He had been trained to respond quickly to a change in plan and had likewise trained his own men to do the same.
But they were too late. And they not accounted for such a scenario, meeting another raiding party attacking the same place.
Events were moving quickly in the eye of the night.
Herring rushed forward a few paces, scouting the area quickly with bated breath.
“Halt!” He grinned to his men. “Owen, take six men to the west side,” James turned left. “David, to the north with another six. Robert, you have the honor to approach from the east with another six.” James turned to the remaining men. “You, follow me. The main entrance from the south is our goal. Hurry, men. Gathering point is in the courtyard of the manor. Stay close. Shields up and don’t do anything reckless.”
They would wait for his signal and would not start to plunder without permission. His share of the strategy had been to obtain the right men. He was the best organizer in Edward’s ranks and he knew it. When he noticed the flames, he was sure that most of the job was done; someone had arrived first with the same plan. The flames were covering their deeds and tracks.
He thought for a second that the Templars were ahead of him. These treacherous bastards were brainwashed and their hearts filled with blind faith and obedience. The Templars were like an ideal Spartan society but with a small difference: Spartans fought for their city but the religious orders fought for someone else’s amusement.
In return, they were denied everything from wealth to the simple pleasures of life—all except killing in the name of God and dying bravely for their faith. You couldn’t reason with these religious fanatics. It was no wonder that Sultan Baibars didn’t negotiate with them but used their only weak point to exterminate them.
But Mamluks were a different breed. They were professional soldiers, trained to obey and kill.
If they were here, someone had sent them. Herring had heard that the Desert Wolf worked for the sultan. But now the elite Mamluk’s regiment interfered in a small manor. Why?
Later, he would seek answers. Now, he needed to organize and lead his men to encircle the manor. Red Herring reached the front entrance and looked into the courtyard.
Bodies were everywhere—men, women, servants, even animals were scattered on the ground, cut to pieces, lying in a river of blood.
Most of the Mamluks were rushing off, half a mile away already.
But some stayed behind; twelve men remained to finish the nasty job. They were fearsome-looking Mamluks in mail armor, with curved swords attached to their leather belts. Their captain had a white cloak. Some of the men searched for loot. Two of them prepared horses for their departure. The rest were engaged in a conversation with their captain.
Near the center of the manor lay the dead body of a pregnant woman. The captain looked at her face and murmured something to the soldier next to him.
Sir James was about to show himself when two Mamluks dragged an unconscious man to the captain. He looked like a Frank—one of James’ own—and his hands were tied with rope. The man was bedraggled; blood leaked from a wound on his neck, his plain robe was torn, dirty, and reddish. His gold hair, almost white, was bloody, too.
A tall Mamluk and another with a scar on his face dragged the Frank forward and stood him up like he was made of hemp straw. They threw him at their master’s feet. One of the soldiers spat at the captive, the other kicked him in the ribs. Another Mamluk brought a bucket of water and poured it into the man’s face. The captain bent down and hit him across the cheek with the back of his hand, then grabbed the man’s chin and said something to him.
The captive opened his eyes and stared at the dead, pregnant woman. After a moment, he rose from the ground and focused on the captain.
James noticed that the Mamluks laughed like they were enjoying their task. Their faces showed that they almost tasted the victory. They looked confident. Most of them had left their spears and shields on their horses. The captain had dark brown skin, burnt from the Sun, and his white beard was short. His fine mail armor and expensive leather rider's gloves were something every knight from the west dreamt of. Herring would have loved to catch such a prisoner and to strip him of his possessions.
James waited a few moments. The others must have been in position by then. All his men, hardened by war, would be ready to rush in with naked swords and flat-topped kite shields. They waited for Red Herring’s signal.
But the spy was missing.
“Where is our guide?” James asked angrily.
He stepped out of the dark, almost forty paces from the Mamluks, and hit his sword to the metal rim of his shield, shouting, “Bastards, you are dancing on our playground!”
The Mamluks looked surprised, but not the captive. The Frank headbutted the captain in front of him and pushed him aside. He took the knife attached to the Mamluk’s belt, his hands still tied together. He lunged at the next soldier, struck him with his left shoulder, turned around and stuck the knife to the hilt in the neck of the scarred Mamluk to his right. As the Frank retrieved the blade, a fountain of blood splashed on his face and he cut the rope from his hands. The Mamluk captain restored his balance and tried to stand, but the Frank struck him with his knee, turning quickly to the tall one, who held a naked sword over his head and slicing his throat with the knife.
Red Herring could not even blink.
The tall Mamluk fell to his knees and put his hands over his wound, but the newly-freed man pushed him with his right foot out of his sight and turned his gaze to the next victim. His face was as pale as a corpse. Perhaps he was Death, wielding his legendary scythe, hunting for victims.
The main building of the manor collapsed under the flames that inexorably eaten the wooden beams. The hot wind was blowing harshly on all of the men. Red Herring felt the heat as small burning pieces of ash stuck to his face. He ignored the irritation and lunged forward.
“Advance!” James shouted, and the Crusaders attacked. The captive had surprised them all.
The Mamluk captain’s eyes widened and his jaw hung as he looked from the liberated Frank to Herring and his men. He reached for his knife, which was missing, then tried to find a sword. He stepped backward and stumbled. He rose and turned to the rest of his men, starting to shout something. The Frank caught the captain’s cloak and pulled him back to him, stabbing the Mamluk in his armpit. He withdrew the knife and stuck it into the neck of his victim. The blade emerged from the other side of the new corpse. The unknown warrior left his blade where he had put it and unsheathed the captain’s own sword with his right hand. The closest Mamluks drew their weapons and ran to the wretched man.
Red Herring was almost twenty paces from the fight. Three big Mamluks surrounded the pale stranger. James ran to the nearest enemy, using his shield and speed to deflect the spear pointed to his belly and swung his sword toward the infidel’s face. The man fell. The rest of the Mamluks, realizing their leader was dead and observing Red Herring’s men approaching, attempted to flee.
David and his followers took care of them. Owen and his archers shot down the enemies on the horses. Their arrows pierced them like practice apples.
In a few heartbeats, all the Mamluks were dead.
The pale Frank looked tired and was covered in blood, but not his. He didn’t turn to his saviors. He fell on his knees and stared at the dead woman a few paces from him.
“Sir?” Owen, the Welshman, spat on the sand. “What is going on?”
“Search it fast, and let’s go home,” James shouted. “They will look after their comrades soon.”
Red Herring sheathed his weapon in the scabbard.
“Come on men, do not waste time.”
“What do we do with him?” Owen nodding to the unknown Frankish captive.
“Tie him. We take him with us. David, you and your men prepare the horses, strip the bodies of their valuables and the useful gear. I want all of you to be ready for travel in half an hour.”
The whole place w
as on fire—death, blood, and terrible annihilation reigned.
“We were late,” David said.
“Yes, and our guide is missing. We didn’t know who our target was. The whole raid was a disaster,” James said.
“Some of our men have a few scratches and bruises,” David said.
“At least they are all alive,” James said.
“And we found some booty,” Owen said and grinned.
James observed the flames. He had bitterness in his mouth. He and his men had almost taken part in a fight. They had almost turned their blades red. But it wasn’t a proper fight. The joy of battle was missing. The stranger had stolen the show and something in their hearts was missing. They had come to this faraway place, evaded dangers, and slept in the wilderness, and for what? They had achieved nothing.
And the Crusaders rode back.
Chapter Five
Ughan’s Camp, near Arsuf, Holy Land, Saturday, 18th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ
Berrat entered the main door with his bodyguards. He scanned the room through the smoke. Darkness and smoke twirled in the air. Dancing figures in the center of the room entertained the amir and his guests. The fat and drunken ruler was focused on a young girl. The loud music made Berrat’s ears vibrate. Most of the guards stood with their backs to the show.
The fat man was laughing at her; nevertheless, his attention wasn’t pure. The guests were in a trance of liquor and some strange smoke. The blonde girl was pale and scared but tried not to show it. She smiled at the drunken amir.
Berrat was a tall man, but not as tall as his guards. His warrior gear was expensive, but not only used for a parade.
The amir started to sing with his thick voice, emphasizing certain words.
“You can put yourself to death listening to that,” Berrat thought and looked at his followers.
The cold night air had entered with him. The music stopped and everyone froze and stared at the newcomers. The newly-born atmosphere was killing everyone’s emotions except the amir.
In his mid-forties, Berrat looked like a true warlord in his prime. And he was. His skin wasn’t as brown as the rest of the Mamluks’. His chin was shaved and perfectly clean. No distinguishing scars marked his face. Although most of the men knew him, his hairless skull alerted the rest when he came. His mail armor accentuated his broad chest and almost reached his knees. A red leather belt was on his waist and a richly decorated scabbard was attached to it. His excellent cavalry riding boots were one of the precious things he possessed and were a gift from the sultan himself—the sultan liked to give his men a little prize in front of the public to show his gratitude for some brave or important deed.
Berrat was one of the trusted advisers in the sultan’s court. They had been raised together on the island where the Mamluk regiment was trained. They had lived together, shared food, fought alongside each other, bled together, and shared almost everything. Almost.
After Sultan Baibars had made himself ruler of Egypt, he had made Berrat one of his amirs.
When Berrat was involved, it meant Baibars was personally interested in the matters. Some people called him the sultan’s dog, but he didn’t care. He didn’t know a way of life except to serve and work for Baibars. Even if that meant being woken up late at night by his spies and sent ahead of the entourage to prepare the Ughan’s camp for the arrival of the sultan.
His task was to investigate the news that had arrived and to check the security before the arrival of his master, Sultan Baibars.
“Ughan!” He omitted the word “amir” on purpose. “You became fat.” The two men embraced each other. “When was our last meeting?”
Ughan rubbed his eyes with his hands and smiled.
“My friend, a lot of water has flowed since then ... and I can tell that time has been kind to you, not like me.”
“Life on the northern border is harsh, I see,” Berrat said. “Prepare yourself to meet the sultan; he will be here soon.”
The night was charged again with the stir of nervous buzzing. The guests were dispatched and the two amirs—Berrat and Ughan—were left alone.
“I am glad to see you. How are your family and your lands?” Berrat asked.
“They are fine, thank you. Life goes on, inexorable and merciless, as usual. And you, Berrat, I hear you are a sultan’s dog now?”
The hairless Mamluk left the last comment unanswered.
“A few days ago, on returning from the north, you and your entourage were stopped at a certain hilltop manor not far from here,” Berrat spoke slowly, locking eyes with Ughan.
“Is it forbidden to visit a Frankish manor these days?” Ughan asked with an innocent smile.
“To be precise, you destroyed it, ransacked it, and killed everyone in it. May I ask why?”
“Don’t be so angry you missed the fight, Berrat. It was just a Christian and his servants. Why would you allow this infidel to live freely, so close to the border? And please, do not thank me for doing your job.” Ughan’s voice was arrogant.
Berrat looked like a spear, but Ughan was more like a round shield.
“Baibars let him, not me. When I heard of your actions, I hoped you had done the job perfectly and that all the Frankish inhabitants in the manor were dead. Especially the manor’s master.”
The door opened again and another man entered. His savage and expressionless face revealed nothing. It was a Mamluk, the chief officer of Ughan’s retinue.
“You remember Barak? He was the last of our vanguard at the manor, so you can ask him personally,” Ughan said.
Barak didn’t wait for an invitation, but turned to the interrogator and began to speak, nodding. “We were searching for shelter for the night. One of our scouts took us to the manor. But it was Frankish. We took care of it.”
“Interesting. You must have been lost to be so far from the road on your course. Please tell me about the manor’s master”
“He is surely dead. I left some of my men to finish the job and traveled this way.”
“How many men did you leave?”
“Twelve.”
“Not enough.” Berrat’s heart was palpitating as he kept his face blank.
Ughan continued to smile arrogantly.
“Why are we discussing this?”
“You will see,” Berrat said.
The sultan entered. His personal bodyguards—a few dozen men—spread throughout the space, surrounding the men.
The fat host widened his eyes and his eyebrows slanted upward. He focused on Baibars’ appearance.
The ruler was a giant of a man with a husky voice, light blue eyes, and a large white spot in his right eye. His personal qualities—above all, his complete absence of scruples—had made him the sultan of the kingdom.
Baibars possessed boundless energy. His ruthlessness—and occasional cruelty—made all men fear him, even his closest friends. He was nearing his fifties but was a strong and mighty warlord. He was the sultan of the whole of Egypt and Syria. A former slave, now he was the most powerful man in these lands. He had tasted defeat from neither the western Crusaders nor the Tartars.
“I was enjoying a game of polo when I received word that my old friend, Ughan, had arrived.” His tone didn’t show his mood yet. He talked vividly but it seemed as if he were waiting for something to happen.
Ughan’s drunken smile disappeared. He didn’t seem sure what to expect from the sultan.
“I took my fastest horse to salute him.” Baibars took a step forward and embraced the fat man.
He was almost a head above him and the spot on his eye made him look vicious. He was Mamluk, too, but his skin and hair were unusual. The hardened life of a mounted warrior and captain of his regiment had made him the man he was now. Ughan was dressed in an expensive, embroidered robe showing his status; in contrast, the sultan was in his war gear, with a saber attached to the belt around his waist over his fine, mail coat.
The three men in the middle looked at each other. The mo
od of the room had changed.
“Tell me, my friend, did you receive an order to attack the Frankish manor? I don’t remember giving such a command.”
“My vanguard was searching for shelter and they found it,” Ughan said, with confidence. “If this offended you, I will pay for your losses.”
Baibars glanced at Berrat and his loyal captain shook his head.
“So, as I understand it, you didn’t finish the job properly?”
“Your highness …. Why are you so upset about one Frankish manor and his master? The peace will hold; the Franks hadn’t enough manpower to defend themselves.” Ughan said.
“Don’t interrupt me. The peace isn’t your concern. The manor and its inhabitants were in my protection and my service. Tell me, what will people think when we start attacking our own? Give me one good reason to have attacked the household.”
Anger slowly seized the sultan’s face.
“As I said, I will pay for your losses.” Ughan started to sweat.
“Now, that is not important. Who made the decision to annihilate them?” Baibars asked.
Ughan eyes betrayed Barak.
With the speed of an attacking cobra, the sultan struck Ughan’s officer with his riding gloves and there was a flurry of movement. Ughan’s guards took their swords, but the royal guards were faster.
A dangerous mood surrounded them.
Berrat, as usual, played the peacemaker and stepped between the two parties.
“My scouts reported that Barak’s men killed his pregnant wife in front of his eyes. Butchered all the servants and animals, too.” He took a breath, searching for his next words. Berrat finished the tale, describing the Crusaders and their arrival.
“He is alive,” Baibars said, “but not her?”
“She is dead, yes,” Berrat confirmed.
Baibars’ face was stone cold but he said nothing.
“Who is this man you care so much about?” Ughan dared to ask.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 5