East of Ashes

From God,

for God, and

to God.

If this novel touched you,

give glory to the Author and Finisher

of all things good and true.

PREFACE

When I first began writing this book, my pastor told me a story that
apparently
Kenneth Copeland once told.

The story goes that one day, after a particularly fine sermon, a couple came to Mr Copeland to thank him for it. The husband expressed his sincere appreciation and Mr Copeland answered modestly that it really wasn't him, but the Lord. To which the man's wife remarked dryly: "It wasn't
that
good."

Seriously though, I do not deserve any glory or any praise for this book you're about to read. If you enjoy it, then give thanks and praise to God, for He is "the author and the finisher of our faith," "in Him and through Him all things are," and "in Him we live, move and have our being".

It is my sincere prayer that this novel will bring you closer to God and give you a revelation of how deeply He loves you and longs to be involved in your life. I pray that you would heed His gentle knocking and allow Him to come in and heal the places so long left wounded.

On a different note, there is a saying that promotes not letting the truth get in the way of a good story. Although, I'm not saying lying is right when the situation calls for it, I do believe that in a work of fiction with a historical setting, the story and its message are more important than preserving the historical facts.

I've tried to keep the historical setting as accurate as possible, but I confess that my research might not always be as thorough as some would like it to be.

This is not to say that I took extreme liberties with history - far from it. It merely means that if certain historical facts are not entirely correct, then it's because I didn't want to get distracted by too m
any
fact
s
and so drown out the truths that I deem to be far more important.

The facts I went after - and tried to portray in this book - are the ones of God and of true life
,
w
hich I believe to be one and the same. For these are the kind of facts which are everlasting, the truths by which I try to live my life. As C
.
S
.
Lewis once said
,
"All that is not eternal, is eternally out of date."

So to the historians, I humbly apologise if I frustrate you at times. I trust that you will understand and appreciate my motivation and enjoy this novel for what it aims to be: a work of fiction set within a historical framework, but not a history book.

To you, the reader, may the Lord open your eyes to things you haven't
before
dreamed possible. May you come to experience His saving grace, transforming power - and love.

Gideon Nieuwoudt

Cape Town, 2011

But your dead will live; their bodies will rise.

You who dwell in the dust, wake up and shout for joy.

Isaiah 26:19a (NIV)

PROLOGUE

--- The south coast of France, August 1097 ---

On the horizon
,
thunderclouds billow and weave in a ballet of violence, prophetically sounding the events about to unfold. The fresh smell of rain reached Lamech as he stood on the cliff edge, looking down on the stormy waves crashing onto the rocks far below.

There w
ill
be no poetic moments in death today
, he thought
,
o
nly a brief moment of pain - and then nothing.

For a moment he considered calling the duel off. But his threadbare honour was one of the last remaining links he had to a life that was all but gone. If he walked away now, there would be nothing left.

A sinking sensation swirled in his gut, a familiar feeling brought on by imminent violence. Sadness crashed through him, drowning out all thoughts but the overwhelming sense of futility.

"It is time, my lord."

He turned around to look at his second, noting how careful he was not to meet his gaze.
He's afraid of me
, he thought. And not without reason.

He began to shake slightly
,
angry at the unfairness of it all; at the unshakable knowledge that his life was not one of consequence. Instead it had become a tool of destruction
,
and the more he raged, the more he killed, the more he found himself drowning in hopelessness.

As he looked past his second at the cluster of men standing at the bottom of the slope, the blistering rage continued to roll over him; wave upon wave crashing into him, threatening to sweep his sanity into the abyss. Barely keeping it in check, he systematically focussed it until it was absolute - as keen as the edge of a sword.

He looked at the thunderclouds one last time, taking a mental picture of the immense power on the brink of release. He closed his eyes
,
and when he was certain the violent picture was fixed in his mind, he set off down the hill towards where his opponent and a few curious onlookers were waiting.

Walking towards the waiting men, he took in his surroundings. Tufts of grass decked the sloping hill, dancing to and fro in the wind. At the bottom of the hill, just behind the waiting spectators, a collection of trees stood in a cluster, huddled together as if trying to find some escape from the weather through sheer force of numbers.

The greyish light, filtered through the thunderclouds, cast a ghostly hue. Looking at the tree tops buckling under the force of the wind, Lamech felt something inside himself stir dangerously.

This will have to go very quickly, before the light is completely gone
, he thought. He lengthened his stride, suddenly overcome with a sense of urgency. It would be best not to toy with his opponent
, but to
find his weakness and exploit it quickly.

He shifted his gaze towards the man waiting for him and stared at him fixedly. Lamech didn't know his name and didn't really care. To Lamech, he was just another faceless opponent.

Taller than the average man and strongly built, he didn't strike Lamech as easy prey though. He stood with his shoulders pulled back, his broad chest pushed out in an arrogant display of self-assurance.

And yet, when Lamech looked into his eyes, he saw a man who had bluffed his way out of dangerous situations before. But when pushed into a corner, didn't trust his own abilities nearly as much as he pretended to.

Lamech reached the group of people and came to a standstill a few paces from his opponent. The man fidgeted slightly under his revealing gaze - a nervous gesture that confirmed Lamech's suspicions.

Lamech's second handed him his sword and held out his hand to take his cloak. Lamech took the sword in one hand, and handed over his cloak.

Then he finally looked away from his opponent and stared at his sword as he gently drew it from its weather-beaten scabbard, marvelling at the sheer menace of the blade as it readily slid forth. The sword looked disconcerting in its hungry readiness to do what it was made
for
.

Made from steel mined from these very lands, the blade had an ominous sheen that gave the uncanny impression of having been dipped in blood.

When he looked up, he caught his opponent's eyes. He was staring at Lamech's sword too, completely transfixed by it.

One of the onlookers pressed through the group of people and walked towards them. Lamech took one look at his richly ornamented clothing and immediately recognised him as a priest.

"I beseech you not to spill blood here and bring eternal damnation upon yourselves," he droned shrilly, fanaticism gleaming in his eyes.

Lamech winced at the priest's words. If that was the judgement call of damnation on them, then every knight in all of France had already condemned themselves a thousand times over. Theirs was a life of war
,
and its inevitable bloodshed. It was the only thing they knew.

Lamech was pretty sure that even the pope realised that, which most likely was the reason for his call to Crusade two years ago. He offered salvation to all knights if they were to fight - and no doubt die - in pursuit of freeing the Holy City of Jerusalem from the Caracens, in exchange for doing what they do anyway.

It was cunning, Lamech had to admit; a brilliant plan to use religion and men's fear of God to further political ambitions. In one stroke the pope managed to shift the power base of Europe by aligning the nobility behind the church. Every knight was intensely aware that they had blood on their hands
, and
being offered the chance to cleanse their hands through a seemingly noble cause, was mightily attractive.