Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “How large an army?” questioned Kalawun, the sultan’s words causing the familiar ripple of concern to spread through him, as it always did whenever news came in to inform them that their calm was about to be shattered; that battle and death might be just around the corner.

  “Thirty thousand, made up of Mongols from the Ilkhan’s Anatolian garrison and Seljuk soldiers under the command of their pervaneh.”

  “Do we know where they are headed?” asked Kalawun, surprised that the Seljuk pervaneh was leading his men alongside the Mongols. It was rumored that the pervaneh, who acted as regent for the boy sultan of the Seljuk realm of Anatolia, was unhappy with the Mongols’ occupation of his lands. His relationship with his overlord, Abaga, Ilkhan of Persia and great-grandson of Genghis Khan, was said to be strained.

  “One of our patrols on the Euphrates frontier captured a Mongol scout. They were able to extract the information from him. The Mongols plan to attack al-Bira.”

  Kalawun, glancing at the other amirs, saw by their faces that they had already heard this news. “Do we know when, my lord?”

  “Soon. That is all they were able to ascertain. But it was almost five weeks ago that our garrison at al-Bira received this information. The attack could have already occurred. The message went by way of Aleppo. My governor there was sending seven thousand troops to help fortify the city. He also planned to raise a levy of Bedouin. But we all know how unpredictable mercenaries can prove,” Baybars added.

  “Then we have need of haste.”

  Baybars gestured to one of the amirs, a dusky-skinned man of his and Kalawun’s age. “Amir Ishandiyar will lead his regiment to al-Bira, along with two other commanders. They leave tomorrow. If the Mongols have not yet attacked, our forces will remain to reinforce the city. If they have . . .” Baybars paused. “Ishandiyar will deal with them.”

  “If we ride swiftly, we can reach Aleppo within thirty-six days,” said Ishandiyar. “We can collect fresh supplies and any auxiliary forces available to us, then continue to al-Bira. It is only a two-day march from there.”

  “We have to hope that will be enough time,” said Kalawun. “The city will not keep out a determined force indefinitely. The Mongols managed to take it before.”

  The other governors nodded. The city of al-Bira was their first line of defense on the Euphrates frontier. If the Mongols took it, they could use it as a staging post from which to launch further attacks on Mamluk territories in Syria. Five years ago, under orders of Abaga, the Mongols had crossed the Euphrates and raided down to Aleppo, but they had caused only minimal damage. The Mamluks had been lucky. With a stronger force, they would have been deadly. The bones of eighty thousand Muslims buried beneath the dust of Baghdad were testament to that.

  Baybars looked to Ishandiyar. “I am counting on you.”

  “I will not fail you, my lord.”

  “Make sure of it. I do not want the Mongols to hold any position that could threaten my rear when I continue my campaign north. Abaga is no fool. He will be aware that my raid in Cilicia last year was a prelude to an invasion of Anatolia. He knows I seek to expand my empire. And with the Seljuks reportedly growing restless with his rule, his position has weakened. I knew he would flex his muscles sooner or later. But if he takes al-Bira, my plans for expansion in Anatolia will be gravely hampered.”

  “My Lord Sultan,” Mahmud cut in quickly, “you have not yet discussed those plans with us. Before the messenger brought this news to you, I was going to ask if we might now speak of your strategy for the coming year. As you must be aware, there is some dispute over which of our enemies requires our attention first.”

  “Yes, Amir Mahmud, I am well aware of what goes on within my own court.” Baybars smiled humorlessly. “But perhaps you would like to inform me further?” He moved to the balcony ledge and leaned against it.

  Mahmud answered, unabashed. “My lord, of all the sultans of Egypt who have warred against the Franks, you have delivered the most victories to our people. Of their once great empire, the Western Christians hold just a few scattered cities on the coast of Palestine. You have destroyed the castles of their knights, driven fat barons out of towns once inhabited by Muslims, returned to us mosques that were turned into churches, slaughtered the infidel in their thousands.” Mahmud’s voice rose in passion as he spoke.

  Baybars didn’t look impressed. “What is your point?”

  “There are those within your court who believe it is time to finish what you started when you proclaimed the jihad against the Christians sixteen years ago. They believe it is time to erase the Franks in Acre and Tripoli and the other strongholds they possess, time to drive them once and for all from our shores.”

  “They?” said Baybars dryly.

  “I will admit, my lord, this is something I personally hope for. But so do many here.”

  The fourth amir, an old Mamluk veteran called Yusuf, who had so far been silent, was nodding in time with Mahmud’s words. Ishandiyar looked thoughtful.

  “You agree with this?” Baybars asked them.

  “The truce we signed with the Franks was, by your own admission, my lord, only meant to be temporary,” said Yusuf in his scratchy, ancient voice. “Reports from our spies in Acre say their pope has been in council with rulers of the West to discuss a Crusade. Why give them time to launch another? I say we end them now.”

  “I would counsel caution,” said Ishandiyar slowly. “Let us first deal with the Mongols at al-Bira before making any firm plans. We may need to put all our resources into that.”

  “I agree,” said Mahmud swiftly as Baybars nodded, “we need to safeguard the city, of course. But if we are victorious, then let us at least speak of our concerns over the Franks before any campaign against the Mongols in Anatolia is launched.”

  “What do you say, Amir Kalawun?” asked Ishandiyar.

  “I have already spoken to the sultan of my thoughts,” replied Kalawun. He ignored the affront in Mahmud’s face.

  “Can you share these with the rest of us?” croaked Yusuf, looking to Baybars, who nodded to Kalawun to indicate his permission.

  “I believe, as Ishandiyar does, that we should concentrate on securing our northern borders from further attack by the Mongols.” Kalawun looked at Yusuf. “Only a handful of leaders attended the council you speak of. I see no great force being launched from the West in the immediate future. From what I hear, they are too busy fighting amongst themselves. The Mongols pose a real threat. The Franks, at present, can do us no harm.”

  Mahmud was shaking his head and staring out across the city, his jaw taut.

  Baybars was quiet for a few moments, studying each of them. “Khadir tells me that the signs are auspicious for a war against the Christians.” None of them looked happy at the mention of his soothsayer. “But I myself am keen to deal with the Mongols sooner rather than later. However,” he said, his gaze swinging to Mahmud, “I will not make any firm decisions until I have spoken with the rest of the governors. I will arrange a council.”

  “My lord,” called Mahmud, as Baybars moved to head back inside. “With all due respect, do not keep the governors waiting too long. Some of them grow restless.” He faltered slightly under Baybars’s barbed stare, but continued. “In the four years since you signed the truce, you have uncovered two conspiracies to overthrow you and survived one attempt to kill you by one of your own amirs. It is not something your men want any longer, this ...” he scowled, “this peace with the infidel.”

  “Peace, Amir Mahmud?” said Baybars, his voice low. “Is that what you believe I want with the Western pigs? Is that what you believe I was seeking when I destroyed their cities, razed their fortresses into ashes and dust, ground the bones of their soldiers beneath my feet? Peace?”

  “My lord, I simply ...”

  “Yes, I have fought off insurgents and murderers. But none of them sought to defeat me because they wanted to continue my noble war against the Franks. They rebelled against me because they coveted my position
. Those who know me well, Mahmud, those loyal to me know, without question, that if there is one man in all the East who despises the Christians more than any other, it is I. But I will not rush at them blindly and put my empire in jeopardy for the sake of a few hot-blooded, impetuous youths. When I am ready, I will destroy them. But only when I am ready.”

  “Destroy who, Father?” Baraka Khan stood in the doorway, shielding his eyes from the sun.

  “What do you want?” Baybars asked him.

  “You are discussing matters of importance, obviously. I wish to join you.”

  “You have nothing to add to our debate that is of any value,” responded Baybars shortly. “And I have neither the time nor the inclination to pander to your wishes. When I want you involved in my affairs, I will summon you, Baraka.” There was no malice in Baybars’s tone, but the bluntness of his words caused Baraka to blush fiercely.

  The youth looked as if he were about to retort; then he turned and ran from the balcony.

  “We will speak again in a full council,” said Baybars to the governors, as if nothing had happened. “You are dismissed.”

  The governors bowed and moved through the doors, Mahmud looking stung and irritable, Ishandiyar heading off to gather his men for the march to al-Bira. Kalawun lingered.

  “You have something to say?” asked Baybars.

  “Is there any need to keep Baraka from our debates, my lord? He should be a part of such things if he is to learn.”

  “His tutors teach him well enough, and I know I can count on you to continue training him in military matters.”

  “Your lack of affection upsets him. He doesn’t believe you think him worthy to be your son.”

  “He was spoiled by his mother, Kalawun,” said Baybars harshly. “All the time he spent in the harem made him soft. I must be stern with him now or he will never even make it to the throne, let alone be a strong enough leader for our people.” With that, Baybars headed off.

  Kalawun looked out over the walls. From one of the citadel’s towers, a flock of the pigeons the Mamluks used to carry messages between their troops soared into the sky. The impromptu meeting hadn’t given Kalawun time to prepare his arguments, and now he had a war council to contend with. The peace he had helped bring about between his people and the Franks seemed to be slipping away, little by little. He didn’t know for how long he would be able to keep the lion from the Christians’ door.

  4

  The Temple, Acre 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276

  Puzzled, Will followed Everard down through the tower and out into the courtyard, which was dusty with sand blown up from the beach. In the West, the order’s preceptories were more like manor houses and weren’t usually fortified, but in Acre the Temple’s headquarters was an impregnable fortress. Surrounded on all sides by high walls, in places almost thirty feet thick, it perched like a stone giant above the sea on the port’s western side. At the corners were massive towers, the largest of which, on the city side, straddled the main gate, capped by four turrets, each decorated by a life-size statue of a lion made of gold. The treasury tower, which formed the oldest part of the preceptory, had been built by the Egyptian sultan, Saladin, a hundred years earlier.

  Inside the compound it was like a miniature town, with gardens and orchards near the servants’ quarters, domestic lodgings for knights and sergeants, a great hall, workshops, an infirmary, training ground, stables, an elegant church and a palace for the grand master and his staff. Unlike many of its sister preceptories, the Temple in Acre also benefited from lavatories connected to the city’s complex sewerage system, which drained into the sea. Running through part of this underground labyrinth of water channels was a tunnel that led from the preceptory right under the city to the harbor, which enabled the knights to transport cargo from their ships and which could also serve as an effective escape route.

  To Will, the fortress was home: familiar, ordinary. But whenever knights or sergeants arrived from the West and entered the gates for the first time he was reminded, by the amazement in their faces, just how magnificent the preceptory was.

  As Everard struggled with the heavy door to the knights’ quarters, Will moved to aid him. But the priest tutted him away irritably, eventually managing to push it open himself. Will followed him up to his chamber on the second floor, Everard wheezing breathlessly. “You should ask the seneschal to move you to another room,” suggested Will, as they entered.

  “I like the view,” replied Everard testily.

  Will shrugged. “What do you want to speak to me about?” he asked, moving a pile of vellum-bound books from a stool by Everard’s workbench and sitting. On the bench, where the priest worked on his translations, was a large book, the pages of which flowed with delicate Arabic script. Beside it was a parchment, smoothed with pumice stone, upon which Everard was writing out a Latin translation of the text. Many people in Outremer now used paper, which was cheaper to produce, but Everard still preferred his animal skins and insisted on having parchment specially made up and delivered by a local supplier.

  The priest, who hadn’t answered him, was busy pouring a goblet of wine. His damaged hand with its two missing fingers, lost thirty-two years ago when Muslim forces recaptured Jerusalem, trembled. The priest drank so much these days that some knights had started to joke he must have Burgundy for blood. Will waited until Everard had taken several sips before repeating the question.

  “I was going to talk to you this morning when you returned,” responded the priest. “But I wanted the meeting over and done with.” Curling the fingers of his good hand around the stem of the goblet, he sat on the window seat. “In the past three years since he returned to England and was crowned king, Edward has written to me three times to request funds from our coffers. He said he needed money to help him establish his position as our guardian; to pay emissaries to journey to the Mongols and other races in the hope of securing future alliances; to pay contacts to keep him informed of events in the wider world that may have an impact on us. The first time, I paid him. The sum did not seem extravagant and I had no reason to doubt his intentions. But last year, when Matthew, our brother in London, visited, he told me he had learned that Edward had been meeting with the pope to discuss the possibility of a new Crusade, following the Council of Lyons.”

  Will nodded. “I’ve heard this too. The pope has been very determined. I’m just glad so few turned up for his council, else we might have been knee-deep in blood by now.”

  “The pope didn’t arrange the meeting,” said Everard soberly. “Edward did.”

  Will frowned in puzzlement, but waited for the priest to continue.

  “It seems he wanted to apologize for missing the council and wished the pope to know that he would make it his personal mission to lead a Crusade to the East. He said that when he had secured his own kingdom, he would take the Cross.”

  “That makes no sense. Edward was the one who signed the treaty with Baybars. Why would he break his own truce?”

  “Perhaps because he had no intention of keeping it.” Everard finished his wine and moved to pour himself another.

  Will was up and taking the goblet before he could rise. He filled the vessel and returned it to Everard. “I will admit, I was never comfortable having Edward as our guardian, but I cannot believe he would go back on his pledge like this.”

  “You weren’t comfortable with him?” said Everard, surprised. “You never told me that.”

  Will paused. “It wasn’t something I could put into words. I just didn’t trust him, but he never gave me any good reason not to. Could Brother Matthew have heard it wrong?”

  “When he left for England, I asked him to look into it. I also told him about the money Edward had requested from me and had him check whether the king had sent any such emissaries. Before I heard from him again, Edward sent me a third request, asking why I hadn’t answered his previous petition. This time, he asked for a much larger amount.”

  “Did you pay it?”

  “
No. But here is a letter I received from Brother Matthew shortly afterwards.”

  He handed Will a scroll. It was cracked and smudged, as if it had been read several times.

  “Read it.”

  Will looked up when he had finished. “What did the others say when you showed them this?”

  “You are the only one I’ve shown.”

  Will glanced at the parchment. “You’ve had it for a while?”

  “A few months.”

  “Why haven’t you told anyone?” said Will, incredulous. He struggled to keep his voice down. “This is evidence that the king of England, our own guardian, is working against us! I would say this is a more pressing topic to bring to a meeting than some treatise you and Velasco have written!”

  “It isn’t evidence,” said Everard quietly. “As Matthew himself says, he cannot prove it. It is speculation.”

  Will read it again. “He says he has learned that Edward is planning an attack on Wales, that he believes the king wishes to use the requested money to fund the early stages of his campaign.” He looked up. “That seems fairly certain to me.”

  “He is certain about the attack, yes, but not that we will be funding it.”

  “Does it really matter what he would be using the money for?” said Will, shaking his head. “Edward is planning to attack another country. The man you made ...” Will stopped himself. “The guardian of a group whose sole purpose is peace is about to start a war, and not only in his own kingdom so it would appear. Matthew says people in England are calling him the Crusader King. They believe he will be the one to deliver Jerusalem.”

  “He can have no immediate plans for that,” said Everard, “not if he is planning on attacking Wales.”

  “But if he’s already met with the pope to discuss it, it seems clear that he intends to in the future.” Will rolled up the parchment and stuffed it roughly into its case. “Part of me isn’t surprised.”