Beasts of the Seventh Crusade (The Crusades Book 4) (19 page)

"Where are they?" Trunk asked.

The world exploded. Three dozen warriors burst out of the nearby buildings, waving their swords and screaming in their strange language. The Ayyubids on the parapet turned their fire inward, hammering the crusaders. Everything was chaos, but the crusaders stayed calm under the eyes of their king, and they calmly met the blitz attack.

The Ayyubids were slender men, with light armor or bare skin, to allow for mobility and agility. They carried long sabers and swung them with hatred, snarling as they searched for European throats and bellies. The Europeans were fully armored, though, and were naturally larger men. They let the Ayyubids attack, and then they countered, eviscerating the Muslims where they stood. After two minutes of intense battle, all of the Ayyubids were dead.

"That was easy," Artois said afterward, panting. He had killed two men with his blade, and, strangely, he had never once felt in any real danger.

"They were covering the retreat for the rest of the populace of Damietta. These men expected to die. They didn't expect to defeat us, only delay us. A brave tactic," Louis said, hearing Artois' words.

"Yes . . . my king," Artois said. Like that, the Seventh Crusade captured Damietta, the mighty port city that controlled the mouth of the Nile River. They officially had a foothold in Egypt, and the time had come to settle in and figure out how to overrun the rest of the nation.

Chapter Twenty

"YOU STAND ACCUSED OF INDECENCIES with this child, Makel. What say you?" the judge asked Christof. They were in a field outside the city, burning under the hot sun. Christof's hands were bound and he was on his knees. In front of him was a raised platform with three judges. They were generals of different nations, older men, with greying hair and cold eyes. Behind Christof were hundreds of spectators, witnesses and his family.

"I say the child lies. Prove my guilt!" Christof roared. He had been beaten the night before. Soldiers hate sodomites, especially pedophile sodomites. His hair was dirty and his beard caked with blood. One eye was closed from punches, and he was hunching on one side, like he had broken ribs.

"Are you certain?" Francois whispered to his father, who nodded grimly. Henry was there, too, along with Artois and Olivia. It was the first time they had all been together in over half a year.

"I am certain; I've done this exam before. I can't say that it was your uncle who did the damage, though," Henry responded.

"Father?"

"It was him, Francois. The trapdoor, the looks, the mood swings. I know you may feel loyal to your uncle, but you don't really know him. He's cold inside," Raul answered.

The group lapsed back into silence. The wind picked up and they pulled cloths over their faces, to avoid inhaling the sand and dirt. They had only occupied Damietta for one week, but the men were quickly acclimating to the environment. Drinking copious amounts of water, even when not thirsty, was the toughest habit to develop. Checking your boots and clothes for scorpions and spiders was also a new routine, one that Francois followed religiously.

"I am leaving," Olivia said. "There are things to do in the city, and I don't want or need to hear this."

"Be careful," Francois said. In many respects, Olivia was safer now that the war had started and the men were busy with preparations, but there were still a pitiably small number of women compared to men. And of those women, Olivia was the most alluring.

The sun was baking Francois' skin. Sweat pooled on his hairline and ran down his sideburns. The desert smelled like burning feces and dirty sand. Francois wondered, not for the first time, why he had not stayed in Troyes.

"It's my turn," Henry said.

He strode up to the platform and bowed to the judges.

"I am Henry of England, senior army surgeon and lifelong healer. I examined Makel after his commander brought him to my medical tent."

"And what did you find, doctor?"

Francois had heard it all before, of course. He was present at the initial exam and saw the tearing and tissue damage while Henry described it. He had listened to Henry coax the information out of the boy with leading questions and uncommon kindness. It had been a masterful performance, and Francois prayed he would be as skilled as Henry one day. Of course, he hoped to never do another rape exam, either.

Henry told the judges exactly what he had found without being crude or evasive. He could have been reciting words from a text, and he kept his voice even, his expression calm. Disturbingly, Francois noticed that Christof was paying special attention to Henry's words, like he was reliving the experience. When Henry finished, a disgusted hush had fallen over the desert tribunal. The three judges conferred among themselves, and they reached a verdict and sentence within a minute.

"You are guilty and sentenced to die by soldier's execution. The time of your death shall be at sundown," the center judge proclaimed. Christof fell face first into the sand and rolled back and forth, trying to stomach the news he just heard.

"He deserves no better," Raul said, turning away.

Soldier's execution was perhaps the most attractive death available to convicted criminals. It was meant to simulate a death in combat, and consisted of a clean strike to the heart or spine, killing instantly. A man could be beheaded, too, if the victim requested it. Makel had been silent throughout the brief trial and everyone understood he wished to be left alone, to heal his body and mind.

The execution site was the same place as where the trial was held. A grave was dug at the spot where Christof had been sentenced, and it would be his eternal resting place. The hot sun was lowering in the sky, and the desert's temperature dropped dramatically, chilling all in attendance. Christof's battle mates and shipmates were present and in formation close to Christof, standing absolutely still. They were partially to blame for Makel's suffering, and they needed to see the wages of vile sin. Lizards skittered from rock to rock on the desert floor, and cacti stood at awkward angles, casting shadows that looked like demons and sorcery. The people who wished to watch Christof's death were on a nearby hill, for better viewing, and they talked and laughed, while children darted to and fro through the crowd. For some, the occasion was a time to socialize and network with their neighbors, and a few stalls were even set up to sell fresh fruits and meat.

The executioner entered to the sounds of drums beating. He was a massive man, almost as big as Artois, and carried a magnificent battle axe. Thick, ropy veins writhed under his skin, stretched tight over beefy muscles and old scars. He approached Christof and stared at him for a long moment, perhaps contemplating his own fate one day. Without delay, the executioner raised his axe high.

Trumpets blared across the desert. The men were up in arms at once, fearing a surprise Ayyubid attack. But the trumpets were not those of sentries, but of royal procession. They could only mean one thing: King Louis was going to attend the execution. Sure enough, Louis' bodyguards created a commotion as they batted aside the common people, to make a path for the king to the front. Louis was a small man and difficult to see behind the massive bodyguards, but he strode through the crowd with a smile on his face, completely confident in the safety provided by his men. When he reached the front, Louis signaled that the executioner should wait until he was done speaking.

"What has this man done?" Louis yelled loudly. A senior aide whispered in his ear and Louis' face became one of disgust. He looked at Christof the way a man might look at a diseased dog. "Then I say he shall be killed in accordance with God's law! Who would contest that?"

Everyone was dead silent.
He's only saying what's already been said, deciding what's already been decided,
Francois thought. But Louis was not there for Christof or for the execution. He was there to make a friendly, popular public appearance and make some kind of connection with the common men. It was a calculated move, one to endear him to them, and Francois saw that it had worked immediately. He could hear men whispering all around.

"That Louis is a proper gentleman."

"Even the king knows what to do with garbage!"

"He should kill the bastard himself! Louis has the balls!"

Francois shook his head in exasperation.
Just kill Christof!
he thought. There was no need to make his death a spectacle, his execution an opportunity for good public relations.

"AAAHHH!"

Christof took the opportunity, when all eyes were on Louis, to stand up. He rushed the king, his mouth wide open as if he hoped to tear the man's throat out with his teeth. He nearly reached him, too, but powerful arms caught Christof in mid-sprint and lifted him into the air, his legs still kicking. The crowd gasped when Christof had screamed, and they now cooed in admiration at the burly bodyguard, holding the captive like a man might hold an errant juvenile.

It was Artois, bear-hugging Christof tightly.

"Grab him! Hold him down!" that was Trunk, reaching Artois and Christof after the struggle was clearly decided. Trunk grabbed the kicking legs and they held Christof to the ground. Jean approached and took one of Christof's wrists, bending it at an unnatural angle behind his back.

"Can we kill him now?" Trunk asked the king, who nodded his assent. The executioner nodded at the quick exchange and raised his axe, while Christof struggled in the bodyguard's grip. It was a bizarre development, though, and Artois held his hand up.

"No! This is not how this should be done! He should be on his knees, in regret."

"The king has spoken," Trunk said, his face red from the strain of holding Christof still.

"He did not speak!" Artois yelled, eliciting a few laughs from the crowd. "The king only meant for us to carry on, not to execute my uncle like this, like a rabid animal!"

The crowd, shocked again, took in a deep gasp. The entire ceremony was quickly becoming riotous, and Louis needed to restore order. He raised his voice over all present.

"Be still! Trunk, knock that man unconscious!" Trunk slammed his meaty fist into the back of Christof's head once, twice, three times. Christof stopped struggling and Louis nodded sharply. "Kill him now, I command it. And you, bodyguard, will speak with your betters very soon. I hope you can account for countermanding my clear orders!"

Francois watched with sadness at the subsequent proceedings. Artois was bodily hauled away, following a scowling king and embarrassed bodyguard chief. He held his head high, though, and Francois was proud to be his brother. So what if he wanted Christof to die in the position of penitence? It was a surprising thing to hear from Artois, but was it so unseemly? And the king had not actually spoken; he just nodded his head.

The sharp blade fell on the neck of the unconscious Christof. His body jumped a little when his head detached from it, and a youth kicked the skull toward one of his friends, who kicked it through a patch of dirt and right onto a short, dark-green cactus. The boys squealed in delight and Francois looked over at Raul, who managed to keep his face cold and detached. It was a huge dishonor, a shameful scandal, to have known Christof or be related to him. All of the Coquets would feel the sting of public ignominy in the coming days.

Chapter Twenty-One

"HAVE YOU COMPLETELY LOST YOUR WITS MAN? You could have been just as easily executed! Held down, gawked at by a ravenous crowd, and decapitated! You fool!" Trunk was raging at Artois, who stood as still as a statue, his hands behind his back. "What have you to say for yourself?"

"He was my uncle."

"And that's even worse! This is a scandal! A miserable, evil pedophile is rooted out of the fabulous ranks of the glowing Seventh Crusade, and you, a bodyguard to the king himself, are related to that filth! Why couldn't you just stay out of it?"

"I did stop him from touching the king. You seem to be forgetting that, while the rest of you were distracted, I was doing my job," Artois said stoutly, refusing to cow to Trunk.

"Yes, you did your job . . . but it's not enough. The king can't have you around him anymore. Public appearances, speeches, and meetings with dignitaries, they're all gone. The king can't have you stealing attention from him, with this notoriety you've achieved. I'm sorry Artois, but you can't be a bodyguard anymore."

"Good," Artois replied. Inside, he was fuming. He had saved the king from being knocked over by a bound criminal in front of everyone! All he wanted was for Christof to be properly executed, not held down while they hacked him to pieces. And so what if Christof was his uncle? That wasn't his fault! "Where will you send me?"

"My informants tell me that your father is here, too, along with another brother. I want you to be with your father's division, to replace your uncle. You will be paid as a common soldier, and all your allowances from working for the king are gone. But you will live, and you will be with family," Trunk said, his face tight. Artois knew that Trunk had spoken up on his behalf, maybe even saved his life. If this was the last time they ever spoke to each other, Artois wanted to be more than an ungrateful curmudgeon.

"Thank you for everything, sir. I will never forget the lessons I learned here, nor will I forget the generosity of the king. Thank you," Artois said, surprising Trunk. The two men took each other's forearms in a firm grip, in the soldier's fashion, and that was it. Artois was dismissed and he gathered his possessions without speaking to anyone else. The bodyguards were watching him, though, but none would risk further association with a relative of Christof.
If only they knew that we're Cathar,
Artois thought.

Chapter Twenty-Two

"I HAVE A TERRIBLE FEELING."

That's my father's voice,
Francois thought. But it was the middle of the night, and he was in his personal tent, cuddling tightly with Olivia. His head was heavy on the medical pack it was resting on, and his blankets were drawn tightly around his shoulders. Olivia was breathing rhythmically, and her small body shook from the desert cold.