“So, who are you, my lady?” Even Hamo stuttered a bit when speaking to her, but then regained his composure again.
“I am Isabella of Ibelin, Lady of Beirut. I was traveling to Jerusalem when Roger of Sicily ambushed us.”
“You know him?” Red Herring asked.
“Of course, I know him. He was once in my service. But the Templars paid more,” she added.
“Why did he attack you?” Hamo asked.
“I would like to know that, too,” she said, then smiled.
“I think you do, but you keep it for yourself,” Hamo said.
“The troubles of royalty don’t concern us,” Owen said.
“Why, then, did you interfere? And why are you dressed like holy men? You clearly are not.”
“We are all holy men in this land, aren’t we?” Hamo said.
She looked at Hamo with an innocently questioning look.
Sir James shook his head, cleared his throat and introduced himself.
“We are from the English Corps of Lord Edward,” he said.
Peter wondered whether news of the assassination attempt had spread enough for this lady to have heard about it.
“Crusaders?”
“The Crusade is over, due to the peace treaty. We decided to make a pilgrimage to Jerusalem before we set sail to our homeland,” James said.
“Dressed like monks?” There was sarcasm in her remark.
“A precaution. We are intruders; beyond Acre and Nazareth, there is a war zone.”
She looked at them skeptically.
“And you, milady, traveling with a baby, almost kidnapped? You aren’t traveling with many valuables besides yourself, are you?” Hamo asked.
“It is not your business,” Isabella said.
With Isabella and her knight were traveling three servants: a middle-aged woman holding a baby, the same who had the apple, a lady-in-waiting, and a lad, younger than Peter, who was Isabella’s valet.
“The baby is the reason for our journey to the holy city,” Isabella said. “We travel to seek a healer for the child; less than a year old, he suffered from an illness.”
“Whose baby is it?” Owen asked.
“It’s not your business too,” Isabella said.
“It appears it is now,” Hamo said gently. The subject was set aside.
Peter followed his gaze to a dust cloud over the ridge where the Mamluk scout party was watching them.
“We lost our cover; you lost your guards. Perhaps we could help each other,” Hamo said.
Isabella thought for a moment, nodded, and turned her back on him, conferring with the wounded Hospitaller. They exchanged some words and then she turned back to Hamo.
“We have an agreement. We will continue as you propose. Let’s go.” She ordered and returned to her carriage.
The last standing Knight from the Hospital of St. John approached the Wolf and removed the great helmet which those of the order wore in battle.
It was a woman. Her blond hair was cut short and she had sunspots on her face. Peter hadn’t seen a female knight before, nor heard of one.
She looked at the Wolf’s eyes and, with coldness, said, “Thank you, Ulf Magnusson. Again.” She turned her back on him to enter the carriage of her lady.
Most of the men were astonished for the second time. They had never met a woman in knight’s gear wearing the eight-pointed white cross of the hospital. And she was a pretty one, though older than her mistress.
She knew the Desert Wolf by name.
“What the hell?” Peter thought. Templars fighting Hospitallers, Mamluks, assassins, a mysterious warrior, a secret mission, a female knight, and a rescued princess. What was the world coming to, and how had he gotten involved in all this?
The orphan patted his new beard, which itched.
This was just the beginning. The orphan wondered what lay ahead.
“We need to find a place for the night,” James said. “We are too exposed in the valley.”
They traveled as fast as they could; all of them were now equipped with horses and the only thing that dictated their speed was the royal carriage. Edward the Saracen was on a horse next to David. Red Herring and Hamo led the travelers, and Peter and Owen rode close behind them. Along with the warhorses, there were some palfreys, lighter-weight horses, suitable for riding over long distances and to pull the carriage and carry their belongings.
They found high ground overlooking the road. After they made an improvised shelter for the night, David and one other man were on the first watch.
This was Peter’s first night out of the city and the events of the day only enriched his excitement. Peter helped Owen make a campfire, fetching dry wood from bushes and fallen old tree.
“This will keep the predators and cold at bay,” the Welshman said. “And, of course, it is useful to cook food. But sometimes, we do not light the fire when we don’t want to show our position. Then we sing the song of the frozen dreams.”
Peter’s curiosity was piqued. “Frozen what?”
The rogue-looking Welshman started to tic-tacking with his teeth in some fearsome rhythm, like a song.
“This is the song of the frozen dreams, when you are alone in the dark, without fire, without warmth, and without hope.” He paused, and when he was satisfied with how wide the orphan’s eyes were, he laughed.
After that, all around them laughed, too. It wasn’t the first time the Welshman had told this story to some inexperienced soldier. Everyone enjoyed his humor.
They were all around the fire, except the sentry. Most of the soldiers carried with them some bread, Arab biscuits, and salted meat. Owen had lost two arrows, but there would be a hare for dinner.
They enjoyed the smell from the fire. There was some talking, too.
“We rode all day along the Via Maris,” James said. “This ancient, Roman road, whose name meant “the way of the sea,” had been used for centuries, even since the time of the legendary Saladin.”
“The story of the war between him and Richard the Lionheart was almost 100 years old but was still remembered by the people, the legend having passed from generation to generation, as all legends were. Richard had defeated the great Saladin near the fortress of Arsuf and Jaffa.” Isabella said.
“Do you know that Lord Edward is Richard’s grandnephew. He took the Crusader’s vow, just as his great uncle had. Just as Saladin, the famous sultan, had opposed Richard, and now Sultan Baibars stood against Edward.” James said.
Peter and the rest were tired. They sat around the fire and talked about the failed Crusade of the French king, Louis, two years before. After his first failure, twenty years previously, on his second attempt, he had been more determined to succeed. He had managed to build a large network to organize logistics. There had been a rumor that he had had the Spear of Destiny but had died before using it. It was a pity if it was true.
“He should have bought himself a future, not the Roman spear that pierced God’s son,” Owen said.
Romans had built roads and whole cities conquered the world, even killed God’s son. Peter thought they must have been a fearsome people but, eventually, even the best die. Something had crashed their empire and he was eager to learn it. The Roman Empire—that mysterious, ancient people whose heir was the Byzantium Empire—fired curiosity in the orphan’s heart.
The fire cracked; its pleasant heat warmed the front of his body but his back was exposed to the cold night.
Peter turned his back to the others and took the precious book from his leather bag. He looked at the cover page; it was marvelously painted with beautiful drawings of knights and villains, horses, and some creatures he was seeing for the first time. The light which came from the fire was dim but was enough to satisfy his curiosity. There were some letters on the front. He regretted that he hadn’t listened to his mentor to learn how to read. The memory of John the monk saddened him. His eyes filled with tears, but he managed not to let a sound out.
“Hello. Is this a book
…?” A young, trepidation voice came from his left side. It was the valet, a wiry boy of about fifteen years. Peter gave the boy a predator’s look. The boys’ brown eyes were a mixture of curiosity and youth. His curly, dark brown hair was cut short. Maybe he was Italian, or a mongrel bred from a Christian and a Saracen, but Peter didn’t care.
He decided to be kind after all. “What is your name?”
“Nickolas.” His voice trembled. He must have still been in shock after what had happened during the day. “What are you reading?”
Peter was tempted to lie, ashamed that he couldn’t answer because he didn’t know.
“Eh, ... I wish I knew, but I have to admit that I can’t read. I never wanted to learn and never listened to my teacher when he tried to teach me,” Peter said. He was older than Nickolas but now felt vulnerable as a man without wit or skills. He realized that a man without knowledge is poor; anyone could steal an object, but no one could take away knowledge.
“I can teach you,” the valet said. The orphan saw the reflection of the nearby fire in Nickolas’ eyes.
Peter focused his eyes on this scared, little fellow. This was the first time that someone had offered to teach him, other than his mentor.
“What would you want in return?”
Nickolas seemed a little surprised by the harsh reply but appeared to be used to such reactions.
“Tell me your story. I want to be a writer, a chronicler of the past deeds; I want to leave something for the future generations.”
Peter felt the ambition and the passion of this boy, like his own. He knew that to become a better soldier and, someday—a knight—he had to learn to read and write. He was ready to learn. He wanted to be a better warrior like the Desert Wolf and he was sure that this book would help him to achieve that. He wanted more than what he had.
He gave the book to the valet.
“My stories for your lessons,” Peter agreed.
Nickolas examined it. “A fine book you have.”
Peter didn’t say a thing. He hoped he had made the right choice.
The two young men sat by the campfire with their dreams: the future warrior and the future chronicler. The world needed them both, the orphan thought.
Owen approached them. “How are your legs?”
“I am not sure. Every move I make feels like someone cut off some of my flesh.” Peter said.
“Here, take this.” The Welshman gave him a package of bandages.
“Where did you get this?” Peter said, examining them. They were of a fine quality. He didn’t remember them from when they had assembled their supplies in Acre.
“Let’s just say he didn’t need them anymore.” Owen gave a rogue smile to the valet.
“Are all of you knights?” Nickolas asked timidly.
The Welshman grinned, then said, “Myself, a knight? Eh. No boy, I am a common archer in the service of Lady Eleanor.” Owen looked as proud as if he were guarding the Tree of Life. “A knight must behave in a certain way, but not me.”
He nodded to Peter and continued, “Look at him. He is not, either, but with the speed of his deeds and heroics, he will be knighted before the next full Moon.” He paused to emphasize what he said next. “If we survive ….” And he laughed, hard. The Welshman sat beside them and nodded toward the Wolf.
“There is a legend of the Desert Wolf and how he had helped the sultan deal with assassins who had tried to assassinate Baibars,” Owen chewed the feather of one of his arrows. “The Wolf had managed to get inside one of their main castles. Alone.”
“Alone?”
“And unarmed.” The Welshman leaned on the wooden wheel of the wagon. “While climbing the main road, he took an arrow in the shoulder but survived.” He grinned. “If I was the shooter…” he winked at Peter.
“What happened next?” Peter’s shoulders lifted in a shrug.
“He reached the castle, somehow managing to sneak inside during the night. The next morning, the large, wooden door of the main gate opened for the sultan’s soldiers. The Desert Wolf met them, covered in blood, sitting and eating a green apple. All the inhabitants of the assassins’ castle were dead.”
“Is this really happened?” Nickolas asked.
“You can ask him if you like,” Owen said.
Red Herring and Hamo came from questioning Isabella and Githa. James told them that the Master of the order of the Hospitallers had assigned Githa to Lady Isabella.
“And how did a fine, pretty lady like her become a religious knight?” Owen asked. Peter was amazed, too. James told her tale, which he had succeeded in acquiring from the knight.
“She and her husband journeyed from the distant North on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to pray for a child. Soon they received the gift they desired most: a baby. They bought a vineyard and they paid the Templars for protection.” Red Herring drank some wine and continued, “But fate is cruel. In a midnight attack, their manor was sacked by the Saracens as revenge for an earlier raid by the Templars. Only she survived—wounded, raped, and thrown away like a rag doll. She saw her husband and child burned alive for the amusement of the Saracens. She remembered the coat of arms of the assailants, never forgetting it. The Templars wanted her land; without a husband and her harvest burned, soon she would be in debt. She had lost everything: her husband, her child, her land, and her future.
“Instead of signing the land over to them, she gave it to the Hospitallers, who leased it back to work so she and her servants could try to rebuild her life. The Templars were left red-faced and they personally led a raid against her. They killed everyone, even the animals. They raped her, beat her, and left her to die.”
Peter listened with some disbelief.
“Yet, she survived, and now, look at her: a real captain of the knights. She swore to hunt Saracens and Templars for sport. When you hear the name of Githa of the Hospital, beware if you work for the Templars!” James finished his tale dramatically.
Nickolas was rapt, writing the story down on parchment.
“Isabella of Ibelin. I have heard this name before,” Owen said to himself.
“It’s one of the great lordships in the Holy Land,” Nickolas said. “Lady Isabella was the king’s bride but he died.”
“I heard this story,” James said. “There was a scandal, too.”
“Yes, there was a rumor about an affair with a knight named Julian of Sidon,” Hamo remembered.
“Julian, again. Small world,” Red Herring said.
Edward the Saracen sat near them, listening. Red Herring turned his gaze to him and asked, “Is it true the assassins don’t attack Templars or Hospitallers or other religious knights?”
The members of his party around the campfire were silent in anticipation of the answer.
“The assassins’ leader demands a ransom for every important life. Princes, lords, wealthy knights, even western kings—if you pay, there will be no attempt to take your soul,” Edward the Saracen said.
Red Herring wrinkled his face.
“So, you threaten the lives of the rich for money? An interesting business you have.”
“Something like that,” the assassin nodded.
“But you did not answer my question.”
“There is no point attacking religious orders. They are fanatics; there is no point in killing the Grand Master or some important officer because another fanatic will just rise in his place. It’s not worth the effort.”
“I heard that, when Lord Edward arrived, his advisers took care of this matter. A ransom was delivered through the Templars to eliminate this risk,” Sir James said. This was news to Peter, but, judging from the expressions around the campfire, not to anyone else.
“I never heard such thing,” the assassin said confidently. “Although I know there is more than one faction of assassins. A few years ago, there was a plot against the sultan with the support of another faction, so there are at least two factions I know of, but there may be more.”
He paused, signaling with t
ied hands that he wanted some water. Owen complied.
“The sultan survived the plot and made his own regiment—the Qussad, as you know it—only loyal to him. One of his most trusted men organized it and commanded it. All members of the secret intelligence Qussad had left their families to be guarded and cared for by the sultan’s personal legion.” He drank some water. “If someone dies on a mission, the sultan takes care of his family. But if someone disobeys or defects, ....” Edward the Saracen closed his eyes.
“Sultan Baibars?” James said.
“Yes, Sultan Baibars have a fearsome reputation. After all, he is the Sultan of Egypt and Syria, from Cairo to Damascus. He had repelled the fearsome hordes of the Tartars, he had defeated opposing amirs who didn’t share his visions, and he had built an empire. He had also established trade and diplomatic relations with the Byzantium Empire, the Kingdom of Sicily, and many others. He continued to crush your Christian kingdom, piece by piece, castle by castle,” Edward the Saracen said.
“We have not surrendered yet,” James said.
“There was no sign of anyone brave enough to match him, except Lord Edward,” the Saracen said.
“And now the prince would pay with his life, as had Phillip of Montfort,” James said. Edward the Saracen raised his eyebrows and looked at Red Herring.
“Do you know that he used to work for the sultan?” The assassin nodded to the Wolf.
Peter looked at James. The Scottish knight didn’t look surprised.
“And to punish the plotters, he sent the Desert Wolf to take care of them.” The assassin looked with fear at the Frank, who was sitting opposite him. “When you need to terminate a lord, a prince, or even a king, you arrange it with the assassins. But when you need to give a lesson to some disobedient faction of assassins, you send him.” His eyes were on the stranger.
Peter’s eyes were, too.
Chapter Ten
Via Maris, Holy Land, Monday, 20th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Near the Qaqun fortress
Peter didn’t sleep much that night.
It was his first night in the wilderness. There were unknown sounds—night songs of different insects. He even heard an unknown animal cry near to their camp. He barely closed his eyes.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 15