"Sir Lothar! Will you join the Templars, or the Hospitallers?"

The monk had finished his sermon and now turned to Lothar with eager warmth. "Listen to me: a knight as pious and valiant as yourself is perfectly suited for the Knights Templar. The Templars are fierce in battle, never compromising with the infidel. Compared to the conservative Hospitallers, they are far better placed to win you glory!"

"Forgive me, Father Beckett. I do not intend to take lifelong vows. My father served King Baldwin and fought at the famed Battle of Montgisard, where the Ayyubid Sultan was defeated. I hope to carry on that tradition: to serve the King as a feudal vassal."

"No wonder your surcoat resembles the old-style tabards of the Royal Knights of Jerusalem. I had no idea your father had won such signal honor. I am humbled."

Beckett nodded thoughtfully. "But Sir Lothar—forgive my bluntness—you do not understand the situation in the Holy Land. In my humble judgment, swearing directly to the King is not a wise course. The King may not even have the leisure to see you, let alone grant you a fief."

"A military order is a fine path, especially the Templars. Joining an order does not preclude you from serving His Majesty."

Beckett began to lay out, in detail, the power and influence the military orders wielded in the Holy Land. The Knights Templar might be, in name, merely a military-monastic order, but in the Catholic world, they possessed thousands of manors and castles, and over a dozen scattered territories of varying size. On top of that, they received enormous donations from every quarter. And all Templar lands were tax-exempt.

They were themselves representatives of holy authority; no one could demand a tithe from them. Their wealth had allowed them to establish the earliest banks of this era. Many of the pilgrims on this very ship had borrowed from the Templars just to afford their passage and baggage.

The Templars were a crocodile coiled around the Holy Land. In name, an order. In truth, a state. Their wealth rivaled nations. Their military power was the equal of any great monarch in Christendom.

The Hospitallers, though somewhat weaker, occupied the same tier: merely more conservative, less aggressive in their methods. Together, these two orders had so thoroughly constrained King Baldwin IV's authority that they at times eclipsed the Crown itself. Yet the external threat was so severe that the King could neither expel nor suppress them. He had to court them. There was a saying on the streets of Jerusalem: The King may wear the sacred crown, but it is Gerard, Grand Master of the Templars, who is the true uncrowned king.

Lothar stood at the prow with Father Beckett, deep in conversation. The monk had crossed the Mediterranean many times, traveling to the West to raise funds and rally crusaders, then shepherding them to the Holy Land, where they became fresh blood for the military orders or settlers under feudal lords, earning Beckett his own support in turn. In essence, he was a broker. But everyone agreed it was holy work. Having lived in the Holy Land for two years, Beckett knew the lay of the land well.

"Sassanid and Ayyubid have joined forces. And within the Kingdom itself, the factions tear at each other without pause. The military orders each back their own claimant, maneuvering to wed their candidate to the King's sister, Princess Sibylla: to make him the next heir."

For the first time, a note of true pessimism crept into Beckett's voice. "I no longer know whether calling so many of Christ's children to the Holy Land is right or wrong. The infidel's iron hoof may crush everything."

You were the one who lured them here, Lothar thought, but aloud he said, "I had not realized the Kingdom's situation had grown so dire. But my father spoke of King Baldwin as an exceptional sovereign. How could he have let matters reach this state?"

"You are right. His Majesty is indeed a brilliant king, a military genius, a man of rare presence. But the leprosy has eroded his rule to a shadow. We all know: the gallant young king who shattered tens of thousands of infidels at Montgisard is never coming back. What remains is a leper who clings to life through agony."

Lothar was silent for a moment. His father's plan had been for him to serve Baldwin IV directly: he'd even given him a letter. But the King's ship, it seemed, was far less sturdy than he'd imagined. Yet weakness had its advantages. Precisely because the ship was listing, it would be easier for him to stand out, to earn the King's trust and reliance.

King Baldwin, whatever his condition, was still the one true, lawful King of Jerusalem. A thin camel was bigger than a horse. "Legitimacy" meant even more in the medieval world than it had in the East. And the leprosy… if he drew a healer Retainer, perhaps it wasn't incurable.

He thought it through and decided to stay the course. Serve King Baldwin. Even if he couldn't win a fief right away, it was still a better gamble than throwing himself into the talent-crowded military orders. After all, counts and great nobles donated their entire fortunes just for the privilege of joining the Templars: partly out of piety, but also because the orders were simply that deep.

Flowers in spring were never worth as much as coal in winter. And the orders were, at root, monastic institutions. To join, unless one bought an exception with ruinous donations, meant taking lifelong vows, surrendering all rights to inheritance and marriage. There was a bright line between that life and the life of a feudal lord.

"I will consider your words carefully, Father Beckett. Thank you for sharing your knowledge of the Holy Land's affairs. It has helped me greatly. May the Heavenly Father keep you." "Amen."

Lothar took his leave and was heading back to the cabin when he spotted a fat man in rich clothes lashing out at the sailors who'd been listening to the sermon.

"I pay you ten silver pennies apiece, and this is what I get? You lot standing around gawking! Get moving! Swab the decks!"

"Air the laundry! Mend the spare canvas! I don't care what. Just don't let me catch you idle again!"

The fat man was the ship's owner: the same Venetian merchant of flexible honor. Laine's cursing the day before had been prophetic. The man was, in fact, Jewish—a fact the Christian passengers clearly treated with suspicion.

But even the Venetians looked down on the Jews. They confined them to a segregated quarter called the "Ghetto." Jews could not engage in proper commerce; they were restricted to moneylending or, like this cog's captain, a grey-area passenger trade. In fact, outside a few Italian commercial republics, most lands strictly forbade Jews from employing Christians.

Discrimination had carved a deep rift between Jews and Christians, feeding a vicious cycle of distrust, exploitative lending, and worsening reputations.

It was worth noting that, in all of Christendom at this time, Jews could only find something like fair treatment under the fire-worshipping rulers of Iberia.

"They were not idle, you godless Jewish merchant! They were listening to my sermon: a sermon which you, by rights, are not even fit to hear!" Father Beckett's voice rang out in righteous fury.

The fat man sneered, his jowled face dripping contempt, but a glance at Lothar, and he swallowed the argument. "Sir Lothar! Are your quarters to your satisfaction? I cleared out the most spacious cabin especially for a knight of your stature: perfect for a man traveling with his ladies."

Lothar walked past him. He looked deep into the small eyes buried in the fat of the merchant's face, gave a noncommittal nod, and led his Retainers and followers below deck. The Jewish merchant's expression showed not the slightest trace of anger at the cold treatment. He watched Lothar's party disappear, and the corner of his mouth pulled into a faint, subtle curve.