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The sun was already climbing the horizon when Godfrey of Bouillon left the meeting hall. Still walking through the huge gardens he could hear the distant commotion of the waking capital. He is young, has auburn hair and when clean shaven looks just like a boy. He left an infant son and wife back home, carrying only a strand of hair from the child in an ornamented pouch around his neck, allowing himself the pleasure of this memento. The son was precious to him but the loveless union, he was stuck in, was part of the reasons why he chose to carry the cross. The marriage guaranteed his borders, but made him leave his bedchamber for the past year, on a quest to find new lodgings every night. He usually jokes that he found the wife of Socrates in his bed, pleasing to the eye but ferocious in every other aspect. He remembers how Doda, his Flemish wife, was combative with the helping hand, his maids, his cooks, his guards and him especially. The accusations of homosexuality struck him the most. And she didn't mind his backhand. With a wife like that his holdings were definitely secure, Godfrey thought.
The angry shouts coming from his men's quarters are almost overwhelming, Greek speech is hurling insults left and right. As he and his two guards come closer to the barracks of the Latins, he sees a huge crowd made out of locals getting into brawls with Frankish soldiers who were unwise enough not to carry a weapon. With a hand movement he dispatches Gebehart ahead and in seconds the westerners, that are armed, form tight formation that makes the Greeks flinch but not back off entirely. Godfrey learns that a local woman was raped through the night and soon a Breton knight is brought before him. He doesn't recognize him, but Gebehart assures him that the knight joined his retinue while they were back in Buda. He is in his early twenties, his nose is broken, his only garment is a was-white-now-red gown, red with his own blood. The Breton seems discombobulated and ashamed, Godfrey hears him mumbling <span class="mu-i">It was the wine, m'lord...</span> The lord asks him his name. The beaten man responds - Claustar of Wirisoric. He is admitting his guilt, the populace wants to deal with him themselves.
Godfrey makes his judgement...
>he is your knight! He has been beaten enough, no further punishment, disperse the crowd if they get too rowdy. Your men feel you have their back
>give him twenty lashes and send him to the Latin medbay
>torture him without mutilations, you don't tolerate acts unworthy for a knight
>execute him publicly, make a thorough example out of him to your men. Beheading, good death for a soldier
>give the knight to the Greek crowd, fully appeasing your new allies
