"He's true."

The simple sentence hit Melcher Fitz like a brick to the forehead. "Giradin, the cobbler, really is a saint?" he reiterated the Templar's point, hoping that even by saying it out loud Sir Emeric would realize how ridiculous it sounded.

Sir Emeric shrugged. "Saint Joseph was a carpenter. Saint David a shepherd. You think he cannot be a saint because he comes from humble origins. I say he is a saint precisely because of his humble origins."

The two men met in Melcher's private tent outside the city of Elekvaz. While Sir Emeric had removed his helmet, revealing his impossibly-well-kept hair, Melcher kept his mask on for formality's sake. Also, because Sir Emeric had been inside Elekvaz recently without a plague doctor suit, and there was that chance that during his brief visit he'd contracted something.

Melcher Fitz leaned back in his chair and fiddled with a candle trimmer. "So, what happens now? I should remind you, Giradin belongs to me."

"He does not belong to you, he belongs to God," Sir Emeric said, firmly. "He is sworn to serve the Order of St. Ida of Louvain and prevent the Black Death, but ultimately only God owns Giradin, just as only God owns you." The Templar gestured to the tent's opening. "When your business in Elekvaz concludes, the other Templars and I will take Giradin with us to the Vatican to meet the Pope. Once his Holiness has seen in him what we have, he will declare him a saint, and Giradin will return to your service. I suspect that I, too, shall accompany him wherever he goes from now on."

Melcher's stomach turned at the thought of the Templars taking over his chapter of plague doctors. The Crows had learned long ago, and Melcher had made sure the lesson was never forgotten, that questions of good and evil were not as important as questions of life or death. The plague doctors did things which would make any person of Christian morals cringe, but they did it because it needed to be done.

The Black Death hung over all of Christendom like a Damocles, ready to fall at any moment. Only the Crows and their methods stood in its way. People who fought for a holy cause, as the Templars did, could never understand what the plague doctors had to do. Even the morals of Sir Bertran, who'd been a knight hospitaller, had proven a nuisance to Melcher Fitz on occasion. He could only imagine what it would be like to have Sir Emeric around.

The more Melcher thought about it, the less he wanted to give Giradin up, but the more he realized that keeping Giradin as far from him as possible might keep the Templars away too.

"Perhaps I was being too hasty," Melcher said at last. "Yes, Giradin is sworn to serve the plague doctors, but perhaps he'd be wasted in my service. Might it make more sense for him to be leader of his own chapter rather than serving in mine?"

Sir Emeric smiled at the idea and brushed back some of his red hair behind his ear. "That does sound like a smart idea, I won't deny that. Thank you, Melcher Fitz. I'll bring it before his Holiness and see what he has to say."

So, the idea was to be brought before the Pope. Well, that was better than outright refusal. If Giradin had his own chapter he could recruit whoever he wanted, get the Templars involved as much as he desired. And he could do so far away from Melcher.

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"I'm surprised you haven't asked me yet about the aschengeist in Elekvaz," said Sir Emeric.

Melcher bit his lip to hold in a cynical outburst of laughter. What? Should I ask you about the goblins and ghouls as well? But despite his gut reaction to the statement, Melcher kept his thoughts to himself and merely nodded to Sir Emeric as a signal for him to continue.

"Sir Cristoff banished the vengeful spirit," said Sir Emeric. "With Sir Philip, Shlomo, and Mujahid's help, mind you." His eyes turned harsh and his brow furrowed. "Yes, I know about Mujahid."

Melcher clenched his fist, but loosened it again. "His Holiness has approved working with Moors and Jews in our efforts to combat the plague, so long as we do not practice witchcraft."

"Aye, indeed," said Sir Emeric. "And, normally I would not disapprove of Mujahid at all. But both you and he seem to have tried to hide his existence and his nature from us, and that is highly suspicious. Sir Cristoff even gave him a chance to tell the truth about being a Moor and he did not do so."

Melcher bowed his head. "I apologize, Sir Emeric, but please try to understand this from our point of view. Most of the Order of the Knights Templar fought in the Crusades against Saracens and Moors. Surely you can understand why Mujahid might fear that you would turn against him because of his dark skin and his faith."

Sir Emeric leaned back in his chair. "I understand your fear. When I was in the Holy Land, I often fought and slew many a Mohammedan, and saw them commit terrible atrocities. But, do you know who it was who often treated the wounded? Who cooked our meals? Who proved to be steadfast friends? Mohammedans. I fought against some, and I lived beside others. Every Crusader learned, whether he wanted to admit it or not, that there is good and bad among the Saracens and Moors, just as there is good and bad among us. But we found that you could tell the bad ones from the good ones based on what they were willing to lie about. Would you say Mujahid is a good man?"

It was a question Melcher had not thought to ask about anyone in many years. The query had not proven important to the duties of plague doctors. But Melcher knew he could not even hesitate to say, "Yes."

"And I'm sure part of what makes him good is his faith in his God," said Sir Emeric, "Misguided as that might be. But he lied about his faith and his God when pressed. Considering your own efforts to keep this from me, I can't help but think you might have had something to do with that."

Melcher's fist clenched again. "Are you accusing me of something, Sir Emeric? Let's have it out, then."

Sir Emeric shook his head. "I am not accusing you of anything. Yet. Just know that I find your dishonesty concerning, and I will report this to his Holiness."

Melcher fantasized about an axe falling and splitting the Templar's head in two. For a fleeting moment, he considered whether he could best him in a fight, and whether he could get away with it. For the moment, he stayed his hand.

"I trust you will present my side fairly?" asked Melcher. "You will inform his Holiness that my decision to withhold that information from you was born out of fear, not malice?"

Sir Emeric nodded, his face still as stern as ever. "I will tell his Holiness you said as much."

Melcher's fingers gripped tightly his chair's armrest. "Thank you," he said, through gritted teeth.

Sir Emeric rose to his feet and picked up his helmet. "How much longer until your people leave Elekvaz?"

"The experiment should be over by tomorrow," said Melcher.

"Good." Sir Emeric carried his helmet under his arm. "Then we shall leave with Giradin sooner than I thought. Oh! And, one more thing. In the interest of being honest with each other, I thought I should tell you that one of your doctors is missing."

"Which?" Melcher asked.

"I believe he is called 'Fulk,'" said Sir Emeric. "'Fulk the Blessed,' as the people of Elekvaz call him. He was the first person to receive Giradin's healing, so I wanted to question him as well. But Sir Philip and Sir Cristoff have searched the city for him and couldn't find him. Even Mujahid and Shlomo don't know where he is, or so they claim."

Melcher Fitz groaned. That was all he needed, the murderer running loose. For all he knew, Fulk had regressed to his old ways once again, but he dare not tell Sir Emeric that. "I'll send some people to search for him. If he's a deserter, then he will be dealt with accordingly."