Crusade (44 page)

All too soon, they were standing outside Andreas’s house and he was kissing her good-bye, telling her not to worry. As Will walked away down the street, a lone figure in his black cloak, his stride purposeful, taking him away from her, Elwen was filled with the sudden, crushing feeling that she would never see him again. And the pain and relief that clashed in her at the thought was unbearable.

THE CITADEL, CAIRO, 25 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

From a covered walkway that straddled the gate between two towers, a hunched figure watched the Mamluk Army make its last preparations. Khadir’s face was a sour mask of vitriolic contempt as he surveyed the gathering men beneath him. The vanguard, headed by the Bahri, would be the first to leave, with Kalawun’s Mansuriyya and two other regiments. The middle section and rear guard, which would follow later that day when the van had moved out, would be composed of two further Mamluk regiments, creating a force, when combined with the slaves and servants who would accompany the army on its long march north, of more than eight thousand. It was an impressive display. But this just made Khadir seethe all the more, knowing that it would not be the Christians in Palestine who would feel its might.

Seventeen years had passed with him watching Baybars smite down the infidel that plagued their lands. His master had come so close to destroying the Franks once and for all; that Baybars had cast his eye elsewhere when he had so nearly consummated this aim was incomprehensible to Khadir. But it was not his master’s fault. No. It was the fault of those who had led him astray, turning him from his true path. The rot had set in with Omar’s death and had spread like a festering cancer with the influence of Kalawun. But there was still time for Baybars to fulfill his destiny. All he needed was a cure for his disease, and Khadir believed he had found it.

Nasir was alive. When the Assassins were paid their ransom, he would be returned, and if he had the names of those responsible for Omar’s murder, Baybars could exact his revenge. Once Baybars had fresh Christian blood on his hands, that old scent would be reawoken, and then let the Franks’ final days begin. That was one cure. The other, something he had planned for Kalawun, was altogether simpler.

Since Aisha’s death, the commander had become his shadow, paying spies to tail him and search his house in the city. Khadir wasn’t bothered by Kalawun’s suspicions of his involvement in Aisha’s demise; indeed he took pleasure in the fact that Kalawun
knew
that he was responsible, but could do nothing to prove it, reveling in the amir’s silent desperation. But he was troubled by the investigations Kalawun seemed to be conducting into his past. He wasn’t sure what the commander expected to find there, but it disturbed him.

Khadir looked down upon the soldiers, his white gaze crawling slowly over the heads of the Mansuriyya. He couldn’t see Kalawun among them, but he picked out the amir’s two sons, Ali and Khalil, mounted on horses and clad in new cloaks of royal blue. The boys, aged fifteen and thirteen, would not be engaged in any fighting, but would travel with the main force to Aleppo, from where the cavalry, led by Baybars, would go on to Anatolia to face the Mongols. Movement at the main palace entrance caught Khadir’s attention. Out of the doors, accompanied by the call of horns and flanked by officers of the Bahri, strode Baybars, magnificent in battle gear. His head was covered with a black turban, banded with gold, and his long mail coat shimmered as he walked to a black charger adorned with golden trappings. Some distance behind came Baraka Khan, his face pensive and unreadable. Khadir had been pleased when Baybars had conceded to allow his son to join him on campaign. It was a sign that relations between them were finally beginning to mend. A thin smile of pride crept onto Khadir’s face as he watched Baraka climb into his saddle amongst the Bahri warriors. This past year, the boy had truly become a man, and he had no doubt that all his efforts to turn Baraka to his side would be rewarded when the prince took the throne.

Seeing that the army was almost ready to leave, Khadir scuttled across the walkway and down through the tower. He was making his way along the passage, heading for the main doors, when he heard low, urgent voices ahead. He turned a corner and saw Kalawun and Ishandiyar. Kalawun was dressed for battle, but Ishandiyar, whose regiment would remain in Cairo, was clad in a loose robe. Both men had their backs to him and were standing close together. Khadir took a step back, out of sight.

“But you say he promised to stop this, Amir?” came Ishandiyar’s voice.

“This is too serious to rely on a promise,” replied Kalawun. “However much I trust him, he isn’t one of us.”

Outside, the horns began to sound the army’s departure, cutting across their voices. Dimly, between the calls, Khadir heard footsteps fading. Glancing around the corner, he saw Ishandiyar heading through a door. Kalawun reached the end of the passage and disappeared into the sunlit courtyard. His brow kinked in suspicion, Khadir hastened down the passage and into the yard to take up his place in the vanguard. Baybars gave him a cool nod as he was helped into the saddle of a tan mare by a squire, his scrawny legs gripping the beast’s flanks. Khadir bowed regally to his master, then scanned the crowds for Kalawun, wondering what the rat was up to. Whatever it was mattered little. As al-Mudarraj rolled ponderously open and the first lines of the Mamluk Army began to move out, Khadir dropped his hand to the faded silk pouch hanging from his belt. The darkness inside concealed a collection of coins, tiny animal skulls and dried herbs, and his cloth doll with her deadly secret. Khadir would see the father follow the daughter into hell. If nothing else, this northern campaign would grant him that.

26

The Royal Palace, Acre 26 FEBRUARY A.D. 1277

Her head bowed, Elwen moved through the palace corridors. Having spent most of her adolescence as a handmaiden in the French royal household, she knew how to go unnoticed in such a place. As a servant you were invisible. She had thought she might have encountered more difficulty entering the palace, but the sullen-looking guards at the gates hadn’t even glanced at her as she had trailed in like a shadow behind two finely dressed women.

Elwen counted the doors in the dim light. She could smell incense. Her breaths were erratic and her face felt hot. A voice was shouting inside her, demanding to know what she thought she was doing. But she was at the ninth door now and didn’t know how to turn back. Didn’t want to. There was defiance inside her, borne out of anger and frustration. But, more than that, there was need.

She reached out, closing her hand into a fist to knock, then froze, hearing voices on the other side, coming closer. Immediately, she moved off down the corridor. Behind her, the door opened and a wave of incense washed out.

“This had better work,” came a gruff voice that sounded oddly familiar, although she couldn’t place it. “Our lord is counting on us. He is finished in these lands unless we help him.”

“It will work,” said a second voice. It was Garin’s.

Elwen risked a glance over her shoulder and saw a heavyset man dressed in the livery of the palace guard striding off down the gloomy passage. Garin was standing there, his back to her, watching the man head off. As he turned to go back inside, his eyes fixed on her.

His annoyed expression switched to one of shock. “My God.” His gaze flicked down the passage to where the guard had now vanished, then to Elwen, who stood rooted to the spot. He went to her and took hold of her upper arm, firmly guiding her into the room. “What are you doing here?” His tone was urgent, commanding, and his grip was verging on painful.

“I’m sorry,” said Elwen, as he shut the door behind her. “I . . .” She turned to him, her eyes desperate. “I needed a friend.”

Garin was still looking surprised, fearful even. But at these words, the sharpness with which he had ushered her into his chamber seemed to melt away. “What is it?” he asked, putting his hands on her shoulders, gentle now.

At the comforting gesture, Elwen’s grief overflowed. “Will’s gone,” she said, pushing the words through a harsh sob.

“To Mecca?”

Elwen nodded, her hands rising to her face, trying uselessly to cover her distress. Garin wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him. She felt the tension in his muscles and the solidity of his frame against hers. The black linen tunic he wore smelled strongly of the incense that filled the room. Beneath that there was a smell of sweat on him, but it had a sweetness to it that was not unpleasant.

“When did he leave?”

“Yesterday,” she murmured, her voice muffled against his chest.

Garin thought quickly. Only a day’s head start. He could catch Will easily. It was still early. If their guide was willing, they should be able to leave that evening, dawn tomorrow at the latest. He had made sure that Bertrand and the others were ready a fortnight ago. Supplies were gathered, horses secured. With so much upheaval taking place in the palace, the organization had been simple. The only thing he worried about was how he would find out when Will left. He expected to have to go to Elwen at some point. He certainly hadn’t expected her to come to him. He let out a quiet breath, thinking how close his plans had just come to being ruined. But it all seemed fine; she couldn’t have recognized Bertrand.

Garin thought of Edward’s letter, with its demands that he obtain the funds from the Anima Templi. He had ignored the king’s order, wanting to stay out of Will’s way as he formulated his plan to take the Stone. His confidence that he could deliver Edward so much more than gold had kept him from worrying about his disobedience. But now, after the shock of Elwen’s arrival, he felt the first doubts begin to prickle at the back of his mind. What if he failed? How could he return to Edward empty-handed? “You don’t need to worry,” he said, as much to himself as to Elwen, stroking her hair distractedly and thinking through the arrangements he had made for the journey. “Will won’t be gone for long.”

“You don’t know that.” Elwen lifted her head from his chest. “You know what he’s going there to do. If he steals the Stone, he could be killed.”

“I know Will,” said Garin, summoning a smile as he wiped a tear from Elwen’s cheek with his thumb. “He’s good at what he does. He’ll be fine.”

“Don’t coddle me,” she muttered tautly, disentangling herself from him and stepping away, closing her arms about her. She looked thin and tall in her white gown, girdled at her waist with a loop of red-and-gold braid. In the half-light filtering through the gap in the window drapes, her cheeks appeared sharper, more defined than usual, the outline of her mouth like the smooth twin curves of a bow. Her eyes moved over the disorder of his chamber: forsaken wine cups, discarded clothes, a blackened censer on the table, crumpled sheets on the bed. To Garin, she seemed at once rebellious and lost as she turned back to him. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Of course you should,” he said soothingly. “Come, have some wine.” He crossed to the table, his bare feet making no sound on the rug. Seizing a cup, he poured out a measure, sloshing a little over the rim.

Elwen went to take it. As she did so, her fingers brushed against his. She started at the intimacy of the contact. His skin felt soft. Forbidden. Suddenly emboldened, she moved her hand over his, her fingers tightening. Rising onto her toes, her mouth sought his. Her lips parted.

His didn’t.

Elwen rested against Garin for a heartbeat, feeling the whole of him go still, then stepped back as quickly as if she had been bitten. She took in his shock, and shame burned itself into her cheeks. She opened her mouth to say something. Then, Garin’s expression changed. He dropped the goblet, casting a crimson fan of wine across the rug, and took her face in his hands, clasping it as his mouth found hers. Greedily, he kissed her, greedily and hard, in a way that Will had never done, and her desire, so abruptly extinguished, flared again.

Still holding her face in his hands, still kissing her, Garin forced Elwen back. Their feet tangled in scattered clothes and bumped against wine jugs, sending them rolling across the floor, until, in just a few strides, they reached the bed. Garin pushed her down onto the mattress, throwing a hand onto the bed to stop himself from crushing her as he collapsed on top of her. With his free hand, he tore the coif from her head, letting her hair loose of its starched, stainless covering, setting free the gold within. He moved his lips from hers to look at it for a moment, realizing that it wasn’t just gold. The light that shot through the drapes caught in the strands, turning them shades of copper, amber, scarlet. He was astonished that he had never noticed it before, then realized that he hadn’t ever seen Elwen without the cap modestly perched on her head. She was watching him, her green eyes intense. Her lips were red where he had kissed her too roughly, and her chest was rising and falling. Propping himself up on his elbow, he placed a finger lightly on her chin and ran it down her neck to the line of her gown. He wondered what other delights were concealed, and couldn’t help the smile that raised his lips as his hand moved impatiently to her waist where the ties of her dress were tightly crisscrossed.

Elwen closed her eyes whilst Garin’s fingers worked the knots of her dress. Her mind conjured an image of Will to accuse her with. But she pushed it aside ruthlessly, angrily. Will wasn’t here. He was off saving the world. Oh, the irony of that pendant she had presented him with. How well he played his part, the part of a saint, and now she would play hers: the mortal, the sinner. She wanted the earthly; things she could hold and touch. Will wanted an ideal. She admired him for that, loved him for it. But love demanded more than that. She didn’t want to be second to the world, always the mistress, never the wife. Love was fire and physical and total surrender. And those things she wanted now.

Once the ties were undone, the gown came away from her like peel from fruit. Beneath it was a plain white shift. Garin sat upright on the bed beside her, his throat now dry, constricted. She was watching him again as he reached down and slid the material upward. She shivered as the air touched her bare skin and put her arms above her head, allowing him to push the shift from her. He took in her nakedness: her arms dappled with goosebumps from the cold; a ring of pale freckles on one of her thighs; the sudden curve and swell of her breasts, nipples pink and raised. He leaned over her and caught one of them in his mouth, hearing a hiss of breath escape her as his teeth bit down. Her hands came up and tangled in his hair.