doll from the ceiling, his feet adjacent to a small stool, occasionally grazing them.

  Underneath his feet lay a letter. Mother saw it too, and she reached for it.

  The letter read:

  To my dearest Sigune and my son Louis. I cannot put into words how devastated I am, my wife, who loved so dearly, committing fornication against me with a Saracen, my own servant, whom I bought with my own coin. Absurd.

  To my wife, Sigune. I cherished you for twelve years, I fell for your warmth from the second we laid eyes, and yet you betrayed me so, when I found out, I did not know how to go on, even the drink did not ease my pains. To think my dear Sigune found solace in the bed of another. To think, I gave my heart to a harlot, a Jezebel, a promiscuous woman. It is the height of disgrace for my family’s name.

  To my son, Louis. How I loathed you so. How your face reminded me of that night, how Sigune thrashed and resisted my love, how she would never allow her husband his God-given right to her body. And your whines, and your constant attachment to that good-for-nothing, unfaithful whore. You disappoint me, you’ve disappointed me, from even before you were born. You disappointed me from the moment Sigune closed her legs to me.

  Sigune, I loved you so; my unfaithfulness was not the same as yours. They were mistakes, countless, yes, but I only had eyes for you, and in return, you embarrassed me so gravely. For that, I pray you never find another love again.

  Signed – Victor de Bergleiz

  Mother read the letter over and over, her eyes turning darker and more filled with apathy, she began clawing at herself, at her stomach. Louis did not know how to make her smile return.

  He never did.

  …

  Rouen, Normandy — 1174 AD — The Bergleiz Estate

  His mother had fled.

  She left in the days after that morning, after the day Victor died. Louis no longer thought of the man as his father. He did not allow himself that word. There was only the name now, Victor.

  The servants said his mother’s name was Sigune. After Victor’s death, her cries worsened. She spoke to walls, to shadows, to God. After Alys’ pleading, she was sent away. Where to, Louis did not know.

  That woman was not his mother, either.

  Louis stood before the small, circular pane of glass in his chamber. Such mirrors were rare in France, and only the wealthy could afford them. He studied the face looking back at him.

  His hair had been cut short. The braids Sigune once wove had been torn free. His skin was hard beneath his fingers. The eyes that met his were steady, flat.

  Victor’s eyes.

  The thought made his hand tighten. The glass cracked beneath his knuckles before he felt the pain. Blood followed, warm and slow.

  “Lord Bergleiz?” Alys called from beyond the door. “Are you hurt?”

  She opened it a fraction, then froze.

  “Out!” Louis shouted. “You will not enter this room unless I summon you.”

  She bowed at once, voice shaking. “Yes, Lord Bergleiz.”

  The title curdled in his mouth.

  Lord Bergleiz.

  With Victor’s death, the estate had fallen to him. Along with it came debts, disputes, arrangements made without his consent, the quiet rot of years of misrule. The servants whispered that the name of Bergleiz was finished.

  They were wrong.

  At eleven, Louis set himself to work. With Alys’ help, he learned the laws of land and coin, the obligations of lords, and the cost of weakness. He learned when to grant mercy and when to deny it.

  By thirteen, the whispers had changed. By thirteen, he had learned the use of power and how to wield it, how to bend others to his will.

  “Look at the new Lord, ruthless and capable, nothing like his father… how did Lord Victor produce such skilled offspring…”

  One servant muttered in the kitchen, if it was Alys… God help her, even if she’d helped raise him, Louis knew better than to tolerate disrespect in these halls.

  “Well, despite being of noble blood, Lord Victor truly suffered through his life as a mediocre man, his son, on the other hand…”

  “Oh yes, Lord Louis! A truly impeccable child, by the age of thirteen, he’d erased his father’s debts of seventeen years! The townsfolk already speak about him too, how they see the passion in his eyes to build a legacy for the Bergleiz name…”

  Louis spat on the floor.

  “Servants!”

  They jolted, before scurrying to their master.

  “Lord Bergleiz!” they bowed, routinely, stiffly, the fear in the look they gave him, just like when Victor called.

  “Clear this from the floor.” He pointed to his saliva, “If you leave a single drop, I’ll have the city guard strap you to a post and starve both of you for two days.”

  They gulped.

  “Yes, Lord Bergleiz!”

  Louis scowled as he walked off, still hearing them in the distance.

  “That Lord Bergleiz… you know what they say about him?”

  “They say, he possesses the Gift of Kings, a once in a hundred years talent, his vigor, his ambition, they’re nothing like his father’s, but when he sets his eyes on the world, for better or for worse, he sees conquests.”

  “He possesses the Gift of Kings… how else could a thirteen-year-old child clear so much debt? How else could a sixteen-year-old boy amass such a fortune?”

  Louis grimaced in anger as he walked back up the stairs.

  The Gift of Kings, they called it.

  Was it a gift to be born into a house of screams? To lose your mother to madness. To be told you were despised before you ever learned to speak.

  Was it a gift to come into this world through an act of violence so horrific?