* * *
Protected though it was by walls and towers and ditches and deep-cut dykes, the stronghold of Tyre was ever vigilant to a sudden attack by Islam. The slightest lapse of attention, and its guards were punished by death. An implacable rule of their commander, Conrad of Montferrat. A man who performs his duty is a man I might well promote. But a man who lolls or sleeps is a man I’ll raise even higher – on a gibbet.
Determined to keep his Christian enclave free from the hands of Allah, Conrad instructed his soldiers to prowl the streets. They had done so for the past three years, scared to be thought inattentive, though never once threatened by the dark-skinned demons of the East.
So it jarred the patrol to a stumbling halt when Baynard Falkan rounded a corner ahead of them, his lean face dark as Mohammed’s, his hair lank with the moisture of the night, his Frankish sword slicing the air.
The leader made his judgement. Not really a Saracen. More likely a drunkard from one of the ships that found their way into port. No foreign threat to the city, but why not arrest him anyway? Provide evidence that his patrol was on the alert.
‘You!’ he challenged. ‘You from overseas! You stand arrested!’
Then flung himself back for his life as the young man swirled in his direction. Reversing the swing of his blade Falkan threatened the others, striding onward to disappear in the gloom beyond their flickering, high-held torches.
The disconcerted leader dredged for a joke. ‘Now there’s a fellow been locked up here too long! Eager to get at the enemy! Better not wear a turban, eh, else he really might use that sword!’ He laughed to lead the laughter of his troops, though few of them joined in, for they’d all glimpsed the crimson glare in Falkan’s eyes.
* * *
A short distance away, in a square below the southern walls of the castle, Guthric sat with an arm around the waist of one of de Blanchefort’s cooks. They watched in amazement as the conjurors drew pure white doves from a drape of emerald silk; burning candles from a bowl of water; Saladin’s head from a seemingly empty casket. A fine and extravagant show it had been, and with the promise of more to come.
So it annoyed the Saxon to feel Aubery clutch at his shoulder; he sealed his face to hear what the keeper had to say. Then he sent those around him spinning as he heaved himself to his feet, the Constable of Tremellion agonized to action. His progress from the square rocked families from their benches, parents yelling, children crying, the ugly Crusader tramping in search of his master, and oblivious to all else.
* * *
Falkan had meanwhile scoured the streets that descended to the port, his aimless fury now sunk to a grim belligerence. They’d be long gone now, the murderers, the rats run squealing to their holes.
Time to find one of his own, why not? Rest awhile and think the thing over. Settle the ache in his heart. Dull the pain of his leg. Drink deep enough and he’d wake to find it had all been a nightmare, the safeguard as insolent as ever, his beautiful wife pressing to know his plans for their tower at Yarash.
His sword as though fixed to his hand, the young man made his choice of the waterfront taverns. He barged inside, snarled at those who were slow to move from his path, and stalked to the far end of the room.
Within less than an hour, and as yet undiscovered, he’d swallowed his second flagon of strong red wine and was growling for a third. A bad night’s business for the landlord of the inn, his customers clustered at the front of the tavern, unoccupied chairs and benches ringing the armed and dangerous drunkard.
Whispering to one of his friends, the landlord sent him to summon the patrol. Then smoothed the frown from his brow as Baynard slammed the table with the flat of his heavy sword. ‘Do I get served, or would you have me come across there?’
‘Stay where you are, sire. Keep your comfort. Here’s the very best wine in the house.’ He hurried toward the table, hoping it wouldn’t be long before his friend returned with the soldiers.
* * *
With a fine drizzle of rain still misting the city, Guthric located his master. It was an easy enough task, the Saxon directed by those who’d been brushed aside. ‘He went down those steps,’ they told him. ‘He was headed in the direction of the port… Fast, but with something of a limp… There, along the quay, you see those taverns?’
Checking them in turn, he reached the one that boasted a crudely painted picture of a tent. Illiterate, the name meant nothing to him – ‘The Camp Before Jerusalem’. All that mattered was that Baynard Falkan sat glowering within the hostelry, the flagons of wine his only companions at table.
Guthric shouldered his way between the apprehensive customers, slowing as he reached the scatter of empty benches. Then he stopped and stood silent, a yard from Falkan’s lair.
‘Oh, look,’ Baynard said dully, his accusatory finger unsteady. ‘My hideous deserter!’
To humour him, the Saxon ponderously agreed. ‘That’s right, my lord. So it is.’
‘Couldn’t get back in time to save Christiane! All too busy fondling the – fondling the generous buttocks of your cook! Tell me if I’m wrong! You just dare tell me—’
‘That’s right, my lord. So it is.’
‘Much as I thought!’ Baynard retorted. ‘There we have it! Trust a man to be where he says he’ll – Trust him to – Trust him at all—’
‘As you say, my lord. As you say.’
Then the Constable of Tremellion shrugged as if in apology, closed fast with the young Crusader, one hand slapped down to pin the blade of the sword, the other bunched in a fist that swung inward, his weight behind it, the force of the blow sending Falkan limp to the floor.
* * *
Aware his joke had failed, and that he must now regain the respect of his patrol, the leader came noisily through the door. ‘Not the first time he’s caused trouble! Knight or nobleman, it’s a nice cool cell for this one. So let’s have him. Let’s be hauling him off.’ Brisk and efficient, he advanced along the room.
To see Guthric shake his head and reach for his master’s sword. ‘You’d best stand away, for he ain’t what he appears. By tomorrow you’ll have learned the truth of things, but for now you can leave him to me. He’s the son-in-law of the Treasurer Vaulmier—’
‘I couldn’t care less for his titles. He’s a menace to the decent folk of this city, that’s what he is!’ A glance at his men and the rapped-out command, ‘Haul him off.’
The soldiers moved forward, halting in confusion as the Saxon raised Baynard’s sword.
‘Now I ain’t given much to speechin’,’ he admitted, ‘so all I’ll say is this. Lord Falkan has reason enough to be lowered by drink. But he’s not what you claim, a menace to innocent people. An’ nor is he to be locked in some stinking dungeon. At least, not before you’ve taken him from my charge. Which won’t be easy, for I’d act just as ugly as I look. Tell the truth – I’d act worse.’
The soldiers regarded their leader. Watched as he made his second judgement of the night. Then sighed with soundless relief as he turned toward the counter, dismissing the problem with a gesture of disgust. ‘Get him out of here, you oaf, and we’ll let this stupidity pass. We’ve better things to do than splash through a drunkard’s vomit.’
The men stood close together, Guthric now with Falkan slung across his shoulder, the patrol leader propped against the oakwood counter, beckoning to the landlord. Had the Saxon lurched or the Tyrian swung around, the tension would have erupted, blood in the air. But the constable kept his balance, the officer his back to the room, the soldiers only too happy to stand aside.
Customers sprang to hold the tavern door open, anxious to let the monster and his burden out and away along the quay.
* * *
News of the double assassination reached Conrad, Marquis of Montferrat, Governor of Tyre.
Aware that the murders touched Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier – and indirectly the Marshal of the Kingdom, Jobert de Blanchefort – Conrad hastened to play his part in the hunt for the killers.
In a blameless display of loyalty to his peers, he sent riders in wild pursuit along the coast, convinced the assassins were, by the very nature of the word, the drug-addicted Hashashin of the East. He offered his riders extravagant rewards, dictated a message of condolence to Magnat-Vaulmier, another to Falkan of Yarash, then cursed in private to think it had happened here. The gate guards were clearly lax in their duties. As were those who patrolled the streets. Were they blind, that they couldn’t see Moslem Assassins slinking about in the city? Sweet Christ, if they’d got in this close to the castle, the next time he himself might sag with arrows!
Furious at what he took to be the ineptitude of his troops, Conrad of Montferrat singled out names from a dozen different lists. As for the riders he’d sent north and south from the city, they found no one, the commanders of the coastal outposts lifting their armoured shoulders in a shrug.
* * *
Carried to Jobert’s dwelling, Falkan was put to bed. Guthric and Aubery took it in turns to stand watch, each of them hearing the young knight moan and shout in his sleep. Some of it was too intimate ever to be repeated. Some of it too sad to be remembered. But all of it a reminder that death, in whatever fashion, by whatever form, snaps in a single instant the slow-made links of life – sundering the clasp.
* * *
Twelve hours beyond the killings in the street, and Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier rapped wearily at the door of Jobert’s house. He was met by Aubery, the keeper bidding him enter, the treasurer signifying no.
‘I am here to inform you of events. No more than that. With Montferrat’s riders sweeping the coast, I thought to send men of my own to check the port. It seems a vessel arrived from the west, maybe two or three days ago. She sailed again last night, empty except for three passengers who boarded her in haste.’
‘Did your men – did they learn their names, my Lord Vaulmier? It might help young Falkan if—’
‘No one remembers. Perhaps they were never announced. But the ship was the last to leave before the port was chained in for the night. Left in a hurry, so I’m told. And, yes, there’s this about it…’
‘My Lord Vaulmier?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You are weary, sire. Won’t you come inside and rest?’
‘Plenty of time to rest,’ the treasurer murmured. ‘With my wife and daughter both gone from the dish of the world… Plenty of time to rest…’ Then he bowed his head in silence, grappled with the pain of his loss and drew himself upright, remembering what he’d come across here to say.
‘When he’s well enough, Tremellion, ask him this. Did he ever encounter the vessel that conveyed those men from Tyre? A galley my men found out was called the Hawksbill?’
Part Five
The Reckoning
Chapter Thirty Four
In the second week of April 1191, King Philip Augustus of France was greeted on the harbour wall of Tyre by his taller, cadaverous cousin. Towering over the Frenchman, it was nevertheless Conrad who knelt in allegiance, the men then embracing, Philip pale from the effects of a turbulent crossing from Cyprus, Conrad secretly amused to see his far more important kinsman weakened by the voyage.
That same evening, they discussed the state and future of the Kingdom.
His stomach hurting, one eye afflicted by a cataract, the monarch of France seemed a subdued and malleable ally. A powerful leader, but surely no more than warm wax in the artistic fingers of Montferrat.
Or so Conrad imagined, until the moment that Philip enquired, ‘Amongst all these Tyrian nobles and their women you’ve paraded here tonight, my dear cousin, where’s Vaulmier and his girl? A man I have much admired for his wit. And with a daughter – to keep it short and simple – I’ve very much admired. It’s a good enough spread you’ve put on here, cousin, though I’ll not feel the evening’s complete till I’ve greeted them. Have them fetched, if you will. They’re a couple I’ve thought on, all the way from the West.’
Searching for boltholes, it took Conrad time to admit that Christiane was dead. And even longer to explain the absence of Gilles de Magnat-Vaulmier, who had recently hanged himself from a beam in his house.
* * *
That second week of April saw Baynard and Guthric in the neutral state of Armenia, the young Tremellion goading his horse toward the Seljuk Kingdom of Roum, his right hand never far from the sword that swung on his opposite hip. All was clear to him now – the Hawksbill and Ranulf – and he only despaired that the nights were dark, his mount in need of sustenance and rest. Would to God it had been otherwise – a badly managed world – and Falkan would have scarred the face of Europe with the speed of his planned revenge.
Guthric found it hard to stay level with his master, sanity hooked by madness.
* * *
The eighth day of June 1191, and King Richard of England swaggered ashore from the raft that had brought him from his galley to the crowded beach below Acre. Visibly more a monarch than Philip of France, the red-haired giant splashed through the surf, booming with pleasure at his own late arrival, hailing those who dug their knees in the sand.
‘Well, now,’ he bellowed, his gestures ever extreme. ‘Is that the place we storm tomorrow? Is that the piddling town you’d have me regain?’
His confidence was as fresh, succulent meat to the baulked Crusaders. Forget Guy of Lusignan’s hysteria; here was a man who’d get things done! A man as tall as any in the Kingdom, his shoulders broad, his voice no less than a clarion call to arms! With the Christian army now straining at the leash, he made the acquaintance of the stocky Jobert de Blanchefort.
‘This whole bloody camp’s full of unpronounceable names, my lord Marshal! Call them all to my tent and nothing’ll happen this side of winter! So here’s a list of the fifty I’d most like to see. The ones who brought us money. These Danes, for example. And this German. And him… and those… and this Englishman, what’s his name, Tremellion? They’re the ones for me, de Blanchefort. They’re the ones I’ll see preferred.’
The Marshal of the Kingdom of Jerusalem turned away, gazing beyond the tent flap toward the far distant mountains to the north. You should have kept your place here, Baynard Falkan. With all you’ve done for the Cause; and the wound you sustained; and the wife you lost – You would surely have been rewarded to the hilt had you awaited the arrival of your king. Though that was never your intention, was it, my young friend. And no more, I hope, would it ever have been mine.
Then he swung around slowly, returning to serve his monarch, the Crusader force determined that God should sweep Allah aside.
* * *
On the day that Richard of England reached the Holy Land, Falkan and Guthric crossed from the Greek shores of Byzantium to the boot-heel of Italy. Riding hard, they travelled north from Brindisi to the Alpine passes, the horsemen once fighting their way through an ambush, another time from the deceitful hospitality of a tavern, a third night cut short as bandits attempted to murder the pair they mistook for easy prey. The assailants were left to regret their error, two of them dead, two more moaning on the bloodstained ground.
It was a lesson to be learned by others in the weeks to come…
* * *
Meanwhile, the Hawksbill made her cheerful traverse of the sea. Convinced that Ranulf’s inconvenient brother was dead, the assassins basked in the satisfaction of a job well done. Having scuttled so quickly from the scene, they were uncertain as to the identity of the cloaked Tremellion’s companion. In the dark of the night and the drizzle of rain… His constable perhaps, or one of de Blanchefort’s household, or even his wife? No loss if it was Guthric or a servant, though a pity if, by accident of course, they’d brought down an innocent woman.
The man who called himself Roger Grevel hastened to put the murderers’ minds at rest. ‘You should hope your hardest that it was Falkan’s wife who died with him. Lower them both and you’ve wiped the slate clean. With those troublesome newlyweds gone, there’ll be no one to lay claim to Tremellion. If you’ll heed m
y advice, you’ll assure Lord Ranulf it was his wife, and you saw her clear as day. Leave no doubts in the air, messires. Ranulf is not a man to countenance doubts.’
By the time the vessel turned south to start the skirting of Spain, the archers were convinced the couple had died together in the street. Who else could it have been, after all; him in his cloak and the smaller figure beside him?
Long before the Hawksbill hove in sight of Plymouth, the murderers had taken the phrase as their own. Obedient to Ranulf of Tremellion, they’d wiped the slate clean.
* * *
Neither those aboard ship, nor those in the saddle were to know that on July the 12th, the city-port of Acre fell to the Frankish army. It was from this time on that people spoke of King Richard as Coeur-de-Lion – the Lionheart.
* * *
The Hawksbill reached England some time before the riders. Roger Grevel – in reality the kinsman of Ranulf’s friend, Justin de Vallen – led the assassins north to Launceston, then along the moorland track to Tremellion. They were welcomed by Ranulf, who assured them of glittering recompense for their efforts.
‘Though not immediately, you understand. I’m not yet in a position to fish coins from a sack at my feet! But this much I can promise you – lean closer, my friends – there’s a girl I have it in mind to marry. Less than a beauty, let me tell you – no more in fact than a bitch who sits on the shelf. But with a father who possesses more coins than he’s hairs on his head! And how pathetically eager he is to have the Lord of Tremellion for his son-in-law; a title he can boast of to his neighbours.’ He looked around the table, recruiting them with a wink. ‘Marry the bitch is one thing, though lay with her is another. Plenty of other girls about. And plenty of hairs to be tugged, I’d say, from that pompous merchant’s head!’
The Edge of the Blade Page 31