Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (15 page)

The second supply ship was the armory. Swords, daggers, shields, and helmets adorned the walls. The tools of a professional blacksmith were also there: forges, pincers, tongs, and mallets and hammers of various sizes. That ship was not packed like the other one had been, and Francois assumed the weight of all that metal was a concern.

The next ship had people. There were cheap merchants, hoping to get rich off the war or simply hoping to start a business in Egypt. There were women, too, whores by the look of them. He saw painted faces, exposed bodies, sensual lips. Francois looked and looked, until one of the older whores walked up to him and batted her eyelashes.

"Looking for a good time, sailor?" she asked.

"I'm looking for a girl named Olivia."

"I'm Olivia, have you heard about me?"

"You're not who I'm looking for." Francois tried to look past the woman, but she stepped into his view, trying to make eye contact.

"You know you want me," she said, sounding almost accusatory.

"I seek Olivia!" Francois finally yelled. Every eye in the ship's cargo hold was on him suddenly, and he blushed bright red at the attention. Down the wharf, a few soldiers also looked his direction, and several sailors looked down on him from the upper deck.

"Hey, leave the girls alone!" a burly sailor yelled.

"If ya can't pay, then leave!" another one shouted.

"Where is Olivia?" Francois shouted again, but not as loudly. He was rewarded with nothing but blank stares, and he cursed loudly and left.

The next ship was more run-down than the previous. Millions of barnacles clung to the hull, the crew too lazy to scrape them off. The wood also looked rotten, and seagulls circled overhead, evidently believing there would be scraps of food coming from this vessel. Francois took a deep breath and approached the gangplank to the cargo hold, and he accidentally ran into a hooded young woman.

She was a tiny thing, malnourished, eyes downcast. She smelled ripe, too, and her fingernails were bright yellow. Still, Francois could see sharp cheeks beneath the hood, and an aquiline nose that spoke of high breeding. With more boldness than he thought he possessed, Francois brushed the hood off her head. It was Olivia.

Raul and Christof were on one of the ships that anchored down the coast. Their vessel was huge, carrying three hundred men and fifty crew members. The soldiers took turns at the oars below decks, and with the anchor in place, that duty was suspended. The ship used sails, too, but they were useless without favorable winds. On that first night, the captain declined to let any men go to shore.

"Let's wait and see what Louis does," was all he said. It seemed to be the mantra of the entire crusade on Cyprus.

Every ship in that fleet, and every other fleet on Earth, has an urchin. It's always a prepubescent boy, too, with filthy skin and ragged eyes. Urchins are the sons of poor sailors, or whores, and they become attached to the vessel they were born on. The crew adopts them as one of their own, and they scamp around, everyone's subordinate and nobody's responsibility. On Raul and Christof's ship, the urchin was named Makel.

Raul noticed him on their second day at sea. He was hard to miss. Black skin, almost purple, distinguished him from every other person on the ship. He was climbing to the bird's nest, moving with the agility of a spider and carrying a brown sack in his teeth. Raul had stared and stared, wondering if he was experiencing sea delusions. But he wasn't. Makel was just there, an anomaly, an aberration in the population.

Makel was eleven, and no one seemed to truly know where he came from. Raul wanted to speak with the boy, to ask him what he remembered from his earliest days. But Raul could never catch the urchin; he was always moving.

"What's your interest in him, anyway?" Christof asked Raul, as they sat on the deck, staring at the island of Cyprus. They had been floating for two days, wasting time and breath.

"He's a child. Someone should look after him."

"He's a bastard son of some very dark-skinned folks. Not our problem. He'll grow up and be a sailor on this boat, and a damn fine one, too," Christof said. The words sounded odd to Raul's ears, like Christof admired something about the boy. He filed that tidbit in his mind for later consideration.

Chapter Sixteen

LOUIS MADE THE GENERAL ANNOUNCEMENT five days after they arrived at Cyprus. They would spend the entire winter there. Envoys from powerful nations were going to be visiting the island nation over the next few months, to discuss alliances with Louis. Virtually all of his men were allowed to come onto the island of Cyprus, while skeleton crews managed the ships.

The men divided into two spheres of opinion on spending the entire winter in Cyprus. One group, the veterans, shook their heads in wonderment at Louis' procrastination. Surely they should attack Egypt immediately, to use the element of surprise? Or, why could they not stay at their homes in Europe while Louis negotiated in Cyprus? He did not need his army here, draining his funds. Soldiers on crusade expected food, pay, and medical attention.

The other popular opinion of the soldiers was one of ecstasy to stay on Cyprus. It was a gift, they said, a few more months of life before they went to the hot desert and battled the murderous Muslims. They would have more time to train, fuck Cyprian girls and boast of the accomplishment they would have in Egypt. Regardless of what the men felt, they obeyed Louis' orders and there were no desertions, no threats of mutiny. When one of the most powerful men on Earth makes a decision, his soldiers follow, trusting his wisdom. Never mind that their allegiance gave him his power, and without an army, Louis was little more than an international figurehead. Despite his status, he never expected the two men who sought an audience with him after one week on Cyprus.

Louis lived with Henry the Fat during his time on the island. The man's estate was a sprawling complex of barracks, towers, supply stores, and servant's quarters. There was a mountain behind the estate, towering to the heavens. It was called Mount Olympus, a remnant of a forgotten religion, though some indigenous peoples still traveled there for religious reasons. To the west was a lake surrounded by trees, and you could not see it until you were practically in the water. The surrounding countryside was flat, however, and the guard's voice on the eastern tower rang out one early morning.

"Riders! Two of them!"

This caused a small ripple of activity on the estate, and the captain of the guard rode out to meet the men before they got any closer.

"What is your business at the home of Lord Henry?" the captain demanded, trying to stare the men down. They did not divert their gazes, and the captain recognized the hardness of their muscles, the ease with which they sat on their horses. These men were warriors.

"We come from the khan of the Mongols," the brown-haired one said. "We bring a message for King Louis of France."

Their names were David and Marc, and they were made to sit at an outdoor table until King Louis decided if he would see them or not. The men did not complain, and they seemed to enjoy the fuss that their presence was making. They had used a word rarely heard around European circles, a word that carried such weight, such severity, that few dared say it. Mongols. For that reason, Louis did not make them wait long.

He appeared in simple clothing, his bare arms showing. Louis had a bow strapped to his back, though he had never shot one in his life, and a sword hung naked at his waist. He had not shaved in three days, and his stubble was like the grass on the ground, brown and coarse.

"I am King Louis," he said when he reached the table. To his surprise, David and Marc stood and bowed deeply. On each of their necks hung heavy crosses.

"We are Christians from the Far East, where wild men of the plains dominate the land. They are called Mongols, and we have been sent by their leader, Khan Guyuk, to give you this message." One of them pulled a parchment from the folds of his shirt and held it up to read:

The king of the world demands that there shall not be, by the grace of God, any difference between the Latins, Greeks, Armenians, and all those who honor the Cross. All of them are equal before our eyes, and we ask the great king to do the same

He finished reading and held the parchment for Louis to inspect. Louis took it, felt the calfskin between his fingers, and looked at the words. The symbols were foreign to his eyes, nonsense. He gave the parchment back to the man.

"What is all this about?" Louis finally asked, with more calm than he felt. He had heard about the Mongol hordes, merciless horseback archers who swept aside their enemies like the river sweeping aside pebbles. They were born warriors and their numbers were in the millions. The Mongols were nothing short of the most magnificent, destructive army in the world. Louis wanted their khan's approval, his blessing, but he wouldn't beg for it.

"We are here to tell you the khan has converted to Christianity, along with his most senior generals. We are here to say the Word of God has pierced the souls of those men, and the khan wants nothing but peace between our mighty nations."

Louis said nothing. The khan of the Mongols was not his concern. He didn't care if the man called himself a Christian, Muslim, or worshipped whatever pagan gods came from that dark corner of the world. Louis had other things on his mind, and he made a snap decision.

"Bring me my tent!" he yelled.

It took six servants to carry the tent, which could be erected to form a makeshift chapel. Before the eyes of David and Marc, the tent was raised. It was stunning. Dark, royal purple cloth provided backdrop scenes from the life of Jesus—turning water to wine, overturning the tables of the money changers in the temple, Jesus' baptism, the last supper, and the crucifixion. The scenes were sewn into the tent with exquisite detail, and the sheer size of the tent already made it greater than anything any of the men there had ever seen.

"Take this to your khan, with my blessing," King Louis said, smiling. He hoped, prayed, that the incredible gift would placate the leader of the vicious Mongols. Louis could not afford to anger that man, no matter what the cost. "And take twenty men to escort you back to Asia Minor! Of course, you may stay here as long as you like and enjoy French hospitality."

David and Marc thanked King Louis. This gift, the escort, made their three-month journey worth the effort. They prostrated themselves on the ground and kissed King Louis' ring, thanking him for promoting peace and harmony among the nations. For his part, King Louis felt a strange, encompassing warmth resonate throughout his chest.
If you can't beat them with arms, lull them with gifts and flattery,
he thought.

Chapter Seventeen

FRANCOIS SAT ON A LOG, watching Olivia wash her feet in a river. Since he had found her on the docks, Olivia told him everything—the rough sex with the king, the other men she slept with, and her desires for him, and him alone. Initially, Francois was privately repulsed. He did not want the leftovers of some other man's sexual appetite. Francois desired his lover to be pure, though he wasn't. But Olivia had a quickness of wit, a shyness, an ability to discern Francois' thoughts that he couldn't turn away from. She intoxicated him with her smile, her economy of movements.

They spent almost every evening together on Cyprus during that winter of 1248. Olivia no longer slept with the king, and she helped Francois during the day at the clinic that Henry had set up on a docked ship. Olivia could always be found by Francois' side with fresh bandages, clean water, and herbs from the countryside to brew into tea.

"Who are you?" Olivia suddenly said, looking past Francois' shoulder.

"Artois."

Francois rose and his brother was there, huge and smiling. He looked so different. His uniform was clean and fitted his frame, a polished long sword hung at his hip, and his boots were brown and muddy. "Artois!" Francois hugged his brother, smelling the familiar must in Artois' hair and feeling his big hands on his shoulders.

"Francois, it's been months."

"As a member of the king's bodyguard, I'm sure you're very busy."

"I should have visited earlier, though. I knew you were with the medical unit, but tracking you down has proven quite the chore. What are you doing out here?"

Francois smiled and Olivia watched their exchange with amusement, as they went to the river.

"Artois?" Olivia said. She knew him, of course, from living in Troyes. But at first glance? Artois looked like any one of the trained killers in the king's service, a faceless, nameless warrior who carried out his orders emotionlessly.

"Olivia, I remember you well," Artois said. He and Olivia embraced, and the three of them sat on Francois' log, enjoying the Cyprian countryside and isolation from the rest of the crusade. They made quite the trio. First, the studious healer, who was a warrior at heart but preferred the finer things in life, the deep satisfaction of embracing art and science. And second, there was the former prostitute, a used woman who was finally regaining her strength, her self-esteem. Third was the king's bodyguard, a mountain of a man who was capable of terrifying violence or surprising gentleness, whatever the situation called for.

There was no snow on Cyprus, but icicles hung from the leaves on top of the highest trees, and there were no insects or bugs to speak of. Wildlife was sparse, engaged in their struggles for survival, and Francois caught sight of an owl once, perched on a high branch, watching the three of them ruminate. The bird's eyes were huge and it cocked its head to the side. Francois swore the bird kept turning its head, until it made a full revolution on its neck.

"I'm getting tired and my eyes are playing tricks on my mind. It's time to go," Francois said.

"Aye, I should be returning to Henry the Fat's estate, it's a rather long walk," Artois said.

"You don't have a horse?" Olivia asked. All the king's bodyguards had horses, usually more than one. Amazingly, a red flush rose in Artois' cheeks.