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I. On an ornate lintel in Westminster Abbey, a crown and orb sit gathering dust. Sometimes a ship comes, from France, perhaps Norway. The coast is littered with their bleached skeletons.
II. You buy turnips from a city shop. Where do they come from? The farmer's market in a village ten miles away. The merchant lies. There are no farmer's markets. There are no villages.
III. On Sunday, a papal bull arrives from Rome declaring a crusade. The signature is illegible. Who is the Pope now, anyway? You have forgotten. So has the messenger.
V. You buy passage to France by sea. Before long you set foot on the continent, leaving behind fading memories of fjords and sun-kissed beaches.
VI. At Sens, in Burgundy, masons chisel at a cathedral unlike any other, glittering majestic spires reaching for the sky. It is older than the masons; it is older than the trees.
VII. At the river-crossing on the Rhône, you share stories with the old toll-keeper. Such a good friend he is, to have followed you all this way. You look forward to seeing him on the Tanaro.
VIII. A wandering cartographer finds you in Genoa, but not what he seeks. Lost Rome? As if ever existed such a place. But his pockets are accommodating. You share fine biscuits and spiced mead over a case of old maps. In the morning you awaken in the ashen ruins of Milan.
IX. In serene Venetia sits a crusader in a dockside tavern, waiting for the ships. When will they come? Soon, he assures you. But soon you see him in every tavern, and wonder.
XIV. On the long road to the Kingdom of Jerusalem, a pilgrim greets you by name. They all greet you by name. There are no strangers on the road of God.
XV. In a small town in Antioch, the Templar at the prefectory grins and exchanges your letter of credit. You leave with a purse full of coin and risk a glance back. The levantine sun shimmers over the barren mountainside.
XVI. You watch as the crusaders stream southward, towards the Turkish lines. They are familiar faces to you, passing by every morning under the glittering sun. The distant, sullen din of battle soothes you to sleep in the warm afternoon.
XIX. Tall ships rest in the Venice Arsenal, wind in empty masts, rot in ageing timbers. Across from the slips, water-lilies bloom in the still water.