Crusade

by Robyn Young

  The messenger glanced at them, then around the room until his gaze fixed on Baybars. “My Lord Sultan?” he asked. When he didn’t get a response, he held out a scroll. “I have a message from the Assassins.”

  “Why didn’t it come through my lieutenants?” demanded Baybars, his voice commanding.

  “It is from the Assassins in the fortress beyond Qadamus, who still oppose you,” said the messenger.

  Baybars scowled at this. “Read what it says.”

  The messenger broke the wax on the scroll. “You have taken the lives of our men, Sultan Baybars of Egypt. Now we take one of yours. The officer, Nasir, whom you sent to interrogate us, has been captured, his men killed. In return for his release we demand ten thousand bezants. Half to be given to the man who delivers this message, half to be given on the return of your officer. If you do not accept these terms, your man will die.”

  “Ten thousand!” exclaimed Yusuf in his croaking voice. “That is ridiculous.” The aged governor rose. “My lord, you cannot seriously consider paying this sum. What was this officer doing in this place? Who was he interrogating?”

  Baybars looked at Kalawun. “He was there for me.” After a moment, he turned back to the messenger. “I accept these terms.”

  Inaudible to the men in the chamber, through the crack in the wall behind the throne, came an eager hiss of breath.

  PART TWO

  24

  The Royal Palace, Acre 17 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

  Garin’s eyes were closed. Sweat ran off him, spreading dampness across the sheet. The charcoals in the braziers were smoldering and the win- dow drapes shut out sun and air. Garin’s bare chest glistened in the dull glow coming off the coals, his eyelids fluttering as he slept. The sweet smell of the qannob he had imbibed earlier permeated the chamber’s stagnant air, mixed in with the scents of ambergris and aloe, which he now habitually, though pointlessly, burned in an effort to disguise the drug’s telltale odor.

  He was sitting with his mother on the lawn outside their old home in Rochester. It was summer and the ground was parched and brown. Grasshoppers hummed and clicked in the hedgerows. The heat was a solid, sticky mass, pushing into him, trapping him like an insect in amber. His mother was speaking. In her hands, Cecilia held a vellum-bound book open on her knees. Her silvery blond hair was like water down her back, impossibly smooth as it flowed over her, following the curve of her thin, bony shoulders. Her lips moved, but no sound came. As he watched, a translucent bead of sweat ran slowly down her pale white neck. He followed it with his eyes as it slid between her breasts and disappeared behind the collar of her cream-colored gown. In his sleep, Garin groaned and clutched at the bedsheet.

  The sunlight faded and shadows closed in. Garin turned to see clouds rising in dark towers on the eastern skyline. The hedgerows had gone and the land stretched before him all the way to the horizon. There was nothing between him and the storm. It was moving quickly, picking up speed. He could feel lightning charging the air around him, smelled metal and destruction. He turned to his mother, calling out to her. She was gone. In her place stood Elwen. Her green eyes fixed on him and filled with darkness as the storm reared up to engulf them.

  Garin surfaced from the terror of the dream to a persistent banging sound. Disoriented, he pushed himself up, his vision focusing slowly. His head was pounding and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The banging sound was coming from the door. Swinging his legs over the bed, he stood, swaying. The tiles were like ice beneath his bare feet as he staggered across the chamber and opened the door. Beyond it stood two men. One was a palace guard, but Garin hardly glanced at him, all his attention fixing on the second man, the sight of whom caused his drug-induced daze to vanish in a jolt of uneasy surprise. The man wore a blue and russet striped cloak; the livery of King Edward’s personal messengers. In his hand was a scroll.

  “This man came to the gates asking for you, de Lyons.” The guard gave the messenger a surly look, which he then turned on Garin. “Said he had an urgent message from England that he must place directly into your hands. Refused to leave until he’d done so.”

  The messenger, ignoring the guard’s irritation at the imposition, held out the scroll to Garin, who took it with a rising sense of apprehension. Without a word, the messenger turned to let the guard escort him away. Garin shut the door and leaned against it, the wood cold against his sweat-oiled skin. His heart beating uncomfortably fast, he broke the wax seal. His eyes glossed impatiently over the terse greeting and moved to the first line.

  It was with anticipation that I received your letter at the Tower in the month of October, but upon reading it my expectation proved premature and I was left sorely disappointed by its contents.

  Garin went to his table and took up a half-empty cup of wine. He drained it quickly, but the stale liquid did nothing for his nausea and he forced his eyes back to the letter.

  I was certain that I sent you to Acre with clear and simple instructions. But it seems my faith in you was ill-judged. In your letter you make repeated references to the fact that you have secured consent for the use of the Kingdom of Cyprus as a base for my intended Crusade, I presume in an effort to turn my notice from your failures. The primary reason for your journey was to procure that which I have a current need for; not a base for a future war, but funds to fight more immediate battles. You say you have acquired only half of that which the king has promised to deliver and if I am to see the rest of his generosity I must beseech the pope to revoke the planned sale of the rights to Jerusalem’s crown. I did not expect to have to do quite so much for my money, when I have not yet seen a penny of it. Now I am forced to send an emissary to Rome and all because you have lost your powers of persuasion. King Hugh has great need of my aid, which is why he begged for my help in the first place. I am certain that a little more enthusiasm on your part would have yielded up his full gratitude. Nor is this the only assignment entrusted to you in which you have let me down. On the matter of our friends in the Temple and their refusal to agree to my repeated requests for funds, I find myself further dissatisfied.

  On receipt of this letter, you will inform King Hugh that I have dispatched a trusted envoy to the pope and then you will convince him to deliver the remainder of his promise. Following this, you will turn your attention on Everard and his misguided disciples. If they still refuse to comply with my demands, you will remind them that the crime of heresy is punishable by death and that if by some unfortunate design their blasphemous secrets were divulged to the wider world, I myself would make sure to reserve a front row seat for their trial and execution. The time for subtlety is passed. I will not let my plans be hampered by fools and fantastists.

  Once you are in possession of these monies you will return to me immediately, whereupon you will be rewarded, as ever you shall, for your faithful service, or else punished for your lack of it.

  Garin swallowed down the sick feeling in the back of his throat and crossed to the bed, where he tossed the letter, smudged by his sweaty hand, onto the damp sheet. Planting his palms on the mattress, he closed his eyes, his emotions clashing within him, first fear, then fury, then helplessness. He had almost heard Edward speaking the words in those cold, disdainful tones that always made him feel stupid and worthless. So wrapped up in his thoughts was he that Garin didn’t hear the door open behind him. It was only when a heavy hand came down on his shoulder that he was brought sharply into the present. He turned, startled, to see Bertrand’s grim, bearded face. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped, his anger at the intrusion forcing away his shock. “This is my private room.”

  “It’s the Lord Hugh’s private room,” corrected Bertrand gruffly. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, the stance making him look even broader and brawnier. “We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  Bertrand’s eyebrows knotted. “It’s been weeks since we got the news and you’ve done nothing.” His scowl deepened as Garin sighed and closed his eyes. “You gave my l
ord your word. Are you breaking it?”

  Garin’s eyes opened at the threat in Bertrand’s tone. “I gave King Hugh my word that I would secure the Stone so that he could offer it back to the Saracens and that is what I am working toward. Nothing has changed.”

  “Nothing’s changed?” Bertrand laughed harshly. “That shit you’ve been choking yourself with has addled your brain.” The laughter vanished. “The sale is complete. Don’t you know what this means?”

  Garin closed his eyes again. He could feel a pressure building behind them. The message from King Hugh had arrived a month ago, warning that Charles d’Anjou had bought the rights to the throne. It had been delivered to the bailli Hugh eventually and reluctantly put in place as his representative in Acre after the repeated pleas of nobles from Acre’s High Court following the violence of the year before. The bailli, a man named Lord Balian of Ibelin, announced the black news to his court. Two days later, Garin received a personal message from Hugh, saying he was relying on him to help win back his crown and, if he did so, that he promised to honor the agreement made with Edward. As he saw Bertrand looking at it, Garin took Edward’s letter from the bed and crumpled it in his fists. Edward’s emissary had either not been able to persuade the pope, or else had arrived too late to stop the sale. Either way, it didn’t matter now. If his plan for the Stone worked, he could deliver Edward a lot more than mere bags of gold; he could deliver him the Holy City. “I’m not in control of the theft,” he said, turning back to Bertrand. “We cannot make our move until it occurs. When it does, we will be ready. What else do you want me to say? You know the plan.”

  “All I know is you’ve spent the past eight months trailing after that maid. And for what?”

  “As I keep telling you,” Garin said slowly, deliberately, as if he were explaining something complex to a child, “Elwen is the best way of gathering the information we need.” He went to one of the braziers and dropped Edward’s letter into the coals, where it flared brightly.

  “Why is it taking so long?” growled Bertrand, not in the least placated. “After we had her in the alley, you said she trusted you, you said she’d talk. That was seven months ago. We haven’t got time for this.”

  “I can’t risk making her suspicious, and I don’t want to attract Will’s attention. He thinks I’ve remained in Acre on business for King Edward, but he isn’t pleased about it and I know he’s tried to persuade her not to speak with me. Fortunately, she hasn’t listened to him, but the more inconspicuous I keep myself where he is concerned the better, which means choosing when I see Elwen and what I try to prise from her very carefully.” Garin exhaled wearily as Bertrand continued to stare at him. The man was a soldier through and through. Point him in the direction of a battle or set him at a guard post and the job would get done, but if you wanted cunning and subtlety you’d best look elsewhere. Garin had quickly become frustrated by the man’s lack of imagination and now only told him the barest details that he and his men needed to know. The rest, the plotting and the strategizing, he had done by himself; consulting maps of the Hijaz and routes to Mecca, securing a guide. It was how he preferred things. And, so far, everything had gone as planned.

  When Will returned from Cairo the previous summer, he and Elwen had eventually made their peace. Garin, who initially worried that she wouldn’t forgive the knight for his deception, helped to encourage the reconciliation by gently persuading Elwen that Will might have been trying to protect her by keeping the details of the Anima Templi from her. The two of them seemed to fall swiftly back into old patterns, with the difference that Will, to Garin’s satisfaction, talked to Elwen more openly now that she knew his real business in the Temple. His own reunion with Will had been somewhat less harmonious.

  A few days after the knight’s return to Acre, having discovered what Elwen had learned in his absence, a furious Will had sought Garin out, demanding to know why he had told her of the Anima Templi and his attempted assassination of Baybars. Garin feigned remorse, then wounded indignation, saying he wouldn’t have told her anything if Will had shown up for their arranged meeting as promised. As no one had been forthcoming about his whereabouts, he’d had no choice but to be a little more direct in trying to ascertain the reason for his disappearance. And how was he to know that Will had never told Elwen about what he really did in the Temple? The conversation ended abruptly with Will telling him coldly that Everard had denied Edward’s request for further funds and that he was advised to return to London as soon as possible with Everard’s apology.

  “Don’t worry,” Garin told Bertrand. “We’ll get all we need from Elwen when the time comes. Already we’ve learned when the theft will occur and when the raiding party is due to leave.”

  “We’ve also learned this former friend of yours, Campbell, is going to be in that party and, as you’ve told me, he might even try to stop the theft. How are you going to deal with him? And what about details? Numbers of those involved? Their actual plans?”

  “We don’t know Will is going to attempt to stop it,” said Garin, growing increasingly irritable. He felt hemmed in on all sides, by Edward, by Hugh and Bertrand. “Quite frankly I don’t see how he will be able to if everyone else de Beaujeu is sending is under orders to steal it. If I know Will, he’ll most likely try and give the Stone back to the Saracens himself.” Garin’s lip twisted sourly. “Just so he can be the hero. But we’re going to make sure he doesn’t get the chance. As for the details, we just have to be patient.” He pushed his toilet bucket out from under the bed with his foot. “Now leave me. I want to dress.”

  Anger flared in Bertrand’s eyes. “I’ve had enough of you thinking you’re lord of this castle,” he snarled. “Living here like a pig in shit, giving me orders like some little king. You’re here to do a job like the rest of us. And by God I’ll make sure you pissing well do it.” He reached for Garin, meaning to turn him to face him. But he didn’t get the chance. Garin spun and grabbed his wrist in midair. His free hand came up in the same instant and clutched his throat. As he propelled the soldier into the wall, Bertrand gave a winded grunt.

  “Don’t ever touch me,” said Garin in a dead voice.

  Bertrand stared into Garin’s dark blue eyes and saw something deep within them, something ferocious, feral. It was as if he were looking into the eyes of an animal who had been beaten and cowed one too many times and had turned savage. “All right,” he said, his voice coming out strangled from the crushing grip on his throat. “All right.”

  Garin eased his hand away and stepped back, but he was poised to attack again should the need arise.

  A clanging sound rose in the silence, fast and urgent. Bertrand broke from Garin’s gaze, his expression changing. He strode to the window, knocking over an empty cup, and whipped aside the drapes.

  Garin shielded his eyes with a wince as vivid daylight flooded the chamber. “What is it?”

  “The barbican bell,” muttered Bertrand, leaning out of the window and peering in the direction of the palace’s entrance.

  Now, beyond the clanging, Garin could hear shouts and the chime of swords.

  Bertrand straightened and drew back from the window. Ignoring Garin, he marched to the door and flung it open, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he went.

  Garin moved to the window. The curtain walls swept vertiginously to the moat that surrounded the royal stronghold. Because of the line of the fortress, he couldn’t get a view of the barbican or the drawbridge below it, but the sounds of shouting and fighting were intensifying. Throwing on a creased tunic, he forced his feet into his boots, then snatched his sword from the floor beside his bed. Unsheathing it, he followed Bertrand. He had no idea who would dare assault the royal palace, but he wasn’t going to sit and wait for the marauders to come to him.

  The palace corridors were filling with soldiers as more men heard the call of alarm and raced toward the castle entrance. Courtiers and servants were standing in groups or hurrying in the opposite direction to the soldiers,
looking anxious and confused. Garin heard Bertrand’s gruff voice farther down the passage and moved in his direction. The soldier was in the corridor with Amaury and five other men from his company.

  “Get the Lord Balian,” Bertrand barked at one of the guards. To me,” he told his men, stamping off.

  Garin went after them, keeping a short distance behind. He wasn’t going to fight if he didn’t have to, but he did want to know what was happening.

  They neared the entrance that led onto the drawbridge, spanning the moat between the castle and the double-towered barbican, Bertrand shouting at any stray soldiers they passed to fall in behind him. A stone passage, wide enough for a wagon to pass through, led to the main entrance from the corridor. The fortress’s doors were open and the drawbridge was down, as it usually was. Just as Bertrand and his company were marching toward them, a group of palace guards fled in through the doors, weapons drawn. Two of them were wounded and were being supported by comrades. “Raise the drawbridge!” Garin heard one of them shout, a well-built Cypriot with graying hair whom he recognized as the captain of the guard. Three men ran to the winch at the side of the doors.

  Bertrand called out to the captain. “Sir! What’s happening?”

  “They’ve taken the barbican,” shouted the captain. “We tried to hold them off, but they broke through. They captured eight men.” He looked to the entrance. His face filled with alarm. “Back! Back! ” he shouted. “Close the doors!”

  “The doors close and your men die,” came a loud, clear voice from outside. “Stand down.”

  The captain seemed to hesitate, then slowly stepped away, but he kept his sword raised, trained on someone only he could see. He kept moving, the palace guard and Bertrand and the others falling back behind him, the soldiers who had been at the winch moving uncertainly with them.

  As the press of men pushed toward him, Garin ducked into a narrow staircase and stood on the first step to see over the heads of the soldiers. He watched them fan out into the main corridor and saw the captain emerge from the passage, still holding point with his sword out. Several seconds later about fifteen men in a livery Garin didn’t recognize appeared. Among them were the eight palace guards they had captured from the barbican, blades trained on them. Behind the armed company came seven other figures, clad in stately apparel. One in their center was particularly well groomed, standing erect and self-assured, wearing a crimson velvet cloak over a gold surcoat and matching hose. A velvet hat adorned with a swan’s feather covered his head. He had a delicately trimmed beard and a youthful face, which would have been handsome if not for the arrogant expression that soured it.