And here is chapter 4 of my tale. For those worried about it, I will not include too much European politics in the story. Some will come through, but not so much as to override the plot. I do hope you enjoy.

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Chapter 4: Kirkwall

The large stone walls of Kirkwall loomed before Gwenhwyfar, torches lit along the ramparts silhouetted patrolling soldiers, the large oaken gates open wide with guards standing on either side, fists clenching long spears, fur capes draped over their shoulders to protect from the cold. Gwenhwyfar approached with no words, Adara snorting gently sending out plumes of misty breath into the night air. A heavy cloak was pulled tightly around her, though the cold of the Scottish wind did little to affect her, it would help to keep eyes off of her. No one would notice another cloaked traveller amongst the many that came through this port city.

The guards stood straighter as Gwenhwyfar came ever closer, peering through the darkness, at horse and rider. Gwenhwyfar sniffed the air, smelt the blood stirring in the two men's veins. She felt the ache in her fangs, the salvia that wet her mouth, but held it back. The guards eyed the bow tied down atop her saddlebags, and the sword hanging from her hip. The one on the right looked into Adara's eyes, and jumped back a little noting the dull red of those orbs.

"Will there be trouble?" asked the guard on the left, ignoring his partner's reaction.

"I seek passage, that is all," Gwenhwyfar said, pulling back her hood so that the guard may see her face, and the guard squinted into the night.

"Indeed," the guard said eyes glancing to the horse, before reaching up and removing his helmet. In the faint torchlight Gwenhwyfar could see the grey hairs starting to overrule the brown. He nodded to his comrade who gladly took a few steps back.

"I was told you would pass this way. Captain MacDonald wishes to speak with you," he said, before gesturing for her to pass through the gates.

Gwenhwyfar nodded, replacing her hood as she pressed in with her heels and Adara's hooves beat against the dirt path and soon clacked against cobblestone roads. The second guard averted his eyes, leaning away from the passing figure. The city had not changed much in the hundred years since Gwenhwyfar had last stepped foot within her walls. The hovels were still in poor condition and smelt of shit and mildew, the streets strewn with rotten straw, and the noise of a nearby inn overflowing into the streets sounded of drunken sailors and whores. She pressed on, moving past the empty market towards the barracks.

It was made up of three interconnected structures, with an iron fence and gate closing off the central drill square from the remainder of the town. A wooden shack stood just to the side of the gate proper within the small compound, a single guard standing before it, gauntlets tucked under his arm while he warmed his hands over a flickering brazier. As Adara whinnied, the man looked up, and frowned.

"Who are you?" he asked, quickly pulling his gauntlets back on and grasping the spear he had leaning against his shoulder.

"I was told that Captain MacDonald wished to speak with me."

"Still doesn't answer who you are," the guard said, lowering his weapon so the point jutted between two bars of the fence.

"My name is Gwenhwyfar."

The guard stared at her for a moment, then rapped a bell hidden within the shack with his spear. Nothing happened, but the soldier stepped forward and opened the gate, grunting with effort as he pushed wide. Gwenhwyfar nodded to him as she walked within, before noting the archer standing atop the barracks, bow held in one hand whilst the other slipped an arrow back into the quiver on his back.

Adara stopped in the middle of the parade square, and Gwenhwyfar gracefully slid off, feet gently tapping against the roughly laid cobblestone. Her eyes darted between the three buildings. Neither had any distinction as to which was which, it had been a long time since she'd been to any barracks, and armies changed with the ages. She decided the central building, the northern wing, was the dormitories. A single square tower rose up from the roof, a small window looking down across the city, with a faint light struggling to be seen through the glass.

"Stay here. I do not think this will be long," she said to Adara, before stepping off, boots tapping against the ground.

Like a phantom she slipped through the door, silent, moving down the short hall and the closed doors, ignoring the gentle snores coming from within each one. A spiralling staircase awaited her, going up into the tower. Fingertips trailed over a wooden banister, admiring the craftsmanship, before she stepped into a surprisingly large chamber. It instantly reminded her of home, except the bed was smaller and less comforting, a chest laying at its foot. An armour stand stood beside the desk perched beneath the window, a flickering candle sat upon that desk, a man with nearly white hair leaned over parchment as his quill danced, leaving trails of ink in its wake.

Gwenhwyfar made sure to press her foot down with each step to ensure the aging man could hear her, but he did not respond. The vampire began to wonder if the man was deaf, but why would he be up here if he were?

"There has not been one of your kind in Kirkwall for many years now," the man said, his voice was raspy and rough. His head turned slightly, revealing the mottled flesh from scars that only flames could leave.

"Captain MacDonald I presume. You knew I was coming," Gwenhwyfar said stepping closer, even as the man turned his attention back to whatever he was writing.

"I am, and I did. I keep my ear to the ground when it comes to the clans. This town used to thrive with the undead. Until my predecessors drove them out. Still, it has been passed down to each captain, the news of your home in the north of the island," MacDonald said, picking up his quill and wiping the excess ink off the tip, and pushing a stopper into the ink well.

"So then why do you wish to speak with me?"

MacDonald carefully folded the letter he was writing. Silence built in the room as he dribbled hot red wax across the folded over edge, and pressed a stick down on the sticky puddle. The seal of Kirkwall looked up at the captain as he pushed the letter to the side, and finally stood. With some difficulty Gwenhwyfar noted to herself.

"Because you are a vampire, and when vampires are about, people disappear."

"I am simply passing through. I am here for a boat only."

"To Norway. There is a single merchant ship heading that way tomorrow morning. It will not dock at Narvik, but you may be able to convince the captain to drop you off there beyond nightfall. Take this, it will secure your passage," Captain MacDonald said, picking up the freshly sealed letter, and holding it out in crooked hands. The man was nearing retirement.

"Why are you helping me. I could have secured my own passage," Gwenhwyfar said, taking the letter, holding it crisply in her hand.

"Politics. I do not want you in my city. If it were not for your clan, I would have you killed and burned. As it is, I have the safety of the people here to watch out for. Should anyone been found slain by you, and I will know, I will hunt you down creature."

Gwenhwyfar held back a smile at the thought of this old man trying to strike her down, but instead simply nodded and turned, walking back towards the stairs. MacDonald watched her descend, and when she was gone, he sat himself down and let out a long breath of relief.

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Sir Alan Winterfeld watched Lord du Lac ride in through the main gates of Acre, face hidden from the sunlight by that black helmet of his. Most of his soldiers wore garb to cover their faces as well, whether stifling helmets or simple rags wrapped about the face.

"You ever seen him out of his armour? He looks pale as snow," Sir Reynard Laroque said with a laugh.

"I have not. I have however seen how troops sent to fight for him vanish. Our forces shrink ever so slightly with each raid he commits, and his grow," Alan remarked, taking a long swig from the water skin hanging from his belt.

"You are not the only one to notice such things my friend. There are dark rumours floating about Du Lac, and my King is not pleased. He is threatening to pull his support from this crusade," Reynard said, stroking his beard.

"And if he does return to France, will you go with him?" Alan said, turning his attention away from the small parade of soldiers under Du Lac's command.

"I have not yet decided. The priests tell me that I should stay, the lords and advisors say I should leave. After the things we've seen and done here my friend, I am not so sure God cares what I do," Reynard said somberly.

"It is difficult to wash away sins with blood," Alan said with a snort, before spitting into the dust of the city's streets.

"Do not let too many hear you utter those words. I may be able to protect you from Saracen blades, but against the stab of tongues, I have no shield. This is Acre, these walls have ears," Reynard warned, and Alan nodded, thankful for the advice.

"Regardless, something must be done of Du Lac. His power grows, even as kings grow suspicious. If your Philippe leaves, Du Lac may as well, with a good number of English soldiers," Alan said.

"If not my king, then with Leopold. Richard has slighted the man, and Du Lac apparently has ties to Lithuania. If the Germans depart, then Du Lac may take the opportunity to as well. He does not seem like a religious sort."

"He's up to something, I know he is."

Reynard smiled, and looked about, before stopping his friend. His words were hushed, and deadly serious.

"These walls may have ears, but I have eyes in my purse. We can discover what Du Lac is plotting, even if the kings are too busy squabbling amongst each other to notice," he said.

"Then do it. I move to ensure no more of my men are transferred to Du Lac's command. Meet with me when you have learned something, until then my friend, be at peace," Alan said, clasping hands with his fellow knight.

"It is a shame that we must fight amongst ourselves so, while the Muslims are united against us," Reynard said, breaking the shake, and moving off down the road to the French quarter.

Alan watched him go, and turned his eyes back to where Lord du Lac's men still marched towards some shelter and water. There was something very off about them, and it chilled Alan's soul.

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