Brethren: An Epic Adventure of the Knights Templar (57 page)

Garin had seen that same focused ruthlessness in the prince’s eyes when he had worked for him briefly in London. But now it was sharper, more well defined, like his face. “Then you have what you wanted?” he murmured. “They just gave you what you wanted all along?”

“When I take the throne it will be mine, not the Temple’s,” Edward continued, hardly hearing Garin. “I have plans to expand my kingdom in the coming years. Through my position of power within the Anima Templi I will be able to use the Temple’s vast resources to help me achieve that. They will not use
me
.” His eyes focused on Garin again. “Other than that, I have no interest in the plans of the Anima Templi. Their aims are unrealistic and un-Christian.” His brow furrowed. “Indeed, they go against everything our society is founded upon; against God. In time, when I have taken what I want from them, I will see to their demise. But for now I will let them continue with their foolishness for they will not succeed and it will keep them busy and out of my affairs. Once I have secured my proposed truce with Sultan Baybars, I shall leave Everard and his callow minions to struggle futilely for their utopia, whilst I use the men and money they have at their disposal for my own purposes. I doubt that they will complain. I do, after all, now know their secrets. Secrets that, as we both know, they would not want divulged to the wider world.”

“You’re making a truce with Baybars?” said Garin, feeling sick to his stomach.

“Of course. It will give our forces a chance to regroup and reestablish the war against the infidel. I did not come here to make peace. I came here to fulfill the dream of Christendom. The truce will only be temporary. When our forces are gathered, we will strike back at the Saracens with all our might.” Edward’s handsome face was flushed with triumph. “We will take back Jerusalem and cleanse its streets like we did the first time we set foot upon these shores. We will, once again, be the guardians of the Holy City in a land that belongs rightfully to us.”

Garin closed his eyes. “Then you would have only had to wait and it would have all come to you anyway. I needn’t have done anything?”

“But none of us knew that,” replied Edward solemnly. “Not then.” He paused, his voice softening. “I can always use men like you, Garin.”

“No,” murmured Garin, feeling the last of his strength failing and the abyss yawning beneath him. “Please. Just go.”

“I can get you out of here, get you pardoned. You could go back to England and see your mother again.”

Garin’s eyes fluttered open. “My mother?”

“She hasn’t been well these past few years.”

“You…you’ve seen her?”

Edward nodded gravely. “She’s still living in that damp little house in Rochester. You could give her the life she always wanted.”

“Why would you do this?”

“Because I know you better than you know yourself.”

Garin tried to fight back his tears. “No, you don’t. I’ve changed.”

“You and me, Garin, we are alike. I saw that when I first met you. We both know what we want: power, wealth, land, status. But unlike other men, all of whom crave such things, we go out and we take it for ourselves, rather than dwindle in the dirt and deny our desires. I believe we are the more honest of men for it.”

Garin shook his head. “The Temple will never let me back in. The Seneschal is one of the Brethren. He would see me dead before I was ever given the mantle again. They know I tried to take the Book of the Grail.”

“You don’t have to be a Templar to help me. Like I said, when I take the throne I wish to expand my kingdom. I will need assistance in other areas in the future and, quite frankly, your talents are wasted in this cell.” Edward rose, his height even more imposing to Garin, huddled on the floor. “I can see that you are tired. I’ll leave you to think on it. I will remain in Acre until the truce with Baybars is secured, then I will return to the West to gather support for a new Crusade. I’m sure you can get a message to me when you’ve made up your mind.” He went to the door and knocked. As the beam was raised on the other side, he glanced down at Garin’s toilet bucket. “And you might want to ask them to get rid of that for you, the smell is really quite appalling.”

Garin just managed to wait until the door was shut, before he broke down.

B
aybars sat back in his chair, watching Baraka Khan study the papers that were laid out on the table. His son’s brow was puckered in concentration, jaw jutting. The corners of the papers lifted in the breeze that came in through the arched windows. Baybars reached for his goblet of kumiz and drained it. A servant stepped from the shadows to refill the goblet as Baybars set it down, then moved back out of sight. Through the windows drifted the sounds of men working on the citadel’s gates, which had been damaged four months ago when the Mongols had attacked the city.

In October, a touman, sent by the Ilkhan of Persia, had descended from Anatolia and had entered the city, defeating the garrison Baybars had left in place when he had traveled with the larger part of his army to Damascus to lead several raids against Frankish strongholds in the south. The Mongols had taken the citadel, causing widespread panic, although the horsemen had done little in the way of damage and had taken very few lives. But when the ten-thousand-strong force of horsemen had continued the raid south of Aleppo and panic among the local Muslim population had swelled to fear, Baybars had sent his army north to counter them. The touman, far outnumbered, had retreated to Anatolia.

Whilst the Mongols were attacking from the north, a company of Franks, led by an English prince by the name of Edward, a man Baybars had heard much mention of in recent months, had conducted a raid in the southern regions around the Plain of Sharon. The raid had proved fruitless, but Baybars had been given the distinct impression that the prince was not to be underestimated. King Louis’ Crusade may have come to nothing, but the king’s brother, Charles de Anjou, was an uncle of Edward’s and although Baybars had had relatively cordial contact with the Sicilian king in the past, he had seen, in these two men, the threat of a new Crusade. Khadir, too, had seen it, and had warned him to tread carefully where the prince was concerned.

“He might be young,” the soothsayer had muttered, “but he has a lion in him. I see it.”

“Or you hear it in my court,” Baybars had responded dryly.

“He is like you, master,” Khadir had murmured with sly subtlety, “when you were younger.”

Baybars drained the rest of the kumiz and looked up as Baraka sighed heavily. “Are you finished?”

“I cannot do it!” snapped Baraka, throwing his quill to the floor, splattering the tiles with ink. “Sinjar sets me problems he knows I will not be able to solve.”

“He does that so you will learn,” responded Baybars wearily.

“Can I finish it tomorrow, father?” said Baraka, turning in his chair to look at Baybars. “I wanted to go on the hunt this afternoon. Kalawun said he would take me.”

“You can go when you have finished your lessons.”

“But, father…”

“You heard me!” snapped Baybars, slamming his goblet on the table.

Baraka started at the violence in his father’s tone, then turned back to the papers that were covered with algebraic problems, his lower lip puffing in a sullen pout.

“Am I disturbing you, my lord?”

Baraka and Baybars both turned at the voice to see Kalawun standing in the doorway. He was almost as tall as the apex of the arch. His dark hair, which was turning silver around his brow, was slicked back in a tail, making his strong features appear even sharper and he wore a cloak of royal blue—the color of his regiment.

“Amir Kalawun!” exclaimed Baraka, leaping up. He went over and grabbed the commander’s large hand. “Come, sit with me. Help me with my lessons.”

Kalawun smiled down at the boy. “I am sure you are doing well enough on your own.”

“I’m not,” said Baraka, pouting again, “but only because Sinjar’s lessons are stupid.”

“He is a good teacher,” responded Kalawun gently. “You should value him. He taught me Arabic when I was first enlisted in the Mamluk army.”

Baraka dropped his hand from Kalawun’s and looked moodily at the floor. Suddenly, he brightened. “You will take me on the hunt like you promised?”

“If,” said Kalawun, glancing at Baybars, “your father agrees.”

“Please, father,” pleaded Baraka.

“Take your work to Sinjar and finish it with him, I want to speak with Kalawun alone.”

Baraka went to protest, then strode over to the table and picked up his work. He turned on his heel and headed for the doors.

“Your quill,” Kalawun called after him.

“The servants can fetch me another,” said Baraka sourly. “That is what they are there for.”

Kalawun watched him go, then turned to Baybars. “You summoned me, my lord?”

Baybars rose wearily from his chair and crossed to a large chest. “It seems, these days, that my son likes you better than he does me,” he said, glancing at Kalawun as he opened the lid and withdrew a silver scrollcase.

“It is easier for him to like me, my lord. I do not have to be the one to discipline him.”

Baybars handed him the case, then sat.

Opening it, Kalawun pulled out a rolled piece of parchment. “The Franks wish to make a truce with you,” he murmured, reading the words on the parchment. He looked up from the scroll. “When did you receive this?”

“Yesterday.”

“Have you told anyone of this?”

Baybars shook his head. “You are the first.”

“It is signed by the King of Sicily.”

“Yes, as he says in the letter, Charles de Anjou offered to mediate between myself and the Franks when he learned of Prince Edward’s intentions. I presume he believes our former favorable relations will help to sweeten the proposition.”

“They do not want much,” said Kalawun, scanning the letter again. “Nothing more than to keep what they already have.”

“No doubt because they mean it to be only temporary. If the Franks wanted to end this war they would go home. They would not stay and make bargains with me.”

“The Mongols,” said Kalawun, after a pause, “pose more of a threat to us than the Franks. We have taken much of what the Franks once owned and they can muster no great force of arms to oppose us in the immediate future. Even if they mean the peace to be temporary, it may be in our best interests to accept.”

“Peace,” said Baybars in a low voice, “was never my intention with the Franks. I told Omar that we would never be cleansed of the West’s influence if we showed them the kind of mercy Saladin once did, if we were open to negotiation with them.” He rose and crossed to the window.

“Compromise,” said Kalawun carefully, “is sometimes needed for the good of our people. We shouldn’t divide our forces against two allied armies, even when one is so weak; not when we have been offered this reprieve.”

“Good?” murmured Baybars. “I can no longer see what is good. Not since Omar…” He closed his eyes. “Not since he died.”

It was six months since Baybars had buried the officer. The two Assassins had been unceremoniously burned, along with their handcart. The real puppeteers who had been due to perform at the betrothal feast had been found at a lodging house in the city. Judging by the decomposition of the corpses, they had been dead for some time; long enough for the Assassins to have practiced their performance. Baybars had all but annihilated the Order since then, but although revenge had been served, it hadn’t filled the space left at his side by Omar’s death; a void that had become more engulfing as the months had gone by. Sometimes, he would summon Omar, only to be nervously reminded by the servants that the officer was gone.

“I did not realize how much I valued him. I don’t think I ever told him.” Baybars opened his eyes. “I miss his counsel.”

“What do you believe Omar would have suggested if he were here, my lord?” Kalawun asked him.

Baybars smiled slightly. “He would have advised me to accept. He was a warrior, but in his heart, he could not abide war. He tried to hide it from me, but it was as plain as his face.” His smile vanished. “And you, Kalawun? You would suggest the same?”

“I would, my lord.”

Baybars was silent for some time. Finally, he turned from the window. “So be it,” he said in a hard tone. “Send the Franks at Acre my agreement. I will give them their peace. For now.”

That evening, Baybars left the citadel and walked into the city, dressed in a dark cloak and turban. Following him at a discreet distance, were two Bahri warriors. Each carried a torch.

When he reached the barn, Baybars ordered the two warriors to remain outside and went in alone. The last few times he had come here, he had found signs of occupation. Children, he had guessed, by the charcoal drawings on the floor. The hibiscus petals that had collected in a dusty pile with each of his visits had been scattered. He did not bring a flower for her this evening, but knelt empty-handed on the dry earth. He closed his eyes and saw her as she had been, thirty years ago. Age and war hadn’t touched her. She was still sixteen, as she always would be, her skin smooth and unlined, her hair glossy black. She was laughing, flicking water from a pail to splash his bare chest, marked with recent whip lines, as he chopped wood in the barn. He had been laughing too, until he had seen the shadow in the doorway. He did not know how long their master had been standing there, watching them.

Baybars opened his eyes and the image remained; the red cross on the knight’s white mantle imprinted like a brand upon his vision. He touched his fingers to his lips, then pressed them to the earth. “I must rest a while, love, before I finish what I started. I am tired. So very tired.”

Baybars lingered a while longer, then rose and went outside. “Burn it down,” he said to the two Bahri who were waiting there. He paused to detach a flower from the hibiscus bush outside, then walked away. Behind him, the flames took hold.