Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (15 page)

The church bell began to clang for midnight. Will couldn’t stay here for much longer: Cyclops would soon notice his absence. Near the buildings at the back of the square the crowds were thinner. Will glimpsed a swish of gray as a shadow disappeared through one of the openings that led between the buildings. He ran, not thinking what he would do if he caught up with Hasan, and came to a stop outside the entrance to a narrow passage that stank of urine and rotten vegetables. As he peered into the darkness a wave of noise and a smell of ale washed out from the building beside him. Two men came out carrying flagons. There was a crude sign painted on the door that Will guessed was some kind of guesthouse, or inn. He couldn’t quite make it out, but thought it might be a picture of a yellow sheep standing on a blue-green field. The church bell ceased its clanging. Will shouted as someone grabbed him from behind in an iron-like grip. He was dragged roughly down the alley. He struggled, trying to turn, or kick, but whoever held him was too strong. Will was flung against the wall of one of the buildings. He made to run when the hold on him was loosened, then froze as something cold and hard was pressed against his throat. Will stared up at the man holding the dagger. In the faint light coming down the passage, Hasan’s eyes gleamed.

B
aybars entered the tent behind two of his attendants, who were carrying a platter of fruit and a jug of kumiz. Sweeping past them, he saw Omar seated on one of the cushions that had been laid on a rug before a chest. Aside from the scant furnishings and a brazier that lit the interior with a ruddy glow the tent was bare.

The army had arrived at al-Salihiyya late in the evening, waking the townsfolk some time before they reached the walls with the thudding echoes of their drums. The town, which lay eighteen or so miles from Cairo, had been built by Sultan Ayyub twelve years ago as a point of rest for the army on the return journey from Palestine. It was inhabited by a small garrison of soldiers and local farmers and their families who, as soon as they heard the drums, had left their beds and busied themselves with the preparation of fresh supplies for the march-weary troops. The Mamluks had made camp beyond the walls across a flat, grassy plain that glowed a translucent silver in the moonlight.

Baybars found the tent’s uncluttered interior pleasant in contrast to the bustle of the camp outside: Its emptiness seeming to replicate a clarity of thought in his mind. Kutuz and his governors had ordered that their own pavilions be decked out with the usual array of finery, but comfort had been the least of Baybars’s concerns. He nodded to Omar as he unbuckled his sword belt. “Where is Kalawun?”

“He’ll join us shortly, Amir. He is…” Omar stopped, his eyes on the two attendants.

Baybars followed his gaze. “Go,” he said to the attendants, motioning to the tent opening.

As the attendants set down the food and left, Baybars laid his sabers on the rug and knelt beside Omar. He stifled a yawn and pushed his hands through his hair, leaving his scalp tingling. Kutuz had kept him busy for the past three hours with the camp preparations and it was past midnight. The nine-day march across the Sinai beneath the burning sun had been relentless and his skin felt tight, hot.

“You should eat something, sadeek,” said Omar.

Baybars glanced at the figs and glossy segments of orange. “I’m not hungry. But,” he said, reaching for the kumiz, “I would welcome a drink.”

Omar watched him drain the contents of the jar. “Kalawun is meeting with the last of the governors whom he believes can be swayed to support us.” He smiled slightly. “I think he enjoys his new role.”

“He has a talent for persuasion,” replied Baybars, returning the empty jug to the chest. “When he speaks men listen. And,” he admitted with an indifferent shrug, “his tongue is smoother than mine.”

They looked up as the tent flaps opened and Kalawun stepped in. He bowed to Baybars.

“Amir.”

“How did you fare with the governors?”

“The two whom I spoke with will make no move to obstruct your path to the throne once the sultan is dead. They feel that you would be the better candidate.”

Baybars smiled wryly. “How much did their loyalty cost me?”

“A mere drop in the ocean of the treasury that lies waiting for you in the Citadel.” Kalawun turned and flicked back the tent flaps. “While I was out I found something of yours, Amir.”

Khadir entered the tent. The soothsayer’s robe was damp and muddy and he was holding a dead hare by its ears. He scuttled into the shadows beyond the brazier, where he laid the hare before him and crouched on all fours. With his long, bony limbs splayed out on the sand he gave Omar the disturbing impression of a spider waiting to strike. Omar fought back his discomfort. He didn’t understand why Baybars insisted on having the wretch so closely involved in such important affairs. It worried and annoyed him.

“Where have you been?” demanded Baybars.

“Hunting,” replied Khadir petulantly. The gold-handled dagger that hung from the chain around his waist was blood-flecked. He reached out and stroked the hare’s ears. “So soft,” he murmured.

“Did you discover what I need to know?” Baybars asked Khadir, as Kalawun sat himself on one of the cushions and plucked a fig from the platter.

“Yes, master.” Khadir sat back and looked at the three men. “The key to the throne can be turned.”

“What does he mean?” Omar asked Baybars. “Key to the throne?”

“Aqtai, the sultan’s chief of staff. He has the power to surrender the throne to a successor on the sultan’s death.” Baybars looked to Khadir. “You are certain?”

“I’ve watched him closely these past weeks, master. The man is a fainthearted fool. He will fold easily enough if pressed.” Khadir smiled. “The time is right. The red star of war dominates the sky. It calls for blood.”

“Then blood it shall have.” Baybars turned to Omar and Kalawun. “Kutuz has decreed that we rest here for the day. No doubt he wishes to rouse the men with a speech boasting of his great triumph before he makes his glorious return to Cairo.

“The royal pavilion has been erected beneath the walls of the town. Following the prayer of morning at sunrise, he will break his fast after which he always sleeps for an hour. This will be the time when he is most vulnerable and away from the majority of his guards. I have discovered, between the pavilion and the wall, a grove of lemon trees where the undergrowth is thick. At first light we’ll conceal ourselves there and when Kutuz takes his rest we will cut through the back of the pavilion and enter his private compartment. Kalawun, you will dispatch the two Mu’izziyya who will be guarding him, then take up position at the entrance to the throne area. Omar, you will watch my back and deal with any servants who may attempt to intervene. I will kill Kutuz.”

They both nodded.

“As this doesn’t leave us much time,” continued Baybars, “I need you to go now to Aqtai, Kalawun. He must be there when the deed is done to hand control of the throne to me. Threaten him, or pay him if he can be bought, I don’t care how, just get him to agree.”

“As you command, Amir Baybars,” said Kalawun, rising to his feet.

“Aqtai retired an hour ago,” said Baybars, looking up at him. “You will find him in his pavilion.”

Kalawun slipped out into the night and moved through the camp. As the army would rest at al-Salihiyya for one day only, not all of the tents had been erected and many groups of men had bedded down under the stars, huddled around yellow pockets of fire. The drummers had ceased their relentless pounding and a soft stillness had spread across the army, broken only by the murmuring of soldiers and the strains of a lute. In the shadows on the edges of the camp, the siege engines and wagons made strange contours of the darkness and camels were being herded in a long train through the cotton fields to one of the many streams that cut through the plain. Kalawun made his way past the royal pavilion, behind which he could make out the low walls of the town and the mud-brick houses beyond. The heavy folds of cloth at the front of the pavilion had been pulled back and fastened in two wings, revealing the dais on which was placed the sultan’s throne. Several of the Mu’izziyya were standing stiff and silent in the entrance. Kalawun moved past them, his footsteps making no sound on the springy grass, and approached the smaller tent that belonged to the sultan’s chief of staff.

“Officer Kalawun.”

Kalawun halted. Turning, he saw one of the governors he had been sent to bribe earlier.

“We must speak,” said the governor, coming to stand before him.

Kalawun nodded respectfully. “At this moment, Governor, I have an audience with the sultan’s chief of staff. I’ll be free to meet with you afterward.”

“If it’s an ally you seek,” said the governor, motioning to Aqtai’s tent, “you’ll not find one in there.”

“What is this concerning?” asked Kalawun, frowning.

“I have valuable information.”

Kalawun glanced around, then gestured for the governor to follow him. They moved into the darkness, some distance from Aqtai’s tent. “Tell me.”

The governor smiled slightly. “As I said, it is valuable information.”

“You will be compensated.”

The governor paused, then nodded. “The sultan, with the aid of his chief of staff, has arranged a hunt after the morning prayer, to which Baybars will be invited. Kutuz plans to kill him.”

Kalawun drew in a breath. “Why would Kutuz do this? Has he heard word of our plan?”

“No,” replied the governor, “I believe he has been plotting Baybars’s death for some time. The sultan knows that Baybars has much support among the men and not just those within the Bahri regiment. Kutuz fears that, in time, Baybars may try to raise an army and turn it against him.”

“How do you know this?”

“Kutuz believes I’m still loyal to him. He invited me to a meeting he held with Aqtai, during which he finalized these arrangements.”

Kalawun shook his head, digesting this news. “How many will be in this hunting party?”

“Kutuz, six of the Mu’izziyya and five governors, including myself.”

“Can you speak with any of the other governors before the hunt? Perhaps sway those Baybars hasn’t yet paid to support him?”

“One, maybe two,” replied the governor.

“Baybars will see that you are rewarded greatly for your loyalty.”

“I would expect no less.”

Kalawun melted into the shadows and made his way back through the camp. In the tent, he found Baybars and Omar still talking.

“Amir,” he said quietly.

Baybars looked up.

H
asan pressed the dagger harder against Will’s throat. “Why are you following me?” he repeated, his words viscous with his accent. “Answer!”

“I wasn’t,” breathed Will, forcing his eyes from the dagger to meet the man’s stare.

The corner of Hasan’s mouth twitched. “I know when I am being tailed. You have been watching me since we left England. Do not mistake me for a fool.”

“I wanted to see where you were going. I heard some of the others talking. They said you are a Saracen. They don’t trust you.”

“I see,” said Hasan thoughtfully. “So you followed me to see if…what? I was taking a moment to kill a few Christians, rape nuns, devour children?” Will saw a flash of white as the man grinned. “That is what
Saracens
do, is it not?”

Hasan stepped back, removing the dagger, and drew something from his sack. Will didn’t dare move.

“There,” he said, holding out a loaf of bread. “That is what I was doing. Buying a meal.” He stowed the bread in his sack and sheathed the dagger in a short leather scabbard at his hip. “I suggest you return to the boat.” His smile faded. “This is not a safe place for children, however bold they might be.”

Will stepped from the wall, keeping his eyes on Hasan, and backed away. Slowly, his heart knocking against his chest, he turned and walked stiffly down the alley. With every step he could feel Hasan’s gaze upon him. When he reached the end, he glanced back. Hasan was still standing there watching him. Will sprinted for the dockside, barging past a man in a black robe who swore savagely at him through a white mask that looked like a skull.

Endurance
had gone, swallowed by the blackness of the river mouth. Will carried the crate he’d collected from the now diminished pile to
Opinicus
. Twice, he had to stop and set the crate down, waiting until his strength returned and his legs stopped shaking before he picked it up again. Fighting another sergeant with a sword was one thing; being threatened by a man with a dagger brought about an entirely different sensation.

Torches had been set in brackets around
Opinicus
’s sides, casting light across the deck and the dockside below. Garin was there, dragging a chest into the small cabin where the queen’s belongings were being stored.

Owein looked down from the deck, as Will approached. “Sergeant!” The knight held up a sack. “Is this yours?”

Will recognized the bundle that contained his clothes and sword. “Yes, sir,” he said, placing the crate on the wall.

“Don’t leave it lying around.” Owein tossed the bundle down to him. “I doubt the queen would want your hose to end up in her possession.”

Will watched his master order two sergeants on the dockside to move a heavy-looking chest up the planks. He wondered if he should tell Owein what had happened. Hasan was armed and clearly dangerous. But if he was a comrade of Jacques, then perhaps Owein already knew that he was a Saracen? Will didn’t understand it. And was the letter he had found in the solar connected to Hasan, or was that something else? A movement caught his eye. Someone was creeping alongside the wooden shacks that lined the docks, keeping close to the shadows. The figure dropped suddenly down behind a stack of wicker eel traps. A knight, standing on the prow of
Opinicus
, was staring in the direction of the shacks. As the knight turned away, the figure began to move again. Frowning, Will headed along the wall, past
Opinicus
. Behind him, there was a clatter and a few cries and curses.

“Careful with that, damn it!” Will heard Owein shout.

There was, Will realized, something familiar about the approaching figure; something in the way the cloak’s hood was drawn so low over the face. It clicked in his mind: It was the handmaiden he had seen struggling with the box on
Endurance
. Will stepped out of the darkness in front of her and she halted.

“What are you doing here?”

She backed away from him.

“Did the queen send you?” he asked, following.

She kept backing away until she tripped over a knotted heap of nets behind her and stumbled, losing her balance. Her hood slipped from her head. As she fell, Elwen’s hair tumbled free. From the boat, there was another clatter followed by several loud splashes and a yell. One of the planks resting on
Opinicus
’s sides had overturned, sending the two sergeants and the large chest they had been hauling into the water. Owein was shouting at them to get the chest before it sank. Will stood rooted to the spot for a moment, then rushed toward Elwen. She was thrashing about, caught in the fishing nets she had tripped over. As he knelt beside her, she lay still and gave a frustrated sob. Will dropped his sack and tugged a section of the net from around her arm. “Elwen? How did…?” He sat back on his heels as the net came away. “What the hell are you doing?”

Elwen was white and shaking. Her blue cloak had fallen open and there was a dark stain on the front of her gown.

“Blood?” he murmured, reaching toward her.

“No,” she said, pushing his hand aside forcibly and pulling her cloak around her. “I was sick.” She got to her feet with effort.

Owein was still shouting. The two sergeants who had fallen into the river were trying to swim for the wall, clutching the chest. One of the crew had thrown a rope down to them.

“What were you thinking of?” said Will, getting to his feet and staring at her. “How did you get on board
Endurance
?”

“I hid in the hold last night when the guards weren’t looking.” Elwen’s brow furrowed. “The smell. It was so cramped and I was so sick, I thought I was going to die.” She looked down the wall to where Owein was kneeling over the side, trying to reach the half-submerged chest. “But I thought if my uncle saw he couldn’t make me go to Bath, he would have to listen to me.” She shrugged. “Either that or I would remain at the port, maybe make my own way to Paris.”

Will stared at her in a mixture of disbelief and respect. “You are—” He stopped abruptly as a large company of figures dressed in black robes moved out of the shadows of the dockside. Their faces were skulls, stark white in the torchlight. As one, the company ran toward
Opinicus
. There was a rasping sound as many swords were drawn simultaneously from their scabbards.

Will shouted a warning, but the knights on the boat were already drawing their blades. Two of the black-robed figures pulled away from the pack, making a line for Owein. Will yelled the knight’s name as, beside him, Elwen screamed. Owein spun around, his sword sticking in its scabbard for one terrible moment then coming free as one of the men flew at him. The ring of metal meeting metal echoed sharply. The two sergeants who had fallen into the river had been halfway up the wall when the assault came. They now dropped the chest and struggled over the side. One of them went down immediately under an attacker’s blows, falling back into the water with a wail that cut off as he went under.

“The jewels!” roared Owein, slamming his sword into the side of one of the men, sending him spinning to the ground. “Protect the jewels!” The second man charged Owein and their blades arced in the air, sparking as they collided.

Sixteen of the attackers boarded
Opinicus
, sprinting up the planks, or vaulting over the low sides. Fighting broke out across the deck. Two of
Opinicus
’s crew battled alongside the knights and the three armed sergeants, but the rest, unarmed and untrained, were easy targets; three of them went down in the first wave of the assault. Jacques was fighting two of the men, his sword whirling in his hand, face locked in grim concentration. Garin was pressed against the cabin door, his face a mask of fear, watching his uncle. There was an anguished howl from one of the knights as a blade slashed viciously across his face, opening his cheek to the bone. His attacker shoved into him, sending him overboard. Owein, another knight and the remaining sergeant dispatched the three men on the dockside and jumped on board to aid their fellows.

Will ran forward, then halted, his hands flexing, empty. Elwen gripped his arm, hard.

“What do we do?” Terror had risen the pitch of her voice. “Will! What do we do?”

Will held his breath as he saw Owein forced back by a series of lunges from a powerfully built man. The knight ducked, pivoted around and thrust his sword into the man’s back, but not before he had taken a deep cut across his sword arm. Jacques had dispatched two of the men and was now facing a third. Another knight went down, then two more of the attackers. One of the unarmed crewmen snatched a torch from its bracket on the side of the boat and swept it back and forth to defend himself from the sword strokes. The flames made bright traces in the air. There was a yell from the back of the boat as Garin was shoved aside by a heavyset man. The man wrenched open the door to the cabin and ducked inside, kicking a barrel into the path of a sergeant who ran at him. Will whipped around, remembering his sack. It was lying on the ground by the nets. He sprinted to it and tore it open. Pulling out the falchion, he ran for the boat.

“No!”
Elwen screamed behind him.
“Will!”

Will raced up the plank and vaulted over the side. He ducked as one of the men, who had just killed another sergeant, swung at him. Stepping back, he banged into the side, as the large man came at him, snarling through the skull mask. Will flicked out with the blade to meet the blow and the impact throbbed through the sword and up his arm, loosening his grip. He clenched his teeth and tightened his hold on the hilt as the man came at him again and again, each blow harder, faster than the last. All around him was chaos, but his eyes were fixed on the man who swiped the blade at his chest and stomach. Will dodged out from between the side of the boat and his attacker, spinning around and snapping back his head as the sword whistled over him, missing his scalp by inches.

The deck, slippery with blood and strewn with bodies, wasn’t a training field. His opponent didn’t halt the blade before striking. The swords weren’t made of wood, or blunted. Will felt suddenly and with absolute certainty that he was going to die.

His attacker’s sword came at him slowly, almost lazily. His own blade had gone too wide to block it. There was nothing between the length of iron that was flying toward him and his chest. Will stepped back, his eyes closing at the last moment, then his foot slipped in a pool of blood and his legs went out from under him, the sword cutting air as he fell to the deck. He heard a shriek from above him and his face was splattered with blood, its hotness startling him. A sword point had come through the large man’s stomach. Will rolled to avoid the body as it collapsed and saw Hasan standing behind the man, his sword blood-streaked. Hasan sprinted across the deck. Will struggled to his feet as a girl’s scream sounded from the dockside. While he had been fighting, the ten remaining black-robed figures had forced their way to the cabin. Two of them had the chest that contained the crown jewels. The other eight were clearing a path to the side of the boat. Owein had been cornered by two who were fighting him savagely. One man went down under a sharp thrust from Jacques who was battling side by side with Hasan, but the two with the jewels made it to the gangplanks. They charged down onto the dockside, straight into Elwen, who, seeing Owein in danger, had run toward the boat.

In the collision, Elwen was sent sprawling to the ground. One of the men dropped his hold on the chest, which crashed to the stones with a splintering sound. Will cried out as the man turned on Elwen, sword raised. There was a blur of motion and the man was knocked flying, his sword sailing from his hand, as Garin barreled into him. There was a dull crack, followed by a splash. The man had tumbled into the river, hitting his head on the side of the galley on his way down. Will vaulted from the boat. The second man had let fall his sword and had grabbed the chest. He set off at a run, but Owein and another knight were on his heels in an instant. The man fell, only feet from the boat, at a short thrust of Owein’s sword in his back. The chest smashed to the ground beside him, spilling its contents onto the stones. A crown encrusted with precious gems went rolling across the wall and clattered to a stop at the edge. Rings, a heavy gold orb and a glittering scepter sparkled in the torchlight.

Owein spun around and saw Will and Garin, who had now picked up the sword of the man he had sent into the river. “Guard the jewels!” he yelled at them. His jaw slackened, his sword swinging loose in his hand as his eyes fell on Elwen standing behind them. Owein turned, distractedly, at a cry from the boat.

Garin let out a shout of his own as he saw his uncle go down, a sword plunging into the knight’s side and back out again. The man who delivered the blow fell a moment later under the fierce swings of Hasan. Six of the attackers jumped from the boat. Three ran at Owein, but the sight of the jewels scattered, irretrievable, and the knights leaping down from the sides behind them deterred them. The men turned and fled with the remainder of their company. Four of the knights and two sergeants chased them across the dockside as Garin charged onto the deck, yelling Jacques’ name. A small crowd had gathered some distance from the boat, people running from the market square to see what the commotion was. They parted quickly as the black-robed figures rushed them, swords drawn. Women screamed and dragged their children out of harm’s way.

Owein turned back to his niece. “Elwen?”

There was a groan behind him. He glanced around. The man Owein had stabbed in the back was struggling to his knees, his sword grasped weakly in his hand. Owein strode toward him. The man raised his head, his eyes focusing on the knight.

“Pax!”
he cried, dropping his sword.
“Pax!”

“Get up!”

The man did so, slowly, head bowed as if in respect. It wasn’t until he took his hands from his sides that Will caught sight of the dagger. Will went to cry out, too late, as the man leapt at Owein and thrust the blade into the knight’s chest, driving it through his heart. Owein’s sword clanged on the stones. He fell back, his hands clutching at the hilt of the dagger. The cry loosed itself from Will’s mouth as Owein collapsed on the dockside, flopping and gasping like a fish out of water. The man turned and staggered away. He glanced over his shoulder as footsteps pounded up behind him and his brown eyes, through the skull mask, widened, seeing the falchion in Will’s hand come smashing toward him. The blade struck the man in the side of his head with a blunt cracking sound, a gout of dark blood spurting from his temple. He slumped to his knees. Will drew back the sword. As their eyes met, he hesitated for one infinitesimal moment that seemed to last much longer, then he stabbed forward, punching through the man’s throat, feeling resistance, then the yielding softness of flesh and tissue.