Crusade

by Robyn Young

  It was the theft itself.

  In the beginning, his convictions were cast-iron. He was adamant that he was doing what was best for Christendom, unlike the Vitturis and the other merchants who were doing it for the benefit of their own pockets. He still believed in the righteousness of his cause. But something had changed. Doubt, at first buried, had begun to rise in him, moving to the surface like a sunken ship pulled up by a storm tide. With every month that passed in which he received no word from the West, it grew clearer, larger, until now it was before him, unmistakable and ugly. There was no message from King Edward with tidings of busy shipyards, or from the pope of legates sent to preach holy war in crowded market squares, or from Charles promising troops and arms, no word even from his own order, reporting on the fleet being built in La Rochelle. There was only silence and his own nagging thoughts. Without a Crusade, they could not hope to beat back a united Muslim force. Without a Crusade, they were doomed.

  Guillaume forced his eyes from the map, rolled it brusquely in his hands and twisted a piece of twine around it to hold it shut. He crossed to the window and gripped the frame, feeling the evening breeze wash over him, cool and calming. Four days ago, Angelo Vitturi had come, wanting to know if everything was set. Guillaume had hidden his doubts from the Venetian. Now he had to hide them from himself, had to hold to his convictions. Had to trust to himself, to God. He had known this course of action to be a dangerous one, reckless even. But not to act would be just as dire. At least this way they had a chance. No word did not necessarily mean that the men who had promised to bring fresh aid to the Holy Land had reneged on their pledge. He had to have faith.

  Guillaume turned from the window and looked at the great tapestry on the wall of his solar. His eyes lingered on the white silk Christ hanging from the cross, head down, hands and feet pierced.

  “You faltered once,” murmured Guillaume. “You faltered and were saved.”

  Dropping to his knees in front of the tapestry, Guillaume clasped his hands, pressing his palms together as firmly as he could, as if by doing so he could make his prayers that much stronger, that much surer. He stayed there for a long time, the darkness growing around him as the fire died down.

  25

  The Docks, Acre 25 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

  “You’re not really here, are you?”

  Will’s thoughts were broken by the voice. He turned, surprised by the question, and saw the weary resignation in Elwen’s face.

  They were sitting together on one of the stone benches outside the customs house, their eyes blinded by the stark morning sun. The water in the harbor was lucent green, the distant waves that broke against the western mole tipped with glittery gold. Around them, dockworkers and fishermen were going noisily about their daily business. But Will, all his attention focused inward, had hardly noticed them.

  He took Elwen’s hand, clasping it firmly. “I am here, I promise. I’m just preoccupied.”

  “Are you thinking about Arabia?”

  Will missed the anxiety in Elwen’s tone. “The journey itself will be hard enough, without what we’ve got to do at the end of it.” His gaze became distant again and his brow creased. “There are so many things that could go wrong.”

  “Don’t say that, Will,” she said in a quiet tone. “Please.”

  Will looked at her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak of it at all.” He sounded sharper than he’d meant to.

  “You cannot blame me for being worried,” said Elwen, removing her hand from his. “And as for speaking of it, you’ve hardly told me anything. Not recently.”

  “Because when I do you always become upset, and I don’t want you involved in this.” He sought her eyes, and when she didn’t look at him, he put a finger to her cheek and moved her gently to face him. “You know where I’m going and why. You don’t need to know the details.”

  Elwen looked across the water at the rows of ships swaying like old, drunk men. She hadn’t told Will, but in reality knowing a little was worse than knowing nothing at all. It was like trying to look out of a dirty window, tantalizing and frustrating her that she couldn’t see the whole picture.

  Will sucked his lip, then stretched out his legs. “So,” he said, trying to sound light, “what are you going to be doing for the next few weeks? The Easter fair is coming up soon. I expect Andreas will be keeping you busy.”

  Elwen gave a small nod.

  Will hesitated, then steeled himself. “Do you think you’ll see Garin?”

  Elwen felt a shock of blood rise to her cheeks, hot and prickling. She averted her face, pretending to watch a group of fishermen hauling a net full of fish from a boat, in an effort to hide the blush. “I’ve no idea,” she said airily, keeping her tone noncommittal. “If we happen to meet one another, then I suppose I might.”

  “Or if he comes to the house?”

  Elwen turned quickly, guiltily. “The house?”

  “Catarina told me a while ago,” said Will quietly, noting the color that had risen in her cheeks and fearing it. “She was asking me who he was.”

  Elwen’s heart was thudding so fiercely that she thought Will must be able to feel it. She uneasily recalled all the times Garin had sought her out. Only last week he had come, bringing her a book, a romance she had been wanting to read. She had forgotten mentioning it to him and the surprise was all the sweeter for his remembering. They stood on the step in the chilly shadow of the house, talking. He made her laugh and she found herself opening up to him in ways she rarely did with anyone else. It was because he knew about the Anima Templi and she could talk freely about her worries for Will with him. He understood and sympathized, made her feel less alone. At least this was what she had told herself.

  Will was still looking at her.

  “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d be upset,” Elwen said, after a long pause. She shrugged crossly. “I’ve never invited him. What can I do if he seeks me out?”

  “You could tell him to leave you alone.”

  “No.” Elwen stood. “You don’t get to tell me who I can and cannot see when I have absolutely no say in your life. I’ll speak to whom I want, including Garin de Lyons.”

  Will rose and moved in front of her. “He’s not a good person to be around, Elwen. I don’t trust him.”

  “I do,” she replied simply.

  “Why?” demanded Will. “I thought you hated him because of what he did to us in Paris. What has changed?”

  “He has.” Elwen glared at him as he rolled his eyes. “Garin told me why he did what he did, Will. I don’t blame him. He’s been a good friend to me recently when ...” She stopped herself, but it was too late.

  Will nodded bitterly. “When I haven’t.”

  “Can we not do this,” Elwen murmured. “You’re going tomorrow.” She met his gaze. “I don’t want us to fight. Not now.”

  “Neither do I,” said Will quietly. He took her hand again. “Let’s walk back.”

  Elwen let herself be led across the dockside. She walked in a daze at Will’s side, both of them silent, distracted.

  When Will had returned from Cairo the previous summer, he had bowed to her furious demands and admitted his deception. He had spoken openly about his work in the Temple and the reasons he had kept it from her, which, just as Garin said, had been for her own protection. He had explained why he had organized the murder of Sultan Baybars after the death of his father, and eventually, unable to stand his pain or guilt any longer, she had forgiven him.

  For the next few months, things between them were better than they had been in years, perhaps ever. He visited her more frequently and was more attentive, bringing her gifts: wildflowers from the preceptory’s gardens; a pot of thick, amber honey from the stores, which they shared from each other’s fingers until they were almost sick with sweetness. In those last days of summer, Elwen felt a sense of belonging unlike anything she had ever experienced, a warm encircling of love that remained with her even when they were apart. But as autumn had drawn on
and the year turned, that feeling had begun to fade.

  In the past few months, the visits had become shorter and less frequent, and Will had grown more distracted. She told herself that his work for Everard and the Anima Templi was more important; that he needed to be focused on stopping what could end in a terrible war, and once that was done he would return to her. But she couldn’t fool herself, or deny the separation widening between them. She had come, finally and painfully, to the stark realization that she would always be second to his duty, that this danger or that crisis would be followed by something else that would take him away from her. She had pledged herself to him. But he had pledged himself to something greater. Will needed to be the champion. He needed to rescue the world in order to feel part of it. As long as she was safe and protected in Acre, he was comforted. He didn’t see that she needed saving too. Or, and this was a hard thing to admit, he did see it, but chose to ignore it because to save the world would mean approval from others. To save her would mean exclusion.

  But instead of becoming angry or upset as he withdrew and grew more distant, she too had begun to drift.

  The first sign of that drift had been a shock. It was just after the Christ Mass and Andreas was away buying silks in Damascus. Will had come to the warehouse. They had argued about something, she couldn’t recall what; then, forgiving each other, they had made love. There, as she lay beneath him, her back against the cold floor, an image of Garin entered Elwen’s mind. It was so unexpected she opened her eyes. The surprise must have registered on her face, for Will slowed and looked down at her searchingly. She smiled and cupped her hand to the back of his neck, bringing him down and kissing him until he found his rhythm again. But it had left her unsettled.

  The next time she saw Garin, she had felt herself color and something had leapt in her stomach. She kept it like a secret, a pearl or a coin, a treasure in a box that only she had the key to. Now and then she opened that box and looked inside, and took pleasure in the looking. But she hadn’t thought anyone had noticed her private absorption. Least of all Will.

  She glanced at him as he walked beside her, his eyes on the crowds. Did he know? Or was it simply, as he had said, that he didn’t trust Garin? Until now, she had absolved herself by calling her interest harmless curiosity, but faced with the possibility of discovery, her own defensiveness had shown her just how important that secret had become. She felt as though she had been torn in two. The man beside her, whose hand was warm and firm around hers, one half of her loved immeasurably. This half was crumpled and distraught at the thought of the danger he would soon be walking into, desperate to hold onto him, to stop him from going. The other half was cool and aloof, telling her he had made his choice and that she would never find what she wanted here, only more of this suffering. It was this half that had opened that box.

  All too soon, they were standing outside Andreas’s house and he was kissing her good-bye, telling her not to worry. As Will walked away down the street, a lone figure in his black cloak, his stride purposeful, taking him away from her, Elwen was filled with the sudden, crushing feeling that she would never see him again. And the pain and relief that clashed in her at the thought was unbearable.

  THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 25 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

  From a covered walkway that straddled the gate between two towers, a hunched figure watched the Mamluk Army make its last preparations. Khadir’s face was a sour mask of vitriolic contempt as he surveyed the gathering men beneath him. The vanguard, headed by the Bahri, would be the first to leave, with Kalawun’s Mansuriyya and two other regiments. The middle section and rear guard, which would follow later that day when the van had moved out, would be composed of two further Mamluk regiments, creating a force, when combined with the slaves and servants who would accompany the army on its long march north, of more than eight thousand. It was an impressive display. But this just made Khadir seethe all the more, knowing that it would not be the Christians in Palestine who would feel its might.

  Seventeen years had passed with him watching Baybars smite down the infidel that plagued their lands. His master had come so close to destroying the Franks once and for all; that Baybars had cast his eye elsewhere when he had so nearly consummated this aim was incomprehensible to Khadir. But it was not his master’s fault. No. It was the fault of those who had led him astray, turning him from his true path. The rot had set in with Omar’s death and had spread like a festering cancer with the influence of Kalawun. But there was still time for Baybars to fulfill his destiny. All he needed was a cure for his disease, and Khadir believed he had found it.

  Nasir was alive. When the Assassins were paid their ransom, he would be returned, and if he had the names of those responsible for Omar’s murder, Baybars could exact his revenge. Once Baybars had fresh Christian blood on his hands, that old scent would be reawoken, and then let the Franks’ final days begin. That was one cure. The other, something he had planned for Kalawun, was altogether simpler.

  Since Aisha’s death, the commander had become his shadow, paying spies to tail him and search his house in the city. Khadir wasn’t bothered by Kalawun’s suspicions of his involvement in Aisha’s demise; indeed he took pleasure in the fact that Kalawun knew that he was responsible, but could do nothing to prove it, reveling in the amir’s silent desperation. But he was troubled by the investigations Kalawun seemed to be conducting into his past. He wasn’t sure what the commander expected to find there, but it disturbed him.

  Khadir looked down upon the soldiers, his white gaze crawling slowly over the heads of the Mansuriyya. He couldn’t see Kalawun among them, but he picked out the amir’s two sons, Ali and Khalil, mounted on horses and clad in new cloaks of royal blue. The boys, aged fifteen and thirteen, would not be engaged in any fighting, but would travel with the main force to Aleppo, from where the cavalry, led by Baybars, would go on to Anatolia to face the Mongols. Movement at the main palace entrance caught Khadir’s attention. Out of the doors, accompanied by the call of horns and flanked by officers of the Bahri, strode Baybars, magnificent in battle gear. His head was covered with a black turban, banded with gold, and his long mail coat shimmered as he walked to a black charger adorned with golden trappings. Some distance behind came Baraka Khan, his face pensive and unreadable. Khadir had been pleased when Baybars had conceded to allow his son to join him on campaign. It was a sign that relations between them were finally beginning to mend. A thin smile of pride crept onto Khadir’s face as he watched Baraka climb into his saddle amongst the Bahri warriors. This past year, the boy had truly become a man, and he had no doubt that all his efforts to turn Baraka to his side would be rewarded when the prince took the throne.

  Seeing that the army was almost ready to leave, Khadir scuttled across the walkway and down through the tower. He was making his way along the passage, heading for the main doors, when he heard low, urgent voices ahead. He turned a corner and saw Kalawun and Ishandiyar. Kalawun was dressed for battle, but Ishandiyar, whose regiment would remain in Cairo, was clad in a loose robe. Both men had their backs to him and were standing close together. Khadir took a step back, out of sight.

  “But you say he promised to stop this, Amir?” came Ishandiyar’s voice.

  “This is too serious to rely on a promise,” replied Kalawun. “However much I trust him, he isn’t one of us.”

  Outside, the horns began to sound the army’s departure, cutting across their voices. Dimly, between the calls, Khadir heard footsteps fading. Glancing around the corner, he saw Ishandiyar heading through a door. Kalawun reached the end of the passage and disappeared into the sunlit courtyard. His brow kinked in suspicion, Khadir hastened down the passage and into the yard to take up his place in the vanguard. Baybars gave him a cool nod as he was helped into the saddle of a tan mare by a squire, his scrawny legs gripping the beast’s flanks. Khadir bowed regally to his master, then scanned the crowds for Kalawun, wondering what the rat was up to. Whatever it was mattered little. As al-Mudarraj rolled ponderously open an
d the first lines of the Mamluk Army began to move out, Khadir dropped his hand to the faded silk pouch hanging from his belt. The darkness inside concealed a collection of coins, tiny animal skulls and dried herbs, and his cloth doll with her deadly secret. Khadir would see the father follow the daughter into hell. If nothing else, this northern campaign would grant him that.

  26

  The Royal Palace, Acre 26 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

  Her head bowed, Elwen moved through the palace corridors. Having spent most of her adolescence as a handmaiden in the French royal household, she knew how to go unnoticed in such a place. As a servant you were invisible. She had thought she might have encountered more difficulty entering the palace, but the sullen-looking guards at the gates hadn’t even glanced at her as she had trailed in like a shadow behind two finely dressed women.

  Elwen counted the doors in the dim light. She could smell incense. Her breaths were erratic and her face felt hot. A voice was shouting inside her, demanding to know what she thought she was doing. But she was at the ninth door now and didn’t know how to turn back. Didn’t want to. There was defiance inside her, borne out of anger and frustration. But, more than that, there was need.

  She reached out, closing her hand into a fist to knock, then froze, hearing voices on the other side, coming closer. Immediately, she moved off down the corridor. Behind her, the door opened and a wave of incense washed out.

  “This had better work,” came a gruff voice that sounded oddly familiar, although she couldn’t place it. “Our lord is counting on us. He is finished in these lands unless we help him.”

  “It will work,” said a second voice. It was Garin’s.

  Elwen risked a glance over her shoulder and saw a heavyset man dressed in the livery of the palace guard striding off down the gloomy passage. Garin was standing there, his back to her, watching the man head off. As he turned to go back inside, his eyes fixed on her.