Crusade

by Robyn Young

  “I don’t understand,” said Will, sitting on the window seat opposite the priest. “De Beaujeu keeps Arab clerks and I know he treats them as well as he treats his Christian staff. And after we caught Sclavo, he made sure the tavern was closed down and that the slaves used in the arena were cared for.”

  “Yes, and de Beaujeu has even been criticized for his lenient treatment of Muslims and Jews by some since his arrival in the city. He isn’t a monster, or a fool. For him it isn’t about the people. It is about the place. God’s land, our Holy Land, as he calls it. He wants Jerusalem back, William. As do so many of our people. He believes it belongs to Christians and that we are its rightful keepers. He doesn’t see that we all have an equal claim to the city, that it is the heritage of all peoples of the Books: Old and New Testaments and the Koran. For Jews it encompasses the site where God commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac and is where the Temple of Solomon was built and housed the Ark of the Covenant, containing the laws given to Moses on Mount Sinai. For Christians it is the place where Jesus lived, died and rose again. For Muslims it is the place from which Muhammad ascended to Heaven.” Everard’s gaze grew sad and distant. “This ground is holy to us all. But somehow we seem unable to rejoice in this commonality and instead block up our ears and cover our eyes, stamp our feet like angry children and demand this is ours, and ours alone.”

  “We have a chance to stop this, Everard,” said Will, gesturing to the scroll in the priest’s hand. “All you have to do is tell de Beaujeu that you couldn’t decipher it.”

  Everard looked at him. “No,” he said eventually, “that is not the right course of action.” His eyes hardened with authority. “You will take him my translation and do exactly as he says.”

  “Why?” said Will incredulously.

  “What do you suppose will happen if I fail to decipher it?” demanded Everard, rising and looking down on Will. “This contact of theirs,” he shook the scroll, “which is presumably the man this letter is addressed to, could reappear at any time. Either that or they’ll find someone else to translate it for them. I am not the only man capable of it.”

  “But it could delay them, perhaps even ruin their plans.”

  “If the grand master has been planning this for two years and has already gone to this much trouble to make sure it happens, he will not let this problem stand in his way. He will find some other way to execute it. And if he is delayed and the details we have already taken from the scroll—the time and place— change, we may end up knowing less than we do now.”

  “It is too dangerous,” said Will, shaking his head. “We have to stop it before it starts.”

  “And we will,” said Everard firmly. “You have been invited into de Beaujeu’s circle. You will stand at the heart of this. More than anyone else, you have a chance to stop it. De Beaujeu isn’t alone in this. It is no use cutting out the rotten part of the apple, but leaving the worm inside. We need to find out who these others are, who de Beaujeu is working with, who this man in Cairo is. Soranzo knew of it; potentially Angelo Vitturi knows of it also.” Everard held Will in his stare. “You must find out.”

  Through his concern and disbelief, Will felt something stir. Pride. It was what he craved, from his father, from Everard and the Anima Templi, even, to some extent, from de Beaujeu: their pride in him. Now he had the chance to play the hero, to be the one who stopped this from happening. As Will felt these thoughts take him over, he tried to ignore them, telling himself that he would do this because it was his duty and the necessary thing to do. But a little voice called to him, sweet and seductive, saying he could be the one to save them all.

  THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 8 JULY A.D. 1276

  Elwen hastened through the quarter. She could smell smoke on the air and heard the distant shouts of men as they tried to put out the fires, just streets from Andreas’s home. At Vespers several men had stood up in the service when the priest had asked them to pray for those who had lost property in the blaze. These men had demanded retribution, saying that they all knew who had started the fire. That it was the Genoese. That it was time to drive them out again, this time for good. It had taken all of the priest’s skills of diplomacy to prevent a mob from forming.

  The strap of the leather bag Elwen had hung over her shoulder pinched at her skin as she hurried toward the warehouse on Silk Street. The bag was filled with samples. Andreas, preoccupied with the troubles, had left it on the kitchen table. He was due to meet with a customer and would need them. Besina had told her not to go: that Andreas could come back for it. But Elwen knew that it would be a waste of his precious time. Evening was drawing in and the streets were rapidly emptying of people. The heat was stifling, oppressive.

  As Elwen turned a corner onto Silk Street, two men emerged from an alley and began making their way toward her They were moving slowly, erratic in their steps. Elwen guessed that they were drunk. One of them spotted her and patted his companion’s shoulder. The other man looked up and laughed as his comrade said something that Elwen didn’t catch. She moved into the street to avoid them.

  “Good evening, my lady,” one of the men called. He spoke Latin, rather than the Venetian dialect, but his voice was so slurred she could hardly understand him.

  Elwen kept on walking, quicker now.

  “I said, good evening, my lady,” repeated the man, stepping into the street.

  Elwen flashed him a cool smile, then continued on, passing him.

  “I got a smile!” crowed the man to his companion.

  “I think she likes you,” said the other, staggering out and blocking Elwen’s path, so that she was caught between them. They were both red in the face. “Hey, girlie, you got one for me?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” said Elwen. Her heart was beginning to thump. “Please, just let me pass.”

  “Where are you going?” asked the first man. He was broad in the shoulders and had a long black beard. “There’s a curfew on.”

  “I’m aware of that,” said Elwen, becoming annoyed by the interruption despite her anxiety. She tried to move around the other man in front of her, who was bigger than his friend, with a belly that hung over his belt and ale stains marking his shirt. He had lank black hair and a greasy face that seemed to slide about as he spoke, his two chins wobbling.

  “Not so fast,” he said, stepping in front of her.

  Elwen realized that there was no one else in the street. As the leering, fat man reached for her, all her bravado vanished. She did the only thing she could think of. Opening her mouth, she screamed. She just had time to see the fat man’s expression change from drunken lechery to one of alert concern. He isn’t drunk at all, a voice inside her said. Then, the words were forgotten as a hand curled around her mouth from behind, shutting off the noise. She felt herself pinned against the broad chest of the bearded man and hauled into an alley between two warehouses. Fear came down over her like a suffocating cloud as she felt the bag ripped from her shoulder, the strap snapping painfully apart.

  “What’s in it?” demanded the bearded man, who had hold of her, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other arm wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. She was struggling madly, but he was too strong. Her energy, already sapped by the heat, was disappearing with every move. She got her mouth free and managed to let out another cry, but the bearded man quickly tightened his grip on her.

  The fat man was opening the bag. “Silks!” he exclaimed. His drunken slur was back. “These’ll fetch us a few coins.” He chuckled at his companion. “She must like us after all.”

  “I don’t know,” said the bearded man. “I think she could be a bit nicer.”

  The fat man’s lips split apart.

  Elwen gasped in horror as she felt the hand of the man who had hold of her slide over her breasts. Her whole being screamed against the trespass. She writhed and pulled against him, but now the fat man was reaching for her and she didn’t have the strength to stop them.

  “Get away from her.”
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  The fat man glanced around at the cold voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. Elwen thought she recognized it, but her terrified mind refused to place it. She couldn’t turn her head against the bearded man’s grip, but she watched as the fat man’s expression became one of disdain.

  “Stay out of this.”

  “I said, get away from her.”

  The fat man laughed. “This won’t take long, girlie,” he murmured, moving out of view. Elwen heard a wet, thudding sound, followed by a howl.

  “Jesus!” the bearded man hissed.

  Elwen was shoved roughly aside. She went down, throwing out her hands to break her fall as, behind her, there was another yell and a crash. Elwen felt someone grabbing her under the arms, hauling her up. She lashed out wildly and heard a grunt of pain as her hand connected with flesh.

  “Elwen, it’s me!”

  She whipped around and found herself face-to-face with Garin. Looking past him, she saw two bodies lying on the alley floor. “Are they dead?” Her voice was strained, high-pitched.

  “Come on,” said Garin, taking her by the arm.

  Elwen let herself be led by him for several streets, before she halted. “No,” she said breathlessly, “wait.” She looked down at her hands, specked with blood where grit from the alley had cut her. Tears sprang into her eyes, the trauma of her ordeal finally reaching her.

  “It’s all right,” said Garin, touching her shoulder. “You’re safe.”

  Without meaning to, she moved in at his touch, burying her face in his shirt, her hands splayed on his chest. Garin stood still. She could hear his heart beating fast against her ear. Then she felt his hand move awkwardly onto her back to give her a brief pat.

  “It’s all right,” he said again. He sounded embarrassed.

  Elwen pulled back from him suddenly. “How did you know?”

  “Sorry?”

  “How did you know I was in the alley? Why were you there?”

  “I came to see you. I was worried when I saw the smoke. I went to your home and was informed that you had gone to the warehouse. A little girl told me where to find it.”

  “Catarina?” said Elwen, faintly.

  Garin looked a little sheepish. “I told her I had come from the Temple with a message from Will. I was entering Silk Street when I heard a scream come from the alley. That’s when I saw you with those men. Come on, let’s get you home.” He guided her along the street toward Andreas’s house, his hand on her shoulder again.

  Elwen paused at the front door. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes were red and several strands of hair had come free of her coif.

  Garin stepped back as she slipped inside and closed the door. After waiting a few moments, he headed off. When he turned a corner and was out of sight of the house, he moved quickly, retracing his steps.

  He found the two men waiting for him in the alley. The bearded man was sitting on a pile of crates, holding a bloodstained rag to his nose. Gone was any sign of his feigned inebriation; his eyes were clear and hard. “You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” he growled nasally.

  “I had to make it look real, Bertrand,” replied Garin.

  “Then that gold you promised had better look real too,” replied Bertrand, holding out his hand.

  Garin reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of bezants. He counted them out reluctantly. “I thought you were helping me because your liege lord ordered it,” he said cuttingly.

  “King Hugh ordered me to help you take the Stone, not molest maidens in alleyways.” Bertrand grinned as he said it. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.” His smile faded. “But, still, I’m only doing what was commanded of me for free. The rest, you pay for.”

  “I think we should get extra,” complained the fat man, who was sporting a black eye. “What if she informs on us?” he said, looking at Bertrand.

  “She won’t,” said Garin gruffly, annoyed that Hugh had left him Bertrand and his soldiers. They might be competent fighters, but they weren’t the subtlest of men. “Just keep out of this district for a while.” Garin pointed to the leather bag the fat man was clutching. “Is that what she had on her?”

  The man clutched it tighter and looked to Bertrand, who took his time, but eventually nodded. “Give it to him, Amaury.”

  Garin caught the bag as Amaury tossed it to him. Looking inside, he saw several shimmering lengths of silk. He took out two pieces, leaving three inside. “Here,” he said, holding them out to Bertrand. “Your compensation.”

  Bertrand took the silk and passed it to Amaury. “Did she believe you?”

  Garin nodded as he tied the bag’s broken strap. Even if Elwen asked Catarina if he had come to the house with an urgent message from Will, his story would be corroborated.

  “What now?” growled Bertrand, as they moved out. “Do you really think she’s going to come running as soon as her sweetheart returns and tell you everything she knows?”

  “No,” said Garin calmly, slinging the leather bag over his shoulder. “But she trusts me now. And that’s all I need.”

  THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 21 AUGUST A.D. 1276

  Kalawun stifled a yawn. The air in the throne room was muggy and they had been in council for several hours now, poring over maps of Anatolia and her borders.

  “This is a weak spot,” Baybars was saying to Ishandiyar. He pointed at a section of the map that was spread out on the table. He put a finger in the north beyond the city of Aleppo, marked out in black ink. “We can leave our heavy equipment in Aleppo and make a strike into the Ilkhan’s lands. Once we have secured a base in his territory, our infantry can follow with our supplies. We need to work in stages or we risk being cut off.”

  Ishandiyar nodded, and several other advisors added their agreement.

  Kalawun reached for a goblet of cordial and raised it to his lips, the sweet liquid refreshing him. He watched Baybars and the men talk. Following the brutal execution of Mahmud, things in the Mamluk court had changed dramatically. There had been no further attacks on the sultan, and all those who had previously opposed his decision to focus on the Mongols rather than the Franks had immediately fallen into line. With the campaign now fully under way and all obstacles removed, Baybars had calmed and stepped firmly and confidently into the role of strategist, a role he always played extremely well.

  As Kalawun set the goblet on the table, he caught a brief flicker of something on the wall behind the throne. Had his gaze not been focused in that direction, he wouldn’t have seen it, so tiny was the movement: just the barest shift of a shadow. His eyes picked out a thin crack in the whitewashed wall, with a darker section where the crack widened. The flicker came again. As he stared at the hole, Kalawun could almost feel Khadir’s eyes upon him.

  After his involvement in Mahmud’s plot, Khadir had lost Baybars’s trust. He now spent most of his time hiding in the wall, listening to their war councils, Kalawun guessed so that he could try to tempt Baybars back to him by offering him information and advice that he couldn’t know unless he was prophesying. Baybars hadn’t been fooled.

  Whilst Khadir had been fixated on worming his way back into the sultan’s favor, Kalawun had been doing a little digging of his own. As soon as William Campbell had told him of the involvement of a Shia in Cairo, Kalawun had been certain that he had found the traitor. Khadir had been an Assassin; an Ismaili Shia, whose background and family were unknown, and who, by his own admission, had already been involved in one plot to start a war between their forces and the Christians.

  And, of course, there was Aisha.

  Since the death of his daughter, Kalawun had felt as if a hole had been torn out of him. The only thing that served to fill this aching gulf was his desire for revenge. An investigation into her death had come to nothing, and for everyone else, life had returned to normal. Kalawun had even heard that Nizam was pressing Baybars to find another bride for their son. Baybars, to Kalawun’s gratitude, had refused to consider it until after the Anatolian campaign, when a suitable period
of mourning would have passed. Kalawun had begun looking into Khadir’s background the day after Campbell had gone, but had found little. After his expulsion from the Assassins, it was rumored that Khadir had spent time as a hermit, living in a cave in the Sinai, but there were no references to any relatives he might have. His past remained shrouded in mystery. Kalawun, however, refused to be defeated. Somewhere there were answers.

  “My Lord Sultan.” A Mamluk official appeared in the doorway.

  “What is it?” said Baybars. “I told you we were not to be disturbed.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, but I felt it was important. There is someone here to see you, a messenger from Jabal Bahra. He says he has come on behalf of the Assassins.”

  Baybars frowned. “Send him in,” he said after a pause.

  The official disappeared.

  “My lord,” said one of the governors, “is this wise? An Assassin?”

  Baybars ignored the warning and watched as a man in a travel-soiled cloak was led into the room. Some of the governors had risen and had their hands on their swords. Four of the Bahri, who had been standing silently at the sides of the throne room, stepped forward, crossbows raised.