Vampire Khan

by Dan Davis

  I shoved away the hands that pawed at me. “Tell them to cease their damned fool gibbering, Abdullah.”

  He said nothing of the sort. Mongols were everywhere around us. Hundreds of them, thousands. Some staring, others talking at us, many seemed to me to wish to do violence. With all my will, I remained outwardly calm. As well as I could.

  We were all checked for weapons once again, and led in and seated together on the left side, sitting upon the patterned carpets laid thickly upon the ground. The monks were the ambassadors and sat in front of us, who were seen as the attendants. A hearth was at the centre of the tent, and a raised dais with benches to the north, opposite the entrance.

  On the bench, sat Batu. A large man, broad-shouldered with a wide face and a massive forehead. His complexion was truly awful, grey and with terrible pimples and pockmarks. He looked to be in his later middle age, fifty or so, perhaps. Dressed just as any Mongol would be, in a voluminous tunic, and thick belt and trousers. Yet the cloth was shimmering, dark silk and embroidered with swirling patterns.

  “Lord Batu,” Friar William muttered.

  “Prince Batu,” Thomas corrected.

  “Batu Khan,” Abdullah said.

  Friar William looked around at me, eyes wide. “He is of a size with my lord John de Beaumont, would you not say?”

  “I would indeed,” I said. To this day, I have no idea who he was talking about.

  There were so many men within the vast space. Even though the sides of the huge tent structure were open, the air beneath the fabric roof hung heavy and stank of sour sweat. Across from us, were a small group of women, and some children were there.

  We were given kumis to drink, and very gratefully did we receive it. Abdullah drank an unseemly amount until I squeezed his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

  “Consume no more, you drunken heathen, else I shall gut you from beard to stones when we leave this place. Do you understand?”

  William turned over his shoulder and scowled at me. “You shall do nothing of the sort,” he said. “Not without my express permission. Nevertheless, Abdullah, if you do not control yourself, I shall be forced to abandon you here amongst the heathens when we return to the Holy Land.”

  “No, lord, no,” Abdullah wailed, quietly.

  Stephen hissed. “People are looking at us.”

  Many people were brought forward, close to Batu and there was much talking, and back and forth. Men from many kingdoms, in many modes of dress, speaking many tongues. Some went away happy. Others were grim-faced as they were escorted out from Batu’s presence.

  In time, it was our turn and they called us forward.

  A herald or some such functionary asked us, through Abdullah, what we had brought in gifts for Batu Khan.

  “We are but poor monks,” Friar William explained. “Who have taken vows of poverty. All we can offer is some wine, and some foodstuffs, not as gifts but as blessings. Tokens of our good intentions.”

  The Mongol herald was horrified. “But you have many furs in your wagons. This will be your gift to the Khan.”

  “Those furs are for trading with,” William said. “We are a long way from our own lands and all we wish is to survive through exchanging those furs, piece by piece, for food and other necessary items.”

  The herald was unmoved. “Those furs belong to Batu Khan, now. Come forward and speak your purpose here.”

  We were all required to take a knee, and then Friar William unleashed his holy nonsense upon the Khan. How he wished only to preach the word of Christ to the Tartars, and how him and his two brothers were praying they could meet Batu’s son, Sartak who was a Christian himself.

  Batu’s face, already hideous and devoid of civilised niceties, darkened further when William’s words were translated.

  “The Khan says that his son is no Christian,” Abdullah said, voice shaking. The Saracen was hunched over, his shoulder’s rounded, like the cowering slave he was. “His son Sartak takes an interest in all gods, all religions, as is right and proper.”

  William was angry. “Tell him that there is only one God, and He is the God of the Christians.”

  Whatever Abdullah said to Batu, it was certainly not William’s words, nor even his sentiment.

  Batu Khan replied. “Do you wish to go? Or do you wish still to speak of your Frankish Christian words to the Mongol people?”

  “We wish to spread the word of God, my lord,” William said. “But there are many—”

  Thomas stepped forward, in front of William, and bowed. “My lord,” Thomas said. “We are also ambassadors from the King of the French. I carry with me a letter from him, to you.” From within his tunic, William produced the parcel I had seen him hoarding for months and handed it to the herald. “The words are repeated in Latin, Greek, Arabic, and Persian.”

  It caused quite a fuss with the Mongols, and they busied themselves right there and then, with a group of squabbling scribes jostling to make a translation into their own version of written language. We were ignored while they did so and our group turned in on itself for a time.

  William looked physically wounded by the shock. By the impropriety or the subsuming of his authority. “What are you doing?” he whispered.

  “I pray you will stay calm, brother William,” Thomas said. Bertrand stood with a smug expression on his face.

  “That is why you are here?” I said to Thomas. “You came, not to protect these monks on their fool’s errand but to deliver a message to Batu? Why not be open about it? These people accept ambassadors from everywhere.”

  “Quiet,” Bertrand said. “You are no more than a hired sword. It is none of your concern.”

  I have always been slow on the uptake. But then, time does tend to be on my side.

  “You are seeking an alliance,” I said, astonished I had not realised earlier. “King Louis wants Batu’s men to attack the Saracens? Is it to be a surprise assault, is that why this deception?”

  Stephen Gosset, clever little bastard that he was, saw through to the heart of it. “The King’s peace treaty with the Saracens,” Stephen said. “If the Saracens knew about Louis seeking a pact with the Mongols, the Saracens would fall upon Acre at once, fearing to be trapped between two united enemies. And if you had travelled as an ambassador through Constantinople and Soldaia, word would have got back before we ever arrived to make the proposal.”

  “What do you mean, we?” Friar William said. “Are you on his side, now, Stephen? Are you renouncing your vows and joining the Templars, Stephen, is that what you and Thomas have been conspiring about? Ever since Acre?”

  Stephen made no attempt to defend himself. William was dismayed and the monk shook with the hurt of it.

  “Oathbreaker,” Bartholomew said, looking down his nose.

  After a good while, we were brought back before the Khan.

  “Your proposal from your king is too important for me to decide,” Batu said. “Your letter must go to the Great Khan, in Karakorum. Mongke Khan will hear your petition, and he will give me orders, which I will follow. For that is the proper way. And you must all go with this letter, so that the Great Khan may question you further, so he may make the best decision.”

  He nodded to the herald to signal that our audience was over.

  Abdullah wailed and fell to his knees, muttering something. He was already so homesick that he had aged and grown frail, body and mind. I understood that Karakorum was a good deal further away but I had no true conception of the distance.

  “Get up,” I ordered, and dragged him to his feet.

  “Batu Khan,” I said, stepping forward with my arms held out.

  This set them off. A dozen men took a half step forward and the herald grabbed the top of my arms from behind.

  Batu looked confused and barked something at me.

  Abdullah relayed it, between his sobs. “The Khan’s decision has been made. If you argue, he will have you killed outside the tent. You do not know our ways and so he makes allowance for this. Other
wise, you would certainly be dead by now.”

  I knew I could survive terrible, otherwise-mortal wounds. But I knew I would not survive having my head cut off. Still, I had one chance to speak, to take action while I could before I was removed from Batu’s ordus. If my brother was anywhere in Batu’s lands, I could not be sent to some other city, nor could I return to Christendom.

  “I am looking for a Christian knight,” I said, undeterred. “A Christian knight, from England but he may say he is from France. He looks like me. His name is William de Ferrers. He is your man, so they say.”

  Abdullah was still translating when six men came forward and seized me by the arms and shoulders. While they heaved and yanked me, I allowed myself to be drawn forward and forced to my knees.

  A heavily calloused hand grabbed my jaw and yanked it up. I looked into the face of Batu. It was his hand under my chin, and I shook it off by jerking my head back. He was lucky that I was blessed with self-control because I had a powerful urge to tear his throat out for touching me in such a fashion. When he spoke, his breath reeked of onions and the fumes of strong wine.

  “You serve him?” Batu said, through the sobbing Saracen. “This Frankish knight William?”

  “Never,” I said, sneering at the thought.

  Batu peered closely at me with his beady eyes. “Why do you seek him?”

  “He has committed many crimes,” I said. “Done murder. Killed a king, and a bishop, and countless others besides. Women, children.”

  Batu nodded as this was relayed to him. “I will ask you one more time. Why do you seek him?”

  My life hung in the balance. The wrong answer would result in my execution.

  “To kill him.”

  The Khan let go of my chin. His men dragged me to my feet while he peered at me. “You have the look of the man you seek. Why is this?” Batu asked me.

  He had seen William with his own eyes. My heart, already racing, skipped a beat.

  “He is my brother. It is my duty to bring him to justice. A trial by combat. That is all I ask of you, my lord.”

  Batu sneered, amused by something. He walked away, slowly, and took his seat while the others held me fast. “Your brother William is evil,” Batu said raising his chin. “And that is why I sent him away. To the Great Khan.”

  “He is not here?” I said, almost wailing like Abdullah had done.

  “He was. No longer. He is wreaking his evil somewhere in the east. At Karakorum. You monks can warm the Great Khan’s ear with your droning prayers. You, old man, will bring the letter of your master. And you, brother of evil, will cut out the heart of the devil that is called William.”

  Part Three – Karakorum ~ 1254

  By God, it was a hard journey. One of the hardest, and longest I have ever undertaken.

  On about the feast of the Elevation of the Holy Cross, in September, a rich Mongol came to us whose father was a chief of a thousand men. He spoke and Abdullah hurried to tell us what he was saying. “I am to take you to Mongke Khan. The journey is four months, and it will be so cold that stones and trees are burst apart by the cold. You should think over whether you can bear such a thing.”

  I answered him without hesitation. “We will bear what men such as you can bear.”

  He tilted his head as he looked up at me and babbled while Abdullah translated. “If you cannot bear it, I shall abandon you on the road.”

  “You will not,” I said and I felt Eva’s glare from across the ger. It was all I could do to control myself but I spoke again, this time with restraint. “That is not right. We are not going of ourselves, but are sent by your lord, Batu Khan. Being entrusted to your care means you should not abandon us, or you are going against the wishes of your lord. You are the son of a great chief, so I hear, but what would Batu Khan do to you if you failed in your duty?”

  The rich Mongol scowled. “If you can keep up, all will be well.”

  “It had better be, or you shall have me to answer to.”

  I do not know if Abdullah translated my words accurately but I suspect he did not.

  Friar William clucked about me. “Must you make an enemy of every man you meet?”

  “You sound like my wife,” I said, which nobody found amusing, Eva least of all.

  After that the rich Mongol made us show him all our clothing, and what seemed to him of little use for the cold he made us leave with our host. The next day they brought each of us a sheepskin gown, breeches of the same material, boots according to their fashion, felt stockings, and hoods such as they use.

  The day after, we started on our ride, with pack horses for each of us. We rode constantly eastward for three months.

  In the first stage of our journey, to the north of us was Greater Bulgaria, and to the south the Caspian Sea.

  The cold was paralysing and the distances we covered were astounding. Every day, I grew less concerned over the danger of Bertrand’s anger at me and lust for Eva and I thought that perhaps he had changed. Been cowed by fear of the Mongols, and weakened through hunger and exhaustion. And that was part of the truth. And then it slowly dawned on me that I had come to see that immense, hostile foreign land as my greatest enemy. And it was an enemy that could easily see us dead on the side of the road. If the Mongols abandoned us, or turned on us and forced us out, we could starve or die from thirst, encased in ice and buffeted by the relentless wind. And so I watched our guides like a hawk, day and night, wary of any sign that they meant us harm, or even if they meant us indifference.

  After travelling twelve days from the Etilia, we found the Ural River, which flows into the Caspian Sea. The language of Pascatir was the same as that of the Hungarians, and they were shepherds without any towns whatever. In fact, from that country eastward, and also to the north, there were no more towns at all, all the way to the ends of the Earth, other than Karakorum.

  One evening we sat huddled in a tight group in the lee of a little cliff. The soil of that part of the grassland had been blown away and the landscape was rocky with knolls rising up here and there, often with scrubby trees, all bent over from the wind. We indulged in the luxury of a fire but it was so cold we all sat almost on top of it, knee to knee and still shivering. Still, it gave us a few moments to speak.

  Bertrand was angry at the world but all his anger was directed at his squire Hughues, who took it sullenly and then turned his own frustrations on Abdullah for his appallingly-feeble collection of firewood. Little Nikolas cringed away from their insults and harsh commands so I dragged him into my lap and wrapped my cloak around him. He felt as light as a bird.

  Stephen seemed the happiest of us all. The world was a fine place to him. The young man had devoured the entire library at both of the monasteries he had spent his previous years in.

  “It was from this country of Pascatir that went forth the Huns,” Stephen said, excited and smiling, even though his words were terrifying to me. “Isidorus says that with their fleet horses the Huns crossed the barriers which Alexander had built among the rocks of the Caucasus to confine the savage tribes and that as far as Egypt all the country paid the Huns tribute. They ravaged all the world as far as France so that they were a greater power than are now the Tartars. With the Huns also came the Blacs, the Bulgars, and the Vandals.”

  “They conquered France?” I said. “The Huns were horsemen who conquered from here, all the way to France? And defeated the Romans?”

  “And the Romans were a united people,” Thomas said, looking very grave, his eyes full of meaning. “And Christendom now is not. What is to stop the Tartars from doing the very same thing, should they decide upon it?”

  His squire, Martin, looked at him with his eyes wide. “Would our order not resist them?”

  “We would unify against such a threat, should it come to that,” I said. “Look at the Crusades.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “Let us look to the Crusades. How successful have we been at winning back the Holy Land from the Saracen conquerors? There has been little enough u
nity there, not for a hundred years or more. No, we must find another way.”

  A gust of icy wind howled around the rock and the flames of our fire were flatted for a long moment. Our horses gathered closer together. I looked up at the top of the cliff above us, where one of our guides sat looking out at the horizon. He was fully exposed to the elements, and bare-headed, and yet seemed perfectly comfortable. I hoped he was simply idling at the end of the day, rather than plotting violence against us.

  Stephen spoke up once the wind died down again. “What other way is there to protect Christendom from the Mongols, if not unity under the Pope?”

  “A treaty,” Eva said.

  Thomas shifted on his arse, as Eva always made him nervous but never more so than when she spoke.

  “That is why you agreed to be the envoy for King Louis,” I said. “You have seen the Tartars in battle. You wish to facilitate an alliance with them, to turn their attention to the Saracens and save Christendom from attack. That is why a Templar is acting for the King of France.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Stephen staring at me, a faint smile on his lips. “Turn your dim-witted gaze elsewhere, Stephen or I shall turn it with my fist.”

  Friar William became annoyed whenever he was reminded that far from being the leader of the group, he and his brothers were being used as a disguise for Thomas’ mission for Louis.

  “If we can but turn their leaders and enough of their people to Christ,” Friar William said, scowling, “then they would never make war on Christendom.”

  No one bothered to respond.

  Soon, we curled up for another long, cold night, listening to the howling of the wind. Praying for the night to end and dreading the coming of the morning.

  We rode through that country from the Feast of the Holy Cross in September to the feast of All Saints in November. It was a blistering pace. Nearly every day we travelled, as well as I could estimate, about the distance from London to Dover, and sometimes even more, according to the supply of horses. Sometimes we changed horses two or three times in a day, while at others we went for two or three days without finding anyone and we had to go slower. Out of thirty or forty horses we, as foreigners, always got the worst, for they invariably took their pick of horses before us. They tended to give Bertrand and Friar William each a strong horse, on account of their great weight; but those horses rarely rode well. The monk did not venture to complain and tended to bear it all with good grace but Bertrand grumbled when he was tired and raged when his belly was full. The squires and servants were morose and silent, as they were experiencing the toughest challenge they had ever faced. I expected at least one of them to break under the strain.