Authors: Unknown
“Why did he do this?”
“My master, Owein, had just been killed, following an attack by mercenaries on our company at Honfleur in France. We had been escorting the English crown jewels to the Paris preceptory and these men tried to take them. Everard needed a scribe. I could read and write, and I had lost my master.” Will shrugged. “I suppose I was a natural choice for the role.”
“So you would say you know him well?”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust him?”
Will was thrown by the comment. “Yes,” he said, falteringly, then, more strongly, “with my life.”
Guillaume picked up something from the desk. It was a rolled piece of parchment. He handed it to Will. As Will opened it, he recognized it immediately.
“It is the scroll you brought back from Arabia,” said Guillaume. “I need it translated.”
Will, his heart thumping, chose his words carefully. “I thought Kaysan was one of our spies?”
“That is correct.”
“Then forgive me, my lord, but how is it that we cannot read his message? Why would he send something we couldn’t understand?”
“The man I was assured could translate it for us is unavailable to do so at present. I, however, cannot wait. Everard’s skills are legendary in this preceptory. If any man here can decipher this message it is him.” Guillaume stood and stared out of the window. “But I have a problem.” He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he turned back. “These past few months you have proven yourself an asset to the order, and to me. If not for your keen perception and quick actions, I may have been killed by Soranzo’s man at the docks. You discovered the identity of my enemy and helped bring him to justice, even though you did not agree with my methods, and you executed an important mission for me in Arabia, leading my own men with authority and skill. For some weeks now, I have been wondering whether to involve you in something that was set in motion almost two years ago. I have now made my decision. We are failing, William,” said the grand master softly, “little by little every day. We quarrel, we fight, and we ignore the threat that creeps steadily upon us. For whether today, tomorrow or in five years hence, the Mamluks will come for us again. And when that happens, none of us will be able to stop them. Few in the West have the stomach for Crusade. Our list of allies grows thin. But we have a chance to change this.
One
chance.” Guillaume clenched his hand in a fist. As he spoke, his voice became deeper, stronger. “Imagine the men of the West rising up to take the Cross in their thousands. Imagine our soldiers making their way across the seas to aid us, we, their brothers, who have toiled for so long to keep the dream of Christendom alive in these lands. We have come too far to let all those before us down. Men like your father, who died for our cause.
“Baybars and his Mamluks fight to reclaim their land. But it
isn’t
theirs to claim! All of them were born hundreds of miles beyond Palestine. They say they are fighting to win back what we took, but they took it too. And if it isn’t theirs by rights, by God, I say that it is ours. Our Holy Land. So much Christian blood has been spilled on these sands, so much we have lost. We cannot let it be in vain. We
cannot
.” Guillaume was pacing now. Will watched him in silence. “I am involved in a plan to take back what is ours. At the Battle of Hattin, the Saracens stole one of our holiest relics: part of the True Cross on which Christ was crucified. Christendom has mourned that theft for almost a hundred years. Imagine her jubilation were we to take something of theirs.”
“What?” said Will thickly. “What would we take?”
“The Black Stone of Mecca,” replied Guillaume. “Their holiest relic. It would be seen across the Western world as retribution. Our forces here and in the West would rally around such a victory, of this I am certain. It would give them hope, renew their hunger to finish what they started two centuries ago. I have already been in contact with leaders of the West, men like King Edward and King Charles d’Anjou. For months now I have been seeking support for a new Crusade in secret, promising these leaders that a change is coming, that all of them must be ready for it. I have even sent word to the Mongols.”
“The Mamluks will destroy us.”
“No,” said Guillaume firmly, “not immediately. Even through his rage, Baybars would be aware of the need to properly plan any campaign against us. Using the Stone as a symbol of triumph, of God’s will for us to reclaim what is ours, we can build a new Crusade, whilst he is building his own army against us. There is a chance, a
good
chance that we would meet on an even field. If we do not do this, William, we will simply fade quietly away, eroded at last by the Saracens. This is the only way to convince the West that there is still hope, that we can hurt the enemy, that we can take from them what they have taken from us.” Guillaume sat. His eyes were bright, but it seemed more with sadness than fervor. He waited until his voice was steady, then spoke again. “I need you to help me, William. Firstly, by taking this scroll to Everard and asking him to decipher its message. Whatever contents are revealed, I will need you to make certain that the priest never speaks of it to anyone. I would not do this, but I have no other choice.”
“You said we. Are there others helping you?”
“Yes. But they do not matter at this moment. If Everard manages to decipher this, I will tell you more. The theft of the Stone will occur in the spring of next year. I have been choosing a small group of men to carry it out. I would like you to lead them.”
“This is it. This is our chance to stop him!”
Everard glanced up, his gaze following Will, who was stalking around his chamber. In his hand, the priest held the scroll the grand master had given to Will.
“You should have heard him,” continued Will angrily. “He is so convinced that he is doing God’s work.
Our Holy Land,
he kept saying. He has no concept of peace!”
“Did you?” asked Everard softly. “Before you were shown a different way? Before you were inducted into the Anima Templi?” Will stared at him. “I rather think you didn’t,” Everard went on. “Indeed, even after you learned that peace between our peoples was possible, that men from different religions and cultures were working toward this end, you balked against it and tried to murder our so-called enemy. Was that peace?”
Will swallowed dryly at the reminder, fear stabbing at the center of his stomach. For a brief moment, he wanted to tell Everard what Kalawun had said in Cairo. He opened his mouth to say it, then Everard spoke again and the moment vanished.
“Do not be so hard on him, William. Understanding is necessary for change to occur. You need to realize that de Beaujeu, like many others, has been brought up to believe he is better than Muslims, Jews, and anyone else who doesn’t follow the Christian law. They were taught this by their fathers, by their priests, by their fellows and their masters. Is it any wonder they believe it? Change, as I so often have told you, happens slowly, over years. One man today might read one of our treatises and find something in it that might make him think, that might make him realize that we are all children of God, whatever name we choose for Him. He may tell his sons and daughters of this and they may carry less hatred in their hearts as they grow. The Anima Templi are physicians, William, drawing poison out of each generation. But it must be done slowly, with care, or we risk losing our patients. Had your father been anyone but James, you might now feel very different. You might agree entirely with everything de Beaujeu just told you.”
“I don’t understand,” said Will, sitting on the window seat opposite the priest. “De Beaujeu keeps Arab clerks and I know he treats them as well as he treats his Christian staff. And after we caught Sclavo, he made sure the tavern was closed down and that the slaves used in the arena were cared for.”
“Yes, and de Beaujeu has even been criticized for his lenient treatment of Muslims and Jews by some since his arrival in the city. He isn’t a monster, or a fool. For him it isn’t about the people. It is about the place. God’s land,
our
Holy Land, as he calls it. He wants Jerusalem back, William. As do so many of our people. He believes it belongs to Christians and that we are its rightful keepers. He doesn’t see that we all have an equal claim to the city, that it is the heritage of all peoples of the Books: Old and New Testaments and the Koran. For Jews it encompasses the site where God commanded Abraham to sacrifice Isaac and is where the Temple of Solomon was built and housed the Ark of the Covenant, containing the laws given to Moses on Mount Sinai. For Christians it is the place where Jesus lived, died and rose again. For Muslims it is the place from which Muhammad ascended to Heaven.” Everard’s gaze grew sad and distant. “This ground is holy to us all. But somehow we seem unable to rejoice in this commonality and instead block up our ears and cover our eyes, stamp our feet like angry children and demand
this is ours, and ours alone
.”
“We have a chance to stop this, Everard,” said Will, gesturing to the scroll in the priest’s hand. “All you have to do is tell de Beaujeu that you couldn’t decipher it.”
Everard looked at him. “No,” he said eventually, “that is not the right course of action.” His eyes hardened with authority. “You will take him my translation and do exactly as he says.”
“Why?” said Will incredulously.
“What do you suppose will happen if I fail to decipher it?” demanded Everard, rising and looking down on Will. “This contact of theirs,” he shook the scroll, “which is presumably the man this letter is addressed to, could reappear at any time. Either that or they’ll find someone else to translate it for them. I am not the only man capable of it.”
“But it could delay them, perhaps even ruin their plans.”
“If the grand master has been planning this for two years and has already gone to this much trouble to make sure it happens, he will not let this problem stand in his way. He will find some other way to execute it. And if he is delayed and the details we have already taken from the scroll—the time and place— change, we may end up knowing less than we do now.”
“It is too dangerous,” said Will, shaking his head. “We have to stop it before it starts.”
“And we will,” said Everard firmly. “You have been invited into de Beaujeu’s circle. You will stand at the heart of this. More than anyone else, you have a chance to stop it. De Beaujeu isn’t alone in this. It is no use cutting out the rotten part of the apple, but leaving the worm inside. We need to find out who these others are, who de Beaujeu is working with, who this man in Cairo is. Soranzo knew of it; potentially Angelo Vitturi knows of it also.” Everard held Will in his stare. “You must find out.”
Through his concern and disbelief, Will felt something stir. Pride. It was what he craved, from his father, from Everard and the Anima Templi, even, to some extent, from de Beaujeu: their pride in him. Now he had the chance to play the hero, to be the one who stopped this from happening. As Will felt these thoughts take him over, he tried to ignore them, telling himself that he would do this because it was his duty and the necessary thing to do. But a little voice called to him, sweet and seductive, saying he could be the one to save them all.
THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 8 JULY A.D. 1276
Elwen hastened through the quarter. She could smell smoke on the air and heard the distant shouts of men as they tried to put out the fires, just streets from Andreas’s home. At Vespers several men had stood up in the service when the priest had asked them to pray for those who had lost property in the blaze. These men had demanded retribution, saying that they all knew who had started the fire. That it was the Genoese. That it was time to drive them out again, this time for good. It had taken all of the priest’s skills of diplomacy to prevent a mob from forming.
The strap of the leather bag Elwen had hung over her shoulder pinched at her skin as she hurried toward the warehouse on Silk Street. The bag was filled with samples. Andreas, preoccupied with the troubles, had left it on the kitchen table. He was due to meet with a customer and would need them. Besina had told her not to go: that Andreas could come back for it. But Elwen knew that it would be a waste of his precious time. Evening was drawing in and the streets were rapidly emptying of people. The heat was stifling, oppressive.
As Elwen turned a corner onto Silk Street, two men emerged from an alley and began making their way toward her They were moving slowly, erratic in their steps. Elwen guessed that they were drunk. One of them spotted her and patted his companion’s shoulder. The other man looked up and laughed as his comrade said something that Elwen didn’t catch. She moved into the street to avoid them.
“Good evening, my lady,” one of the men called. He spoke Latin, rather than the Venetian dialect, but his voice was so slurred she could hardly understand him.
Elwen kept on walking, quicker now.
“I said, good
evening
, my lady,” repeated the man, stepping into the street.
Elwen flashed him a cool smile, then continued on, passing him.
“I got a smile!” crowed the man to his companion.
“I think she likes you,” said the other, staggering out and blocking Elwen’s path, so that she was caught between them. They were both red in the face. “Hey, girlie, you got one for me?”
“I’m in a hurry,” said Elwen. Her heart was beginning to thump. “Please, just let me pass.”
“Where are you going?” asked the first man. He was broad in the shoulders and had a long black beard. “There’s a curfew on.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Elwen, becoming annoyed by the interruption despite her anxiety. She tried to move around the other man in front of her, who was bigger than his friend, with a belly that hung over his belt and ale stains marking his shirt. He had lank black hair and a greasy face that seemed to slide about as he spoke, his two chins wobbling.
“Not so fast,” he said, stepping in front of her.
Elwen realized that there was no one else in the street. As the leering, fat man reached for her, all her bravado vanished. She did the only thing she could think of. Opening her mouth, she screamed. She just had time to see the fat man’s expression change from drunken lechery to one of alert concern.
He isn’t drunk at all,
a voice inside her said. Then, the words were forgotten as a hand curled around her mouth from behind, shutting off the noise. She felt herself pinned against the broad chest of the bearded man and hauled into an alley between two warehouses. Fear came down over her like a suffocating cloud as she felt the bag ripped from her shoulder, the strap snapping painfully apart.