Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (27 page)

The camp was in full chaos. The crusaders had woken to find half their comrades freshly dead, angry Ayyubids in their faces. They formed pockets of resistance where they could, but the outcome was already decided. The best resistance was coming from the king and his men, and they fought hard, hoping against hope that they could escape.

Francois found a riderless mount and leaped atop it. Several horses were milling around, their riders dead in the dirt, and Francois feverishly looked for his father. There, he was beset by two Egyptians.

"Father!" Francois yelled, reaching to his quiver for an arrow. It was empty. "Artois, help Father!"

Artois slew another man; he cleaved his head off with a single blow. Like the fighting at the river, the Ayyubids gave Artois lots of space, each one hoping someone else would deal with the European giant. When Artois heard his little brother, he spun and saw him on a horse. He followed the direction of Francois' finger and saw two younger, faster Egyptians attacking Raul. To his credit, Raul was avoiding their blows with his own blade and using footwork to avoid counterstrikes. But he was tiring quickly and unable to launch any offense. Artois reached him in ten huge strides.

Artois beheaded the first man. The other turned, and Raul rammed his blade through the man's back, and then Artois batted his head off his shoulders, too.

"Grab a horse! The king has gone!" Francois yelled.

Somehow, someway, King Louis had found a half-dozen mounts and was clear of the camp, riding hard east while his staff tried to keep pace. Artois couldn't make out Trunk among the retreating figures, but that was not his problem. He grabbed the reins of a charcoal-colored stallion and pulled Raul up behind him, and the Coquets charged through the gap that Louis' flight had created. Francois was in front, followed by his father and brother. Blades came at their faces from every direction, as well as curses in Egyptian and stray arrows.

Francois saw his mentor, Henry, surrounded by five warriors. They were at the edge of camp, and Francois realized Henry had tried to run but had been spotted. The Ayyubids were toying with him. One darted in and sliced a shallow wound in his leg, and Henry spun to face him as another Ayyubid kicked him in the ribs. Henry fell, but the Ayyubids didn't finish him.

"Artois!" Francois yelled, pointing at the group.

"He's dead!"

"No, he's not! We must try to help him!"

Artois yelled something in response, but Francois was already angling toward the group. He had no plan, no clever idea on how to scoop Henry up and ride away. He was just going to charge in the middle of the group and see what happened. In the back of his mind, he prayed Artois was following him.

The first Ayyubid turned at the last moment. His face was rough, unshaven, and contorted in a sneer. He had curly black hair and blood on his clothes. The last thing he saw was Francois' mount buck in front of him and slam a hoof into his head. He fell and didn't rise.

"Henry!" Francois shouted, leaping off the horse. Behind him, Artois and Raul leaped down and swung their blades at every dark face they could see. Under their cover, Francois pulled Henry onto his horse. "Let's go!"

Francois could not believe that they were going to make it. The open desert loomed in front of them, a timeless, endless ocean of sand. There were open skies and open seas to the north, and the Coquets were going to make it home.

"AAAHHH!" Henry screamed in Francois' ear. He turned and immediately saw what had happened. An Ayyubid had chopped halfway through Henry's left leg with a sharpened saber, and he left the blade in the leg and fled, rather than try to fight. Henry fell forward and wrapped his arms around Francois' torso.

"Keep going! We'll tend to him when we can!" Raul yelled.

The four men, on two horses, cleared the final tents and bodies of the Seventh Crusade. There was a massacre behind them, and a kettle of vultures was forming overhead, their pitiless eyes watching the battle, waiting for the fighting to slow so they could have their meals. The Coquets continued to ride hard and within a few minutes reached a tall sand dune. Henry's arms were going slack and pale around Francois, and they stopped at the top of the dune.

"Help me," Francois said. He pulled Henry to the sand and, without hesitation, yanked the hated Ayyubid saber from the flesh of his thigh. Blood spurted out, discoloring the sand. Francois immediately ripped a strip of cloth from his tunic and tied it around Henry's upper thigh as a tourniquet. He tightened the binding until the bleeding stopped. Henry didn't have the strength to scream, but he moaned in pain.

"What do we do?" Raul asked, already at his side.

"We have nothing to cauterize with," Francois said, thinking about what to do. "Henry will ride with Artois, he's the strongest. We'll leave this bandage on until we can find a forge or coals to cauterize the stump."

Raul looked at Francois with a mixture of disbelief and pride. "You're—?"

"Yes, Father. I'm going to cut off his leg."

They put Henry behind Artois and prepared to leave. From their high vantage point, the truth of the demise of the Seventh Crusade was obvious. A canal was in the distance, but there was a dark line that ran directly over the canal—a pontoon bridge. It had not been deconstructed, and the Ayyubids crossed it in the night and divided their forces in two—half for the south, half for the north. Oddly, the knowledge that the catastrophe was the engineers' fault gave Artois a measure of comfort. The warriors had done nothing wrong, and he was chief among them.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

THEY REACHED DAMIETTA the following evening. Henry had passed out during the long ride, and they might have made it there sooner if he was up to strength. As it was, he was barely conscious from his blood loss, but Francois could still find his heartbeat on the side of the neck.

The gates were open and soldiers, doctors, and civilians were waiting for them, ready to render aid. Someone else had apparently escaped the camp and reached Damietta first, and the Coquets had no new information, no news for the hundreds of questioning voices.

"Is everyone dead?"

"Where is the king?"

"How could this happen?"

They got Henry into a house. The door was open and no one stopped them, so Francois simply carried him into the first house he saw. He went to the main room's largest table and knocked everything to the floor. Cups, bowls, and bread landed on the floor. Francois put Henry on the table and turned to Artois, who stood by the door.

"Go to a blacksmith and get me a red hot blade. Get me three. I'm not going to let Henry die, after all the lives I've seen him save," Francois said. Artois turned and left, and Francois could hear his brother bellowing outside for someone to take him to a blacksmith.

Raul had seen this before. This was his dream, when the sorcier had put him to sleep in the enchanted woods. A part of Raul was overcome with relief. He did not know Henry, and his survival or death mattered little. Raul's sons were alive and whole. Raul was alive and whole.

The owner of the house was an old French woman, and she was returning from the market when the Coquets took over her house. She took the scene in instantly. An older man, tired and bloody, watched a carbon copy of himself tend to a patient on her table. The younger man was a coiled spring of energy and reactivity, and he was holding hands with the man on the table, giving him strength while they waited for something.

"Hello," she said.

Francois and Raul jumped at her ancient voice.

"Hello, sorry. We're from the crusade, and our friend—"

"I know who you are."

"What, how?"

"I told her, of course," Olivia said, appearing behind the woman. She had wildflowers in her hand and was holding carrots in the other. She looked tanned, healthy, and happy.

"How could this be?" Francois cried.

"I had a . . . problem in Aigues-Mortes. This woman's sister helped me, and she said that if I ever made it to Damietta, to try and find her," Olivia said. "But we can talk later . . . Henry!"

Olivia ran over to him and took his leg in her hands. She saw the tourniquet on his leg and recognized Francois' favorite square-knot in the bow. "You saved his life," she said.

"So far, but the blood is still trickling and he has lost too much already. Artois is getting something to cauterize this with."

"Why didn't you mention any sooner, young man? I can help you with that!" the old woman cackled. She stepped past the men and went to the corner of the room, where an old cauldron sat. It was identical to her sister's in Aigues-Mortes.

"What are you doing?" Francois asked.

"Patience, dearie." The woman started putting different herbs and roots into the cauldron, and it boiled hotter and hotter. Steam filled the room while the cauldron's contents bubbled over the rim, splashing to the floor. The entire house began to feel like a furnace, and Francois stepped back, shielding his face with his hands.

"Give me your sword!" the old woman said. Raul smoothly drew his sword and handed it to the woman, and she plunged the blade into the cauldron. It was red-hot and steaming when she pulled it out. "You all must hold him down," she said, moving toward Henry.

"No, I'll do it," Francois took the blade from her, and the hilt felt strangely cool. At that moment Artois returned with empty hands.

"I could not find what you asked," he said, his voice filled with shame.

"We have what we need. Help Father hold down Henry," Francois said.

The ruined skin sizzled and jumped at the touch of the blade. Henry roared in pain and begged for death, and Francois pushed the blade all the way through the leg. The dangling bit of leg, now useless, fell to the floor. Francois continued moving the blade to each spot where he bled, sealing the arteries.

Henry elected to stay with the old woman for a time, to learn the dark magic that she used in medicine. The Coquets, with Olivia, left Damietta the next day. They knew that the Ayyubids would be at the gates soon, howling for justice, their sabers still slick with crusader guts from the night ambush.

King Louis cursed everyone. His father, for dying when Louis was a child and never raising him to be a proper man. His mother, for her overwhelming control and intelligence, as she had acclimated him to the world of women, where whispered secrets and sly looks were the tools of power—worthless for a man. King Louis cursed his soldiers, every one of them. They had fought and run and died, and now he was racing on a horse across this nameless desert, hoping to find a place to rest.

He had ditched his crown, as well as his jewelry. It pained him to throw his diamond necklace, a gift from his mother, into the wide desert. The necklace had caught on a cactus, though, and it hung on that ugly plant, worth more than most French peasants would earn in a lifetime. A few members of Louis' staff were still with him. They stayed behind their monarch and didn't speak, each one calculating what their own futures might hold.

Louis found a river, a tributary of the mighty Nile, no doubt. It wound north and south, cool and pleasant. Louis wet his hands and cleaned his face, and then risked a few mouthfuls of water. He walked his horse north and found a small village.

A dozen cottages, no more. Dark-skinned women and children, Egyptian peasantry, washing clothes in the river. Some older men lounged by the largest of buildings, and they rose to their feet when Louis and his weary staff approached.

"You . . . yes?" one of the men said in poor French.

"I'm king of France, you ugly fool," Louis said. The man gave him a quizzical expression and put his hands out to his sides. Louis held out his hands, to show he was not armed, and the two groups stared at each other for a moment. One of the Egyptian men suddenly got a look of excitement on his face, and he ran to the river. He returned with a young woman.

"Hello, soldiers of the Seventh Crusade," the woman said. She was almost as dark as the Egyptians, but her blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair hinted at European heritage.

"Hello. Who are you?" Louis said.

"Who are you?" she shot back. Louis was about to order his men to arrest the woman for speaking to the king in such a fashion, but those days were likely over. Instead, he dropped to one knee and rose a palm up in the air.

"I am King Louis IX, monarch of France." To Louis' delight, the woman blushed and giggled. She bowed the same way he had.

"I am Queen Mary, matriarch of England."

Louis laughed and they were invited for a meal. His weary staff talked quietly among themselves, and Louis always kept his eyes on the horizon, wondering when the cavalry would show up. And when they did, would they be European or Egyptian?

 The food was delicious—fresh fish from the river, steamed coyote, sweet bread, and wine. It was the best food the villagers could offer, and they were more than happy to play hosts to such a strange group of men. The French-speaking woman, actually named Maria, sensed something was different about Louis.

"Why do your men whisper in hushed tones around you? Who are you, really?"

"I'm the king of France," he said, but Maria didn't laugh.

"Why do you keep saying that?" she asked, almost to herself. Louis shrugged. He wasn't going to make up a name and lie to the girl; if she didn't believe him, it didn't matter.

Although it was April in Egypt and spring had come two weeks prior, the evenings were still cold. The stars above were clear and glimmering, and the river provided a soothing, trickling sound. Louis and his men were allowed to sleep in a barn at the edge of the village, and they retired immediately after dinner.

As the leader, Louis slept in the upper loft of the barn, while his men were strewn across the dingy floor. Louis couldn't sleep. He knew that he should be on his horse, riding like the wind to reach Damietta, but there would be Egyptian scouts out, each one eager to be the man who captured the king.
Better to lay low,
Louis thought,
and wait a few days.
He would find a way back to the coast, he vowed, and return to France.