“What happened?” Owen’s attention also was stolen by the storyteller.
“On the battlefield that day, our brave Captain Baibars and his loyal Mamluks fought bravely and fiercely against their hordes and squadrons. You must know that the Tartars, at this point, didn’t know what a major defeat was. We beat them, annihilating their forces.”
“So, Baibars had balls, eh?” Hamo said.
The clerk continued, “Baibars believes that they will return and try a new invasion. The Mongols will never forget that the Mamluks served them their first defeat. Even after the death of their Khan, his son has continued his politics against our realm.”
“And we, the Christians, are in the middle of this war between Mamluks and Mongols,” Sir James concluded.
“Exactly. And you should know, too, that Baibars lost his home and family, far away in his homeland, because of them.”
“The words from the Tartar’s letter— ‘He is of the race of Mamluks who fled before our sword into this country, who enjoyed its comforts and then killed its rulers’—this referred to Baibars, too?” Peter asked.
“Yes.”
After a while, the Sun went down and Hamo, Owen, and James went to sleep.
But there was something that bothered Peter. He followed the clerk and persistently asked him questions about his father and the sultan.
“You are an annoying mongrel, like a fly—a horsefly.”
“I want to know,” Peter said.
“Why? These are things from the past.”
“I didn’t know my father,” the young man said with some sadness in his eyes. “I was raised by an old monk, without a family, without knowing my origins and without a future. Until last week, I had not heard the name Longsword.”
“I have heard of Brother Alexander and Brother John, who raised you.”
“You have?”
“Peter of Acre, are you sure you want to know about your father?”
“Yes!”
“So, listen, I will tell you what I know, but it isn’t a pleasant story.” The short clerk took a breath and continued. “The father of your father was the illegitimate son of King Henry of England. He was a half-brother of Richard the Lionheart. You have the same blood as Edward has. You are from the same bloodline of warrior kings. They are constantly looking for someone to fight, something to conquer and win. Your father had the same madness inside him.” Ibn Abd al-Zahir, the sultan’s clerk, paused while they walked through the camp.
The stars and the Moon began their night concert and before them was revealed a magnificent view of the sea. Its waters reflected the heaven’s lights.
“Look at nature, Peter; it knows its business, and we men are like ants walking on this land.” He smiled, looking the stars. “There is always someone bigger and stronger who can crush us.”
“My father?” Peter prompted.
“William Longsword led his men without fear into battle. At Mansoura, he followed the Count of Artois, the brother of the French King. I heard they didn’t like each other. Longsword was accused of cowardice in the face of battle by the Count. Templars were blamed for the same. The reckless Crusader, the Count of Artois, was to wait for the whole army to cross the branch of the river Nile. But, instead, he was greedy for glory and for booty. He charged the streets of Mansoura and doomed all his followers. For he had made a fatal mistake. The narrow streets weren’t suited for horsemen. Baibars, who had organized the defense, was a great soldier and took the advantage.”
“And?”
“The pride, lad, the pride of your father cost him his life. You are not a knight or a man with status, so you don’t know what that means. Maybe you should ask Brother Alexander.”
“Why Alexander?”
“Because of his knight’s pride, he can’t go home,” Ibn Abd al-Zahir said.
“Tell me more about my father.”
“Your father, Peter, bore the sign of an heir of the great warlord king. He did not want to be accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy, leaving the battlefield and his brethren. He had come to the realm of war to earn honors for himself.” He looked at Peter’s eyes and they stopped near a camp fire.
“He would have rather died than lay down his sword. He paid dearly for his pride. The French count fled and drowned while trying to cross the river. But Longsword stood and fought to the death. I could never forget his black hair and his determined eyes. You are like two water drops. He swung his longsword, his great destrier biting and fighting, and fought like a demon that day. Our captain knew that if he wanted to crush the attack he must take the fight on his own.
“Baibars stood against your father and with two more officers, he fought him. They begged him to put down his weapons and surrender, but he refused. So, it became a fight to the end.”
Peter’s eyes were dry. He didn’t know the man the clerk was talking about, even if William Longsword had been his father. He felt nothing but the anger of a missed childhood and regret that he hadn’t had a proper father or mother’s care. Why had he wanted to know more? He couldn’t explain the desire inside of him but he was glad he had asked.
“So, Baibars killed him?” the orphan asked.
“He wasn’t a sultan back then, only a loyal officer who defended his brothers, his soldiers, and did what the warrior’s fate commanded: to stand and fight the enemy and to win.”
There was silence while the two men watched the night and enjoyed its music and the reflection on the water’s surface below them. It was clear their conversation was over and Peter suddenly felt tired and wanting to hug the bed.
“Thank you for the story,” the young man said. The orphan wished the clerk good night and went to his tent. So, Baibars had killed Peter’s father.
A shadow waved its hand toward him, gesturing that he should follow. Peter didn’t think, just obeyed. After a few moments of walking under the Moon, a hand grabbed his arm and dragged him into the nearest tent.
“Peter Longsword, an illegitimate branch from the bloodline of the Lionheart, the bastard line. How you ended up in this mess?”
A dim light came from a candle she held. The orphan looked at her. She was nearly Peter’s age but younger. Still, he had so much to learn in his life. She was at another level, that was for sure. Isabella, the Lady of Beirut … was not she a danger to their mission? Dangerous to all men?
“I never managed to thank you properly, Peter,” Isabella said.
“For what?”
“For saving my life, twice.” Isabella smiled gently at him. “At the Mamluk camp and again in the tower.”
She went to a wooden chest and placed the candle she held on top of it. She turned toward him, her head was tilted forward and slowly, step by step, she approached him, barefoot, looking at his eyes.
Peter managed to look around the tent. There was some light and they were alone.
She dropped her dark robe and stood before him in a light nightdress. The orphan had never seen such a sight. Despite the dim light, he could see, through her dress, the form of her body and her pale skin.
“Wake up, Peter. She is a princess; she has no business with you,” he thought. Nevertheless, his heart was flying with lust and desire.
“Peter of Acre … or do you prefer Longsword?” She talked slowly. “You are my savior, my bravest knight ….”
“I am not a knight …” the orphan faltered.
“You are the knight of my heart.”
“I am not a knight at all.”
“But soon you will be ….” Her chest was almost touching his. Her whispering voice was upon him now. The orphan could smell her perfume.
“Now, I need my hero … to hold me tight.”
Peter lost his breath. He was bewitched by her charm and her beauty. She smiled seductively. Yes, he wanted her, too; she was the one thing that filled his life with purpose: to fight for her, to love her, to die for her. The princess and her beauty.
She kissed him.
Emotion and passi
on erupted within him.
The orphan from Acre and the princess stood, close together, in the dark. His heart was working fast now. He was conquered; his mind tried to resist, but he didn’t listen. He had the greatest urge to satisfy this hunger, this passion, this desire to hold her, to touch her. He knew this could never last, a lady with an orphan from the streets. This was a doomed union; still, he enjoyed the perfect moment with her. He knew it wouldn’t last long, he hoped he knew the consequences, but still, his heart was conquered.
Was he in love? He hadn’t used this word before; what was it?
“Enjoy it, Peter,” his inner voice commanded. He couldn’t see any reason not to. He had nothing to lose … except his soul, his heart, and his mind. For this one-of-a-kind woman, he would gladly present his heart. The orphan and the princess—he smiled at his thoughts.
The Moon was the only eyewitness of what lay ahead.
He returned the kiss.
***
Peter walked as if in a dream, smiling, back to his tent. The Moon was vibrant and the stars were dancing on the skyline.
“Hi.”
He was surprised by a vivid voice accompanied by a familiar perfume.
Peter turned his head toward the voice.
“So, you are the lucky bastard, Peter.” He lost his speech in the dark, but not his smile.
“Hi?” she repeated.
“Hi ….” the orphan said.
“How are your wounds?”
“I will survive.” He looked at her eyes. It was the girl from the tower. “Why did you help me in Jerusalem?”
“You looked like a man who needed to be saved.” Her lips were small but were in an easy smile.
“Why you were there?” Peter asked.
“You need to ask my father these questions, but you must know, he has only one weakness ….”
“His daughters?” the orphan asked.
She smiled at him.
“But ….” The young man tried to observe her face, and their eyes met under the Moon. Her brown eyes were big and deep, and she stared at him. She didn’t look like a younger girl—not at all. The girl who stood before Peter was a real woman; she looked the same age as him. Her long, black hair was curly but well-maintained. Her cheeks made a little dimple when she smiled. She was shorter than Peter, thin and fragile-looking. Nevertheless, Peter knew she wasn’t defenseless.
“What were you doing in the Tower of David?” he repeated the question.
“Where is the best place to hide a weakness?”
“Weakness?”
She smiled and watched him.
“You are the weakness of your father. But of course, you are.”
She enjoyed his reaction.
“You are so clever, Peter of Acre.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“Nope, just a fan of you and your way of thinking.” She was laughing.
Peter was smiling, too.
“But how ...?”
“It wasn’t hard to find a job as a nurse with my skills,” she said.
“You have skills?”
“Yes, Peter, I can wield a fruit knife when necessary.” The two smiled and laughed again.
Her eyes were always warm. She never removed her smile or the curiosity from her face. Yet, she didn’t say much. She seemed pretty and mysterious.
“What was that between the sultan and Ulf? Family affairs?” Peter didn’t want this night or this conversation to end. She looked into the orphan’s eyes.
“My father said that sometimes, bravery is mistaken for stupidity, and vice-versa. He says that most men are neither brave nor naïve. Sometimes even the stupidest man can be the bravest one. But it’s rare to see a clever man do a brave deed, to have the courage for it. Prudent men calculate the risk, always.
“Diyaab al-Sahra is the cleverest and the best killer I’ve seen. Believe me, I’ve seen enough. He also is not bound to anyone, you know. Even to my father.”
“But he worked for him.”
“My father, the sultan, saved his life.”
“His life?”
“After a fierce storm, years ago, near the sand beaches of Arsuf, there was a shipwreck and the Wolf’s body was delivered ashore by the sea waves. The newly-crowned sultan was hunting and he was near the coastal line.”
Peter listened carefully.
“He saved the life of a man that day. His body was all in scars from battles and torture. On his entire body. Baibars saved his life. He thought of it as a sign of his rule. After a time, he left him to live nearby. Yet, this man from the distant land called Norway returned the favor, saving the sultan’s life from mercenary killers who ambushed him in the woods.”
“All alone?”
“Yes, alone; this is how my father understood about his abilities. And Ulf only wanted a bucket of apples for his help.”
“Green ones?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I guessed,” Peter lied.
“After that, the sultan hired him; he asked him to perform certain tasks for him. He saw in Ulf’s skills and thirst for blood an ultimate weapon to use against his enemies—the ones who were difficult to bring onto an open battlefield.
“I saw what he left behind in the tower,” he said.
“As you already know, he is unstoppable in close fights. He is an outlander, yet no one has seen such rage and coldness as are in his eyes. He is a master in delivering death to his opponents. The sultan’s opponents. Baibars managed to use him well; he sent him to the most dangerous places, after the fiercest enemies you could imagine. Ulf always went silently, disappearing into the desert and then returning with the next trophy under his belt. The other Mamluks started to call him the Desert Wolf, Diyaab al-Sahra. There were no impossible targets for him. He saved the sultan from several plots, as well.”
She paused, watching the stars, and continued. “One day, Ulf faced the lord of the realm and said that he wanted to retire from this kind of life because of my sister.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes, just like that.”
“Was she pretty?”
“My older sister was more than that, much more; she somehow managed to calm his thirst for blood.” She closed her eyes while talking. The orphan guessed that she was trying to imagine her sister’s face again. “She turned him into a calm farmer running an ordinary manor.”
“A man like him, a farmer?”
“He was more like an engineer, weapons and war adviser for my father, but he ran his estate well.”
“I can’t imagine it.”
“Baibars was on the brink of losing his best weapon. Yet, the smile on the face of his daughter persuaded him. Still, the Lion of Egypt asked for proof of the warrior’s love for my sister. He wanted something in return for her hand.”
“And what is that?” Peter asked.
“The last fortress of the assassins. The ones who didn’t recognize my father’s rule and didn’t show any kind of respect. They were difficult to control; their promises could be swapped for gold. My father gave the Desert Wolf the deadliest mission: to crush them all.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think?” She released a smile. “Ulf killed all who he found in the fortress.”
“But someone survived?”
“As you saw in the tower, a few had fled before his arrival and hidden, such as the son of the old man from the mountains. Al-Rida’s clan were foes of Shams al-Din. The gray-bearded host with the dry and ugly face you met in the citadel in Jerusalem. Baibars used this rivalry for his own ambitions and forced the assassins’ clans to kill each other before the arrival of the Wolf. He almost succeeded. In the end, with the help of Diyaab al-Sahra he took their last fortress and he had scattered them like a herd of sheep.”
“It seems that the son of al-Din has returned,” Peter said.
“Yes, Shams al-Din, the Son of Nonagenarian. There is another plot to kill my father. The players include greedy Templars an
d their Italian partners, and some renegade Tartars, the ones my father allowed to settle on his land. But the worst is that one of the elite Mamluk regiments have betrayed my father, too.
Peter’s eyes were curious.
“My father gathered intelligence on this group. He learned of a plan to attack Ulf’s manor.”
“Why he didn’t send his own battalions to save her?”
“His most trusted Mamluks were far away. Do you know there was always a struggle between the amirs and their own ambitions? Who can Baibars trust when an amir plans to send a battalion from the northern frontier to sack sultan’s own backyard?”
“So, he didn’t trust much to his own, did he?”
“What king does?” She looked at the Moon. “Now the sultan needed the mice to come out from their hole.”
“How he could make them do that?” Peter asked.
“How do you think? It’s like hunting, you need a bait.”
“Yes, and they revealed themselves to us in the tower. Now they needed bait, too.”
“Ironically, yes, the two sides used the same tactics.” She looked at him. “This is like a game of chess, eh?”
“I can’t play chess,” he said.
“There is a Scottish proverb that your friend told me earlier, ‘Forgive your enemy but remember the bastard’s name’,” she said. “My father used to say that, when you are at war, there are no rules except to win.” She spoke confidently. “And during the middle of a battle, you can earn revenge. You have to remember who your real enemy is and challenge him on the battlefield. As you know, a war is upon us. It is only a matter of time. To survive, we will need the best warriors, knights, killers, and commanders.”
“We?” Peter was confused.
“As you see, Peter of Acre, you are involved, too. You were hunted, almost killed. You are an obstacle to the new power which is about to rise.”
“But …?”
She dragged him near a campfire, knelt down, took out her knife, and began to draw in the sand.
“Look, here is Acre—your dying prince is there. Here is Jerusalem.” She pointed with her finger. “Now, we are here, east. We are surrounded by renegades, who also blocked the path to your home.”
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 27