Crusade

by Robyn Young

  KABUL, THE KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM, 15 APRIL A.D. 1276

  Elwen turned the cloth over in her hands, checking the weave. “It’s beautiful,” she said, glancing at the seller.

  “I do good price,” said the Arab, smiling.

  A middle-aged man beside Elwen pointed to a glistening length of samite, asking how much it was, and the seller moved away to answer him. Elwen felt someone bump against her and looked around to see a woman smile apologetically as she tried to get past. Even though it had been going since dawn, the market was still packed. People were jostling one another, sellers calling out prices, buyers poring over the wares spread out on stalls, bartering for a bargain. It was mostly cloth vendors at Kabul’s spring fair, but a few merchants sold spices, dyes and incense. The smell of peppery meat and smoke from fires hung in the warm, yellow air, and the hauntingly beautiful sound of a lyre drifted above the noise of the crowds. In the shadow of a stone church, the largest building in the village, the lyre player had attracted a gathering and was singing songs in a language Elwen hadn’t been able to place.

  “Is that the last of it, miss?”

  Elwen turned to see Giorgio. His face was ruddy from the sun, now high in the sky.

  “Taqsu’s almost finished loading the wagon.”

  “I might buy some of this,” Elwen told him, threading the cloth through her fingers. “I think Andreas would love it.” She showed it to the Venetian. “What do you think?”

  Giorgio held up his hands. “What I know about cloth, miss, you could write on the head of a pin. All I can say is Andreas trusted you enough to let you come here on his behalf, so I guess you might as well trust yourself to do what you think best.”

  Elwen returned his smile. “You’re right.” She peered over the heads of the slow-moving crowds to an area where wagons and handcarts were stationed. Squires and drivers of all nationalities were packing stock into leather bags strapped to camels. There were sellers from Damascus, Mosul, even Arabia here. Baybars’s twelve-year war against the Franks had swept virtually all Christian settlements from Palestine and Syria, leaving only a few cities on the coast and a smattering of villages in the Galilee region, mostly inhabited by native Christians. Local merchants now had fewer opportunities to sell their goods to Western traders, and as a result, fairs like this one and the established markets at Acre, Tripoli and Tyre were becoming busier with every season. There were many Westerners here, as well as Arabs. “Is Catarina with Taqsu?” Elwen asked Giorgio.

  “Yes, she’s helping him load the last of the cloth.”

  “Let me finish up and I’ll join you.” As Giorgio moved off, Elwen turned to the seller and passed him back the sample cloth. “How much per yard?”

  She had felt nervous when they had arrived just before dawn, having traveled through the night from Acre, unsure of herself and the faith Andreas had placed in her. But after her first purchase, Elwen had grown more confident, occasionally relying on Taqsu to interpret for her. Now she found herself enjoying bartering with the seller. She was agreeing on a final cost when she felt a tug on her sleeve. Catarina was at her side looking hot and restless, black bangs flopping in her eyes. “I thought you were helping Taqsu,” Elwen said, brushing the girl’s hair back from her face.

  “I’m bored,” Catarina told her with a deliberate sigh. “When are we leaving?”

  “Soon. I’m almost finished. Why don’t you wait in the wagon?”

  “Can I go and listen to the man with the music?”

  Elwen glanced over at the lyre player. It was some distance to the church, and the crowds were still dense. “I think you should stay with me.”

  “You have money?” asked the seller expectantly.

  “Father would let me,” said Catarina, pouting.

  “All right,” said Elwen distractedly, opening her money pouch. “But stay by the church, where I can see you.”

  Catarina grinned and skipped off.

  “Your daughter very beautiful,” said the seller.

  Elwen laughed. “Oh, she isn’t mine.” Her smile disappeared as the seller took her coins and began to fold the cloth. The words were loaded with unexpected emotion, and she found herself suddenly close to tears. She blinked them away, annoyed at herself.

  For several weeks, she had been weighed down with a sense of sadness. She had even started to think of her mother and father, ghosts who rarely entered her thoughts. Her father had died shortly after she was born, and her mother had been lost to her for years. Elwen had written to her each season in Paris, but had never heard anything back. She no longer knew if her mother was still alive. There was pain in that, but not for the loss; it was pain for something she had never known: family. It was the talk with Andreas that had caused it. Now that her relationship with Will was out in the open, Andreas would bring up the subject whilst they were working, telling her she should find a husband who would care for her properly. Elwen knew he just wanted what was best for her, but the constant reminder of the lack in her life was wearing her down.

  The seller handed her the heavy bundle of cloth.

  “Thank you,” said Elwen. Just then, she felt a faint tremor in the earth beneath her feet. It grew stronger. The seller was staring around him, and other people were looking up, halting in mid-conversation. Elwen heard a Frenchman say, “Is it an earthquake?”

  No one answered him. The stall in front of Elwen was now trembling, a china cup that the seller had filled with spiced tea was clinking, the black liquid rippling.

  “Catarina!” Elwen shouted, her gaze snapping to the church, where the musician had stopped playing. Elwen caught sight of Catarina’s black head, then a scream tore through the air. A woman ran into the market square, shouting. Elwen didn’t understand what she was saying, but the woman’s terror was evident in the pitch of her voice and her wild expression. Her shout was taken up by others. Suddenly, the market was chaos. People started running, knocking into one another, banging against stalls.

  “Catarina!” Elwen yelled, causing people to look round, wide-eyed. She stood on her toes to see over the crush, but a heavyset man knocked into her and she fell back against the stall, cracking her hip. The seller was grabbing at his merchandise, frantically scooping bundles of cloth into his arms. “Catarina!”

  There was a churning sea of people between her and the church, racing for the wagons and horses, snatching up money pouches, grabbing children. An elderly woman fell and disappeared beneath the tide of running feet. The rumbling was louder.

  “What’s happening?” shouted one man, in bewildered Latin.

  Elwen dropped the cloth and went to force her way through the press, but felt a strong grip on her arm. Giorgio was behind her.

  “Mamluks,” he told her, over the din. “We’ve got to go. Now.”

  Elwen stared up at him, the words skittering across the surface of her thoughts, refusing to sink in.

  “Taqsu’s at the wagon. Come on!”

  As Giorgio tugged at her, Elwen felt reality crash in around her. “I’ve got to get Catarina!” she shouted, trying to pull away. She could hear more screaming. People were funneling out of the wide street that led past the church, racing into the square. Pouring in behind them were riders. Elwen went still as she saw them. Some had swords in their hands; others carried bows. The blades and arrowheads were points of sharp brightness in the sunlight. These men were yelling fiercely as they came, charging up behind the fleeing fairgoers in a shuddering rush of steel and jangling bridles, pounding hooves and bared teeth. Elwen caught two words. Allahu akbar! Then the tension in her body was released in a cry as a Mamluk’s sword curved down at a sprinting man whose head was ripped from his body in a shower of blood that splattered those running alongside him. A young boy went down, arms flailing. Then, Giorgio was pulling her and she was moving.

  As the Venetian dragged her through a sea of faces, each a mask of terror, Elwen screamed Catarina’s name until her throat burned, hoping against hope that the girl would hear and k
now to run toward her. The crowd was pushing them away from the wagons, where squires, unable to force the horses through the crush, were jumping down and fleeing. A row of mud-brick houses and a barn loomed up ahead. People were flowing between them. Elwen heard someone behind her utter a hideous, gurgling shriek, then she felt herself falling as Giorgio went down, hauling her with him. Someone tripped over her legs, half fell on her, then rolled away. Elwen lay winded for a second, then pushed herself onto her hands.

  “Giorgio!”

  She grabbed his arm, then saw something protruding from his back. The arrow was embedded deeply, almost bloodlessly. She gave a cry as something whistled past her face. There was a thump as another arrow sunk into the side of the barn, inches from her head. Elwen threw herself forward on her hands and knees, scraping skin, snapping back a fingernail, not noticing. She was panting with fear, her whole body buzzing with expectation, waiting for the arrow that would bury itself in her back. She scrabbled headlong into the barn, kicking up hay and dust, until she was in darkness and there was a ladder before her. Gasping now, she grabbed at the rungs and hauled herself up. She lost a shoe, ripped her dress, kept going. She scrambled into the hayloft, into piles of warm, pungent straw. She heard a shout below, followed by hoofbeats. She lay flat as a young man came running into the barn, followed by a Mamluk rider. The man fell with a harsh cry as the rider cut him down with a chop of his saber. Elwen shut her eyes tightly and pushed herself into the hay.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there, eyes closed, ears ringing with the screams outside. After a time, the screams became less frequent, until she mostly just heard the clattering of hooves and the calls of the Mamluks, who shouted to one another in Arabic. At one point the voices were very close and she heard someone moving below, but whoever it was left after a few moments.

  Eventually, Elwen opened her eyes and, slowly, lifted her head. She felt unspeakably tired and her body was cramped and weak. Her skin was hot and damp, yet she felt cold and shivery. She raised herself onto her palms and looked down from the hayloft. She averted her eyes quickly as she saw the dead man sprawled in the entrance. Blood was a red fan around him, lurid in the sunshine. Someone shouted outside. Elwen ducked down, heart thumping, but no one appeared. She crawled to the edge of the loft and began to climb down the ladder. Her hands were so weak they could hardly grip the rungs. Halfway down she slipped and simply hung there limply for a minute before she could continue.

  Finally, she reached the bottom and slipped along the side of the barn. When she came to the entrance, Elwen crouched down, careful to keep out of sight. She heard the buzzing of flies around the dead man and felt bile rise in her throat. Closing her eyes and taking steady breaths, she fought it down. Several shrieks rent the air and her eyes snapped open. Peering out, she saw two women and a boy being dragged from a mud-brick house by three Mamluks. One of the soldiers picked up the boy and carried him down the street toward the market square, as the other two hauled the women after him. Craning her head, Elwen could just make out the square behind a line of wagons, some of which had been overturned, horses lying dead beside them. She caught glimpses of people, mostly women and children, sitting on the ground. Standing over them were Mamluk soldiers. Others moved about on their mounts. It was where the concentration of sound was greatest. The survivors were being rounded up. Taken prisoner, Elwen realized, with dread.

  There was a girl’s scream and Elwen pressed herself back as a soldier passed by, dragging a wounded man whom she recognized as the lyre player. The lyre player struggled, but a second soldier appeared and cuffed him viciously about the head. The lyre player slumped and was dragged away, his feet making lines in the dust. The scream came again, and she saw another Mamluk holding onto a girl, who was kicking and yelling. Elwen went cold as the girl threw back her head and her hair fell away from her face. It was Catarina. A small gasp of fear escaped her lips as Catarina screamed her name. But she realized after a second that the girl hadn’t seen her: she was simply crying for help. In that instant, Elwen’s terror faded, obscured by an immediate, powerful sense of responsibility. Her mind cleared as her gaze focused on an arrow that was lying outside the barn, beside the fallen figure of Giorgio. Her heart beating a steady rhythm in her chest, she crawled toward it.

  ULA, ARABIA, 15 APRIL A.D. 1276

  Will swatted at a swollen bee that droned around his head as he entered the grove of palms. Sunlight sliced through the branches, stabbing down. He went deeper, dry foliage crackling under his feet, until he had left the sounds of the village behind him. He had told the others he was going to fetch water. It was partly true, or, at least, he had brought skins for the purpose, but water was the last thing on his mind. Against Will’s lower back, held in place by his belt and hidden by his shirt, was the silver scroll case Guillaume had given to him. It had been burning a hole in his pocket since he had left Acre, and the urgency was that much greater now. Kaysan, they had been told, was due to return any day.

  Finding a grassy rock between two palms, Will set the skins down and drew the case from his hose. The metal was warm from where it had lain against his skin. Sitting, he turned it over in his hands. The grand master hadn’t told Will not to open it; he hadn’t needed to—it was implicit. He had been tasked with delivering the scroll, and its contents were none of his business. If he read it and Guillaume found out, he might be expelled, possibly even imprisoned.

  Above him, the palm trees rustled, their jagged-edged fronds sharp as sword blades. Everything in this country was harsh: the rocky wastelands of sand and emptiness where water had to be dug from deep within the hard ground; the savage sun, blinding and blistering at midday; the freezing nights where the stars in the blackness were hard and bright as cracked diamonds. For twenty-six days Will had traveled through it, and the dusty plains of Palestine had come to seem like verdant oases in comparison. When they left the last town in Syria behind them, their guide, a quiet Arab who had been in the employ of the Temple for nineteen years, told him that Muslims believed when you entered the Hijaz you lost yourself and when you departed you were reborn. Will understood why. The region was the most desolate he had ever experienced, and the journey through it had weighed heavily on him and his comrades, their conversation drying up along with their skins, until they had ridden through the days in parched silence.

  From Acre, they journeyed through the Galilee, passing painfully close to Safed, then crossing the Jordan at Jacob’s Ford. Here they entered the Hauran district and joined the pilgrim road that led down from Damascus into Arabia. The route was busy. It wasn’t yet the month of the Hajj, the great annual pilgrimage to Mecca, but many Muslims, the guide told Will, performed something called the Umra, a more personal journey, which could be undertaken at any time. As well as pilgrims, many of whom traveled together in caravans of camels that carried provisions and water, there were traders who hawked milk and fruit to the thirsty faithful. Guillaume had been right: Will and the knights had not seemed out of place, clad in simple merchants’ clothing, their weapons concealed in bags. But there were other, less peaceful travelers on these roads. Mounted bandits from rival tribes roamed the region, drawn by the promise of plunder from the pilgrim lines like wasps to honey, and it soon became clear why men like Kaysan were paid for protection. Will and the others were stopped no less than five times on their journey south by companies of men carrying bows or knives, who demanded a tax. These men, who would target anyone no matter whether Shia, Sunni or Christian, backed down when the knights drew their swords. But, even so, it had been exhausting to keep alert as they rode slowly through stony passes, not knowing whether the rocks around them shielded archers who might not ask for money first; who might just shoot to kill.

  Finally, after a journey of almost eight hundred miles, they reached Ula, and the little green village with its cool springs and palm groves welcomed them like Paradise. The houses were of stone and mud, and there were inns for travelers. Will and the knights had gone to the larges
t. The landlord seemed suspicious when Will had asked after Kaysan. He wanted to know why he had never seen them before if, as they claimed, they peddled goods on these roads. But he eventually told them that Kaysan should return within a few days.

  “He’ll not work for you,” the landlord added, when Will thanked him. “Kaysan works only for the Shias. Not Sunnis. Not white men. Not Christians.”

  He had led them to a shelter erected on the inn’s flat roof, made out of dried, woven palm fronds, with rush mats on the floor to serve as beds. That had been four days ago.

  Will’s fingers passed down the scroll case, over the patterns traced in silver. There was nothing stopping him from looking inside; the grand master would never find out. Yet still, he hesitated, an old obedience staying his hand. On the journey, Will had asked Robert whether he thought the assignment unusual. The knight had looked at him perplexed, wanting to know what he meant. None of the others had questioned the mission. Why should they? The grand master commanded and they obeyed. But they hadn’t been given cause to doubt his motives, hadn’t had Guido Soranzo’s last words repeating in their minds. Will reached inside resolutely and pulled out the rolled parchment within. Sunlight played across him as he opened it. He let out a sharp sigh of annoyance as his eyes skimmed the black text. It wasn’t in any language he recognized: not Latin, French or Greek. It looked a little like Arabic, but he quickly realized that it wasn’t. He stared at it for a few moments longer, then rolled it up irritably and stuffed it inside the case.

  He was making his way back through the trees when he heard the shouts. After a moment, he recognized Robert’s voice. The knight sounded alarmed. Stuffing the scroll case back inside his hose, Will began to run. When he reached the tree line, he came to a halt. He could see Robert, Zaccaria and the others. They were being marched out of the inn, along with their terrified-looking guard, by twelve men dressed in black robes and kaffiyehs that covered their faces. Eight of them had crossbows trained on the knights; the others had swords. Bringing up the rear came the landlord, looking pleased with himself. Will crouched down in the undergrowth.