But seeing his beloved one lying dead, her body covered with blood—this had ripped him apart. He wanted to see her smile one last time. She was the light in his dark world. She was his beauty. She was his crossroads. She had saved him from the dark abyss he once had been. She was his reason to live. She was the person who had opened his mind. She was the face he saw when he woke up in the morning. She was the face who kissed him goodnight. She had born his child. She had born the future.
And that future was dead. His world was broken into thousands of pieces and he couldn’t do anything to prevent it.
When the raiding party had come to his house, searching for a place to pass the night, he had known that something wasn’t right. The main road was far away and his house was on the top of the cliff. Visits were rare. The only people who came there were officials coming to buy his trade and merchants stopping for shelter. The horsemen had been wearing the colors of an unknown amir. He had heard the name of the man who led the Mamluks: Barak. He would remember that name.
He was asleep but woke up.
Ulf had a look around.
There was sweat on his forehead. The nightmare was gone.
He was in the city of Acre’s castle dungeon.
The dungeon was a lonely and scary place but he didn’t give a coin. His eyesight was empty but his mind was not. Sorrow filled him from inside. The last time he had cried had been on a cold, northern night, long before. He had been but a scared child back then. He had spent all his tears watching his family burn.
He had had another nightmare. For two years, he hadn’t dreamt of it. And the main reason for that was his beloved one. But now she was gone, and the nightmares were back.
Some said that weeping could purify one’s soul and heart, but this was not true for him. He doubted weeping could reverse his grief. Ulf wanted to be alone in the dark, untouched. The dungeon was a suitable place.
He preferred his privacy right now, to satisfy his sorrow and sadness. The pain in his belly was indescribable, yet he had survived it once; he would survive again. For he hated unfinished business. He knew himself; he didn’t like to lose.
That was the desire to deliver vengeance. But first, grief. He was deeply immersed in it. The revenge would come. He needed time to think and to recover his strength.
Steps on stone sounded in the corridor outside his cell.
A key clicked in the lock of his cell and the door opened.
***
Light from a nearby torch showed the prisoner sitting against the wall. Otto entered, followed by two guards. He looked at the man, waved the sentries away and sit on the steps which led from the door down into the cell. The prisoner’s eyes mirrored the fire in a vivid dance.
“So, you are the man called Desert Wolf? I didn’t expect you to be a Frank,” Otto said.
Prisoner’s gaze examined the question giver, but no answer followed. A whining came from the far end of the dungeon as well as the noise of a creeping rat.
The two men regarded each other.
“Strange name, Desert Wolf.”
Otto scratched his shaved chin and smiled. He didn’t anticipate this being an easy conversation. On his way down the stairs, he had pondered how best to start. In one night, his men had captured one of the most famous and dangerous men of the land, the Desert Wolf, the hidden blade of the sultan, a man whose face and true identity were unknown. It had been too easy. Had he been betrayed, or was it part of some dangerous and clever plot? And a plot to what purpose?
He had Edward the Saracen, the man who had tried to assassinate the prince of England. Otto suspected that the Wolf and the assassin were somehow connected. He wondered how to get the most out of the situation, as his friend, his lord, was on his deathbed.
Four days before, he had received information from one of his spies on the location of the Desert Wolf’s lair. This was the most valuable information he could have hoped for to salvage the dying Crusade; it provided an opportunity to capture one of the main players of the enemy and to learn his plans.
Edward, Otto, and James had voted to take the risk of a raid to the south.
They were astonished at the identity of their target—one of their own, a Frank. Was it true or was it a setup? Who was this man? He didn’t match his reputation. But what was his reputation, a man surrounded by shadow and mysteries? Some said he was a master builder of siege engines. Some said he was the backbone of the secret Mamluk intelligence organization, Qussad, created by the sultan. Some said he trained assassins, others said he killed them. Some called him the right hand of the sultan, others said he was the only person to strike fear in Baibars.
“Who are you?” Otto asked.
Again, no response. For a few moments, they stared at each other. Otto thought for a while, then changed his strategy.
“Why did the Mamluk regiment attack your place?”
“Why did you attack my place?”
It was a start, the Savoyard knight thought with hope.
“Ah, where are my manners? My name is Otto de Grandson. I am part of Lord Edward’s household. And you, what’s your name?”
The Frank looked at Otto with glassy, blue eyes.
“Nobody.”
“You might think you are nobody, but a few nights ago, there were two parties fighting for you. One to take your life away, the other to save it.” Otto took an advanced stance. He decided that the best strategy was not to lie—or not to lie too much. Nevertheless, his time was precious. He stepped closer to the strange Frank. “You are not dead yet, are you?”
“What do you want from me?” the prisoner asked.
Otto tried to guess by his accent what part of the world this man was from. It was obvious that he wasn’t a Saracen. He looked like a Frank, but his face, his glassy eyes, and his blond hair, almost white, made Otto think. He definitely had not been born in the Holy Land. His guttural speech suggested he was from the north, but which part of the north? The Desert Wolf didn’t look like most of the men one met at the harbor.
There was something about him, something different, but Otto couldn’t tell what. He considered the man’s character. He had been captured, had lost everything, but he clearly possessed enormous mental strength, as he didn’t show any fear or nervousness despite being in a dungeon. He seemed that he would not surrender without a fight.
“Last night, there was an attempt on Lord Edward’s life,” the Savoyard knight said. He surveyed the Wolf’s reaction but there was none.
“Why should I care about one of your own?” The blond Frank sat against the stone wall and placed his hands on his knees.
“Was the assailant one of yours?” Otto asked. It was a shot in the dark.
The prisoner looked at Otto.
“What do you want?” the Frank asked.
“If you’re the man I think you are, you were our enemy up until four days. Now it seems you are unallied, in the prison of your former enemy.”
Otto looked into the stranger’s eyes. He knew that there was no sense in threatening him. Red Herring had told him how this man had lost everything. His heart must have been full of anger, vengeance, and grief. Otto had felt these things long before and, although the feelings had faded, they were still in his mind.
“Whatever this plot is that you find yourself in the middle of, it will be difficult to uncover,” Otto said. He nodded to the corridor, and asked the guards to deliver a flask of water.
“I will give you a chance to get out of here and get your revenge.” Otto took the risk, but he was running out of time. He had to act quickly in the name of Edward’s health.
“Why do you think your dungeon could hold me?”
“Oh, I don’t.” The knight smiled. “But I am fairly sure that you will make the right decision.”
A new figure entered the stone cell, wearing a dark, woolen cloak over a long tunic which reached the feet. A broach held the hood and cloak in place over the figure’s face; it was a pure gold, in the form of a lion.
The stranger’s disinterest in Otto’s proposal seemed to evaporate as the new figure entered. Lord Edward’s advisor shifted to allow the figure through. The newly-arrived person carried a tray with three ceramic cups.
She stopped in front of the prisoner and handed one of the cups to the northerner. Otto examined the man’s reaction.
The captive was hypnotized by the moves of the woman as she unhooded herself.
“Milady.” Otto took a half-bow. The prisoner took the cup. He didn’t take his eyes off her as he drank the water and handed the cup back.
She regarded the prisoner with calmness. She looked pure and innocent. She was neither tall nor short. She had warm eyes and small lips. Her handsome, blond hair was tied behind her head. She looked about thirty years old.
“Lady Eleanor.” She was introduced by the knight.
After a quick pause and exchanged glances, she said, “I am sorry for your loss.”
The prisoner nodded.
“I am a woman who needs help. My husband is dying and I am here to beg you for a favor,” she said. The honesty in her trembling voice made the two men silent.
“My beloved was wounded by an assassin with a poisoned dagger. Most of the physicians in Acre don’t even dare to try. He needs medicine from one of the best physicians of Jerusalem. We need to know who sent the assassin. Please, help me find a healer. Help me find who sent the assassin. I will be obliged to you.” She stopped for a second and added, “With that, I will grant you the opportunity to find out why you have been attacked.”
The Wolf said nothing.
City of Jerusalem is in hands of the Mamluks. You know them, you know this realm, you speak their language…. Please, help me save my husband!” Eleanor looked at prisoner’s eyes.
“You have no reason to help me, we raided your home too. Someone sold you to us; maybe the same person sent you a present, the Mamluks who attacked your manor too. Help me, and I will give you a chance to find out.” She looked determined.
“This is not something you possess to give. If I want it, I will seize it.” He didn’t act like a common peasant; he was bold.
She moved closer to the stranger, as he stood, his eyesight above her. Otto sensed the smell of sweat, blood, and dirt. He simply gazed at her. Her blue eyes seemed to hypnotize the prisoner.
She spoke, gentle and soft.
“I know what is it to lose something you love, more than you know. I know what are you feeling and yet, I want something from you. I want your oath. Swear loyalty to me.”
The Wolf hesitated. There was a little light in the darkness and Lady Eleanor with her blue eyes.
“I want a green apple,” the northerner said. Otto was surprised by his request. She nodded to one of the servants that stood outside the cell.
Otto realized what Lady Eleanor had achieved with her innocent eyes. But the apple, what was that for?
Something was brewing from without the city. Someone had dared to make a move in Acre, while others had attacked to the south. He doubted that the stranger’s manor had been attacked by accident. Were these two events related? He hated not knowing but he would found out, sooner or later.
He had begun to place his own figures on the chessboard. The lady and the Wolf were ready. The game of kings and advisers. A single move of a man could achieve what an army could not. Otto knew this was his game, and to win against the sultan’s intelligence he needed the Wolf on his side. He had hesitated, initially, when Lady Eleanor had asked to be involved. But he had calculated the risk. The legendary Desert Wolf’s reputation dictated that there was much to lose. Although the man didn’t look so renowned at the moment, Red Herring had emphasized that he was to be feared. He was like a mist; they couldn’t know what the Wolf was involved in.
Otto was motivated to be the best spy for his friend, Edward, who gave him that chance. Yet the secret intelligence of the sultan was a real challenge. He had not seen before such an organization. To overcome the Qussad, he would need to understand how it worked and identify its weak spots.
The stakes were high. Edward’s life hung in the balance. The peace accord was in danger. The truce concerned the city of Acre, the plains around it, and the road to Nazareth. Outside of the area, there was a battlefield; a war waged for supplies, for power, for estates, for money, and, above all, for influence. The Crusaders, the Mamluks, and the Mongols constantly stalked each other. Not to forget the religious factions.
Once the Crusaders had achieved their goals in the Holy Land, they would go home heroes, enjoying the well-earned glory. A kingdom waiting to be ruled, a life and name to be made. To get there, Otto must win the game of chess that lay before him.
***
Ulf hadn’t anticipated this. He had guessed it would be violence and torture, the traditional ways to make a man talk. Instead, he was visited by a woman he had never seen who expressed her sympathy. Ulf regarded the lady. She looked very much like his lost wife; it struck him like lightning when he saw her. His training helped him to control himself; nevertheless, it was hard. He was wretched, bruised, wounded, and unknown in the palace. Yet, a princess stood in front of him, begging him for favors.
A servant brought a plate of fruit. The Frank took a green apple and he ate it. He looked at Lady Eleanor’s blue eyes.
Well, another day in hell, another day in this realm.
“To help the Englishmen and the lady?” he thought. A lady who fascinated him and reminded him of his past love. Was it a coincidence? Fate was brutal.
The Northman considered it. His heart was bleeding and he knew from experience that the best way to heal it was to spill the blood of others. But he had to go on the path of his old life. The path of a ruthless killer. His instincts were alive and working.
“God, please help my enemy,” he thought. They would need it if this were to be a worthwhile challenge. The chance lays at his feet.
“What do you know so far?”
***
“The city of Mansurah was asleep,” Brother Alexander told him, his voice shaking, “in the year of your birth.”
Peter listened to him. He hadn’t heard any details about the circumstances of his birth before now. He was in the monk’s room in the quarter of the Knights of St Lazarus in the northern suburb of Acre.
“We were on one side of the river; enemy forces were on the opposite bank.” The old man talked slowly. He looked like a ragged, used book. “A spy showed us a place where the river could be crossed. A place near the city. The French Lord of Artois was eager to advance. He didn’t want to wait for his brother, King Louis, to cross with the main body of the Crusader army and to prepare for the battle. The Templars were opposed to the Lord of Artois’ decision too, as were the Hospitaller Knights. Your father, William Longsword, who was in charge of the English regiment, was a proud knight, Peter.”
The orphan was silent. Brother Alexander leaned forward, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“Pride. Isn’t that the weakness of every knight?” Alexander said and continued his tale.
“He could not leave the French bastard alone under the threat of the enormous enemy forces in the city. Your father’s bravery consistently matched the Frenchman’s arrogance. William Longsword and the Count of Artois were in constant competition: Who was the better knight? Which had more glory, more renown? Together, they led this brave and stupid vanguard to suicide.” Brother Alexander gazed into the distance, remembering.
“They were in their prime, as I once was. We fiercely engaged the sultan’s force, which was taken by surprise by our charge; we penetrated their defenses, entering the city and killing all who faced us. Your father, with his long blade, caught the old sultan by surprise and silenced him, rendering the Mamluks leaderless. The sultan was old and fat, without his armor and aware only too late of the turn of events. We were all bold, arrogant, and young, chasing easy victory and easy prize. Yet, that day, a new hero was born. But not in our ranks.”
He stopped his tale for a moment, hi
s eyes seeming to see the inevitable as if he were back with his comrades and sword brothers.
“Peter, are you still here?” He reached for the orphan with his left hand, blinded by his age.
“Yes,” Peter was hypnotized by this man, who had always avoided the other monks in the monastery. He enjoyed solitude and calm. But Peter and Brother John, his old mentor, had used to bring him food near the ruins of the old Church of St. Lazarus, where he could supervise the reconstruction process. That was long ago; now he was blind and impaired. His right hand had been cut off at the wrist and his face was constantly hooded. He never talked about how he had lost his hand, but the orphan had deduced it. While helping Brother John clean Alexander, Peter had seen the state of his face under the hood; his flesh was unsightly—leprosy had claimed him. Brother Alexander often used to say that this was his destiny and punishment for his early years’ deeds.
“God, young man, sees all. You may hope to be forgotten by your destiny but, while He may delay your fate, you have no chance of evading it. He never forgets,” the old man said. He had tears in his eyes.
“So, my sword brother is dead?” he asked. “Tell me again how it happened, my child.”
Peter retold the story, beginning with his visit to Brother John, the shadow of a once glorious knight. He told of Julian, his enemy, and his dark knights, how they had caught him and how his mentor had bought him time to escape, saving him. How it had cost him his life.
“Julian killed him,” the orphan finished.
“Sad. We are like wood, and life is like a fire; it eats us fast. Another soul was released.” The old monk began to nod off but, suddenly, he was awake and took up his tale again. He was back on the battlefield of Mansurah, twenty-two years earlier.
“We fought like demons in mail that day. We swung our blades and we crushed the enemies who approached first. It was so beautiful and promising; our raiding party speared the enemy force like a knife cutting through flesh, with speed and ferocity. We penetrated deep into the city, cutting, thrusting, pushing with the strength of our horses and shields and lances ....” Alexander’s voice was dreaming.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 9