Authors: Unknown
“My lord!” Kalawun managed to grab hold of Baybars’s arm as the sultan went to strike again.
“Let go of me!” Baybars hissed into Kalawun’s face, blue eyes blazing.
“I don’t believe this was all your son’s doing,” said Kalawun quickly.
Baraka was hanging like a rag in his father’s grasp.
“I think he was coerced into it,” continued Kalawun, still holding Baybars’s arm. He looked at Baraka, whose face was a mess of blood and snot. “Weren’t you?”
Baraka let out a throaty sob and closed his eyes.
“Answer him, you whelp,” barked Baybars, “or by Allah I will finish you!”
“My lord!”
A gray shape came scurrying out through one of the doors leading into the palace. It was Khadir. He dropped at Baybars’s feet, staring aghast at the frozen tableau. “He is your son, my lord!” exclaimed the soothsayer. “Your heir!”
“Stay out of this,” said Baybars fiercely.
Kalawun watched Baraka’s eyes swivel pleadingly, hopefully, toward the soothsayer. The look told him everything. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
Ignoring Kalawun, Khadir reached out and stroked Baybars’s booted foot with a skeletal, liver-spotted hand. “Let your son go, Master,” he pleaded. “What can he have done to displease you so?”
Baybars wasn’t listening. “What did you say, Kalawun?” he asked in a dangerous tone.
“You planned this, didn’t you, Khadir?” said Kalawun, looking down at the cringing soothsayer. “And you had Baraka help you.”
Khadir hissed at him.
Baybars jerked Baraka up to face him. “Is this true?”
Baraka sobbed something unintelligible.
“Is it?”
“Yes!” wailed Baraka. “It wasn’t my fault!” He was yelling now, his voice carrying in the utter silence that had descended on the courtyard. “It was Khadir, Father! Khadir and Mahmud! They made me do it! They
made
me!”
Baybars quickly dropped his hold on his son, as if he had realized he was holding something disgusting. Baraka slumped to the ground crying, dribbling blood into the sand. He stared up at his father, then at the ranks of Mamluk guards watching on. Scrabbling to his feet, he fled.
There was a rasp of steel on leather as Baybars drew one of his sabers from its scabbard. Khadir shrieked and threw himself flat as Baybars turned the blade on him. “Do
not
strike Allah’s messenger!”
His cry stayed Baybars’s hand.
“Kill me, Master, and you will kill yourself,” breathed Khadir. “Our fates are bound, yours and mine.”
The sultan stood there, breathing hard, then kicked out at the soothsayer. “Get out of my sight. I will deal with you later.” As Khadir cowered in the sand, Baybars barked at two Bahri soldiers standing nearby. “Bring me Amir Mahmud.” He whirled on the men who waited by the wagons. “Does anyone else want to betray me?” His voice cracked across them.
“Do you?”
The guards fell back from his fury.
Suddenly Baybars slumped, his saber dropping to his side. “They are all against me, Kalawun. All of them.”
“No, my lord,” said Kalawun, going to him. “Just a few rotten apples spoiling the barrel.”
Baybars looked at him. “What do I do? The treaty has been broken. The Franks will demand retribution for this act against them.” He raised his head to the sky. “All my plans for Anatolia will be in ruins if I am forced to deal with them. I may not get another chance. Ilkhan Abaga will move on me again in time. I must be ready, Kalawun. I
must
! ”
“And you will be,” said Kalawun calmly. “All is not lost. Send an apology to the Christians. Send it today, with an explanation of what happened. Tell them that you were betrayed but you dealt with the traitors severely. Send them compensation. One dinar for every citizen killed at Kabul. Release twenty Christians from the dungeon and send them back to Acre along with these women and children.” Kalawun gestured at the line of bedraggled captives. “We might be able to mend this before it is broken any further.”
After a moment, Baybars nodded. “Make sure it is done,” he said, tight-lipped.
As Kalawun moved off toward the wagons, ordering the men to fetch the women and children water and fruit, Khadir crouched in the dust and watched him, hatred smoldering in his white eyes.
Baraka ran through the palace corridors, trailing splashes of blood. His face felt oddly numb, although there was a humming sensation building in his skin that told him that pain was on its way. Soon it would scream. At first, he had wanted to go to his mother, but the thought of the harem guards seeing him like this had pulled him up short. Weeping with humiliation, he had swerved away down the passage that led to his rooms, images of the soldiers and Kalawun and his father all staring at him, beaten and cowed, burning in his mind.
He arrived at his chamber and was reaching for the door when a figure appeared, swathed in a black robe and veil. Baraka stumbled to a halt as Aisha dragged the veil from her face. When she spoke, her voice was marble. “I saw you.”
Baraka hardly heard what she said. “You told your father that you saw me that day in the broken tower, didn’t you?” His voice shook, muffled through his swollen mouth and nose. “That’s why he kept asking me those questions. That’s how he knew about Khadir.”
“Yes, I saw you!” Aisha shouted again, making him flinch. “I saw you with that
slave
! Last night!”
Baraka stared at her in horror, then grabbed at his door, fumbling with the latch.
Aisha flew at him, her hands curling into claws. “I’ll tell everyone! I’ll tell them all how you can’t even bed your
wife
! How you need to steal one of your father’s slaves to do it!” She struck at his face. “You let your mother think it was my fault! Let her think I wasn’t good enough for you!” Baraka cried out as she caught his swollen lip with her nails. “It’s you who’s no good! It’s
you
!”
Baraka managed to shove her away, then yanked open his door and slammed it shut. He could hear Aisha on the other side, yelling curses at him as he sank to the floor.
17
The Pisan Quarter, Acre 26 MAY A.D. 1276
The tavern was hot and dingy. Flies circled listlessly over the sticky tables, where laborers sheltered from the midday heat. Two of them got up to leave, letting in a brief sigh of air as they opened the tavern’s door and Will sat back, relishing the faint breath of it on his face. Every year, he forgot just how uncomfortable the summers in Acre could be. The annual reminder was never pleasant. The stink of dung, human and animal, that clung to the dead air by midday; the way even the thinnest linen felt like a heavy woollen cloak; the stench of sweat, spoiling meat and animals in the crowded markets.
“Here,” said Garin, placing a cracked cup of wine in front of Will. He sat, taking a sip from his own, and grimaced. His hair had lightened in the sun and his skin was tanned. He looked the picture of health, except for the faint shadows under his eyes. Will envied the loose cotton shirt he wore. It looked wonderfully cool and light in comparison to the shirt, surcoat and mantle he was forced to wear. He wondered if Garin missed being a knight, then looked away and drank as Garin met his gaze. The wine was sour.
“Well,” said Garin with a half smile, “we finally meet.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you sooner.”
“I expect you must be preoccupied most of the time, now you’re a commander.”
Will gave a noncommittal nod, uninterested in small talk. When he had first met Garin in the market, part of him had been pleased to see his old comrade. He had envisioned them reacquainting, talking about old times and old masters in the London Temple. But, now, sitting opposite him in the stuffy tavern, Will realized that the two of them had nothing left between them except the stale reticence of long-stifled resentment.
It had been different when Garin was chained in his Temple cell, dependent on Will for small comforts and news of the world beyond his walls. Will had felt able to forgive him, because every time he saw him he saw the evidence that Garin was paying for his betrayal. With him sitting here, sipping wine, tanned, healthy and confident, Will felt an old anger stir. An image of another tavern crawled into his mind. He was tied to a bed, bruised and beaten. Garin was standing over him holding his mouth open, forcing a thick, gritty liquid down his throat. A moment later, other memories came: a girl with golden curls moving over him; a soiled mattress; the shock in Elwen’s voice.
“So,” said Garin, into the silence, “how is Elwen? I take it she’s still here with you?”
Will’s jaw locked tight as he looked at Garin. “She’s fine. But what of England? Your mother?”
Garin looked surprised at the question, surprised and pleased. “She’s a little frailer. But as whip-tongued as ever.” He picked at a smear of grime on his cup. “I don’t see her as much as I should. King Edward keeps me busy.”
“What do you do for him?”
Garin looked up, hearing the sharp note of inquiry in Will’s tone. “I run errands mostly. Send messages.” He shrugged. “Nothing exciting. Anyway, you still haven’t told me about this letter. What was it?”
“Everard was worried about the requests for funds Edward sent him. I hoped to get your view on the matter.”
Garin leaned forward. “Good. This is what I wanted to talk to you about.” He extended a hand to Will. “You speak first.”
“These funds. Everard needs to know for certain that they are being used for what the king states they are. He has heard that Edward is planning a war on Wales and might be using the Anima Templi’s resources for the expansion of his own kingdom.”
Garin was surprised. “You are well informed. Very few people know about those plans.”
“We have allies in London.”
Garin took his time answering. When he did, his voice was slow, deliberate. “You are right.”
Will sat up, a look of triumph on his face.
“Edward is planning on mounting a military expedition in Wales. But he is not intending to use Anima Templi funds to do it. He doesn’t need to. He has plenty of other resources to call upon. That is partly why I am here, visiting King Hugh.”
“Then what does he want the money for?”
“A new peace mission to Abaga, the Ilkhan of Persia. He wants to send emissaries to reestablish contact with the Mongols of the ilkhan’s garrison in Anatolia and to make sure the alliance he formed with them four years ago is still holding strong. Edward believes that if each side is as powerful as the other, ourselves and the Mongols standing jointly against the Mamluks, then no side will attempt to attack the other; a stalemate. He believes it is the best way he can continue to secure the peace he made with Baybars.”
“But he is planning on attacking Wales?”
“His hand has been forced. Llewelyn, the prince of the northern territory of Gwynedd, has been a thorn in the English side for some time. For years his people have raided into English lands, stealing livestock, abducting children, raping women, and Llewelyn has done nothing to stop them. Indeed, he has actively encouraged it. Now Edward feels enough is enough. He must deal with these barbarians once and for all.”
Will listened in silence. Garin sounded like one of Edward’s speechmakers. His tone was sincere, but his eyes held little emotion, and Will knew it was just words. It was what Edward would want him to say. Whether it bore any relation to truth was another matter. Will knew well enough from his years in the Holy Land that when a ruler wished to invade another kingdom for territory or power, he would plant propaganda justifying his reasons. If the nation he was intending to invade was perceived as posing a threat, the populace would be far less likely to protest against the decision. It was part of the age-old process of waging war, as necessary and commonplace as the weapons used to fight it. “What about his meeting with Pope Gregory?” he asked. “Everard heard that the king is intending to launch a Crusade.”
This time, if Garin was surprised by their knowledge, he didn’t show it. “Of course. Edward has to make the pope believe that he is planning on taking the Cross. Gregory is a friend of his and a staunch advocator of a new Crusade. When Edward didn’t attend the Council of Lyons, the pope was displeased and called upon him to explain his reasons. Edward was simply keeping him appeased.”
Will was unconvinced, but seeing he wouldn’t get any useful information from Garin, he changed the subject. “What did you want to discuss?” he asked.
“Edward wanted me to appeal to Everard in person regarding the requested funds. If he is to undertake this mission to the ilkhan, he will need them as soon as possible. Obviously, you and the other Brethren cannot easily leave the Temple on such a journey, and Edward has already established a relationship with Abaga.” He shrugged mildly. “He says this is, after all, one of the reasons you appointed him: that he might help the peace process.”
It all sounded so reasonable, yet still mistrust clung to Will’s mind. “I will speak to Everard, but I cannot promise that he will agree to Edward’s request. The Anima Templi has many plans. We cannot fund all of them at once. We only receive so many donations and we need to be careful about how much gold we siphon from the Temple’s coffers.”
“I understand,” said Garin, nodding. “But if I can speak with Everard, or at the very least get an answer as soon as possible, I would be grateful. I cannot stay here much longer. The hospitality of my royal host only extends so far.”
“I will speak to Everard tonight and meet you here tomorrow at the same time with whatever answer I have.” Will stood, leaving his wine almost untouched. “I’m afraid I must go. I have things I need to do.”
“Tomorrow then.”
Garin watched Will head out, a few laborers glancing up as the knight passed them, a look of respect in their faces. Once, people had looked at him that way. Now he was just another face in the crowd. He reached for Will’s cup and drained the bitter wine, then headed into the white blaze of the afternoon.
The dusty walls of shops, houses and churches crowded in around him as he walked the narrow streets to the market, moving in a sluggish tide of merchants, donkeys and carts. Passing through the market square, he entered the covered street: a vaulted stone passageway with arched openings running its length, where merchants displayed their wares. These openings led into cramped stores, which sold anything from porcelain to poison. Garin kept his hand on his money pouch, close to his dagger, as he headed deeper in, past men drinking spiced tea and playing chess, past a woman who beckoned to him, her body a gauzy shadow behind a silk drape which led into a smoky darkness that smelled of sin and cinnamon.