Crusade

by Robyn Young

  Everard’s lip curled in a scowl. “Well I’m glad you saw it coming. Perhaps you might have been so gracious as to let us lesser mortals in on your divine knowledge before now?”

  “What has he done in the years since you appointed him, Everard? Since he signed the truce with Baybars, what has Edward actually done as our guardian? As far as I’m aware, he’s done nothing to help us continue to secure the peace, reconcile the faiths or open lines of trade and communication between East and West.”

  “Those aren’t his duties,” corrected Everard. “When our founder, Grand Master Robert de Sablé, chose Richard the Lionheart to be the first guardian, it was because he wanted a trusted man from outside the Temple who could mediate in disputes between the Brethren and offer advice or financial and military aid.”

  “Whatever his duty is, I don’t think it’s to steal money from us for a war,” responded Will.

  Everard stared into his goblet. “Brother Thomas spoke of how it would only need one strong ruler to unite a force under him for a Crusade. King Edward could be such a man. He is young and popular and powerful. He knows how to lead and inspire men.” Everard shook his head. “I was impressed by him because of those very things. I thought his authority would be an asset. Richard the Lionheart was his great uncle, for the sake of Christ! How did I let a wolf into the fold?” he murmured into the goblet’s red depths. “How could I have been so eager? So foolish?”

  “Why haven’t you told the others? The seneschal at least?” As he asked the question, Will felt a small surge of triumph that Everard had confided in him, not the seneschal.

  “It was my fault we were almost destroyed seven years ago. I can hardly bear to tell them that we may face an even worse threat now because of me.”

  “What happened with the Book of the Grail wasn’t your fault.”

  “When Grand Master Armand de Périgord died, I should have burned the damn thing, not left it lying around for the Knights of St. John to steal. Of course it’s my fault. If you hadn’t retrieved the book for me, the Anima Templi, perhaps even the Temple itself would have been destroyed. And they all know it,” Everard muttered. “I saw Master Seneschal give me that look in the meeting.”

  “Why tell me?”

  Everard raised an eyebrow. “You’ve made mistakes too, William. I thought you might understand. After all, when you used the Anima Templi’s money to try and have Sultan Baybars killed, you almost caused a war.”

  A hot rush of anger and shame colored Will’s cheeks. He stood. “I’ve paid for that mistake, Everard, with interest. You know why I contracted the Assassins, why I wanted Baybars dead. No, it didn’t bring my father back, and yes, it was senseless and wrong. But how many more times must I do penance before you will forgive me? I’m sick of being reminded about it.”

  Everard waved his hand. “I’m sorry. Please, sit down. I trust you, William. That is why I came to you before the others.”

  Will had never heard Everard say that before. He wanted to be trusted. After his father died, Everard was the only one who could offer the pride Will had craved since he was a boy, since he caused the death of his sister, Mary. It was an accident, but the grief tore his family apart and drove a wedge between him and his father. It was what had caused James to join the Temple as a fully professed knight, relinquishing Will’s mother and his other three sisters to a nunnery outside Edinburgh. “What can we do?” Will murmured, sitting back down.

  “We must tread very carefully. Pope Gregory is a close friend of Edward’s.

  We risk exposing ourselves if we anger the king. He could inform the pope of our aims, and I do not need to tell you what that would mean.”

  Will didn’t speak. He knew full well what the consequences of any exposure of the Brethren’s aims would be. It was how he was able to live with their secrecy, how he bore their silence.

  The foundations of the West, of their entire society, were built upon the rock of the Church. Any threat to that edifice could bring the whole structure tumbling down, which was why the Church took heresy so seriously. It wasn’t only Muslims and Jews, Will knew, who had felt the Church’s wrath in the form of a Crusade. Everard had told him of the Cathars: men and women from the south of France who were slaughtered in their thousands by the Church’s soldiers because they opposed orthodox doctrine and preached ideals that ran counter to those of Roman Christianity. What the Anima Templi proposed in the reconciliation of the faiths was anathema, was heresy. Were their aims to be discovered, the Church would destroy them and possibly the Temple if they believed the corruption had spread within its ranks. It wasn’t just a matter of religion; it was also a matter of geography. The Church, and many in the West, wanted to liberate Jerusalem from those they deemed the nonbelievers, a wish that had led Pope Urban II to preach the First Crusade two hundred years earlier. If Muslims and Jews were to become allies, Christendom would be forced to relinquish its desire to rule the Holy City. And, as Everard had once put it, there was room for only one faith in the Holy Land until such a time when more men embraced the Brethren’s ideals.

  Everard slumped forward, looking suddenly exhausted. “I cannot believe that I have just finished reforming the Anima Templi after the schism that broke us apart, only to be faced with another menace. It seems that in each generation something rises up and threatens us: Armand de Périgord, the Knights of St. John and now possibly our own guardian.”

  “Perhaps we are meant to face such threats,” said Will, after a pause. “The Anima Templi was born out of blood and strife. That was why Robert de Sablé created it.” He fought to recall how Everard once put it. “When Grand Master Gérard de Ridefort caused the Battle of Hattin through his own greed, de Sablé knew that the Temple had become too powerful. As an order we were beyond secular laws, we made and deposed kings, answered only to the pope and even to annoy us was an offense punishable by excommunication. We traded in the East and West, built castles and fleets, bought estates, towns even. As you once said, the Temple is Heaven’s sword and the grand master is the hand that wields it. De Sablé created the Anima Templi to safeguard that power, to hold that sword in check. Perhaps, in each generation, God needs to test us to make sure we don’t grow weak, unable to wield it.”

  Everard chuckled softly, but it wasn’t a mocking laugh. “I’ve not often heard you speak so poetically, William.”

  Will returned the smile, then sighed. “Listen, don’t pay Edward until we know for certain that he intends to launch a Crusade, which we obviously won’t want to fund if he does. Write and tell him you don’t have the funds at present. By the time the letter reaches him and he has a chance to reply, we may have found out more.”

  “How can we find out more when he is all the way over in England?” Everard shrugged wearily. “I suppose Brother Matthew may be able to get closer to him somehow.”

  “Why use Matthew when we already have an ally in Edward’s staff?”

  Everard frowned. “Who do you . . . ?” Understanding dawned on his face. “No,” he said vehemently, “I’ll not have that ... traitor involved in this.”

  “Garin was served his justice in our cells for four years, Everard. And he was never a willing traitor. Rook forced him to steal the Book of the Grail. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “How you can forgive that wretch for what he did astonishes me.” Everard fixed Will with a provocative stare. “It wasn’t too long ago that you wanted to see him hang.”

  Will tried not to rise to the bait, but stagnant memories he had tried to bury seeped into his mind at the comment. Everard was right; it wasn’t so long ago that he had wanted his former best friend dead.

  When Will had joined the Temple in London, aged eleven, Garin de Lyons had been assigned as his partner-in-training. For two years, they were inseperable, sharing triumphs and torments, Will struggling through his father’s departure to the Holy Land, Garin suffering at the hands of his abusive uncle. Then, on a mission to escort the English crown jewels to France, everything changed
. Their company was attacked by mercenaries and Will’s master was killed, along with Garin’s uncle. When Will was apprenticed to Everard in Paris and Garin returned to London alone, their friendship faded. Years later, reunited, they found themselves enemies when Garin became involved in a plot to steal the Book of the Grail. Eventually, he was imprisoned, but although he paid for his crimes against the Brethren, his betrayal of Will had cut much deeper and, for that, he had never been charged.

  But this, Will reminded himself, was all in the past. He had forgiven Garin for what had happened in Paris. He shouldn’t dwell. Ignoring Everard’s shrewd stare, he spoke. “Garin knows about the Brethren and that Edward is our guardian. He can help us. Wasn’t the reason you released him so that he could prove himself useful?”

  “If Edward has done nothing to help the Anima Templi, then I cannot see what use de Lyons has been at all,” growled Everard.

  “Then let him start now. I’ll write and ask him about Edward. I don’t have to mention our suspicions. Just let me get a gauge of things there.”

  As Everard was deciding, a bell began to clang. He frowned. “It cannot be Vespers yet surely?”

  “It isn’t Vespers,” said Will, rising.

  Hearing voices and footsteps in the passage outside, Will opened the door to see several knights hurrying past. Others were opening doors, looking out in confusion.

  “What’s happening?” Will called to one of the passing knights.

  “The grand master’s ship has been sighted in the bay,” responded the knight, his eyes shining. “He has come at last!”

  THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276

  Baraka Khan leaned against the cool marble wall of the passage and wiped his nose with the sleeve of his wedding robe. He could hear music and laughter continuing in the grand hall without him, as if his absence hadn’t even been noticed. He knew Aisha would soon go to his private room that had been readied for their wedding night. But the thought of entering the place made him feel sick. Although she had been promised to him five years ago, he had never grown accustomed to the idea, or to her. She had teased him in their younger years and had ignored him since early adolescence. Aisha made Baraka uncomfortable: her quickness; her girlishness; those mystifying giggles and scornful looks. He felt tongue-tied and awkward around her, and for all the bravado he had displayed to his friends, the idea of spending a night with her secretly terrified him.

  His father’s words echoed back to him, distorted with a cruelty that had not been there when uttered, but which now seeped through the memory, wounding him. All day, he had felt so powerful. Everyone’s attention had been focused on him and he had basked in their flattery. For the first time in his life, he had felt like the son of a sovereign, had felt like a man. But with a few words, his father had wiped all that away and now he just felt like a scolded child.

  Baraka pushed himself from the wall and paced the passage, glaring at a servant who passed, carrying a tray of peeled fruits. He wanted to pummel the wall, but was afraid it would hurt and, instead, settled for slapping it hard with his palm.

  “What is wrong, my prince?”

  Baraka whipped round at the whispery voice. Before him stood a hunched, wizened old man. His hair was so matted it had formed into clumped coils that twisted like fat worms down his back. His creased, weathered skin was dark with sun and dirt, and his eyes, white with cataracts, looked almost pupil-less. He wore a threadbare gray robe and his bare feet were caked with dust.

  “Where have you been?” demanded Baraka. “You said you would be at the ceremony.” He folded his arms across his chest. “My father isn’t pleased, Khadir. He wanted you to make a favorable augury of the marriage.”

  Khadir grinned, showing a couple of yellow-brown stumps in an otherwise toothless mouth. He proffered a cloth doll that was gripped in his fist. “Look!” he hissed in a furtive whisper. “I’ve given her a heart.”

  Baraka watched with mounting disgust as Khadir opened up the back of the filthy doll, which had been cut open, then crudely sewn back together. A fetid smell drifted out, and Baraka saw a small piece of flesh inside, surrounded by the cloth stuffing. It was slippery-looking and liver-colored, possibly the heart of a rabbit or some other vermin. Baraka recoiled, utterly repulsed.

  Khadir chuckled and laced the doll back up, pulling the stitches tight. “She needs a heart, if she’s to feel,” he chanted in a singsong voice. “She does. She does.”

  “Why do you carry that foul thing around with you?” said Baraka, grimacing. “You’ve had it since we took Antioch.”

  “She was a gift from your father,” said Khadir, frowning as he threaded the doll through the leather belt that was looped around his scrawny waist, on the other side of which hung a gold-handled dagger, its hilt embedding a plump, glossy ruby. “Would you abandon the things he gives you?”

  “My father gives me nothing,” replied Baraka moodily.

  “That will change,” said Khadir, giving the boy his full attention now the doll was safely stowed.

  “No, it won’t. I tried to join in one of his discussions, like you told me to,” said Baraka, lowering his voice as two courtiers passed them. “But he ...” Baraka felt his face grow hot. “He dismissed me like I was nothing! Like I was a silly child.” He jabbed at his chest. “I’m fifteen, Khadir. I have a wife. I’m not a child!”

  “No, no,” said Khadir softly, “you are not.”

  “He’ll never take me into his trust.”

  Khadir’s mouth split in a wide grin.

  “What is funny?” snapped Baraka.

  Khadir’s smile vanished, his white eyes narrowing to slits. It was like a candle being blown out. “Change is nigh. I see it on the horizon, like storm clouds gathering. War will come again.”

  Baraka shook his head, ignoring the shiver the shift in the old man’s manner sent up his spine. “How will that help me?”

  Khadir giggled like a little boy and his solemnity dissolved. “Because you will start it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Baraka’s tone was scathing, but he was intrigued by the prediction.

  “Your father has not yet fulfilled his destiny, the destiny I told him was his before he killed Sultan Kutuz and took the throne. Nations will fall,” murmured Khadir, “kings will perish. And he will stand above them all on a bridge of skulls that spans a river of blood. Your father’s destiny is to drive the Christians from these lands. This he must do. But I fear there are those in his court who will persuade him otherwise.” Khadir’s eyes flashed with some hidden anger. “Since Omar died, he has lost his way. We must set him back on his true path.” Khadir leaned in close and touched Baraka’s arm. “Together, we will help him. And when he sees what you have done for him, he will see you for who you are: a man and a sultan in waiting.” He stroked Baraka’s arm fondly. “Then you will sit at his right hand until the day when you take the throne and Khadir will use his sight to see for you.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Baraka, shaking his head.

  “You will,” replied Khadir.

  5

  The Docks, Acre 17 JANUARY A.D. 1276

  “Can you see him? Can anybody see him yet?”

  As the galley drew closer to the docks, the men at the back of the assembled company of one hundred or so knights craned their necks, trying to see over the heads of their fellows for a view of the vessel’s eminent passenger.

  Robert de Paris rolled his eyes at Will, who smiled. Robert leaned in close to the knight who had spoken. “You’ll see him soon enough, Brother Albert,” he murmured. “Although you should probably hope he doesn’t see you.”

  “What do you mean?” said Albert, frowning at the fair-haired knight.

  Robert’s usual roguish grin and laughing gray eyes were hidden behind a convincing solemnity. “Your surcoat, brother,” he said in a delicate whisper.

  Albert looked down perplexed, then tutted as he spotted several brown droplets marking the white cloth.

 
“Last night’s supper?” inquired Robert sympathetically.

  “I didn’t notice,” said Albert, licking his thumb and rubbing vigorously at the stains. “Thank you, Brother. Thank you.”

  Robert straightened as Albert cursed and fretted. Will was shaking his head, trying not to laugh. “Anyone would think God was arriving in that boat the way they’re acting,” said Robert derisively. But he kept his voice low as he said it.

  “It’s been over two years since we’ve had a master with us,” responded Will. “You cannot deny it has raised morale.”

  “But do they have to fuss so?” Robert, who was always impeccably neat, eyed his eager companions scornfully. “You would think the grand master has never seen dirt before. I mean, look at you.” He gestured at Will. “You haven’t combed your hair in weeks and your mantle’s blacker than a wolf’s mouth, but is he really going to care so long as you’re a good soldier?”

  Will glanced down at himself as Robert looked away.

  Tall and rather lanky as a boy, Will had filled out during his youth, until now, at twenty-nine, his chest was broader, his arms and shoulders more muscular and he moved with greater ease and confidence, as if he had finally grown into his skin. Like all Templar Knights, he was forbidden from shaving his beard, although he wore it clipped as short as he could get away with. After a month on the road, however, it was a little bushy. His hair was perhaps a bit unkempt, with black strands falling in his eyes and curling untidily around his ears. And Robert was right; his mantle really was filthy. Will went to brush at a smear of dust, then stopped himself as he caught his friend’s impish smirk. Folding his arms, he scanned the harbor.

  The area was bustling as usual, although nowhere near as busy as it would be by Easter, when ships sheltering in ports all around the Mediterranean, Adriatic and Atlantic coasts would set out for the East, laden with pilgrims, soldiers and cargoes of wine and wool. The knights stood in neat formation on the dock wall, just in front of a wide stone jetty that sloped down to the water, where smaller boats could off-load cargo and passengers. Acre’s inner harbor was protected by a heavy iron chain, which could be raised to block the approach of enemy ships and was suspended across the water between a tower on the end of the western mole and the Court of the Chain on the harbor. The inner harbor was always crowded with the vessels of local merchants and fishermen, the larger ships having to moor in the outer harbor just off the crumbling eastern mole. In the distance, near the Tower of the Flies, which rose from the end of the mole, the Templar warship the galley had sailed from surged in the choppy waters. The white mainsail with its red cross had been lowered, but the Temple’s black-and-white banner fluttered madly from the mast.