Dearest Santiago
A Spanish crusader describes the events of a battle in letter to his wife. Any suggestions on how to improve my will be appreciated as will spelling errors. This my first story so I’m not expecting greatness…
Dearest love I fear of what our future holds but I certain only doom will come. Saracens come from the north and are supported by Arab cavalry many of Templers holding the centre vanguard have rioted and the franks on the left flack have all been slaughtered.
My dear Santiago I fight for you and that cursed fool, Robert de Sablé. Only women and children should run from the screams of war and not the mighty knights west. The groin of the wounded horse scream of arrows that are let to fly and rain down on there unholy target.
Both Saracens and the forces of King Guy say that they are holy but they can barely begin to imagine the concept. No man who hold the sword, spear and has the marks of war can them selves holy.
During the rout I and my comrades went to defend a small village though originally we went to find cover and a place to hide but as the Saracens got closer and closer the started to become drunk on victory and turned more and more barbaric. Whether this was there true colors however I can’t say.
I saw a woman being raped and her son beaten I drew my sword kill the basted on the spot but the next thing I knew arm was cut on blood spited out tainted the sand a ghastly red I managed to drag my self to a hut during the thick of battle and write this letter. My last ode.
As may skin turn a ghostly pale and my blood runs dry I will only think about. My dear Santiago.
My dear Santiago I fight for you and that cursed fool, Robert de Sablé. Only women and children should run from the screams of war and not the mighty knights west. The groin of the wounded horse scream of arrows that are let to fly and rain down on there unholy target.
Both Saracens and the forces of King Guy say that they are holy but they can barely begin to imagine the concept. No man who hold the sword, spear and has the marks of war can them selves holy.
During the rout I and my comrades went to defend a small village though originally we went to find cover and a place to hide but as the Saracens got closer and closer the started to become drunk on victory and turned more and more barbaric. Whether this was there true colors however I can’t say.
I saw a woman being raped and her son beaten I drew my sword kill the basted on the spot but the next thing I knew arm was cut on blood spited out tainted the sand a ghastly red I managed to drag my self to a hut during the thick of battle and write this letter. My last ode.
As may skin turn a ghostly pale and my blood runs dry I will only think about. My dear Santiago.
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