Crusade (40 page)

“What’s in it?” demanded the bearded man, who had hold of her, one hand clamped over her mouth, the other arm wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms to her sides. She was struggling madly, but he was too strong. Her energy, already sapped by the heat, was disappearing with every move. She got her mouth free and managed to let out another cry, but the bearded man quickly tightened his grip on her.

The fat man was opening the bag. “Silks!” he exclaimed. His drunken slur was back. “These’ll fetch us a few coins.” He chuckled at his companion. “She must like us after all.”

“I don’t know,” said the bearded man. “I think she could be a bit nicer.”

The fat man’s lips split apart.

Elwen gasped in horror as she felt the hand of the man who had hold of her slide over her breasts. Her whole being screamed against the trespass. She writhed and pulled against him, but now the fat man was reaching for her and she didn’t have the strength to stop them.

“Get away from her.”

The fat man glanced around at the cold voice that seemed to come out of nowhere. Elwen thought she recognized it, but her terrified mind refused to place it. She couldn’t turn her head against the bearded man’s grip, but she watched as the fat man’s expression became one of disdain.

“Stay out of this.”

“I said, get away from her.”

The fat man laughed. “This won’t take long, girlie,” he murmured, moving out of view. Elwen heard a wet, thudding sound, followed by a howl.

“Jesus!” the bearded man hissed.

Elwen was shoved roughly aside. She went down, throwing out her hands to break her fall as, behind her, there was another yell and a crash. Elwen felt someone grabbing her under the arms, hauling her up. She lashed out wildly and heard a grunt of pain as her hand connected with flesh.

“Elwen, it’s me!”

She whipped around and found herself face-to-face with Garin. Looking past him, she saw two bodies lying on the alley floor. “Are they dead?” Her voice was strained, high-pitched.

“Come on,” said Garin, taking her by the arm.

Elwen let herself be led by him for several streets, before she halted. “No,” she said breathlessly, “wait.” She looked down at her hands, specked with blood where grit from the alley had cut her. Tears sprang into her eyes, the trauma of her ordeal finally reaching her.

“It’s all right,” said Garin, touching her shoulder. “You’re safe.”

Without meaning to, she moved in at his touch, burying her face in his shirt, her hands splayed on his chest. Garin stood still. She could hear his heart beating fast against her ear. Then she felt his hand move awkwardly onto her back to give her a brief pat.

“It’s all right,” he said again. He sounded embarrassed.

Elwen pulled back from him suddenly. “How did you know?”

“Sorry?”

“How did you know I was in the alley? Why were you there?”

“I came to see you. I was worried when I saw the smoke. I went to your home and was informed that you had gone to the warehouse. A little girl told me where to find it.”

“Catarina?” said Elwen, faintly.

Garin looked a little sheepish. “I told her I had come from the Temple with a message from Will. I was entering Silk Street when I heard a scream come from the alley. That’s when I saw you with those men. Come on, let’s get you home.” He guided her along the street toward Andreas’s house, his hand on her shoulder again.

Elwen paused at the front door. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes were red and several strands of hair had come free of her coif.

Garin stepped back as she slipped inside and closed the door. After waiting a few moments, he headed off. When he turned a corner and was out of sight of the house, he moved quickly, retracing his steps.

He found the two men waiting for him in the alley. The bearded man was sitting on a pile of crates, holding a bloodstained rag to his nose. Gone was any sign of his feigned inebriation; his eyes were clear and hard. “You didn’t have to hit me so hard,” he growled nasally.

“I had to make it look real, Bertrand,” replied Garin.

“Then that gold you promised had better look real too,” replied Bertrand, holding out his hand.

Garin reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of bezants. He counted them out reluctantly. “I thought you were helping me because your liege lord ordered it,” he said cuttingly.

“King Hugh ordered me to help you take the Stone, not molest maidens in alleyways.” Bertrand grinned as he said it. “Not that I didn’t enjoy it.” His smile faded. “But, still, I’m only doing what was commanded of me for free. The rest, you pay for.”

“I think we should get extra,” complained the fat man, who was sporting a black eye. “What if she informs on us?” he said, looking at Bertrand.

“She won’t,” said Garin gruffly, annoyed that Hugh had left him Bertrand and his soldiers. They might be competent fighters, but they weren’t the subtlest of men. “Just keep out of this district for a while.” Garin pointed to the leather bag the fat man was clutching. “Is that what she had on her?”

The man clutched it tighter and looked to Bertrand, who took his time, but eventually nodded. “Give it to him, Amaury.”

Garin caught the bag as Amaury tossed it to him. Looking inside, he saw several shimmering lengths of silk. He took out two pieces, leaving three inside. “Here,” he said, holding them out to Bertrand. “Your compensation.”

Bertrand took the silk and passed it to Amaury. “Did she believe you?”

Garin nodded as he tied the bag’s broken strap. Even if Elwen asked Catarina if he had come to the house with an urgent message from Will, his story would be corroborated.

“What now?” growled Bertrand, as they moved out. “Do you really think she’s going to come running as soon as her sweetheart returns and tell you everything she knows?”

“No,” said Garin calmly, slinging the leather bag over his shoulder. “But she trusts me now. And that’s all I need.”

THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 21 AUGUST A.D. 1276

Kalawun stifled a yawn. The air in the throne room was muggy and they had been in council for several hours now, poring over maps of Anatolia and her borders.

“This is a weak spot,” Baybars was saying to Ishandiyar. He pointed at a section of the map that was spread out on the table. He put a finger in the north beyond the city of Aleppo, marked out in black ink. “We can leave our heavy equipment in Aleppo and make a strike into the Ilkhan’s lands. Once we have secured a base in his territory, our infantry can follow with our supplies. We need to work in stages or we risk being cut off.”

Ishandiyar nodded, and several other advisors added their agreement.

Kalawun reached for a goblet of cordial and raised it to his lips, the sweet liquid refreshing him. He watched Baybars and the men talk. Following the brutal execution of Mahmud, things in the Mamluk court had changed dramatically. There had been no further attacks on the sultan, and all those who had previously opposed his decision to focus on the Mongols rather than the Franks had immediately fallen into line. With the campaign now fully under way and all obstacles removed, Baybars had calmed and stepped firmly and confidently into the role of strategist, a role he always played extremely well.

As Kalawun set the goblet on the table, he caught a brief flicker of something on the wall behind the throne. Had his gaze not been focused in that direction, he wouldn’t have seen it, so tiny was the movement: just the barest shift of a shadow. His eyes picked out a thin crack in the whitewashed wall, with a darker section where the crack widened. The flicker came again. As he stared at the hole, Kalawun could almost feel Khadir’s eyes upon him.

After his involvement in Mahmud’s plot, Khadir had lost Baybars’s trust. He now spent most of his time hiding in the wall, listening to their war councils, Kalawun guessed so that he could try to tempt Baybars back to him by offering him information and advice that he couldn’t know unless he was prophesying. Baybars hadn’t been fooled.

Whilst Khadir had been fixated on worming his way back into the sultan’s favor, Kalawun had been doing a little digging of his own. As soon as William Campbell had told him of the involvement of a Shia in Cairo, Kalawun had been certain that he had found the traitor. Khadir had been an Assassin; an Ismaili Shia, whose background and family were unknown, and who, by his own admission, had already been involved in one plot to start a war between their forces and the Christians.

And, of course, there was Aisha.

Since the death of his daughter, Kalawun had felt as if a hole had been torn out of him. The only thing that served to fill this aching gulf was his desire for revenge. An investigation into her death had come to nothing, and for everyone else, life had returned to normal. Kalawun had even heard that Nizam was pressing Baybars to find another bride for their son. Baybars, to Kalawun’s gratitude, had refused to consider it until after the Anatolian campaign, when a suitable period of mourning would have passed. Kalawun had begun looking into Khadir’s background the day after Campbell had gone, but had found little. After his expulsion from the Assassins, it was rumored that Khadir had spent time as a hermit, living in a cave in the Sinai, but there were no references to any relatives he might have. His past remained shrouded in mystery. Kalawun, however, refused to be defeated. Somewhere there were answers.

“My Lord Sultan.” A Mamluk official appeared in the doorway.

“What is it?” said Baybars. “I told you we were not to be disturbed.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I felt it was important. There is someone here to see you, a messenger from Jabal Bahra. He says he has come on behalf of the Assassins.”

Baybars frowned. “Send him in,” he said after a pause.

The official disappeared.

“My lord,” said one of the governors, “is this wise? An Assassin?”

Baybars ignored the warning and watched as a man in a travel-soiled cloak was led into the room. Some of the governors had risen and had their hands on their swords. Four of the Bahri, who had been standing silently at the sides of the throne room, stepped forward, crossbows raised.

The messenger glanced at them, then around the room until his gaze fixed on Baybars. “My Lord Sultan?” he asked. When he didn’t get a response, he held out a scroll. “I have a message from the Assassins.”

“Why didn’t it come through my lieutenants?” demanded Baybars, his voice commanding.

“It is from the Assassins in the fortress beyond Qadamus, who still oppose you,” said the messenger.

Baybars scowled at this. “Read what it says.”

The messenger broke the wax on the scroll. “You have taken the lives of our men, Sultan Baybars of Egypt. Now we take one of yours. The officer, Nasir, whom you sent to interrogate us, has been captured, his men killed. In return for his release we demand ten thousand bezants. Half to be given to the man who delivers this message, half to be given on the return of your officer. If you do not accept these terms, your man will die.”

“Ten thousand!” exclaimed Yusuf in his croaking voice. “That is ridiculous.” The aged governor rose. “My lord, you cannot seriously consider paying this sum. What was this officer doing in this place? Who was he interrogating?”

Baybars looked at Kalawun. “He was there for me.” After a moment, he turned back to the messenger. “I accept these terms.”

Inaudible to the men in the chamber, through the crack in the wall behind the throne, came an eager hiss of breath.

PART TWO

24

The Royal Palace, Acre 17 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

Garin’s eyes were closed. Sweat ran off him, spreading dampness across the sheet. The charcoals in the braziers were smoldering and the win- dow drapes shut out sun and air. Garin’s bare chest glistened in the dull glow coming off the coals, his eyelids fluttering as he slept. The sweet smell of the
qannob
he had imbibed earlier permeated the chamber’s stagnant air, mixed in with the scents of ambergris and aloe, which he now habitually, though pointlessly, burned in an effort to disguise the drug’s telltale odor.

He was sitting with his mother on the lawn outside their old home in Rochester. It was summer and the ground was parched and brown. Grasshoppers hummed and clicked in the hedgerows. The heat was a solid, sticky mass, pushing into him, trapping him like an insect in amber. His mother was speaking. In her hands, Cecilia held a vellum-bound book open on her knees. Her silvery blond hair was like water down her back, impossibly smooth as it flowed over her, following the curve of her thin, bony shoulders. Her lips moved, but no sound came. As he watched, a translucent bead of sweat ran slowly down her pale white neck. He followed it with his eyes as it slid between her breasts and disappeared behind the collar of her cream-colored gown. In his sleep, Garin groaned and clutched at the bedsheet.

The sunlight faded and shadows closed in. Garin turned to see clouds rising in dark towers on the eastern skyline. The hedgerows had gone and the land stretched before him all the way to the horizon. There was nothing between him and the storm. It was moving quickly, picking up speed. He could feel lightning charging the air around him, smelled metal and destruction. He turned to his mother, calling out to her. She was gone. In her place stood Elwen. Her green eyes fixed on him and filled with darkness as the storm reared up to engulf them.

Garin surfaced from the terror of the dream to a persistent banging sound. Disoriented, he pushed himself up, his vision focusing slowly. His head was pounding and there was an unpleasant taste in his mouth. The banging sound was coming from the door. Swinging his legs over the bed, he stood, swaying. The tiles were like ice beneath his bare feet as he staggered across the chamber and opened the door. Beyond it stood two men. One was a palace guard, but Garin hardly glanced at him, all his attention fixing on the second man, the sight of whom caused his drug-induced daze to vanish in a jolt of uneasy surprise. The man wore a blue and russet striped cloak; the livery of King Edward’s personal messengers. In his hand was a scroll.

“This man came to the gates asking for you, de Lyons.” The guard gave the messenger a surly look, which he then turned on Garin. “Said he had an urgent message from England that he must place directly into your hands. Refused to leave until he’d done so.”