It was still the 25th of December 1989 just fifteen minutes until midnight. Snow kept falling lightly on the makeshift mat box house, thin as breath. Inside, the lantern light shined upon many serious looking faces, bones and scraps of food in the middle where everyone's feet were pointed to, Anna who seemed lost and totally out of place with baby Strong on her lap. There wasn't room to stand but sitting was fine even for the largest of them that was Sir Egg. Men sat on one side. Women and Anna on the other with Anna covered on both sides by women. Sheepy lay across the doorway listening and looking into the darkness of night beyond for anything he might be able to chase.
Sir Egg's story still hung heavy in the air, a story about a life long ago, about the 4th crusade, and something about cutting a arm and a head and dying together, then something about a white city and angels and the afterlife, then something about coming back to life again, after which lives were pledged swords and throats alike to the Little Lord and his mother Anna. And as for Anna it was all simply a bit much, a lot that she simply didn't understand. She just stared at their faces that were so serious looking like dad after drinking a bit too much, they were dead serious and her in response her stomach did a slow roll. She'd thought of Strongs amazing powers as cool and amazing and all that had happened as a game of playing queen like she sometimes played dress-up. It was just meant to be a little game for the sake of Christmas fun, but these people weren't playing. They would really do anything she told them to do and that was suddenly feeling like a heavy burden to her now. She was six, she liked to play with dolls and she couldn't even finish the long words in her comic book called Legends of the Dark Knight without her having to stop and re read the words again and again until she got it right and understood the words.
So now with ten adults super seriously looking upon her she hesitated and was able to just say "Um… okay," her voice was small as she then continued saying, "Thanks for the nice words. I guess I, well I accept your pledges."
Hearing her words all the crusaders nodded, but they didn't smile which scared her. Did she say something wrong she wondered, even Sir Braveheart was looking at her as if judging her now. She then did a little bow and took one of the cookies that was still left at the center of them and she began nibbling on it aciously. She felt heavy, so out of place here like she always was at school.
Anna quickly smoothed the Hulk towel over Strong. He was dead asleep on her lap, mouth a little open and drooling, he was so warm and heavy and perfect and so confident looking unbothered by everything it seemed.
Everyone breathed around her in soft, careful rhythm. The crusaders' began mumbling something amongst eachother also beginning to eat again, their English still sounded like church and puzzles; she didn't know why she caught their words meanings perfectly but she did. However she still wondered what was a crusade, and what was going to happen next, what was Sir Braveheart going to do with those weapons and what was his real name anyway surely it wasn't Braveheart.
Thinking of all this she thought that maybe she should change the subject now. Start a new game like hide and seek or maybe she could just read a book to them like the Ugly Duckling story. She just wanted everyone to be happy like you were supposed to be on Christmas and not all serious like this.
Then suddenly Braveheart coughed to get everyone's attention. It was his stage-cough, the one used to pull a rooms attention and he did succeed. Heads turned and Anna was suddenly grateful—her first knight, finally speaking up, taking the hot stare of the circle off her and Strong.
But then like a little prankster, Strong farted a soft, trumpetty pfffft against the towel. And so everyone's eyes returned to the baby and to Anna again.
She froze and held her head even lower as she ate her cookie. Sheepy's ear flicked without moving his head.
Braveheart blinked and quickly then reset his face and coughed again. It was smaller this time, but it did the job. The circle's gaze swung his way and settled.
He looked around the small space at all their faces and said.
"Listen and listen well. I know we hold a language barrier here due to your old English and our modern one and that for whatever reason you understand me less than you do our queen Anna. But I'm sure you'll understand most of what I'm about to say."
He looked at the crusaders and they nodded as if understanding his words. Then he continued by saying. "Thus far you have told us your story. Now I should tell you what's become of Scotland and Christendom in the years since you fell in the 4th crusade. What banners fly now. What kings and popes and countries rule. What enemies threaten us all now."
He breathed in, owning the silence.
Anna's shoulders loosened a little with relief. Good. Talking. History. Grown-up words about big things she didn't have to decide right this second. She cuddled Strong closer and watched Braveheart's mouth shape the next sentence—
"Listen now, and listen well," he said, voice low but edged. "What I'm about to tell you isn't what you wish to hear, but it is the truth."
He let the lantern light catch his eyes. He didn't stand—the kneel made him look like both a priest and a knife at the same time.
"Your Fourth Crusade failed miserably. The very realm that begged your help was weakened for it, and though it did not fall back then, fall it did in time. Others rose to take the cross after you, with banners, vows, and swords—but they failed too. Our enemy was relentless and too many, while we spent our time quarreling amongst ourselves. And so, in time, Constantinople was taken because of our weakness. The city was razed to the ground, its population either slaughtered mercilessly or enslaved, its great churches stripped and turned to other signs; even its name was changed. The people who once lived there were made to suffer—those who resisted were killed, and those who surrendered were forced to pay heavy taxes unless they converted to Islam. And so it was that through coercion and force, our enemies spread further into our lands. Ever since then, the tide has run the wrong way—closer and closer our enemies come toward the heart of Christendom, while we sit and simply accept their coming."
One of the crusaders swallowed hard. Sir Egg's jaw tightened. The women stared, hands tight in their sleeves.
"And at home," Braveheart went on, bitterness wrapped in silk, "what once was has been lost. No kings are any longer anointed by God to hold true power over their chosen people. Now only incompetence rules, chosen by the masses through popularity contests they call democracy. The rulers you once knew, and the seats that should guard the faith and their own people, are gone. Now we are ruled by old, corrupt men—and even women—with soft hands, who bless whatever gains them applause. And our Holy Book stretches to accommodate, like skin over any new idol, so long as it sounds nice. Nothing is sacred or pure. All men worship now is money."
He looked over them once more, eyes glinting in the lantern light, then continued.
"Our world is mapped from pole to pole, and eyes turned upward to the heavens—yes, we've grown clever. More clever than you, coming from the medieval ages, could ever imagine. However, in our cleverness we have lost our faith and we have lost ourselves. We have lost what we once were—duty traded for comfort, cold hard truth for whatever makes the people feel good about themselves."
Anna didn't understand all of it fully, but she felt the weight of it. She felt that something was really wrong in society and in the world, even though she had never thought about it before. Then Braveheart continued, his tone deepening.
"And as for Scotland?" He drew a slow breath. "Well, she is not as she once was in your time. Our crown is gone; the English sit in our halls and write our fate. The Stone that sang under our kings was dragged south and made to sing in theirs. We fly Saint Andrew's cross and pretend that's a kingdom. And now we even invite those very outsiders our ancestors once fought to come and settle upon our island, to spread their beliefs and ways of life, and we even let them ravage our women. They arrive by ships, bringing their laws, their customs, their quarrels—and we're told to call it the right thing to do, as if we owe them something. But I say, if we keep this course, soon you will live to see an island that cannot remember its own name. And as has happened many times before in history, once the invaders grow too bold and too numerous, then the killing begins—and we are either sent away or forced into hiding, to once again bide our time."
The circle was very still. Sheepy's tail thumped once—dreaming—then stopped.
"Because of this," Braveheart said, "I labor for a new dawn for a free Scotland. I wish to raise a Scottish monarch with a clean soul and a steady hand to take the seat that is ours and restore right order to a land our fathers bled to keep."
He let the words sit, heavy as the snow.
Around him the crusaders looked troubled, caught between the world they had left and the one he named. Anna listened, unsure if Braveheart was spinning a scary story or telling the truth, because from where she sat everything seemed fine. Of course her situation at home was not the best, but she friends now, and she had Strong and they had food and shelter as well so what more could she ever truly wish for.
Then Braveheart's voice gentled, which somehow made it colder. "But fear not. Worry not. We Scots have been given the key to our freedom—and to Christendom's new dawn. A key for all who hold to the one true faith under the sky."
He turned his palm, inviting them to follow his gaze.
"And that key," he said, "is right here."
He extended his arm and pointed toward Strong, who at that exact moment twitched in his sleep and made a tiny grunting sound, his fist curling as if he were striking down some unseen foe.
"Here," Braveheart said, his voice trembling with conviction, "here lies our path to freedom, to glory, and to the redemption of Christendom. Here lies the proof that God has not abandoned us, that He still watches from the heavens and sends His will to Earth when the world begins to rot."
The Crusaders stared at Strong as if looking upon a relic made flesh. None dared to speak. Even Sir Egg, whose eyes had seen both battle and death, now looked like a man reborn.
"You've seen it with your own eyes," Braveheart continued, passion rising in his throat. "This is no ordinary child. This babe—this mighty infant—calls forth warriors from the past, calls forth weapons from the void, conjures bread, meat, and shelter from nothingness! What greater miracle could any prophet show? Tell me—did not the Christ Himself summon wine from water, heal the sick, raise the dead? This child has done no less. He has brought life where there was none!"
Sir Egg crossed himself without thinking. The others followed, one by one, like ripples spreading through water.
"Do you not see?" Braveheart said, his voice breaking into something close to awe. "He was sent to us. Not to Rome, not to Jerusalem, not to the proud towers of the West—but here. To Scotland! To us! The forgotten, the broken, the lost sons of the faith! We who have suffered under the yoke of others—He has come to lift that yoke from our necks!"
He sat straight now, his head brushing the tent's roof, his shadow flickering like a great, dark cross behind him.
"The world mocked us, cast us aside, called our faith old and dying—but God has chosen Scotland for His rebirth! This child—Strong—is the sign! He is the Son reborn, the flame reignited, the sword reforged in heaven's fire! And we—" he looked around the small space, eyes burning, "we are His first disciples, His swords and His shields! We are the ones who will make a foundation from which He will begin to rule and conquer all."
The crusaders made the sign of the cross as one, some whispering prayers in old tongues, others simply shedding tears of faith. The women bowed their heads, trembling. Even Sheepy whined softly, sensing the weight in the room.
Anna looked around, wide-eyed. She didn't understand, but she felt it—the warmth, the power, the seriousness of it all. Everyone was looking at her and Strong. It made her chest flutter in a way she didn't like, but it also made her feel somehow powerful and proud.
Strong stirred, opened his mouth, and let out a tiny snore before falling still again.
Braveheart looked toward the baby and whispered, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy will be done; Thy kingdom be made—as it is in heaven, so shall it be on this earth. And forgive us our past failures, as we seek to dispose of those who have trespassed against us; and lead us not into temptation, but let our lands be cleansed of the evil that plagues us, so Your Son—this baby—can take His rightful throne before all mankind. Amen."
Sir Egg's voice followed, low and trembling. "For the Cross… for the King of Kings. Amen."
The other crusaders also said, "Amen."
Anna swallowed hard. She felt warmth on her cheeks, the press of the air, the sound of hearts beating all around her. She didn't know what to say, so she just whispered, barely audible:
"Please don't wake up the baby."
But no one laughed at her words. No one even looked; they merely prayed.
Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and endless, as the first cult of the new Christ was born in a mat-box in the bushes.
Yet there was one problem Anna wished to correct before bedtime came: the crusaders could barely understand half of what Braveheart said, and Braveheart understood only pieces of their rough old tongue. So before sleep, Anna took out The Ugly Duckling and began to read aloud, pausing often to explain each word. The men listened in perfect silence as if attending church, as if this small red-haired girl reading fairy tales were performing Mass. And Anna felt a sense of relief as the tense night slowly became more relaxed. But as for Braveheart, he kept looking at the baby with a knowing smile; in his head the baby already sat upon a throne with a crown, and he himself stood before a hundred thousand well-armed and armored men with the Scottish lion flag flapping in the wind behind him.
But Braveheart was not done just yet. He merely was waiting for the right opportunity to speak his mind further and reveal his plans.
As the night quieted, the food was eaten and one by one they fell asleep. Anna, having seen and suffered and been through so much, sank into a deep, exhausted sleep. It was then, as the 25th of December passed and the 26th began, long before the early morning light, that Strong woke and nearly cried — baby needs, wetness, the urge to relieve himself. But before he could shed even a tear, one of the women — a crusader — was already awake and at his side, ready to attend the Little Lord.
She took the child outside and cleaned him in the river. Another woman accompanied her, and together they did their utmost to see that their lord was well. The Little Lord, unsurprisingly, summoned a new bottle from nowhere; milk lay within it. As the baby suckled and his belly settled, Braveheart approached, asking the woman if he might hold the child.
She handed him over quickly. In the bushes outside the mat-box, Braveheart cradled the Little Lord and, with the others hushed nearby, asked for more of the child's power to help them in their future plans.
At once, for all nine crusaders, tier-four body armour and vests appeared: matching chainmail beneath modern vests, white tabards emblazoned with red crosses, steel helmets with T-shaped visors, sidearm holsters at their hips with pistols and spare magazines, and full magazines for their rifles. Nine bayonets for their rifles also materialised, and enough ammunition to fill the vests — three hundred rounds for each of the nine crusaders.
Anna slept peacefully, Sheepy curled at her side. Braveheart returned Strong to Anna's lap and then, outside the mat-box, revealed his plan to the crusaders.
"When the first light of dawn comes," he said, "I want you all to put on this gear — chainmail, steel shoulder pads, gauntlets, boots, steel helmets, modern level-four combat vests, sidearms and holsters, and the AK-47s with bayonets. I want your vests full of ammunition. At dawn we move to my van that is like a carriage that only needs the driver to move, and we begin laying the foundation for our future emperor — our king, the Little Lord Strong. We will first secure funds from a bank."
He paused to let the word settle; many of the men did not know what a bank was, but Braveheart pressed on. "It's a guarded place that holds wealth — paper money, pounds. We will need the money to gain power fast, a hideout for ourselves can also be obtained, and, more importantly we will strike this bank to make a statement. And in doing this, we will sow fear and doubt among the people of this land and make them see that their oppressors who have taken our lands can be defeated. This is the first step. There will be many others. Many will die: the innocent, the guilty — good and evil people alike. Such is war; such is the price of freedom. I am willing to sacrifice all, even our own, to see it come to pass. Remember — our Little Lord holds a power to restore life. Those who fall might yet be brought back if he wills it, so do not feel any remorse or pity for the dead."
Sir Egg exchanged a troubled look with the others. "Are you sure this is the right path?" he asked. "You speak of crime, of murder. Should we not strike at the state, the rulers themselves?"
Braveheart smirked, confidence unbent. "Worry not," he said. "A wise woman once told me: all crime and evil is permitted, all is just, so long as you do not get caught, and that is why you will wear helmet's to cover your faces. And besides, Edinburgh the city you probably in your day knew as a small town — is vast now. Millions live here; millions more live across Britannia. The power of our oppressors is deep and far-reaching. It will not fall to a handful of men with weapons. The corrupt power of our oppressors runs deep; we must dig from the root and work our way upward. We will draw out their forces, and there will be siege and burning and death. We will bled our enemy slowly. Then finally a midst the hardship, the death and the dying, people will search for answers; in darkness, they will look for light. Then we will offer them that light — the path out. Trust me. Prepare yourselves. We leave at dawn."