by Robyn Young
“And a secular life is not for him. So what do you do?”
Elwen twisted the coif absently around her finger. “I don’t know, Andreas.” She closed her eyes. “I really don’t know.”
THE TEMPLE, ACRE, 16 MARCH A.D. 1276
“You seen Elwen recently?”
“Keep your voice down,” murmured Will, hopping down from the bench where he’d been sitting.
Simon’s head appeared from around the horse he was grooming. “Sorry.” He went back to rubbing the brush down the beast’s flanks. “There’s no one who can hear though.”
Will glanced along the vaulted stone stables. The stalls here were for destriers: the massive war chargers, ridden by the knights, that in battle would be armored just as their riders. The palfreys and packhorses used by the sergeants and for light riding were housed in an adjacent stable. “All the same,” he said, looking back at Simon, “I’d rather not speak of it.” He adopted a smile. “I came to see you. I haven’t had much time for friends of late. Now I have a spare minute, I don’t want to spend it talking about me.”
Simon pulled a face. “I wish you would. It’s not like I’ve much to tell you stuck in here all day.” He straightened and wiped his forehead with his arm, smudging dirt across his brow. “Though I was speaking to Everard yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“He seemed vexed. More so than usual.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing much, he just wondered if I’d spoken to you. He wanted to know where you were.”
Will frowned. “He hasn’t come to see me.”
“You know Everard. I reckon he just wanted me to tell you, you know, so he didn’t have to summon you himself. Wanted you to go to him.”
Will rubbed absently at his chin, his beard grazing his fingertips. “I haven’t had time to see him, not since we found the grand master’s attacker.”
“No?” Simon cocked his head. “Yet you’re hanging about in here, not wanting to talk about anything?”
Will didn’t answer. It was true; he had been avoiding the priest. Everard would want to know what happened at Guido Soranzo’s house; would have heard the rumors, may have even heard, through the seneschal, that a man named Sclavo was being held in the dungeon in connection with the assault on the grand master. Will had never been any good at fooling the priest. Everard would know he was hiding something.
Since he had returned from Guido’s, Will had thought, several times, of going to the priest and telling him everything: about Sclavo, about the grand master’s decision to send a noncombatant to interrogate their suspect, about Guido’s final words. But concern for the old man stopped him. Everard was frail, unwell and already burdened with worry over the possibility that King Edward might be working against them. The prospect of the grand master being involved in something underhand might push him to the edge. And for what? All Will had to go on were the cryptic words of a dying man. Before he faced Everard, he wanted more.
He had scoured his mind for any meaning behind Guido’s oath, but was none the wiser. He had never heard of any black stone, nor did he understand why the grand master would burn because of it. There was only one person, other than Everard, he could think of to ask—Elias, an old rabbi who owned a bookshop in the Jewish quarter. He and Everard had been friends for years. Elias knew of the Anima Templi and had helped them find rare treatises for translation, on occasion using his shop to disseminate knowledge that the Brethren wanted spread. He dealt in books on everything from history to medicine, from astrology to strange magic practiced by tattooed desert men. He seemed to know a little something about most things. Will just needed to think of a way to ask him without it getting back to the priest.
“I’m sure I’ll see Everard at supper,” he told Simon, who shrugged.
“Sir Campbell.”
Will looked round to see Zaccaria in the stable’s entrance.
The Sicilian nodded to him. “Grand Master de Beaujeu wishes to see you in his quarters.”
As Will entered the grand master’s solar, he saw Guillaume seated at his desk. Sunlight threw a wide square of brightness across the papers spread in front of him. In his hand he held a quill.
“Commander,” he said in greeting, not looking up. “Close the door behind you.” He dipped the quill into an inkpot and continued writing on a sheet, tut-ting as the ink blotted.
“You wanted to see me, my lord?”
After three more lines, Guillaume set down the quill. “You did well the other night,” he said, sitting back. “I haven’t had a proper chance to thank you since you gave me your report. Once again, I find myself in your debt. Because of you, the man who wished me dead has been brought to justice.”
Will didn’t speak for a pause, then found he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I would have preferred to see Guido Soranzo served his justice in our cells, my lord, rather than on the floor of his home in front of his children.”
Guillaume studied Will, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. “It wasn’t the most conventional of trials, certainly. But Angelo Vitturi informed me that he had no choice. Soranzo attacked him. The death occurred in self-defense.”
“I feel it could have been prevented had we arrested Soranzo and brought him here for questioning, my lord.”
“Had we done so, Soranzo would have had time to put up his guard. Vitturi had the best chance of getting answers from him when he was at his most vulnerable.” The grand master’s tone was patient, but there was a low undercurrent to it that suggested Will was on dangerous ground.
“And did you find your answers, my lord?” Will knew he was pushing his luck, but he couldn’t help himself. He realized he was angry at the grand master; angry that Guillaume had sent him on an assignment with the unpredictable Angelo without any reasonable explanation; angry that he now had this ambiguous mistrust.
Guillaume, however, leaned back, his manner changing, becoming lighter. “It seems Soranzo wanted to exchange me for a shipping contract.”
“A shipping contract?”
“At the Council of Lyons I was granted consent by the pope to build a fleet of ships that would serve the eastern Mediterranean. Work for this has already begun back in France. Soranzo was a shipbuilder whose business was failing. Had I died, the building of the fleet would have become the responsibility of the Knights of St. John, with whom Soranzo had contracts.”
“Oh,” said Will, his brow furrowing.
Guillaume laughed. His face became instantly younger, the frown lines disappearing. “You sound almost disappointed. Were you expecting some higher motive from this man to account for his actions, William? Something grander? More noble?”
“No,” said Will quickly.
“To tell you the truth I was disappointed myself,” said the grand master, his smile fading. “To know how low someone will stoop to pluck the coins from a dead man’s hand.”
Will didn’t respond. Was he wrong? Did the grand master really know nothing more than this? He sounded so sincere. As Will thought this, he had a sudden wish for it to be true. He wanted to trust Guillaume. There was something satisfyingly direct about the grand master, something solid, dependable.
“Still,” said Guillaume, rising and heading over to an ornate armoire, “it is done, and perhaps now we can all return to our duties.” Opening the doors, he reached inside and pulled out a slender tube. As he moved back to the desk, Will saw that it was a scroll case, delicately filigreed in silver. “I have a new assignment for you.”
Will took the case as Guillaume handed it to him.
“I need you to convey this to a man named Kaysan. He is one of our spies. The scroll inside contains highly sensitive information about our Saracen enemies which we need him to verify.” Guillaume returned to his chair. “Kaysan belongs to a group of Shia mercenaries who work the pilgrim roads from Syria and Iraq into Arabia. They are paid to protect traders and those traveling to Mecca from desert tribes who attack the caravans and demand ille
gal taxes from pilgrims. Kaysan lives in a village called Ula, three days north of Medina, the Saracens’ holy site, where the bones of their Prophet are interred. I am sending you with Zaccaria, Carlo and Alessandro. Francesco is ill. What is the name of that comrade of yours? The one who helped you bring in Sclavo?”
“Robert de Paris?”
Guillaume nodded. “Take him also. As I said, Kaysan works the pilgrim roads. He is often on the move, so you may have to wait awhile before he returns to the village. Syrian Christians trade on these routes, selling provisions to pilgrims, so you will travel there as merchants. One of the Temple’s guides will lead you. Ula is the last village in Arabia any Christian may enter. Beyond that, on the road to Medina and Mecca, only Saracens are permitted. Give Kaysan’s name when you arrive. People there will know him. You leave tomorrow.”
Will felt the silver case growing warm in his grip. “Sensitive information, my lord?”
“Highly sensitive,” Guillaume emphasized. “Be on your guard, William. There are many perils on those roads. Make sure you keep it safe.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Guillaume picked up his quill. He frowned when Will didn’t move. “Was there something else?”
Will shook his head. If there were answers to his questions, he did not think he would find them here. “No, my lord.”
13
The Docks, Acre 15 APRIL A.D. 1276
Seabirds wheeled and shrieked, their spiraling forms dark against the dawn. The first rays of sun blazed in the east, painting the spires, domes and towers that rose within Acre’s walls a soft gold. Garin de Lyons shielded his eyes as he stood at the galley’s side, the light touching his face.
Acre.
He had spent almost five years of his life in this place, yet it seemed as unfamiliar to him as any foreign city. The lack of recognition was hardly surprising. When he had first come to the Holy Land, he had been stationed in Jaffa and Antioch. Following the fall of both cities to Baybars’s forces, he had returned to Acre, where he had spent only two weeks before being imprisoned in the Temple’s dungeon for four years. His memories of the city were comprised of smells and sounds that had existed as faint ghosts beyond the confines of his prison: the vibration of waves, the odor of salt and dampness, bird cries. Since boarding the galley in London six months earlier, he had been waiting for Acre to appear on the horizon with all the strained hostility of a man about to face an old enemy. The slight swell of excitement he now experienced as the city grew larger surprised him. Maybe it was because he had spent so long at sea and was just pleased to see land, or maybe it was the prospect of freedom that the city offered. Either way, he found himself restless with it as they approached the harbor wall.
He grabbed his bag from the corner of the deck that had been his home for the voyage. Other royal messengers got robes of office and passage on stately ships, but King Edward had said it was necessary that he travel unobserved for the assignment, and so he wore no garments of velvet, just a plain cotton shirt and hose and a scratchy woolen cloak. The vessel that had conveyed him was a wool-carrier filled with rough London men. At first, Garin had been quietly incensed. But halfway down the coast of France, he had discovered that his mean surroundings offered certain pleasures in which he could indulge to pass the time, namely drinking and gambling.
As soon as the gangplanks were thrown across, the crew began moving their cargo. The captain disembarked and headed across the dockside to the customs house. Garin glanced at the crew, but they were busy with the crates and he had nothing to say to any of them anyway. With the sun in his eyes and the calls of fishermen loud in his ears, he stepped down the planks onto the bustling dockside. The solidity of the stone beneath his feet was a shock after so long on the water, and he swayed with the dizzying sensation of abrupt inertia. After a few tentative steps, however, he found he could manage a straight enough line if he focused on something static. With his gaze on the huge iron gates of the city that rose ahead, Garin slung his bag over his shoulder and crossed the harbor wall.
Passing the round towers of the sugar mills and rows of warehouses and taverns that lined the docks, he entered the city proper. Traders were already setting up their pitches in the Pisan market, which was covered by a giant canopy of heavy cloth painted blue and green, designed to keep the sun off the heads of the sellers. Garin’s stomach growled hollowly as he saw a brown-skinned man emptying a basket of pomegranates onto a stall, beside bunches of greenish-yellow curved fruit that he remembered were called apples of paradise. Garin opened his bag and pulled out a leather pouch fat with coins. He approached the man and pointed to the pomegranates, holding up two fingers.
The man grinned, showing blackened teeth, and plucked two from the stall. “You just come?” he asked in heavily accented French, jerking his head toward the docks.
Garin nodded as he handed over the money.
“Welcome to Heaven,” said the man with a chuckle, passing him the fruit.
Walking away, Garin stowed the pouch and one of the pomegranates in his bag. He pulled a thin dagger from a sheath attached to his belt and sliced open the fruit, revealing its dark, seeded flesh. He looked around as he ate, trying to get his bearings. He knew that the Temple lay to his left; he could see the walls in the distance, but he wasn’t going there yet. First, he had other business.
Garin had never had the chance to explore the city, but he knew roughly the direction he needed to take. Moving north, he left the Pisan market and entered an alley. He had only gone a little way, when he heard his name being called. Behind him were two men, stocky and muscled. One was bald, his head sunburned and peeling; the other had wiry hair that covered his head and most of his face.
“You’ve taken something that’s not yours, de Lyons,” said the bald one gruffly. He was sweating and breathless as if he had been running.
Garin exhaled wearily. “I won it fairly, Walter.”
“You tricked us,” said Walter, jabbing a stubby finger at Garin. “All these months you’ve been losing. Then, on our last night on board, you win it all back? You was planning that all along.”
“It made for an interesting game,” said Garin, still in that weary tone, although he had discarded the pomegranate and had one thumb hooked through his belt, close to the dagger.
“We want it back, runt,” growled Walter’s hairy companion. “All of it.”
Garin’s face showed the first sign of anger in the faint flush rising in his cheeks. “Runt?” He laughed, although there was no mirth in the sound. “You think to intimidate me with insults, John?” The laughter died away. Garin dropped his sack and walked toward them. “There was a time when I could have had you hung, drawn and quartered just for speaking to me this way. Things have changed since then; I no longer wear the mantle. But I haven’t forgotten the things they taught me.”
Walter pushed John back. “He’s mine.”
Garin continued walking slowly, almost strolling, as Walter came at him, fists raised. As the thick-set sailor swung the first punch, Garin ducked gracefully out of the way and slammed an elbow up under Walter’s jaw. The man’s head was snapped back, and he staggered away with a shout of pain, blood spilling from his mouth where he had bitten his tongue.
“Bastard,” he hissed, coming in again.
Garin feinted left as a second punch was launched at him, and, again, he slipped in past Walter’s defenses. This time, he caught the sailor in the eye and was rewarded with a singing pain in his knuckles that told him the blow had been a good one. Walter reeled away, clutching his face, and John shoved past him. Garin held up his fists, but he wasn’t expecting such a lightning charge from the stocky man and found himself being pushed back, trying to block and avoid a series of rapid jabs. One got in, and Garin felt his nose crunch as John’s fist connected with his face. Blood filled the back of his throat, thick and sour, and tears blinded his eyes as pain roared through him. Spitting blood onto the ground, he moved in, his anger now piqued. Ignoring the blo
ws that rained in on him, Garin managed to grab hold of John’s wiry hair and yanked the sailor’s head down, at the same time bringing up his knee. John’s nose broke and his lower lip was ripped open on his teeth. Garin shoved him roughly back, and the sailor went down hard, cracking his head on the alley floor. He didn’t get up. Wiping the blood from his face, Garin stepped over John and crossed to Walter, who was staring in disbelief at his fallen comrade. The sailor backed away as Garin drew his dagger. Then he turned and fled.
Garin watched him go, then sheathed the dagger and bent down over John to inspect the man’s belt. There was a small money pouch hanging from it, beside a leather flask. Garin yanked off the pouch and stowing the money bag in his sack, took a swig from the flask. Cheap wine stung the back of his throat and he grimaced. Swilling it round his mouth, he used it to rid himself of the taste of blood, then tossed the empty flask at the unconscious John.
Men like them had no idea. When they looked at him, they saw a quiet man in his late twenties, with no apparent trade or status, a well-spoken, handsome man; someone soft whom they could make fun of or milk for a bit of coin; perhaps a scholar of some sort. Not a man worth worrying about, who would cheat at dice or steal your woman, or slit your throat in the middle of the night. They hadn’t noticed the scars he bore, carefully disguised by the golden hair that hung in a curtain over his face and the dark blond beard that framed his jaw. They hadn’t noticed the way he moved, fluid, graceful, like one who has been trained with the sword, or the way he hadn’t ever slept with his back turned to any of them, as a man who never expected to be attacked would do. No. They hadn’t any idea at all.
Swinging his bag over his shoulder, Garin left the alley and moved onto the Street of the Three Magi, heading for Acre’s royal palace.