The Master of Muscigny (The First Admiral Series Book 5) (18 page)

The Templar Preceptory, Jerusalem

Alain of Bezain was not what anyone would ever describe as a pious man. He said his prayers when he had to, trusted his life to God in battle and made sure that he slept with a dagger beneath his pillow. So far, these simple rules had kept Alain alive and prosperous. However, in the spartan austerity of the gloomily-lit Knight’s Cell in the Templar Preceptory, Alain was feeling just a little on edge. Alain of Bezain was not a man who liked waiting. He was a man of action, often described as impulsive and hot-headed by those who were grateful for his temper and aggressiveness in battle. But, the waiting was something that Alain hated.

Prowling incessantly around the small cell that was dominated by the simple cot with the flea-ridden straw mattress, Alain wanted to be out there in action where, he could swing his sword and kill his enemies. Muttering to himself, Alain strode back and forth across the cell, his heavy-shod boots scuffing and scraping on the dirt floor. This was a dangerous expedition for Alain and the other division commanders who had hung their lives and fortunes on the plans of Amalric of Lusignan. There were so many things that could go wrong that would leave him at the mercy of King Baldwin’s executioner.
But it was too late now
, he considered as he continued to pace anxiously.

Looking up from the floor, Alain caught sight of the crucifix hanging above the bed. The figure of Christ hung from the cross jabbed at the remaining shreds of Alain’s conscience. Crossing himself, Alain convinced himself that he was doing God’s work. The Templars had the blessing of His Holiness the Pope, therefore, his multitude of forthcoming sins would be forgiven. The leper had to be removed, Alain told himself. It was best for the Kingdom that Baldwin was deposed and the Kingdom cleansed of all the non-Christians. They were little more than traitors-in-waiting, Alain considered as he conveniently suppressed the thought of all the booty and plunder he would stand to acquire in the savage blood-letting.

As he continued to prowl, the world of Alain of Bezain suddenly vanished in a blinding flash of light. An instant later, when his vision cleared, the startled knight found that the filthy squalid Templar cell had been replaced by a small room of dazzling white dominated by a large gleaming metal chair.

“Welcome, my friend,” an unfamiliar voice said to the still-dazed knight.

Focussing his eyes in the harsh, white brightness, Alain saw two figures, both in black one-piece uniforms. One of the uniforms wore a black helmet with a silver reflecting visor that obscured the facial features. The second wore no helmet, but the swept back hair and the hook-nosed features gave Alain the impression of a huge bird of prey. With his vision clearing, Alain instinctively drew the dagger at his waist and lunged at the visored figure. Raising his right hand to strike a downward blow, Alain leapt at the figure. Two steps later, Alain brought the viciously sharp blade down to stab the uniform, but found his arm blocked by his opponents left arm. A savage vice-like grip seized his wrist as he tried to press down his attack. Then, Alain felt like someone had hit him in the face with a hammer as the Landing Trooper drove his right elbow into the dagger wielding knight’s nose and mouth.

Stunned by the blow, Alain had no time to react as the Trooper planted his booted leg behind Alain’s knees and slammed his elbow into the knight’s face once again.

His face smashed a second time, Alain felt himself topple over backwards as the dagger was wrenched from his grip. Unable to control his fall, Alain hit the pristine white floor with a heavy thud; knocking the breath from his body. And, still unable to react, with his lungs feeling like they were on fire, the Landing Trooper lifted him bodily into the chair where two metal bands clamped over his wrists securing them to the arms.

“Prisoner pacified and secured, sir,” the Landing Trooper reported calmly, handing the Senior Security Officer Garn the dagger.

Still gasping and wheezing, Alain of Bezain spat blood from his mouth as he tried to force air into his tortured lungs.

“Not very friendly are you, my friend?” Garn asked casually, running his finger over the razor-sharp blade of the dagger.

With a snarl of contempt, Alain of Bezain spat blood again at his questioner, which missed its intended target and splashed grotesquely on the pristine floor.

“Looks like we’ve got a bit of a tough nut here. Trooper, perhaps you should introduce yourself.”

Stepping forward, the Trooper raised the reflective visor to reveal his green, scaly skin and the lizard-like features of the Icharian species.

“Hell-el-el-el-el-el-o, pretty boy,” the Icharian hissed breathily, his long forked tongue flickering out from behind the rows of viciously sharp, needle-like teeth.

“In the name of God!?” Alain stammered in wide-eyed terror as he tried to shy away from the advancing face of the leering lizard-like creature.

“Your God won’t be able to help you here, my friend,” Officer Garn promised as the terrified knight unsuccessfully tried to drag himself out of the chair to escape the horror that was only a few centimetres from his face.

“Can I eat him, sir?” the Trooper leered menacingly as he flicked his forked tongue over the skin of the right cheek and neck of the horrified prisoner.

“PLEASE! NO!” Alain of Bezain shrieked at the top of his lungs as he tried to turn his head away from the Icharian Landing Trooper.

“Not yet, Trooper,” Garn smiled, knowing that there would be no further resistance from the knight.

“PLEASE! GOD! MERCY!” Alain of Bezain pleaded as the Trooper pretended to take a bite, making a horrid snapping sound with his teeth.

“No, Trooper, we’re going to have a little talk with our new friend here,” Garn smiled casually.

“An eye, sir?” the Trooper pretended to wheedle. “Just as an appetiser, pretty please, sir?”

“No, not even an eye, Trooper,” Garn replied. “But, if he decides not to tell us what we want to know…”

“YES! YES! Whatever you want to know!” Alain interrupted, still making a futile attempt to avoid the grinning Trooper.

“That’s better.” Garn smiled with a sigh. “Now, tell us about what your friend Amalric of Lusignan is up to?” It would be a very short interrogation.

The Royal Palace, Jerusalem

The Royal Seneschal, Joscelin of Edessa, sat forward and rested his elbows on the large counting table that dominated his tiny, cramped office. For the bearer of one of the Great Offices of State, the accommodations in the Royal Palace did not seem to adequately reflect his responsibilities or his status. However, that was part of the reality of High Office in the Kingdom of Jerusalem. The accommodations were cramped and inadequate for everyone. Looking at the ledger spread out in front of him, the man most trusted by the King of Jerusalem, the holder of the keys to the Royal Treasury, was pleased to note a healthy surplus in the Kingdom’s finances.

Except, now there was some sort of Templar expedition heading for Jerusalem and the King was now assembling the Army, which was going to cost the Royal Treasury quiet a significant amount. The Royal finances were healthy due to the donation from the Outlanders, but a major military campaign would quickly run through that surplus leaving them all as poor as church mice once again. However, if the Kingdom was threatened, then money would have to be found to pay for its defence.

As Joscelin wondered what sort of tactics he could employ to raise more revenue for the King, a bright, dazzling flash of brilliant white light from beneath the heavy wooden door frame caught the Seneschal’s attention. A moment after the flash had dissipated, three heavy knocks on the door clamoured for his attention.

“Enter!” the Seneschal announced wearily, and sat back on his seat to await whatever problem this new visitor was sure to bring him.

“My Lord Joscelin?” Senior Medical Officer Ullit Radkor, carrying what looked like a briefcase, entered the Seneschal’s office.

“My dear friend!” Joscelin announced, rising from his seat, extending his arm in welcome. “What brings you to the Palace?”

“Ill-tidings I’m afraid, My Lord,” Radkor said darkly as Senior Security Officer Garn and two of the black uniformed Landing Troopers shoved the force-shielding secured Alain of Bezain into the cramped room, and onto the hard, cold, stone floor.

“Lord Alain?” Joscelin gasped. “What is the meaning of this?” He was startled at the appearance of a major landowner, warlord and divisional commander of the Army being held in custody by the Outlanders.

“It would appear that our friend here has been plotting against the King.”

“This is….this is impossible. Surely there must be some mistake?”

“Oh no, no mistake, My Lord Seneschal,” Officer Garn joined the conversation. “One of our friend’s colleagues attempted to kill our First Admiral.”

“Is this true?”

“It was Pallon who tried to kill the Admiral! I had nothing to do with that.”

“Wait,” Joscelin said as his mind raced at the implications, “Pallon is Marcroi’s man, who is in the service of Constable Amalric’s nephew?”

“That’s what we found out as well,” Garn replied. “It would appear that Amalric of Lusignan is in league with the Templars approaching your city.”

“Be careful what you say, my friend. Amalric of Lusignan is not a man to treat with lightly.”

“We are aware of that Lord Joscelin,” Radkor spoke clearly. “We would not come to you unless we were entirely convinced of his involvement in this plot against the King.”

“This plot against the King that you mention, how does Lord Amalric fit into it exactly?” Joscelin asked, sensing that the Outlanders did not make outrageous claims without being able to back them up.

“It seems that Lord Amalric was to bring a contingent of the Army of Jerusalem to Muscigny to join up with the Templar forces,” Garn said.

“You do realise, of course, that the Constable has gained permission from the King to lead a force to Muscigny to hold up the Templars whilst His Majesty deals with the seaborne invasion?” Joscelin asked suspiciously.

“You mean the fleet of fifty odd ships sailing south from Acre with no troops or horses aboard them?” Officer Garn asked.

“Lord Amalric’s spies tell us that there are six hundred fully laden vessels…”

“Perhaps, you ought to see for yourself.” Radkor smiled, fully opening up the briefcase device and laying it down flat on the floor in front of Joscelin. With the remote control, Radkor initiated the three-dimensional viewer, and within moments an image of ships in full sail, cutting through the blue-green ocean, began to appear above the viewer.

“This is what we call a live-feed from one of our flying ships,” Radkor explained. “This is what is actually happening just off the coast as we are speaking.”

“This is amazing,” a wide eyed and astonished Joscelin exclaimed.

“As you can see My Lord,” Radkor drew out the image to show a fleet of fifty ships in five columns of ten, “there are no six hundred ships.”

“Remarkable,” Joscelin marvelled as he tried to reach and touch the image, but he found his hand passed right through it.

“If you’ll look closely, My Lord,” Radkor said, bringing one of the ships into closer focus. “See how high the vessel rides in the water?”

“Because she’s not carrying any cargo, and you say this is actually happening right now?”

“If you don’t believe me, My Lord, step out onto your balcony.”

Cautiously, Joscelin stood up and walked the three or four steps across the room to the balcony that overlooked the High Council Courtyard. Pulling in a signal from the satellite over Jerusalem, Radkor focussed down on the Palace.

“You recognise that, My Lord?”

Having experienced the terror of the landing from the Personnel Carrier, Joscelin was able to confirm to himself the Palace as seen from above.

“Now, we focus down a bit further to the Courtyard outside, and there you are My Lord,” Radkor announced as the image closed down to Joscelin standing on the balcony staring into the room.

“But that’s…” Joscelin muttered in incredulity as he rapidly switched his gaze from the sky to the three dimensional image of himself staring into his own office from his balcony.

“Impossible, My Lord Joscelin? Raise up your arm and wave.”

Very calmly and gently, Joscelin of Edessa raised his left arm and began to wave it back and forth over his head. On the three dimensional viewer image, the astonished Seneschal could see himself waving to the sky. For several long seconds he continued to wave, before slowly lowering his arm.

“And, you can also see the Templars?”

“Yes, My Lord.”

On this image, foot soldiers in white coats were trudging in a long line along the side of a dusty road. Carts and wagons drawn by weary horses cluttered up the roadway, whilst cavalry pickets patrolled the flanks of the advancing force.

“Where is this?”

“About three or four days march from Jerusalem,” Officer Garn replied with professional confidence.

“We must inform His Majesty, immediately.”

“I believe that would be a very good idea, My Lord,” Radkor smiled as he disconnected the viewer, the image vanishing almost instantly.

“Yes, we must, those ships are a diversion.”

“Excellent idea, My Lord, and perhaps, His Majesty would consider the strategy suggested by the First Admiral?”

“What strategy?”

“The First Admiral is prepared to join forces with His Majesty to prevent loss of life.”

“But, these traitors must be stamped out, crushed, and executed!”

“How His Majesty chooses to punish those who have betrayed him is entirely the affair of the King himself, but the Templars planning to massacre those who do not convert to Christianity is something the First Admiral will not abide.”

“Massacre?” Joscelin questioned and drew his dagger from is belt. “Is this true?” he snarled, holding the blade to Alain of Bezain’s throat.

“Yes!” the terrified prisoner blurted. “We were to be allowed to kill and loot as we pleased, but I wanted no part…”

“Shut up, worm! I ought to cut your throat here and now.” He scowled, then thought for a moment as he replaced the dagger.

“Very well,” Joscelin said decisively. “We will go and find His Majesty, and bring your picture box thing too.”