Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

  As the gate’s sentries approached them, Lady Isabella and the elder Polo rode ahead to provide their letters of safe conduct to the Saracen officers.

  Peter and Owen watched the pair talking to the guards. One of the Mamluks said something to Isabella and the expression of her face became fierce. She was talking fast and looked like she scolded the guard. She turned her horse to the rest of the Crusaders.

  “He said we must turn around and enter into the city via the west gate, where the Christians must enter.” She said it with such irony, loud enough for all the men to hear her.

  “Governor’s order,” Mr. Polo added.

  “But he couldn’t make me—me, the Lady of Beirut—walk an hour more just to enter it. Follow me,” she said with delicacy, “behave yourselves and keep your weapons in your scabbards. You are allowed to enter only by my insistence. I gave my word that you would stay out of trouble. Am I clear?”

  She was young, but knew how to act like royalty; her commanding voice was a little harsh.

  “If someone disturbs the order in the city, there are heavy penalties. The Christians are the first to suffer and everyone has a grudge against them. You are warned.” She turned her horse toward the gate.

  Red Herring gave Hamo a stern look.

  “You are warned. Stay out of trouble,” James said.

  “Why always me?” Hamo gave an innocent smile.

  “Because you are handsome,” Owen joked.

  Peter noticed the guards had balked when they read Polo’s documents, but the lady had interfered again and they also were allowed to enter.

  The orphan wondered if they would be able to pass through, or if they would be caught by suspicious guards. His heart was working so hard that he thought everyone could hear the beating from inside his chest.

  The Saracen officer slowly inspected all their dusty faces. After a moment, he waved them through.

  “That was easy,” Peter thought.

  They passed the gate. Now what?

  “Wow,” James said.

  Stairs descended toward the gate. They had lost the cart and Isabella’s carriage in the sandstorm. Most of them were on horses, the others followed the riders on foot. Peter was glad they weren’t on a wooden cart, because of the steps.

  Red Herring and his men looked at the structure of the gate. They stared with eyes wide open as they passed under it. They looked at the fortification—or what was left of it. Even Peter admired the magnificent stones used to build it.

  “The guards let us in easily,” Isabella commented. “Sometimes they make me wait or let me out for more than an hour.”

  “We may be lucky today,” Hamo said. As soon as they were through the gate, Isabella ordered them to lodge their horses in a nearby stable.

  The Crusaders and Polo’s men parted ways, wishing each other luck through the rest of their journeys.

  “Be careful, you do not want your trip to last as Odysseus’,” James said to the elder Polo. Peter reminded himself to ask Nickolas who this was, later.

  Captain Pelu and his men followed the merchants toward the Governor’s office and then to where their fate would be leading them.

  “Where are they going?” Peter asked.

  “They are on a mission to deliver a piece of the Holy Sepulcher to the Tartar king. They had papers from the Pope,” Red Herring said, “Niccolò and Maffeo, father and uncle of the young Marco Polo.”

  Peter liked the lad. He was like him: young and impatient. The orphan envied them; they would see а different world. Peter wished them farewell, too.

  Isabella showed them which road to follow, as it wasn’t hard to understand where the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was or the Dome of the Rock. Peter thought it would be hard to find what they needed. But not the Polos.

  Lady Isabella didn’t hurry. She sent her followers—the valet, the lady-in-waiting, and the baby them to arrange for lodging for the night and stayed with Githa to observe the Englishmen’s next move.

  Nickolas bade Peter farewell and returned his leather bag with his book.

  “We will meet again, Peter of Acre. Save one interesting story for me.” He smiled at the future knight.

  The orphan smiled back.

  “To find the best physician, we must begin in the herb market. It is this way, along the southern road.” Edward the Saracen said.

  They followed him. A week before, he had seemed to be one of them. Instead, he was a spy and a traitor. Now, Peter hoped that he was on their side once more. He hoped the assassin wasn’t leading them into a trap. He liked the Saracen. He seemed to like them, an ordinary man with an extraordinary profession—to kill men in the shadows. But a soldier’s job was to kill on the battlefield, face-to-face with the enemy. Killing in the shadows was hard for the knights to accept.

  The streets in Jerusalem were narrow and crowded, five meters at the widest, and paved. It would have been hard to ride an animal on them; he understood why Lady Isabella had insisted on leaving their horses in the stable.

  Red Herring was behind the assassin, David, Hamo, and his men were by him, and Ulf, Owen and Peter were at the rear of their group. They moved like predators, their eyes focused, observing every detail that could save their lives. They were silent and they were determined to find their target. Isabella and Githa followed them.

  “The streets are crowded. Damn.” Sir James didn’t like it. The stream of men flowed in every direction along the narrow streets, made up of all kinds of faces, colors, garments, cultures, and races. Peter had never seen so many different men in one place. How would they find their target among so many other faces?

  They followed the assassin silently.

  “We are walking toward the Street of David,” Edward the Saracen said to them. After a few minutes on the road, they turned left and they were in an Arab market. Peter saw cheese, chickens, eggs, and birds placed for sale.

  “Syrian exchange,” the Saracen said and approached a small, two-story building with open, wooden windows on the first story.

  A man with a turban and a chubby face was trying to sell his birds. Surrounding his business were other wooden and silk pavilions full of buyers and sellers. They talked loudly, arguing, smiling, and shaking hands. Peter felt a sharp smell of fish down the street. The trade flourished.

  The assassin talked to the fat seller briefly and continued south.

  “The man we are looking for is called Ibn al-Nafis. This merchant said he saw him in the Street of Herbs an hour ago.”

  “Where?” James asked.

  “We need to go past the place that was once the Hospitaller Quarters, along the main street. The Street of Herbs is the only venue in the city where herbs, fruits, and spices are sold, according to this merchant,” Edward the Saracen said.

  “We are close,” Red Herring said. “Be careful,” he warned his men.

  “Careful?” Peter’s mood was ironic; Owen had influenced him already.

  “Leave the thinking and acting to the real men and knights.” Hamo grinned at the orphan.

  Lady Isabella watched and said nothing.

  “Hey, don’t waste your energy and strength in a boy’s quarrel,” Sir James said.

  They continued. Peter noticed that almost all the streets were paved with great stones. The buildings had many stone vaults, pierced with many windows to allow the natural light through. His mind was absorbed in the city. He was in a dream, walking through the most famous place in the world.

  They walked in silence and, after a few crossroads, they entered a little square with dozens of pavilions full of herbs, fruits, spices, and smells. Bearded men dressed in white robes were talking and arguing animatedly.

  James and his men approached and Edward the Saracen once again asked questions about the mysterious physician, Ibn al-Nafis.

  One of the merchants nodded and stood straighter, showing he recognized the name. The Saracen exchanged some words with him; the westerners didn’t understand a single one because they talked fast. Ulf
acted as their ears.

  Peter wasn’t sure what would follow. He thought they needed a backup plan, an escape plan or some strategy if everything went wrong. Peter noticed Hamo's cocky wink at him and his confident smile.

  “Why are you so calm?” The orphan asked.

  “Relax Peter, think, we are men looking for a physician, the best one. It’s a normal endeavor,” Hamo said.

  But something bothered the orphan. He remembered Lady Isabela’s comment when they entered. Yes, the way they had passed through the sentries outside the gate had been very easy. He had a strange feeling in his belly.

  Peter looked around and listened to his surroundings. He could hear the sound of the street, people talking, some animals. He saw the pavilions and their merchants and goods. It was a well-stocked herb market, similar to those in Acre, although the prices were different. The men’s faces around it were, too—less Mediterranean than in Acre, near the sea. But there were faces with unfamiliar features, who had gathered here from across the Holy Land, Egypt, Syria, and the Tartar kingdom. Bedouins, Arabs, Nubians, and many more whose names Peter didn’t know. He looked at their faces. He saw many similarities, but many differences, too.

  Suddenly, he noticed one familiar face.

  He looked at the man to confirm it, and the man looked back. Rather than the relief he normally felt at seeing something familiar—particularly in a new place—he felt nervousness.

  It was the merchant from Acre. The same one who was the assassin’s contact. It was in this man’s house that he had met Julian for the second time, with Red Herring and David.

  It seemed that the merchant had been waiting for them. The thought scared him. It meant he knew they would be coming.

  “It’s a trap!” Peter shouted.

  But it was too late. He heard the sound of breaking ceramic jugs. The whole square exploded. A cloud of smoke surrounded everyone and everything. Peter felt the sharp sweet taste in his mouth, turned his head in the blinding fog and something hit him hard. His body collapsed like a rag doll on the perfectly-paved Herb Street.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Holy Land, Tuesday, 21st June, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Jerusalem

  “Lad?”

  He was in brutal pain. His head was going to explode. What had happened?

  Peter wanted to sleep but the pain did not allow him. He wasn’t supposed to be here. But where was he?

  A girl passed him.

  He turned his head, but she was gone. He was slow. Where was she? He saw something red, perhaps a scarf. He wasn’t sure. It was dark and he mistrusted his vision. Was she real? Had it even been a girl? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know where he was. His memories and thoughts were blurred.

  He was sure about one thing. She smelled good.

  He tried to clear his eyes but realized his hands were tied behind his back. He tried to clear the dust from his eyes using his left shoulder. He was sweaty and shirtless.

  It smelled too good to be a prison. It was some soft, sweet smell, like a woman’s perfume. Like Isabella’s. Unless the Jerusalem’s prisons smelled like that.

  “Peter?”

  Red Herring was near. His voice was a small relief to the orphan.

  “How is your head?” he asked.

  Peter shook his hair. He felt a little stunned and the attempt to move his neck and head brought him some pain; nevertheless, he felt there wasn’t any other wound or damage. Whatever had happened, he had missed the fun.

  “Like an oak tree,” he said.

  “That's what you said the first time I met you,” Red Herring said. The two of them smiled.

  “I think I saw a girl when I woke up.” The orphan’s curiosity was stronger than his pain.

  “She was checking your bandage. I wish she had checked mine,” James said.

  “Are you injured?” Peter asked.

  “Not this time, but she makes me think about it.” The orphan liked his Scottish humor.

  “I thought I was dreaming. Where are we? What happened on the street?”

  “I would guess that we are in the main tower of the citadel,” James said.

  The orphan tried to remember something—anything. They were in a small room with no beds or table. A small window gave them a view of the dancing night and stars. The Moon was bright as ever in the hot night.

  They were on the floor, against the stone wall, with their hands tied up behind them. A many-colored carpet was on the floor, as well as several small pillows. There was a bottle with two ceramic cups in the middle of the room on a silver tray. The room was fairly narrow. The door was old and wooden but the orphan hadn’t heard a squeaking sound when the girl had left the room.

  “What is this place? Strange and cold,” Peter said. “How did we get here?”

  “What do you remember from the herb market?”

  Peter told him that he had seen the merchant’s face, the smoke, and darkness. Something hard had met his head.

  “It was a trap, yes,” Red Herring admitted. “A well-placed one. We should have predicted it, but we were naïve.” He stopped for a moment. “They stormed at us, blinded us with ceramic smoke bombs that I just heard they exist and took us by surprise. There were flying knives, smoke, masked men in white robes, daggers—it was terrible. We had no chance to defend or to strike back.” James shook his head. His wildly orange hair was matted, it looked darker from the sweat and was sticking to his skull. “I failed to foresee the ambush or to prevent it.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Peter said. “Who attacked us?”

  “I guess we will find out soon,” Red Herring said.

  “They were waiting for us?”

  “We were completely unprepared and overconfident. I did not expect this.” The Scottish knight looked tired and helpless.

  “Why did they attack us?” Peter looked at him.

  James shrugged. “Damn them, we were in the center of a city, how dare they?”

  “Where are the others?” Peter’s voice was dry.

  “In the smoke cloud, I saw nothing. Someone tried to stab me, but I was lucky. His blade slid on my mail shirt. But next, I received a blow that knocked me down. I could see Hamo lying unconscious next to me and you, too.” James nodded toward the wall. “And I thought I heard the voices of Owen and David in the next room. But two of my men were killed, I think. O, Lord, accept their souls,” Sir James said and stared at the Moon through the window.”

  “Lady Isabella? Ulf?”

  “I lost them from my sight, but didn’t hear a woman’s scream, that’s for sure.” He said this slowly. Like Peter, he was only in pants. “Let’s hope they are alive,” James said. “I heard the attackers were vividly arguing about something. They mentioned ‘Acre’ and ‘Crusaders’ several times as they dragged me up the stairs. They didn’t seem satisfied. I’m guessing someone escaped from their trap, but this may be wishful thinking. We can only wait now and see what happens.”

  “Look,” Peter said as his eyes fixed the tray with a jug of water in the room.

  “But we are still alive, aren’t we?” James tried to lighten the mood. If their captors had wanted them dead, they wouldn’t be here, Peter thought.

  There were two oil lamps in the room, their lights dancing around in the faintly-blowing breeze.

  “There is water in front of us, but we can’t drink. Maybe it’s a new form of torture,” Peter said. James smiled then, though only a little.

  “If it were Durham ale, I would find a way to drink it, ha,” Red Herring said.

  Peter grinned.

  He was glad Red Herring was with him. He didn’t think he could manage to be calm if he were alone.

  “Why did they capture us?”

  “This is a good question,” Red Herring said.

  Sooner or later, the truth always came to the surface. His mentor had always said this to teach him not to lie as a child. He had always been right.

  The wooden door opened and a short guard entered, fo
llowed by a girl and two servants clad in white. The pleasant smell arrived again, stronger than ever. Who was she? Peter asked himself. He grew scared, but his curiosity also rose again like a storm, as he wanted to know who the man was and what he intended to do to them.

  ***

  A man with a fierce face stared into the dark.

  Two hundred steps from the citadel, he stood on the terrace of a two-story building, wrapped in a gray cloak. His face was hardened and his battle dress was dusty. He had recently arrived from the desert. He was dressed in expensive gear which only a few men in this realm could afford to possess.

  He took a few steps to the parapet and focused his eyesight toward the main tower of the citadel. His right leg ached from time to time. He had fallen from his horse a few years before and broken it. Yet, he never showed any appearance of discomfort. His status didn’t allow him to show any sign of weakness.

  His right hand was on the hilt of his sword and his eyes stared into the dark streets. The Moon provided a ray of light. The night was in its prime. His cloak reached the ground—it was intended to conceal his garment.

  The daily clamor of people buzzing was finished for the day and the sound of the night permeated the city. But he was expecting some activity that night.

  The man’s thoughts turned to the faded Crusade which had created waves of refugees. This wasn’t a bad thing; with the right system of politics, this influx of people could be integrated and used as new labor. After the past years of war and devastation, the land was facing a serious manpower shortage. The refugees were an ideal replacement for the dead. The man smiled. Yes, the policy had to be correct, the law had to comply with the migration or the existing order would collapse.

  Some moments later, a group of men approached the gate. These faces he knew well, and they made no attempt to hide them. They were well-known men, Mamluks dressed in lamellar armor and mantles. They greeted the guards and entered the citadel.

  After a few heartbeats, he saw Christian knights walking to the main gate of the tower. They were using dark mantles to hide their battledress. But their gait and confidence couldn’t be mistaken. Five of them were led by a man with blond hair, who seemed proud and didn’t put his hood up to hide it.