Crusade

by Robyn Young

  Baraka hardly heard what she said. “You told your father that you saw me that day in the broken tower, didn’t you?” His voice shook, muffled through his swollen mouth and nose. “That’s why he kept asking me those questions. That’s how he knew about Khadir.”

  “Yes, I saw you!” Aisha shouted again, making him flinch. “I saw you with that slave! Last night!”

  Baraka stared at her in horror, then grabbed at his door, fumbling with the latch.

  Aisha flew at him, her hands curling into claws. “I’ll tell everyone! I’ll tell them all how you can’t even bed your wife! How you need to steal one of your father’s slaves to do it!” She struck at his face. “You let your mother think it was my fault! Let her think I wasn’t good enough for you!” Baraka cried out as she caught his swollen lip with her nails. “It’s you who’s no good! It’s you!”

  Baraka managed to shove her away, then yanked open his door and slammed it shut. He could hear Aisha on the other side, yelling curses at him as he sank to the floor.

  17

  The Pisan Quarter, Acre 26 MAY A.D. 1276

  The tavern was hot and dingy. Flies circled listlessly over the sticky tables, where laborers sheltered from the midday heat. Two of them got up to leave, letting in a brief sigh of air as they opened the tavern’s door and Will sat back, relishing the faint breath of it on his face. Every year, he forgot just how uncomfortable the summers in Acre could be. The annual reminder was never pleasant. The stink of dung, human and animal, that clung to the dead air by midday; the way even the thinnest linen felt like a heavy woollen cloak; the stench of sweat, spoiling meat and animals in the crowded markets.

  “Here,” said Garin, placing a cracked cup of wine in front of Will. He sat, taking a sip from his own, and grimaced. His hair had lightened in the sun and his skin was tanned. He looked the picture of health, except for the faint shadows under his eyes. Will envied the loose cotton shirt he wore. It looked wonderfully cool and light in comparison to the shirt, surcoat and mantle he was forced to wear. He wondered if Garin missed being a knight, then looked away and drank as Garin met his gaze. The wine was sour.

  “Well,” said Garin with a half smile, “we finally meet.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t see you sooner.”

  “I expect you must be preoccupied most of the time, now you’re a commander.”

  Will gave a noncommittal nod, uninterested in small talk. When he had first met Garin in the market, part of him had been pleased to see his old comrade. He had envisioned them reacquainting, talking about old times and old masters in the London Temple. But, now, sitting opposite him in the stuffy tavern, Will realized that the two of them had nothing left between them except the stale reticence of long-stifled resentment.

  It had been different when Garin was chained in his Temple cell, dependent on Will for small comforts and news of the world beyond his walls. Will had felt able to forgive him, because every time he saw him he saw the evidence that Garin was paying for his betrayal. With him sitting here, sipping wine, tanned, healthy and confident, Will felt an old anger stir. An image of another tavern crawled into his mind. He was tied to a bed, bruised and beaten. Garin was standing over him holding his mouth open, forcing a thick, gritty liquid down his throat. A moment later, other memories came: a girl with golden curls moving over him; a soiled mattress; the shock in Elwen’s voice.

  “So,” said Garin, into the silence, “how is Elwen? I take it she’s still here with you?”

  Will’s jaw locked tight as he looked at Garin. “She’s fine. But what of England? Your mother?”

  Garin looked surprised at the question, surprised and pleased. “She’s a little frailer. But as whip-tongued as ever.” He picked at a smear of grime on his cup. “I don’t see her as much as I should. King Edward keeps me busy.”

  “What do you do for him?”

  Garin looked up, hearing the sharp note of inquiry in Will’s tone. “I run errands mostly. Send messages.” He shrugged. “Nothing exciting. Anyway, you still haven’t told me about this letter. What was it?”

  “Everard was worried about the requests for funds Edward sent him. I hoped to get your view on the matter.”

  Garin leaned forward. “Good. This is what I wanted to talk to you about.” He extended a hand to Will. “You speak first.”

  “These funds. Everard needs to know for certain that they are being used for what the king states they are. He has heard that Edward is planning a war on Wales and might be using the Anima Templi’s resources for the expansion of his own kingdom.”

  Garin was surprised. “You are well informed. Very few people know about those plans.”

  “We have allies in London.”

  Garin took his time answering. When he did, his voice was slow, deliberate. “You are right.”

  Will sat up, a look of triumph on his face.

  “Edward is planning on mounting a military expedition in Wales. But he is not intending to use Anima Templi funds to do it. He doesn’t need to. He has plenty of other resources to call upon. That is partly why I am here, visiting King Hugh.”

  “Then what does he want the money for?”

  “A new peace mission to Abaga, the Ilkhan of Persia. He wants to send emissaries to reestablish contact with the Mongols of the ilkhan’s garrison in Anatolia and to make sure the alliance he formed with them four years ago is still holding strong. Edward believes that if each side is as powerful as the other, ourselves and the Mongols standing jointly against the Mamluks, then no side will attempt to attack the other; a stalemate. He believes it is the best way he can continue to secure the peace he made with Baybars.”

  “But he is planning on attacking Wales?”

  “His hand has been forced. Llewelyn, the prince of the northern territory of Gwynedd, has been a thorn in the English side for some time. For years his people have raided into English lands, stealing livestock, abducting children, raping women, and Llewelyn has done nothing to stop them. Indeed, he has actively encouraged it. Now Edward feels enough is enough. He must deal with these barbarians once and for all.”

  Will listened in silence. Garin sounded like one of Edward’s speechmakers. His tone was sincere, but his eyes held little emotion, and Will knew it was just words. It was what Edward would want him to say. Whether it bore any relation to truth was another matter. Will knew well enough from his years in the Holy Land that when a ruler wished to invade another kingdom for territory or power, he would plant propaganda justifying his reasons. If the nation he was intending to invade was perceived as posing a threat, the populace would be far less likely to protest against the decision. It was part of the age-old process of waging war, as necessary and commonplace as the weapons used to fight it. “What about his meeting with Pope Gregory?” he asked. “Everard heard that the king is intending to launch a Crusade.”

  This time, if Garin was surprised by their knowledge, he didn’t show it. “Of course. Edward has to make the pope believe that he is planning on taking the Cross. Gregory is a friend of his and a staunch advocator of a new Crusade. When Edward didn’t attend the Council of Lyons, the pope was displeased and called upon him to explain his reasons. Edward was simply keeping him appeased.”

  Will was unconvinced, but seeing he wouldn’t get any useful information from Garin, he changed the subject. “What did you want to discuss?” he asked.

  “Edward wanted me to appeal to Everard in person regarding the requested funds. If he is to undertake this mission to the ilkhan, he will need them as soon as possible. Obviously, you and the other Brethren cannot easily leave the Temple on such a journey, and Edward has already established a relationship with Abaga.” He shrugged mildly. “He says this is, after all, one of the reasons you appointed him: that he might help the peace process.”

  It all sounded so reasonable, yet still mistrust clung to Will’s mind. “I will speak to Everard, but I cannot promise that he will agree to Edward’s request. The Anima Templi has many plans. We cannot fun
d all of them at once. We only receive so many donations and we need to be careful about how much gold we siphon from the Temple’s coffers.”

  “I understand,” said Garin, nodding. “But if I can speak with Everard, or at the very least get an answer as soon as possible, I would be grateful. I cannot stay here much longer. The hospitality of my royal host only extends so far.”

  “I will speak to Everard tonight and meet you here tomorrow at the same time with whatever answer I have.” Will stood, leaving his wine almost untouched. “I’m afraid I must go. I have things I need to do.”

  “Tomorrow then.”

  Garin watched Will head out, a few laborers glancing up as the knight passed them, a look of respect in their faces. Once, people had looked at him that way. Now he was just another face in the crowd. He reached for Will’s cup and drained the bitter wine, then headed into the white blaze of the afternoon.

  The dusty walls of shops, houses and churches crowded in around him as he walked the narrow streets to the market, moving in a sluggish tide of merchants, donkeys and carts. Passing through the market square, he entered the covered street: a vaulted stone passageway with arched openings running its length, where merchants displayed their wares. These openings led into cramped stores, which sold anything from porcelain to poison. Garin kept his hand on his money pouch, close to his dagger, as he headed deeper in, past men drinking spiced tea and playing chess, past a woman who beckoned to him, her body a gauzy shadow behind a silk drape which led into a smoky darkness that smelled of sin and cinnamon.

  Garin was fascinated by how quickly the alien became familiar. He had come to the covered street just over a fortnight ago and had been back five times already. The same men played chess, the same woman beckoned to him. The same smell of oranges and lemons greeted him as he passed a fruit seller’s and came to the store where the Arab outside saw him and smiled.

  Garin nodded in return, unsmiling. “Qannob.”

  But the Arab was already disappearing into the store, knowing what he wanted. He reappeared through the curtain and handed Garin a small parcel of dark green leaves, bound with twine. “You sleep well now?” he asked, taking the coins Garin handed to him.

  “Better.”

  “I see you again soon,” the Arab called as Garin moved off.

  When he reached the royal palace, he went straight to his room. The drapes were closed to keep out the heat, and the chamber was cool. He had told the servants not to come in, and his bed was crumpled and unmade, the silk sheets damp from another fitful night. Cushions were scattered on the floor in front of a low table on which stood a pair of iron tongs and a clay censer, its bowl blackened. Empty stone pots once filled with wine were amassing in a gray congregation under his bed.

  Closing and bolting the door, he kicked off his boots and walked barefoot to the table, where he took the leaf parcel from his pouch. Taking the tongs, he dug them into the brazier, the white ashy charcoal flaking and disintegrating. As the top layer was disturbed, an amber glow was revealed. Carefully, Garin caught one of the smoldering lumps in the grip of the tongs. Placing the charcoal in the censer’s bowl, he sat cross-legged on the cushions and opened the parcel. The sticky, sharp smell that leapt out at him filled him with the thrill of anticipation. Taking a small amount of the dried, pale green flower heads, ground up with hard, brown seeds between thumb and forefinger, he moved his hand over the censer, leaned forward and dropped the mixture in.

  Hemp, cultivated from the stalks of the plant, was used throughout the Eastern and Western worlds for rope, twine, paper and cloth. But the leaves, resin and flowers were used for other purposes: as medicine; incense; drug. Years ago, in Paris, Garin had spent several months in the company of the mistress of a brothel in the Latin Quarter. Adela was a healer and had told him of people who ate the leaves of the hemp plant, who would have beautiful dreams and fabulous visions, how it made a man more virile, how it soothed and calmed the most restless spirit. Garin had never tried it, until seventeen days ago, when he had been searching the Pisan market for a potion to help him sleep through the hot nights and had been pointed to the Arab’s store. Sultan Baybars had banished the use of the plant for all Muslims, although the Sufi mystics still ingested it during their religious ceremonies. Now the men who grew it were forced to sell it, more and more, to Westerners and other nonbelievers.

  That first day, Garin had been given several round, pale brown sweetmeats, which smelled deliciously of honey, nutmeg and something he didn’t recognize. He ate one that evening and waited for the promised sleep to claim him. When nothing happened, he finished the rest of them, disappointed. Almost an hour later, he was lying facedown on the rug in his chamber shaking with uncontrollable laughter, so violent that he was hardly able to force air into his lungs. He lay there, thinking he was going to die and finding it hilarious for some thirty or so minutes, before collapsing into a sleep, the like of which he had never known. Four days later, he returned to the store. Telling the Arab he found the sweetmeats too potent and asking if there was a subtler dose that would only induce the sleep he craved, he had been sold the censer and the dried flower mixture and told what to do.

  As the mixture hit the hot charcoal, it burned instantly, the seeds crackling and popping, a plume of bluish smoke curling into the air. Garin leaned over the table, like a priest at an altar, and drew the smoke into his mouth, then on into his lungs. The first few times had made him cough horribly, but he had quickly grown used to it and had learned how much to imbibe. He took long breaths as the chamber filled with the smell of the plant and his vision grew hazy. Just a little of the mixture and he would experience the kind of calm he could never find at the bottom of a jug of wine. It felt like being caressed. A little more and he would find sleep.

  As the last of the flowers burned up and turned to ash, Garin leaned back against the cushions, eyes half-lidded. He had run out of the qannob two days ago and had slept badly without it. The meeting with Will had further drained him. Will’s self-righteous aloofness had made him want to throw himself across the table and slam a fist into his face, and it had been an effort to keep that pleasant, asinine smile on his face through the probing questions.

  Garin recalled Will as a wet-nosed boy back in New Temple, crying over how his father blamed him for his sister’s death, and took some small satisfaction from the image. Will had been a good swordsman, but a poor sergeant, flouting the Rule on an almost daily basis and yet somehow always managing to get away with it. Indeed, when Will had misbehaved, it had often been he, Garin, who had taken the blame and the beatings, a pattern that continued when he had rescued Everard’s Book of the Grail and was given four years in a cell as a reward. Will, who betrayed the Brethren when he attempted to have Baybars murdered, had been forgiven. Garin’s satisfaction faded into sour self-pity. Now Will had a place in the secret brotherhood he was supposed to have been a part of, and a commandership. No matter what he seemed to do wrong, he always came out on top. But the thing that really stuck in Garin’s throat was the fact that when all was said and done Will was nothing but a commoner, only a few generations removed from hill-dwelling barbarians, whatever he now wore to disguise it. His father might have been a Templar, but his mother was little more than a peasant and his grandfather had been a wine merchant! It made Garin itch with fury to think of it. He was a de Lyons, the last of a noble line that stretched back to the glory days of Emperor Charlemagne. His father and brothers had died fighting for King Louis, and his uncle had been one of the Brethren. Now he was a nobody. No, worse, a dogsbody that Edward, Will, Everard and the rest of them thought they could order around as they saw fit.

  What they all seemed to have overlooked was the fact that he was the one man standing between the Anima Templi and their guardian: the one man who knew the secrets and weaknesses of both sides. There was power in that. He just had to work out how to use it. At least Will seemed to believe the answers he had given. Fool that he was. Garin’s eyes closed, his hand falling li
mply into his lap.

  The sound of someone hammering relentlessly on his chamber door woke him. He came awake with a jerk, then rose stiffly. As he slid back the bolt and opened the door, he was startled to see King Hugh glaring at him.

  “Your Majesty,” Garin said, recovering his composure and covering his surprise.

  Hugh pushed into the chamber, forcing Garin to move aside. The king’s eyes were angry slits as he surveyed the room, still hazy with smoke. “I have seen pigs living in better order,” he remarked, stepping over Garin’s discarded boots. “Tell me, does King Edward let you treat his castle so?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You were supposed to come to me this afternoon, de Lyons. Why did you disregard our appointment?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I fell asleep.”

  “Perhaps from the effects of too much wine,” muttered Hugh, looking balefully at the stone jugs peeping out from under the bed. He gave the air a keen sniff. “I presume you have been burning that incense to cover the filth in here. The servants could smell it down the hall.” He sniffed again.

  “What did you wish to see me about, Your Majesty?” Garin asked quickly. “If you give me a moment to dress, I will follow you to the throne room, surely a more seemly environment for you to discuss your affairs in.”

  “I will decide where is seemly for me to discuss my affairs,” said Hugh, turning to him. “We will talk here. I am impatient and will wait no longer. You said that you would conduct your other business here in the city and return forthwith to England. Edward must intervene before d’Anjou buys the rights to my throne from my dried-up hag of a cousin, Maria, or I will loss my crown!”

  “My other business is almost concluded, Your Majesty,” Garin replied. “But before I leave, I still have need of your agreement. You have signed the document?”