The sky is threatening rain again. A small group of soldiers grunt and pant as they struggle

along a narrow winding path. Their feet are rubbed raw in their wet leather boots and their calves burn with

the strain. But there's no time to rest and nowhere to go but up.

They try to focus on the crunch and scrape of the loose rocky ground,

but it can't quite cover the sounds they're desperate not to hear.

Behind them, the metallic clash of arms and the screams of the dying echo off the cliffs.

This small division escaped just in time. The men they left behind, friends and brothers in arms, were not so lucky.

One soldier's foot slips on the gravel and he stumblesumbles sending a cascade of rocks down the path.

His breath catches in his throat and his hands instinctively tighten around the wooden handle

of the litter he carries. Dropping this precious cargo is not an option.

He adjusts his grip trying not to jostle the patient to the makeshift stretcher,

but the patient groans anyway, twisting in discomfort.

The soldier casts a quick, anxious look at the young man at the head of the party, but the

teenager doesn't even pause.

These grounds are nothing new.

This man has been ill for days and is getting weaker by the hour.

Their only hope is to push onward to safer ground and a comfortable place for him to rest.

Out of danger, out of the mountains, and out of the crusade he began only half a year ago.

It's autumn 1285 and the man barely clinging to life is Philip the bold King of

friends. His son also called Philip grits his teeth and tries not to let the pain of the brutal journey

or the worry for his father show.

He's only 17, but there's a hardness to him,

...