Knives drawn to give them courage, they circled and jeered, yelling insults and obscenities as they stomped their boot-clad feet in an effort to ward off the frigid temperature. While his eager audience watched, the captive could look at his garments while he slowly froze to death. The warrior would die, but without a new mark added to his battle-scarred body. His rich, fur-lined winter cloak, heavy hauberk, cotton shirt, stockings, and leather boots had all been removed and placed on the frozen ground in front of him. The captive hadn’t offered any resistance, allowing himself to be stripped to his waist without so much as a fist drawn or a word of protest spoken.
His expression was devoid of emotion as he stared straight ahead, outwardly ignoring his enemy. The warrior stood in the center of the desolate courtyard, his hands roped together and tied to a post behind his back. “Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, Whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure if there be any virtue … think on these things.”
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