by Robyn Young
Guy was standing there, mouth open as the king uttered these words.
Garin was quicker to act. “My lord,” he said swiftly, seeing his plan falling away from him just as he had made it. He went to the king, out of earshot of Guy. “Do not do this,” he whispered. “Not when you have hope. Our plan can work.”
Hugh shook his head. “I will not stay.” He walked toward the doors. Before he reached them, he stopped abruptly and turned back. “Act on your plan, de Lyons. Do what you suggest. If you succeed, I will return to make terms with Baybars. But not before.”
“I cannot do this alone, my lord, without men, money or a place to stay.”
“This palace still belongs to me. You may stay here. I will put some of my men at your disposal, but I will have no more to do with this place.”
Garin watched the king head for the doors.
Guy rushed after him. “My lord, please, listen to reason.”
“No, Guy. I have had enough of this land. I want to go home.”
“At least remain in the city until you have chosen a suitable bailli to govern in your absence. The merchant states and the knights and the Commune of Burghers will fight over who is to rule in your stead. They will all try to put themselves in your place. It will be chaos!”
“Maybe then they will see the error of their ways,” said Hugh, sweeping out through the doors, leaving Garin standing alone in the throne room.
22
Fustat-Misr, Cairo 17 JUNE A.D. 1276
After tethering his horse in a cramped square in the old part of Cairo, Will wandered over to the steps outside a tiny Coptic church. When he had happened upon this place earlier, there had been a busy market going in the square. Now it was almost deserted, just a few children playing around a well. It was early evening and most people were home preparing for evening prayers. As he sat on the church steps, Will wondered what life was like for the native Christians who lived in the heart of the Muslims’ empire, men and women who had been here for generations, long before the Mamluks had come to power. Were they part of the community, as Muslims and Jews were in Acre under the Franks, or were they ostracized, ill-treated?
The church was dwarfed by the six-story buildings that rose around it, painted with blue, pink and yellow stripes. Arabic inscriptions flowed across the walls within the bands of color, each one a message of devotion to Allah. Will had been told about Cairo and had read descriptions of it in books, but nothing had prepared him for its enormity and elegance: the citadel flying high above the walled quarters; the broad blue Nile; mosques crowned with domes of silver and blue; spiraling minarets. And, in the distance, visible as he had ridden down from the hills, the Pyramids, rising strange and gigantic from the desert floor, like ancient, alien gods.
Will stretched out his legs with a wince. He had been riding for twenty days and his muscles were sore. The last part of the journey, across the Sinai, had been the hardest. The white robe and turban he wore helped to keep him cool, but the sun still managed to burn him. Reaching into the bag he had dumped on the steps beside him, he brought out a thin linen shirt, which he unwrapped to reveal two segments of watermelon. He had bought it the day before from a boy on the side of the road who had a pile of the swollen, luminous green fruits and who, for a few pennies, had hacked one of them into four pink smiles. Will had finished the fruit and was readjusting his kaffiyeh when he saw someone enter the square. It was a tall, well-built man dressed in blue robes, his lower face covered, as Will’s was, by a strip of cloth that hung down from his turban from ear to ear. As he approached, Will stood warily.
The man’s hand was curled around the hilt of a sword that hung from his belt. “Who are you?” he asked in Arabic.
It had been four years since he had met him, but Will recognized that strong, self-possessed voice immediately. “Amir,” he greeted, pulling down the folds of cloth that covered his face.
Kalawun’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed. He went closer, taking his hand from his sword. His voice was low with caution and anger. “You should not have come. We had an agreement. Your master gave his word that neither he nor his followers would seek me out. We cannot be seen together. It would be death for us both.”
“It was imperative that I talk to you.”
“You should have followed the procedures that were agreed upon. You should have contacted my servant and arranged a meeting.”
“There was no time.” Will gestured to the church. “Come. Please. You will understand when I tell you why I am here.” Picking up his bag, he climbed the steps.
Kalawun hesitated, looking at the cross nailed above the door, then checked the square and followed him inside. “What are we doing here?” he asked, as Will pushed the door closed.
“It’s somewhere we can talk in private.” Will went to one of the rickety benches at the back.
Kalawun stared about him as he seated himself on the bench beside Will. Satisfied that they were alone, he drew down the cloth that covered his face. Will was shocked to see how old the commander had grown. His face was wan and haggard, and an air of sadness and despondency hung about him like a veil. His brown eyes were empty. “Is this to do with the attack on Kabul?” Kalawun asked. “The Franks at Acre should have received our compensation by now.”
Will faltered for a moment, staring into those hollow eyes; then he began to speak, his voice whispering around the deserted church.
Kalawun listened, without interrupting. By the time Will had finished, Kalawun’s face had changed. Color had returned to his cheeks and his expression was alert, alive. He looked like a man who has awoken from a deep sleep. He shook his head and looked toward the altar. He said nothing.
Will could feel the anger coming from him, saw the tension in his body and the strain in his face as he struggled to restrain his emotions.
When Kalawun did speak, his voice was composed, but rigid. “You say the message was written by this man, Kaysan, for someone in Cairo? A Shia?”
“It is what Everard believes, yes.”
“But you have no name?”
“No. The message wasn’t addressed to anyone.”
Kalawun fixed his gaze on Will. “And your knights are to do this? It is they who will take the Stone?”
“The message just says Western knights, but as it would appear that our grand master is involved in this, then it is likely that Templars will execute the theft. From what the message says, the knights will meet Kaysan at the village of Ula sometime in the last week of March, before Muharram, and he and his men will take them down to Mecca.”
“This cannot be allowed to happen. I cannot convey to you the severity of this.”
“We know,” replied Will.
“No. You don’t. For a Christian to even touch the Stone would be an outrage, desecration of the highest order. My people would slaughter you. And not just knights, or the Franks in Acre, all of your people, all Christians would suffer.” Kalawun spread a hand to take in the church. “Innocents everywhere would die and, with them, all hope for peace. For the moment, Baybars has no interest in dealing with your forces. If this were to happen, that would change in an instant. He would annihilate you.” Kalawun was silent for a moment, then he looked at Will, his eyes hard. “And what is more, I would help him.” He took in Will’s expression and nodded. “I would not wish to, but if your people destroy the Stone of Mecca, I will help to destroy them. In the face of such action, I could no longer be a part of your brotherhood, could no longer work with you for reconciliation.”
Will gave a small nod. “I understand. That is why we must stop this from happening.”
“What do you propose?”
“The Anima Templi are all involved in this now and are working to find more details on the plan and who, exactly, is part of it. When we know this we can start to work out ways to stop it. We are confident that we will be able to. But Everard and I wanted you to know that only a few people are involved in this. Not our order as a whole, or the governme
nt at Acre.”
“I realize that,” said Kalawun. “But that doesn’t change the fact that all of your people would suffer because of it. These men are obviously intent on starting a war, for whatever reason. If they do this, they will get one. I cannot help that.”
“Perhaps not,” said Will, “but you might be able to help us now, before this goes too far. As I said, it seems likely that someone in Cairo is working with these men. If you could find any connections to this Shia, Kaysan, here in the city?” Will shrugged. “I know it isn’t much to go on, but it is worth a try.”
“I already have some ideas,” said Kalawun flatly.
Will was surprised. “You do?” When Kalawun didn’t answer, Will nodded. “Then if you concentrate your efforts on finding this connection here in Cairo, I will concentrate on making sure the theft is stopped.”
“I would ask an officer of mine to aid me in this matter,” murmured Kalawun distractedly. “The importance of this, I feel, outweighs our contract of secrecy, and I know I can trust him to keep silent. But he has been sent to look for the Assassins who tried to murder Sultan Baybars and may be gone for some time yet.” Kalawun sighed roughly. “It will be difficult for me to do this alone.”
Will had looked up sharply. “The Assassins? I thought . . . We heard that they were killed in the attempt on Baybars’s life.”
“They were,” replied Kalawun grimly, “but those who ordered the killing remain free, or so it is believed. Baybars wishes to know the names of the Franks who contracted the Assassins. After all this time, he wants revenge.” Kalawun, staring at the altar, didn’t notice how still Will had gone. Finally he turned. “Is that all? I cannot linger. I have things I must do, things I must look into in light of this.”
“Yes,” said Will thickly. “That is it.”
Kalawun rose and pulled the cloth of his turban back over his face. “Then I will take my leave.” He held out his hand. “I thank you for warning me of this.”
Will took the commander’s hand. Kalawun’s grip was firm.
“If there is any further news, follow our arranged procedure and send for my servant immediately. He will get the message to me.” Kalawun paused. “Peace be with you.”
Will watched Kalawun stride out of the church, then sat heavily on the bench.
THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 17 JUNE A.D. 1276
Elwen was halfway down the stairs, a bundle of dirty laundry in her arms, when she heard the knock at the front door.
“I’ll go! I’ll go!” came a singsong voice. Catarina raced for the door.
“Wait, Catarina,” called Elwen, stepping quickly down the last few stairs.
The girl came to a stop and turned, rolling her eyes. “I only want to open the door.”
“You heard what your father said. We have to be careful.”
Catarina hung back, adopting a pout.
Elwen was still amazed by how swiftly the girl had come to terms with her ordeal. Only two months had gone by since the attack on Kabul and already she seemed to have forgotten just how close she had come to being captured or killed, and was back to her carefree self. Elwen still had nightmares about it; still saw the look in the Mamluk’s eyes as she drove the arrowhead into his neck. She felt alone in this, however. It was not only Catarina who had forgotten about the attack. So, it seemed, had Acre.
Two days ago, the women and children who had been taken prisoner in the raid had returned to the city, along with twenty Christians released from the dungeon in Cairo, a personal apology from Baybars and several bags of dinars. Andreas had come home last night with the news, having heard through one of his customers. But although the families of those returned were surely overjoyed, the city itself had hardly noticed. Despite the government’s initial outrage at the attack, all the attention had since shifted to the unexpected departure of King Hugh, which had left an empty throne in Outremer, causing confusion and power shifts within Acre’s already fractured governing body of noblemen. The Temple and the Venetians were, according to Andreas, maneuvering themselves into the space left by Hugh’s exit, with the Hospitallers, Genoese and Teutonics trying to stop them. Groups and factions—landlords, guilds, merchants, religious orders—were choosing sides, looking for ways to put themselves in the best political position. Messages had been sent to Cyprus, begging Hugh to return, or to at least instate a steward. But there had been no reply. Unrest was growing. Last night, a Venetian youth, whose father was secretary to the Venetian consul, had been brutally murdered by three Genoese. There was talk of a curfew being imposed.
Concerned by the escalating disquiet and with the death and disappearance of Giorgio and Taqsu at Kabul still painfully raw, Andreas had spoken to his family, telling them not to venture out of the quarter until things had calmed, and that the girls weren’t to leave the house alone. Thus, it was with a certain amount of trepidation that Elwen, still holding the bundle of laundry balanced in one arm, opened the front door. They weren’t expecting visitors.
On the step stood Garin. Elwen felt a flush color her cheeks as she saw him, a mixture of surprise, annoyance and shame rising in her. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you,” said Garin.
“Who is it?” Catarina asked, trying to look around the door.
Elwen turned. “Go back inside,” she told the girl, switching to Italian. “And take this to the kitchen for me.” She passed her the laundry.
“That’s not fair!”
“Catarina.”
Taking the dirty sheets and turning on her heel, Catarina flounced off.
Elwen stepped into the hot afternoon, pulling the door closed behind her. The street was busy. “You shouldn’t have come. My master isn’t particularly fond of strange men turning up to see his female staff.”
“Does he not mind about Will then?”
Elwen’s eyes glittered at the remark. “That’s hardly your concern.”
“I’m sorry,” said Garin. “That was a foolish thing to say. But it is partly why I’m here. Will, I mean.”
“You’ve seen him?” asked Elwen quickly. The urgency of her tone surprised her.
At first, on learning of Will’s deceit, Elwen’s anger had been a raging fire, consuming all sense of love she felt for him. But with no fuel to keep it burning these past weeks, it had started to dim, turning into hurt, confusion, then a desire to see him and to hear for herself, in his words, that it was true: that he had lied to her all this time. There was also an element of doubt that had crept in, leaving her wondering whether Garin had embellished the facts, or even fabricated the whole thing, although there seemed no reason for him to have done so.
Garin shook his head. “I wanted to ask you the same thing.”
Elwen’s face fell. “No,” she said, deflated. “I haven’t seen him.”
“I didn’t think you would have, to be honest. If he’s gone to Cairo, he’ll most likely be away for a few weeks yet. But I thought I’d best check, in case his plans had changed.”
“You seem to know more about his plans than I,” responded Elwen defensively.
“About that, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. I do think Will is a fool for having kept it from you. But, still, it wasn’t my place to say anything.”
Elwen blushed again, the initial shame she had felt on seeing Garin returning. “You’re not the only one to betray a confidence,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone where Will was going, or why.” She looked at the ground. “I just felt as if all of you, Will, Everard, his friends in the Temple, were laughing at me because I didn’t know. I was angry. It seemed everything he had ever told me was a lie.” She looked up at Garin. “And maybe it was. Maybe he isn’t in Cairo at all. But I shouldn’t have told you.”
Garin cocked her a sudden, boyish smile. “Well, I can keep a secret if you can.”
Elwen gave him a small smile in return, which quickly vanished. “I appreciate that.” She glanced at the sky, sunlight filling her eyes. “
I should get back to work.”
Garin nodded. He moved closer and held out his hand.
Elwen laughed a little mockingly at the formal, masculine gesture, but took it all the same. His hand was cool. She could smell drink on his breath and something else, something sweeter, smoky.
Garin let go of her hand and stepped away. “When Will returns, could you tell him to come to me? I’m staying at the royal palace.”
“The palace? But the king has gone.”
“He told me I could remain in his absence.” Garin moved into the street, then turned back. “Just so you know, I’m not laughing at you.”
Elwen stood in the doorway and watched him go, before heading back inside.
THE ASSASSINS’ STRONGHOLD, NORTHERN SYRIA, 18 JUNE A.D. 1276
Nasir crouched beside the stream. The water ran fast and white, foaming over rocks that protruded from the stream’s bed like broken teeth. Nasir thrust his hands in. It was achingly cold. There was a swirl of redness as the blood was washed away. He closed his eyes and felt the cold sink deeper.
“Sir?”
Nasir looked round. One of his soldiers was standing behind him. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn’t heard him approach. He’d had two of his men on scouting duty for the past three weeks, keeping an eye on the Assassins up in their mountain fastness. They had seen fidais scouring the hillside for several days after they had taken Idris, but no one had disturbed their hiding place. Still, he needed to be careful. Trouble was, he was tired, worn down by the childhood memories that choked him here, sick of the smell of blood on his skin. “What is it?”
“I think he’s ready to talk.” The soldier jerked his head toward the cave.