Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “What is happening, Guido? My maid has just woken me and told me that you want us to leave?”

  Guido grasped her firmly, making her gasp. “I need you to rouse the children and pack as many belongings as you can. Take only things we can carry to the harbor.” He stared around the wide corridor at the ornate tapestries and life-size statues, torchlight reflected in the marble surfaces. “We’ll just have to leave the rest.”

  “Guido, you’re scaring me.”

  “Do you trust me?” he said urgently.

  She nodded tentatively.

  “Then do this for me. I will explain everything later, but we need to get to a ship as soon as possible. I want to sail for Genoa tonight.”

  Dazed, but compliant, his wife allowed him to press her in the direction of their children’s bedchambers.

  When she had gone, Guido hurried to his study. In the crisp air, he could smell his own sweat. Entering, he went to a chest behind his desk. He paused before he reached it, his eyes drawn by a leather ball on the floor. For a second, he felt annoyance; how many times had he told his son not to play in here? Then reality crashed in and he had to fight back an urge to sob. He had put them all in peril. And for what? More gold? No, he told himself savagely, not for gold. He had done it because it had been the right thing to do. The grand master and the others had to be stopped: they were going to destroy everything. But deep down inside him a sad little voice disagreed.

  He had been in the church of San Lorenzo for Vespers when he’d heard about the raid on the Saracen. Templars, people were saying, had arrested the landlord and freed Muslim slaves. Unable to glean any clear information from their whisperings, Guido slipped out of the aisles and left the church. His mind spinning, he hastened to the tavern, skidding through the dirty streets, his velvet hose soon caked with mud and excrement. He was followed by a company of ragged Genoese children who started clamoring for money, then chased the panting, sweating man for the fun of it, laughing and whooping. By the time he reached the Saracen, Guido was drenched and gasping. Seeing a Templar coming out of the tavern with several men wearing the colors of the Genoese guard, he decided to go no closer. It hadn’t taken him long to find someone willing tell him what had happened: the whole district was buzzing with the news. For a couple of coins, several eager informants were tripping over themselves to tell him how Templars had arrested Sclavo for the attempted murder of their grand master.

  On hearing those words, Guido returned home as if the Devil himself was at his heels. But he had approached the palazzo with caution, dreading to see Templars moving inside the grounds. His fear for his own life initially overtook his concern for his family, and for a few moments, he thought of running to the docks. Then, sickened by his own weakness and inspired by guilt, he had been filled with an almost valiant desire to defend them and had stridden determinedly inside, ready to fight all comers.

  Now, as he opened the chest to reveal an ornate silver dagger, he realized how violently he was shaking. But surely having a weapon in his hands had to feel better than this cringing helplessness? Through the windows came the sound of hoofbeats, shattering the quiet night. Guido curled a meaty hand around the hilt. He heard shouts from his guards, then an agonized cry. The gates of the palazzo clanged harshly as they were flung open.

  THE TEMPLE, ACRE, 12 MARCH A.D. 1276

  King Hugh III of Cyprus sat easily in his saddle, head held high, as he steered his white mare down the Street of St. Anne, past the convent of the same name, whose lofty bell tower disappeared in darkness. The area was hushed, with most of the citizens now in their homes for the night. Hugh and his entourage, made up of royal guards and his solemn advisor, Guy, moved in a glowing amber sphere cast by the torches three of the guards held. The flames shone on the outer walls of the Temple that rose up to their right, where creepers trailed green fingers across the stonework and tiny black lizards darted away as the light passed over them. After a few more yards they could see the massive tower that straddled the Temple’s gates, the four gold lions that capped its turrets visible as patches of glittery brightness far above. The gates were shut.

  Hugh caught his advisor looking at him. “What is it, Guy?”

  Guy seemed hesitant to speak, but did so. “Are you certain you wish to do this now, my liege? Would it not be better to wait until morning?”

  “If I come in the morning, he will be in chapel or eating or in a chapter meeting, or doing something else that regretfully cannot be interrupted.” Hugh’s tone was caustic. “At this time of night, I defy him to think of any such excuse.”

  Guy nodded, but didn’t looked convinced.

  “I will go in alone.”

  “My liege ...”

  Hugh raised a gloved hand. “I wish to speak with him in private, one man to another. Perhaps then he will afford me the respect he has so far withheld.”

  The company reached the gates, and Hugh swung himself easily from the saddle, straightening his gold cloak that snugly fitted his lean frame. One of the guards took the reins of the mare; another jumped down and approached the door cut into the huge wooden gates, crisscrossed with bands of iron. He banged on it with a mailed fist as Hugh slipped off his gloves and passed a hand through his dark, curly hair. His olive-skinned face was taut with anticipation.

  A bolt slid back on the other side of the door. Torchlight spilled out and a man appeared, clad in the black tunic of a Templar sergeant. He wore a helmet and had a short sword strapped to his hip. “Yes?”

  “My liege lord, Hugh III, king of Cyprus and Jerusalem, demands a meeting with Grand Master de Beaujeu.” The guard spoke loud and clear, as if addressing a much larger audience.

  The sergeant looked a little surprised. “I’m afraid Grand Master de Beaujeu is seeing no visitors.”

  “Then he will tell me that himself,” said Hugh, stepping forward, so the guard could see him.

  “Your Majesty.” Looking discomforted, the guard offered Hugh a bow. “I have been given strict instructions not to—”

  “I am a king,” said Hugh patiently, as if the guard hadn’t spoken at all. “King, indeed, of this whole region.” He swept a slender, ring-encrusted hand out behind him. “It is my privilege to go where I will, man. Your grand master is well aware that I wish to speak with him. And have for some time.” His calm began to slide away. “Thrice, I have invited him to an audience and thrice I have been refused. You will let me in or I swear Master de Beaujeu will know my anger!” He spoke these last words with such vehemence that the sergeant took a step back.

  “I will tell him, Your Majesty, but I cannot guarantee a favorable response.” The sergeant opened the gate wider. “Bring your men inside. You can wait in the guardhouse if you wish. We have a fire there.”

  Hugh settled a little at this. “Thank you,” he said cordially, stepping through the gate, followed by his men, who led the horses in one by one.

  The sergeant spoke quickly to his comrades in the guardhouse, then set off across the yard toward the grand master’s palace. The royal company filed awkwardly into the cramped, stuffy chamber at the bottom of the gate tower, eyed by the Templar sergeants. Hugh stood in the doorway brooding, his eyes passing over the expansive courtyard, bordered by impressive buildings. He resented the preceptory’s high walls that shut him out; resented that the Templars were untouchable inside them, locked away in their own sacred space. The rest of the city was much the same in its divisions, but at least he always felt he had authority in the other quarters. People listened to him there, treated him like a king. Here, he felt as if he were imposing, as if he should apologize for intruding. And he hated that feeling. Raising his shoulders, he made himself stand erect. He didn’t care who the knights thought they were or how favored they were by the pope in Rome. He might not be able to touch them here, but back in Cyprus their holdings weren’t fortresses like this. Back in Cyprus they were vulnerable.

  He had power over them. And if they pushed him too far, by God he would use it. The tho
ught lent him renewed confidence, and by the time the sergeant returned with the news that the grand master would see him briefly, Hugh felt almost cocksure.

  Five minutes later, he entered the grand master’s solar. Guillaume turned from the window as the sergeant shut the door. His face was half in shadow, his expression unreadable. The two men faced each other across the room. Hugh was shorter, slender rather than muscular, and at twenty-six he was fourteen years Guillaume’s junior, but he maintained his erect pose in the presence of the grand master. There was a long moment of silence as neither man moved, both expecting the other to bow first.

  Finally, Hugh, clasped his hands behind his back. “I am glad that you acceded to see me, Master de Beaujeu.”

  “It seemed I had no choice,” answered Guillaume. “It is late, my lord. What is so important that you needed to see me at this hour?”

  “It is not yet Compline,” retorted Hugh, irritated by Guillaume’s aplomb. “And I believed that this must be the best time to see you, being that I have summoned you at other hours of the day and have been told that you are occupied with some business or other.” He fixed the grand master with a glare. “I would like to know exactly what business has kept you from addressing me since your arrival in my lands. It is customary for dignitaries to pay homage to their king. Or were you simply unaware of this etiquette?”

  Guillaume’s eyes narrowed, but his tone, when he spoke, remained flat and low. “I did pay homage to my king. Back in Sicily.”

  Hugh wanted to explode at this comment, but with Herculean effort he managed to dampen down his fury, Guy’s advice from earlier sounding in his mind. You must try to turn the grand master to your side. I’m afraid it may be your best chance of keeping Charles d’Anjou from your throne.

  “Charles may be your king in Sicily, Master de Beaujeu,” said Hugh, pushing the words through clenched teeth. “But in Outremer I am sovereign. The High Court has decreed it. I have the greater claim to the throne. According to the law I, not Maria, hold the right to Jerusalem’s crown. It has been settled.”

  “Not as far as the pope is concerned. Not as far as I am concerned.”

  “Why do you dispute my right?” demanded Hugh. “Because Charles is your cousin? I thought you above petty nepotism.”

  “It has nothing to do with blood and everything to do with power,” replied Guillaume. “Charles has the power to raise armies and lead a Crusade. He has the power to turn the tide that threatens to drown us. You do not and have shown no willingness to take back our lost territories. Indeed you pandered to Baybars’s demands at Beirut rather than risk any hurt to your position. I have been told you even pay him a tribute now. Twenty thousand dinars a year?” Before Hugh could answer, Guillaume continued. “The pope knows this, which is why he advised Maria to sell her rights to Charles.” His tone was forthright rather than malicious. “You should stand down, Hugh, let Charles do for us all what you will not.”

  “You are mad!” spat Hugh. “Would you step down from your position if I asked you to?”

  “If it were for the good of Outremer, then yes,” said Guillaume easily. His tone intensified. “I would do anything to bring God’s land back to us.”

  Hugh shook his head adamantly. “You think Charles cares what happens here? He got his own brother killed when he advised him to invade Tunis rather than come to Palestine, where he was needed.”

  “King Louis died of a fever.”

  “Charles has never got his hands dirty. He is more interested in adding Byzantium to his empire than winning back territory in Outremer. You will be on your own if you rely on him.” Hugh touched his hand to his chest. “I will fight with you if you pledge your fealty to me.” His voice softened. “Stand with me, Guillaume, and we will take back the Holy Land together. Speak to the pope; help me call off this sale of rights, and let Charles aid us where he will.” Hugh held out his jeweled hand for the grand master to kiss. “Come now.”

  Guillaume regarded the king for a long moment. “Your concern is for your crown,” he said finally. “Not the Holy Land.”

  Hugh’s outstretched hand wavered then fell. This time, no subtle words could allay his rage. “How dare you!” he spat. “You are a fool, de Beaujeu. A holy fool! I will keep my throne with or without your help, and when Charles is forced back to Sicily with his tail between his legs, you need not look for aid or friendship from me.” He raised his hand again, his finger directed at Guillaume. “We are now enemies, you and I.”

  Once at the gates, Hugh didn’t bother to collect his horse, but strode past his waiting men and headed out of the preceptory before the sergeants could open the door for him.

  Guy hastened to follow after ordering the guards to bring their mounts. “My liege!”

  Hugh halted abruptly and turned.

  Guy was startled by the violence in his eyes. “My liege?” he repeated tentatively.

  “I want you to write to King Edward of England.”

  “I already did, months ago.” Guy’s voice was wary.

  “Then write to him again,” snapped Hugh. “Why hasn’t he replied, for God’s sake?”

  “I take it the meeting didn’t go well?”

  “King Edward is Charles d’Anjou’s nephew and a close friend of the pope,” said Hugh, ignoring the question. “Maybe we will have more luck with him.” He went to turn away, then whipped around, fist clenched. “We have to do something, Guy. I will not lose my throne to that bastard and his puppet knights!”

  THE GENOESE QUARTER, ACRE, 12 MARCH A.D. 1276

  Will grabbed Angelo’s arm as the guard sprawled to the ground in front of the gates, clutching his chest. “What the hell are you doing? We’re here to arrest Soranzo, not kill his men!”

  Angelo pulled his arm from Will’s grip as the four Sicilian knights, led by Zaccaria, rounded up the other three guards. “He came at me with a sword,” he replied coldly. “What was I supposed to do? ... Sir Knight?” he added, after a mocking pause.

  Will checked the guard’s wound. It was only superficial, but he knew it probably felt a great deal worse than it was. “He’s going to be fine,” he told the guard’s comrades. Straightening, he gestured to one of them. “Help him up.” The man, who had been disarmed by Zaccaria, came forward warily and pulled the groaning guard to his feet.

  Angelo began to walk toward the house that rose up in front of them. Torchlight flickered in the upper windows, and Will saw a shadow move quickly across one of them. “I’ll go first.”

  Angelo hesitated, then gestured to the house with an unfriendly smile. “Be my guest.”

  As he approached the door, Will heard a baby crying in a room upstairs. He didn’t like this. The guards seemed to be expecting them; the palazzo’s gates barred, their weapons drawn.

  When he had returned to the preceptory with Sclavo, the grand master had been oddly indecisive, wanting to wait rather than send him to arrest Soranzo immediately. After interrogating Sclavo, he dismissed Will, who, before leaving the dungeon, asked de Beaujeu about the reward, neglecting to mention that Luca had been the brother of his attacker. The grand master distractedly told him that the funds would be available by morning. Planning to send Simon to deliver the money to Luca, Will returned to his quarters and was reading a translation Everard had asked him to look at weeks ago, when he had been summoned to the yard. There he found de Beaujeu’s four personal guards and a man of about his age waiting with horses. Zaccaria introduced the stranger, explaining that Will had been put in charge of escorting him to the Genoese palazzo, where the Venetian would interrogate Guido Soranzo, a former business associate. Will was puzzled by this. For the grand master to call upon an associate of Soranzo’s, he must have known the Genoese in the first instance, although he had given no indication of this when Will had relayed his report.

  That puzzlement had since turned to unease. He couldn’t understand why the grand master would send a merchant to question Soranzo, whatever their past relationship, when he could easily call upo
n Angelo’s aid after the Genoese was locked in one of the cells. Will didn’t trust the Venetian. There was something personal about this assignment for him. Something Will hadn’t been told. Now, as he pushed open the doors of the palazzo, he felt a growing sense of danger, not only from the dark house before him, but from the black-cloaked Venetian behind him, who had cut down that guard before Will had been able to reach for his sword.

  Beyond the door, a passage stretched into shadow, the only light a flickering glow that spilled down a set of stone steps off to the right. Gripping his falchion, Will moved in, his boots loud on the tiles. He looked up, hearing the creak of floorboards above, and headed for the stairs.

  “Commander Campbell.”

  Will turned at the hushed voice to see Zaccaria.

  The Sicilian’s eyes gleamed in the half-light. “What do you plan to do with the guards?”

  Will glanced back to see Francesco and Alessandro, two of the Sicilian knights, in the doorway training swords on the palazzo’s guards, the wounded one holding a bloodstained rag to his chest. He realized it would be foolish to bring the guards inside; they might alert the rest of the house. He cursed himself for overlooking this and felt uncomfortable under Zaccaria’s calm gaze. The Sicilian, who was at least ten years his senior, was beneath him in rank, yet probably closer to the grand master than anyone and would no doubt give a full report of Will’s command as soon as he returned. Will was used to thinking for himself. He hadn’t realized how complicated things could become when you had to organize everyone else as well. He pointed to Alessandro and Francesco. “Remain here with the guards,” he murmured. “Keep watch in case Soranzo tries to escape.” As they moved into position, Will climbed the stairs, Zaccaria, Angelo and Carlo, the fourth Sicilian, close behind.

  At the top was a long corridor, lit by torches, the flames shifting, erratic.

  There were three doors set into the right-hand wall and four on the left, with one at the end of the corridor. All were shut. Will moved slowly to the first, then halted, hearing the baby’s cry again. It was muffled, but Will thought it had come from farther down, possibly the second on the right. He turned to Zaccaria and motioned. The Sicilian nodded, and together they approached the door, weapons ready. As Will shoved open the door, there were screams from inside the room, where twelve or so people were clustered behind two terrified guards. There were three men who looked like servants, four women, six children, and, clutched tightly in the arms of a plump woman in an embroidered cloak, a baby. The two guards had swords drawn, but made no move.