by Robyn Young
Edward had kept his word, in part, and had given Garin an estate for his mother. Granted, it wasn’t any bigger than Lady Cecilia’s former home in Rochester, but it was closer to London and slightly less damp. The rest of the promises given in the early years of his service to Edward—the lordship, the gold, the grand manor—had slipped quietly away, with Edward reminding Garin that he was the one who had secured his release from prison. And this after Garin had betrayed him, killing Rook, his manservant, and forsaking the Anima Templi’s Book of the Grail, which Edward had desired to blackmail them with in return for money for the planned expansion of his kingdom.
It was shortly after his return to England that Garin realized he had simply exchanged one prison for another. There were no iron shackles, no walls or bars to hold him. Edward was much cleverer than that. In his rush to please his bitter, ailing mother, Garin hadn’t stopped to think of the vulnerable position he was putting both of them in by allowing Edward to house her in an estate owned by the crown. Now Edward only had to threaten to evict her, and Garin was compelled to obey. His duties were simple. He was Edward’s eyes, and Edward’s fist. He blackmailed recalcitrant barons into submitting to unpopular laws the king wanted to pass through parliament, extorted money from rich magnates, conveyed sensitive information across the kingdom and spied on the royal staff. He had taken on the mantle of Edward’s former manservant and, in so doing, had become the very man he had despised. Sometimes, in the gray, sepulchral hours before dawn, when he had drunk himself into a fitful half sleep, self-loathing would rise sour inside him, leaving him ashen-faced and trembling, sweat pouring off him to soak the sheets.
Garin followed the servant into a spacious hall, where marble pillars rose to support the painted ceiling. At the far end, carpeted steps led up to a high-backed throne, with curved legs that ended in claws. A burnished copper sunset flooded through the arched windows. Seated on the throne was a young man of around Garin’s age, wearing a gold silk burnous and a haughty expression. Beside him was an older man, with short white hair and a solemn face. To the sides of the chamber slaves stood to abrupt attention.
“Garin de Lyons, my liege,” called the servant, bowing.
Garin approached the throne. “My Lord Hugh,” he said, inclining his head, “my master, King Edward of England, sends his greetings.”
Hugh studied Garin, one elbow balanced on the throne’s arm, his jeweled hand propped against his face. “Greetings are all well and good. But I had hoped for something a little more useful.” The king held up his free hand, and in it Garin saw the letter he had passed to the guards, complete with Edward’s seal. “Perhaps you can explain what your master means by this, for aside from a few pleasantries he says nothing at all. There is no mention of the aid I requested. No mention, indeed, of any help he can offer me with regard to the position I find myself in. And yet he sends you, his man, all the way here with a scrap of parchment?” Hugh dropped the letter back into his lap. “I must say I am mystified.”
“My Lord Edward wished me to convey his terms to you directly, rather than in an impersonal note.”
“His terms?” questioned Hugh, his eyes boring into Garin.
“My lord expresses his deep regret for your current position and believes he may be of assistance. As you are aware, he is a close friend and confidant of Pope Gregory and nephew of the king of Sicily, Charles d’Anjou.”
“Of course I am aware,” snapped Hugh. “This is why I asked for his help! I need him to go to the pope and call off this ridiculous sale of my cousin Maria’s rights to d’Anjou.”
“That is within his power,” replied Garin carefully. “Although my lord is currently experiencing difficulties of his own, forced to confront rebels on the borders of his kingdom. For him to act quickly upon your request, he will need certain favors in return.”
“What favors?” It was the man with white hair standing beside Hugh who had spoken.
Hugh glanced at him. “Peace, Guy.” His gaze flicked back to Garin. “I am sure we can oblige the Lord Edward, if his aid secures us our throne. What, exactly, does he want?”
“A monetary donation and an assurance from you, Your Majesty, that he will be allowed to use Cyprus as a base from which to launch a new Crusade.”
“Edward intends to take the Cross again?”
“In time.”
Hugh sat back in his throne. “What sort of donation are we talking about?”
“I will certainly discuss that with you, Your Majesty. But first I would appreciate a good meal and a room where I might wash.”
“Indeed,” said Hugh, disdainfully, “it looks as if you have been in a fight.”
“A simple misunderstanding.”
Hugh looked to Guy, then back at Garin. “And if I agree to this donation, Edward will see to my request?”
“I have other business in the city. Once it is completed and we have come to an agreement, I shall return to the Lord Edward with all speed and he will endeavor to do what he can for you. In the meantime, Your Majesty, I presume I can call upon you to lodge me for my stay?”
“You presume a great deal,” retorted Hugh. He waved his hand irritably as Garin began to speak. “Yes, yes, you may have a room. But we will talk of this again tomorrow, first thing.” Hugh snapped his fingers, and the servant who had led Garin to the throne room came forward. “Show our guest to quarters.”
Guy waited until the servant had led Garin from the hall. “I am not happy about this, my liege.”
Hugh massaged his brow delicately. “We have hundreds of rooms, Guy. It is no great trouble for us to lodge him.”
“It is not our lodging him that troubles me, my liege, it is these demands King Edward seems to be laying down before he has even agreed to help you, or proven that he can.” Guy flung a hand at the doors. “And he sends little more than a commoner to treat with the king of Jerusalem? It is an insult, my liege.”
Hugh shook his head, his dark gaze fixed on the closed doors. “Whoever he is, he is not a commoner. He speaks as one who has been educated, and he has the bearing of a nobleman. Unless Edward’s demands are wholly unacceptable, I am inclined to give in to them. He is my best hope of securing my throne from that crow, d’Anjou. There is no one else who can intervene in this affair.”
“There is one,” murmured Guy.
“No,” said Hugh flatly.
“We may have to consider the possibility, my liege.”
“I will not ask the Saracens for help,” snapped Hugh. “I simply will not!”
“They have intervened before in Christian affairs and matters of state.”
“I am well aware of that fact, Guy,” said Hugh, rising from his throne. “If not for Baybars meddling in my affairs, I would still have Beirut!” Hugh clasped his hands behind his back and stared out of the high windows, which framed a sky streaked gold and purple.
Oh, he remembered Baybars’s meddling all too well. Three years ago, the fief of Beirut had passed to the widowed daughter of its former lord. She remarried, offering herself and the fief, which under feudal law was Hugh’s by rights, to an English nobleman, who the year after had also passed away. Knowing death was upon him and fearing Hugh would take control of his bride’s territory, the nobleman placed his wife and Beirut under the protection of Baybars. When Hugh sent men to bring the widow forcibly to Cyprus so that she might be married to one of his vassals, the sultan intervened. According to Acre’s High Court, the nobleman’s contract with Baybars was binding, and without their backing, Hugh had been powerless to do anything but send the widow back to Beirut. Now both she and the fief were lost to him, protected by Baybars’s Mamluks. The Saracens might be the enemies of God, but it seemed to Hugh that contracts drawn up by Christian lawyers were more binding than even His will in some matters.
Hugh turned back to Guy. “I dislike and distrust Baybars as much as I dislike and distrust Charles d’Anjou. I refuse to go crawling to him for help.”
“But he is on cordial term
s with d’Anjou, my liege. They have negotiated in the past. When the treaty between Edward and Baybars was signed, it was sent through d’Anjou. Baybars might be able to put pressure on him to relinquish his rights to the throne. You pay the sultan a tribute. I doubt he would want to lose that.”
Hugh’s jaw tensed. “Let us not speak of this any longer, Guy. I am tired. We will see what Edward’s man says tomorrow. I am hoping we do not have to look any further for aid.”
Garin couldn’t help but smile as he entered the room behind the servant. A wide window looked out over Acre, fronted with a snug, cushioned seat. Against the chamber’s back wall was the largest, most sumptuous bed he had ever seen. Ethereal curtains were draped from a frame suspended above a thick mattress, held aloft by four intricately carved wooden posts. The mattress itself was almost certainly filled with feathers, not straw, and covered with silk-covered pillows, plump and soft as clouds. There were elegant furnishings, damask hangings, a rug over the tiles, and two braziers filled with charcoals.
“You may wash there,” said the servant, pointing to a porcelain basin and jug. “The bathhouse will be made available to you tomorrow, should you require it. I will have food sent up shortly.”
“Wait,” Garin told the man as he made to leave. “Fetch me some wine first.”
The servant, who appeared to be one of Hugh’s personal valets, looked affronted by the command. But he forced a bow. “Of course.”
When the door was shut, Garin tossed his bag on the bed and crossed to the window. He shook his head and grinned as he looked out over the city. He was thousands of miles away from his master, from cold nights, drafty halls and stale beer. He had two simple jobs to do, neither of which would demand much of his time, and he had a whole city to explore in the meantime, a city whose whispered delights he had never had the chance to sample. This was not the Acre he had resented for all those years. This room, this view, this sense of freedom and slow-rising excitement—these were the things he had been waiting for.
15
The Venetian Market, Acre 14 MAY A.D. 1276
“I should have been there.”
Elwen glanced at Will and saw the anguish in his face. Inwardly, through her weariness, she felt a certain satisfaction: he realized how close he had come to losing her; he knew how much he cared for her now. But the feeling lasted only a moment. He carried enough guilt as it was; she didn’t want him burdened with more for her. “I can take care of myself,” she assured him, “and I did.” She shrugged her shoulders as if to pitch away the problem. “It happened a month ago, I’ll have forgotten all about it soon.”
As she went back to studying the rows of bread set out on the stall in front of them, Will watched her. She wasn’t fooling him. She was pale and drawn, and looked as if she hadn’t slept or eaten properly in weeks. Around them, the Venetian market bustled, traders shouting, coins being exchanged at the many stalls where pastries, jewels, daggers and purses were all out on display, shaded from the sun by the huge canopy. It was impossible to talk in the clamor, and despite the black cloak he wore over his uniform, Will was on edge at the prospect of someone from the Temple seeing him with Elwen. Threading his fingers through hers, he led her away from the baker’s.
“Will,” she protested, hanging back, “I have to buy bread and—”
“And you will,” he cut across her. Weaving his way through the crowds, he guided her to a secluded street behind the square, where a sweep of green stretched between rows of two-story houses. The fruit trees in the market gardens were pink and brown with dying blossom that cascaded around them like snow as they walked. Finding a secluded spot of grass away from the workers who were tending the gardens, they sat.
Elwen drew her legs up to her chest, her emerald green gown, girdled by a twisted gold belt, settling in folds around her. She wrapped her arms around her knees and let out a long sigh. “In truth, I’m just glad to leave the house.” She rested her head on her arms and looked at Will sideways. “Everything has been so strained. Andreas is blaming himself, Catarina isn’t sleeping, and when she does she has nightmares and wakes us with her screams, and with Besina up at all hours with the baby there’s no peace for any of us. And I can’t help feeling it’s my fault.”
“You cannot possibly think that. How could you have prevented the attack? Of course it wasn’t your fault.” Will averted his gaze, his eyes squinting against the sunlight as he stared out across the gardens. If the attack on Kabul had been anyone’s fault, it was his. He hadn’t heard any word of it before it had happened. Perhaps, if he had been concentrating more on his duties for the Anima Templi and less on finding the grand master’s attacker, he would have. The information might have filtered through to him and he could have prevented it; warned the village or sent word to Kalawun to stop it. Something. Having only returned the day before, he was still reeling with the news of the attack. He just thanked God that Elwen had been so lucky. She could be lying dead in a mass grave, or in some prison or harem in Egypt. Will closed his eyes and tried to block out these thoughts. “It’s not your fault,” he repeated.
“Maybe if I had kept Catarina with me . . . ?” Elwen’s brow furrowed. “She must have been so frightened.”
“You saved her. Remember that.”
“I wish I could have saved more of them. All those young girls taken from their families. Taken into slavery. I don’t know how to understand it. I start to think about it and it just fills me up. I feel so ...” She searched for the words.
“Guilty,” he said quietly.
Elwen looked at him quickly. “Why do you say that?” She faltered. “But you’re right. That is how I feel.”
“I felt the same,” Will explained. “After Antioch. Thousands of people died in the siege, and tens of thousands more were taken prisoner. For months I wondered why I had been spared and they hadn’t. I felt I didn’t deserve to be alive and free, that I had somehow cheated death and that all the others had accepted their fate as they were supposed to. But they hadn’t accepted it at all. They just hadn’t been as lucky as I had.”
“Only seven people escaped from Kabul, me and Catarina included. There must have been hundreds there.” A tear slipped down Elwen’s cheek.
Will moved his hand to rest on hers. “It will get better, I promise.”
She wiped her cheek. “The worst of it was telling it all to the High Court when I returned. I had to live the whole thing over again in front of these lawyers and noblemen, who just seemed to care about the fact that their precious treaty had been broken, not about all the lives lost, the families destroyed. At least Andreas came with me. If he hadn’t been there, I don’t think I would have been able to go through with it.”
“What did the High Court decide to do?” asked Will, trying to make the question sound less important than it was. This was a volatile situation indeed. If the government of Acre were out for blood, as well they might be for the unprovoked attack, measures would need to be put in place to prevent this from getting out of control.
“They sent knights to Kabul to search for survivors, and to bury the dead. From what I heard, they were set to scour Acre for any Muslims who would be able to explain why this happened, interrogate spies they said. Andreas thinks they will contact Baybars to demand compensation.” She looked over at the workers in the gardens. “He found out about us.”
Will, engrossed in his thoughts about the High Court’s reaction, didn’t understand the random comment.
“Andreas,” said Elwen, taking in his blank expression. “He knows about us. Catarina told him.”
“My God,” said Will, sitting up straight.
“Don’t fret,” she said dryly, “he isn’t going to inform the Temple.”
“That isn’t what I meant. I was thinking about you ... your position?”
“Andreas doesn’t mind. He would like it if I married, as long as I kept working for him.”
“Married?”
“Yes, Will,” Elwen shot back, not miss
ing the alarm in his tone, “married. That’s what normal people who love each other do. They protect each other, have families, that’s what they do.”
“Not knights,” Will responded quietly.
“Why can’t we do it in secret?” she asked him, hating the pleading tone that was creeping into her voice, but unable to stop it. “You asked me once to be your wife and I said yes.”
Will felt frustration rise in him. Yes, he had asked her to be his wife. But it seemed like a lifetime ago now; the two of them standing together in that cold, dim passage in the French royal palace, him holding onto her as if he were drowning. Hours before, he had learned of his father’s execution at Safed. He was overwhelmed with grief, feverish in mind and body, and the words just came, without thought. But everything changed that evening, in a Paris brothel, and things had been done that could not be undone, or forgotten. Love then was vanquished by a burning need for revenge, and all his plans, and hers, had been consumed by that fire. How could they return to that moment? So much had gone wrong after that one innocent proposal, spoken in heartache, that he did not dare make the same mistake again. It had been too soon, too sudden. If he were to propose again, it had to be for the right reasons, in the right moment. With uncertainity over the grand master’s integrity hanging over him, how could he commit to her wholeheartedly? He had sworn an oath to the Anima Templi to work for peace and to safeguard the Temple from enemies within and without. If either were in danger, he could not, in good conscience, promise himself to anything else. For now, his commitment to his duty had to come first, before his needs, or hers.