Don Lorgne spoke again to them. The three Muslims protested meekly, but they had already made their deal. They obeyed his instructions, pulling their robes over their heads. They threw the garments at our feet. One of the men wore a vest of chain mail. The other two were unarmored. Bare shoulders hunched forward, lean brown arms crossed against chests to hide their nakedness.
“Ramón,” Don Lorgne said, “you and your men put on the infidel robes.”
We picked up the Muslim garments and pulled them over our white surcoats. Andrés had to rip the sleeves to make room for his muscled shoulders.
“And you, Don Lorgne,” Ramón said, “what about you?”
“I am the castellan of the Krak,” Don Lorgne said. “I cannot wear a Muslim robe in my own castle.”
Don Lorgne took a step toward the Muslims. They lurched backward, holding up their hands submissively. Don Lorgne laughed softly as if he were chiding wayward children. He crossed the barrier between the two parties without breaking stride. When he stood before them, he spoke again in Arabic. The three men hesitated, then turned away from us to face the other side of the canopy.
“Ramón,” Don Lorgne said, “pick one of your deputies and walk to me.”
Ramón looked to Andrés. Together, they moved next to Don Lorgne, who positioned each of them behind one of the Muslims.
“Take out your daggers slowly,” Don Lorgne said. “When I put my own to the neck of the man in front of me, do the exact same. Do not draw blood. We need these men alive.”
Don Lorgne whispered in the ear of the Muslims as he pulled out his weapon. In an instant, our three prisoners felt the sharp edge of daggers against their throats. There was a brief struggle. Don Lorgne whispered again in that unfathomed tongue until the Muslims stood still.
“Knight,” Don Lorgne addressed me, “bring four shields from the dead infidels.”
I gathered the shields quickly, prying them loose from the stiff fingers of the dead. I brought them to Don Lorgne.
“We will walk to the Krak,” Don Lorgne said, “in a tight circle. Each of us will take an infidel shield. That should thoroughly confuse Baibars’ soldiers.
“I expect the trick will not take us all the way to the Krak. But it will confound the Muslims at first and carry us safely at least partway to the postern. When they start shooting, use our friends here and the Muslim shields to deflect the arrows. When we are close to the gates, we will make a dash for safety.”
Don Lorgne, Ramón, and Andrés pulled their prisoners toward one another in a circle. On Don Lorgne’s order, I stepped into the middle of the group, holding the infidel shield above my head. Don Lorgne spoke again in Arabic, and the Muslims locked arms, closing the circle.
In that awkward position, we stepped from the shelter of the canopy and began the uncertain walk toward the postern. It seemed as if a million eyes were upon us. Every step, we walked over the bodies of our dead brethren.
Don Lorgne again whispered to the Muslims. They began to speak out loud, and then, as Don Lorgne tightened the pressure from his blade, to shout in their foreign tongue.
I looked past the side of my shield at the Muslim ramparts. The infidels aimed their weapons at the circle but did not shoot. Even the Muslim catapults stopped firing in the confusion. Baibars’ soldiers on the outer wall began shouting down questions, trying to discern the components, the purpose, the meaning of this strange cabal crawling beneath their position.
My Christian comrades were just as confused. With the hiatus in the Muslim barrage, they had returned to the battlements. They joined the chorus above us, screaming execrations at the Muslims across the way and at our cryptic ring moving slowly toward the castle.
Our circle shifted so that for a second I could not distinguish between the two armies. We were in range of both walls, vulnerable in every direction. Faces snarling, teeth gnashing. Blue eyes, black eyes—the same loathing.
We were two-thirds of the way to the castle when an arrow from the Muslim ramparts was fired into our circle. It found the neck of the man held by Don Lorgne. The prisoner fell forward. Don Lorgne quickly pulled the body up and held it before him.
The shot signaled both sides that the reprieve had ended. The Muslims had no intention of allowing any of their enemies to reach the Krak, even if they had to kill their own men in the process. When it became clear that the infidels had turned against our circle, the Christians on the ramparts became our defenders. The break in artillery had enabled our knights to position themselves to shoot at the Muslims on the opposite wall. The Christians let loose a flurry of arrows that drew the attention of most of the infidels away from our circle. I looked up and could see the arrows colliding, flying back and forth between armies, darkening the sky.
Most of the arrows aimed at our position landed in the dirt. Enough found our circle, though, so that the three prisoners were soon dead. The arrows ripped and slashed through the hard flesh of the infidels. Don Lorgne, Uncle Ramón, and Andrés held up the lifeless bodies, which lurched and twisted with the impact of each arrow like shredded marionettes.
We were almost at the postern when Don Lorgne tripped. There was an instant, a tranquil moment, when both sides ceased firing. They peered down at the fallen man who had come free from the circle. Don Lorgne pushed the dead body of his prisoner to the side. He did not try to recover. It would have been useless anyway. He looked up at his men on the ramparts. He spread his shirt with his hands so that the white Cross on his chest was visible to both armies. The necklace of ears tangled in front of his surcoat.
“Christ is King,” he yelled.
I do not know if his men heard Don Lorgne’s final words. The Muslims had already unleashed a torrent of arrows that cloaked Don Lorgne’s body in a jagged shroud.
Ramón must have recognized the opportunity, the distraction, afforded by Don Lorgne’s misfortune. He told us to make a run for the postern. Ramón and Andrés dropped their dead prisoners. We sprinted toward the gate.
I ran, holding my breath, bracing for the cut of an arrow. Christ is King, Christ is King—those were the words I repeated each step toward the postern, as if Don Lorgne, with his sacrifice, had revealed the magic mantra that would hold the miracle of my survival. Don Fernando’s lieutenants stood at the gate gawking, stunned at the sight of three comrades in Muslim robes bearing down on their position.
I was under the postern when I felt a sharp pain in my back. An arrow had pierced my shoulder. I fell forward into the arms of one of Don Fernando’s men. Andrés entered the Krak right after me.
I looked behind for Ramón. He had been hit in the calf and the arm, but he was near the threshold. So near I could see the tremor in his lips when the stone gate slid shut.
Andrés leapt forward and tried to lift the massive postern. He groaned, he pleaded, he cursed the Lord. The door did not budge. He took out his sword and swung it against the stone. The collision broke the blade, which burst like a thunderclap.
By then, it was too late. I could hear on the other side of the gate the last whispered breaths of Uncle Ramón.
I gazed up at Don Fernando, his sword unsheathed, standing over the gate’s pulley. The cable had been cut and was swinging back and forth.
“He was dead already,” Don Fernando said.
Andrés turned around slowly.
“Francisco,” Don Fernando said, “tell Andrés that Ramón was dead. Tell him.”
His words sounded hollow, like a pebble dropped into a pool of water.
“Andrés,” Don Fernando said, “I will reward your brave service here. Perhaps a new castle in Aragón or a position on the King’s Council.”
Andrés’ head was tilted down. His fists clenched. The veins in his forearms throbbing.
“Emotions run high after battle,” Don Fernando said. “You need time, Andrés, to collect your thoughts.”
Don Fernando began to back away. He glanced at his deputies, then motioned to Andrés. But they looked blankly at their master.
When I saw Don Fernando’s aides rushing to save their master, I tried to raise myself from the ground. I fell back down, though. The pain in my shoulder burning, as if the arrow had penetrated anew. One of Don Fernando’s lieutenants used his shield to slam Andrés on the back of his head. Andrés fell forward. Don Fernando’s other lieutenants dragged Andrés’ body off their master and down the stairs. They kicked him viciously. I lay on the ground, helpless, watching the beating of my friend. After several minutes, the Don’s men realized that Andrés was in a realm beyond suffering. They left him facedown in the dust.
Don Fernando was sitting up, coughing furiously, holding his throat. His lieutenants reached out to him solicitously. He slapped their outstretched hands away and raised himself.
“Dump him in the hospital,” Don Fernando said, gesturing to Andrés. “His friend too. And take their weapons. All of them.”
I do not remember the subsequent hours. As Don Fernando’s lieutenants took turns carrying and cursing me, I passed out.
When I woke, I felt a sharp pain in my shoulder. I reached for the arrow. It had disappeared. A taut dressing had been placed on the wound, the blood staining the cloth. Night had fallen. I was in a corner of the Knights’ Hall—the hospital. It was more a morgue, judging by the dead men around me. The torchlight illuminated their bodies. It froze them in their moments of death and cast blinking shadows against the wall.
Andrés was sitting in those shadows. The light flickering across his face. One eye swollen shut.
“Is Uncle Ramón dead?” I meant to make an observation rather than an inquiry. The words, disbelieving their speaker, queried of their own accord. Andrés did not respond.
“What happened to the arrow?” I asked.
Andrés looked down at me with his one open eye. “The Hospitaller doctor removed it. We were lucky. The blade missed the bone. We cleaned the wound and wrapped it in a strip of cloth from the Muslim garments.”
A stillness permeated the hall and enabled me to hear Andrés clearly. The Muslim shelling had ceased.
“What happened, Andrés? Has the battle ended?”
“Don Fernando has taken command,” Andrés said. “When he cut the rope of the postern, he killed his only remaining rival—Uncle Ramón. This afternoon, he led an entourage out of the castle to negotiate with Baibars. The cease-fire began just before his departure.”
I fell back to sleep. When I woke at dawn, the rigid corpses had been stacked against the wall. The living had gathered in small circles, trying to glean the latest rumors of what transpired during the negotiations. One of the knights said that Don Fernando and his lieutenants had returned to the fort just before sunrise, but had not revealed the outcome of their diplomacy. He speculated that the reticence of the Don’s party could only be a bad sign. Another knight was more hopeful and pointed out that the continuing absence of Muslim artillery must mean that Don Fernando had reached an agreement with Baibars.
When Don Fernando appeared outside the chapel, a hush fell over the other knights. Surrounded by his lieutenants, he walked into the Knights’ Hall and stood on one of the benches.
“Brothers,” he said, “we mourn the loss of Baron Bernières, Don Lorgne, Ramón of the Calatrava, and the other brave knights who have died defending the castle in the last month. No more Christian blood will be spilled on this ground. I have a letter in my hand from the Grand Master of the Hospital, Hugh Revel.” Don Fernando held up a parchment. “We received it yesterday afternoon following the heroic sortie against the Muslim catapult. In the letter, the Grand Master instructs Don Lorgne to negotiate the surrender of the castle in exchange for safe passage for the castle’s inhabitants. With the death of Don Lorgne, I have become the commander of the castle. As a dutiful servant, I have carried out the Grand Master’s instructions.
“Glory be to God,” Don Fernando continued, “the sortie led by the martyrs convinced Baibars that the defenders of the Krak would never agree to an unconditional surrender. That Baibars would have to sit across the table from us as an equal. This morning, after hours of difficult negotiations, we were able to reach a settlement. The infidel king shouted. He screamed hellfire. But we did not back down. As soldiers of Christ, we looked Baibars in the eye. When he knew that he could not intimidate us, he changed his tone. My friends, we were able to exact significant concessions. The armies of Christ will have safe conduct to Tripoli. Baibars has agreed to supply horses for the wounded and our officers, and we will be able to keep possession of the sacred Christian relics that remain in the chapel.
“I know the frustration, nay, the humiliation that some may feel—abandoning this great outpost of Christendom to the infidels. But remember the words of the Lord: I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live.
“Your Grand Master instructs us to live, to continue to serve God and battle for Jesus Christ. In many ways, dying as martyrs here would be the easiest alternative—the most selfish. The Lord demands more of you.”
I suppose we all suspected Don Fernando was lying. No one had seen the scout from the Grand Master. And the timing of his arrival was too convenient. We all chose to accept Don Fernando’s report, though. It was a conspiracy of exhaustion and hope, which coalesced around the eloquence of Don Fernando.
I do not condemn Don Fernando for manufacturing a missive from the Grand Master of the Hospital—not for that. Perhaps we could have held out another couple of days. But the fall of the Krak was inevitable. Without a negotiated surrender, the Muslims would probably have massacred the surviving knights. The infidels despised the Hospitallers above all the other knights in the Levant—mostly because of their impressive record of military victories against the Muslims. Don Fernando had greater ambitions than to die in the dust of the Krak des Chevaliers.
To the extent it could be said that a man such as Don Fernando has a finest moment, his speech was that. We all wanted to live, even the most pious of the Hospitaller knights. Don Fernando provided the rationale to enable them to put to rest any guilt or misgivings they might have felt about abandoning their sanctuary. It would be, according to the Don, an honorable surrender.
Just two hours later, the Christian survivors of the siege were marching through the courtyard toward the gates of the castle. The first Hospitaller knights held aloft the standard of their Order—a white Cross stitched on a black banner.
The mounted wounded followed the Hospitaller knights. I was among this group, resting on a lame mare courtesy of Baibars, whose soldiers were already entering the castle. Andrés had refused the offer of a horse. He was holding the reins of mine. We had just started to move out when four of Don Fernando’s lieutenants approached.
“Francisco and Andrés,” Pablo said, “your commander, Don Fernando, wants a word with you in the chapel.”
“Tell Don Fernando,” Andrés said, “we are presently engaged.”
The four men moved to block our path. Andrés tried to lead my horse through their tight phalanx. He pushed one of the lieutenants, who stumbled backward, then reached for his sword.
“Andrés,” I said, “perhaps we should visit Don Fernando before departing the castle.”
“A wise choice, Francisco,” Pablo said.
Don Fernando’s lieutenants escorted us back to the chapel. Andrés helped me dismount, and we walked into the building. Pablo followed us and stood next to his master. Don Fernando was sitting on a bench. His hands clasped in prayer, he gazed intently at the Cross.
“You may wonder,” Don Fernando said, “what a man like me pr
ays for.”
Andrés and I did not venture a guess.
“Victory,” he said. “He prays for victory and the defeat of his enemies, the enemies of Christ.”
“It seems,” Andrés said, “that Christ has not heard your prayers.”
“On the contrary. Ramón is dead, and here you are, Francisco and Andrés.”
“Are we your enemies, Don Fernando?” I asked.
“I will tell you a story, Francisco,” the Don said. “It is a personal anecdote, but it is relevant to your situation.
“Just like you, Francisco, I once had a brother. Miró Sánchez. We were identical twins.
“Lucinda, one of the royal nursemaids, cared for us in the palace in Barcelona. She shared our bed, suckled us when we were infants, sang to us during thunderstorms. I slept on her right, my brother on her left, pressed against the soft folds of her dark skin.
“Every evening, Lucinda would leave two cups of milk on our night table, the sour cream squeezed from her own breast.
“We had just celebrated our tenth birthday. It was early spring. The cold of winter was lifting. We could see the tiny green buds on the trees outside our window. The yellow flowers sprouted through the crevices of the castle stones.
“My brother drank both cups of milk that night. I went to sleep thirsty and angry, swearing at my brother.
“I woke in the dark. Miró was groaning. Lucinda was gone. I thought his pain was my fault—that I had placed a curse on him. I ran barefoot through the halls on the cold stone looking for Lucinda. She had disappeared.
“When I returned to my brother, he was trembling and coughing blood. I sang songs to take his mind off the pain. I told him that his sickness would pass.
“When the morning light came through the window, I was holding Miró’s hand. His pale body wrought stiff. Steam rising from his blue lips.
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