Europe of the 13th century was a world where death was a lot closer to every human than it is now. When someone died, profound grief a death is accompanied with nowadays could hardly be expected.
But still, on that day, everybody cried, because someone they all loved, the man, essential to the Templar Knights, who was to shoulder the future of the Order, died.
Gilbert Chartres died.
And not just died, but was murdered in the Templar Knights’ HQ in a highly bizarre way, and the news struck fear and sorrow in the hearts of the town residents.
“…”
Crowley was in his house, rocking in the loudly complaining chair and waiting, as time ticked away.
He didn’t attend the funeral service. The fact must have caused tremendous indignation among those who did. Everybody adored Gilbert, after all, so it was only to be expected. Gilbert was a flawless man. A man who kept believing in God no matter what despair he laid his eyes upon.