Mamluk Page 2

  “Ah, yes. Go now and have them assembled. Execute all but one of the Hospitallers in front of the emir. Do it yourself, but give them a swift death. They are warriors, after all, and they fought bravely. Cut off their heads one by one and let the captain live so he can tell his superiors what happens when the Mamluks are betrayed.”

  This seemed to appease Khalil, for he stood up straight. “Yes, My Sultan.”

  Qalawun watched his son stride from the pavilion. As the curtains fluttered in the early evening breeze, his gaze settled on a puddle of red on the carpet between him and the doorway. He bent over, his back and knees protesting, and swiped three fingers through the remains of the Mongol’s lifeblood. Qalawun stood upright, and with his eyes fixated on the doorway, wiped his hand down the front of his chest, leaving a rusty smear across the golden mail.

  He closed his eyes to focus his senses. Outside, he heard the commotion of men being forced to their knees. Seconds later Khalil grunted and his blade sang as it separated head from body. The stroke had been swift and true, and it brought a satisfied smile to the old man’s face. He felt the wrinkles on his face tighten as they resisted the unfamiliar sensation, and he became keenly aware that, unlike his son, Time had found him. But he had much to do before he surrendered to its ravages.

  Qalawun, on this day, arguably the most powerful man in the world, suddenly felt very old.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Foulques de Villaret plowed through the early evening throng of people scrambling along the streets of Acre hustling to finish the last tasks of the day. Or, as he crossed from the Venetian quarter into the Genoese slums, begin the revelries of the night. Lost in thought, with his simple black cloak wrapped around him and his hood pulled over his head, he strode through the alleys ignoring the catcalls of women and the unwelcome stares of men.

  Admiral. Foulques had never heard anything so ridiculous in all his life. What had gotten into the grand master’s head? Or rather, who? Foulques sensed the hand of his uncle in this move. Even from England, he seemed to have more control over Foulques’s life than Foulques himself. He could have arranged it with the grand master, for Guillaume de Villaret had the influence. But he could have had the good grace to ask Foulques before having him exiled to the island of Cyprus. He could understand that his uncle was trying to look after him, as he always had. Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before Qalawun and his Mamluks attacked. Guillaume was no doubt just trying to save his nephew by getting him out of Acre before it fell under siege.

  Out of Acre. The thought chilled him more than he cared to admit. Acre was the only place he had ever called home. Could he ever know another? He was told the city’s beauty was unequaled in all of the Levant. In Foulques’s mind, even Jerusalem itself could not compare, though he would never say the thought aloud. Acre’s main bazaar was a place of wonder, intoxicating with the colors and scents of spices gathered from the four corners of the world. Its deep harbor of azure blue water was so clear that you could see fifty feet into its depths and count the sea creatures glistening under the sun. Some felt threatened by the myriad of people, the sheer number of languages spoken on the city’s streets, but that was one of the things Foulques treasured about his city. As a child he had spent countless hours wandering through the market listening to the strange words of traders and travelers from afar. When he could not understand what was spoken, he would make up stories about them. As the years passed, he found he no longer had to rely on his imagination so much, for there were few conversations he could not follow. But for all its glory, the city had its share of darkness as well.

  With these thoughts rambling back and forth through his mind, Foulques did not see the guard seated at a small table outside the gambling hall’s main entrance until the man stood. He placed himself between Foulques and the closed door.

  “Far enough. The Greek does not allow priests or monks in any of his establishments,” the guard said in Arabic, holding a hand out in front of Foulques’s bowed head.

  Foulques stopped more than a full arm’s length away. He lowered his hood and let the split down the front of his robe fall open to reveal the sword beneath. He wore no mail, but the way the guard’s eyes widened, Foulques was sure the man no longer thought he was a priest. Still, he did not move from in front of the door.

  “Forgive me. I did not know you to be a man of the Hospital,” the guard said, this time in broken French.

  “I have business inside,” Foulques said, in Arabic.

  “Perhaps I could take a message? Who is it you wish to speak with?” The words flowed out of the guard’s mouth quickly, like he was both grateful to be speaking his native tongue and eager to be rid of the Hospitaller.

  “A Genoan. Vignolo dei Vignoli. I was told he is inside.”

  “Give me a moment and I will see if the man you seek—”

  “No need. He is here,” Foulques said.

  He stepped forward, giving the guard the choice of either initiating a physical confrontation with a soldier of the Order, or making an undignified leap aside. It was not a difficult choice.

  Foulques pushed open the door and paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness of the room. A few years past, Stephanos the Greek had moved from a rented hut, half of which was carved into the ground below street level, into a much larger building that boasted a solid paver stone floor and a ceiling high enough to keep some of the smoke out of its patrons’ eyes. Other than that, it was not much of an improvement. It was still in a seedy area on the edge of the Venetian Quarter, and its clientele consisted of an odd mix of every type imaginable, from Genoese dock laborers and mercenaries to the occasional young man of noble blood.

  As Foulques’s vision grew used to the lack of light, and his lungs to the thickness of the smoke-filled air, he saw that all eyes were upon him. A half-dozen men stood around an oval table, drinks in hand, a scattering of coins placed before them. Stephanos, a thick man with an even thicker head of curly gray hair, sat on a keg of ale behind the table. His hooded eyes took in every movement of the place with a seemingly detached interest. Another similar table stood off to the side, but it was empty as it was not yet midday.

  A tall figure detached himself from their midst and took a few hesitant steps toward the knight. “Foulques? Brother Foulques! My good friend,” Vignolo dei Vignoli said in a loud voice that carried to all corners and all ears. The rest of the hazard players gathered around the table immediately lost interest in the Hospitaller and returned to their game.

  Once he closed the distance, Vignolo lowered his voice. “I would say it is a pleasure to see you, Foulques, but that has rarely been the case in the past. I suspect it should prove no different on this occasion.”

  “Have you had your fill of honest work, then?” Foulques said. “The Hospital has been more than generous to you these past few years.”

  “And I suspect even more generous shortly?”

  Vignolo flashed one of his self-sure grins, revealing white teeth and a handsome face that seemed at odds with the dismal room in which they stood. It had been over seven years since Foulques, with five hundred young peasant children from the Alps in tow, had first met Vignolo on the docks of Genoa. At the time, Foulques had had serious doubts about the man’s character and purity of soul. But Vignolo had come through for the Hospital, and later, for Foulques himself. Foulques owed the Genoan his life, and that knowledge weighed more heavily on the knight than he cared to admit.

  “Let us have it, then,” Vignolo said. “Tell me the size of ship your grand master needs and where we will be going. And I will be blameless later if you leave anything out, though I know you will.”

  “We should sit,” Foulques said. A rhythmic thumping sound began in a room directly above them and a sprinkle of dust drifted loose from the ceiling. He fought back a sneeze and glanced around the room. “Somewhere other than here, however.”

  “Nonsense,” Vignolo said, pulling out a stool from under a nearby table. “There is a perfectly
good seat right here.”

  Foulques did not miss the casual glance Vignolo cast back toward the hazard table, nor was it possible to ignore the feel of Stephanos the Greek’s eyes following Vignolo’s every move. No doubt Vignolo had gambled away more than he had come with. That would explain his relatively welcoming demeanor toward Foulques.

  After the two men had sat down, and a tired but strong-looking woman dropped off a couple of mugs of mead, Foulques wasted no time in getting to the point.

  “The Hospital has need of your talents, Vignoli, but it is not of the usual variety. It will require you being away from Acre for an extended period of time.”

  Vignolo shrugged and leaned back on his stool with both hands wrapped around the clay mug in front of him. “You would have me leave all this behind? I can only hope my compensation will reflect the hardships I should endure.”

  “I have been authorized to pay you far more than you are worth. You can be sure of that.”

  Vignolo’s eyes narrowed and he slowly leaned forward. “What is wrong, Foulques? You have the smell of a desperate man about you. Exactly how long will we be gone?”

  “I cannot say,” Foulques said. He forced himself to meet Vignolo’s eyes with his own.

  “Our destination? Surely that you can enlighten me on.”

  “The island of Cyprus.”

  “Cyprus?” Vignolo laughed and took a long pull off his drink. “You let me think we were headed for the dark heart of Cairo, not the home of the King of Jerusalem. I have not had any direct dealings with the young King Henry himself, but his brother is no stranger to me. And I must say, he and I have more in common than you know.”

  “Prince Amalric’s appetites for both women and drink are no secret,” Foulques said.

  “You left out gambling. He is a young noble with no titles to weigh him down, yet all the family riches of Cyprus are at his fingertips. How else is he to fill his time?”

  Foulques shook his head. “I did not come to debate how royals should live their lives. We have other concerns.”

  “You have other concerns. You always do. Me, I have debts. When do we leave?”

  “Just like that? What happened to the income from your estate on Rhodes?”

  Vignolo rolled his eyes. “My steward has petitioned the Byzantine Emperor. He claims his workers have not been paid for three years, and until this misunderstanding gets sorted, the Emperor has confiscated all my holdings on Rhodes.”

  “A misunderstanding, is it?”

  “It is my steward. He is stealing from me, I know it.”

  “How would you know it? Have you even been to Rhodes?”

  “Do not lecture me, Foulques. What would a monk know about business matters?”

  Foulques reached inside his robe and pulled out a purse. It was not large, but it was stuffed with as much coin as it could possibly hold.

  “As I have told you before. I am no monk.” He dropped the purse on the table between them. It hit hard, with a loud, satisfying clink of metal.

  Vignoli immediately covered it with his hands and pulled it close. In a hushed tone, he said, “You are a mad monk, is what you are. This is not the place to be throwing full purses around.” He cast a nervous glance toward the hazard table. Foulques followed his eyes. Everyone seemed to be absorbed in the game. “Now tell me what you want done so we can get out of here.”

  Foulques leaned back on his stool. “I need you to make a seaman out of me.”

  A twitch started at the corner of Vignolo’s mouth. It quickly spread into a full-blown smile, accompanied by a series of head shakes when he realized Foulques was serious.

  “You? A seaman? Anything else, Brother Foulques? The moon, perhaps?”

  “Yes. I want you to turn a hundred of the Schwyzers into seamen as well.”

  Vignolo broke into open laughter at that. The moment he was able to contain himself, he stood up and wiped his eyes.

  “Well, you mad monk. We had best be on our way. My life’s work is before me.” He held up the coin purse. “I trust more of these will follow?”

  Foulques nodded. “As many as it takes.”

  Vignolo turned and shouted at the hazard table. “Stephanos!” He tossed the entire purse in the Greek’s general direction. Several pairs of hungry eyes followed its flight, but it was the stocky man on the stool with the crazy gray hair whose hand shot up and snatched it out of the air.

  “Watch that for me until I get back, will you?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The sun of the Levant was unforgiving at midday, especially when seated upon a sweating destrier. Thomas found himself longing for a set of mail the likes of which the leader of his eight-man patrol, Brother Alain, wore over his padded hauberk. The small, finely crafted metal links of the knight’s armor hugged every crevice of his body as he swayed in his saddle, emulating the movements of muscle and bone. While Thomas’s scale mail fell over his own frame with all the comfort and grace of an ale barrel. A knight had let Thomas try on his mail a year ago, when Pirmin had organized an impromptu celebration of Thomas’s thirteenth birthday. Thomas doubted it actually was his birthday, but Pirmin was quite adamant. And when he got it in his head to organize a celebration of any kind, there was no stopping him. Thomas had been shocked at how the steel pulled the heat from his body, even as it clung to his torso like a second skin.

  A rivulet of sweat leaked from under his helmet and stung his eye. He felt his scar tighten and tug all along the length of his face, right down to his jaw, as he tried to blink the stinging sensation away. His mount veered out of formation a step or two as he turned his head back to see why his rider was squirming in the saddle. Thomas hastily set him back on the path with a firm nudge of his knees.

  Brother Alain was the only knight in the eight-man patrol, but all the others were experienced brother-sergeants. They rode two men abreast, and Thomas, since he was the most inexperienced, was in the second to last set. Only Brother Alain and Roderic, the sergeant at his side, carried lances. They were weapons reserved for the knightly class, or the most deserving and well-trained of the men-at-arms.

  As though Brother Alain could feel Thomas’s coveting eyes on his back, he turned in his own saddle and scanned his men until his gaze settled on the youngest member in his troop.

  “Brother Thomas. Join me here in the front, if you will.” A new bead of sweat fell into Thomas’s other eye.

  Brother Alain spoke a few words to the man at his side. Roderic turned his horse away from the column and trotted toward the rear. He gave Thomas a nod as they passed each other and then Roderic took up a position at the very back as the sergeants jostled to fill in the gap Thomas left.

  They continued on in silence for a few minutes, but Thomas could feel Brother Alain watching him from the corner of his eye. “It is good to be nervous,” Alain said.

  “I am not nervous,” Thomas said, a little too quickly.

  Alain nodded. “All the same, it is nervous men who tend to outlive the complacent ones.”

  Thomas was about to protest, but as he searched for the right words, he suddenly realized Brother Alain had stopped his horse. Thomas brought his own mount to a halt and twisted back to look at the knight. His hand was raised and the column behind him had pulled up into a tight formation.

  “Do you hear that?” Alain asked of no one in particular.

  The sergeant behind him nodded. “Steel,” he said.

  Thomas wanted to take off his helmet so he could hear better, but that would be a mistake. Instead, he strained his ears beneath his arming cap and thought he could just make out the sounds of voices coming from up ahead on the road.

  “Fighting,” Alain said. “Sergeants! With me.” He nudged his horse into a trot, pulling Thomas along with a nod of his head. “Stay close to me, Brother Thomas.”

  Thomas concentrated on doing as Alain said. He kept his destrier close enough to smell the oiled leather of the knight’s saddle. He could have reached out and put a hand on Brother A
lain’s shoulder. His horse was so well trained that the moment Alain nudged his own destrier into a gallop, Thomas’s horse matched the new pace instantly without any instruction. The wind blew under his helmet, bringing with it a welcome coolness, and at the same time an excited beat to his heart.

  Up ahead they could see a circle of men and women standing protectively around three or four carts. Whirling around them on white steeds, a dozen desert dwellers thrust at them with spears, or loosed arrows from short bows. More than one figure lay unmoving on the road with one of the deadly shafts embedded in his back or chest.

  The Hospitallers picked up speed. Thomas blew out a breath to calm his insides. This is what he had trained for. He had spent years imagining this moment. He was one of God’s warriors racing to the aid of those in need. And what is more, he led the charge. He risked a sideways glance at Brother Alain. The knight’s image blurred as the wind stung Thomas’s eyes and he felt tears leak from their corners. A grin stretched his lips and spread across his face, straining the long, pale scar to its limit.

  There must have been a dozen Bedouins darting in and out of the small group of wagons and their defenders. Most were on horseback, but a few stood on the ground off the side of the road, launching black-shafted arrows from bows as curved as Satan’s horns. Alain targeted one of these footmen with his lance and Thomas found his own horse being forced to veer away from the wagons, where the main fighting was sure to occur. Carried along with Alain’s charge, Thomas recognized this was an attempt by the veteran knight to protect the young sergeant at his side. Disappointment flared in Thomas.

  The Bedouin in Alain’s sights panicked when he saw the destrier bearing down on him. He threw his bow aside and launched himself toward a nearby tree. Alain’s lance skewered him in mid-air. The momentum of the charge tore the weapon from the knight’s hand and forced him to steer his mount sharply to the left to avoid careening into the foliage at the side of the road. Thomas reined his destrier in and wheeled the stallion out of the way to give Alain room as he shot past in front. As Thomas turned his mount back toward the wagons, movement on the other side of the road caught his eye. A man, clad head-to-foot in the black robe of a desert dweller, raised his wickedly curved bow and loosed an arrow at Brother Alain’s back.