He had lay down late after working with Nickolas. The young valet was like Peter, a novice in Lady Isabella’s service. The young men’s ambitions drove them to work even in the dark, even as most of their companions slept.
The book the orphan had stolen wasn’t an ordinary one. “De Re Militari,” Nickolas read on the cover. It had been written long before by some man called Vegetius—a Roman—and it was an instruction for warfare with colorful drawings. It had been translated from Latin especially for Edward.
“To my beloved one, my Edward, my better half. So that you may become a great general, and an even a greater king. With love, Eleanor.” Nickolas read the inscription written inside the book.
Peter took a deep breath. He had stolen a present from the future King of England. This was bad. He felt weak.
“Where did you say that you got this book?” Nickolas asked.
Peter felt miserable and said nothing.
For theft, he could lose his hand. But for stealing from a prince, he could lose much more. If Peter’s party was successful in finding the special physician to heal Edward. If the prince survived.
Yet, Peter felt his curiosity was stronger than his guilt. He was eager to learn. He had in his hands a Roman book on warfare. He wanted to know more.
“Step by step,” Nickolas had said. But Peter didn’t get much sleep, thinking about his new desire.
In the early morning, before the Sun rose, the party looked at the plunder they had taken. All of the yesterday’s monks geared up with the dead warriors’ belongings. Peter found a padded leather jacket close to his size and a mail coif, a shaped hood of mail to protect his head, neck, and throat. As he attached a one-handed sword to his new leather belt, he felt almost like a knight. Almost. He understood that he wasn’t a proper soldier or a knight just because he had a sword. He needed to learn. He lacked experience and of course, he had to earn his spurs.
Wearing the Hospitallers’ surcoats, they were now, officially, the Lady of Beirut’s new guards until they reached Jerusalem. Their new cover had advantages but they must also accept the disadvantages: Roger of Sicily would be after them. They had taken on the enemy of the lady’s former guards.
To the amusement of the all-seeing Sun, they were led by women. The Lady of Beirut, Lady Isabella, and her knight, Githa. It would look more realistic for Githa to lead them if another scout patrol met them, Isabella insisted. James agreed.
“What luck,” Owen murmured all morning.
They were on the road and Peter rode a gray warhorse whose master had been slain. The animal was nervous, like his new rider. Тhe orphan didn’t understand too much of horses. He was riding this week for the first time and it was a real challenge to keep on the back of the animal.
“Githa ... What is this name, German?” Hamo seemed unbalanced by the fact that a woman would lead their vanguard.
Red Herring, on the other hand, was enjoying the situation and the murmuring of his younger friends. For him, this was a fun adventure. Red Herring smiled. Peter knew he preferred to be dressed for battle rather than in a monk’s robe. He had been warring all his life: in his homeland, in France, and now, here in the Holy Land.
They had set off early, with Owen and David scouting ahead. Everyone rode in pairs, Hamo and Githa rode in the front, James and David were the last and the carts were between them. Nickolas was in the wooden cart behind the main carriage, with the supplies and loot. Peter rode close to him and they continued his instruction, working on his letters. The orphan was determined to learn quickly. He tried to memorize all the important things the young valet said to him.
“Reading and writing are invaluable skills,” Nickolas said. “They can change your life. The written word has elevated mankind.”
“How?”
“It allows you to move knowledge across the ages, to preserve it for later generations,” the young valet said.
Peter was amazed by his words and said so.
“These are not my words, but what my teacher told me.” Nickolas blushed.
The orphan would remember them.
“Your teacher is a clever man,” Peter said. He continued all morning to study. After a while, he looked at the assassin, examining his expressionless face. It was hard to imagine that Edward the Saracen would escape this journey with his life. The assassin was a wanted man—by his master for his failure and by Julian. Sooner or later, they would know he wasn’t in Edward’s dungeon anymore. His only chance was to stick with the plan and to hope their mission succeeded. Even then, Lord Edward’s reputation made Peter doubt that he would let the assassin live.
The prince had a reputation for a violent temper. He was a loyal friend but anyone who betrayed him was doomed. But Peter understood that the assassin had Lady Eleanor’s word. This might be enough to save the man. Regardless, there seemed no advantage for the assassin to try to escape.
The Sun smiled on him again with its full warmth.
Peter guided his horse next to the assassin and looked at the Desert Wolf.
The stranger was riding side-by-side with Edward the Saracen. He was dressed in his usual hood, now was equipped and with a sleeveless, leather vest. The orphan lined his horse up next to the Wolf’s.
“Teach me to how to fight,” Peter dared to say, his voice trembling a bit.
The Desert Wolf said nothing.
He gazed at the horizon. The orphan stared at his cold eyes, they were like endless pits. Peter wondered what had turned this man into such a skillful and merciless killer.
He looked in the middle of his thirties. His face showed nothing, and he looked like a man who had nothing, had lost everything, and was tired of life itself.
After a few minutes watching him, the young man wasn’t sure of anything about him, except that he was a hell of a warrior. Peter was determined to do anything to learn from him.
“Teach me to how to fight, please.” This time his voice was steady.
Again, there was no response. They rode side-by-side, following the caravan.
Peter learned that a caravan was a group of travelers or merchants and their goods and conveyances; it could be either on land, with animals, or on the sea, with ships. He was learning so much these days and that made him feel alive. There was so much to learn and to discover in this world. As the circle of his knowledge enlarged, he discovered how many things lay outside of it. It was a strange, new feeling, but Peter liked it.
The local priest in Acre had preached that everyone should work and be humble and fear the unknown. But why? When unknown was uncovered, there was no fear anymore. Why did his religion want to spread fear?
“If you want to live longer, Peter, stay away from him.” Edward the Saracen said.
Peter understood but he wasn’t on this quest to stay under an umbrella, watching the storm from a safe distance. He wanted to participate equally with all the others.
He had also realized the main reason he had been invited on this mission.
He was the bait.
Lady Eleanor had gathered all the lambs into one place to seduce the wolves.
Yes, he was one of the lambs ready for the supper, along with the assassin and the Wolf. Except the assassin had proper skills to survive—the Desert Wolf had, too. Red Herring and his fighters—everyone but the orphan. What little experience he had, fighting with thieves and bandits had been on the losing side for the most part. He felt exposed. He needed to train to survive this.
He asked again.
“I have been in the castle’s service for two days. I barely know how to hold a sword or a shield. Is that what you want standing by you in a fight?” He was bold to say this and he knew it. He hoped that by pointing out his liability, he would persuade the Wolf to help him.
“On the battlefield, there are two types of soldiers: those who fight and those who die. There will always be a need for both species.” His cold statement almost froze Peter’s desire. Almost.
“I want to be on the surviving side,” P
eter insisted.
No reaction again.
“I want to defend myself,” the orphan said.
The Desert Wolf said nothing again. Peter looked away as he wilted in the saddle and paid languid attention to the landscape.
After a few hours of riding, they had almost reached the district of Qaqun Fortress.
Red Herring pointed at the rocky tower that showed above the trees on a hill up ahead.
“We tried to capture that fortress a year ago,” he told the orphan.
“What happened?”
“Well.” James looked as if he were searching the parchment of his memory. Owen also stared upwards at the fortress that stood on the horizon.
“We had underestimated the situation and the opponent. Edward had war experience, but Templars and the other religious orders—” James spat on the dusty ground. “They didn’t follow orders. They smiled and said we were on the same side, but all they were doing was looking for plunder; they didn’t want to change the status quo. In the end, it was just us against the fortress.”
He looked at the sky.
“There was some resistance, of course. We had an open skirmish with a Saracen regiment. We surprised them, scattering their forces, and won the field that day.” James stopped for a moment, sighing. “Owen was fantastic that day; his fingers were bruised from the ferocity and speed of his arrows.” He nodded to the Welshman and continued, “But disagreements between the Templars and Hospitallers for our next action in the siege slowed us down. Lord Edward’s plan was to organize two wings to launch an attack: one from the north, with the help of Tartar alliance, and our main forces on the south, attacking the Qaqun fortress which controlled the road to Jerusalem. The Tartars failed.” There was anger in his voice.
“A sandstorm appeared from nowhere and scattered us like pieces of straw,” Owen recalled.
“But this place wasn’t an ordinary fortress on a rocky hill. It protected the newly-established market, the center of trade for the whole sultanate. The fortress had been repaired and heavily fortified. We didn’t expect it,” Red Herring said.
Owen smiled and added, “Sir James was like a real lion that day. He beat the Saracen forces with his small company. Not one of his men was hurt. With a cunning maneuver and great speed, we took them by surprise in the morning and blew them away like a storm from the north.”
Red Herring’s face showed some regret.
Edward the Saracen broke in. “Lord Edward attacked exactly where the sultan wanted. It was a well-placed trap and he fell right into it. He jumped like a fish into a hot pan.”
James stared at the assassin, his brow furrowed.
“What are you saying? It was a full-scale operation that we prepared for months.”
“Are you sure about that?” the assassin asked.
Peter’s curiosity was piqued.
“It was a full-scale operation, to be sure, but it was prepared by the Qussad and the sultan’s spies.” Edward the Saracen spoke with confidence.
“How?” Red Herring and most of the men were eager to hear more.
“We had agents and spies everywhere. I assume you did as well,” the assassin said. Peter looked at him. He was a persona non-grata, after all; he was the man who had tried to kill their master.
“My primary task was to gather information on your plans and to synchronize our actions against your prince. It was not easy, but I organized things so that his plan would fail. The Tartar forces and your own never managed to unite and achieve their goal. I was able to divide them and to force your prince to attack this fortress. I planted misinformation, manipulating him into believing that the fortress was ill-defended and under repair. I offered him a hook and he bit it.” He looked into Red Herring’s eyes.
“Our sultan used a principal of your ancient Romans: Divide et impera—divide and rule.” Edward the Saracen smiled.
Divide and rule. The phrase was familiar to Peter. He had heard it just the night before from the book. The Romans were dead, but their legacy had lived on in the many nations they had conquered.
“If Edward had succeeded in uniting his army with the Tartars, our advantage would have disappeared. Imagine the heavily-armed Crusaders united with the eastern horde and their mounted archers. This would have devastated us. Baibars was fully aware of this scenario. When Edward sent an embassy to the Tartar horde, the sultan set our goal to mislead him and to prevent the union. Our first and major goal wasn’t to assassinate Edward because we weren’t sure he could unite the Crusader lords and the pathetic King of Cyprus. It is always a risk to eliminate an enemy’s ruler. You never know what will follow.”
“But the sultan changed his mind,” Red Herring said.
“Yes, your lord wasn’t a headless chicken like the rest. He proved to be a prudent and brave leader; he managed to win his father’s kingdom back in the battle of Evesham. We learned his record and his reputation.” Edward the Saracen stopped.
“He became the main threat to the sultan and his goal to overthrow the Latin kingdom. After he dealt with the Tartars,” James concluded.
Peter’s ears perked up again. Evesham—he had heard of this battle before.
“Lord Edward made his choice and he lost.” The Saracen’s eyes looked vivid and he continued. “After the peace treaty, my job was done and I was eager to abandon the city of Acre and return to my family. The order for his assassination was a shock even for me.”
“But fate is cruel, isn’t it?” James looked at the orphan’s face and said, “An orphan foiled your plan.”
“What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” Peter said. “The old monk used to say that to me.”
The orphan closed his eyes in an attempt to visualize his mentor’s face but the image refused to come. Barely a few days after John’s death, he was starting to forget his image. Maybe this was human nature. But he couldn’t forget his mentor’s wisdom and lessons, his kindness, or the way he had looked after Peter.
They stopped for some rest and water.
“John, the old Hospitaller with cooking skills?” the Wolf asked. “The one who lived in the old monastery near the harbor and knew all about herbs and wounds?”
Peter nodded.
Githa, too, had a few good words to say about the old monk.
The orphan was surprised that his mentor was so well-known. Even Edward the Saracen talked about him with respect. Peter hoped that one day, all his friends would respect him in the same way these people respected his mentor.
He heard a whistling sound and saw an arrow hit the ground as kicked up some dust near them.
“It is a warning shot,” James said. “Mamluks!”
“They are too many. We can’t fight them,” Hamo said.
“Stay calm. They will not attack Lady Isabella of Beirut,” The Desert Wolf lowered his head and checked his weapons—the one-handed axe attached at the back of his waist to his belt and the short knife on his left side.
“A hundred,” Hamo guessed, trying to count the enemy riding toward them through the cloud of dust and sand.
“Two hundred, at least.” James was more serious. Owen approached and observed the enemy.
“Why not just let the Frank kill them all while we cook something for lunch, eh?”
No one laughed this time.
“Don’t call me Frank.” The Desert Wolf’s comment made the men shut their mouths.
“If we survive, then it would be a great pleasure for us to introduce ourselves properly and share some beer.” Owen smiled.
It was a Saracen cavalry, wild with war cries. It advanced from all directions and filled the road. The ground wasn’t visible under their horses’ hooves.
“Gentlemen, behave yourselves.” Red Herring was serious.
Peter and the rest of the Christians were quiet in the searing Sun. They were surrounded. Some of the Saracens wore chainmail armor; others had leather, lamellar armor. Most held short bows and arrows in their hands, ready to shoot. Those with mail had spear
s and round shields, and curved sabers at the waist. Most of them wore spangled helms and aventail, a mail which covered their necks. Many of the spears bore short flags of different colors and signs.
They were many and they looked terrifying, like an experienced band of warriors. Sweat had glued the dirt to their faces.
The Saracen captain was a tall horseman. His legs looked crooked. He was clean-shaven and his brown hair was all but hidden below his white turban. His blue eyes made him stand out from the rest of the Mamluks.
“Lady Isabella!” he shouted.
He waited, a few steps ahead of his men.
“Lady Isabella of Ibelin!” the captain shouted again.
She opened the wooden door of the carriage and stepped out. She was accompanied by Githa.
“We invite you to our camp near the fortress for the night,” said the captain. “Our amir is eager to meet you.” His tone was peaceful but cold. It didn’t sound like an invitation, but more like a command.
Peter turned and saw the same expression in the Wolf’s eyes as had been there when he killed the Templars.
The Wolf dropped like a snake from his horse and jumped over a rock on the ground, kneeling behind it. For a moment, Peter didn’t understand what he planned to do, but suddenly his vision cleared. The Desert Wolf was trying to blend in with the yellow, dusty background of the rocky desert.
Peter didn’t think but followed the Wolf’s example; he dropped from one side of his horse and hoped the Saracen cavalry didn’t spot him. The orphan hit the ground hard, feeling pain in his bottom and his legs. He rolled over the sandy land and his back hit a rock almost half the height of a man. His eyes started to fill with tears from the impact but he tried not to lose sight of the Desert Wolf.
Some would call this blind bravery, others would call it foolishness. His old mentor used to say, “Peter, do not behave like a frog, which looks at the warhorse and raises her leg, wanting a new horseshoe, too.” The orphan smiled at the last thought as he felt like a frog.
It was a long time until the Sun would go to bed and the heat was devastating. He wished he had taken some water. Next time he would know better—if there was a next time.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 16