Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  Peter had no noble origin, no war experience, no money, and no future. But he had courage, and for that, he had earned Hamo’s respect, at least he hoped.

  But the war for the lady’s heart wasn’t over yet.

  “Peter, come here.” His voice was cold, but the youngest member of the Crusader’s fellowship approached like a good dog. They measured each other with a look. Hamo’s head was tilted back, looking at his nose, his eyebrows were lower. He crossed his hands in front of his chest and looked at the orphan.

  “Thank you for your help last night. But you need a lesson or two on how to hold a sword,” Hamo said, sounding cold. He drew his blade and raised it above his head.

  Peter wasn’t sure how to react. Hamo looked like a man ready to deliver a fatal blow, but was he? Was this an appropriate place and time for practice? He remembered what Vegetius had written: “The good soldier practices every day.”

  They began to practice and after a moment they crossed swords, the knight drew his face closer to the orphan.

  “Stay away from her,” Hamo said quietly, only for Peter’s ears. The knight struck him with the pommel of his sword and pushed him hard. Peter lost balance and fell back on his butt. The young man looked at the handsome knight but said nothing. Was Hamo jealous? Peter looked at his eyes again. So, Hamo liked the princess too.

  “Get up, you have a long way to go, Peter,” Red Herring murmured while watching the two men, who struggled like fighting cocks. He drank some water. “But the lad will learn. That’s he wants, right?” James said to the Welshman to his left while they had a quick breakfast.

  Now, as they rode he thought about it. Hamo was attracted to Lady Isabella as well as Peter.

  The Sun was working hard after the night and they continued their quest.

  The Genovese captain was near Red Herring and they talked. Peter couldn’t understand a word. The Italian language was close to French but different. They used their hands and Peter recognized words here and there which he had heard in church while the monks were singing.

  “Latin,” Owen said, answering Peter’s question. He came close to the orphan. He was a merry rogue, and an orphan, like Peter. The lad liked his company and his humor and he admired his skills with the bow. He felt Owen determined the mood of the party. His enthusiasm seemed endless.

  Peter spat out some sand. He beat the dust and sand from his clothes and hair.

  The party talked about the eternal city, Jerusalem.

  Jerusalem, the city that attracted people from around the world on pilgrimages to the Holy Land.

  Peter had only heard about the city; he had never seen it, nor had the rest of the party. Only Lady Isabella, who lived in the realm and was in a diplomatic relationship with the sultan, had visited it.

  As they approached the valley near the Holy City, most of the men became silent. Everyone had his own idea of what to expect of the most sacred place of all Christendom.

  Peter had been told once that Jerusalem was the capital of the Latin Kingdom. Once, this mighty city had been protected against enemies by large, stone walls. It was near a mountain, but it was said that it had been built there because of a water spring, which provided travelers with the most precious supply on the road: fresh water. Cold water from the heart of the mountain was enough to build a city far from the trading roads and maritime ports.

  Yet, this place had become the most important port for men of different races, faraway lands, and myriad religions. Why was this place so important as to make people travel to an unknown land, braving dangers and losing years of their lives in pilgrimage? The orphan couldn’t guess. Maybe when he saw the Holy City he could understand it.

  Lady Isabella of Beirut told him that the city had no defensive walls now; it had lost its importance since the Mamluks had become lords of this land. It was more of a city of exile; political and military men who had lost the faith of the sultan ended up here, retired. This had caused the city to grow more and more, to change again, drawing the attention of religious men—the Jews, the Christians, the Muslims—as well as philosophers, physicians, and many more. A new monastery for travelers had risen. New districts and markets had developed around the trade in sacred things and the roads to this once-forgotten place were used again.

  Merchants flocked to the area, eager to provide whatever was necessary for living. Politically unwelcomed people of the sultan, rich men from the entire empire living there had the money and the desire to return this magnificent city to its former glory—but not as a strategic, military fortress. The appointment of a new governor had also helped. He was from the city of Damascus, and his mandate was a year and a half. Lady Isabella said that this made the governor avoid entangling with political games.

  “Corruption is difficult to develop.” Her description of the city held all the men rapt, except one.

  “Is that so?” James expressed his doubt. “When the duration of governance is so short, this is a foundation to whole administration to lack of activities and to be rotten and corrupted.”

  “No, it isn’t like that,” the Lady countered. “Many interests are represented in this city. They fight each other, and that fight keeps the rotten apples out.”

  Nablus was far behind them; they rode through Samaria via the road to the heart of long lost Latin Empire.

  Peter understood that he had missed the city’s first period of glory by a century. But now he expected to explore a reborn city full of merchants, different kinds of people, craftsmen, and healers.

  “In the recent past, the city stood aside from the sultan’s politics, but it is returning to life under the Mamluk government,” Isabella informed them. “It will be important once more.”

  “So, is this why Jerusalem has excellent physicians?” Hamo asked.

  For most of the journey, the assassin listened and said nothing. His head was covered with a white silk hood, but Peter could see his cold face. The closer they came to their goal, the more the Saracen looked troubled, as if he bore a heavy burden on his shoulders. Was he worried for his life?

  “Did you come here to see the city and feel your God, or to plunder and war for your own glory?” Edward the Saracen asked. The question was directed at the young lord from the Welsh Marches. Hamo’s eyebrows lowed on the eyes and clearly knotted, as his nostrils flared.

  Peter observed how he the young knight lost his temper, raised his hand and was about to hit the assassin with his fist.

  “Calm down, Le Strange,” James said. The lord from the Welsh Marches wasn’t a man who liked to be opposed. The fire in his warrior’s heart was impulsive and sometimes led to trouble. Although his upbringing had made the young lord fierce and brutal when he had to be and to be gentle when needed, he was young and he had yet to learn to keep his temper under control. But Red Herring, as usual, predicted what was going to happen and interfered confidently.

  “We are soldiers who follow our prince. We do not ask where he wants to go and fight; we support him. We gave him our oaths; he is our liege lord,” James said.

  “It sounds noble and chivalrous, but is it so? I am not a child, Sir James,” Isabella said and smiled at Peter, who was near her. “Most of the men who arrive on this shore these days don’t just seek salvation, you know.”

  “Of course, you are not a child. And of course,” he said, smiling, “we are not here just for the religion or this damned city or rotten kingdom. We are here to earn fame—not only for the prince but for ourselves, our own households—to gain renown and some wealth, too. Although the wealth is not certain. We are not ordinary soldiers; we have taken care of our enemies at home.”

  “For now,” Owen added and scratched his neck.

  “We want a new challenge,” Red Herring continued. “And where can a warrior find a challenge these days except in tournaments or some minor, local feuds?”

  He spread his hands, showing the land around him.

  “The Holy Land is in an unstoppable war of religions, land, power, supplies,
interests, and reputation. In these lands, civilizations meet and measure their strengths and honor. We were in need of a challenge. We crossed the sea and now we breathe this sandy air and drink this sandy water, fighting for our own glory and for our lord,” Red Herring said with confidence. “We bear a red cross on our chests, but above all, we are sword brothers and we fight together, bleed together, and die together. We don’t like anyone who gets in our way.” He said all this in one breath. His face reddened and he clutched the hilt of his sword. Most of his men were quiet and they all just nodded in agreement.

  The honest answer surprised the lady. She smiled, then turned around and said, “He doesn’t look experienced, like the rest of you.” Isabella nodded to the orphan.

  “Who? The young lad? He has only a few days of service,” James said, smiling, as well.

  “The young man who set us free?” Pelu asked.

  “Yes,” James grinned.

  The conversation turned to the events in Acre. Peter noticed Hamo’s face darkened—more discussion of the orphan.

  The heat became more annoying. Although Peter was all in sweat, his mouth was dry. He drank some water and petted his horse. He was distracted by the pain of his chafing thighs. It wasn’t worse than the day before but was not better, either. Today, before they rode again, Owen had given him some medicine, an oil to apply to his irritated skin.

  “What is that?” the orphan had asked.

  “A balm from Marigold,” he said, nodding toward Githa. “The well-prepared Hospitaller always has medicine for wounds. She was glad to lend some to me.” Owen gave a sympathetic smile to Peter, but the orphan saw a devilish glow in his eyes.

  “Clean the wound, put this on it, and bandage it again. After a few days, you’ll be fine.” He observed the face of the lad. “You will thank me later.”

  The Sun smiled on them.

  “Jerusalem! Will we reach it alive?” David asked no one particular.

  “We are almost there,” the middle-aged lady with the baby said.

  Red Herring was deep in thought. Every day since their journey had started, he seemed to become more and more troubled. With every step toward their aim, he became darker and more silent. The orphan observed his transformation. What was caused his unexpected mood?

  “Soon we will arrive in the Crusader’s Jerusalem or what is left of it,” Edward the Saracen said with some regret in his voice.

  “Why?” Peter was anxious as ever to know.

  “Once,” he slowly began, “it was a marvelous city with strong walls. It was the political and religious center of the world. Now, it’s different.”

  “Tell me more,” Peter said.

  “The city is located between two valleys, the Kidron to the east and the Hinnom to the west, which meet in the south at the site of the city’s principal natural water source, the Siloam Spring.” The Saracen took a moment to drink some water from his leather bag. “Within this physical frame, the secondary Tyropoeon Valley, running through the city from north to the south, divides it into two hills; Mount Zion to the west and Mount Moriah to the east.”

  “Moriah?” Peter asked.

  “The Temple Mount,” the assassin said. But he wasn’t sure the orphan understood at all or knew these names. Edward the Saracen continued. “The Siloam Spring is the only natural water source nearby, a factor that would have limited the development of the city, but this was resolved by the construction of aqueducts, open reservoirs, and cisterns. You see, whatever weakness the dwellers had, they turned them into advantages.”

  Peter looked ahead.

  “Soon we will be there, approaching St. Stephan’s gate—some call it the Damascus gate—at the north end of the city. The importance of this gate lies in the fact that it leads to the main northern road running to Nablus and from there to Acre or Damascus.” Edward the Saracen smiled.

  From the hill which sloped down to the city, the orphan saw it and his eyes grew wide.

  “Jerusalem!” The assassin presented it to them.

  “Yes....” Peter barely closed his mouth. It was an enormous sight; even though the outer stone walls were in ruins and only the foundations of them could be seen, the line of destroyed wall showed a magnificent defensive construction and large barbican, an outer defensive work looked like a gatehouse from the past. The entire city was encircled with thick, stone walls at least four meters wide. But this was a past glory. There were no more fortifications or walls, except the citadel and the nearby tower, which Peter later learned was called the Tower of David. The gates were left strong or had been rebuilt by the Mamluk governor, but this was only to control trading and entering into the city.

  The vicinity of Jerusalem was full of plural settlements, farms, some monasteries around the hills, and hundreds of pilgrims. There were some outposts of guards watching the valleys and the people who were coming.

  The closer they came, the more people they saw on the road. The lad could see pilgrims, merchants, mercenaries, mason workers, and many more.

  There also many refugees—men, women, and children fleeing the violence of the nearby Tartar invasion. Peter saw everything from the poor and sick to the very wealthy. Trade flourished with the movement of people.

  Peter was eager to enter the city. His heartbeat accelerated. His anticipation was hard to hide, but the others were feeling the same.

  They approached it from the north road, following the natural gorge, to the place where the Christian religion was born.

  “What was his name?” Peter couldn’t remember all the names of all the places and people he had met or heard about in past few days.

  “Jesus Christ,” Owen reminded him.

  Lady Isabella pointed out some old ruins to their right.

  “That is St. Stephen’s martyrdom and of the church of St. Stephen, or what is left of it,” she explained to the horsemen around her. “It is also known as the Gate of the Pillar, or Bâb al-’Amûd, because of the ancient pillar that stands here.”

  “Once, before the city fell to Saladin, this gate was used by pilgrims entering Jerusalem,” she added.

  The orphan spat out some dust again. Sand and more sand, all over this land. It was called the Holy Land, but he would have called it the forsaken land. The sick and suffering arrived from all over the world, hoping to find a cure for their bodies or for their souls. Here, they encountered war, mercenaries, bandits, vultures, heat, sand, and death. Particularly the last one, he thought.

  Peter looked at the Italians—Polo’s family and their escort of crossbowmen. They were well-equipped for war and highly-paid. The Genoese were one of the main suppliers of slaves from Romania and the northern lands to the sultanate. The most precious stock—the future Mamluk soldiers—were raised from these slaves. Even Peter knew that.

  Captain Andrea Pelu, the leader of Polo’s group, wasn’t worried that his master was Venetian.

  Peter was behind him on an old palfrey, as they rode in pairs. After they started to slope down to the city, the road was narrow and he saw many other pilgrims traveling on it.

  “Thank you for last night,” Pelu said to the orphan. Peter didn’t know how to react. He nodded and smiled, but said nothing. Sir James and Owen laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” The Italian captain was puzzled by their response.

  “It’s normal these days to thank him,” Owen said.

  “These days Peter saves princes, assassins, knights—especially Scottish ones—ladies and, by accident, some Italians.” The Welshman grinned. Everyone who was nearby and heard the joke did, too. Red Herring’s timbre was unmistakable when he laughed.

  “He isn’t used to it yet.” Owen continued, “When he adds a sultan’s life to his belt, maybe he will learn how to respond.” Even Ulf laughed this time. The Italians, too, although it wasn’t clear whether they understood the Welshman’s accent.

  Peter blushed.

  He looked down and tried to concentrate on guiding his horse. He felt proud to receive such an honor.
He knew that in this group of hardened men and warriors, wasn’t easy to get recognition. Every soldier tried, and everyone was ambitious and would do anything to be the most renowned one—just as, in a wolf pack, there could be only one leading wolf and the rest of the pyramid.

  It seemed they were brothers in war—brethren Crusaders—even if Peter didn’t understand the meaning of it. They were sword brothers who wanted to prove they were the best. And of course, to be distinguished as such, they needed a worthy opponent. A hero is not remembered if there is no worthy opponent to beat. They had not yet met the elite regiment of the sultan in open battle, the Mamluks. Peter was sure that they would.

  They reached Jerusalem. Peter was near enough to see the traces of an ancient moat alongside the ruins of the outer wall, near the gate. It was about fourteen meters in width. It had been left by the previous dwellers and now stood covered by sand and dirt. Also visible were the remains of a barbican. The gate itself was enormous if a bit a dilapidated—built from limestone, the height of at least five men. And this was only the outer gate.

  “Look at this,” Red Herring said, pointing near the gate. “The wall forms a right angle near the passage leading to the main gate.”

  The orphan didn’t understand.

  “An attacker would have to change direction within the gate complex and thus expose the right side of his body, unprotected by his shield, to enemy fire, you see?” James said. “This is clever. Whoever built this knew his craft. Maybe the builder was a soldier, too? Only a man with experience of war, who had previously defended a fortress, could have built this.” Herring’s eyes were wide and his jaw dropped a bit.

  “Edward hired such a builder,” Hamo said.

  The outer gate was protected by two towers. Once they must have been marvelous, but now they were in ruins.