In the spring of 1075, Venice was bathed in the soft golden light of misty dawns, as the sun peeked over the fiery red rooftops of San Marco, casting its glow upon the canal waters that shimmered like a vast mirror reflecting the entire city. The air was thick with the scent of blooming lavender along the canal banks, mingling with the aroma of freshly baked bread from roadside ovens, and the tolling of church bells echoing from towering campaniles, welcoming a new day in this rising empire of commerce. I was 24 years old—an age that for many marked the pinnacle of a career—and I possessed everything a wanderer from the muddy soils of Normandy could ever dream of: abundant wealth with over fifty pounds of gold amassed in a secret vault, a small stone house by the San Polo canal with a balcony overlooking the water, and my name inscribed in the Venetian merchants' guild ledger—a symbol of recognition from the trading magnates.
My shop, "Ealdred di Mont-Saint-Michel – Spezie & Ambra," was a familiar destination near the Rialto Bridge, where customers from Genoa, Pisa, and even Constantinople flocked to buy pungent Indian pepper, glittering Baltic amber, and silky Persian silk. Yet my heart no longer found the peace it had in those early days upon arriving here. Each time I watched the merchant fleets depart from the San Nicolò dock, their white sails billowing in the spring breeze, a strange wave surged within me—an unnamed longing that quickened my pulse. I missed the clang of swords on the Hastings battlefield, the thunder of hooves galloping across Sicilian plains, the smell of heated iron and scorched leather in the clashes at Manzikert. The gleaming gold coins in my vault were now nothing but shimmering chains, binding me to a steady but fireless existence. One April night, in the tavern "Il Leone d'Oro" near the Rialto Bridge—where red wine flowed like rivers and laughter echoed off ancient stone walls—I overheard knights from Lorraine fervently discussing an impending Holy Army.
They were young riders in gleaming iron armor and white cloaks embroidered with red crosses, their eyes blazing with the same fire I had seen at Hastings in 1066 and Manzikert in 1071: the flame of destiny, blind faith, and unquenchable ambition. "Pope Gregory VII has called for it," a tall knight with a golden beard boomed like thunder, "to liberate Jerusalem from the Seljuk Muslims. Those who march will be absolved of sins, and their souls will ascend to heaven!" That night, returning to my room by the canal, where the flickering olive-oil lamp illuminated ledgers of goods, I gazed at the gold I had hoarded over four years and faced a harsh truth: they were merely glittering, cold shackles, like a tomb. I had once lived by blood spilled on battlefields; now I lived by profits from markets. But both were frigid, both lacking the true breath of life. I understood: my soul, the wanderer since childhood, was about to set sail once more, seeking a purpose greater than gold and silver.
News from Byzantium spread across Europe like wildfire on dry grasslands: the Seljuk Turks, led by fierce sultans from the Central Asian steppes, had seized Jerusalem in 1073, tormenting Christian pilgrims with heavy taxes and violence, turning the Holy Land—where Lord Jesus had once walked—into a realm of chaos under Muslim yoke. From Rome, Pope Gregory VII—the reforming pontiff with iron will and ambitions to dominate the entire Christian world—sent messages urging the faithful to "liberate the Holy Land," promising absolution and paradise to those who took up the sword.
In Venice, small churches like San Giacomo or Santa Maria Formosa buzzed with prayers echoing through the night, ancient Latin mingling with the sobs of mothers bidding farewell to sons. Young knights from France, Germany, and Italy gathered in St. Mark's Square—the city's heart with its shimmering marble pavement and splendid Byzantine basilica—raising wooden crosses to the sky, swearing to depart for faith, glory, and vague promises from heaven. I stood amid that chaotic crowd, inhaling the incense from the church and the resounding cries of "Deus vult!"—God wills it!—and in a fleeting moment, I saw myself at fifteen, clutching a Viking spear in the Norman mists, fleeing slave hunters. Perhaps I had never truly left war behind; I had only paused in Venice to learn how to trade in human faith, turning belief into merchandise and gold into a tool. But now, that faith—whether religious or a craving for glory—drew me back to the blade. I recalled the words of my foster father long ago at Mont-Saint-Michel, an old farmer with callused hands: "A man only truly lives when he knows what is worth dying for." I decided: I would sell everything—the shop with its spice-filled wooden shelves, goods worth dozens of pounds of gold, even the canal-view room with its wooden balcony where I had pondered under the moon—to exchange for new iron armor, a powerful warhorse, and a place in the Holy Army. If the world plunged into war's flames once more, I would not stand on the sidelines as a bystander; I would charge in, as I had in every battle before.
I sold the shop to Marco and Petros—my two loyal assistants who had followed me from the early days of hauling in Niccolò's warehouse.
Marco, the smooth-talking Venetian with a charming smile, pleaded: "Master, stay! War brings only death and ashes. Venice is home, the future!" Petros, the Greek with deep-set eyes, added: "We've built a small empire here, from pepper to amber. Don't throw it away for promises from Rome!" I merely smiled faintly, my voice warm yet resolute: "I'm not going to die, my friends. I'm going to reclaim the part of my soul lost amid cold gold. Venice taught me trade, but the battlefield will teach me to live." On the day I left Venice, the sky was leaden gray, the canals eerily still without a ripple, as if the city itself clung to me. I rode my jet-black steed named Aquila—purchased from a Dalmatian merchant at an exorbitant price, muscles rippling and eyes bright as stars—clad in gleaming iron armor beneath a deep red cloak embroidered with a white cross, my old Viking axe at my hip as a reminder of the past. By the Rialto Bridge, Isolda stood amid the crowd of merchants and sailors bidding farewell, her golden hair shimmering in the weak sun, her green eyes sorrowful. She said nothing, only silently placing a small amber piece carved with a falcon—symbol of freedom—into my hand. "So you remember the sea remains, Ealdred," she whispered, voice trembling. I nodded, squeezing her hand one last time, then turned away, a vague ache swelling in my chest—love in Venice was always as fleeting as spring breeze.
From the San Nicolò dock, I boarded a large merchant ship bound for Bari—the southern Italian port where Norman knights assembled under the banner of Godfrey of Bouillon, Duke of Lorraine, one of the First Crusade's earliest leaders. As the sails caught the wind and the sailors' rhythmic chants echoed, I glanced back at Venice one final time: the floating city with its crisscrossing canals, soaring bell towers, and bustling Rialto market fading into the mist. It had taught me to trade gold with cunning, but now, I sought to trade glory with blood and faith.
In Bari—a vibrant port in Apulia with ancient Roman stone walls and a bustling market teeming with Italian traders—I met them, the knights of the Faith, a motley yet magnificent army unlike any before. Godfrey of Bouillon, the chief leader, was a towering man with hair golden as ripe wheat, eyes sharp as a sword, and a voice resounding like thunder:
"Beloved brothers, those who march for the Cross shall not die, but exchange their lives for eternity in heaven!" Beside him was Baldwin—his brother, a taciturn man with cold eyes and hidden ambition, who would later become King of Jerusalem. The army numbered about three thousand: Norman knights from France and Italy in heavy armor and long lances, Lorraine peasants wielding crude axes, priests in white robes bearing crosses, and mercenaries like me—veterans of Sicily and Manzikert, hardened by bloody experience.
I joined Godfrey's forces as a volunteer mercenary, bringing lessons from Hastings in 1066—where I witnessed the fall of Saxon England—and Manzikert in 1071—where the Byzantine Empire crumbled. I was no longer a serf or merchant; I was Ealdred of Mont-Saint-Michel—a knight without title, a wandering warrior seeking purpose. Each night, the camp outside Bari blazed with echoing prayers and the clang of hammers forging weapons. I reforged my Viking axe with a new steel blade, shoed Aquila's hooves, and polished my armor to a shine under the campfire glow. There were lads barely eighteen, eyes alight with vague dreams of glory and heaven; and I, twenty-five with scars aplenty, knew the true cost of blood—not paradise, but pain, loss, and fragile survival. I did not fully believe in the Pope's God—who seemed silent amid the tragedies I had seen—but I believed in men changing fate with sword in hand. And here, amid thousands of flickering torches and cries of "Deus vult!", I felt destiny calling my name, a grand adventure that would reshape the history of Europe and the Middle East.
In June 1075, we departed Bari in a spectacle unmatched: over two hundred vessels large and small—from oared galleys to square-sailed cogs—cleaving the Adriatic waves, carrying some three thousand souls with weapons, provisions, and burning faith. The sky was azure, southern winds swelling the white sails, sailors' and knights' cheers echoing over the sea. The journey first took us through Durazzo—the Byzantine port in Albania with towering walls—then Thessalonica, following the ancient Byzantine road to Constantinople.
I sat on the lead ship's deck, sea wind stinging my face with salt, gazing at the endless expanse of waves crashing with whitecaps. Each gust through my hair recalled my Norman childhood—where a ten-year-old boy fled through the dark with hunger and fear. Now he returned, no longer the hunted, but one who chose his path, wielding a sword for a grand ideal. At each port of call, I witnessed the world's wondrous blend: Latin prayers from priests mingling with Arabic vendors' cries, heavy Norman armor beside thin Greek robes, and Genoese ships laden with trade goods intermingled with troop transports. I realized this Crusade—cloaked in faith—was not merely religious war; it was a complex mix of blind belief, lords' personal ambitions, and shrewd commerce—the ships carried not just knights but spices, silks, and gold for trade en route. And I, having experienced all three—faith from Mont-Saint-Michel's abbey, ambition from battles, commerce from Venice—felt more belonging than ever, like a perfect piece in history's vast mosaic.
Arriving in Constantinople in August 1075, the city emerged like a colossal jewel mirrored in summer's blazing sun: the golden domes of Hagia Sophia touching the blue sky, the towering Theodosian walls with jagged towers, and the Golden Horn harbor dense with vessels from across the Mediterranean. Godfrey's army camped outside the walls on lush fields near the Bosphorus, while Emperor Alexios I Komnenos—the young ruler with a black beard and wary eyes, who had ascended after Manzikert's disaster—greeted us with pompous ceremony laced with suspicion.
He had suffered crushing defeat at Manzikert in 1071, losing Anatolia to the Seljuks, and now begged aid from these barbarous Western knights—knowing they were a double-edged sword, capable of saving or devouring his empire. I was chosen as temporary interpreter thanks to my Greek learned trading with Theophanes, standing beside Godfrey in the Blachernae Palace—a marvel of marble columns and glittering mosaics. I witnessed the tense negotiations: Godfrey demanded gold and supplies in exchange for pledges against the Seljuks; Alexios required the lords to swear fealty to Byzantium.
I suddenly grasped a profound truth: the war for the Cross began with coin, with deals as cunning as those at the Rialto market. That night, leaving the palace with a purse of reward gold, I paused before the equestrian statue of Justinian, cross thrust skyward, and thought: "History repeats, merely in different garb." I had once traded spices in this city; now I returned to trade the world's faith. Both held equal value, differing only in currency: one in gleaming Byzantine gold, the other in blood spilled on deserts.
In September 1075, the army crossed the Bosphorus on vast pontoon bridges, advancing into Asia Minor along the old path of Romanos IV that I had trod at Manzikert. The landscape remained as harsh as memory: golden sand under scorching sun, winds whistling over low hills like mournful cries, and Byzantine soldiers' bones still bleaching under thin soil, relics of the 1071 catastrophe. I led a small logistics unit—ten young soldiers with three wagons of water, hardtack, salted meat, and herbal salves—drawing on my Venetian merchant experience in managing goods. We moved slowly over rugged roads, evading lurking Seljuk raiders. Nights under star-thick skies, campfires warming against desert chill, I heard the wind howl like echoes of the past—Khalid al-Turki's voice, Hakon's fall. One night near Nicaea, local bandits struck from the shadows, horses neighing and arrows whistling. I felled the first charger with my Viking axe, steel ripping his leather tunic, then downed two more with precise short-spear throws from Manzikert lessons.
The young soldiers stared in awe, eyes flashing respect; I said curtly: "This isn't Holy War; this is pure survival." After the skirmish, Godfrey summoned me to his command tent—a large pavilion with a red cross banner—and declared: "Ealdred, you fight like one who's lived in hell and returned. From now, you're my logistics chief and personal guard." I replied: "My lord, I never left that hell." He gazed long, golden eyes acknowledging, then nodded. From that day, blood and duty mingled in me again, as gold and spices once had in Venice.
We reached Antioch—ancient city in Syria—by late 1075, a colossal fortress like a scar of time: soaring walls with jagged towers, heavy iron gates, and a populace mixed of Greeks, Armenians, Arabs, and Turks. Godfrey negotiated supplies with local Byzantine officials, but food was scarce, diseases spreading like wildfire—malaria, dysentery from tainted water. I saw men die not from swords but hunger and fever's torment—mirroring my Norman childhood of poverty and illness. Each night, I noted in my old leather journal: "No Cross saves one without bread and clean water." Yet amid suffering, humanity shone. I met a monk named Bernard from Cluny, a gaunt man in brown robes with kind eyes, who said: "God needs no spilled blood; He needs understanding and mercy among men." We spoke hours by the fire of war, faith, and life's fragility. He taught me to pray in silence, listening to wind and heartbeat, not lengthy chants. Perhaps for the first time in years since leaving Mont-Saint-Michel's abbey, I felt my soul partly cleansed—not by holy water, but profound reflection. But I knew the road to Jerusalem would run red with blood, for the Seljuks would not yield the Holy Land easily. I had chosen this path, and what is chosen cannot be undone, even at the cost of life.
In January 1076, we pressed south through the Syrian desert—a deadly realm of skin-searing sun, blinding dust, and water so scarce each skin was treasure.
Many perished en route, bodies shriveled under the heat, but the army's spirit held firm with hymns and Godfrey's encouragements. One morning near Tripoli, scouts reported urgently: a Seljuk cavalry of about five hundred loomed ahead, crescent banners fluttering. I ordered long spears and wooden shields formed into a semicircle guarding the supply wagons, creating a mobile fortress in the sands. As the enemy stormed like a sand whirlwind, horses screaming and arrows blackening the sky, I hurled the first spear, piercing a lead rider's chest; he crumpled in dust. Wind whipped sand and screams into horrific chaos, a miniature Manzikert. I felt Khalid al-Turki's ghost again—the fierce warrior of old—but this time, fear was gone; battle-hardened calm let me command. We held formation, thrusting long pikes through charging foes, shields deflecting arrows, then counterattacking with Norman cavalry. After two hours of fierce combat, the Seljuks retreated in defeat, leaving dozens of corpses on blood-red sand. As dust settled, I surveyed: young soldiers knelt kissing crosses, tears streaking grimy faces; I stood still, hands blood-sticky, pondering deeply: perhaps God dwells not in distant heavens, but in survivors' hearts, in resilience and unity amid turmoil.
We neared the Levant coast in spring 1076, where the sapphire Mediterranean opened like a promise of salvation after the deadly desert. White-sailed Genoese and Pisan ships crowded Tripoli's port, laden with European supplies. Godfrey assembled the army on golden sands, ordering rest and preparation for Jerusalem's siege the following year—a grand plan demanding patience and strategy. I pitched my tent by the shore, watching sunset bleed into the water like diluted blood, waves lapping gently like the ocean's lullaby. In my pocket, Isolda's amber falcon glowed softly by campfire light, recalling Venice and trading days. I penned the final line in my worn leather journal under the sparkling Levant stars: "From a Norman serf fleeing hunger, to a Venetian merchant trading gold with guile, from a Manzikert mercenary surviving hell, to this Crusader—I no longer flee; I advance toward a grand purpose." I knew the road ahead would be endless and brutal, with sieges, starvation, and bloodshed, but now I possessed what the ten-year-old Norman boy never had: a reason to live, an ideal beyond gold and personal survival. As night fell, waves pulsing slow like the ancient world's heartbeat, I gripped my Viking axe—companion through many lives—gazing at southern stars guiding to Jerusalem, and whispered to the sea breeze: "Jerusalem—I am coming, with faith or ambition, but certainly with all that I am."