by Robyn Young
Khadir dropped to the floor, cringing from the sultan’s wrath. The soldiers and Nasir said nothing, but judiciously avoided Baybars’s ruinous stare.
“My lord ...,” began Kalawun.
“I want you to find him,” said Baybars, cutting across Kalawun and looking at the Bahri. “Find him and bring him to me.”
“Where do you propose we begin our search, my lord?” asked one of the Bahri, still keeping his head lowered.
“The Temple in Acre. If he is not there, they will know where he is.”
“My lord,” Kalawun said again, more forcefully now.
Baybars looked at him.
“How do you know it is the same knight who delivered the treaty to you? William is a common Frankish name. Maybe there is more than one who goes by the name of Campbell?”
“Then I will kill every Christian of this name that I find,” said Baybars in an iron voice, resolute, unyielding, “until I am certain that I have erased from this earth the man who hired killers to attack me at the betrothal feast of my son and heir. Killers whose blades did not find me, but the heart of the one man who loved me as a brother, unconditionally, without fear or doubt.” Baybars’s voice broke as he said these words. He stared at Kalawun a moment longer, then turned and swept out of the room. “You have your orders,” he said to the soldiers in passing.
Khadir scuttled out after the sultan, leaving Kalawun alone with Nasir as the tired Bahri returned obediently to the citadel’s stables to fetch their horses.
Kalawun went to Nasir and embraced him. “I was certain you were dead.”
Nasir managed a small smile. “So was I.”
“I feel ashamed,” Kalawun began, falteringly, keeping a hand on Nasir’s shoulder.
“You mustn’t, Amir. I was doing my duty.”
Kalawun shook his head. He stayed quiet for a moment, unsure of whether to continue. If he opened this box, he would not be able to shut it again. But the opportunity to make amends for his betrayal of Will filled him with a sense of urgency and he could keep it in no longer. “No, Nasir. I feel ashamed for what I am about to ask you.” He sighed roughly. “I do not know what to do. There is no one else I can ask. I would go myself, only I would be missed, and the only other man I trust enough with this information is in Cairo.”
“What is it, Amir?”
Kalawun crossed to the doors, pressed them to make sure they were shut, then moved to a tapestry on one of the walls, which showed a garden scene. He lifted it to check that the hidden door behind it was locked. The citadel in Damascus, like the one in Cairo, was riddled with servants’ passages. Satisfied that they were alone, he went back to Nasir. “This knight whose name you have delivered to our master, I know him.”
Nasir remained silent as the commander explained that the knight had warned him of a Western plot to steal the Black Stone from Mecca. “You stopped it from happening?” he asked quickly when Kalawun had finished.
“The knight swore that he would prevent it, but when it came to it I simply couldn’t bring myself to entrust such a mission to a non-Muslim, however good his intentions. I sent Amir Ishandiyar. I have just received word from him that the Stone is safe.”
“That is good,” murmured Nasir.
“I do not know if this knight was in Mecca himself or, if he was, whether he made it out unharmed. But if he did, he must be warned. I need you to find him before the Bahri do.”
Nasir stared at him.
“I know this is asking much of you,” said Kalawun, “perhaps too much. But I owe this knight, Nasir. We all do. If not for him, we might now be at war, a war that would be detrimental to us all. Believe me, my friend, I would not ask such a thing of you were it not for the greater good. You have to trust me. I will explain everything when you return, but right now, I need you to find him and warn him. Tell him to leave this land and never return.”
30
The Temple, Acre 14 JUNE A.D. 1277
Will started as someone grabbed his shoulder. He saw Simon behind him.
The groom smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you back.” He looked Will up and down. “God, but you’re as dark as a Saracen. I came to see you earlier in your quarters, but they told me you was meeting with the grand master.”
“I was giving my report.”
“How was the assignment?”
Will shrugged. “Mostly uneventful. We spoke with the Mongols, were entertained in their court and reaffirmed our pledge to continue our friendship with their people.”
Simon gave him a pointed look. “Come on,” he said seriously. “I’ve heard the rumors. Some of your company didn’t return and it’s been said Robert de Paris was wounded.” He lowered his voice further. “Was it the Mongols? I’ve heard they ... do things to their foes. Terrible things.”
Will was surprised. They had only arrived in Acre the day before, and he hadn’t expected the rumors to start flying so quickly. “Your imagination is as active as ever.” His expression grew solemn. “No, it wasn’t the Mongols. There was an accident when we were coming back through the mountains, a riding accident. We lost three men and Robert was only just saved.”
“What happened?”
“I’d rather not talk about it.”
Simon nodded. “Course not. Sorry.”
Will smiled his thanks, feeling like a traitor. “Listen, we’ll talk soon. But right now, I’ve got to see Robert in the infirmary.”
“There’s something you should know first, Will. Elwen’s been coming to the preceptory for the past few weeks.”
“Coming here?” said Will, troubled.
“Don’t worry, she was discreet and only spoke to me. She was wanting to know if you’d returned.”
Will sighed quietly. He had a lot of amends to make now he was back. “I’ll see her later.”
Simon sucked at his lip. “I’d go and see her now if I was you. She didn’t look ...” He shook his head. “Well, she looked ill.”
“Ill?” said Will quickly.
“She was distressed too.” Simon gave an awkward shrug. “Crying and the like. I didn’t know what to say, to be frank.”
Will glanced at the infirmary. He had to speak with Robert as soon as possible to brief the knight on the lie he and the grand master had agreed upon to explain the deaths of Carlo, Franscesco and Alessandro. But if Elwen needed him? “I’ll go now,” he said.
“I’ll ready you a horse.”
Will remained in the courtyard whilst Simon hastened to the stables. His mind was filled with worry. It wasn’t like Elwen to cry in front of others, or to risk coming to the Temple for that matter. He was distracted from his concern by the stooped figure of Everard, crossing the yard toward him. The priest was terribly pale, and every step seemed to pain him.
“William,” he croaked in greeting. “Too busy to see me again?” Everard held up a hand as Will went to speak. “We must talk.”
“I was going to see you later,” Will explained. “I returned late last night and didn’t want to wake you.”
“And you were, what? Out here catching a little rest? Sunning yourself?”
“I was . . .” Will faltered, staring in the direction of the stables. He met the priest’s unyielding gaze with a gritted jaw. “It doesn’t matter. It can wait for a moment.” He followed Everard reluctantly across the courtyard and into the knights’ quarters.
“I planned to summon the Brethren as soon as I heard you had returned,” said Everard, closing the door behind them as they entered his solar. “But I wanted to talk to you first. I take it you were successful?” His eyes were keen, but the anxiety in them was plain.
Will accepted the goblet of wine Everard handed to him. “It depends what you would define as a success. If you mean did we stop the theft, then yes.”
Everard sat with a nod.
“If you mean did we do it without loss of life,” continued Will, “or the notice of anyone, then no.”
“I heard three of de Beaujeu’s men died,” said Everar
d, sipping his wine. “Tell me what happened.”
Will recounted it bluntly.
Everard waited until Will had finished, then rose to refill his goblet. He stumbled as he stood, only just managing to catch himself from falling. Will was up in an instant, steadying him, but Everard brushed him away. “Don’t fuss, don’t fuss!”
“Are you all right?”
Everard tutted. “I’m just old, William.” He let out a wheezy sigh. “Just old.” He hobbled the last few feet to the wine jug. “Those who ambushed you outside Mecca. You say they knew Latin?”
“Not just knew it. They were fluent and had Western accents.”
“French? English?”
“I’m not sure.” Will struggled to remember. “I was dazed from the fall.” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“And you believe the men who attacked you in the Haram Mosque were Mamluks?”
“I’m positive. I think Kalawun must have sent them.”
“Without warning us?”
“Perhaps he didn’t get my message telling him that we were set.”
“Or he did, but didn’t trust us to see it through.”
Will nodded grimly. “It’s possible.”
“Well, all that matters is that the Stone is safe.” Everard caught Will’s eye. “And that you are,” he added. “You were lucky to return at all. I would have thought, with Kaysan gone, that the Shias would have left you in the desert.”
“They were wanted men as much as we were. They knew it was safer to travel back to Ula with us than to try it alone.”
“All the same, you were fortunate. I hear Robert de Paris was injured?”
“He should be fine in a few weeks,” said Will, staring tensely into his goblet.
“Don’t shoulder any guilt for him, William,” said Everard, shrewdly. “In the end, Robert made his decision based on what he thought was right.”
Will finished his wine, rather than respond. “I suppose it is over now anyway.”
“Not entirely. There is still the matter of the grand master’s involvement and the identity of those he has been working with. As you know, I had two of the Brethren investigate Angelo Vitturi last year. We discovered that he was heir to a powerful slave-trading business, run by his father, Venerio, a business that has declined in recent years. We also discovered that Guido Soranzo was in a similar position as a shipbuilder, formerly affluent but affected by falling profits.”
“I remember.”
“Whilst you were away we found out that the Vitturis have had contracts with the Mamluks to ship them boys for the army. This may be where the connection in Cairo stems from: Kaysan’s brother.”
“It is possible,” ventured Will. “But we have no proof that Angelo Vitturi even knew what the grand master was planning. Soranzo was the only real link to the Stone.”
“And therein lies our problem. The grand master has admitted to you that there were others involved, but has given you no indication of whom.”
“Is it really that important? We stopped it.”
“For now, yes. But these men, whoever they are, are obviously determined. To go to such lengths? To take such risks? I cannot believe this will truly be the end of it. The Brethren and I spoke whilst you were away,” continued Everard, slowly. “We feel, William, considering your position with the grand master, that you should attempt to retrieve this information from him.”
Guillaume de Beaujeu turned back to the window as the scribe finished the last line of the letter, his quill flicking across the paper, the goose feather twitching with every stroke. “Say that I will be in contact again soon and end it with my regards. You can leave when you are done.”
The scribe looked up from the desk. “My lord?” He glanced at the blank sheets beside him. “Did you not require me to write several messages today? I thought ... ?”
“Later,” Guillaume cut across him. “We will finish them later. Go.”
“As you wish, my lord,” said the scribe, hastily penning the final words and gathering up his writing tools and the completed letter. Bowing to the grand master’s back, he left the chamber.
Guillaume closed his eyes as the door shut, the sunlight coming through the window leaving a red imprint behind his eyelids. Beneath his thick mantle, he was sweating. His head throbbed and his stomach churned. He reached out and clutched the window frame, gripping the cold stone.
After hearing Will’s report, Guillaume had immediately summoned the scribe. The messages he had been sending Charles, Edward and the pope all these months, telling them to prepare for a new war in Outremer, were no longer relevant and he needed to retract and amend his former requests. But it wasn’t until he had begun dictating the first message that the reality of what had happened had struck him. Stricken him.
They had failed.
There would be no Stone for Christendom to rally around, no relic of the infidel to wield in triumph. The Muslims would not rise against them in rage, necessitating an immediate response from the West. The Mamluks would continue their war against the Mongols; then, when they were ready, Baybars and his slave warriors would simply sweep away the few remaining fragmented Frankish cities and all dreams for a Christian Holy Land would finally come to an end. Guillaume had come with grand plans and a fiery determination, resolved to take back that which had been lost to them, to work God’s will, to deliver Jerusalem. Everything he had done since he had arrived in Acre had been to this end: his support of his cousin Charles; his personal battle against the weak King Hugh; his secret involvement with the merchants’ plot. All had been for nothing.
But even through the gravity of defeat, he felt relief as the worry he had failed to extinguish these past few months finally went out. They could have lost everything, had they succeeded. Guillaume had already been informed by the visitor, Hugues de Pairaud, in Paris, that the Temple was encountering significant delays in the building of the planned fleet. The rulers of the West might not have come to their aid in time, and even though he had secured his throne in Outremer, Charles had shown no sign that he would take up his seat in Acre anytime soon. Guillaume’s jaw tightened. But perhaps it would have been better to fall in battle with honor, a battle chosen on their terms, rather than lie here supine, waiting for the axe to fall.
There was a rap at the door. Guillaume turned, angered by the interruption.
The door opened and Zaccaria appeared, his face wearied and sun-dark. “My lord, you have a visitor.”
“I told you that I wasn’t to be . . .” Guillaume stopped as he saw a figure dressed in black behind the knight. It was Angelo Vitturi. Guillaume bit back his irritation. He had told Zaccaria to bring the Venetian straight to him whenever he came to the Temple. The Sicilian was just following orders.
“Good day to you, my lord,” said Angelo, as Zaccaria closed the door, leaving them alone.
The young man’s swarthy, handsome face was set and inexpressive, but Guillaume caught something inimical in his greeting, something contemptuous in the way Angelo had spoken his title, my lord, as if it were an insult rather than an honor. “Why are you here?” he demanded, his voice forceful.
“You know why,” spat Angelo, firing the words at the grand master as if they were arrows.
Guillaume instantly understood. “You have heard.”
“That our plan has failed? Yes, I have heard,” Angelo replied harshly.
“How?”
“Tell me what happened,” said Angelo, ignoring the question. “My father demands an explanation.”
Guillaume’s manner sharpened, his voice whipping out. “You would do well to keep civil with me, Vitturi. Do not forget to whom you are speaking.”
Angelo paused, his stare like ice, then forced back some of his enmity. It looked as if it were an effort. “I apologize, my lord. But my father and his associates are most aggrieved by this news. We wish to know, in your words, the reason for the failure.”
Guillaume threw a hand at one of the stools in front of his d
esk. “Sit.”
Angelo seemed reluctant to comply, but did so after a moment. Guillaume remained standing as he told the merchant what Will had told him: that the knights had made it to Mecca with Kaysan and the Shias, but had been attacked inside the mosque by guards and were unable to take the Stone.
When he had finished, Angelo remained seated for a few seconds, saying nothing. Then he rose, his face displaying an almost triumphant vehemence. “We know that isn’t true,” he snapped, all pretense at civility falling away.
“Your men didn’t fail; they sabotaged the mission.” Guillaume almost laughed, so great was his surprise at the accusation, but before he could speak, Angelo continued. “We have received information that one of your men has been in secret talks with Amir Kalawun al-Alfi, Baybars’s chief lieutenant, working with him to thwart our plan. He warned Kalawun of it months ago.”
“What man?” retorted Guillaume incredulously.
“The very same man you placed in charge of the mission. Commander William Campbell.”
Now Guillaume did laugh. “This is preposterous!” His laughter faded abruptly. “Where did you get this ‘information’?” He searched Angelo’s face, but could see no lie. Doubt rose inside him, clouding his convictions.
“What we really want to know, my lord,” continued Angelo, his voice baleful, “is how a mere knight managed to come into contact with one of the most powerful men in the Mamluk Army. He could not have done it alone.”
“What are you suggesting?” said Guillaume in a dangerous tone.
“You put him in charge of the assignment and chose the men who would accompany him.”
“And three of my knights died in the attempt! Men who have been with me for years. Brave souls all three.”
“An acceptable sacrifice, I’m sure. You weren’t comfortable with this from the start; that much was obvious. You have been working against us, making sure we would fail.”
“Get out of my sight,” growled Guillaume, striding around the desk to the door. “Leave and take your fantasies with you, or by God I will make you sorry. Tell your father and his associates that this matter is ended.” He reached for the door handle. “It is over.”