Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  “Put down your weapons,” Red Herring shouted, “in the name of the King!” He stopped for a moment to wait for the opponents’ answer.

  “We do not take orders from you,” the tallest of the swordsmen replied boldly. He was dressed in an expensive battle dress with rich decoration that distinguished him from the others. A thick, black leather sword belt tightened his armor against the waist. His boots were of an excellent quality—pricey and custom-made.

  Peter knew those boots.

  Their bearer was named Julian. The orphan and the assailant faced each other. Julian blinked and stared at Peter as if at a poisonous snake. The orphan was now able to assess his enemy from feet to head; his opponent’s blond hair was tied in a ponytail and ran down to his shoulders. His glasslike eyes were cold, Peter noticed. He was broad-chested, in the end of his thirties, taller than the orphan, and almost the size of the Herring, but more broad-shouldered.

  Red Herring bided his time. He waited for the opposing party to make a move. And they did.

  Julian nodded to his followers.

  “Kill them all.” His voice was overconfident.

  His calmness was strengthened by another couple of men who arrived from the next room. That wasn’t something Peter or his companions could have predicted. A raiding party of at least five men was there, searching for someone or something.

  They were clearly desperate to finish their task. But there was no merchant in sight. Julian was in charge, the orphan assumed, as he had given the killing order. He wondered what had happened to the strong, older voice from earlier that evening, which had given Julian orders.

  The room became a battlefield; the two parties faced each other and clashed like children with wooden sticks. Except the sticks were real weapons designed for killing men and Peter had not received any lesson how to use it.

  Herring attacked with his sword from above. David parried with his weapon, cutting a blow from the left, leaving Peter to cover him from the right flank. Peter stood, staring at the enemy. He hadn’t expected to see the man who had wanted to kill him earlier on the street. This man wanted to kill him without mercy like he was nothing. Like a bug which Julian wanted to smash.

  Peter managed to take his position and push aside a third assailant, who was charging toward the sergeant. He glanced at James. Red Herring’s face turned vicious, true to his nickname, as he hurled insults at his opponents, provoking and goading them on. Peter realized with awe that the Scot was fighting two men at once. But James was also a tavern fighter and knew some dirty tricks. He struck out with his elbows and legs, throwing his opponents off balance, slowly influencing the skirmish to his favor. The sergeant, seeing the combat prowess of his mentor on full display, rose to the occasion as well, raining down fierce blows upon his opponent in a storm of steel.

  Peter was struggling. The art of sword fighting was new to him and he held his blade like a child holding a stick. He needed to learn fast. He remembered observing the men-at-arms in training. For a moment, he felt he looked stupid and clumsy. But he pushed these thoughts aside; right now, he needed to win and to survive, no matter how. He swung his weapon as he had seen the soldiers do it in practice. But this was not a practice. This was real—and deadly.

  Julian smiled at the clumsy actions of Peter. The blond man watched the fight. The savage actions of Herring made him join the fray. He drew his long blade, which looked custom made. Julian’s one-handed sword was much larger than average. He waited for a moment and calculated. One of the men engaged with Red Herring lost his balance. James swung his sword and hit the crossguard of the owner’s weapon. The man felt and the blond knight took his place.

  Julian advanced and kicked the Scottish knight on his left thigh, trying to push him down. Peter watched, feeling like the moment was lasting a lifetime. He saw the danger to Herring. The orphan made a feint in an attempt to divert his face-to-face attacker; he pushed him out of the way with his two hands like a child fighting for a bread as David struck the man with his sword. Peter jumped over to assist James. He put his left shoulder forward like a battering ram and hit the enemies’ leader from the back.

  Julian’s mantle managed to soften the hit and he quickly got back up to his feet. As he rose, he saw Peter’s sword coming from above. The orphan had aimed at his neck but Julian easily deflected the clumsy swing. Peter cursed himself; he didn’t know how to use the weapon properly. The sound of swords kissing fiercely filled the room.

  Julian restored his position and counterattacked. Peter fought off the blows but his opponent was too good; he was too fast. The blond warrior lowered his head as his eyes looked through a lowered brow as he tried to cut Peter down. The lad tried to parry the blows. Julian’s weapon met his rusty sword a few inches above the crossguard and broke it. The orphan froze.

  Julian closed in on his target and swiftly moved his blade to the orphan’s neck. Peter stepped back, as the sword reached his right cheek. The edge cut the flesh like a knife through butter. The orphan felt the blood on his face as he tripped on something on the floor, lost his balance and fell on his backside.

  In this moment, the frightening sound of flying arrows put this fight to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  FOUR DAYS EARLIER

  Holy Land, the Kingdom of Jerusalem, Monday, 13th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ

  Red Herring was on a trail.

  He had received an important mission.

  Intelligence about the Desert Wolf and his lair had arrived. Everyone knew of the Desert Wolf’s extraordinary skills and knowledge and the fact that he worked for Sultan Baibars. Either his lair had been discovered or he had been betrayed.

  The rumors that the Desert Wolf had provided the warring leader of the Mamluks, Sultan of Egypt and all of Syria, Baibars, with drawings of new siege engines, which could throw larger stones were giving the Crusaders trouble. Even if they were unfounded, which were not yet clear, they threatened the castles of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. He also possessed knowledge of the Franks’ castles’ plans and their weak spots. This was a rumor, but a dangerous one. King Hugh of Cyprus and Jerusalem also felt uncomfortable. His barons had caused him enough trouble, and he had no strength left to think of a new threat from the sultan. After all, the Crusaders and the Mamluks had signed a peace treaty.

  Still, the intelligence about the Desert Wolf’s lair and the rumor were a good reason to arrange an investigation party to check it. A damned good reason, indeed.

  Sitting on the saddle on his gray destrier, his big warhorse, Red Herring looked to the Sun, whose vibrant, smiling face was rising from the horizon. The Sun’s warmth transferred to his mood and Sir James smiled back at him. He scratched his newly-shaved face and dropped his hand to pet the neck of his horse.

  This raid was controversial. Otto, James, and the English prince had discussed it passionately. James had voted against it, but the Savoyard knight and Lord Edward had voted for going.

  “Why?” Red Herring had asked them. “The peace treaty is signed. We must think about going home.”

  Edward wasn’t in a rush to set off from the Holy Land once the truce had been agreed upon. He was concerned about Lady Eleanor’s health; she had just given birth to a baby girl, Joan of Acre. The Saracen physician, who oversaw the royal couple’s health, and who was recommended personally by the master of the Order of St. John, took care of Edward’s wife. Lady Elanor looked happy with the physician. Red Herring assumed that this was the reason for the choice of name. He didn’t give a coin about the name. Why were his thoughts leading him to that? Edward and Eleanor needed a little joy in this sandy land, and the face of their newborn girl baby finally gave them that joy.

  James reflected on the mood of the royal family before the arrival of the baby Joan. After the death of their last infant, he could see the traces of sadness on the faces of the royal couple. Richard, the Lord of Cornwell—the renowned uncle of Edward and brother of King Henry—had also passed away. He was a gr
eat man for the Kingdom and his friends. Indeed, morale had been low for some time; the crusading campaign had been a series of disasters. Sir James had heard grumblings in the Crusaders’ camp for some time; Edward’s followers worried about the lack of action and were restless from a lack of opportunity. The men craved battles and adventures to fill their pockets and appease their wild, English souls.

  Red Herring had been with Edward from the beginning of this campaign, unlike some, who had been hired here, in this forsaken place. Almost two years before, thirteen ships with Edward’s men had set sail for the Outremer -the French word for “overseas. Almost a thousand followers accompanied Edward; one fifth were knights. They spent months at the galleys. The Crusaders were followed by misfortune all the way.

  At first, the Crusaders intended to set sail to the Christian stronghold of Acre, but King Louis had been diverted the Crusade to Tunis. The French King and his brother Charles of Anjou decided to attack the emirate. Why? James had no idea, only suggestions. The plan failed when the French forces were struck by an epidemic.

  When Edward and James arrived in Tunis, they were greeted by a shock: King Louis of France, the leader of the Crusade, was dead. Al-Mustansir, the Caliph of Tunis, offered a peace treaty and agreed to pay tribute to Charles, Louis’ brother. Charles was satisfied; he had been through one campaign before and had no desire to go forward with this one. Without King Louis of France and his brother, the Crusade, the preparation, and logistical arrangements fell apart. Edward and his men spent the winter in Sicily. The Crusade was postponed until next spring, but a devastating storm off the coast of Sicily dissuaded Charles of Anjou and Louis's successor Philip III from any further campaigning.

  James could see the fierce drive in the Lord Edward’s eyes to reach the shore of this dreamland called the Holy Land—or what was left of it. He and his Lady Eleanor—the daughter of a notorious Crusader—were following their dream and their fate. They had survived a sea storm, which the voyagers felt was a good omen. Edward had decided to continue alone, and on 9 May 1271, he finally landed at Acre with nine ships.

  But since then, nothing had occurred as the prince had hoped. Corruption and daily troubles lay everywhere Edward turned his eyes. Money ruled all; it superseded man, pilgrim, kingdom, and faith.

  James saw his prince and how he looked devastated. Edward’s vision of the land beyond the sea clashed brutally with reality. The prince had counted on support from the people of Acre and the rest of the Cristian’s cities and fortress. James and Edward realized that they had not enough knights and men-at-arms to defeat the sultan. So, the prince was forced to look for support elsewhere. He turned his eyes to the Tartars, who had previously sought his cooperation. Upon Otto’s advice, he sent envoys and waited for a response. Together with Knights Templar and the Knights Hospitaller, Edward and James emerged a raid against an important Mamluk village advised by aforesaid experienced defenders of the realm. King Hugh has involved in his internal affairs as usual and had no desire to participate. He preferred to stay on his island, Cyprus.

  Red Herring was snapped out of his thoughts by one of his scouts. David, a short sergeant who had been in Sir James of Durham’s pay for many years, approached to report.

  “Sir, there is a Mamluk raiding party a few miles ahead. They are heading south, in our direction.”

  James took a minute to consider this.

  “We continue as we planned,” he said.

  He was leading a small party of ten knights, ten men-at-arms, and ten archers. Most of the men had been specially chosen for this journey. No one was a member of the fanatic military orders; most of them were Englishmen, some were from Scotland, some from Gascony. A single Welshman named Owen was in the party. Most of them were from Lord Edward’s personal household.

  Otto and Edward advised slightly by Red Herring, had gathered the intelligence and laid the plan. The religious orders certainly couldn’t be trusted with this task. Their thirst for land, money, and power was well known.

  They had traveled southward via the road to Nazareth, skirting the sand beach to their right, starting this dangerous journey early in the morning because of the Sun. They intended to travel light and fast, speeding in the dark, slowing under the heat. When the Sun was high, searched for shelter to avoid heat exhaustion.

  Proximity to а fresh water supply was vital to his men, especially in the summer. They packed sufficient supplies for a week. As Otto put it, this mission was to be done quickly, they go, grab the Wolf, and go back to Acre. They needed to go unnoticed. They wore simple surcoats, free of distinguishing marks, over their coats of mail. All of them were equipped with linen hoods to cover their western faces, like a band of mercenaries.

  If they were tracked down by the sultan’s scouts, they could be accused of breaking the truce, which concerned the coastal city of Acre and the safe passage to Nazareth only.

  They passed Roman ruins, a testament to that ancient culture which appeared wherever they traveled both here and at home.

  They rode in the wilderness until they reached Mount Carmel. Soon, they passed the river Kishon. The Sun touched the sky and they stopped to rest. When the Sun went down to sleep, the party continued their quest.

  James was observing the landscape and saw a destroyed fortress from the sultan. After Baibars became ruler of Egypt and Syria twelve years ago, the Crusaders’ estates and fortresses had fallen, one by one, into his hands. The sultan despised the untrustworthy Christian military orders, especially the Templars and the Hospitallers These military orders were the guardians of the faded Holy Land. They served the kingdom of Jerusalem and were devoted to its protection. But power had corrupted the pure intentions born 200 years before. In recent years, the religious orders cared only for donations, lands, estates, and the opportunity to fight infidels. Their desire to plunder was fatal to their original purpose; the Latin kingdom was falling apart. Piece by piece, the surrounding enemy encroached on them irreversibly. Although Edward had brought some hope, after a year, things hadn’t changed. People who had the power and authority to bring change and hope were ruined by themselves. The end was near.

  No one cared for this forsaken land except the merchants and mercenaries whose motives weren’t hidden. They wanted only profits; they fought for money, their license to trade and to overpower the competition.

  James thought about Edward. He admired the way the prince kept his men together. His organizational skills and prudent actions were like a light in the dark. He wasn’t the fragile boy James had met long before. One day, he would rule England, after his father. If he ever returned to his homeland.

  Red Herring had used to think that, for Edward, all this adventure was a game. A game of chess, a tactical figure’s playground, where one positioned oneself and waited for the opponent’s next move. The kings moved their troops and officers. Ordinary men suffered, but not the rulers; they were above every law except the laws of nature. No man could fight the heat, even a king; no matter how hard he tried, that was a battle he would never win.

  After midday, they were on the trail of another mounted raiding party. Owen, the scout, counted them and reported them to number over 100. They were Mamluks, slave children, raised and trained as a professional army of merciless warriors with strong discipline and morale. They were the fearsome warriors of Egypt, the same soldiers who had crushed the previous Crusade of King Louis of France twenty years before, at the battle of Al-Mansurah.

  James spat some sandy spittle from his dry mouth.

  An entire battalion of English souls had been killed at that bloody battle due to the commanding officer, a French count, who had led the advance without waiting for the main body of the army to cross the river. It had been a real blow, but that was the fate of the Crusaders.

  On the next morning, they met with their spy, a Turk horseman who worked as a messenger, spy, guide, and interpreter for whomever paid most. James assumed he earned some gold from selling them the information about the Desert Wolf
’s hideout. His swarthy skin and Turkish gear distinguished him from James’ men. His powerful voice was calm and sagacious. His eyes wore the signs of sleepless nights. There was something unforgettable in his gaze; James felt strange every time he looked in the spy’s eyes. The Scottish knight couldn’t determine the man’s age, masked by his garments and the dust and dirt glued to him.

  The spy guided Red Herring’s men.

  As the Sun retired again, they approached the place. It was a hilltop manor, well hidden from men to the west by cliffs and rocks. Their guide was short of words but he led them to a secret passage through the cliffs which led directly to the backyard of the manor. Before they started to climb, the spy drew them a map in the dust with his curved sword, indicating the location of the buildings and the dangers they may face.

  “Danger?” Herring asked. “Are there a lot of guards?”

  “The Desert Wolf and his family. Only he and his wife are important.”

  “Why? What haven’t you told us?”

  “He has certain skills,” the spy said, after some silence.

  “We have some, too,” David said.

  “Like fishing?” Owen joked. The men laughed.

  The plan was simple: to approach the estate, kidnap the host and his wife and go home under the cover of the night. They left the horses in a place well-guarded by trees near the passage, ready for their withdrawal. They left two men to guard their belongings. They needed to leave behind anything which could on the moonlight betrayed their presence, taking only what was necessary. They had to be silent, not drawing weapons until they reach the target. Red Herring had warned his men. He didn’t want someone to slip into the dark with an unsheathed sword and hurt himself or to make noise.

  While approaching slowly up to the manor, Red Herring and his men saw flames blazing above the trees. They sped up. They needed to change their plan. Now, they had to remain unseen, to scout the place in the dark and to block all the possible exits. Then with surprise still on their side, Herring hoped to find and capture the infidel and his wife quickly in the dark.