Crusade

by Robyn Young

  Will managed to find horses and led Kalawun out of the city, seeing that any effort to halt the attack was futile. The only thing he could hope for was that the survivors would be spared.

  Before they reached the camp, Kalawun reined in his horse and stared down at the dying city. “It’s over,” he murmured.

  Will looked at him. “It doesn’t have to be. Let your men have their spoils today, my lord, let them take Tripoli’s wealth. But send the women and children to Acre. Offer a new truce to my people. They will accept. We cannot attack you; we do not have the strength. Everard de Troyes once told me that peace is sometimes bought with blood. Will the blood spilled today be enough to buy us this?”

  Kalawun’s face tightened, but he nodded. His gaze drifted back to the city, where black smoke was rising. He closed his eyes.

  LOMBARDY, NORTHERN ITALY, 29 MAY A.D. 1289

  A large throng had gathered in the fields, the numbers swelling as word went out. A legate of Rome had come, with a message from the pope. Children were hoisted onto the shoulders of fathers to get a better look as the legate stood on a specially erected platform, his loud voice booming across their heads.

  The legate was a good speaker and the people were listening. He didn’t talk about God’s will or Christian duty, or even about absolution. Having faced many a bored and unresponsive crowd this past year, sent out on Pope Nicholas’s orders, the legate had learned what the people wanted to hear. To the peasants, God happened in church, at mass, on feast days. But in the fields, carving another lean harvest out of this year’s soil, in the streets of poor towns, begging for scraps, He didn’t exist. The people didn’t want to hear about His Holy Land, about Jerusalem and Acre; places that meant little to them, spoken on the lips of travelers, passing through. They wanted to hear what a Crusade would do for them. And so the legate told them.

  He told the poor peasants of Lombardy and Tuscany that in the East there was a better life. In the East, men, landless men, could find themselves property and wealth, or even become the rulers of towns. There were hundreds of jobs for skilled workers, and even those without a trade could easily learn one there. It was a prosperous place, a place of riches and beauty. Truly, Outremer was the land of milk and honey. The legate’s voice was earnest, passionate, but he spoke simply, in terms they understood. The peasants listened, borne up on his words and carried to a different world, a world of possibilities, of hope. All they had to do for it was take the Cross. There was very little fighting, the legate promised. They might be asked to help guard the walls at Acre or possibly act as auxiliary forces in a campaign if it became necessary. But ultimately, this was a small price to pay for their freedom.

  That was the word Lombardy’s peasants were left with as the legate and his advisors stepped down from the platform. Freedom. It was a tantalizing, intangible word that to most of them, throughout their lives, had been as far removed as the cities he had spoken of. Freedom was a word reserved for the richer classes, for the burghers and the clergy, kings and princes. The idea that such a thing could be easily found beyond the borders of their insular lives was seductive, beguiling. They massed together after the legate’s speech, talking excitedly. Some of them dismissed his claims and took their children home, but many others congregated noisily to discuss what they had heard.

  The legate patted his brow delicately with a cloth his servant handed to him and surveyed the gossiping crowd. “How his holiness ever hopes to form a new Crusade out of farmers and beggars I have no idea.”

  “I don’t know, Brother,” said his advisor, looking at the mob. “They seem fairly keen to me.”

  42

  The Venetian Quarter, Acre 20 AUGUST A.D. 1290

  There was a smile on Will’s face as he strolled through the market, a smile of pure satisfaction. These were the best days, when he wasn’t Sir Wil- liam, or Commander Campbell, when he was simply Father, his daughter’s warm hand threaded through his. Of course, he had to be careful and wore a kaffiyeh, which served to conceal his face, although he had never yet needed the disguise.

  “Have you tried these, Father?”

  Rose was tugging on his hand, angling toward a stall selling candies made of spun sugar, honey and spices. “What you mean,” said Will, amused, “is that you want me to buy you one.”

  Rose shrugged nonchalantly, not willing to be caught out. “I just thought you might like to try them.” But she shot him a swift, hopeful glance.

  He chuckled and let her pull him toward the stall. The man behind it beamed at Rose and pointed to the candies, speaking the Venetian dialect. Will surveyed the bustling market as she answered him. Rarely had he seen the Venetian quarter so busy.

  Since early August, trade caravans from Syria and Palestine had been rolling in through Acre’s gates, flooding the markets with a glut of produce. The harvest in the Galilee had been one of the best in recent years and since the truce had been reestablished between Sultan Kalawun and Acre’s rulers, trade had recommenced in a rush. After the unprovoked sack of Tripoli, the previous year Acre’s citizens had waited in dread for the Mamluks to come for them. But when only straggling lines of refugees from the devastated city appeared, seeking sanctuary, they began to relax. Several months later, a delegation had ridden up from Cairo with a new offer of peace, which Acre’s government had readily accepted.

  With the arrival of the trade caravans, the city’s population had swelled dramatically. No one could remember having seen it so crowded. The markets were mobbed with merchants: native Christians, Arabs, Turks, Greeks, bringing indigo from Iraq, swords from Damascus, iron from Beirut and glass from Egypt. The stalls in the Venetian, German and Pisan quarters were stacked with dyes, ivory, madder and olive oil; and goats and sheep packed into pens filled the blistering air with their frantic bleating. If this wasn’t enough, earlier that week, twenty-five galleys from Italy had sailed into the harbor and the dockside taverns were now packed to bursting point with several thousand peasants from Lombardy and Tuscany, who had answered a call to Crusade. The government at Acre was not best pleased. Where, they demanded of the Crusaders’ leaders, were they supposed to house these recruits, few of whom, it appeared, would be any use in the military whatsoever? But, despite their protests, room had been found, with men forced to sleep outside, on rooftops and in gardens, to many a welcome alternative in the stifling August heat.

  “Can I have some money, Father?”

  Will smiled at Rose and dug a hand into his pouch. He rarely had money himself, but Elwen had slipped a coin into his hand when he and Rose left the house. It was a ducat, one of the first of the new gold coins minted in Venice. It pleased him to do something so ordinary, yet so meaningful, as buy his daughter something she wanted. He was pulling out the coin when he heard shouting, rising above the noise of the crowds. Looking for the source, he saw four men dragging a fifth figure out of a building down a nearby side street. The man was fighting his captors wildly, but between them the four forced him to the ground, whereupon they began kicking and punching him savagely. A few people near Will tapped the shoulders of friends and pointed, but no one seemed willing to step in.

  Hearing the man on the ground utter a strangled cry, Will handed Rose the ducat. “Wait here,” he told her firmly, then hastened around the sweet stall. He sprinted down the side street and grabbed one of the attackers, who had just kicked the downed man in the head. Will hauled him roughly away, then barreled into one of the others, shoving him aside. The man grunted in surprise, then rounded on him. He growled something in Italian and, when Will didn’t move, came at him, fists raised. His three companions stepped away from their victim and were now focused on Will. The smell of wine was strong on all of them. Will drew his falchion. The man faltered.

  “Father!”

  Will started at the cry and turned to see Rose, two candies wrapped in colored paper in her cupped hands. Her mouth formed a shocked oval at the sight of the sword in his hand and the four men advancing on him. Whilst Will was
distracted, one of the men kicked the sword viciously out of his hand. As the falchion clattered away and Will shouted in pain and surprise, the man moved in. But his victory was short-lived when Will ducked his first clumsy punch and slammed a fist into his face, knocking his head back with the force of it and breaking his nose. Staggering away with a howl, the man caught in the legs of his victim, still lying facedown in the dust, and sprawled to the ground beside him. Will went for his falchion before any of the others could move. The man on the ground scrabbled backward, then got to his feet and fled with his companions as Will advanced. He watched them go, then sheathed his sword, gritting his teeth against the pain in his hand where the man had kicked him. Will bent down over their prostrate victim. “Stay there, Rose,” he called over his shoulder, hearing light footfalls approaching. He turned the man over and heard a small gasp behind him as his face was revealed, slack, bleeding, and disagreeably familiar. It was Garin. Will glanced around. “Rose, I told you to ...” He stopped, hearing a groan come from Garin.

  Garin’s eyes flickered, then opened. His pupils were glazed and unfocused. His beard was matted with blood where his lip had split. There was more of it in his hair from a cut on his scalp. “Get away from me!” he snarled. Will tugged down the front of the kaffiyeh so Garin could see his face, but the aggression didn’t leave Garin’s eyes as he recognized him. “What are you doing here?” he rasped, trying to sit.

  “Get up,” said Will bluntly, holding out his hand.

  Garin muttered something obscene and pushed Will’s hand away; then he seemed to see Rose for the first time. She was staring at him, the candies still clutched in her palms. Suddenly, his expression changed. He smiled, showing a row of bloodstained teeth that caused the girl to take an alarmed step back. “Beautiful Rose,” he crooned, grasping Will’s injured hand roughly and hauling himself up. “You grow bigger every time I see you.” His words were slurred.

  Will pulled away from Garin’s painful grip. “You’re drunk.”

  Garin put a hand over his heart and staggered back. “Never!” He rolled his eyes and then lurched forward, casting drops of blood across the ground as he swayed and leered at Rose. “I think your father might be a bit upset with me as usual,” he said in a stage whisper. He laughed bitterly, then grew serious. “But you’re not, are you, Rosie?”

  Will stepped in front of his daughter. “Why did those men attack you?”

  Garin let out a beleaguered sigh. “I expect because of these,” he said thickly, holding out his palm to reveal two black dice. He chuckled as he tossed them to the ground. Both came up as sixes.

  Will shook his head disgustedly. “Just go home, will you, and sleep this off.”

  “Home! Where the hell is home? I’ve got no home. Just a flea-ridden hovel.” Garin thrust a hand in the direction of the docks. “It’s madness down there. Those Lombards have taken over. Fights every night and the taverns crammed to the rafters with peasants. There’s no room to swing a whore!” He threw back his head and cackled.

  Will winced and put his hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should think about going back to London then, as I’ve told you before.”

  Garin snarled at him. “Stop trying to save me, Saint William.”

  “Why are you still in Acre, Garin?” responded Will in a clenched voice. “It’s not as if there’s anything here for you.”

  “It’s not your pissing city,” Garin snapped back. “And besides, I’ve friends here. You, Elwen.” He grinned. “Rosie.”

  “I’m not your friend,” said Rose, her voice cool.

  “Rose,” murmured Will.

  Garin grimaced. “Now, that’s not nice. Rosie, sweetheart, did your father ever tell you we were friends when I was a Templar?” He leaned forward and poked Will in the chest. “I saved your life, Campbell. Three times!” He counted off on his fingers, not seeing the anger seeping into Will’s eyes. “When Rook wanted to poison you in the brothel so he could go after the Book of the Grail and I drugged you instead. When we were at Antioch and the Mamluks were all over you. When you were in the desert and—” He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes going wide. “No, no, wait! That was someone else.” Laughter burst out from between his fingers. It vanished quickly. He licked his split lip and spat blood on the ground forcefully.

  “I won’t pay Edward his money, Garin. Your decision to loiter around Acre without purpose isn’t going to change my mind. Go back to your master and tell him.” Will’s gaze hardened. “Tell him he’ll get nothing from me or the Anima Templi for his aggressions on Scotland.” With that he started to walk away.

  “Always the champion, aren’t you? Always trying to save everyone!” shouted Garin, stumbling after him. “But you’re as flawed and desperate as the rest of us. You pissing hypocrite!”

  Will whirled on him, fury now taking him in its eager, scarlet grasp. “Stay the hell away from me.”

  “You took oaths, Will! Chastity, poverty, obedience. You knelt on the floor of the church in Paris and swore those vows to the Temple. How many have you kept? Chastity?” He laughed madly. “I think that one bolted from the stable a long time ago, didn’t it? Poverty? Now you steal from the Temple’s coffers to fund your own secret mission. Obedience? Well, we both know that’s never been one of your strong points.” Garin was raving now, spittle and blood flying from his mouth, along with the venom. “You’re as much of a slut-swiving, oath-breaking, lying, cheating son of a whore as I am, and don’t you ever forget it!”

  That was it. Blind to all else, except the hateful man in front of him, a man he had once cried and laughed with, a man he had shared secrets with and whose life he too had saved, Will struck out savagely. His fist caught Garin squarely on his injured jaw, knocking loose a tooth. Garin reeled away, took a few staggering steps, then went down like a felled tree. A cloud of dust flew up around him as he struck the ground.

  “I should have let them kill you,” seethed Will, towering over him, ready to strike again.

  “Don’t!”

  Will jerked around to see Rose. Her hands had flown to her face and she had dropped the candies. All the fury and hatred inside him drained from him at once, leaving him shocked and shaking.

  As Garin looked up at Will, his dark blue eyes glinted in triumph. “See,” he murmured thickly through a mouth full of blood, “you are like me.”

  Will didn’t respond, but walked away, taking Rose by the arm.

  Garin watched them through hooded eyes. Go home, Will had demanded. Go home. Will thought he still had a place back in London, a position and a home to go to. But, in truth, he had severed that tie a long time ago, sick of Edward’s control over him, of all the years of false promises and insults and threats. Since then he had been filled with the possibility of hope, the possibility of a different life, of being a father to a child. That, more than anything, had cemented his decision to stay in Acre. Last year, some of the king’s men had come looking for him, but he was forewarned and left the tavern he had been living in, where he made enough to eat and drink by gambling and stealing. He had gone into hiding, growing his beard long and full so that it covered his face, sleeping in shacks and hovels, moving from place to place, as nomadic as the desert tribes. Ironically, his years in service to Edward provided him with the skills he needed to keep hidden, and although he still feared the sound of footsteps in alleys behind him and the thought of a knife in the dark, he had managed to remain lost and anonymous, and out of Edward’s reach.

  Garin’s gaze went to the candies Rose had dropped, which had rolled free of their colored wrappers. He crawled forward, grunting with the effort, and grasped one of them. It was warm and sticky from where it had rested in her hand. Slowly, he put the candy to his mouth and bit down. And the pain and the blood and the grit of the sugar and the street were all bound up in its aching sweetness.

  “Father.”

  Will pulled his kaffiyeh up roughly as they moved back into the crowded marketplace.

  “Father!”
said Rose, sharply now.

  Will halted. “What is it?”

  “You’re hurting my arm!”

  Will stared into his daughter’s scared and angry face and, at once, let go. “I’m sorry.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You shouldn’t have had to see any of that.”

  Rose’s expression changed as she looked at him, and now her fear was different, gentler: the fear of concern. “If Garin ever comes to the house, Mother always shouts at him and sends him away, and you get angry if we meet him in the street and he talks to you, even if he’s courteous. Why?”

  “I don’t want him in my life, Rose. He did some things that deeply hurt your mother and me years ago, and although I’ve tried, I’ve found I cannot forgive him.”

  “But you were once friends? When you lived in England?”

  “Yes. But things changed between us long ago. We’re different people now.” Will’s voice roughened. “No matter what he says.”

  “Those things.” Rose paused and pursed her lips, then met his eyes. “Those things he said about you, about you breaking your oaths. Did he mean them?”

  Will exhaled wearily. “In some senses, yes. But not in the way that it sounded.” He paused, unsure of what to say. He and Elwen had explained the Rule of the Temple to their daughter: how, as a knight, Will was forbidden from marrying or being with a woman, and how the Temple must never find out about them. But they had kept silent about Will’s role in the Anima Templi. Rose was intelligent for her age, but she was still only twelve, and they didn’t want to burden her with secrets. “Garin isn’t a good man, Rose. Not anymore.” He grasped her arms gently. “He isn’t to be trusted. All right?”