Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (9 page)

“You hide behind your piety, Master Templar,” snapped Henry, piqued by the barb. “It is well known that the Temple, with all its properties and assets, is busy building itself an empire in the West. An empire where perhaps even a king is no longer in control of his own kingdom!”

For a moment there was utter silence in the courtyard. It was broken by the soft voice of Prince Edward.

“Has there been any further news from the East, Master Templar? In your last report you informed us that the Mongols had attacked Baghdad and several other cities. Is there any cause to think that they will attack our holdings?”

Henry frowned at his son as Humbert turned his attention to Edward.

“No, we have heard nothing further, my Lord Prince,” replied the Templar Master. “But I do not believe that we face any immediate danger from the Mongols. It is the Mamluks that concern me.”

Henry scoffed at this. “Their leader Kutuz is a slave! What power can he wield?”

“A slave warrior,” corrected Humbert, “and no longer a slave at that. It’s my, and my brothers’ belief that the Mamluks pose a greater threat than many in the West have reckoned. At present, only the Mongols keep their attention from us.”

“For that we should be glad,” said Henry curtly. “The Mongols are by far the stronger force and I hear they use Christian women and children as shields in battle. It is good the Saracens occupy their attention.”

“Forgive me, majesty, but you are mistaken. The Mongols are powerful, yes. But, the Church has already converted many of them. At Baghdad it was only the Saracens they killed, the Christians were spared. The last tidings we received from the Holy Land told of the Mamluks preparing to march on Palestine. Our spies in Cairo say they go to war against the Mongols, following an insult to their sultan. Their vanguard will be under the direction of one of the Mamluk army’s ablest commanders, Baybars.”

“Baybars?”

“They call him the Crossbow.” Humbert’s expression hardened. “He was responsible for the slaughter of three hundred of the Temple’s best men. Baybars led the massacre of Mansurah, my lord. The battle that ended the Crusade led by your brother-in-law, King Louis.”

Beside him, Will sensed Garin stiffen. He knew the cause. Garin, aged four, had lost his father and two brothers in that campaign. Jacques had been the only one of the de Lyons family to survive the massacre of Mansurah. Will’s gaze darted to the knight. Cyclops’s brow was furrowed. There was a distant look in the knight’s eye, as if his mind was somewhere else entirely. Will looked away as Humbert continued.

“After Louis’ forces took the city of Damietta they moved south through Egypt, led by the king’s brother, Robert de Artois. They came upon the Mamluk army camped outside the town of Mansurah. Artois conducted a bold assault on the camp in defiance of the king’s orders. Many Mamluk soldiers were slaughtered, including the chief of their Royal Guard. Baybars took the place of his dead leader and set a trap in Mansurah, knowing that we would follow his men into the town. In the streets our brothers fell by the hundreds on the swords of Baybars’s men. The Mamluks are not to be underestimated, my lord.”

Prince Edward stirred. “Do we have enough forces to counter this threat, Master Templar?”

“Yes!” said Henry emphatically before Humbert could answer. “Will those who are sworn to protect Christian citizens in the Holy Land have trouble fulfilling their oath?”

“There is, as with all things, the matter of funding, my lords,” said Owein.

Humbert shot Owein a sharp glance. “The Mamluks know the lands well from their many campaigns, Lord King. More so than our settlers, who have established livelihoods in one town or another and have been content to remain there. They use pigeons to send messages and their spies are everywhere. At present, they are in a better position to attack than we are to defend.”

“We must act decisively,” said Edward, “A Crusade would—”

“It’s said,” interrupted Henry, patting his son’s arm, “that a hasty decision will incur an even hastier downfall. A Crusade may be necessary, yes, but we must plan carefully for it.”

“Of course, father,” Edward acceded with a polite, slightly stiff nod.

Henry sat back. “Well, this is very disturbing, Master Templar. But at this time there is little I can do, so why, I ask, have you summoned me here?”

“If it please your majesty,” said Humbert, “Brother Owein will open the discussion.”

Owein turned to Henry, his hands steepled and resting on the table. “We have granted you the use of the Temple’s treasury, Lord King, for the storing of your goods and the use of our own funds when you require them, as was granted to your father, King John, and his brother, King Richard. While the Temple is pleased to offer monetary assistance to the royal family…”

“I should hope so,” interrupted Henry. “The good Lord knows I allow you enough power in these lands to warrant the meager bounty you grace me with on rare occasions.”

“The good Lord does know,” said Humbert, “and you can be assured of a great reward in Heaven for the benevolence you show His soldiers. Please continue, Brother Owein.”

“But while we are pleased to offer this service our funds are not limitless.” Owein held out his hand to one of the Temple’s clerks, who passed him a rolled parchment. He pushed it across the table to the king. “As you can see, my lord, your debts to us have grown considerably over the last year.”

Henry scanned the parchment, the furrows in his brow deepening the further he read. He handed it to the chancellor, who took in the words at a glance before returning it to him. Edward leaned forward to view the scroll as Henry stroked his thin beard and looked at Owein. “These monies were given to me in good faith. I will repay them when I can, but my situation at present doesn’t afford me the opportunity.”

“We have discovered, my Lord King,” said Owein, with a brief glance at Jacques, “that you recently organized a number of jousts at Cheapside for the pleasure of your French courtiers. Who paid for those?”

Jacques nodded, but said nothing.

Henry glared at both of them.

“Surely, Sir Knight, you can understand my father’s position,” said Edward, looking up from the scroll. “As sovereign of this nation it is his duty to give the people protection in times of war and sport in times of peace.”

“This we understand,” agreed Owein, with a respectful nod to the prince. “But we cannot afford these debts to go unpaid. We need all the gold we can muster if we are to bolster our forces in the Holy Land.”

“Whatever happened to charity?” said Henry dryly. “Are the Templars exempt from this Christian duty?”

“If it’s charity you seek, Lord King,” said Humbert, “then, with respect, I would suggest that you petition the Hospitallers.”

Henry’s face reddened. “What insolence you show me!” He threw the parchment to the table. “You will have your damned money soon enough. I have raised taxes here and in my lands in Gascony, but, I warn you, don’t insult me again else you won’t see a penny!”

“Taxes take too long to reap, Lord King. The monies must be paid sooner.”

“Christ in Heaven! Would you have me sell the clothes off my back? I cannot pluck gold from the trees, or turn it from lead!”

Owein looked at Humbert, who nodded. “There is one way to resolve this, Lord King.”

“What is it then, damn you?”

“Pawn the crown jewels to us, my lord. We will hold them until the debts can be repaid.”

“What?”
thundered the king.

Edward sat up sharply and the chancellor stared at Owein in astonishment. Will fought to keep his expression blank.

“It is the only way, your majesty,” said Humbert.

The king rose swiftly, upending his chair. The scarlet silk slipped off the seat and spilled out across the grass. He slammed his fist on the board, upsetting several goblets of wine.

“The crown jewels are symbols of my line and the adornments of royalty, not of some lick-spit soldiers who seem to place themselves as high as God!” He snatched the scroll from the table, tore it in half and tossed the pieces to the grass.

Humbert rose, his voice even. “I would remind you that the loyalty of the Temple has always been most beneficial and, some might say, essential for a sovereign of this nation. It would be a great shame, my lord, were you to lose this loyalty.”

“I should have your
head
!” said Henry, his breathing ragged.

At the edges of the lawn the royal guards shuffled uneasily. Two of the knights had risen, their hands on the hilts of their swords.

Edward put a hand on Henry’s arm. “Come, father, I believe this meeting is ended.”

Henry shot Humbert one final look of fury, then, jerking his arm from his son’s grip, he strode across the courtyard. With a curt nod to Humbert and Owein, Edward swept out after the king, along with the entourage.

The chancellor remained. He looked at Humbert, his mouth drawn in a thin, flat line. “You will be formally notified of the king’s decision within a month, Master Templar.”

Humbert glanced at the torn pieces of parchment fluttering on the ground. “I have a copy of those records in my private solar. Will his majesty wish this to be sent to the palace?”

The chancellor shook his head. “I’ll collect them now.”

Humbert glanced around the table. “De Lyons,” he said, motioning to Garin. “Escort the Lord Chancellor to my solar. My squire will hand you the relevant scrolls.”

Garin bowed low and headed across the lawn with the chancellor. Will looked round as he heard Owein’s voice behind him.

“That didn’t go as well as I had hoped. I only hope that the king doesn’t decide to retaliate.”

“Barking dogs seldom bite, Brother Owein,” replied Humbert. “The last time Henry tried to intimidate us he soon backed down when we threatened to depose him.”

“W
e near the final stretch, Amir.”

Baybars barely caught the sultan’s words. The air around them was throbbing with the beating of drums. When the Mamluks returned to Cairo their victory tattoo would sound for seven days. The drums they had taken from the Mongols were cleft and raised on poles. Silent.

“We return home triumphant,” continued Kutuz, raising his voice above the din, “as I knew we would.”

“The city will sing praises to your name, my Lord Sultan,” said Baybars, the calmness of his voice bearing no relation to his troubled mind.

Kutuz smiled. “The Mongols will think twice before provoking me again, now that we have tightened our hold on Syria.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Baybars, glancing over his shoulder.

Behind him, the Mamluk army clogged the road for several miles. The flags and banners were lifted high above carts loaded with plunder and wagons crammed with slaves. The sultan’s advisors and the officers of the Mu’izziyya were blocking Baybars’s view. For a moment, their line broke and he caught sight of Omar some distance behind him at the front of the Bahri regiment, then the ranks pulled tight again.

Baybars turned back to the road. It was almost dusk. The sun was a red-rimmed eye that closed slowly as it met the horizon. In the distance, a broad strip of green cut through the Plain of Sharon, cradling a river that flowed into the sea twenty or so miles to the west. The road crossed the river at its narrowest point and snaked southward. The army was fast approaching Gaza, where they would take a brief rest before making the arduous journey across the Sinai desert and into Egypt.

Baybars studied the sultan out of the corner of his eye. Kutuz was sitting stiffly in his saddle, a frown creasing his brow. The sultan was right, they were returning home in triumph. The Mamluks had done what no one else had been able to, had
dared
to: They had faced the Mongol army and crushed them. But, to Baybars, their victory tasted like dust. He had lost more than Aleppo in this campaign. He had lost the chance for revenge—a revenge he had planned and played out in his dreams for years. Since they began the homeward march he had tried to focus on his plans for Kutuz. Time was running out with every mile that passed and, as yet, he’d been afforded no chance to prepare the details of his removal.

Five days after the battle at Ayn Jalut, the Mamluks had marched into Damascus, the Mongols falling before them. From there they had moved north to Homs and Hamah, where the amirs who had fled the Mongol invasion were restored to their positions and the cities returned to Muslim rule. At Aleppo, the Mongols held out for almost a month, but eventually the Mamluks had shattered their defenses and had taken the city. When the fighting had ended, Kutuz had paraded through the streets. The Muslims, who had suffered under the Mongols’ yoke, had come cautiously out of their homes to meet their liberator. The Christians, who had prospered, were killed.

By the time the sultan’s cortege had arrived in Aleppo’s main market square, word had spread and the jubilant Muslim citizens thronged to the square in their hundreds to welcome their new overlord. Baybars had stood in silence at Kutuz’s side as the sultan made an elaborate show of handing control of the city to another Mamluk governor. When the ceremony had ended and the governors and officers of the regiments had gathered around Kutuz to congratulate their triumphal leader, Baybars had disappeared into the crowds. After speaking with one of his soldiers, he had headed for the slave platform that loomed up at the center of the square.

It did not seem so long ago that he had stood in chains on this platform, staring down at the men who eyed him as if he was a beast in a cattle auction. Beyond the market, somewhere south of the city mosque, was the household he had served for six months as a slave.

Baybars had climbed onto the wooden boards, the army’s cries ringing in his ears.

“Allahu akbar!”
God is greatest.

Omar had found him sitting on the edge of the platform, two hours later.

“Amir?”

Baybars looked up, mildly surprised to see how far the sun had moved across the city.

Omar clambered up beside him. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said, adjusting his sword belt. “Have you been here all this time?”

“Yes.”

“I have news. The officers have been paid. You have their support.”

Baybars nodded, but said nothing.

Omar spoke on. “I can understand why you stayed here rather than return to the camp. Kutuz is drunk on victory and singing praises to the governor he appointed. I think he was disappointed that you weren’t there to witness his gloating.”

Baybars stared out across the square, which was golden in the early evening light. The crowds had disappeared, but a squadron of Mamluks had remained to patrol the streets while the main force retired to make camp. Kutuz and his retinue had taken over the citadel for their victory feast. Baybars turned to Omar. “The sultan isn’t the reason I didn’t retire with the men. Aleppo may not have passed into my hands today, but when Kutuz is dead it won’t be praise its new governor will get from me. I shall have the city soon enough.” He looked away. “And more besides.”

“Then why hide yourself away out here? Come, we’ll have a feast of our own.”

“I’m not hiding, Omar, I’m waiting.”

“Waiting?” Omar frowned. “For what?”

“An old friend.” Baybars rose and gazed at the streets leading off from the square. The dome of the mosque was a great, golden bell suspended above the angular patterns of the flat, white roofs.

Omar stood, following his gaze. “You didn’t tell me you knew anyone in the city. It has been, what? Eighteen years since you were here?”

“Nineteen.” Baybars clasped his hands behind his back. “Return to the camp. I will join you soon.”

“The officers have been paid, but the time and the place haven’t been set. While we are afforded this chance to talk alone we should finalize…”

“You disobey my command, officer?” said Baybars, not looking at him.

“Forgive me, Amir,” replied Omar, the hurt surprise clear in his voice. “I didn’t realize it was an order.”

He turned to go, then stopped as Baybars jumped down from the platform. A Mamluk soldier had come riding out of one of the streets nearby. The soldier looked around and trotted his horse over as he spied Baybars.

“Amir.” The soldier dismounted and bowed.

“Did you find the household?”

“Yes, Amir, but the man you sent me to seek out wasn’t there.”

“What?”

“The household has been abandoned for some time. I asked in the area, though few knew of the family who lived there. There was a merchant who thought he remembered a Western knight who once owned the estate. He believed the knight to have died, said his family returned to the West ten or more years ago.”

Baybars took a step backward and gripped the edge of the platform.

“Is that all, Amir?” asked the soldier.

Baybars waved him away.

The soldier bowed. Mounting his horse, he clattered off.

Omar jumped down beside Baybars. “Who is this knight?”

“Return to camp.”

“Sadeek, talk to me,” pressed Omar, frustrated. “You’ve never told me what happened to you in Aleppo, but I’ve seen how this place haunts you. Was this knight your master here?”

Omar gasped as Baybars grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around to slam him up against the platform. “I said
leave
!” Omar stared into his eyes, breathing heavily. Baybars dropped his hands and stepped back. “We will talk soon, Omar,” he said quietly, “you have my word. But not today.”

He had walked away, leaving Omar alone in the market square as the call to prayer had sung out in the evening.

Baybars gripped the reins of his horse. Around him, the drums continued their steady thrumming, fast and low like a racing heart. With effort, he forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. He was a commander in the Mamluk army. He had fought the Christians and the Mongols and had won. He had been a slave in life and name, but he would not be a slave to memory. The failure in Aleppo to do what he had planned for so many years had thrown him, but he no longer had time to dwell on the past. The knight was gone, or dead. He would find no retribution.

“You are quiet today, Amir. Is something wrong?” probed Kutuz.

“No, my lord.”

Kutuz studied the commander intently, but Baybars’s expression was unreadable. He may as well be looking at a wall, for all the emotion in those eyes. “You will, of course, be handsomely rewarded for your part in our victory when we reach Cairo.”

“Your generosity is appreciated, my lord.”

“My Lord Sultan!”

A scout rode down the column toward them. He saluted as he swung his horse around and rode in beside Kutuz. “The road passes close to a village, three miles east, my lord.”

“Another Christian settlement?”

“Yes, my lord, there is a church.”

“I’ll send the Mu’izziyya.”

“Your men are weary, my lord,” said Baybars quickly. “This will be the fourth settlement they have sacked in five days. I feel the need to stretch my legs, let me take the Bahri.”

Kutuz thought for a moment, then acceded with a nod. “Go, then. We’ll continue to Gaza. I am sure I have no need to remind you of the proper procedure.”

“No, my Lord Sultan, rest assured that anything of value will be brought to you.”

Baybars kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. At his command, five hundred men broke off from the main army and followed him. Several wagons pulled off the road after them: The wooden cages on top had room for more slaves.

The village was nestled between two gentle slopes that stretched up from the Plain of Sharon where the olive groves grew thick and tangled. A barricade of bound wooden stakes surrounded the sixty dwellings within; jumbled rows of mud-brick huts clustered around three larger stone buildings and a church. Smoke from the fire pits was coiling into the bruised-pink sky. The farmers who worked the groves had returned for the evening, leading carts pulled by cattle.

Within moments of reaching the village’s perimeter, the Mamluks set about tearing down the ineffectual barrier of stakes. Several farmers, who had seen the soldiers ride up from the Plain, had raised the alarm and panic now engulfed the village like a wave, spreading from dwelling to dwelling as the church bell clanged a futile warning. Some men hastened to arm themselves with anything they could find: a stone, a scythe, a broom. Others called for evacuation, for someone to parley with the invaders. But the Mamluks had entered the settlement.

The thin line of farmers who had braced themselves behind a row of carts for the attack scattered as the cavalry charged them, the soldiers on their armored mounts swinging swords and spiked maces at the bared heads and backs of the fleeing men. Men and boys fell under the sword strokes and were trampled by the horses of the soldiers behind. One farmer, managing to duck a decapitating blow, fled. Three soldiers followed him, whooping as they gave chase, excited by the hunt. A pungent smell of olives rose up as the carts were overturned in the crush of soldiers pouring through the broken defenses, the fruit cascading to the ground like beads from a broken rosary.

Baybars rode into the village, the inhabitants fleeing before him, scurrying for the scant shelter of the huts. He scanned the streets ahead as his soldiers dispatched the last of the farmers.

There were scores of such villages scattered across Palestine, once largely inhabited by Coptic, Armenian and Greek Orthodox Christians whose families had worked the land for generations. When the first Crusaders had come out of the West, the relative peace between the native Christians and their Muslim overlords had been swallowed by war. The Frankish dukes and princes had taken Antioch, Jerusalem, Bethlehem and Hebron and had soon commanded a vast tract of southern and central Palestine and northern Syria. This they had divided into four states that together had formed their new empire: Outremer, the land beyond the sea. They had called these states the Kingdom of Jerusalem, the Principality of Antioch and the Counties of Edessa and Tripoli. Powerful houses of the Western nobility governed each province and, over them all, ruled the new Christian King of Jerusalem. Some of the cities, Jerusalem included, and Edessa, one of the four states, the Muslims had since reclaimed, but, for Baybars, those victories were not enough.

He looked over to the church. Its squat, solid grayness was a mark of the West’s influence and the infidels’ Roman faith.

“Your orders, Amir?” called one of his officers, riding across to him.

Baybars motioned to the mud-brick huts. “Burn them down. We’ll find nothing of value there.” He gestured at the stone buildings around the church. “Search those.”

The officer galloped away to relay the commands.

Soon, the huts were smoldering as the Mamluks rode through the streets, tossing flaming torches onto the low rooftops. Smoke billowed up, and men, women and children ran choking from their refuge, only to be cut down, or captured in the streets. A heavy thudding came from the center of the village as the soldiers battered down the doors of the stone houses. The splintering of wood was followed by cries. The ruler of the village, whose ancestors had come from the West, was dragged out into the street along with his wife. Their children were hauled off to the wagons, screaming, as their parents were forced to the ground and beheaded by Mamluk soldiers.

Baybars leapt down from his horse when he saw Omar riding toward him. With Omar was another Bahri officer, a tall, graceful man called Kalawun with a handsome, strong-boned face. The two men reined in their horses and dismounted.

“I was beginning to wonder if you were coming,” said Baybars.

“We must talk, Amir,” said Omar quietly.

“Not here. The sultan has eyes everywhere. He has been keeping a close watch on me since we left Ayn Jalut. He doesn’t trust me.”

“Then,” said Kalawun with a half-smile, “he is less of a fool than I thought.”