The silence was as heavy as the air was in The Church of the Holy Sepulchre. At this time of day no one was inside, the doors had been closed to the public and it was dead quiet, only a few candles illuminated the interior. Well, he was the king. He could visit whenever he pleased.

In the air lingered of dust and incense, a pleasant smell, one he’d grown used to. Even when his mobility was reduced thanks to his illness, he found solace in visiting the chapel, sometimes to pray, others to merely think, something about being on holy ground brought him comfort.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

Just as the last words of the prayer fell from his lips, his knobby knees planted firmly on the floor, he heard the echo of footsteps behind himself. “The chapel is closed.” Baldwin’s soft voice barely bounced on the walls as he turned to face the other visitor.