Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “A strange coincidence,” James thought out loud. “At this interesting hour for a walk, four strangers—obviously soldiers or mercenaries, according to your description,” he continued with his eyes dancing in the dark room. “These men are waiting for someone and the story of what happened in Lord Edward’s chambers ... Ah, isn’t it supposed to be a calm night, David? My arse sure isn’t.” A hard laugh came out from his big chest.

  “You are a lucky bastard, lad, aren’t you? What are the odds that I should happen along just then? The streets are full of nasty jerks at this time of the night. Ha … and I was also going for a piss.” His laugh and good mood helped Peter to feel a bit better.

  Over the past few weeks, most of the Crusaders had been leaving, ship by ship. Daily affairs were arising in Acre once more. Merchants’ interests were again above all others. The contracts formed between the merchants and most of the knights following the prince had expired long before. Spirits were low. Only the most loyal of Edward’s retinue were still with their lord. Red Herring was one of them, Peter assumed, although most of his fellow Scots were now gone. Events such as the ones which had transpired this night were curious for a bored man, especially a knight from another part of the world. Red Herring had recently returned from a raid southward, outside the territory concerning the Peace treaty, and now he was needed again.

  “Sir Otto asked for you and sent me to find you,” Peter said, trying again to stand up.

  “Yes; however, I found you,” Sir James replied.

  The orphan’s eyes opened wide, and he realized that the man was right. The orphan owed his life to the Scottish knight.

  “Thank you,” Peter said, “for saving my life.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Besides, you are the man of the day, or rather the night, eh lad?” The knight put his hand on Peter’s shoulder.

  “A brave deed, lad, and in your first day of service.” James smiled as he studied Peter’s young face. “De Grandson wants to talk, so when you feel strong enough, lad, we will go to him.”

  “Lord Edward?” Peter asked.

  “I hope he is still alive. He is a strong man, lad; you should know that. Some people say Edward was repeatedly sick as a child. But he grew up and matured. It would be a terrible death, to die like that—like а rat in a poisonous hell. A horrible story.”

  Peter rose from the bed. He was tired to the bone. His head was heavy on his shoulders. But the orphan was energized by the fact that he was still alive.

  He hoped Edward had a chance after all.

  “I do not know another man with such mental strength and such determination in his eyes. Whenever he went, he drew respect. And Lord Edward’s devotion to his beloved wife Lady Eleanor is so strong,” James said.

  Peter felt good about saving his life. The orphan from Acre had saved a precious life. Every life was precious. But Peter was proud to have received recognition from a knight like Sir James as well.

  “I’m ready,” Peter said and he took his belt from the floor, geared up, took a look at the candle, and went out the door, following the knight and his sergeant.

  He had always wanted to see the Hospitaller Quarters from the inside, the beautiful mosaics, decorations, and tapestries. But today, he was on the lowest level—the hospice, where the sick and dying lay, waiting for their last sacrament, and where most of them would face their final peace or something worse. One could tell by the smell here that these poor souls belonged to the lower layers and Peter was one of them.

  Peter was of low origin, one of the urchins who had lived in the streets of Acre all their lives. He had never known his father or mother. Brother John had taken care of him every time he got involved into a trouble. He had mentioned once that Peter’s father had died far away on a battlefield many years before—the year he was born, to be more precise. But Peter never cared to hear about his parents. Deep down, he was hurt that his family had left him to his fate.

  There were times when Peter hadn’t listened to the words of the old monk. He had been a bad child sometimes, causing trouble with his ruffian friends on the street. His scraps and adventures had given him a plethora of scars over his body; others were internal, invisible to everyone but himself but which had made him strong, mentally. He remembered a recent incident in which he had lain on the street in a pool of his own blood, beaten half to death by some mercenaries whom he had tried to steal from. This episode had forced him to try to change his life for the better. He used to work for a local bandit who organized young lads to do his dirty business for him. And for what? A few pieces of hard, inedible bread? Pathetic. Remembering this, Peter smiled to himself. He thought about where he was now. Sometimes it wasn’t easy, but he got used to smiling and laughing at himself because it gave him some hope and courage. Hope that the world wasn’t so dark after all.

  ***

  Peter, Red Herring, and the sergeant walked along the street in the direction of the castle. The Moon was bright and silent and the stars were vivid, looking at Peter and his previous encounter with Julian. David held a torch, walking in front, investigating the darkness. The city of Acre at night wasn’t pretty; it was dark and scary. A man had once described Acre to Peter as a sinful city filled with all uncleanness, and that was true. It wasn’t marvelous in the daylight either, but Peter liked it, as it was the only home he had known. He knew most of the city districts—where bad men gathered, where merchants worked their business, where Crusaders walked, and where the local representatives of the king passed their time.

  Peter was in deep thought, wondering about the assassin. He had been shocked to recognize the attacker’s face. It was the Saracen who had saved Edward’s life about a year before. Peter didn’t know what to think.

  Everyone knew the story.

  The newly-arrived Crusaders from a land called England had set a raid to a village, 15 miles to the east. The raid turned out to be a disaster. The Sun, the heat, the sand, and the shortage of fresh water combined with fatigue were devastating to any army, no matter its size. Their bodies and their horses were not yet accustomed to life in the Holy Land, neither to the food nor the weather conditions. This had cost them determination, motivation, and, ultimately, many horses and men.

  On their way back from the sacked village, they were ambushed. Their low energy and spirit almost cost them their lives. But somehow, they managed to repel the infidels. During the fight, a small force detached from the main body of the enemy raiding party and engaged Lord Edward’s private bodyguards. The impact was brutal, fierce, and bloody. One of the Mamluks’ soldiers unhorsed the prince by putting a spear into the ribs of his stallion. He almost succeeded in killing the Englishman.

  But one of the merchants who followed the army stepped in. He stood against the attacker with a spear he had taken from the nearby dead raider. He struck the chain mail of the horseman using all his strength. The spearhead pierced the assailant from chest to spinal cord, splashing the ground with blood. Edward’s life was saved.

  A new hero was born, a Saracen, an infidel, an ordinary merchant. As a sign of gratitude, Lord Edward bestowed a present on him: a short, encrusted blade. Edward asked the Muslim about his homeland and he was always offering valuable information about the locals and their customs. He became the prince’s local spy. Edward gave him some tricky tasks and after the Saracen had done it, he soon became one of the trusted spy advisers employed by the prince.

  Young lads, hungry for stories, always followed him. He would tell them some news, stories or gossips, and the kids loved it. Peter was one of the lads who enjoyed the Saracen’s tales. Even Peter had heard all the details about how a local inhabitant had become a hero by saving a lord’s life. Most of the Crusaders were envious of him and many admired him, too. It was a brave act indeed. Peter had never met such a hero before. He was always intrigued while watching the Saracen in the city. He was always interested in local activities, as the logistics in the harbor, the merchants’ taxes and prizes. He traded in medicines a
nd, as such, he was useful to the hospitals and the monasteries. He often visited the Merchants Quarters, the Templars, and the Hospitallers. There was an incident one day at the harbor, a broken wagon wheel collapsed near the Saracen, but he managed to evade it as he jumped left, agile for a man in his mid-thirties. He was a strong man, energetic, clever, and polite.

  He was the same man who had visited the old monastery daily and talked to monks, selling them goods and ingredients. He used to talk to Peter as well and the orphan liked the fact that someone noticed him. Once, Peter helped the man carry luggage from the harbor to a merchant. The orphan got a coin for his work.

  Lord Edward had baptized the man, naming him Edward, following the old custom whereby a new Christian would be given the same name as the person baptizing him. Most of the people now called him Edward the Saracen, to distinguish him from the original name-bearer. He quickly became a hero and he was the personal advisor to the foreign Crusader, the future king of England.

  Seeing this man covered in blood on the floor after trying to assassinate the prince was a real shock. Peter was unable to speak, stunned by the fact that Edward the Saracen was the assassin. The world had turned upside down in a night. The hero had been reduced to a traitor, the prince lay dying, and Peter had earned renown. He now understood why the assassin hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t expected Peter to be there at his new post. Maybe Edward the Saracen felt some sympathy for him. Peter felt strange.

  Peter would remember this night all his life. But it wasn’t over yet; sunrise was still far away and, for Peter’s bravery to have any meaning, Lord Edward would have to survive.

  As he walked with the two older men through the city streets, Peter thought about the assault upon his own life, as well. He had taken the shortcut, bypassing the main street and fallen into a trap. A trap or meeting point destined for someone else.

  “If I were in an assassin’s shoes,” Peter wondered, “how could I arrange my own withdrawal unnoticed?” His mind worked busily.

  “Sir …. Can we go on the merchants’ street?” The question was shot like an arrow in the dark.

  “What’s in your mind, lad?” Red Herring slowed down the pace.

  “I … I’ve got a feeling, sir … that ….”

  “What? You want me to circle around the city like a homeless dog because of a feeling? Listen, lad, I’m tired to the bone; I’ve just returned from a raid with my men ….” Herring stopped for a moment. “I’m explaining myself to a one-day service guard, like a—” Suddenly, his mood changed.

  They stopped for a moment.

  “Why?” His eyes struck Peter like a hunting spear to a wild boar. “You want to check a possible exit route of this bastard,” Herring guessed and Peter noticed that the knight’s eyes brightening. “The assault near the English tavern wasn’t for you, I guess, but for that treacherous bugger. To disappear fast enough unnoticed, he couldn’t do it through any of the gates, even though there was no guarantee that the body of the prince would be discovered quickly. But this one is a clever one, eh?” James said.

  “He would need assistance!” Peter said.

  “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, then we need to take a look.” The knight grinned, showing his yellow teeth. “To be sure you don’t walk alone in the dark, you know.” The Scot laughed again.

  The party of three men—the knight, the sergeant, and the orphan—decided to postpone their meeting with Otto for the moment.

  Peter now led the group. He was determined and focused, knowing exactly where he would take them.

  The three men were equipped with swords, and the two high-ranking soldiers also carried daggers on their leather belts. In the city, shields weren’t used often, especially when going to the tavern to get drunk. Peter held his sword hilt tightly, quickening his pace.

  My desire is to die

  But not in the tavern drinking

  My sword must be in my hand

  Ready when I need it

  Angels when they come

  I shall cry out loud

  Spare this fighter, God, he’s mad

  Fighting your battle and absolutely glad!

  Red Herring surprised everyone with this drinking song about battle—even the night and his guardians, the stars. He finished with a throaty laugh. He looked at the shorter sergeant, who said nothing.

  “Wishing you were on the tavern table with a cup of wine, David?”

  “Not at all, sir.”

  “Glad you share my thirst for troubles, man.” Sir James’ love of laughter intrigued Peter. He noticed this was the first time he had heard the sergeant’s voice.

  Peter liked Red Herring—his undisguised humor, his laugh, and his presence. He had used to watch him when he came to the hospital to see the wounded and to talk to the brethren. There was a spacious courtyard in the headquarters of the order, where a man could see knights of the hospital train with sergeants and the men-at-arms in their war skills. The orphan had spent a time observing them while helping Brother John.

  Myriad Crusaders passed through the city. Most left after visiting; rarely, they settled here. People called them by one name: Franks. But Peter understood from the monk that this was a collective name for the invaders from beyond the sea. They came from different parts of the world: France, England, the Low Countries, Venice, and many others. Strangers, all together with the pilgrims and merchants.

  The orphan knew only his world, the city of Acre and its vicinity. His limited knowledge of the outside world made it hard for him to understand why so many men arrived from the sea to visit this sandy land, to see holy places from long-ago events. He was curious to know why. He wasn’t religious, although the monk had tried hard to make him so. His poor life so far had taught him that if he wanted to eat, he must fight for every piece of food. To him, there was long-vanished God who couldn’t provide him with food or a warm bed on cold nights.

  The monk disagreed, but Peter wasn’t stupid. He saw the donations monasteries received and the military fanatic orders too. The friars also cultivated their lands and earned revenue by selling goods.

  They were almost there.

  “There is a Saracen merchant who lived there, near the Venetian Quarters,” Peter said. “I used to see Edward the Saracen often in the company of this man in the market and talking on the street.” The orphan felt that these two men were somehow connected. They must check the merchant.

  “This is it,” Peter said.

  He stopped and looked at the two-story building in front of them. On the right side, there were wooden garret windows, closed for the night. On the left was the stable. The building was silent. He stepped forward to the wooden door and lifted his hand to knock. He paused, an alarm sounding in his mind, as his hair rose up on his neck

  Something was not right.

  Peter turned around slowly, examining the doors of the nearby buildings and the warehouse across the street. A light came down from the clear Moon and they had the sergeant’s torch, but it was still dark out. There was complete silence. Even the sea breeze felt asleep.

  The feeling was lying, Peter decided. His hand reached again to the door. He wondered whether he should knock or shout to wake up the dwellers. And he moved his fingers an inch closer to the door.

  The door opened when he touched it. The wood creaking as the inside of the house was revealed. Darkness lay in front of them. Red Herring stood still and whispered, “be quiet, lads. Something’s wrong here.”

  In one move, all three unsheathed their swords. The pommel of James’s sword-blade reflected the moonlight and made Peter blink. The knight pushed the door with his boot.

  It wasn’t wise to leave one’s door open at night. The merchants’ street was close to the Italian Quarters, near the harbor. The harbor was the mercenaries’ world; untrustworthy men abounded.

  The three of them stood still on the threshold of the front door. The Moon reflected their short mail sleeves under their dirty and dusty surcoats. As they entered,
James took the lead. Nobody leapt from the shadows at them. Still, the soundless stillness was dancing in the night, too hushed.

  The torch was left outside. They stopped and waited for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Red Herring and his sergeant were experienced men; Peter assessed from their calm movements that this wasn’t the first time they had done this.

  For the orphan, however, this experience was new. Peter felt again that time was slowing. His heart rate was high; he felt his pulsating heart would crash through his chest and come out to see what was happening with its own eyes.

  “Take a breath, lad.” Red Herring said. “And stay close.”

  Peter tried but didn’t feel much of a difference.

  The noise of moving furniture scratched the soundless background. It was coming from the upper story. Some light slipped through the upper wooden planking. Peter quickly examined the room around him. He saw empty shelves; nothing on the table on the right.

  “Follow me,” the Scottish knight said. He jumped onto the wooden staircase. David was a step behind his master. A few heartbeats later, James stood on the second story, in front of a closed door with his sword pointed onward.

  Red Herring kicked the door and stormed the upper story.

  Peter was the last to enter the first room on the second floor. There were a few pieces of wooden furniture, scattered and upended. Three men in mail shirts and sleeveless, leather vests appeared to be ransacking the place. Their dark cloaks made them appear bigger. One of them was carrying an oil lamp; the other two stood there, swords naked.