“We were like God’s warriors that day, earning the red crosses on our chests. We showed no mercy and no fear. But some resisted. A young captain of the Mamluk’s regiment stood firm and didn’t back down. He showed us what a real warlord must do and earned glory for himself. He organized the remaining defenders and ordered most of the streets to be blocked with wagons and wooden planks, forcing our men to gather into the narrow streets.”
He took a deep breath.
“Do you know how hard it is to maneuver a mounted army down a narrow street? It became chaos, then our enemy released hell upon us. It happened so fast—we were cut off and the slaughter began.” Brother Alexander shifted painfully in his bed, catching his breath. This was more than he was used to speaking.
“The Mamluks left their horses to block us and took advantage of our position, shooting us down from the roofs with their arrows. Their infantry thrust their spears and shields into our horses. We were surrounded, pressed into this narrow space of death.
“We realized we were doomed,” the old man said. “Your father was experienced in war. He knew we couldn’t win—he couldn’t do anything to prevent our failure.” The storyteller took a harsh breath, heavy with burden.
“Some were cowards and tried to flee, leaving their friends and fellow knights. Some of them drowned in the river while running from their brethren; some were shot to death in the back. Such cowardice, these men broke down and showed their true selves. The French count fled and died spineless. But your father refused to surrender or to flee and leave his troops. We would die, one by one, cut to pieces by our foes at close range in the narrow battlefield, but never to surrender our arms.”
“Why you didn’t retreat?”
“Why indeed? Because we were knights! We were Crusaders. We gave our oaths to each other not to abandon our brothers to danger. The slaughter turned our sunny attack into a reddish song of sorrow and death. The dust on the streets turned to a bloody, stinky mud; it was hard to move, hard to balance. Your father turned to me and asked me to leave the fight—me and one of my followers. He released me from my oath to him and urged me to rescue the plunder from our campaign.”
Peter listened carefully.
“But there was more at stake than treasure; he wanted assurance that I would take care of his beloved one and his future baby in Acre. Someone had to deliver his bloody wealth and secure his lady and ....” He clutched at his chest, pain in his tortured face. Nevertheless, the monk continued his tale.
“He gave me permission to retreat and vowed that my honor would rest intact despite leaving that field.” He spoke this last sentence slowly and with obvious difficulty.
“You know, lad, back there, I was glad to leave the bloody battlefield and to live another day to see the Sun. I lost my hand on that day, but I also lost my honor, no matter what my comrades and the witnesses might say.”
“Year after year, day by day, my soul suffered from my decision to accept the invitation to retreat. Yes, I had received an order but, deep in my heart, I knew I had made a mistake. That day I should have died with my friends and fellow sword brothers. And that thought eats at my heart and soul every single moment. I have nothing left now; my soul is dead, my honor died long ago on that battlefield, and my hand was lost along with my bravery.” His eyes were full of tears as he remembered this moment.
Peter had never before learned anything about his heritage or his family and was intrigued to know more. Before now, he had always thought he had been left alone on his own; he hadn’t known his mother. Brother John had raised him as far back as he could remember. Now that his mentor was dead, he needed to satisfy his curiosity. Was what Brother Alexander had told him enough? The more he heard, the more he wanted to know about his kin.
He sensed the unbearable pain in the old man’s heart and his desire to turn back time, to stand side-by-side once again with his long dead friends, to regain his own self. To win back his honor.
“Peter, remember: never lose your honor and reputation. These are the only important things in this warring world. Never let your friends down; loyalty cannot be bought. Trust can never be regained, once lost.”
“What happened to my father?” Peter was anxious to ask.
“Ah ... Your father, he fought like a devil. He was the last man the Mamluks succeeded in unhorsing. On the ground, he stood, petted his favorite destrier’s head and threw away his broken lance. He smiled to the approaching enemy and drew his long sword and bore his shield. I will never forget his demonic, fearless smile. He caught my eyes one last time—I was still recovering from the blow that had taken off my hand. A fellow sergeant helped me to rise from the mud on the river bank. We were two sad souls who had lost our horses but, by some luck, the moment your father was unhorsed, a victorious war cry echoed into the valley. This made all the Mamluks and inhabitants turn to observe the fall of the last hero of the English regiment, William Longsword—the man in whose veins ran the same warrior blood as the Lionheart’s. This bought us just enough time, me and my companion, your mentor.” He paused, asking for water.
Peter gave him a cup.
“We caught a horse running blindly toward us and successfully crossed the river on its back. While crossing, I was able to see the last deeds of your kin. Your father had lost his helmet, and his long, crow-black hair was wind-swept. You couldn’t mistake him, even from a long range. The combination of his armor, blackened from spilled enemy’s blood, and his dark hair was breathtaking. His long blade rose and fell and with every cut or thrust he made could be heard the haunting sounds of splashing blood, cracking shields and bones, and screaming. He took many infidels with him that day. After every man he killed, another took his place. But, finally, they seemed to be discouraged. They hesitated between assaults,” Alexander said. “He had taken their courage away from them, Peter. He was a real daredevil warrior.”
“Daredevil warrior?”
“I watched him use the fallen bodies to protect his rear, but leave himself room to move and to swing his blade. He punished men who underestimated him. He was a true warrior, a Crusader, a knight of valor, brave and bold with a bloody sword and black hair and darkened armor. He never showed any sign of fear or lack of bravery. He fought with eagerness. It looked as if he would never surrender.”
“But?” Peter asked.
“But, in the end, the enemy prevailed. The same Mamluk captain who stood and organized the defenders now asked your father to lay down his weapon.”
Peter raised his eyebrows, captivated.
“But your father wasn’t such a man. The Mamluk captain drew his curved sword from his scabbard and he approached William. There were only two of them now, a few paces from each other. The rest of the infidel troops gathered around them to witness the young and ambitious Mamluk captain against a warlord from the west.”
Alexander looked tired of talking but continued.
“They lunged at each other, in a death dance of clashing swords. All was still; the wind stopped and the spectators fell silent, fixated on the two fighting men with determination in their eyes and swords and shields in their hands. They clashed in the square. The fight was fierce and brutal and drained down their remaining stamina fast. Even though your father’s fatigue, he matched his opponent. One other Mamluk dared to enter the circle and tried to join the fight but the Mamluk captain ordered him to leave.
“Your father became slow, bruised, and wounded from the battle and his fall from his horse. The Mamluk killed him quickly, cutting him down for the amusement of the crowd.
“That was your father’s last song and fight, young man. You should be proud of him. He earned glory and honor for his name that day. He could have retreated but he didn’t run; instead, he stood and fought to the last blood. He was the last of his regiment to die. The battle was lost, the whole campaign was lost, the Crusade of King Louis was over. So many good and brave men saw the Sun smile for the last time that day. A whole generation of Crusaders had gone.”
r /> “Why didn’t he retreat? His death was meaningless.”
“Your father died like a hero, fighting to the very end, my child.”
Yes, but Peter wanted to have a father; he fiercely wished for it. The naïve chivalry of the man who had sired him had deprived him of a true family.
“I shamed myself in leaving the scene, that day. I chose to dishonor myself but to live. Your father chose immortality. Now, lying in this sandy land that feeds on men’s blood, I feel regret. The loss of my honor kept me from going home. I couldn’t stand in front of my family and my king and tell them that I had abandoned my battalion—even with permission—to bring news and to save myself.” He had tears in his eyes.
“Soon after I recovered from my wound, I returned to Acre and decided to await my destiny in this land and to live in the name of my master, raising you. When I arrived, you were already born. Your mother was gone and I faced the challenge of raising a baby in a hostile place, missing home and with my soul degrading.” He tried to look into Peter’s eyes.
“You knew my mother?”
“No, my child, all I know is that she had abandoned you in the monastery.” Alexander raised his hand to Peter’s face.
“You are so much like your father. Your black hair and brown eyes are just like his. You have his stubborn pride too.”
Peter shuddered but didn’t worry about offending Brother Alexander—the old monk could hardly see him. Peter’s father obviously had been a notorious Crusader, connected to the bloodline of English royalty.
“Why have you never told me his name?” Peter was eager to know, but the leprous man was somewhere else. The story had driven him back in time and loaded him with fearful emotions. Peter wasn’t sure he had heard him.
“Why?” Peter asked again.
“Because of his name. Your father wasn’t loved by the French.” Brother Alexander took a breath. “William Longsword, or Longespée in French. The name reminded them of King Louis’s failed Crusade, and of his brother’s death. As you know, the city of Acre was in the hands of the French. I promised your father to tell you the truth about your name when you're ready or when I'm on a deathbed. Brother John, your mentor, and guardian is dead. Soon I will leave this world, so ready or not you need to learn your father’s name, young man.”
“I feel guilty about Brother John’s death,” Peter said.
“You should not, my child,” Alexander said. “It was his oath to keep you safe.”
He knew there was nothing to be done, yet he felt guilty. His stomach felt nauseated and his chest felt as if a piece of a rock were stuck in it.
What was the main difference between the experienced and inexperienced man? The experienced man had fallen and risen many times that he knew how to do things. But the inexperienced man had not yet started to fall or rise. This thought revived him. This lesson was delivered from his mentor.
He was proud to have had such a mentor.
“Rest his soul,” Peter said.
Brother Alexander pointed to an old small leather bag hanging on the wall.
“Before I left the battlefield, William gave me this for you,” the leprosy man said. “Take the bag. You will find inside a ring and a letter.”
Peter thought about Brother Alexander’s words as he looked at the ring. It had six lions engraved on it: three on top, two under them, and a single one below. The sign of his father and his family. The seal of the letter was the same as the ring.
“It belonged to your father. Longsword.” Alexander whispered. “This is the most precious present for you.”
Peter was silent.
“You are the illegitimate son of a notorious Crusader connected to the bloodline of the Lionheart.” Alexander talked with a wheeze. “Your mentor, who was given the responsibility to raise you and to protect you, is dead. The ring will show you the true story of your father, your family, and your curse.”
“Curse? But ….”
“The letter is only for your eyes, Peter.”
The young man looked at the old roll of parchment with its seal. There was only one problem: he couldn’t read. He had never wanted to learn, no matter how hard his mentor had tried to teach him. Now he must.
“A curse?” he asked again.
“Now you are on your own, young man. I am too old and sickly for this.” The old man coughed.
“Peter Longsword, your journey starts now. I wish you well.” With this, the old man fell asleep. The orphan took the bag and stood. He had no sword; his weapon had been broken during the fight of the previous night. He would have to stand in front of his officer and explain how he had broken his sword less than a day after it had been issued to him. He cringed, imagining the scene.
He had heard that today was Lord Edward’s birthday. What a sad way to celebrate it, with poison in your blood delivered by a treacherous bastard. The same bastard Edward had promoted and given a new life, power, and his friendship a year before.
The world had gone mad.
Peter needed to continue his quest to find who was behind Julian’s orders. Why did they want him dead? Why had the old monk paid with his life?
He was sure it was connected with Edward’s attack and with his own destiny.
His determination drove him forward like the waves of the sea. He thought nothing could stop him from his goal, and he went to find Red Herring.
***
Red Herring was worried. The lad had gone missing.
After his conversation with Otto, he had gone to inspect his men in the barracks, then to check on his destrier. It was not that he didn’t trust the groom, but he was used to checking it for himself—an old habit from his childhood. The animal was cleaned and fed.
Afterward, accompanied by David and some of his men, he went to look for the orphan. He intended to enjoy the lad’s company while they investigated the harbor and the taverns there. But the alarming events from the night before seemed to have continued. They found two monks at the monastery with their bellies split open. One in the kitchen and one in the garden. The second body was the old monk, John, that had taken care of Peter, the same man who had arranged for the orphan’s job in Lady Eleanor’s household. There was evidence of a fight.
An eyewitness described warriors in dark garments running by with blood on their unsheathed weapons, chasing a young man. That Peter was missing gave James hope, but he wasn’t happy at all. He was supposed to look after the man and he already had failed.
After they left the monastery, he sent a word to the castle and continued his task, heading to the harbor’s taverns to join Owen in his search for Julian.
Had the orphan been followed? Or was another traitor involved? James was trying to figure out how Peter had been found in the monastery.
“It stinks,” he said to David while walking toward the merchant district. He passed by the Templars’ Quarter and turned left, walking alongside the sea shore. He sent some of his men to check the harbor, hoping to find Peter still alive.
Saddlebacks were flying all about. The birds’ robust voices couldn’t be mistaken. They were always in search of food. The Sun was laughing on his creatures and was waiting for the culmination of the day, before retiring to his lair in the sky.
James was reunited with the Welshman, Owen. He liked his humor. But most of all, the archer was a reliable man. The three of them, James, Owen, and David entered the first tavern together. It was crowded with mercenaries, Crusaders, unemployed rogues, sailors, and Genoese crossbowmen. As Edward’s Crusade began to fade, most of these men were in search of new jobs or ships to take them home. Templars and members of the other orders also hired men; they always were short on manpower.
They sat and ordered some ale and dried fish.
Ingram, the tavern keeper was an old Scot who had arrived in the city many years before. He was a former Crusader, now was satisfied with his job and his young, Saracen wife. Englishmen liked to frequent this tavern, as the atmosphere reminded them of home. The host’s accent an
d jokes helped, too. Everyone who visited the tavern wondered how this ugly bastard had managed to end up with a pretty, young woman but no one dared to ask him how he had found her. Ingram was a barrel-chested Scot with a fierce temper, although he was no longer young. His long claymore hung on the wall behind the bar, where anyone who entered could see it.
James knew him from a distant village north of Durham. The tavern-keeper was like a brother to him; they were sword brothers who had participated in a war over religious misunderstandings, power, and influence. They were all pawns in this game of kings.
“Herring, where have you been these days? I missed your presence. Not your ugliness, but your humor was much needed.” They all laughed. “The girl who warmed your bed almost came here to ask for me,” Ingram, the tavern-keeper joked.
“I am here, so hands off her skirt.” They joked about everything. Everything except for honor, which was always a touchy topic for Englishmen.
“Send my regards to your lady. Tell her when she is bored of you, she should come to me.” James winked.
Together, they drank, laughed, and shared their problems, and of course, they sang.
We are the men from the north
We are here to sing our battle songs
We are the devils from the north
We are the bastards beyond the sea
We are here today to fight
We are here today to drink
We are here to sing out loud
Till the very end of the world.
They laughed again, the rest left behind.
“Hey, curly Welshman, when you will learn to shoot proper, eh?” James asked, drinking his ale.
“Whenever you change your skirt,” Owen replied with a devil’s smile. “Besides, do you know whose side God is on?”
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 10