Crusade

by Robyn Young

  Nasir’s hands tingled as he shook the water from them. He took his time.

  Idris had said this before and nothing had come of it. The man’s stamina was truly incredible.

  Nasir had known it wouldn’t be easy; the Assassins’ capacity for the endurance of pain was well known. But still, to have spent so long working on Idris and to have got nothing more than blood out of him was almost unnatural, frightening even. Twice, Nasir had almost lost him. And once, Idris tried to take his own life by smashing his head back against the pillar of rock he was bound to. Fortunately, he only succeeded in wounding himself, but even so it unnerved Nasir, who had one of his squires secure a pad of cloth to Idris’s skull to prevent him from doing it again. After the first week beating and cutting him, Nasir resorted to other measures: starving Idris to weaken him and then force-feeding him poisonous plants to make him violently sick. He hoped, by this method, to make the Assassin so delirious that he would talk without realizing what he was doing. But Idris, although feverish and insensible, gave him nothing. In the end, Nasir was forced to leave him for several days to let him recover, until this morning, when he had begun again, this time, grimly removing three of Idris’s fingers, stuffing a filthy, bloody wad of linen into his mouth to stop up his screams.

  Making his way back through the undergrowth, Nasir entered the cave. Idris was hanging limply in his bonds. His maimed hand had been bound, but the dressing had already turned red. His skin was gray and lifeless, except where there were cuts and bruises, and there it was a mixture of dull browns, livid purples and dark yellows. “Idris.”

  Idris’s breaths were erratic. At the sound of his name, his good eye flickered open and focused on Nasir.

  “My soldier tells me you want to talk,” said Nasir.

  Idris looked at him, but said nothing.

  “You must talk to me, Idris,” continued Nasir, after a long pause. “You and I, we are both running out of time. I have to return to my masters. They want this name. I must give it to them.” He sighed roughly. “I do not want to do this, Idris. It sickens me.” He swept a hand around the cave. “This place. Your suffering. They sicken me.”

  Idris grunted.

  “Tell me the name and I will leave,” said Nasir quietly. “I will let you live.” His voice hardened. “I can make it worse for you yet.” He gripped Idris’s injured hand and began to squeeze.

  Idris let out a high, breathless cry.

  Nasir reached out and with his free hand gripped the man’s chin. “I am out of time, Idris. I must return to Cairo. I must!”

  Idris’s mouth moved slightly. Nasir leaned closer. He could hear a throaty whisper coming from the Assassin. Idris’s lips moved again. This time, they contained a name. Nasir dropped his hold on the Assassin and rose. “We have it,” he called, hearing someone enter the cave.

  “Step away from him,” an unfamiliar voice commanded.

  Whipping round, Nasir found himself staring at a man dressed in black. As his hand was falling to his sword, two other men appeared in the cave entrance. They wore the same black robes as the first: the robes of the fidais. They both held daggers, one of which, Nasir just had time to notice, was bloodstained. The man who had spoken raised a crossbow and fired, before Nasir could even touch his sword hilt. The bolt slammed into his shoulder. Pain drove through him as he hit the ground, cracking his head on the cave floor. Dimly, he saw Idris being untied and helped up by the fidais. Another two entered the cave, dragging the dead bodies of the Mamluks and the squires. A booted foot came down on his chest, pushing the breath out of him and making the pain in his shoulder sing. Looking up, he saw a crossbow bolt pointed at his face. Beyond it, the man who was holding the weapon was staring down at him.

  “Sunni filth,” spat the Assassin.

  “Wait,” came a croaking voice.

  Nasir recognized it as Idris’s.

  There was a feeble cough. “Wait, Brother,” came Idris’s voice again, this time stronger. “Let him live.”

  “What do you owe this animal, Brother?” asked the Assassin with the crossbow. “Look at what he has done to you. The Mamluk cowards dare not attack us again openly, so they used you to get to us.”

  “No,” said Idris weakly. “They didn’t come here for us, or the fortress. This one is an officer from Cairo. He was sent here by Baybars to find the name of the Frank who contracted the sultan’s murder. We can use him to get what we want. If we are to continue to survive out here, we need fresh supplies. He will fetch a good ransom.”

  Nasir felt the pressure leave his chest as the Assassin removed his foot. The crossbow stayed trained on him, however. After a barked command, Nasir was hauled roughly to his feet. His sword was removed, his hands bound. Every movement caused the bolt in his shoulder to shift and a fresh wave of agony to wash over him. Sweat stood out on his face and his eyes stung as he was dragged out of the cave into the blinding sun. In his mind, the name whispered by Idris swirled, nebulous at first, unfamiliar in sound and shape. Then, clearer, more defined and finally coming sharply into focus.

  William Campbell.

  23

  The Temple, Acre 8 JULY A.D. 1276

  The city was burning. A veil of smoke hung in the gritty air over the Venetian quarter as a row of houses in the merchant district burned, flames flickering madly within the billowing vapors, devouring timbers, blackening stone. Children screamed in their mothers’ arms as desperate men formed a line along the street, hauling buckets of water from the cisterns to throw futilely over the conflagration. In the Muslim quarter other, smaller fires burned unchecked in a market square, consuming stalls and wagons. The ground was littered with rocks and broken glass. Men ranged the streets, their faces covered, clubs and torches in their fists. Some of them chanted as they walked, moving together in a pack, hatred in their eyes. People watched fearfully from nearby windows as a second company slipped out from behind a wagon that blocked one street and ran, yelling, into the square to face the masked men. The two groups met and blood was spilled.

  All across Acre, makeshift barricades had gone up around the streets, erected two weeks earlier when the tension and random acts of violence that had been growing steadily worse since King Hugh’s departure had finally erupted into open hostilities. The gates of various quarters were now closed from dusk till dawn, and curfews had been imposed. Guards roamed each district, but with so wide an area to cover and with so many factions involved, fires, robberies and skirmishes between rival groups were springing up unchecked, almost daily.

  The descent into chaos had begun when a group of Nestorian merchants from Mosul had rioted against Muslim merchants from Bethlehem in one of the markets. The Templars, who protected the Bethlehem merchants, had forced their way into the fray, and in their attempts to quash the violence several Nestorians had been killed. The Knights of St. John, who protected the Nestorians, had intervened and a Templar had been wounded, provoking a furious argument between the grand master of the Hospitallers and Guillaume de Beaujeu that had rocked Acre’s High Court. After this, the violence had continued to grow as the fragile peace between rival communities dissolved. Templar was set against Hospitaller, Venetian against Pisan and Genoese, Christian against Jew, Shia against Sunni. Even where these hostilities didn’t erupt into open conflict, relations between the various leaders were so strained that any chance at reconciling their divided citizens remained impossible.

  And so it was to the smell of smoke and a pervasive sense of anarchy that Will returned. The Temple’s gate was shut and barred, and it was several moments before someone answered his repeated knocks. “What’s going on in the city?” Will demanded of the sergeant who finally let him through.

  “It’s been like this since the king left, Sir Campbell,” replied the man, snapping his fingers at a younger sergeant in the guardhouse, who hurried to take Will’s horse.

  “Since he left?” Will untied his pack from the horse’s saddle as the sergeant took the reins. “What do you mean left? Where
has he gone?”

  “Back to Cyprus, sir. The High Court has written to request that he appoint someone to govern in his stead, but no one has come.”

  “What happened? Why did he leave?”

  The sergeant looked uncomfortable. He lowered his voice. “Rumor has it that he and our grand master had words the night before.”

  Will’s face was troubled. “Thank you,” he said distractedly.

  “Sir,” said the sergeant quickly as Will turned away, “I was told to look out for you and that on your return I was to send you immediately to the grand master.”

  Will frowned. “Very well. I’ll go when I’ve deposited my bag and washed.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said the sergeant, “but he said you must be sent to him at once, no matter the hour of day or night.”

  His concern growing, Will made his way across the courtyard toward the grand master’s palace.

  He found Guillaume in a meeting with the seneschal and Grand Commander Theobald Gaudin, and was told by a solemn official to wait outside. He sat on a bench in the passage, dumping his bag on the floor. His mind was filled with disquieting thoughts: the grand master’s urgent need to see him; the smoke hanging over the city and the empty streets; the news that the king had left Acre. But behind these another darker fear lurked, a fear that had plagued him since his meeting with Kalawun, trailing him like a shadow back across the desert. They are searching for you. What happens when they find you? The words had become exhausting in their persistency. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

  “Sir Campbell?”

  Will jumped as he felt someone touch his shoulder. He realized he had almost fallen asleep. He looked up as the seneschal and the grand commander headed down the passage. The solemn official was standing over him. Will rose in time to see the seneschal throw him a black look, then picked up his bag and followed the official into the solar.

  Guillaume was seated at his desk. He gestured to a stool in front of the table as Will entered. “Sit.”

  The official closed the doors, leaving him alone with de Beaujeu. Will’s eyes darted to the window as he approached the desk. The sky in the south, over the Venetian quarter, was gray with smoke.

  Guillaume caught his look. “You have returned to ill times, Brother.”

  “What is happening, sir? I was told that King Hugh returned to Cyprus without appointing anyone in his stead?”

  “You heard right. But peace will be restored soon, when Charles d’Anjou fills our empty throne. Then, everything will finally be well within this kingdom. For now,” said Guillaume briskly, “there are other matters I wish to discuss. I wanted to speak to you of this some weeks ago. But, of course, you were not here. I take it you found this treatise Brother Everard de Troyes sent you to acquire in Syria? That your journey was fruitful?”

  Will lied with a nod.

  “Everard was fortunate to have you at his command,” said Guillaume after a moment. “His role here is an important one. I have been told how much he has accomplished for the order in his search for knowledge. Tell me, William, how long have you known him?”

  Will’s mind was working furiously. What was the grand master implying? Did de Beaujeu know that he hadn’t gone to Syria? Was this a trap? “For sixteen years, my lord,” he answered, keeping the concern from his voice. “Everard took me on as his apprentice when I first went to Paris.”

  “Why did he do this?”

  “My master, Owein, had just been killed, following an attack by mercenaries on our company at Honfleur in France. We had been escorting the English crown jewels to the Paris preceptory and these men tried to take them. Everard needed a scribe. I could read and write, and I had lost my master.” Will shrugged. “I suppose I was a natural choice for the role.”

  “So you would say you know him well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  Will was thrown by the comment. “Yes,” he said, falteringly, then, more strongly, “with my life.”

  Guillaume picked up something from the desk. It was a rolled piece of parchment. He handed it to Will. As Will opened it, he recognized it immediately.

  “It is the scroll you brought back from Arabia,” said Guillaume. “I need it translated.”

  Will, his heart thumping, chose his words carefully. “I thought Kaysan was one of our spies?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then forgive me, my lord, but how is it that we cannot read his message? Why would he send something we couldn’t understand?”

  “The man I was assured could translate it for us is unavailable to do so at present. I, however, cannot wait. Everard’s skills are legendary in this preceptory. If any man here can decipher this message it is him.” Guillaume stood and stared out of the window. “But I have a problem.” He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he turned back. “These past few months you have proven yourself an asset to the order, and to me. If not for your keen perception and quick actions, I may have been killed by Soranzo’s man at the docks. You discovered the identity of my enemy and helped bring him to justice, even though you did not agree with my methods, and you executed an important mission for me in Arabia, leading my own men with authority and skill. For some weeks now, I have been wondering whether to involve you in something that was set in motion almost two years ago. I have now made my decision. We are failing, William,” said the grand master softly, “little by little every day. We quarrel, we fight, and we ignore the threat that creeps steadily upon us. For whether today, tomorrow or in five years hence, the Mamluks will come for us again. And when that happens, none of us will be able to stop them. Few in the West have the stomach for Crusade. Our list of allies grows thin. But we have a chance to change this. One chance.” Guillaume clenched his hand in a fist. As he spoke, his voice became deeper, stronger. “Imagine the men of the West rising up to take the Cross in their thousands. Imagine our soldiers making their way across the seas to aid us, we, their brothers, who have toiled for so long to keep the dream of Christendom alive in these lands. We have come too far to let all those before us down. Men like your father, who died for our cause.

  “Baybars and his Mamluks fight to reclaim their land. But it isn’t theirs to claim! All of them were born hundreds of miles beyond Palestine. They say they are fighting to win back what we took, but they took it too. And if it isn’t theirs by rights, by God, I say that it is ours. Our Holy Land. So much Christian blood has been spilled on these sands, so much we have lost. We cannot let it be in vain. We cannot.” Guillaume was pacing now. Will watched him in silence. “I am involved in a plan to take back what is ours. At the Battle of Hattin, the Saracens stole one of our holiest relics: part of the True Cross on which Christ was crucified. Christendom has mourned that theft for almost a hundred years. Imagine her jubilation were we to take something of theirs.”

  “What?” said Will thickly. “What would we take?”

  “The Black Stone of Mecca,” replied Guillaume. “Their holiest relic. It would be seen across the Western world as retribution. Our forces here and in the West would rally around such a victory, of this I am certain. It would give them hope, renew their hunger to finish what they started two centuries ago. I have already been in contact with leaders of the West, men like King Edward and King Charles d’Anjou. For months now I have been seeking support for a new Crusade in secret, promising these leaders that a change is coming, that all of them must be ready for it. I have even sent word to the Mongols.”

  “The Mamluks will destroy us.”

  “No,” said Guillaume firmly, “not immediately. Even through his rage, Baybars would be aware of the need to properly plan any campaign against us. Using the Stone as a symbol of triumph, of God’s will for us to reclaim what is ours, we can build a new Crusade, whilst he is building his own army against us. There is a chance, a good chance that we would meet on an even field. If we do not do this, William, we will simply fade quietly away, eroded at last by the
Saracens. This is the only way to convince the West that there is still hope, that we can hurt the enemy, that we can take from them what they have taken from us.” Guillaume sat. His eyes were bright, but it seemed more with sadness than fervor. He waited until his voice was steady, then spoke again. “I need you to help me, William. Firstly, by taking this scroll to Everard and asking him to decipher its message. Whatever contents are revealed, I will need you to make certain that the priest never speaks of it to anyone. I would not do this, but I have no other choice.”

  “You said we. Are there others helping you?”

  “Yes. But they do not matter at this moment. If Everard manages to decipher this, I will tell you more. The theft of the Stone will occur in the spring of next year. I have been choosing a small group of men to carry it out. I would like you to lead them.”

  “This is it. This is our chance to stop him!”

  Everard glanced up, his gaze following Will, who was stalking around his chamber. In his hand, the priest held the scroll the grand master had given to Will.

  “You should have heard him,” continued Will angrily. “He is so convinced that he is doing God’s work. Our Holy Land, he kept saying. He has no concept of peace!”

  “Did you?” asked Everard softly. “Before you were shown a different way? Before you were inducted into the Anima Templi?” Will stared at him. “I rather think you didn’t,” Everard went on. “Indeed, even after you learned that peace between our peoples was possible, that men from different religions and cultures were working toward this end, you balked against it and tried to murder our so-called enemy. Was that peace?”

  Will swallowed dryly at the reminder, fear stabbing at the center of his stomach. For a brief moment, he wanted to tell Everard what Kalawun had said in Cairo. He opened his mouth to say it, then Everard spoke again and the moment vanished.

  “Do not be so hard on him, William. Understanding is necessary for change to occur. You need to realize that de Beaujeu, like many others, has been brought up to believe he is better than Muslims, Jews, and anyone else who doesn’t follow the Christian law. They were taught this by their fathers, by their priests, by their fellows and their masters. Is it any wonder they believe it? Change, as I so often have told you, happens slowly, over years. One man today might read one of our treatises and find something in it that might make him think, that might make him realize that we are all children of God, whatever name we choose for Him. He may tell his sons and daughters of this and they may carry less hatred in their hearts as they grow. The Anima Templi are physicians, William, drawing poison out of each generation. But it must be done slowly, with care, or we risk losing our patients. Had your father been anyone but James, you might now feel very different. You might agree entirely with everything de Beaujeu just told you.”