The sound of the trotting horses and men’s voices were around him. Dust danced from so many riders. The desert wind also kicked up the dust and he was hidden by it, or at least he believed so.
Peter hadn’t taken anything from the horse. Now, he had to wait for the Mamluks to leave. While he was hiding, Peter heard a man’s voice near him.
He didn’t understand a word, as the Mamluks spoke in a language that resembles Arabic. He held his breath and hoped to stay unseen. He felt like he was waiting for hours. Sweat drops began to appear on his forehead. His black hair was wet and full of sand and dirt. Like the landscape, or at least he hoped so. Footsteps were closing in and Peter’s heart beat fast. He tried to calm down and decide what to do.
Another sound turned the attention of the Saracen in another direction and he walked away. Peter let out a breath of relief. His fingers had become stiff and he moved them a little. At last, he dared to raise his head and look where he had last seen the enemy. But he saw nobody.
The Saracen cavalry, Lady Isabella, and his friends were all gone. Peter saw a big sand cloud moving east and after a while, he lost them from his sight. The Mamluks had taken his friends. But where?
Peter had risen and started to beat the dust and sand out of his clothes when two raiders appeared around a nearby turn.
The horsemen had been sent left to investigate and clear the area, the orphan guessed. They had been waiting for their prey to reveal themselves and Peter, in his foolishness, was visible again. He should have known someone would return to check the area to be sure.
He was like a fish on the hook, weaponless, horseless, and waterless in the middle of the barren desert. Alone, he watched the two professional soldiers ride toward him with their sabers ready to unleash death.
Diyaab al-Sahra, the Desert Wolf, sprang forth and threw his short blade into the first rider’s neck while he surprised the second one with his axe. The body of the dead Mamluk fell on the ground, as the Wolf approached Peter, cleaning his weapons off.
“Because of your stupidity, now we have horses,” the Wolf said. His voice was like a blade, cutting the air. The sentiment behind his words was clear; the orphan was now part of his wolf pack.
There were Arab biscuits and water in the riders’ saddlebags. Peter watched the Wolf as he took what he needed from the fallen Mamluks. He kept his expensive, leather vest armor beneath the mail shirt and put a peaked helmet on his head, leaving his hood lying on his shoulders, ready for use. He took the red scarf from one of the dead men and tied it around his waist, above his leather belt.
He caught the orphan’s look and said, “Mamluk officers are distinguished by such red scarves. If someone speaks to us, let me do the talking. Now take his gear.” He pointed to the other corpse.
Peter was sure the Desert Wolf had a plan; he would ask about it later. He needed a few moments for his heartbeat to reach a normal rate. In a few minutes, the two had turned themselves into slave soldiers of the sultan.
When they had taken what they could from the fallen Saracens, they rode after the rest.
***
The Night wrapped his arms around the land.
“What is our plan?” Peter asked, but received no answer.
The stars in the sky looked like distant, static fireflies. There was a strange calmness in the darkness.
Peter and the Desert Wolf had approached the camp of the Mamluks before sunset and waited for the nightfall. The orphan looked at the Wolf. He wasn’t from this land, but from a distant one beyond the sea. He had to be from the North, Peter assumed. The young lad had seen such men arriving in the Crusader port of the kingdom. They arrived in search of salvation or else were looking for a new life, new future, new start—new something. For most of the Europeans, this land was an opportunity. The poorest fisherman in Normandy could become a lord in the Outremer, the land overseas; a thief could become a royal adviser or a rich merchant. The kingdoms of Europe were full of dogmas and class systems, where everyone knew his place and there was no hope of advancement. One couldn’t change, earn a promotion, build on what one had—or even think innovatively. There was only one way, the church said: their way. This was something the newcomers said often when they arrived—and that the dream of a new world had driven them forward to the unknown future. The taverns and ports were full of such stories. Some arrived from England, many from France; there were many Germans and Italians, and some from the North.
The Desert Wolf, with his eyes and hair—he looked like those foreigners, although his skin was different; it was obvious that he had lived on this shore of the sea, as his face had some sun marks.
But he did not belong to this place. How had he gotten here? Nickolas would be intrigued. If Peter could survive this quest, this would become a great story. If he could survive.
“What is your name?”
“Ulf.”
“Just Ulf?”
“Ulf.”
“I am Peter, son of ....” he paused; he wasn’t used to his father’s name, Longsword, yet. “…Peter of Acre. What is our plan?”
“I had one before you decided to follow me. Tell me what to do with a bag of bones after me?”
A bag of bones? Peter pressed his tongue against his teeth to keep from responding to this insult.
“Well, what is your plan with a bag of bones at your side?” The orphan spoke with a little irony this time, but the Wolf didn’t react.
“Maybe I should tie you to a tree, just in case; I don’t want to lose you.” Ulf’s tone revealed no emotion.
As promised, Peter was left to wait alone with the horses, while Ulf went into the darkness to scout the camp. Dressed like a Mamluk, with his red scarf on his belt, he walked straight forward to the camp, his head covered by his hood. He had a blade on his left thigh, and a short bow attached on his back with a shaft with arrows. Anyone could mistake him for a Saracen.
“It isn’t hard to replenish your arrows. Just give an ugly smile to a Mamluk battalion and run like the devil with a shield on your neck. If you are lucky, you will collect more than you need. But be careful; you have only one arse. You do not want to turn it into a pincushion, do you?” Welshman had said the night before at the campfire and laughed.
Peter remembered it and smiled.
Now, he missed Owen and his humor. He could see Ulf recede further and further into the dark, his axe glittering in the moonlight, on his back. Peter noticed he had put short blades into his leather boots. He had never seen such boots before, fine masterpieces of thick, dark-brown leather with a metal lamellar, attached on his shin guard and covered by leather strips to tie up them almost to his knees. It occurred to the orphan that he hadn’t noticed them before because Ulf had been wearing a long and dirty old monk’s robe.
He wasn’t used to being alone in the dark, in the wilderness. There had always been some light from the torches of the towers and castle walls or the harbor in Acre at night.
But here, it was different. He didn’t want to be left alone to sit and wait for Ulf to do all the work.
Peter thought about the Wolf’s plan to enter the camp and release the Crusaders and Lady Isabella. He suddenly wondered why Ulf would risk his life for theirs. Yes, there were legends about the Desert Wolf and his unnatural killing skills, but what was his motivation to help them now that he was free? Peter remembered the story about how the Desert Wolf lost his family.
“Oh, hell, that bloody bastard.” Peter slapped his temple. Ulf’s motivation to be with them on this quest was revenge. He wanted to catch the Mamluks who were responsible for the attack on his manor, nothing more. He wasn’t one of Edward’s men. He had taken no vow to the English prince. Now he had the chance to sneak into the enemy’s camp in the night. He had no reason to help them, didn’t even pretend to care about them. That’s why he had left Peter to wait.
“This is not good,” the orphan murmured.
Not only did Ulf have no attention of helping his new friends; he had used them as bait,
as Otto had used Edward the Saracen.
“Damn it,” he cursed. “Think Peter, think.” He started to move quickly in the same direction he had seen Ulf set out.
He hoped not to lose in the dark.
***
“Marco Polo,” the lad said. He looked young.
James estimated he was no more than eighteen years of age. He was tall and skinny. In a few years, he would be handsome. He had to earn some experience and to develop his smile.
“My name is Marco Polo,” he repeated with more confidence.
“So, Mr. Polo.” Hamo was more well-mannered. “What are you doing in this camp? You are Italian, aren’t you?”
“A Venetian,” he confirmed.
“And with whom are you traveling, sir?” Githa asked.
“With my father and my uncle, milady.” He gave a little pause, probably unsure as to how to properly address to the female knight. She had encountered this reaction too many times to count. “And Captain Andrea Pelu, who led us.”
“Led you where?” Red Herring asked the inevitable question.
“Jerusalem.” Marco’s lips pinched.
“So, you are a Venetian but escorted by a Genoese captain and you were captured in the middle of the road by Mamluks.” The Welshman scratched his forehead.
“How do you know that?” The lad was confused.
James’ eyebrows heads moved down as his jaw tensed to biting posture, pushing lower lip forward and making his mouth curved. They were captured. They were in the enemy camp, waiting for some amir to arrive and to interrogate them. They had been separated from Lady Isabella and the young Polo’s family. Their chances of success were evaporating. As the Welsh archer had said earlier, they still managed to find the Italians.
James noticed the absence of two of his companions, Peter and the Desert Wolf. The Scottish knight hoped they were fine and would be able to help. But what they could do against a whole camp of Mamluks?
“Hamo, what do you think of our chances now?” James asked.
The lord from the Welsh Marches grinned, then turned his head to the left.
“Soon there will be a storm,” he said. “The wind is cold and soon will become stronger.”
They were tied in pairs to a beam near where the horses were kept, under a tent-like shelter. The smell of horse droppings was in the air, but the smell of an upcoming storm was stronger.
“So, we pray, and maybe our Lord will provide a savior to hit them with lightning,” the archer said and laughed. James smiled too. What else could he do?
Chapter Eleven
Holy Land, Monday, 20th of June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Mamluk’s Night Camp, Near the Qaqun fortress
The orphan looked at the dark sky. The storm would arrive soon.
Peter had seen Ulf approach the sentries, saluting them while straightening his pants, as if he were returning from relieving himself. The Wolf had said something to them; he staggered like a drunk, he stopped and scratched his ass. The soldiers had let him in and he disappeared into the darkness of the camp.
The orphan decided to try the same. He waited a few moments, untied his belt, and started to walk to the sentries, his gaze pointed at his pants and belt. He was clumsy trying to tie his belt but it wasn’t acting. Peter’s hands were sweating with nerves; it was hard to hold his short haubergeon, a mail coat, smaller than a hauberk, above his pants while trying to fasten them. He dropped his belt, his pants wrapped around his legs, and he stumbled. After a moment, he was on the ground with a silly expression on his face.
The guards looked at him, laughing, and said something among themselves before ignoring him. Peter stood, lifted his pants, and tied his belt. He looked for a moment toward the camp and the rows of tents. The Moon was hidden behind some dark, gray clouds. He suddenly realized that his nervousness had disappeared. He adjusted the Saracen helmet on his head.
He half-turned toward the sentries—four big men—and he nodded to them. They nodded back and left him alone. He was in.
Now what? To storm the camp, neutralize the enemy soldiers, drink some wine, and free his friends. Simple. The orphan grinned. It was a nice little dream, but he had to be serious. He needed to find his friends.
He walked in. Torches and campfires gave the site a little light. The smell of vegetable soup made his stomach howl like a hungry wolf. He had not eaten anything since morning; his belly felt stuck to his back. He walked around, unsure of what he was looking for.
Peter saw a big pavilion. There were no sentries outside. He instinctively turned in its direction. Something wasn’t right. It looked like a captain’s pavilion, bigger than the other tents. There were spears stuck in the ground near the entrance with flags hanging from the top. The orphan approached it and listened. He heard something familiar and he entered.
The slaughter was over before Peter arrived. The Wolf stood, bleeding, above his prey. The young man looked at Ulf’s eyes, but they didn’t show any sign of satisfaction. Something was missing.
“He is not here,” Ulf said.
“Who?”
“The amir.”
The orphan looked around. He saw a dozen bodies, all with red scarfs around their belts, showing their Mamluk officer status. It appeared that Ulf had interrupted an important meeting. All of the Saracen officers had died with a terrifying grimace on their faces. Their throats were cut; some had severed limbs. Everything was covered with blood.
The captain who had captured their companions wasn’t among the dead. This massacre could not be hidden. Soon, it would be discovered and then they would be out of time.
Peter cast an accusatory look at the Wolf.
He had blown their cover and hadn’t even attempted to save Peter’s friends. Ulf turned his eyes to the orphan; they were savage and empty. He took a few steps toward Peter.
“That way, second row, three tents to the north is where your friends are and another party is to the opposite side of the plateau near the horses. Hurry, I will hold them up,” the Desert Wolf said and nodded to indicate where Peter should go.
“What about you?”
“Go, I will catch up.” Ulf’s confident voice was cold, as everything around him. He was a strange soldier, a strange supplier of death for some, but for others, like Peter and the rest of their party, he offered hope. The orphan ducked out of the pavilion and started to run in the dark, following the direction Ulf had shown him.
He held his helmet with his left hand and his sword with his right, to limit the sound of rattling and not attract attention. He soon reached the long tent.
Four guards stood against him. They looked at him, confused.
Peter acted like a mad messenger, raising his hand and pointing toward the pavilion where the dead officers were. He opened his mouth but stopped. He didn’t know their language and to speak in his own tongue would be to betray himself. Instinctively, Peter said the last thing he had learned.
“Diyaab al-Sahra,” the Desert Wolf. He shouted the foreign name and pointed in the direction of the big tent. He shouted again. He never thought these words could provoke such chaos in men’s hearts. All four guards ran in the direction he pointed.
The gusting wind was picking up as the nearby tent flapped wildly.
Peter had grit in his mouth. He spat and entered the tent the guards had stood before with hope in his heart. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light inside.
“Sir James?” His heart was wrapped in hope, but no cheers from his friends arrived.
“Who are you?” said a voice from the back end of the tent. Peter froze.
“Peter … of Acre.” He saw at least two dozen Italian soldiers tied to a long, wooden beam in the middle of the tent. The orphan remembered the Italian merchants whom they had sought to catch up to on the road.
He jumped over the beam and reached the bearer of the voice, drew his knife and started to cut the thick rope ties. Peter talked fast while freeing them.
“Who are you?”
the orphan asked.
“Captain Andrea Pelu,” the same voice said. “We traveled to Jerusalem when the Mamluks caught us.”
“Do you know where is Sir James and his men?”
“Who?”
“My friends,” Peter’s voice was trembling. His heart beat fast, and he felt a slight dizziness. “A storm is coming. We need to get out of the camp quickly, but before that, I have to find Sir James and the rest.” The orphan didn’t have any spare time to explain himself; once he had freed three of the men, he handed them his knife and told them which direction they should go to escape from the camp.
Peter ran back outside. Where were his friends? Where the hell was the other end of the plateau? Peter looked around frantically. The wind lashed his face.
In the darkness, a song of chaos, wind, and thunder rang out. The wind whistled in his ears. He bent to avoid a dead bush flying by.
Peter looked at the horizon: darkness and gray clouds. A sandstorm was approaching; he hadn’t much time.
He heard the horses. He guessed he was near. Peter had forgotten to count the tents while walking, but he sensed the horses. The smell of horse shit wasn’t something you could miss, or forget.
A man with a blazing torch in his right hand stopped him. He looked at Peter’s eyes and asked him something in his language. The orphan wondered for a moment how to react, but saw in the Mamluk’s eye that the guard recognized Peter wasn’t one of his comrades.
Now what?
Peter instinctively pulled out his knife with his right hand, used his left to grab the guard’s sword hand and stabbed the soldier in the neck from below.
If the guard had had any doubt about him, it was justified—but it was too late for the poor guard.
Peter’s soul didn’t belong to himself anymore. He had killed a man. He wasn’t the innocent orphan who had started this journey.
He was in shock.
“Peter!” The voice was familiar; it was Red Herring.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 17