Just then, a Bedouin group arrived in the yard. They were led by an old man, nearly the age of the sultan. But they didn’t attack. It seemed that they were looking for something.
“Dad!”
A child’s shout rang out from the walls.
A wind arrived and the rain was blown away.
***
City of Acre, Thursday, 23rd June in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; Edward’s Chambers
Why was time so limited in this world? Why did it sometimes seem so prolonged?
What defined the difference? Who decided who would live longer—was it God or fate which played with us?
Edward’s mind played at these questions. He was observing the departing Templars through the windows of his chambers. His lips pinched on his pale face. The poison in his blood had stopped spreading, but still, he was fading.
There was knocking on heaven’s door. No, it was his door, to his chambers. His eyesight was tired, as was his mind. His heart was fighting.
He remembered, from his childhood, the old warrior who had taken care of the youngsters’ training, his harsh methods. He had never missed a chance to show his disappointment when the boys didn’t try hard enough. He had used to say that it wasn’t a bad thing to enjoy what one did for a living but the best joy came with victory.
The young Edward used to hide in the barn, watching this old bugger and how he trained the lads. But one day, he was caught. Even though he was the son of the King of England—the crown prince—he was brought to take part in the training. Young Edward didn’t object; he preferred to be treated like the rest. It was his father who didn’t approve of his son being trained alongside commoners.
Edward’s health was poor in his youth. He remembered when he was seven years old he fell ill that he was unable to be moved for a couple of weeks. Yet his uncle smiled and allowed him to train. So, he trained with the others from that day on. This elated the young prince. Sometimes he thought the old warrior was especially harsh on him, the future king, but he didn’t know why.
“Winning is everything,” the instructor never ceased murmuring. “Only the victorious are respected.” Still, his frustration when the youngsters didn’t try hard enough brought forth fury and punishment. He wasn’t much of a talkative man, but a man of action. He would slap a boy on the back of the neck just for sport, to keep him on his toes. He was like that—always sneaking up on them, always making them nervous around him, afraid what was going to happen. Yet, young Edward survived. He grew and matured, all thanks to the old warrior and his way with them.
And now, he couldn’t even remember the man’s name. Edward had been very grateful to his teacher for showing him how to be a man—a real one. How not to surrender, how to be prudent and forward-looking. The old man had often repeated that they should be determined and the boys were, including Edward. He had been the best of the group.
There was knocking on his door again. A sound of wood, a scratching on the surface, was followed by a familiar voice.
“My lord?”
Otto and Eleanor entered.
“A letter arrived through a messenger,” she said, “for your eyes only.”
“I think it’s important to accept him right away, my lord.” Otto’s eyes looked alert and focused.
Edward turned his attention to his wife. Her eyebrow heads rose and came closer together and she had a slight smile drawn on her face.
“I am eager to find out what news he brings,” Eleanor said. Edward stood despite the pain. He nodded and the guards let three newcomers into his chambers.
A man with a nose like the beak of an eagle entered the room. He was introduced as the messenger but he was old for a courier.
All morning, Lady Eleanor and Otto had discussed the events of the past several days. There had been no word from their friends and their mission. The previous day, there had been a bustle on the streets; the Templars had dispatched themselves to an unknown destination with most of their knights, ready for battle.
But not the Knights of the Hospital.
“I had used all my power to discover where the Templars had ridden but… nothing.” Otto scratched his nose.
“Sir Thomas Bérard, the Grand Master of the Order of the Temple rode with his men too,” Eleanor added.
“It’s unusual for their movements to be so well-hidden. Even the Hospitaller Knights, who hadn’t gone, were silent on the subject,” Otto said.
“I think they knew,” Edward said.
“I suspect we will find out soon, my lord.”
Edward turned toward the three newcomers into his chambers and examined them.
An old man stood before them as a messenger, accompanied by two younger men for protection, golden-armored guards. Only one man could afford to send such an envoy: the sultan.
“Speak,” the prince said.
“I am bringing you a gift, a request, and an opportunity, Lord Edward,” the messenger said, then stepped two paces forward and passed to the towering prince two letters bearing the seal of the Sultan of Egypt.
A little cloud of emotion waved through the room. Edward, Otto, and Eleanor stood speechless.
Edward unfolded the first letter, he read it twice and passed it to Otto. While the knight examined what was written, the prince read the second letter, and passed it to his friend, as well.
“He wants what?” Otto looked surprised, almost shocked.
“He asked us gently,” Edward said. Eleanor was curious and took the letters from Otto’s hands.
“Gentle, indeed,” she confirmed. Edward looked at the eyes of the old man and was thinking, but said nothing.
“In a good will, the sultan sent you a symbol of trust,” Eleanor added, watching the thoughtful look of Edward and his adviser.
“What’s that?” Edward managed to ask.
“Hope, your majesty,” the messenger said.
Edward’s mind was working fast enough. The time had come. Decisions had to be taken, a fate to be followed.
“My heart is alive again, my lord,” Eleanor said, nodding to her husband. She approached Edward as the corners of her mouth curved upward and kissed him gently.
A gift, a request, and an opportunity, what more did a knight need?
Chapter Sixteen
Holy Land, Friday 24th of June, St John’s Feast day, in the year 1272 of the incarnation of Christ; the Second Battle of Ayn Jalut
The Sun was vivid as never before.
What to say about the heat? It was a life-draining torture device; it sucked the life and the water out of you. It made men sweat and thirst; their necks fried under the Sun and their throats burned. Wasn’t the Sun supposed to be merciful?
There were some clouds on the skyline and the sunshine pierced through them like a long spear touching the ground. These arrows flew in different directions, dancing around their master, the Sun. You couldn’t mistake him, you couldn’t miss him—he had been there, every day, since the birth of the Land, and he would be together with her until the end in an enduring, loving relationship. The Sun was the ultimate master of life and death, the warmth-giver, the reason everything grew … but sometimes, he was so dreadful. There was no other force like him. Now he was in the front row, sitting in anticipation of something. But what? What would follow?
And the birds? Where were they? He missed the sounds of the birds. Baibars waved his hand forward, showing his followers, they were almost there: the Valley of Death.
The sultan rode ahead. He expected an ambush. He knew. Everyone knew. Even the birds knew, but they were missing
It was hot like an oven. The sand was hot. The air was hot. After the rainstorm, now the Sun had decided to dry out every drop of water. The effect of the water evaporating from the surface was devastating. It was like boiling eggs.
He felt like an egg. Trudging forward, feet heavy, as well as eyes.
Although they were late for the meeting, he knew there was no need to hurry; the enemy was already there. The rene
gades. The traitors. They were there, anticipating him, the sultan.
Baibars looked behind him. He was followed by one of his best regiments, the most loyal to him as well as the best soldiers around. But they weren’t enough for what lay ahead.
What were the strengths of the enemies’ force? He calculated, and this he did well. All his life, he had trusted his instincts and his judgment. They would be five to one, in favor of Berrat and his allies. Did he have a chance?
He had learned in this life that if the heart beats, there is hope. And his heart was working fast and hard. There would be an encounter; the meeting was near. He knew it was a trap, but he also knew he must enter into it. Why? Because if you wanted to hunt a bear you had to face the beast. If the renegades wanted to hunt a lion, they must face him. The Lion of Egypt, that was what the people called Baibars.
He liked that. He had fought all his life—for a single piece of bread, through his first battle, to his first promotion. Did he have to surrender? Never!
He looked back to his followers and their worn, determined faces. Baibars’ force comprised almost 600 strong, mail-clad, mounted Mamluks from his personal royal guards—his most trusted—and a hired battalion of almost 100 Genoese crossbowmen to follow him. He knew his men would follow him to the end.
Why? He might be naïve, but he knew.
The timing was crucial. And thus, he was on his own plan. He knew he had to take a risk once more. But this time, he was risking not only his head on a stake but the life of his little daughter as well. Not to mention the bloody empire. Even without him, there would be this realm; it had survived through the ages—through the Romans, through the Crusaders. Only the future would show what would happen. Now, he only cared about his daughter—his seventh daughter, Anna. He saw the little princess and the precious smile on her face. This image was fading, but he hoped to prolong its existence in his memory.
After the death of his first one, his legacy didn’t matter. His future was tainted. His next day didn’t count for apples.
An empire for his beloved daughter? Was it worth it?
How had he let this happen? He would never forgive himself. He had been so confident he could manage it again, like his precious game of cat and mouse with the last conspiracy. But he had failed.
Now, he was determined not to fail again. Because this was a game of death; the losers would be left a head shorter.
He was almost there: Marj Ibn Amer. The valley where he had met the Mongol invasion, long before. He had fought and he had won. The battle of Ayn Jalut. He remembered what his friend, Ibn al-Nafis, had said twelve years before.
“Our country was far from that land which those infidels, the Mongols, conquered, but then it became their neighbor. And our people had to fight the infidels and resist them. To do so, we had to obtain two things: a large army and a brave sultan to lead them. Without these things, it would have been impossible to fight these infidels, the Mongols, with all their conquests over the many lands and their numerous armies.”
He remembered it like it was yesterday. It had been a Friday, just like this day. Baibars had convinced the sultan of the time to meet the Mongol invasion and to beat them. They had met them here, at Ayn Jalut, the Goliath’s Spring.
The Goliath’s Spring was an all-season spring at the foot of the northwest corner of Mount Gilboa, a few leagues west of the village of Baysan.
Baibars knew that Ughan would move south, taking up position near Ayn Jalut, just as the Mongols did, so many years before. There was little doubt that the renegades would be the first to arrive and take up position, just as the enemy had done at the last battle at this site.
It had been twelve years since Baibars, upon reaching a nearby hill, had found the Mongols camped there. He hadn’t been a sultan back then—not yet. Some scholars had advised that the Mamluks should arrive at the location first and set up an ambush. But that hadn’t happened; instead, they had encountered a prepared enemy who tried to ambush them.
Along the northern foot of the Gilboa ran a river which provided water for the Mongols’ horses; the adjacent valley offered both pasturage and good conditions for cavalry warfare. Its other advantages were evident; the Mongols could exploit the proximity of Mount Gilboa to anchor their flank. It also offered an excellent vantage point, as did the nearby Hill of Moreh.
To win, they had needed to fight like demons. And they had won, all thanks to him, his strategy, and his determination to win. Baibars had fought like a lion. He had employed the tactics and the sultan of the time, Qutuz, had taken the fruits of his efforts. But he had paid for them in time.
At that time, they had won a massive victory. They had been the first to defeat the Mongol horde.
Some historians said that, in the battle of Ayn Jalut, which had been fought out between people of the same race, the infidels of yesterday had defeated the hordes of hell to become the Muslims of tomorrow. Baibars disagreed with this verdict. Yet, this victory had defined his destiny. And not only his, but that of the empire, too.
He had fought all his life. He could continue to fight and to be victorious. In his veins ran the blood of a winner. And the winner took all and wrote history as it suited him.
Ughan, Berrat—all his former friends had taken part in this great battle against the Mongols.
Now they would fight him.
This was a logical place for the renegades to await him. But he knew the landscape as well as they. Better; Ughan and Berrat had fought here, but Baibars had planned and executed the attack that had won the previous battle. That was his advantage. Still, his numbers were not as he would have liked. Ughan knew this.
They had wanted to meet the sultan here.
“What are they thinking?” Baibars wondered as he approached the valley. His face was stone cold. He had always known one way and it was straightforward: conspirators and people who wanted to overthrow his reign had to be faced. They all had to be beat. The traitors had no other fate.
Even though he had never failed in battle before, Baibars wasn’t calm. He hoped for news from the Desert Wolf. Ulf had failed once—to protect the sultan’s first daughter. This was the pain that had haunted the sultan’s emotions since then.
He would never forgive either himself for exposing a member of his family to danger or Ulf for not keeping her alive. Still, he hoped the Wolf would manage to bring his youngest daughter back safely. He was the key to this battle now. He was the blade that could cut this knot out of Baibars’ neck.
The Desert Wolf, Diyaab al-Sahra, and his thirst for blood could be useful again. But could Baibars trust him? He thought he could trust the way Anna looked at Ulf and the way the Wolf had returned that look.
This was funny: an empire, an entire kingdom was hanging by a thread because of a smile. The innocent smile of his youngest daughter.
He closed his eyes. Anna’s image warmed his soul. He was ready as never before.
***
The sultan and his host of warriors entered the valley.
The sound of running water whispered its song in James’ ears. After the rains, a lake had formed around the spring and at the foot of the mountain. It was not big but was enough to spur them all. Yet the newborn lake surprised them; it was hard to cross with the cavalry. James hoped it would be the same for their opponents.
Sir James of Durham and the Genoese captain, Andrea Pelu, led the Genoese crossbowmen. They had arrived the previous night from Jerusalem. It was a bloody coincidence that they had been there. Baibars had offered Pelu’s men a year’s pay to fight for him for one day. Pelu had left his previous paymaster after not receiving his promised payment. He was desperate to earn something for himself and his men on this journey. This was not an unusual business for him; he often traded with the sultan, bringing him slaves or goods from the Black Sea, and sometimes his men fought for gold. Trading in war, it was prestigious to fight for royalty, no matter the side or the religion.
James had a very different motive. He owed his
life to the sultan, whose physician had cured the wound he had received at the Tower of David in Jerusalem. The sultan had asked him to return the favor, to fight on Baibars’ side and bring his daughter back. In exchange for the use of James’ sword for a day, Baibars had offered the cure for his friend, Edward.
It was a dilemma for the Scottish knight. He had come to this land to fight for the Christians against these infidels. What should he do? His heart and mind struggled with the question. In the end, the sultan had convinced him that if they lost this battle, soon there would be no Christian lands over the sea. He chose his friend and his pride.
The arrival of the Genoese had angered James at first—that these money-lovers fought for the enemy, but then his anger cast away. He was glad he had a chance to fight side-by-side with Christians, even mercenaries.
They came from the south and stopped near the foot of the mountain. Their backs were turned to the newly formed lake from the rains and floods that bordered Mount Gilboa. Behind them was а river running east. He looked ahead and saw the enemy and his battalions located northeast at the foot of the Hill of Moreh. The renegades waited until the sultan and his men were in place and emerged from over hills.
This wouldn’t be an ordinary battle. The world was changing. A sultan versus his own—Templars, Tartars, and assassins. Not to mention the Italians on Baibars’ side. It was madness. There were Italians mercenaries with the Templars, too. But Red Herring knew that the Venetians and the Genoese were foes and always fought for power, for trade routes, for gold, and for prestige. Their desire to once again take on their rivals was evident. James observed the right wing of the enemy. He saw a battalion of Templars led personally by their Master, Thomas Bérard.
“Damn all traitors,” James shook his head in disbelief. “If my father was here he would scratch my neck for those words,” he said to the Italian next to him.
“You know, Sir James, in war everything is allowed, except losing! So, we must win. Nothing else matters.” Pelu smiled at that.
Longsword- Edward and the Assassin Page 33