I carried the idea of writing this novella with me for many years, never rushing its realization, allowing the concept to mature and evolve on its own terms. At first, I imagined the story as a full-length, expansive novel. Yet over time, after deeper reflection, I came to the conclusion that a more suitable form would be something shorter, more intense — a novella. The choice of subject was not accidental — it is tied to my earlier studies in history, which culminated in the defense of my master’s thesis titled “Latin-Greek Relations in the Light of Historiography of the Crusading Era.” Even then I sensed that the reflections and themes I explored in that paper could not be left confined to the pages of an academic dissertation. They deserved to be brought to life in another way — lest they be forgotten and fade into obscurity. However, this novella is about something much deeper than a historical concept. It is a story filled with emotion, exploring the bonds of brotherhood, love, jealousy, the search for oneself, and the pursuit of ambition. Though the action is set in the Middle Ages, I strongly believe the themes it touches upon are universal and timeless, echoing the same desires and emotions that guide us even today. Yet even this, all I’ve revealed so far, still does not exhaust the heart of my idea. Once, while traveling on a tourist coach and staring at the monotonous scenery through the window, a mad, unconventional thought struck me — that reading does not have to be static and passive. It can become interactive, dynamic — an experience that engages the body as well as the mind. At first, I imagined that rhythm should be tapped out with a pencil, but soon I realized that a much more natural and practical solution would be to use our own fingers and hands — always present and ready for action. Out of concern for safety and comfort, it’s important to be mindful: the goal is to mark rhythm and enrich the reading experience — not to hurt oneself or damage nearby objects.
In the text, you will encounter special cues in parentheses, indicating the precise moment to strike a rhythm:
● (one tap) — a single, light tap of the ring finger (next to the thumb) against a table or your own knee,
● (rhythmic taps) — rapid tapping with the middle finger for around ten seconds,
● (knock once) — one firm knock with a clenched fist, turned so that the pinky is closest to the table or knee, to mark a climactic moment,
● (flat hand tap) — a strong but not aggressive strike with the open palm, with the inner side touching the surface, to emphasize significance of the scene.
The clash of swords tore through the silence that had, until then, hung over the courtyard like a veil. The metallic strikes of blades grew louder and more frequent, swelling into a furious and accelerating exchange of blows. Sunlight danced along the steel, casting glimmering reflections that seemed to swirl in unison with the rhythm of the fight. Two knights — Baldwin and Hugon — faced off in a duel brimming with ferocity, endurance, and unwavering resolve.
Baldwin fought with an intensity far exceeding his usual vigor, driving forward with a fury that bordered on reckless (rhythmic taps) . He could feel anger surging through his veins — a fire, searing and uncontrollable. Once again, as had happened so many times in recent months, he had awoken in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, screaming a single word: “Ecri-sur-Aisne!” That place — cursed and tragic — had taken from him both the glory of a warrior and the life of his beloved younger brother: the two treasures that had once given his life meaning (once knock).
Hugon, older and more seasoned, though still strong and agile, was beginning to falter. With each passing moment, it became harder for him to deflect Baldwin’s relentless strikes. Blow after blow drained his strength, until finally — utterly exhausted — he yielded. His sword was knocked from his hand, clattering across the stone floor with a sharp, ringing echo (flat hand tap). Baldwin allowed himself a triumphant smile, convinced that he had finally bested his old master by the force of his rage. Yet he failed to see that his victory was nothing but an illusion. Hugon stepped closer, placed a hand on his shoulder, and spoke gently, almost with pity: — Ecri-sur-Aisne is making you weak, Baldwin. You didn’t even notice that I surrendered the fight. False victories never lead to lasting glory — the kind you so desperately seek. Right now, you think these are just empty words. But soon, you’ll see just how wrong you are. Your father has summoned you. He wants to see you immediately after the training.
Baldwin stormed off without a word, his anger not subsiding but swelling further with every step. He felt humiliated — stung by Hugon’s words — unaware that the truth was about to strike him like lightning, fast and merciless, splitting him wide open like a thunderbolt cleaving a lonely apple tree in two (rhythmic taps).
Despite the fury boiling within him, Baldwin did not burst into the great hall, now veiled in semi-darkness, where his father awaited him (one tap).He felt a deep respect for the man — almost tinged with fear — a feeling that had accompanied him all his life and never once abandoned him. Baldwin’s father had fought many years ago in the Holy Land, long before the Third Crusade ever began, and had etched his name into the annals of history as a formidable and awe-inspiring crusader. His fame stretched from the sun-scorched shores of the Mediterranean all the way to the cold cliffs of Britain. Every feudal lord — even those wealthier or more powerful — valued his opinion, for Ludwik was known not only for his brute strength, but also for his exceptional wisdom. In his youth, he had wielded a mighty sword that resembled an executioner’s blade more than a knight’s weapon — a weapon so massive that many warriors could not lift it even with both hands. But for Ludwik, a man of towering height and broad, muscular shoulders, bearing such a sword was effortless. Because of all this, Baldwin, upon entering the chamber, slowed his stride, calmed his breath, and stilled the thunder of his heart (flat hand tap).
Ludwik sat at the very center of the hall, behind a massive, heavy oak table. Known for his remarkable composure, he shocked Baldwin by suddenly leaping to his feet and unleashing a furious roar. The outburst was so unexpected that Baldwin froze in place, instinctively paralyzed. His father — usually cool and collected — now seethed with unrestrained rage, and the name he bellowed was not the one that had haunted Baldwin’s dreams for months:
— Zadar! Cursed Zadar! (once knock) Do you have any idea what happened there?! But he didn’t wait for an answer. He didn’t want one. Instead, he plunged straight into his tirade, his voice growing louder, his tone more venomous. Spit flew from his mouth, like the venom of an enraged serpent, clinging to his thick, bushy, silver-red beard.
— They attacked Zadar — a Christian city! — he roared again, this time with even more fury (once knock). — The Pope excommunicated them! (once knock). — Renald is accursed! (once knock). — Such disgrace, such dishonor, such shame upon our house! (once knock). He paused for a moment to catch his breath, but his fury still throbbed in the air, almost tangible in the gloom of the hall. Rage mingled with the ache of a father's broken heart — though Ludwik, proud and stern, tried to conceal it behind a mask of severity.
— My letter clearly never reached your brother. I received no reply. And I do not see him here, at home. So you will depart — today. You will find Renald and bring him back. But before returning, you will both go to Rome. There, you will beg the Holy Father for penance and forgiveness — for your reckless brother.