Longsword- Edward and the Assassin

by Dimitar Gyopsaliev

A short man entered the tent. Some shadows outside hinted that there were guards near the entrance.

  “I need to know your names,” the man said. Hamo was awake too, and with some effort, he rose from his corner.

  The orphan examined the face of this chubby, little man.

  “Why? Who gives you the right to ask about our names?” Hamo was in a mood.

  “My name is Ibn Abd al-Zahir,” he introduced himself, “and I am the personal clerk of the sultan—”

  “The sultan, you say,” the knight said. “And what does the sultan want from us?”

  Al-Zahir looked directly into Hamo’s eyes.

  “Sultan Baibars wants to question you about your business in his land. But first, he wants to know who stands before him. My job is to gather the information and to deliver it to him along with you.” He said it quickly and cleanly. Peter and Hamo didn’t expect to receive such a direct answer. They looked at each other.

  They gave their names. The chubby man smiled while listening to Hamo as if he already knew him. But about Peter’s name and origin, he was curious.

  “Peter of Acre, that is a nice ring you have. Please accept my sincere condolences for the loss of your guardian,” the clerk said.

  The young man was shocked. Hamo was, too.

  “Where is our wounded friend, Sir James?” The orphan realized this man couldn’t know the name of his comrade and added, “The big one ….”

  “Red Herring, as you call him.” The clerk paused to observe their reaction to his knowledge. “You could ask the sultan about him.” Ibn Abd al-Zahir showed them the exit of the tent.

  “So, to the sultan.” Hamo grinned.

  They followed the short man.

  Outside, there were a dozen Mamluks, apparently waiting for them. The faces of the guards who escorted them couldn’t be seen through their masked helmets. They escorted them to a large tent with a side entrance. Peter guessed it was used as a field hospital and, indeed, there was a physician inside, examining patients. A line of soldiers stood waiting and they found Owen with them.

  A man with an aquiline nose looked at Peter and Hamo. Apparently, he was the one who would examine their health. The orphan hoped this was a sign that the sultan would not execute them, even though the ruler was known for his unpredictable manner and fierce temper.

  The physician looked over the orphan’s body—the wounds on his legs as well as his head. He received a cup with some bitter liquid, which he guessed was for his health. He drank it at once.

  He would live, the old physician told him in a deep voice. The sultan’s clerk stood with them, looking at them and asking questions about their journey. There was another clerk behind him who wrote down whatever they said.

  Hamo, Owen, and Peter were given clean bills of health. Red Herring wasn’t there and they were anxious to know more about him. After a while, they were cleaned and ready to pay him a visit.

  “Peter?” a familiar voice from behind arrived.

  Isabella of Ibelin was smiling at them. Beside her was the middle-aged woman who accompanied her with the baby in her hands; Githa was behind them.

  Hamo spoke first: “I see you are fine, my lady.”

  “What are you doing here in the camp?” Peter asked.

  The beautiful lady smiled at him and looked at the child. “The same as you, searching for a physician.”

  “But …?”

  “We will talk later. I am glad you are alive and safe.” She turned and walked away, followed by her small retinue.

  “So, we are together again,” Owen grinned, tapping Hamo on his right shoulder. “You will have another chance, sir.” He stressed the last word, but he knew that, even with the difference in their origins, his friend would never be angry with him.

  “A lovely camp we have here,” the Welshman added, “but where we are?”

  “Al-Bahr al-Mayyit,” the clerk said. “It means the Salt Sea. The Christians call it the Dead Sea, for the sea is so salty that nothing lives in it—no fish, nothing.”

  “Why we are here?” Hamo asked.

  “You can ask the sultan himself,” the clerk replied.

  After a few moments, they were taken to the ruler’s tent. The old physician with the aquiline nose followed them too. It was more like a pavilion, the biggest one in the camp, pitched on high ground with a view to the whole Salt Sea. There were two guards near the entrance, holding spears with the Sultan's flags. A black lion on a yellow background. The Lion of Egypt, Peter thought.

  When they entered the tent, darkness surrounded them. Outside it was midday, Peter assumed. He needed a few blinks to adjust his vision to the dim, inside light.

  To his surprise, Red Herring was already there, sitting on a little log.

  “Sir James!” Peter’s mood was better. Hamo and Owen also were pleased to see that their friend still lived.

  The guards pushed them to their fellow in the center of the tent, slowly.

  “Peter, Hamo, and the ugly-faced Welshman,” Red Herring said, looking at them and smiling. It seemed he never lost his humor. “I am pleased to see you are well.”

  “What about you?”

  “I am not an easy target. It was just a scratch; I will survive.” He turned his head to the man who followed his friends. “I think we found our man,” he said, and all of the Crusaders froze. “Ibn al-Nafis,” he said, nodding to the man who had examined Peter and whose nose looked like the beak of an eagle.

  “Our man?” Owen gave an ironic smile.

  “Yes, the physician. Thanks to him, I will live.”

  “In the middle of the desert? In the middle of the sultan’s camp?”

  “He is the sultan’s personal physician. Where else would he be? In Damietta, fishing?” James grinned.

  Peter didn’t say a thing, but he stared at his friend. His heart was pulsating fast, his face smiling—it was excellent news.

  “Well, well ....” A husky voice arrived from Peter’s left. They all turned their eyes, but the Sun behind the speaker made him look like a dark shadow. He slowly approached the center, where a few lamps were dancing and the light gave the voice a face.

  The sultan stood in front of them.

  There were some silence and moments of staring at each other.

  “You?” James’ eyes opened wide.

  Peter froze in anticipation. Hamo’s face was also surprised, but Owen looked like a duck before supper. The orphan managed to observe all his friends’ expressions before he realized what was happening, and he was more curious than ever.

  Baibars grinned at James but Peter had trouble identifying whether it was a friendly smile or not.

  There was a pronounced silence.

  “But … how …?” Red Herring tried to say.

  The first time he had seen the English prince, he had felt a similar excitement. At last, they were meeting the most famous man in this realm, face to face.

  The man had a broad chest, a large skull, broad shoulders, and slim legs. His complexion was reddish-brown, his hair thick, and his eyes were vivid. He looked like a man who hated rest and loved movement. The determination in his blue eyes was like a rock, and the white spot on his one eye made him look fierce.

  He was clearly battle-hardened. He looked like a man who wasn’t afraid of anything. His reputation made him look even more ruthless. It was hard for Peter to determine his age; he guessed that the sultan was nearly fifty but he looked more vigorous than the younger men before him. He was dressed in a fine, white tunic embroidered in gold and he was barefoot as if he were coming from a bath.

  On a wooden stand behind him was his battle dress. His polished armor looked excellent enough to make every knight in the kingdom jealous. The chainmail looked expensive, with fine golden decoration on the borders. Fine equipment, suitable for a true lord.

  The orphan had never seen such excellent gear before.

  “The Crusaders,” the sultan said, then nodded toward James, “and a Scot—a real one—in my lodging.”r />
  “My lord …,” Sir James managed to say as he was trying to stand proudly, despite his wound.

  “A week ago, dressed as a dirty agent, I took you to Ulf’s manor. You were thinking that I was a traitor, weren’t you?”

  “But ….”

  “Now I am standing in front of you as a sultan. What would you say? Not bad for an old dotard like me.” The sultan was known to use interpreters whenever he talked and negotiated with Westerners, but now he spoke directly in their language, amused by their expressions of surprise.

  James swallowed with difficulty.

  “It is funny,” the sultan stood a few paces before Red Herring. “Do you know what the French King Louis said about the Scots to his son?”

  Red Herring didn’t move.

  “He said, ‘I would rather have a Scot come from Scotland to govern the people of this kingdom well and justly than that you should govern them ill in the sight of all the world.’” The sultan seemed to amuse himself with his knowledge. “I am curious what a real Scot would say. And now, before me stands a real Scot, and what do you say? Could you properly govern the kingdom of France?”

  “Well, ….” James still didn’t move. “He is right, as usual, my lord, King Louis of France.”

  “Yes, but he is dead now, isn’t he?” Baibars turned the tone of the conversation. “What do you think the new French king would do? Listen to his father or hire a Scot to do the job?”

  “I will leave this matter to him, my lord,” Red Herring answered without thinking.

  Baibars laughed and took a step forward. He walked with a nearly imperceptible limp, but Peter saw it. He had often helped Brother Alexander and he understood this pain.

  “It’s interesting to think how history will remember King Louis. Will he be known as the Crusader King, the Wise King, the Holy One, or Saint Louis? Or just a failure, an ill-prepared Crusader and indecisive general? Or a king who didn’t know how to act as one? Was he a proper king, according to his people?”

  The sultan focused his eyes on James, waiting for his opinion. When he didn’t receive one, he continued.

  “After all, he failed twice in the most important ventures of his life. Perhaps it was because he was stubborn or he was foolish. Or was he just subject to blind faith and couldn’t see reality?” Baibars said. “I will never forget how he managed to lose from a winning position in the Battle of Al-Mansoura, but this was the spark that reignited my career.” He smiled at James and asked, “What do you say?”

  “I will leave this matter to history,” Red Herring said. “After all, I have my own puzzle to solve, my lord.”

  “Yes, the puzzle,” the sultan echoed the last word and his eyes were focused entirely on the Scottish knight. He nodded to his servants and food and water were delivered. “We all have our own puzzles to solve.”

  James nodded.

  “Please,” Baibars said and invited them all to eat and drink.

  Peter knew that the sultan had once been a slave and had risen from the ranks of the Mamluks to become a sultan, worthy to be mentioned in history.

  “Owen?” Peter whispered. “He was the man who led you into the Desert Wolf’s manor?”

  “Yes,” the Welshman said, “a few days before the assassination attempt.”

  This was astonishing news to Peter. Why? His mind was confused. In the last few days, he tried to figure out what was happening. Why had all this happened and what moved these events forward?

  “Alone?” the young man asked as he watched the servant deliver more food and drink.

  “All alone, and he was dressed like a poor and unscrupulous spy. But this bastard was the sultan. He’s got balls. I’ll say that for him.”

  Now it was more complicated than ever.

  Sultan Baibars drank some water.

  Peter wondered where Ulf and Edward the Saracen were. After the tower, some of his memories had faded.

  “So, as I watched the citadel in the dark and how the Wolf came in, please tell me, why I found you in the assassins’ nest in Jerusalem?” Baibars asked. “And please, leave the nonsense aside that you were the Lady of Beirut’s escort.”

  “It’s funny, but it’s true, in some part, my lord …. Yes, we escorted her,” James said.

  “What I can expect from a Scottish knight, nicknamed the Red Herring—an honest conversation or a hard one?”

  “Well.” This time it was James’ turn to smile despite the pain. “I am so grateful that you allowed your physician to take care of me. And that’s true.”

  “Of course, it’s true,” the sultan said. “Who wouldn’t be grateful?”

  “And, to be honest, we came here for him.” Red Herring nodded to Ibn al-Nafis, who was standing next to Baibars.

  “For him?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And how do you intended to obtain his service?”

  “Hiring him or kidnaping him,” James said.

  “Ibn al-Nafis, did you hear that? They’ve come for you.” Baibars showed some joy in the conversation. The physician didn’t say a thing. He seemed uninterested in the course of the talk.

  “Do you know why we are here today, near to the Salt Sea? Because of him. A few years ago, I broke my leg and it has never let me forget it. The mud baths in the sea relieve my pain. It was my friend, Ibn al-Nafis, who advised that I come here.”

  “He is a valuable one, indeed,” Red Herring said and told the sultan about the assassination attempt and about their mission.

  “Ibn al-Nafis is not only my physician, but he is my adviser and a friend,” Baibars said with pride. “A real king can be determined by his friends and, of course, by his enemies.”

  “That’s true, my lord,” James agreed.

  The sultan sat on a wooden chair placed for him on a small platform to be higher than the rest.

  “How do you treat your friends, Sir James?” he asked.

  “A true friend is hard to find, but after that is easy; we fight together, we live together, and we share the difficulties and the fruits of life. And we would die for each other.” It was an honest reply.

  “A fine answer, but do you think I will allow you to take my friend to Acre? What guarantees will you give me for his life? And, more importantly, why I should allow it?”

  “Because of the peace, my lord.”

  “The peace, yes.” Baibars smiled.

  “And because of your reputation, my lord. I think Your Highness would like to distance yourself from the assassination attempt.” James seemed very sure of what he had to say. Peter admired him for that.

  “The assassination attempt, yes.” Baibars thought for a moment and said, “We will get to this. Now bring the others,” he said, nodding to the officer of his guards and observing the rest of the Christians.

  “Well, these two, I know from Ulf’s manor,” he said, gesturing to Hamo and Owen. He then turned his focus to Peter. “But you ... I don’t know you, and yet, your face is somehow familiar to me. Who are you?” Baibars asked.

  “He is Lady Eleanor’s new valet,” James said.

  “Aren’t you too old to be a valet?”

  “A new recruit, my lord.”

  “What is your name, young man?”

  “Peter from Acre,” the orphan managed to say, trying to bow and to look the question-giver in the eyes at the same time.

  “Interesting ring you have, Peter ...” The face of the sultan suddenly changed. “It’s as familiar to me as your face.”

  The small, middle-aged man who had interrogated them earlier stepped forward.

  “He is the presumed bastard son of William Longsword,” said the short clerk, who was near his master, adding, “from Battle of Al-Mansoura, my lord.”

  “Longsword ….” Baibars was shocked. “You look more like a mongrel than the son of your father.”

  “You knew my father?”

  The sultan stood from his chair and approached Peter to examine his face. “I am wrong; you look the same as him.” Bai
bars could not conceal the astonishment on his face.

  The rest in the tent were surprised, too.

  “So, an heir of the line of the Lionheart lies wounded and poisoned in Acre. But another heir to his half-brother is standing now, in front of me. The lost son of Longsword.” He smiled at this discovery.

  Red Herring, Hamo, and Owen also were astonished by that fact. Peter hadn’t told anyone what Brother Alexander had said to him about his origins.

  “He is the man who saved Edward’s life,” the clerk added.

  “He is the man who saved mine, too,” James added, “and Lady Isabella, also.”

  “And in the tower, he saved al-Rida’s son, as well,” a woman’s voice said from the shadow on the other half of the tent.

  Peter turned his head toward the sound but failed to see the face clearly, yet he smelled the perfume. The girl from the tower was here.

  Baibars raised his hand and all became silent.

  “As far as I have heard, you saved Ulf’s life on the night of the sandstorm.” The sultan seemed to know everything and was enjoying the situation.

  Peter blushed. His eyes pointed to the ground.

  “He is one week into his service,” Owen said. “Beginner’s luck, my lord.”

  “Beginner’s luck, you say ….” Baibars scratched his chin. “I am intrigued by your story, Peter.”

  A newly-entered guard interrupted them, and two men were dragged in.

  “So, Sir James, we have a puzzle to solve, and here are the pieces, one by one.”

  ***

  Peter looked at the sultan.

  Was Baibars behind it all from the start? Why?

  Peter had heard of Sultan Baibars’ reputation. He was a capable man who took care of his own business. He was feared, brutal, and determined. His reputation had spread throughout the realm like a song that was sung in every tavern. There was a rumor that he had managed to enter Acre and other cities, dressed like a messenger or a merchant, to observe their fortifications and defenses and to personally collect information on the situation inside before he besieged them. It seemed now that he was capable of such deeds, indeed. He was a bold and brave man and for that reason, he was the sultan. And now there was a plot—against whom? For what? What were his intentions? Peter was confused, but he was determined to see things clearly. His goal was clear but how he could obtain it, for now, was unclear to him.