Crusade (11 page)

Will looked up at the grand master. “My hatred toward those who killed my father almost consumed me. If I had let it, I would have lost myself to that darkness. I had to forgive them.”

“I understand,” said Guillaume. “But that doesn’t change the simple fact that this peace is crippling us. Baybars and his people want us gone. The peace will not last. I can say that as certainly as I can say the sun will rise tomorrow. We need to pull ourselves back from the brink of our own extinction.” His voice was calm, sincere. “If we do not, it will be the end of a Christian Holy Land. And your father and all those brave men before him will have died in vain. I know you do not want that.”

“No, my lord,” murmured Will. What else could he say? The grand master expected him to hate the Saracens, expected him to want to fight for the Temple’s possessions and for Christendom’s dream. It was the view of most good Christians, all good knights.

For two centuries they had come, those the Muslims called
al-Firinjah
: the Franks. After they invaded the great cities of Antioch, Tripoli and Jerusalem, wresting them bloodily from the Muslim, Jewish and native Christian inhabitants, the First Crusaders settled, establishing four Latin states. Here, they gave birth to generations who would never know the rolling hills of England or the verdant forests of France and Germany, but whose vistas would be the endless, timeless deserts of Syria and Palestine.

Crusade after Crusade swept out from the West, men and women seeking riches in wealthy Eastern cities and absolution for their sins. But over time, their numbers diminished. Weakened, the Franks tired of the constant struggle to defend Jerusalem from the infidel. The city that had called so many with its siren song to dash themselves against its walls had been back in the Muslims’ possession for thirty-two years. Of the four Latin states established by the First Crusaders, only the County of Tripoli and the Kingdom of Jerusalem, of which Acre was now the capital, were still in Christian hands. The County of Edessa was gone, and of the former Principality of Antioch only a port remained. The vessels that glided into Acre’s harbor were mostly half-empty, filled with mercenaries and straggling lines of pilgrims, those running from poverty and crimes committed, those running to a new life.

Will knew the grand master was right. Many of the men were despondent, bitter over what they had lost in Baybars’s campaigns. Despite the Anima Templi’s efforts for peace, the Templars and others still watched the horizon for those kingly ships that would herald a new Crusade and the return of Jerusalem to Christian hands. For the Franks were being forced closer and closer to the sea with every year that passed, their settlements eroded by the Mamluks, and no one knew how long they could remain, teetering on the edge of the Mediterranean’s green-blue line.

As the grand master began to speak of how he intended to restore their position within the Holy Land, the words of the seneschal came back to Will, heavy with gravity.
He could prove to be one of the gravest threats to peace we have faced since the treaty was signed.

“We must work to unify the territories Baybars has left us with. We are fractured, unwilling to pool resources, weakened. Acre is ...,” Guillaume searched intently for the words, “... a plump worm that wiggles on the end of a hook.” His gaze focused on Will, who had been starting to feel as if he weren’t even in the room; the grand master seemed to be speaking to some larger, invisible audience. “Most of us are too preoccupied with our own internal convulsions to notice the predator that lurks in the water beneath us, waiting to open its jaw and snap,” Guillaume closed his fist, “one last time.” He rose and took a candle and taper to the fire. “We must work together if we are to survive the peril that will inevitably come our way again.” Bending down, he held the taper in the flames. “The enthronement of my cousin should help in this matter. In time, I am confident he will help to unite us.”

As the grand master lit the candle, Will realized how dark it had become since they had been talking. Soon the bells would ring for Vespers, calling them to chapel. “Is that definitely going to happen, my lord?” he asked carefully. “Will Charles d’Anjou take the throne?”

“It is my hope, yes. At the Council of Lyons, Pope Gregory arranged for Maria of Antioch to sell her rights to Jerusalem’s crown to Charles. When the sale is completed, which I expect it will be within the year, he will be able to make his claim against King Hugh. And we will be governed once more by a
capable
ruler.”

Will didn’t miss the disdain in Guillaume’s tone. He had heard much talk of these matters since word reached Acre of events at Lyons. The current king of Jerusalem was Hugh III, who was also king of Cyprus. The position was obsolete, Jerusalem having been lost to the Muslims, but the title remained and gave the bearer authority over Acre and what was left of the Franks’ lands in Outremer. Rather than remain in Cyprus and let a regent control Acre, as many of his predecessors had, Hugh decided to exercise his authority. Will had noticed increasing complaints about the young king’s interference; the government of Acre, made up of knight-masters, nobles, merchants, the commune of burghers and officials from the High Court, had successfully resisted royal rule for decades and had grown used to their autonomy. Another person opposed to Hugh’s rule was his cousin, Maria, a princess of the vanquished city of Antioch, who believed she held the rightful claim to the throne. Such conflicts had split Outremer apart before, and the lawyers of Acre, aware of the danger the schism posed, had decreed that Hugh should take the crown. Will could understand their decision: the young king of Cyprus was a much surer candidate than an old, unmarried princess, but Maria had reportedly turned up at the Council of Lyons to complain, and the pope had convinced her to sell her rights to Charles d’Anjou.

Will had heard the seneschal remark that Pope Gregory wasn’t impressed by Hugh and sought the elevation of a stronger leader. But he couldn’t see how Charles, the powerful king of Sicily, could unify things. Hugh was unlikely to yield his throne without a fight, and with the grand master and d’Anjou arrayed against him, old battle lines would surely be drawn up: the Temple and the Venetians banding together under Charles, the Hospitallers and the Genoese under Hugh. Will had the distinct impression that if things did go the way the grand master hoped, they would get bloodier before they got better.

“Still,” said Guillaume brusquely, seeming to realize he had said more than he should, “such matters should be discussed when there are others present to hear them.” He stood. “I summoned you here to thank you and instead I have talked you deaf.” He spread his hands apologetically and gave Will a charmingly boyish smile. “It was a long journey. I was alone with my thoughts for quite some time. You must forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, my lord.”

“There is one last thing.” The grand master clasped his hands behind his back. “I would like you to find out who wanted me dead. My attacker was not an experienced killer, of that I am certain, and as I know of no reason why a young peasant should wish me harm, it is entirely possible that he was acting under the orders of another. Having inspected the body, Marshal de Sevrey believes him to have been an Italian. That and this boy you pursued are the only trails I can see to be followed. But I want you to look.”

“Perhaps, my lord,” began Will, “the marshal, or the grand commander, might be better suited to organizing such a task?”

“You are the only one who was aware of my attacker and the only one who saw the boy. I cannot think of anyone better suited.”

Outside, a hollow clanging informed them that it was time for Vespers. The grand master didn’t take his eyes off Will.

Will was filled with a sinking feeling. He had more than enough work to do for the Anima Templi. But the grand master was waiting for a response. “Yes, my lord, of course.”

Later that evening, Guillaume sat at his desk in his chambers. In front of him he placed a prayer book, bound in leather-covered boards and closed with an ornate gold clasp, that he had just removed from his traveling chest.

For a moment, he didn’t open it, but simply ran his fingers down the cover, feeling the cracks in the leather. He was tired and his head ached. He was rarely ill, and the unusual pain was distracting. He had given a speech in the chapel after the evening office, which had been gratefully received by the men, who were eager to welcome him. Afterward he shared a meal with them in the great hall, but he had wanted to speak with his officials before retiring and his headache had prevented him. Still, it was only his first day. Any discussions could wait for tomorrow. He unsnapped the book’s clasp and opened a dog-eared page.

Our Father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us ...

There was a rap at the door. It opened, and one of Guillaume’s personal guards, a Sicilian with short white-gray hair that made his tanned face appear even darker, entered.

“What is it, Zaccaria?”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, my lord, but there is a man at the gates asking to speak with you. He swears he knows you.”

“Did he give a name?”

“Angelo.”

Guillaume’s face changed, subtly, but just enough that Zaccaria, who had worked under him in Sicily for five years, noticed something was wrong. “My lord?”

Guillaume gestured at the knight. “Bring him to me.”

When Zaccaria left, the grand master made himself finish the Paternoster, then closed the prayer book. As he was setting it back inside the chest, the door was knocked on again, and this time, Zaccaria had another man with him. At a nod from Guillaume, the knight closed the door, leaving the two men alone in the solar.

“My lord,” greeted Angelo Vitturi. His dark, handsome face was arrogantly impassive. “I wasn’t sure you would be taking visitors, after your unfortunate welcome on the dockside.”

“I forgot how fast news travels in this city,” responded Guillaume wryly.

“It is good that it did, for it alerted us to your arrival.”

“I’m sure our discussion could have waited a day or two,” responded Guillaume, heading to a table where a servant had placed a jug of wine.

“Actually, it couldn’t. I am leaving for Egypt.” Angelo shook his head as Guillaume offered him a goblet. “The contact I told you about when we spoke in France, I am meeting him.”

“Then he agreed to aid you?” said Guillaume, sipping his wine. “I must say I am surprised. I did not think you would be able to turn one of them so easily.”

“He doesn’t much care for the situation he finds himself in. It was not so hard.”

“What are you doing here, Vitturi?”

Angelo frowned at the bluntness in the grand master’s tone. “We wanted to make sure you are set and that nothing has changed.” He gave a small shrug. “Your mind perhaps?”

Guillaume smiled, as if he found the game amusing. “I would be careful about questioning my word. It is a precious thing. Do not treat it lightly.”

Angelo noted the danger behind that smile, but it didn’t faze him. “My father and I are simply concerned that everything runs as smoothly as possible. We only have one chance to do this. Have you thought about who you will use to accomplish the theft?”

“I cannot do that until my position here is established and I have formed relationships with men I can trust. From what you told me, I presumed I had time in which to do this. Is that no longer the case?”

“The theft itself will not occur for some while yet. You will have plenty of time.”

Guillaume looked into the Venetian’s eyes, black and predatory as a shark’s, and touched his brow, the ache making his thoughts muddled. “Then we are finished here for now. I will keep my end of the bargain, Vitturi, if you keep yours.”

Angelo bowed stiffly and left the chamber, to be escorted back to the gate by Zaccaria.

Guillaume moved to the window. He had disliked the young man on their first meeting, and a second had done nothing to change that. He was angry that he was working with these merchants; his pride fought against the alliance, knowing they were using him for his resources. He believed their plan could work, where nothing else had. But it was a dangerous game and, not for the first time, Guillaume felt the weight of doubt pressing down on him. He pushed it aside. He had strong allies: King Edward, King Charles, Pope Gregory. They wouldn’t let the Holy Land fall. When the time came, they would rouse the West. He was sure of it.

Guillaume looked over the courtyard beyond the walls to the scattered glitter of a thousand torches that lit the sleeping city like stars cast from heaven. If all went according to plan, they would soon be at war with the Muslims. “We do what we must,” he said quietly. And then, quieter still. “God forgive me.”

7

AL-Bira, Northern Syria 26 FEBRUARY A.D. 1276

A howled cry rose on the air, shattering the quiet dawn. Clouds of birds soared into the sky from thickets on the riverbanks, as seventy catapults lined up in formation around al-Bira were fired in succession. Giant boulders went spinning from the siege engines’ slings to smash into dust and debris as they struck the city walls. As soon as the load was fired, one of the Chinese engineers who manned the catapults would winch down the sling, suspended from a long arm pivoted on the crossbar of the engine’s wooden frame. His comrades would then position another stone in the leather cradle. Every now and then, the sky lit up as the engineers substituted barrels of flaming pitch for the stones, which left trails of black vapor in their wake as they streaked up to explode across the fortifications.

Under cover of the relentless bombardment, three towering monstrosities rolled cumbersomely toward the city. Within the lurching wooden structures, mounted on wheeled platforms, were four floors reached by internal ladders, on which groups of Seljuk archers knelt before arrow slits, bows primed. On the top floor of each tower, cramped beneath a heavy wooden hatch, were ten Mongol warriors. They were clad in lamellar battle armor, maces and swords ready in their fists. Behind the siege towers, lines of infantry marched in formation carrying long ladders. These men wore a lighter armor made from varnished oxhide, with shields slung over their shoulders and swords at their hips. Clothes hung loose on forms they had fitted snugly just three weeks earlier. A sickness causing violent bouts of vomiting and diarrhea had ravaged the army over the past few days, killing several hundred. But still they came, dogged, determined, the colorful cloaks and turbans of Seljuk and Iraqi troops garish amidst the brown leather armor of the Mongols.