Crusade (25 page)

Will glanced at Zaccaria, who was standing at the back of the cage with Alessandro, Carlo and their nervous-looking guide. Zaccaria appeared as calm as ever. He met Will’s questioning gaze. “I cannot offer any advice. I have never dealt with this man, nor any spy in this region before.”

Will wondered, by the Sicilian’s tone, whether that meant Zaccaria thought the assignment unusual. But before he could think of a neutral way to ask the question, he heard voices outside in the yard. They sounded angry.

Robert stepped away from the entrance as a figure appeared. It was the man with the scarlet band on his arm. He had removed his kaffiyeh, revealing his face. He was in his mid-forties, deeply tanned, with a black beard and dark eyes that held a watchful intensity. An old scar drew a thin white line down the side of his face. “Where did you get this?” he asked in Arabic, looking at Will. He held up the scroll case.

Will understood what he said, but something stopped him from answering. He had presumed this man was Kaysan from what the landlord had said outside the inn, but before he gave away anything of himself, he wanted to be certain. Will rose and went to the pen’s door. “We came here looking for Kaysan,” he said slowly in Latin. He pointed to the scroll case. “That is for him.”

The figure’s eyes narrowed as he studied Will. “As was I told,” he replied after a moment, in hesitant Latin. “I am Kaysan.” He raised the scroll case again. “Where you getting this?” His voice was hard.

“From the grand master of the Order of the Temple. We were told to deliver it to you.”

“Templars?” questioned Kaysan, gesturing to Will, who nodded. Kaysan looked around as another man appeared outside the cage. “What is it?” he asked, switching into his native tongue.

“The others are concerned, Kaysan. They want to know who these men are. And what the scroll says.”

“I am questioning them now,” replied Kaysan gruffly. “They are Templars.”

“Then our friend at the inn was right,” said the second man, his gaze flicking to Will, who had adopted a frown to disguise his comprehension of their conversation. “Western spies.”

“No.”

“How can you be sure?”

“This.” Kaysan showed him the scroll. “I know who wrote it.” He glanced at Will, then walked away from the pen into the sunlit yard. His comrade followed. They began speaking in hushed voices. Will turned away from them, but stepped closer to the pen’s door, trying to hear what they were saying.

Robert crossed to him. “What’s happening? Can you not understand him?”

Will gave a small nod of his head. The knight looked puzzled, then seemed to understand. As Robert moved away, Will heard Kaysan’s comrade utter two words in Arabic in a tone of stunned disbelief. Two words that carried to the cage.

“Al-Hajar al-Aswad?”

Will looked around sharply, forgetting to conceal his awareness of their language. But Kaysan and his comrade were so engrossed in their conversation they didn’t notice. Their voices were low again, low and urgent. Will strained to hear them.

“They are mad,” Kaysan’s comrade said fiercely. He continued in a quick stream of words, of which Will only caught a few: death, hell, destruction.

Kaysan said something about a reward, then looked over at Will. His expression subtly changed from one of cold intensity to one, Will thought, of hope. After a moment, he walked away, followed by his comrade.

“What now?” said Robert, looking at Will. “What were they saying?”

“I don’t know. I only caught a few words and they didn’t make much sense.”

Robert frowned at their guide. “What about you? Did you understand any of it?”

“I am sorry, sir.” The guide rose. “I was too far.” He sat back down as Robert swore.

“We could probably break down the door if we all put our weight to it, Sir Campbell.” It was Alessandro who had spoken.

Will noticed irritably that he half-looked at Zaccaria as he said it, as if he were really asking the question of the Sicilian. “No,” he told the knight. “I do not believe they intend to harm us.”

“But this makes no sense. We were told the scroll contains information Kaysan must verify. Why does he not just do that and let us leave?”

“The grand master knew what he was doing when he sent us here,” replied Will. “We wait until the assignment is complete.”

“Or until we are turned into camel food,” muttered Alessandro.

Zaccaria stirred, his blue eyes moving to the knight. “Our commander is right, Brother. We should wait.” His tone was quiet, yet absolutely implacable.

Alessandro bowed his head, chastised.

The knights waited as the minutes turned into hours and the sun moved gradually around. They were all tired, thirsty and uneasy when at last, almost three hours later, Kaysan returned. With him were five of his black-robed companions, all with crossbows in their hands. The knights rose, their expressions tense.

Kaysan raised the beam that locked the pen’s door in place and opened it. “Out,” he said.

The knights filed from the pen, followed by their guide, the crossbows of Kaysan’s comrades trained on them.

Kaysan moved to Will and held out the silver scroll case. “For your grand master.”

Shadowed by the black-robed men, the knights were led across the yard. At the front of the mud-brick house, where skinny children were playing in the dirt, they found their horses waiting. The sun was red and low in the sky, and the warm air buzzed with insects. Will stowed the scroll case in his saddlebag, dug his foot into the stirrup and mounted.

Kaysan pointed along a track bordered by palm trees. “Leave that way.”

With a tug of the reins, Will headed out of the yard, followed by the others. As the sun melted behind the rocky hills to their left, throwing the desert plain and the road ahead into gray-pink shadows, he eased himself into the rhythm of his horse. When night fell and they stopped to rest, he would open the scroll. As he rode, he tried to piece together the fragments of conversation he had overheard between Kaysan and his comrade. Most of it made no sense, out of context as it was, but those two words Kaysan’s comrade had uttered in that stunned tone rolled over and over in his mind.

“
Al-Hajar al-Aswad
.”

The Black Stone.

THE ROYAL PALACE, ACRE, 15 APRIL A.D. 1276

There was a sticky smell of incense in the chamber. Cloying, overpowering, it reminded Garin of his mother. When he was a boy and she was in a rare good humor, she would sometimes play a game with him, where he would have to guess the names of spices she kept in a locked box. Closing his eyes, he drew in a draft of the incense. “Sandalwood,” he murmured, then opened his eyes, hearing a bolt rattle on the other side of the door.

A servant clad in an embroidered tunic appeared, looking sartorially superior to Garin, still in his shabby cloak and bloodstained shirt. “His Royal Highness, the esteemed king of Jerusalem and Cyprus, will permit you an audience.”

“It’s about time,” said Garin tautly, his voice sounding slightly nasal from the punches to the nose he’d sustained in the fight with the sailors. “I’ve been waiting almost nine hours.” The servant didn’t respond, but ushered him into the passage. Pushing back his irritation, Garin followed.

He had seen little of the palace when he had passed through the heavily guarded gate that morning, the letter with King Edward’s seal on it granting him entrance. From the outside, it looked the same as any Western castle: high curtain walls with corner and flanking towers and a prominent keep. Inside, however, it was very different. Garin remembered the Temple in Acre being grand, but sparse, military order and fortifications being of greater importance to the knights than worldly comfort. This palace extended into its interior the Eastern grandiosity that existed in its dimensions. The vaulted corridors were tiled with intricate mosaics, there was glass in many of the windows, and rich hangings lined the walls, which were smooth with plaster and whitewashed. The surroundings were a far cry from Garin’s chambers in the Tower of London: a dark, cramped room that was always chilly, with a pallet for his bed and a slit window that looked onto the leaden Thames where the Tower’s sewage was discharged.

Edward had kept his word, in part, and had given Garin an estate for his mother. Granted, it wasn’t any bigger than Lady Cecilia’s former home in Rochester, but it was closer to London and slightly less damp. The rest of the promises given in the early years of his service to Edward—the lordship, the gold, the grand manor—had slipped quietly away, with Edward reminding Garin that he was the one who had secured his release from prison. And this after Garin had betrayed him, killing Rook, his manservant, and forsaking the Anima Templi’s Book of the Grail, which Edward had desired to blackmail them with in return for money for the planned expansion of his kingdom.

It was shortly after his return to England that Garin realized he had simply exchanged one prison for another. There were no iron shackles, no walls or bars to hold him. Edward was much cleverer than that. In his rush to please his bitter, ailing mother, Garin hadn’t stopped to think of the vulnerable position he was putting both of them in by allowing Edward to house her in an estate owned by the crown. Now Edward only had to threaten to evict her, and Garin was compelled to obey. His duties were simple. He was Edward’s eyes, and Edward’s fist. He blackmailed recalcitrant barons into submitting to unpopular laws the king wanted to pass through parliament, extorted money from rich magnates, conveyed sensitive information across the kingdom and spied on the royal staff. He had taken on the mantle of Edward’s former manservant and, in so doing, had become the very man he had despised. Sometimes, in the gray, sepulchral hours before dawn, when he had drunk himself into a fitful half sleep, self-loathing would rise sour inside him, leaving him ashen-faced and trembling, sweat pouring off him to soak the sheets.

Garin followed the servant into a spacious hall, where marble pillars rose to support the painted ceiling. At the far end, carpeted steps led up to a high-backed throne, with curved legs that ended in claws. A burnished copper sunset flooded through the arched windows. Seated on the throne was a young man of around Garin’s age, wearing a gold silk burnous and a haughty expression. Beside him was an older man, with short white hair and a solemn face. To the sides of the chamber slaves stood to abrupt attention.

“Garin de Lyons, my liege,” called the servant, bowing.

Garin approached the throne. “My Lord Hugh,” he said, inclining his head, “my master, King Edward of England, sends his greetings.”

Hugh studied Garin, one elbow balanced on the throne’s arm, his jeweled hand propped against his face. “Greetings are all well and good. But I had hoped for something a little more useful.” The king held up his free hand, and in it Garin saw the letter he had passed to the guards, complete with Edward’s seal. “Perhaps you can explain what your master means by this, for aside from a few pleasantries he says nothing at all. There is no mention of the aid I requested. No mention, indeed, of any help he can offer me with regard to the position I find myself in. And yet he sends you, his man, all the way here with a scrap of parchment?” Hugh dropped the letter back into his lap. “I must say I am mystified.”

“My Lord Edward wished me to convey his terms to you directly, rather than in an impersonal note.”

“His terms?” questioned Hugh, his eyes boring into Garin.

“My lord expresses his deep regret for your current position and believes he may be of assistance. As you are aware, he is a close friend and confidant of Pope Gregory and nephew of the king of Sicily, Charles d’Anjou.”

“Of course I am aware,” snapped Hugh. “This is why I asked for his help! I need him to go to the pope and call off this ridiculous sale of my cousin Maria’s rights to d’Anjou.”

“That is within his power,” replied Garin carefully. “Although my lord is currently experiencing difficulties of his own, forced to confront rebels on the borders of his kingdom. For him to act quickly upon your request, he will need certain favors in return.”

“What favors?” It was the man with white hair standing beside Hugh who had spoken.

Hugh glanced at him. “Peace, Guy.” His gaze flicked back to Garin. “I am sure we can oblige the Lord Edward, if his aid secures us our throne. What, exactly, does he want?”

“A monetary donation and an assurance from you, Your Majesty, that he will be allowed to use Cyprus as a base from which to launch a new Crusade.”

“Edward intends to take the Cross again?”

“In time.”

Hugh sat back in his throne. “What sort of donation are we talking about?”

“I will certainly discuss that with you, Your Majesty. But first I would appreciate a good meal and a room where I might wash.”

“Indeed,” said Hugh, disdainfully, “it looks as if you have been in a fight.”

“A simple misunderstanding.”

Hugh looked to Guy, then back at Garin. “And if I agree to this donation, Edward will see to my request?”

“I have other business in the city. Once it is completed and we have come to an agreement, I shall return to the Lord Edward with all speed and he will endeavor to do what he can for you. In the meantime, Your Majesty, I presume I can call upon you to lodge me for my stay?”

“You presume a great deal,” retorted Hugh. He waved his hand irritably as Garin began to speak. “Yes, yes, you may have a room. But we will talk of this again tomorrow, first thing.” Hugh snapped his fingers, and the servant who had led Garin to the throne room came forward. “Show our guest to quarters.”

Guy waited until the servant had led Garin from the hall. “I am not happy about this, my liege.”

Hugh massaged his brow delicately. “We have hundreds of rooms, Guy. It is no great trouble for us to lodge him.”

“It is not our lodging him that troubles me, my liege, it is these demands King Edward seems to be laying down before he has even agreed to help you, or proven that he can.” Guy flung a hand at the doors. “And he sends little more than a commoner to treat with the king of Jerusalem? It is an insult, my liege.”