Crusade

by Robyn Young

  She looked sideways at him, ignoring the protests of her daughter. “What’s the matter?”

  “I have to get back. I’m sorry.”

  Elwen shook her head. “Don’t be. It’s been a lovely day.” She nodded south to where the clouds were building. “It looks like it might storm soon anyway. Rose, please!” she said, scraping Rose’s gold hair back from her face, sticky with sea salt.

  “It itches!” complained Rose.

  “I seem to remember you very rarely wore yours,” Will told Elwen.

  Rose shot Elwen a defiant look.

  “Thank you very much,” murmured Elwen to Will. She sighed and looked at her daughter. “All right, you can keep it off until we’re at the city.” Rose skipped triumphantly up the beach, her long hair flying, whilst Elwen gathered the supplies and Will shook sand from his surcoat and mantle. “When will we see you again?” Elwen asked him, as they headed toward Robert, leaving the glittering sea behind them.

  “Soon.”

  Elwen said nothing for a few moments, then she smiled. “Catarina came to the house yesterday with her new baby. Rose spent the whole day pretending to be her mother.” Elwen was laughing. “I wish you could have seen her. She was so solemn!”

  Will glanced at her, hearing something sad in her laugh. “You don’t ever wish that we’d had more?” He stopped when she didn’t answer. “Do you?”

  “No,” replied Elwen, after a pause. She raised a cool hand to his cheek. “No,” she repeated, firmer now. “Having you and Rose in my life is enough for me. More than enough.”

  The four of them walked together along a dusty track between the cypress trees, Robert leading his horse, until they reached Acre’s vast walls. Once through Patriarch’s Gate, they separated, Elwen and Rose heading for the Venetian quarter, Will and Robert veering toward the Temple.

  After kissing his wife and daughter good-bye, Will shrugged on his mantle and surcoat. “Any idea why de Beaujeu wants to see me?” he asked Robert, his manner now businesslike.

  Robert shook his head. “But I do know the Venetian consul was at the preceptory this morning, meeting with the grand master.”

  Will frowned speculatively. “Was anyone else in the meeting?”

  “The seneschal was with de Beaujeu in his chambers, but he was dismissed when the consul arrived. That was how I heard. He was quite annoyed.”

  “No doubt,” said Will, smiling wryly. The seneschal certainly hadn’t mellowed with age. If anything he had grown more cantankerous than ever, but although Will didn’t like to admit it, he had found the rigid old man to be an invaluable aid, especially in the early years of his leadership over the Anima Templi.

  In time, even the seneschal hadn’t been able to deny the reasons why Everard had picked Will to be his replacement. Not only did he have a personal relationship with Kalawun, an alliance which had truly borne fruit now Kalawun was sultan, but as a commander he worked closely with Guillaume de Beaujeu, who, whilst still unaware of the existence of the secret circle within his midst, relied on Will heavily. The other members of the Brethren liked his easy yet earnest style of leadership, and two new additions to their number, after the deaths of two of the older knights, had proved popular. The first was Robert de Paris, and the second, elected five years ago, Hugues de Pairaud, Will and Robert’s childhood comrade, the visitor of the order, who had spent a year in the Holy Land before returning to Paris.

  In the decade since Everard had passed on, there had been few great changes or difficulties facing either the Soul of the Temple or Outremer itself. But there had been many little problems, some of which might have threatened to swell into much larger troubles had it not been for the ceaseless peacekeeping mission undertaken by the Brethren. That said, the air of calm that generally pervaded the Crusader capital these days wasn’t solely due to the efforts of the Anima Templi. Three years ago, Charles d’Anjou had died, never having taken up his seat in Acre, which Count Roger had held until Charles had called him back to Sicily, where he faced a rising rebellion against his rule. The king had passed on, leaving his progeny in the middle of a bloody struggle, and in their search for a replacement, the High Court in Acre had looked instead to Henry II, the heir of Hugh of Cyprus. The fourteen-year-old king had arrived in Acre two years earlier, where he had been received with great joy, which had grown even greater when the youth sailed back to Cyprus after his coronation, leaving a capable bailli in his place and Acre’s resident rulers free to do as they pleased.

  “Your girls are looking well.”

  Will looked at Robert.

  The knight shook his head. “I cannot believe how fast Rose is growing.”

  “Hmmm,” muttered Will darkly. “Too fast.”

  “What?” said Robert, laughing at the pointed stare Will gave him.

  “You know what.”

  Up ahead, a small company of men appeared from a side street, walking purposefully. Most of them wore the plain, simple garments of servants, but one, who strode before them, was clad in an elegant black cloak, ornately embroidered. He wore a cowl over his head, but as he glanced down the street, Will caught a flash of metal and realized that the man was wearing a mask. It was fitted close to his skull, with black slits for eyes and mouth.

  “I cannot help it if your daughter has an eye for me,” Robert was saying. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “What can I say?”

  “I think nothing would be best,” said Will, distracted momentarily by the man in black. Masks were not uncommon and were often used to conceal the disfigurements of diseases such as leprosy, but he had only ever seen them made of cloth or leather. This one was fashioned out of silver. It was almost beautiful, if eerily expressionless.

  “Shall I inform the seneschal that you’re meeting with the grand master?”

  As the masked man and his entourage crossed the street and moved on, Will looked at Robert. “No, I’ll tell him myself. I have a few matters I need to discuss with him anyway.”

  “He really does respect you, you know.”

  “He keeps it well hidden,” replied Will gruffly, although he smiled to himself as they walked the streets toward the Temple.

  Once in the preceptory, he went straight to the grand master’s palace, but was told that the master was in the gardens, inspecting the season’s harvest. Will found him walking between rows of date palms and peach trees in the torpid shade of the preceptory’s orchard, where huge black bees droned sluggishly around the fruit. There were sergeants in the orchards, gathering peaches in woven baskets.

  The grand master saw Will approaching and greeted him with a brisk nod. “Ah, Commander.” The years had been kind to Guillaume, and despite the gray in his hair, he still looked hale and spry. His eyes were a brilliant shade of turquoise against his sun-browned skin. He tossed Will a peach. “Better than last season, don’t you think?”

  Will tested the gold-flushed fruit in his hand. It was soft and warm like skin. “It has been a good year.”

  Guillaume strode out from under the shade of the branches and into the sunlight, his mantle sweeping the grass. “Walk with me.” Will stepped in beside him, and together they moved out of the orchard, heading for the vegetable plots and storehouses. “Tell me what you know of the situation in Tripoli,” said Guillaume, as they moved alongside rows of fragrant herbs.

  Will glanced at him, wondering where this conversation was headed. He thought for a moment. “I know there has been a problem over the rule of the county since its lord, Bohemond, died last year.” When Guillaume didn’t respond, Will continued, sensing the grand master’s expectancy. “Bohemond was succeeded by his sister, Lucia, who arrived from Apulia several months ago to take up her position, but was refused. After Bohemond died, the nobles and merchant families of the County of Tripoli chose to reject his line in favor of a new commune with an elected bailli that would govern itself autonomous of sovereign power.”

  Guillaume nodded. “As it stands, this issue might have been resolvable with the appro
priate diplomatic interventions, only the Commune of Tripoli, in their infinite wisdom, decided to solicit the Genoese doge for protection, in case Princess Lucia decided to fight her corner. The doge sent a representative with five war galleys to their aid, but what the fools in the commune were not expecting was that the Genoese might have their own agenda. In return for protection, the doge’s representative demanded that the republic be entitled to a greater proportion of the city than that which they already owned. More streets, more housing, larger space in the markets and the harbor.” Guillaume’s voice was dour.

  Will knew most of this, but kept quiet, seeing that the grand master wanted to talk.

  “Myself and the grand masters of the Knights of St. John and the Teutonics have attempted to persuade the commune to acknowledge Lucia as their ruler. The Venetians are particularly affected by Genoa’s demands and personally asked for my support, but the commune refused to listen to our counsel.” Guillaume looked at Will. “This is a serious situation, one that must be handled with care and consideration. We know, all too well, how easy it is to spark a conflagration between our communities.”

  Will nodded. Tripoli, which lay one hundred miles north of Acre, was the second largest city still held by the Franks, making it of vital importance to merchants and citizens alike.

  “The Venetian consul came to see me today,” continued Guillaume. “There have been a number of proposals put forward by the Venetian community, both here and in Tripoli. The consul has invited me to a meeting next week where it is hoped a course of action can be decided upon.” Guillaume paused by a bush of strong-smelling coriander and pulled off a couple of dry leaves. He rolled them between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed. “I would like you to join me, Commander.”

  THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 25 OCTOBER A.D. 1288

  The council chambers inside the grand palazzo were steadily filling. Men, whose sumptuous clothing brazenly announced their wealth, filed in, taking up positions along rows of benches set before a dais. These were some of the most powerful men in Outremer, all of them Venetian merchants, whose houses dominated a multitude of industries within the trading world: silver, gold, timber, wool, spices and slaves.

  Will followed the grand master into the ornate chamber, with its sweeping domed ceiling and mosaic-patterned floor. On the dais were seven seats, for the moment empty. Will realized that they were heading for them as Guillaume climbed the dais steps. He sat beside the grand master, feeling exposed on the raised platform in front of the growing audience. A few minutes later, the Venetian consul entered the chamber with four men and hurried up to the dais. The last few stragglers were admitted as he ascended. The consul appeared to be afflicted with a mild fever, for his skin was pale and he had a bright red nose, which he immediately wiped with a square of silk. The doors shut with a resounding echo, and the four men the consul had entered with, advisors Will guessed, took up their places on the dais.

  “Welcome,” said the consul in nasal Italian. As he spoke, one of the advisors leaned close to Guillaume and Will and translated the words in a faint whisper. “Most of you will have attended at least one meeting on the issue of Tripoli. Here, today, we will make a decision on how we should proceed. I have invited the grand master of the Temple, our staunchest friend, to enter this discussion in the hope that a fresh viewpoint may help us to find the answer we seek.” The consul inclined his head to Guillaume, who smiled courteously at the assembled merchants. “I feel that we must set aside our differences of opinion in this matter,” continued the consul, looking at the company, “in favor of a swift solution.”

  As the consul introduced his advisors, the translator whispering on, Will let his gaze wander over the crowd. It came to rest on a familiar face in the second row of benches: Andreas di Paolo, Elwen’s master, and Rose’s godfather. Andreas caught his eye and nodded.

  After the introductions, the floor was opened and the meeting began.

  A corpulent man with a high voice was the first to rise. “Lord Consul, do we have any further news from Tripoli? The last we heard was that the commune had contacted Princess Lucia here in Acre, stating that they would accept her as ruler if she would accept their authority within the county.”

  “We do,” answered the consul. “It appears the commune is having doubts over its decision to involve Genoa in the dispute, which is unsurprising considering the state’s outrageous demands for hegemony.” A murmur of angry voices whispered around the chamber in agreement. The consul continued above them. “Princess Lucia, we have been informed, has accepted the commune’s terms and has been recognized by them as rightful ruler of the County of Tripoli.”

  The angry mutters turned into a chorus of pleased surprise.

  “Wait, please, gentlemen,” said the consul, raising a hand to quiet them. “That is, unfortunately, not the end of the matter. Lucia, understandably, given her precarious position, contacted the Genoese representative sent by the doge after speaking with the commune.” He paused and sneezed violently three times, before blowing his nose into the silk cloth. “The representative met with her in Acre last week, whereupon the princess told him that she would agree both to confirm the authority of the commune and the privileges demanded by the Genoese. The representative agreed to these terms. Thus, Lucia will shortly be named countess of Tripoli and the Genoese have been given want they want.”

  The murmurs of satisfaction vanished in a melee of raised voices. Some men stood.

  “This is preposterous, Lord Consul!”

  “Tripoli is the only port other than Acre and Tyre that we still have full access to. We cannot let the Genoese monopolize such a strategic base.”

  “If Genoa dominates Tripoli, Venice will be finished in Outremer! They have already seized control of the Byzantine trade routes out of Mongolia.”

  “This is not in dispute,” countered the consul. He had to shout to be heard. “Of course Genoa cannot be allowed to take control of Tripoli, marginalizing our ability to trade freely and fairly in the city. We wanted Lucia as ruler, but not at this cost. The question is what do we do? The princess, the commune and the Genoese are now all in agreement. We cannot fight them on this issue. They stand united.”

  “Send ships,” suggested one merchant. “Blockade the harbor until the Genoese back down from their demands.”

  “That will hurt our trade as much as theirs,” complained another.

  “What about the High Court, Lord Consul?” asked Andreas, rising. “Will they not intervene in this matter?”

  “No,” replied the consul bitterly. “They will not.”

  “There is another option.”

  Will looked to the source of the voice, which was oddly sibilant. His eyes fell on a figure dressed in an embroidered black cloak, standing near the back of the chamber. Will was drawn instantly to his face, or lack thereof, for instead of a face he had a silver mask. It was the man he had seen in the street with the entourage of servants, a week ago.

  “Speak, Benito,” said the consul, gesturing to him.

  The man in the mask seemed to survey the chamber. “There is, I believe, one man who can help us. Sultan Kalawun.”

  A few people began talking over him at this, but others, Will noticed, were nodding.

  “It has happened before that the Mamluks have been asked to intervene in our affairs, and in this case it will be in their best interests to do so. If Genoa controls Tripoli, they will dominate Eastern trade and that will affect the Mamluks as much as it will affect us. Sultan Kalawun has no personal quarrel with the Genoese or the commune and may be better suited to negotiating with them.”

  “You have presented this case before, Benito,” said one merchant, rising. “But it is still unclear to me why the Genoese and the Commune of Tripoli would listen to the Egyptian sultan any more than they will listen to us.”

  “That is simply answered,” replied Benito. “Sultan Kalawun can blockade Genoese trade in and out of Egypt. Genoa will lose more than she will gain should t
hat happen.”

  One of the advisors leaned over and whispered something to the consul, who nodded. Around the chamber, voices were echoing again. But Will could see that there was support for Benito’s suggestion. He wondered why the man wore the mask, but guessed, noting the thick black gloves on his hands, that his first assumption was probably correct, and that it concealed the blemishes of some disease.

  The meeting continued for a while longer, with other ideas pushed forward, none of which generated much enthusiasm from the consul or the gathering. The grand master spoke only briefly, and in the end, the discussion returned to Benito’s proposal.

  “Who would we send?” asked one merchant. “Who would be the best person to approach the sultan?”

  At this, Benito rose again. “My Lord Consul, as you know, I have had dealings with the Mamluks. I know Cairo well and would be happy to travel there as envoy for you.”

  Again, Will saw an advisor murmur something to the consul.

  For a few moments, the consul said nothing, but he wiped his nose thoughtfully. “Very well. I propose that a delegation is sent to Sultan Kalawun, asking him to intervene. Hopefully, his mere involvement will be enough to cause the Genoese to back down, without any sanctions having to be put in place. I accept your proposal, Benito. You will travel to Cairo to meet with the sultan, bearing a letter from me explaining the situation and asking for his help.” He scanned the chamber. “Are there any objections?” There were a few protests from some of the gathering, but those in agreement far outnumbered the dissenters. “That is settled then,” said the consul, rising.

  “My Lord Consul,” interrupted Guillaume, “if I may add one change to the proposal?”

  There was a pause, as the translator repeated his question.

  “Of course, my lord,” said the consul, nodding for Guillaume to continue.

  “I propose that my man, here, goes with this delegation.”

  As Guillaume spoke in a calm, assured tone, Will suddenly understood why he had been invited. The grand master must have guessed, presumably from his discussion with the consul, that this would be the outcome of the meeting and had wanted him there for this very purpose. Guillaume wasn’t going to let the Venetians have free reign on such a sensitive issue.