Vampire Khan

by Dan Davis

  My uncouthness made him uncomfortable. “Nevertheless, you came out of it quite well, did you not?”

  I shrugged. “I defeated the poorest knights in Christendom and a coward who has not paid his due.”

  Sir Thomas the Templar pretended to be amused by my words as if I had been witty, but he was in fact disturbed. “May I speak with you about a most pressing matter?”

  I indicated that he was welcome to take the other chair and I filled the cup sitting before him on the table while he did so and then filled my own cup.

  “They tell me you are seeking to journey to the lands of the tartars,” the old Templar said, taking a sip. The man sat as stiff as a board, with his hands flat on the table.

  “Is that what they tell you?” I said, sipping my wine and feigning mild disinterest. The wine was very good.

  For months, I had desired to travel north from Constantinople into the lands of the tartars but the merchants would not take me. Word of my intentions had spread, clearly, because it was considered a strange thing for a knight to want. And it was.

  “And why, may I ask, are you unable to do so?” the Templar said. “It would appear that you have the means.” He flattered me by indicating the quality of my clothing and my equipment.

  I hesitated. “No trader will take me, for they fear the wrath of the tartars and those that are subject to them. I have no conceivable business in their lands. I am no merchant. I am no envoy. As far as the tartars would be concerned, a Frankish knight could only be assessing their military strength.”

  “And they would kill you for that.”

  “Most certainly,” I said. “Without hesitation. They are barbarians, with little enough law between them and none at all for Christians.”

  Thomas nodded. “And so, you have no way forward.”

  In fact, I did have a way forward. I had spent weeks persuading one of the merchants to sell to me his boat, his contacts, and his merchandise. The man’s two sons had died a year ago and his heart was broken. He was rather old already and with no heirs, he wanted no more of his trade. And so, I would dress myself in the garb of a merchant, hire on his small crew and take iron tools and sacks of grain north up the Black Sea, and bring back furs for sale in the markets of Constantinople. Once in Pontus in the north, I could journey into the interior, with the pretence of wanting to trade directly with the tartars themselves.

  That was my way forward.

  I took a sip of wine and looked closer at the knight. He was certainly well beyond his best years as his long face was deeply lined and his hair was grey. But his eyes were a clear and bright blue and his body was straight, wiry and strong. His hands looked like they could throttle the life from a man half his age.

  Clever, too. I could tell, by the way he looked deep into my eyes, searching for the truth within me. Searching out dishonesty. Even a fool knows one should never trust a clever man. So, I said nothing of my plans.

  “Perhaps,” I allowed. “But I will go north, by one means or another.”

  I was sure that he would then, finally, ask me why. Why would any man wish to head into the lands of the vile and murderous heathens who had so thoroughly defeated every army who ever stood against them?

  Yet he did not.

  Instead, the Templar poured himself another cup of wine from the jug, as if we were friends, and looked me in the eyes once more. “I, myself, am journeying into the lands of the tartars,” he said. “And I should like another knight to accompany us.”

  I nodded.

  “I have heard talk of you,” I said, putting it together at last, recalling a soused Burgundian squire gossiping about it a few nights before. I had not believed him at the time. “You arrived in Constantinople mere days ago. You are escorting a monk? Who comes from the King of France.”

  Irritation passed over the old knight’s face but he composed himself. “Yes, indeed. William of Rubruck, a Flemish friar from the Order of Saint Francis, is entrusted with a letter from the King of France intended for a lord of the Tartars.”

  “What is in the letter?” I cut in.

  He cleared his throat. “I do not know. Neither does Friar William. And yet, I believe it to be a simple courtesy, one king to another. Or whatever passes for a king amongst them.” His face darkened and he trailed off.

  “It is a large party, is it not?” I said.

  “No.” Thomas collected himself. “Indeed, no. Myself and my squire. A French knight and his squire. Then Friar William has his companions, Friar Bartholomew of Cremona. Another brother, a young Englishman like you, named Stephen Gosset.”

  It was the first time I ever heard of Stephen Gosset. It was not a moment that held any significance for me at the time, of course. How could it have done?

  Only much, much later would I curse the man’s name. Curse it repeatedly and with fervour, despite all the things that he did for me and for England over the centuries.

  “No servants?” I asked, surprised.

  He nodded. “The Friar has purchased for himself a young boy, named Nikolas, from here in Constantinople. And we obtained a dragoman in Acre, who knows the tongue of the tartars and, indeed, a great many others. But no others. We wish to keep our numbers down, for we know not how the Tartars will welcome us. We will be relying on their hospitality through our journey, both there and back, and also when we are guests of their prince at our destination.”

  “And what makes you believe you will be admitted into their lands?”

  “It is known that the tartars allow free passage to envoys,” Thomas said. “And we have already sent word and have heard that we would be welcomed.”

  “Forgive my confusion,” I said. “But are you this envoy? Or is it the monk?”

  Thomas pressed his lips together before replying. “Friar William wishes only to proselytise to the heathens. You see, he has heard from another monk that some among the tartars are Christians. In fact, he has heard how the son of the local prince is a follower of the Christ and so he wishes to go to them and beg to be allowed to preach amongst them and so bring more of the heathens the word of God.”

  I could not help but scoff.

  Thomas the Templar tilted his head. “I do not altogether disagree. I would sooner the tartars be scoured from the Earth and sent to Hell.” He took a breath. “But that is a base desire. The friar will be doing God’s work.”

  “That may be,” I said. “But it may also be that God wants them all dead. Not baptized.”

  The look on Thomas’ face suggested his own desires would align with God’s will if that were indeed the case. I was not curious as to why the old Templar would have strong feelings about the tartars. They were terrifying brutes. Savages who had emerged from nowhere, from the nothingness in the east decades ago. Wherever they met the armies and cities of Christendom, our brothers in Christ had been slaughtered, most terribly. Towns and cities reduced to rubble and the peoples slaughtered or enslaved.

  The tartars had pulled back from conquest of all the kingdoms of Europe but no one I had spoken to really knew why. It is God’s will, they would say. A phrase which has ever been no more than an admission of profound ignorance.

  “So,” I said, unwilling to let myself be deflected from my enquiry, “why are you accompanying the friar and his holy companions?”

  “The King of France asked me to do so.” Thomas said no more.

  King Louis of France. A king whose grand Crusade had ended in disaster. His army defeated, utterly, by the Egyptians and he himself captured. The great king who almost shit himself to death and had to pay a fortune to the enemies he had come to vanquish. King Louis now squatted in Acre, one of the last cities held by the Franks in the Holy Land.

  “Are you not too great a man to be sent on such an errand?”

  “I am no great man,” Thomas said, wrinkling his nose at the suggestion. “I am a humble knight in the service of God. No more. And this is no errand. My order protects pilgrims, does it not? I can think of no more appropriate duty th
an to escort these men in their own duty to spread the word of God to the heathen barbarians. And I was with the King on his crusade and he made a request of me, which I accepted. It is really no more than that.”

  “Of course,” I said. It was a nonsense that he was spouting. A yard of yarn he was spinning. A Templar had no business heading into the wild north.

  What his true intentions were, I had no idea. All I did know, was that he was a lying old bastard.

  But then, so was I.

  He had to ask it, finally. “And why,” Thomas said, “if I may ask, are you seeking to journey north of the Black Sea?”

  I leaned back on my ancient chair, which creaked beneath me as though it were in pain. I drank my wine, looking across the table at the old man. I tried to think. Never my forte. “You want me to come with you. That much is clear. You would not be here, wasting your time with me, if you did not. But why?”

  “I witnessed your victories on the tourney field today. I asked about who you were, I was surprised to discover this rumour that you wished to head north. And, truth be told, we would be safer with another knight, and his squire, to protect us.”

  “And why ask me? There must be a thousand men-at-arms you could ask.”

  “None of your obvious ability, nor your renown, and your stature. They tell me you fought in a number of tourneys. I must confess, I am surprised at your youth. In fact, I was told that you fought in the crusade of King Theobald and Richard of Cornwall but that was clearly a mistake, considering it has been fifteen years and you are scarcely old enough.”

  I could not resist smiling at that. The first time I had fought the Saracens had been sixty years before.

  Not that I could admit such a thing to the Templar. “I started young. And flattery will not deflect my question. I know of a dozen men more noteworthy than I. A hundred.” I wagged a finger at him, still smiling. “Allow me to guess. No one else that you asked before me would consider going into the lands of the tartars. Only a madman would do so.”

  He returned my faint smile and leaned back. “Many men would have gladly joined us, in return for payment upon our return. Yet, I could never trust a man so desperate for silver that he would make such a journey.”

  “Why, then, do you go?”

  “The King of France asked me to.”

  “You are a knight of the Order of the Temple. You are not subject to him.”

  “I said that he asked me. He made a request, which was granted by the Grand Master of my order.”

  “And, when you return to him, what will you ask for in return?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  I nodded. “And your other man? The French knight. What of him? What is his name?”

  The Templar’s face clouded. “He was once highly favoured by King Louis. A favour he no longer holds.”

  I smiled at that. “Must have done something bloody awful to get this for punishment.”

  Instead of being offended, the Templar nodded slowly. “Nothing that could be proven. But have no doubt, Bertrand is a magnificent knight who won his name and fortune through the pursuit of war. Rich men surrendered to him on sight rather than cross swords with him.”

  At the mention of the knight’s name, the realisation gripped me.

  “What did you say his name, was?” I said, grasping the edge of the table. “Bertrand? Bertrand de Cardaillac? The coward I defeated on the field? He is one of yours?”

  Thomas clenched his jaw. “We both travel with Friar William of Rubruck into the lands of the Tartars, yes.”

  I laughed in disbelief.

  “Did he send you here?” I said. “Is this all some ruse in order to avoid paying his forfeit to me?”

  The Templar spread his hands in the air. “I swear, that is not the case. When you performed so admirably in the tourney, your intentions for travelling north were mentioned to me as a rumour. I come here in truth to ask if our ambitions perhaps aligned. We could each help the other, and travel together. That is all. He will still have to pay you his forfeit, it is not about that. Indeed, Bertrand does not know that I am here at all and if he did then he would be dismayed, to say the least. Also, he does not believe we need any additional men. And yet, he has no say over who joins us.”

  “Sounds like more trouble than it is worth,” I said. “It seemed as though, even though he was so newly arrived here, he brought with him a reputation for arrogance.”

  “Bertrand was well favoured at one time and won a number of victories in tourneys. I am surprised you have not heard of him.”

  “I have not been to France for a long time.”

  He smiled to himself at that. What he saw, sitting across from him, was a young man. I died when I was twenty-two years’ old. I had found that if I claimed to be older than thirty years, men would be surprised, or disbelieve me. Thomas assumed that, for me, a long time was a year or two. As much as five years, perhaps. A fair assessment, for young men often feel that way regarding the passage of their own years.

  In truth, I had been born eighty-two years before. Older than the ageing knight before me, certainly.

  “Say I was to join your company,” I said. “You have yourself and your squire. And you have another knight and his squire. How many men do you mean to take with you? It seems to me that your small party, as you call it, is not so small after all.”

  “You and your own man there would complete our company to my satisfaction.” He paused. “As soon as you reveal your reasons for seeking the tartars.”

  What reasons would he believe? Not the whole truth, certainly. But he may accept a partial truth.

  “There is a man,” I said. “An Englishman. His name is William. Once, he was a knight. A lord. But he committed murders. Then he fled. For quite some time now, I have been seeking his whereabouts. I have heard that a man named William is living amongst the Tartars. Is favoured by them. From what I know of this man, I believe these stories tell of William.”

  Thomas’ face creased in concern. “Vengeance? You want to wreak vengeance on this man?”

  I could sense my opportunity fading.

  “Justice,” I said. “All I seek is justice.”

  The Templar radiated disappointment. “In the lands of the tartars? A man who, if he exists, can only be there on the sufferance of the tartar lords? No, no. Impossible. You would risk our entire company with your act of vengeance, should you carry it out. You, sir, shall not be welcome in my company.”

  I held up my hand until he allowed me to respond. “May I provide you with my intentions? I have heard how the tartars allow no foreign man through their lands, unless that man is a known trader or envoy, with express leave to travel. Any other man may be murdered with impunity, for the Tartars reason that such men can only be spying for their enemies. When I discover the location of this man William, I shall send word to him and to the local lord that I am present and that I wish to discuss his crimes. My request shall be a simple one. William has committed a number of specific crimes that I can list. If the tartars consent, I ask only for single combat with William. A trial by combat. If I win, or if I lose, there must be no revenge upon my fellow Christians and we should be allowed to leave, as freely as we arrived in that land.”

  “And if the Tartar lords decline your proposal?”

  I held my arms out to either side. “What could I possibly do but accept their decision? I am no Assassin, seeking to murder a man in plain sight. Nor would I murder a man in his bed. I would leave, and wait for the day that he leaves the protection of the tartars.”

  “What did this man do to you, that would drive you to this… this risk?”

  “He murdered my brother, my brother’s wife and their children,” I said. “And I swore an oath to see William brought to justice.”

  And he killed my wife and he killed my wife’s son, who was also my dearest friend. William poisoned King John to death, as well as William’s own father. And he killed hundreds of others, men, women, children. From England to th
e Holy Land, he had bathed in the blood of an uncounted multitude.

  My brother, William de Ferrers. The evilest man who walked the Earth. And no man but I had the strength to end his life.

  Of course, I could say none of this to Thomas. The Templar would think me a madman.

  “I have seen men drunk on vengeance before,” Thomas said, fixing me with his blue eyes.

  “Justice,” I said, before finishing my cup of wine and carefully placing it down. “And I am not drunk on anything. But if you believe I will be a detriment to your company, then I accept your wisdom with a good heart. I shall make my own way. Perhaps we shall see each other there?”

  The Templar drummed his fingers on the bone-dry table top. “So, you do wish to join us?”

  He said no more and waited for me to make my decision.

  “When Bertrand de Cardaillac sends me the value of his forfeit,” I said, “and swears that he will cause me no trouble on the journey, then I will join you.” Behind me, Eva coughed. “Myself and my squire.”

  Thomas the Templar smiled and we agreed our terms.

  The Sun was setting as he walked away between the tents on the field, heading back to the city.

  “This is precisely what we wanted,” I said to Eva. “Official leave to travel into the Tartar lands, with the concealment and protection of a monk and his party.”

  “Yes, indeed,” she said, standing by my side.

  “So why do I feel as though I have just been swindled?”

  She snorted. “How do you think they will feel when they meet me?”

  ***

  It was another two weeks, on the Nones of May 1253, that the party was due to set off from Constantinople by ship. We would cross the Black Sea for Pontus, in the North across that great body of water.

  Before we could set off, however, I had two hurdles to cross. The most important task was to convince Thomas and the others to accept a woman in their party. The other was to avoid coming to blows with Sir Bertrand and, if possible, establish a peaceable rapport with him.