Crusade (77 page)

Were Rose and Elwen still in Acre? Or had they found a boat? If they were here, Garin seriously doubted that Will, however occupied, would leave them without hope of escape. No doubt he had secured them passage, possibly even on board a Templar ship. An idea forming in his mind, Garin turned down one of the side streets, heading for the Venetian quarter.

TEMPLAR HEADQUARTERS, MONTMUSART, ACRE, 18 MAY A.D. 1291

Will rode swiftly through the ruined streets of Montmusart, steering his destrier around piles of rubble and the burned-out shells of houses. The dawn air was filled with smoke. He could feel it scratching at the back of his throat, taste it where it coated his lips in the same powdery gray dust that covered everything. Far above him, torches flared on the walls, the men on guard casting huge shadows as they passed through the pools of yellow light. Will rode on, through the camp of the Hospitallers, the knights in their black mantles with the splayed white cross moving ghostlike in the half-light. Wounded men huddled on the back of a cart as it bounced over the uneven ground on the way to the infirmary, past a train of slow-moving mules loaded down with arrows in bundles on their backs. All along the walls, he had passed similar scenes. Only the colors of uniforms and banners changed. The subdued sense of apprehension remained the same. The old songs of the West that soldiers had cheered themselves with during the eerily silent nights of the siege had stopped several days ago. There wasn’t much to sing about anymore.

Mamluk sappers, known as
nakkabun,
had been busily undermining Acre’s twelve towers over the past month, each mining team made up of one thousand men. Tunnels were dug from within the Mamluk camp all the way up to the walls, and when they arrived beneath the towers, a large cavern was excavated. The foundations were held up with timber, which was set alight, causing the tower wall to collapse into the cavern. Three days ago, after one such excavation, the whole outer face of the King’s Tower had collapsed in on itself. The rubble had fallen into the fosse, making it impossible for the Mamluks to pass, but the Crusaders’ relief was short-lived when they had awoken the next morning to find that the Mamluks had erected a giant cloth screen in the night, from behind which they were clearing a path through the debris. Arrows and stones were repelled by the screen, and the Christians on the walls could only look on as the Mamluks took the remaining section of the King’s Tower.

When he reached the Templar headquarters, set up in a now abandoned church with a hole in the roof, Will dismounted. He handed the reins to a nearby squire. The area was still fairly quiet, the men catching as much rest as possible before the daily assault began. “Have you seen Simon Tanner?” he asked the squire.

“Last I saw him was in the stables by the hospital of St. Lazarus, Commander.”

Will paused, torn by the choice, looking to the doors of the church, where two knights were posted on guard. The stables were at least five minutes away on foot and he didn’t have that much time. Cursing, he strode to the church. The knights nodded respectfully to him as he pushed open the doors. Inside, he found Guillaume de Beaujeu and Peter de Sevrey bent over a drawing of the walls laid out on two barrels. Torchlight threw their silhouettes up the sides of the lofty chamber, the floor of which was littered with shards of stone.

Guillaume looked round. “Ah, Commander. That was quick. What news is there from King Henry’s camp?”

“I didn’t make it to the king’s camp, my lord,” replied Will. “Before I reached it, I was alerted by Teutonic Knights near the remains of the English Tower. The Mamluks are on the move.”

De Sevrey frowned. “Already?” He gave a rough sigh. “The Saracens intend to wake us early today.”

“You misunderstand me, Sir Marshal. They are all moving, every camp from the Patriarch’s Tower to St. Anthony’s Gate. The largest concentration of them is massing in front of the Accursed Tower.”

“You are certain?” demanded Guillaume.

“I went onto the ramparts and saw it for myself. They obviously began moving during the night, under cover of darkness. They are almost up to the base of the walls.”

“Have the other leaders been warned?” asked the marshal swiftly.

“Word was being sent out as I left. I expect the other camps will all know within the next few minutes.”

“Wake the men, Peter,” said Guillaume, turning to the marshal. “Tell them we are expecting an all-out assault. Gather them here immediately.”

“My lord,” said the marshal, bowing and moving out.

Guillaume, his face haggard in the torchlight, turned to Will. “This could be it, Commander,” he said after a pause.

Will’s jaw tightened. He nodded.

Guillaume looked to the chancel, where a silver crucifix, suspended above the altar, gleamed dully. His brow furrowed. “Will you pray with me, William?”

“My lord,” said Will, hesitant, “I should go to the barracks. Help ready the men.”

“Of course,” said Guillaume, shaking his head. “Prepare yourself. We will pray with our brothers when you return.”

Forcing himself to turn away from the grand master, Will hastened out of the church and into the streets, where the camp was already waking, word going around.

Will found Simon in the stables next to the Hospital of St. Lazarus, looking scared but grim, overseeing the saddling of the knights’ destriers.

Simon looked relieved to see him. “Have you come for a horse?” He stuck a hand through his dusty hair. “People are saying there’s going to be an attack, a bigger one than usual.”

“I need to speak to you,” said Will, steering him into the yard, away from the pages and grooms around the stalls.

“What is it?” asked Simon worriedly. He had lost weight over the past few weeks and his usually broad and ruddy face was hollow and pale. “Will? What’s wrong?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to go to Elwen. I want you to make sure she and Rose get on board that ship. I told her to leave yesterday, but she said she had to pack some things. She promised to get to the harbor by this afternoon.” Will paused, staring hard at Simon. “But I don’t think we’ve got that long.”

Simon looked shocked, but he nodded. “I will, of course. Although I don’t reckon the stable master will be too happy with me leaving my post this minute.”

“Tell him I’ve reassigned you.”

“I’ll come back as soon as she’s on the ship.” Simon went to head into the stables, then turned back and grasped Will’s hand in both of his own, which were rough and callused. He squeezed hard. “God be with you,” he said in a tight voice.

“And with you.”

Will watched Simon go, before moving off. As he passed the Gate of St. Lazarus, his eyes caught sight of large black words that had been scratched in charcoal across the wood.

Non nobis, Domine, non nobis, sed nomini tuo da gloriam.
Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy name the glory.

He stood there for a moment, an image of his father clear and sharp in his mind.

Somewhere in the distance, beyond the walls, a drum began to pound.

THE VENETIAN QUARTER, ACRE, 18 MAY A.D. 1291

Garin reached the blue door and halted, straining for breath. He went to rub the sweat from his forehead and realized that his hand was trembling violently. The drink had soured in his system and was now a poison, working its way through him. If he had stopped to think, he could have looted one of the abandoned taverns, perhaps even found some coins, but all his thoughts had been fixed on getting here. He clenched his fist and banged on the painted wood. The sound echoed in the quiet street. A man pulling a handcart filled with pots and pans loped past. He glanced suspiciously at Garin and kept on going. Garin scowled after him, then heard a bolt slide back. Quickly, he smoothed his filthy hair and straightened his vomit-stained cloak. The door opened.

Rose appeared. Her hair was scraped back under a cap, and she wore a yellow and green traveling cloak over a white gown. She looked tired. As she saw Garin, she frowned. “What do you want?” she murmured, holding onto the door, not opening it any further.

“Rose, sweetheart,” said Garin, trying his best to smile, “is your mother here?”

Rose didn’t respond. Behind her, Garin heard rapid footfalls.

“Rose!” came a sharp call. “Why is the door open? Who’s there?”

As Rose looked around at Elwen’s voice, Garin pushed her inside as gently as he could and forced his way in, knowing that if Elwen locked him out, he wouldn’t have another chance to get inside. He pushed it shut and shoved the bolt home. Rose stepped away, staring up at him as he loomed over her in the passage, where there was a stack of chests and a few sack bags. It looked as if they were about to leave.

“Get the hell out.” Elwen was down the stairs and in the corridor, her gaze locked on him. Her face was fierce with anger in the glow of a lantern hanging from a hook in the passage. “Rose, come here.” She went forward and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders, pulling her back. “I mean it, Garin. Leave.”

Garin shook his head slowly. “I can’t do that.”

“Why?” Elwen’s voice was still harsh, but Garin heard a note of fear slip into it.

“The boats aren’t taking men unless they have money, and there aren’t enough ships left for everyone.” He shrugged. “I’ve got nowhere else to go.”

“I can’t help you.”

“I think you can.” Garin cocked his head to one side and studied her. He was feeling more confident now. “You owe me, Elwen.” He smiled at Rose and gave her a wink as if this was a game.

“Our guard, Piero, will be back any minute,” said Elwen.

Garin frowned and glanced at the door. “Is that so? Well, I suppose we shouldn’t stand around here then. Upstairs,” he said, walking toward them.

Elwen stepped in front of Rose and held her ground. “If Piero finds you here, he’ll kill you. Just go.” She lowered her voice. “Please, Garin. You’re scaring my daughter.”

Garin’s eyes flared with anger. “
Our
daughter!” he hissed, taking hold of Elwen’s arm and propelling her toward the stairs.

“Run, Rose!” shouted Elwen, struggling wildly in his grip, kicking out and hitting him with her free hand.
“Go!”
she screamed, turning to look at her daughter.

Rose staggered back a few steps, wide-eyed, then ran to the door at the end of the passage.

Garin’s hand flew to his belt. His fingers curled around the dagger that was sheathed there and pulled it free. “Rose, sweetheart!” he shouted, twisting Elwen viciously around and putting the dagger to her throat. “If you run, I’ll kill your mother.”

Rose stopped dead. She spun around and cried out in horror as she saw the dagger at Elwen’s neck. Outside in the distance, a deep-voiced drum began to sound, low and ominous.

“You bastard,” murmured Elwen, going still and trembling against the blade.

Garin felt bile rise in his throat. Sweat dripped into his eyes and his hands shook. This wasn’t what he had planned. This wasn’t the way he wanted it. He needed to calm things down, but he couldn’t do it here. He had to get them upstairs and then, somehow, get Elwen to listen to him. “Rosie,” he called. “If you do as I say, everything will be fine. I want you to go upstairs for me.”

Rose hesitated. She stood there breathing hard, looking from Garin to Elwen.

Garin frowned. He put his face closer to Elwen’s. “Tell her to go upstairs,” he breathed, his mouth hot against her ear, “or I swear I’ll make her watch as I cut you.”

Elwen felt her legs go weak. “Do as he says, Rose,” she whispered.

Slowly, Rose walked toward the stairs and began to climb, not taking her eyes off Elwen, who followed, Garin pushing her forward, still holding the blade at her throat.

When they reached the first floor, Garin nodded to one of the doors. “What’s in there?”

“Nothing,” said Elwen. “That’s Andreas’s room. It’s empty.”

“Go in there, Rosie,” he said calmly.

She pushed open the door and backed in, still staring at him. Andreas’s chambers, with the solar leading into the bedroom, were cold and dark. Just a few items of furniture remained: a table and stool, and the large bed. The wind that blew in through the windows smelled of smoke; the bare boards creaked beneath their feet.

“Go and sit by the window, Rose.” Garin took the knife away from Elwen’s throat. “Go to her.”

Released from his grasp, Elwen ran to Rose and wrapped her arms around her. “It’s all right, my darling,” she whispered into her hair. “It’s going to be all right.”

“Listen to your mother, Rose,” said Garin absently, as he shut the door, pleased to find a large iron key in the lock.

“Garin, it’s freezing,” said Elwen, looking up at him. “Rose hasn’t been well. She’ll catch her death in here.”

Garin paused, looking at the pale-faced, shivering girl. “Do you have blankets?” he asked Elwen.

“Downstairs, in one of the sacks in the hall. I can get them.”

Garin’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll go.” He wiggled the heavy key out of the lock and waved it at her. “Don’t try anything foolish.” He stared hard at her until he was satisfied that she knew he was serious, then headed out, sheathing the dagger and locking the door. He heard a muffled sob as he walked away and swore bitterly. No, this wasn’t what he had planned at all. He went hurriedly down and searched through the sacks. He found one stuffed with blankets and linen, and was hefting it up when he heard noise through the door at the end of the passage, which he guessed led to a kitchen. Putting the sack down, he padded to it. He heard a man’s voice call Elwen’s name. The footfalls came closer.

Garin braced himself. As the door opened, he grabbed hold of it and slammed it into the startled-looking man who appeared behind it. The man staggered back, clutching his face, and barreled into a table, the legs of which screeched on the stone floor. Garin followed him swiftly and shoved him down onto it. The man was yelling now, but it was all in Italian and Garin couldn’t understand him. Grabbing a fistful of the man’s hair, he smashed his head on the wood, meaning to knock him unconscious. But the exertion brought a fresh wave of dizziness washing over him and the impact wasn’t nearly as hard as he’d intended. The man cried out in pain, then launched himself into Garin. Ducking out of his grip, the man turned and punched him in the face, sending him reeling into the wall, knocking several pots off their hooks, which crashed down around him. Garin recovered and dove at him. The two of them wrestled together, lurching heavily around the kitchen, sending things flying. The man got away and drew a sword that was sheathed at his hip. He lunged at Garin, who sidestepped the blade, throwing his head back at the last minute to avoid its sweeping arc. Drawing his dagger, Garin darted through the man’s defenses and plunged it in, sliding it expertly up between the man’s ribs.