Under the Golden Cross

“Didn’t you kill any Turks today?”

Joseph looked down at his tunic, white with a red cross. The other man, large and looming, wore a dark splatter across his. A badge. “I carry the golden cross. I’m no killer.”

At dawn, Joe rode into battle. Pulled from his horse, he dropped the cross and plunged his knife into his attacker’s neck. Red sprayed across Joe’s tunic, dripped onto the cross in golden sand.

This piece of historical micro-fiction takes place during the Crusades, a topic I’ve always been interested in writing about–but I need to do much more research before even imagining writing a novel set against the backdrop of those wars.