He gave one of his wry grins. “They had to be. Who else was going to bring them food and clothing, out here in this desolate spot?”
Hugh stared at his former comrade with loathing. “My folk,” he said, “so you are not a Christian after all.”
“No,” replied the other. “That was a lie. My parents were Muslim, and I was born and raised in Damascus. At the age of twelve I was taken into the Qussad. Doubtless you have heard of us.”
Suddenly all the hatred went out of Hugh. How could he despise this man? Maymun was his own mirror image. They were both spies and play-actors, trained in the arts of deceit.
“How did you know I was with the Tartars?” he demanded.
“Simple,” replied the other. “Shortly after your friends left Maragheh, I abandoned them and returned to the sultan at Damascus, to tell him all that I knew of the treaty between Edward and the il-khan. Then I went back into the field, to track the progress of the Tartars when they invaded Syria. When I heard of the Frankish knight captured at the fight near Aleppo, my instincts told me it was you. What other Frank would be riding among the Tartars?”
He looked slightly embarrassed. “I must apologise for the crude method of your transport. I should have warned that pig of a slave-trader that you were to be treated with courtesy. Say the word, and I shall have his throat cut.”
Hugh waved this away. He was more concerned with his own fate than that of the slave-driver.
“You fooled me,” he admitted. “I had my suspicions, but you were good enough to allay them. I can only salute you.”
He gave an ironic salaam, at which Maymun laughed. “There – that is well said!” he cried. “A lesser man would have spat in my face, for all the good it would do.
“You are different. I was supposed to kill you after we reached the ilkhanate. I refused. I had come to know you on the journey. We are kindred spirits, Longsword.”
“But of different faiths,” said Hugh, “and different masters.”
He was conscious of two of Maymun’s followers standing close behind him. Their faces were still hidden behind scarves, but Hugh suspected they were the same men who had accompanied him to Maragheh.
He wasn’t the only to be fooled. Even the Lord Edward thought Maymun and his fellow Qussad agents were Christian mercenaries. How many other spies did Baibars have at Acre? He feared for his master, surrounded by hidden foes.
Maymun stepped closer and placed a hand on Hugh’s shoulder. “You speak true,” he said. “Different faiths and masters. Yet it doesn’t have to be that way. I know your quality, Longsword. I convinced my masters to let you live. For now.”
“What for?” asked Hugh, though he had a good idea of what was coming. The earnestness in Maymun’s voice amused him.
“So I might turn you. I know your quality, and you would be a good man to have on our side. Join us, Longsword. Join the Qussad.
“You would not be the first Christian to enter the sultan’s service,” he added before Hugh could respond. “Many of his officers were Christians, once, captured and taken into slavery when they were still young. They were given the choice of joining our army and prospered.”
“I am not a child,” said Hugh, “and I am already oath-sworn to another master. Nor will I give up my faith.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Maymun looked genuinely worried. “Come,” he said with a nervous smile, “will you play the devout crusader with me now? You are a born actor, Longsword. It will be just another role for you.
“If it is a question of theology…well, I am no imam, but you must know that Christ is a prophet of Islam. You are not being asked to give him up. Nor do you have any choice in the matter.”
“I do have a choice,” Hugh said quietly. “If it is a case of convert or die, then I choose death. You’re right. I am a natural-born liar. Yet some lies are too monstrous to be told. I will not risk my immortal soul for a few more years of life.”
Maymun’s face grew solemn. Hugh tensed, waiting for the kiss of steel in his flesh.
“You never gave up your faith,” he pointed out. “Even though you pretended to be Christian. You have no right to turn me into an apostate.”
Silence followed. Maymun folded his arms and rested his back against the sandstone wall, gazing at the floor. Hugh wondered at the thoughts churning over in that subtle mind.
“You’re a fool, Longsword,” Maymun said eventually. “But your answer was not unexpected. Or unwelcome. In truth, if you had agreed at once I would have killed you. The Qussad has no use for fainthearts who crack under the slightest pressure.”
“So what do you mean to do?” asked Hugh. “Torture me into accepting your religion?”
Maymun gave him a dark look. “You jest, but the Qussad are trained in such methods. Men have died under my hands before. One or two women, as well. But no man can be tortured out of his faith. You must come to it of your own accord.
“To that end, I mean to do – nothing. You will stay here, with two of my men to keep you company. Nobody ever comes out here, Longsword. You will have plenty of time to think on my offer.”
The Saracen nodded at the men standing behind Hugh. “Hasam and Burj al Tina will take good care of you.”
“I’m sure they will,” said Hugh, “and slip a knife into my ribs as soon as you’re gone. I can sense them itching to do it.”
“They know better than to disobey my orders,” retorted Maymun. “Have no fear, you will be treated with honour and respect. Unless, that is, you try to escape. That would be most unwise.”
He smiled again. “I will return every so often, when my duties allow it. The next time we meet, I pray you will have chosen the course of wisdom.”
Maymun offered his hand. When Hugh refused to clasp it, he shrugged and strode past him to the entrance.
“You are proud, Longsword,” he said before departing. “Pride is one of the greatest of sins in your faith and mine. Learn to conquer your pride, or else it will destroy you.”
With that, he ducked into the tunnel and left Hugh with his two faceless minders.
14.
Edward sat on the window seat in his quarters and leafed moodily through the pages of the manuscript on his lap.
It was, at least, beautifully illustrated. A birthday gift from his wife, it featured a coloured plate showing Edward and his knights in the company of Vegetius, a famous Roman military historian. The knights were shown as slender young men with fair hair, while Vegetius was an old man with a straggly grey beard. Edward himself appeared as a tall, youthful prince; he was bareheaded and clean-shaven, and wore a dark red mantle trimmed with ermine over a blue robe. His right hand rested lightly on the right hand of the seated Vegetius.
He could not help but smile at the inscriptions. The group of figures on the page were framed in a triple gothic archway, round which was written a motto in Latin. It translated as:
THE KNIGHTS OF THE LORD EDWARD, LORD EDWARD, THE PHILOSOPHER VEGETIUS
Around Vegetius himself twined a scroll bearing another motto, this time in French. Edward silently mouthed the words.
“Venez a moy senurs chevalers que volez aver honur de chevalerie.” –
Come to me you lordly knights who seek to gain chivalric honour.
Edward glanced fondly at his wife, fast asleep in their bed. Her unbound raven tresses spilled across the mound of pillows. It was a warm night, even in November, but Eleanor rarely had trouble sleeping.
The same could not be said for her husband. A host of troubles pressed down on his shoulders, each one vying for his attention. The other Christian leaders, led by King Hugh of Cyprus and Jerusalem, had recently signed a truce with Baibars at Caesarea. It was agreed to last ten years, ten months, ten weeks and ten hours.
Edward had been frozen out of the talks leading up to the truce. Hugh and the other Christian leaders had been happy to beg for his help, but now he was inconvenient. Their ingratitude and hypocrisy made him sick to the stomach. Of all the
princes of Christendom, only Edward had kept his vow to come to the aid of the Crusader states. Only Edward had tried to take the fight to the Mamluks.
Hugh in particular disgusted him. The man was a Lusignan to his boots, shamelessly treacherous and self-interested. Edward had finally persuaded the man, after much argument, to bring his knights over from Cyprus to fight on the mainland in return for pay. The so-called King of Jerusalem refused to fight the enemies of the faith, except as a glorified mercenary!
Edward knew the terms of the treaty. In return for their surrender of almost all the territory outside Acre, Baibars permitted the Christians to keep open the pilgrim route from Acre to Nazareth.
When he first heard of this, Edward had almost fainted with anger. He and his knights had secured the road to Nazareth, fought constant battles against Mamluk garrisons from the north and east. English blood and sweat preserved the route to Christ’s birthplace. Their only assistance came from a few mercenary horsemen, hired with English gold.
My reward is to be thrown aside, he thought. Like a spent torch, tossed into the gutter.
He was sorely tempted to abandon the crusade and sail off home. Leave King Hugh and John de Montfort and all the other ingrates to cope with Baibars alone. The sultan would soon eat them all up. Only his vow kept him in place. Edward had broken vows to men before, but a promise to God was truly sacred.
Now, bereft of allies, he spent the hours of darkness browsing the pages of Vegetius, searching desperately for inspiration. So far the long-dead Roman had told him nothing very useful. Edward’s eye rested on an account of the famous Roman general, Pompey the Great:
“In battle Pompey the Great would often charge at his enemies in the same way as his men charged; he would run with those who ran and would fight with a club together with the infantry who were fighting a standing battle.”
This appeared to suggest that generals should fight in battle alongside their men. Edward had never shied away from doing so and carried the scars to prove it. He sighed, licked his fingers and turned over another page. After a while he came to a section on Rome’s wars against Hannibal and Carthage:
“When the first African war took place twenty-three or more years ago the Romans gained a complete victory on account of the enemy's idleness and the heaviness of their arms which weakened them; so that in the second African war Hannibal's Spaniards could not match them.”
Again, this was of little use. Unlike Hannibal, Baibars would never allow his soldiers to fall idle. The Mamluks were the greatest warrior race on earth, greater even than the Tartars. In his heart, Edward knew the Christians could not defeat them in battle, even if they had equal numbers. The only chance of victory was to encircle the Mamluks on all sides and attack them on several fronts at once.
For Edward’s new strategy to work, he needed allies. The Tartars would have to be called upon again, and the Armenians. Fresh offers of alliance would need to be drawn up, envoys despatched to the furthest corners of Outremer and beyond. Aqaba, the il-khan, had also recently signed a truce with the Mamluks. He could, Edward was certain, be persuaded to take up arms again. Baibars, the Father of Conquest, was too great a threat to ignore.
Edward closed the book and leaned back against the wall. He gazed out of the lattice window, at the moonlit streets of Acre. Beyond lay the dark waters of the Mediterranean.
All was peaceful tonight. He could almost imagine there was no war, no Baibars, no looming shadow over the fragments of the Crusader states. A happy dream. Edward closed his eyes.
He was jolted out of his brief slumber by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Edward’s eyes snapped open and he reached for his dagger, only to relax when he saw the face of Fowin, his trusted valet. The valet held up the flickering light of a candle in an iron holder over his master’s face.
“Lord,” said Fowin, “there is a visitor to see you.”
He spoke in a whisper, so as not to wake Eleanor. Edward did the same.
“A visitor?” he hissed. “At this hour? Who is it, in God’s name?”
“A Saracen,” came the reply. “The one called Maymun. He brings word of the Tartars in the north. Urgent news, so he claims. It cannot wait.”
A flicker of hope rose in Edward’s breast, tinged with fear. Had the Tartars attempted another invasion of northern Syria, without waiting for his signal? He pictured the wreckage of the Tartar host, cut to pieces on some battlefield near Antioch or Damascus. The final ruin of his hopes in the east.
“Bring him to me,” Edward snapped. “I’ll speak to him in the antechamber.”
Fowin bowed and crept out of the chamber. Careful not to wake Eleanor, Edward pulled on a light silken tunic over his smallclothes and sat quietly on the bed. He watched his wife for a time, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing.
He reached out and stroked a lock of her hair. How could he live without this woman? The mere thought made him go cold. Without Eleanor, there was nothing. Compared to her, even his children were of little consequence. He knew Eleanor loved him with the same selfish, all-consuming passion.
“Let the whole world burn,” he whispered. “Only let her live. Let us die together, in the same moment. Let us lie together in the earth, hand in hand, bound for eternity.”
Soon – far too soon – there was a quiet knock at the door. It opened slightly and Fowin peered through.
“Your guest awaits, lord,” he whispered.
Edward signalled his assent. With a last regretful look at Eleanor, he rose and followed his servant outside.
Beyond lay the antechamber, a large room with a domed roof. It was largely bare of furnishings save a three-legged table and a couple of stools. The walls were whitewashed, painted with bands that depicted warlike scenes from the Bible. King Nebuchadnezzar’s conquest of Jerusalem was the main theme: rows of Israelites bound and led off into slavery by Babylonian soldiers, the plunder and theft of sacred vessels from the Temple, the king of Judah, Joachim, grovelling before his conqueror. Edward disliked the imagery. It reminded him that Jerusalem was beyond his grasp.
Maymun stood by the door. Head bowed, hands folded inside the long sleeves of his tunic. Edward had come to know and trust this man, Saracen though he was. Literate, intelligent, brave and loyal, as well as a highly competent spy and swordsman – such men were thin on the ground.
“Leave us,” Edward ordered Fowin, who gave another bow and flickered out of the room.
“Lord prince,” said Maymun when the two men were alone together. “I apologise for disturbing you at such a late hour. The news I bear could not wait.”
The antechamber was hot. Edward crossed to the window, unlatched and pushed open the shutters. Cool night air wafted in. He leaned on the sill and gazed at the white orb of the moon.
“Well?” he asked. “What is this urgent news? Out with it.”
Maymun came closer. “I carry letters from Aqaba,” he said. “Perhaps it would be best if you read them, lord prince.”
His voice was soft, insinuating, almost melodic. Edward suddenly felt bone-tired. He reached out for the letters.
“Yes,” he said wearily. “Hand them over.”
Maymun reached inside his left sleeve. Something flickered in his hand. An instant later Edward’s forearm was sliced open. His blood splattered the floor. The pain, as intense as it was unexpected, made him gape soundlessly.
The blade stabbed him a second time. It bit deep into the muscle of his upper arm. More blood, more pain. Edward tore his arm free. Maymun, his teeth bared, lunged a third time and drove his bloody dagger under the prince’s armpit.
Edward kicked out. His naked foot caught Maymun under the knee. There was a crunch of bone. The Saracen grunted and staggered backwards. Edward closed with him and seized his wrist, trying to wrest away the dagger. His right fist struck the would-assassin on the brow. Maymun’s eyes crossed. Stunned, he fell onto his back.
“Help me!” Edward roared. “Someone help me, in God’s name!”
Hi
s left arm was on fire. Blood ran freely from multiple stab wounds. Maymun stirred on the floor. Dizzy and sick with pain, Edward looked around desperately for a weapon.
He lurched over to the table and snatched up one of the stools. As Maymun struggled to his knees, Edward swung round and smashed the stool against the side of his head. Maymun fell sideways. The dagger spun from his grasp.
The sound of pounding feet echoed in the corridor outside. Edward ignored it and knelt on the fallen man’s chest. Bellowing, he raised the stool in both hands and brought it down on Maymun’s skull, again and again and again.
“Christ preserve us!”
The door was flung open. Men came streaming into the chamber. Strong hands seized the prince and dragged him away. The broken remnant of the stool was whisked out of his grasp. Above the confused shouts and calls for a surgeon, a woman’s voice screamed.
“Eleanor!” cried Edward. “Eleanor…don’t let them…nobody is to…Eleanor…”
Maymun twitched and convulsed in his death-throes. His skull was cracked like an egg, his handsome face battered to a bloody mush. Edward struggled to break free of those who held him.
“Peace, lord.” Othon’s familiar voice tried to soothe him. “Be calm, I beg you. You have lost much blood. The doctors will be here soon.”
Edward went limp. He was soaked in sweat, shuddering like man in the grip of an ague.
“The dagger,” he said hoarsely. “It will have been poisoned. The blades of the…Qussad are always…tainted…”
He could already feel the poison working in his veins. Soon his flesh would start to turn black.
“Eleanor…” he whispered, and then slumped into nothing.
15.
Days turned into weeks, weeks to months. All this time Hugh was rarely allowed to venture beyond the walls of his stone prison. His guards let him out once or twice a week to exercise and stretch his cramped limbs. Even then, Hugh was only permitted to walk a little way up the length of the valley and back again, with one of the Saracens in front of him and the other behind.
Holy Warrior Page 15