Crusade (45 page)

“I want you,” he heard her say, strain catching in her voice. “I
want
you.”

Garin’s mouth came away, leaving her glistening. He tugged his tunic viciously over his head and dragged open the laces at the front of his hose. Then he was on her again and, then, in her. He felt himself encompassed, caught by her. Her legs came up over his hips and he went deeper, hardly hearing as she cried out. As his body gave itself up to sensation and his eyes closed, his mind was flooded with a torrent of images.

He saw Elwen at thirteen as she knelt beside the body of her uncle, Owein, on the dockside at Honfleur. Her screams rent the night, and when she raised her hands to her face, they were wet with blood. He saw the black-robed mercenaries Edward had sent to get the crown jewels from the knights fleeing, their mission failed, but not without a price. And the blood on Elwen’s hands was now on his. For it was he who had betrayed the knights to Edward and had given the information necessary for the attack. And the faces of her dead uncle and his were staring up at him, white like skulls, accusing him. He saw her as a woman, sitting beside Will in the market gardens, her face sad and drawn, the sunlight unkind on her delicate features. He saw her in the alleyway with Bertrand and Amaury, her terror transformed to utter relief as she turned to face him. Then, at the last, he opened his eyes and saw her under him, skin flushed, lips parted, her fingers digging into his back. Garin kept his eyes on her until he shuddered inside her and grew still.

As he lay slumped on her, the familiar languid drowsiness enfolding him warmly, comfortingly, he felt Elwen’s chest spasm beneath him. He pushed himself up on his hands, hearing a muffled breath and thinking she was laughing. Elwen’s head was turned to one side, her hair clinging limply to her face. The rush of breath came again. Garin smiled tentatively, wondering what the joke was, and brushed her hair aside to see. Elwen didn’t stir at his touch. Her eyes were open and tears were streaming from them.

THE ROAD TO MECCA, ARABIA, 14 APRIL A.D. 1277

A thin line of smoke hung suspended in the distance, a white exclamation over the next point of civilization or, for the party of sixteen men on the road, the next point of danger. Their scattered moments of laconic conversation faded into nothing and the tension grew. Soon, all that could be heard was the endless crunching of feet and hooves in the gritty sand and the continuous
swish
and
thwack
of sticks as the two men in front beat the ground to ward off snakes and scorpions. The air was baked, and every breath the men took parched their mouths and throats a little more, as if the desert was trying to enter them, to make them part of itself.

Will, rocked from side to side in one of the seats of the wooden
shugduf
that straddled the camel, steeled himself. This would be the tenth guard post they had passed through in fifteen days, but their frequency hadn’t lessened the anxiety that built in him each time they approached one. A fresh rivulet of sweat wormed its way down his spine and soaked into the tunic he wore beneath the black, voluminous burka, the Muslim woman’s garment that covered the whole of his body and face with the exception of his eyes. He met Robert’s gaze. The knight, also shrouded and masked, was wedged in the seat on the other side of the lurching camel, with a cloth canopy that floated above their heads to keep off the heat. Robert gave Will a nod, then lowered his head.

It had been a brutal journey, worse for Zaccaria and Alessandro, the only two of the Templar party on foot. Arriving in Ula, which they reached with little incident, the six knights had gone to the mosque as instructed by the message. Here, they gave Kaysan’s name and were taken to the same house they had been held captive at the year before. They were given one night to rest, then, their horses replaced with camels and their merchant garb discarded, they were on the road again. Zaccaria and Alessandro were handed men’s clothing and were forced to walk with Kaysan and the Shias, leading camels that bore supplies and the other knights, who masqueraded as their wives. The Mamluks were used to seeing Muslims of varying shades of skin, themselves originating from so many different regions. Will had doubted the adequacy of the disguises when he had first seen them. But so far they had worked.

They could smell the smoke now, and a cluster of huts appeared, with the figures of men, distorted by the heat haze, moving between them. As their party approached the guard post, four Mamluk soldiers came out to greet them, others watching from the shelter of the huts. Will was careful not to look any of the guards in the eye as they moved past, checking over the company. Two soldiers headed for the camel in front of his, and Will’s hand reached instinctively to his side, seeking the falchion that wasn’t there. One of the guards lifted the lid of a pannier. He dipped a finger in and it came out covered in powdered nutmeg. He licked it, shut the lid and moved to the next. Will’s hand drifted slowly from his hip as the guard continued down the line, oblivious of the pannier’s true contents, which lay swaddled in cloth beneath the false tray of spices, a smooth, black secret, known only to himself and Robert.

Satisfied, the Mamluk guards waved them on, and several hours later, as evening shadows were creeping across the valley floor, the company reached the last settlement, where they would leave their supplies and head into Mecca.

“It looks busy,” murmured Robert to Will as they entered the jumbled array of mosques, houses and tented stalls that had sprung up out of the valley. Torches were burning, orange stars floating in the growing darkness. The sounds of music and laughter came to them.

Will was troubled by the sudden appearance of humanity in the wasteland. They had passed pilgrims on the road, although according to Kaysan they were mere drops of water in the face of the flood that would inundate this valley in a month’s time when the Hajj began and the caravans from Damascus, Cairo and Baghdad moved sinuously through the desert. Will had grown used to the solitude, had been relying on it.

Kaysan glanced round at Robert’s voice. “We have friends here,” he said in halting Latin. “We will be safe. Do not speak now.”

Will and Robert fell silent as they reached the settlement and headed through a lively bazaar. Beyond the stalls, a series of wooden poles, just visible in the torch flames, rose from the sands like strange naked trees. Will realized that each had ribbons tied to it, hundreds of fluttering strands of color, then the poles were swallowed by darkness and the party moved toward a row of houses, opposite a mosque. After leading them into an enclosed courtyard at the back of one of the buildings, Kaysan pointed to a stone bench on the other side of the courtyard. “You will wait here,” he told Will and the knights. “In six hours we leave.”

Will stood alone for a while as the knights stretched their stiff limbs and talked amongst themselves, away from the Arabs. The stars in the black were like dust on velvet. He had never felt so far from home. The desert’s empty hostility was soul crushing, and the feeling of trespass weighed heavily on his heart. Closing his eyes, he murmured the Lord’s Prayer, feeling the chant of words flow from him, familiar, comforting.

THE HIJAZ, ARABIA, 14 APRIL A.D. 1277

It was late afternoon when the company of eight halted and looked down from the foothills over the settlement two miles north of Mecca.

“We should send someone to see if they’ve arrived.”

Garin didn’t look around as Bertrand moved up behind him. The soldier’s voice had roughened over the course of the journey. “Send Amaury,” said Garin, moving his gaze along the road, which wound out of sight between the mountains. “But tell him to be careful.” He turned to Bertrand to emphasize this point and saw, now that the Cypriot had removed the kaffiyeh he had been wearing, the journey’s affects in his face. Bertrand had lost weight and his skin sagged loosely around his jaw. His beard was dusty and unkempt, and his eyes had a new hardness to them, along with a subtle desperation. Garin knew that he looked much the same, as did the rest of the men. Those who had survived.

Ten of them had set out from Acre with their guide, two days behind the Templar party. Riding hard, they caught them quickly, sending one man ahead to scout. Garin, who had been unable to get details of their numbers from Elwen, had been secretly relieved that he hadn’t been wrong in his estimations, and that his own company outnumbered Will’s party almost two to one. Against Templars, the Cypriot soldiers would need every advantage they could get. In Ula it hadn’t been hard to keep track of the knights. Garin, concealed in oversize robes and a kaffiyeh, followed them to the mosque and then to a rundown house. His earlier satisfaction was cut short by the appearance of a group of Arabs, which more than doubled the Templar party. But concern over this was rapidly replaced with a more pressing problem.

In Acre, their guide, who had been only too keen to lead them to Ula for money, had brushed over the issue of how they would proceed to Mecca along the guarded road, by telling them that there would be plenty of people willing to take them. This, as it turned out, wasn’t true, and it seemed, as the Templars set out the next morning in their disguises, Garin and Amaury watching them go, that their plan would be over before it had begun. Finally, after a few threatening words from Bertrand, their guide suggested that they ask the local Bedouin. At first, the desert nomads wouldn’t even speak to Garin. Then, later that evening, a young, whip-lean man had sought him out and offered to be their
khafir
.

All the way down through the Hijaz and on, beyond Mecca, the Bedouin owned grazing lands where their animals were pastured. Each tribe owned its own territory and no one was allowed to enter without permission. A
khafir
was a member of the tribe who agreed to act as guardian for those wanting to cross the territory. At the point where one tribe’s lands ended and another’s began, a new
khafir
would be summoned to continue the guardianship. The Bedouin didn’t use the main roads, negating the danger posed by the Mamluk guards. And so Garin and the soldiers, leaving Ula and civilization behind them, headed into the wilderness, following their barefoot, solemn guide. Each time they had been passed on to another
khafir
, Garin had handed out more gold, like he was scattering bread crumbs to mark a trail, hoping against hope that they would lead them home again. Some of these tribes would attack pilgrims in the Hijaz, stealing their money and even their clothes and food, leaving them to the mercy of the vicious elements, but there seemed to be a certain honor amongst them that prevented them from stealing from their guests. But even though the people were relatively clement, the land itself was anything but.

The first death occurred in the first few days. One of the Cypriots rolled onto a snake in his sleep and was bitten. He died vomiting and foaming at the mouth. The second came four days later. They were trudging across a high ridge, the sun in their eyes, when one man slipped. He slid down a scree-covered slope, taking half the skin off his back and breaking both his legs. Amidst his anguished cries when they reached him, the other soldiers spent some time arguing as to what they should do, before Bertrand ended his suffering with a fast slash across the throat.

Traveling through the foothills of the mountains, moving parallel to the road that wound through the valley, it had been relatively easy to keep track of the Templar party, quiet as the roads were. Sometimes, they hadn’t seen them for days, and Garin would grow pensive and irritable, until they picked them up again. The
khafirs
didn’t know why they wished to track the men on the road, nor did they seem particularly to care. If the gold kept flowing, their feet kept moving.

“Where were you planning on setting the trap?” Bertrand asked Garin. “The village won’t work.”

Garin agreed. There were too many places for them to scatter. “We need to catch them on the road.” He pointed down the valley to where the road narrowed and the mountains pressed close on both sides. “That’s where we’ll wait. It should allow us to keep hidden whilst still being able to watch the road.”

“And the Arabs? How do we deal with them as well as the Templars?”

“We have bows,” answered Garin. “We can take out the Arabs before we tackle the knights.”

Bertrand nodded, pleased. “So you’ve decided then? We use any force necessary against them?”

Garin looked away. Bertrand had been asking him this question for weeks, and for weeks he had avoided it. An image of Elwen drifted into his mind. He saw her lying beneath him, that change in her face from ecstasy to despair, the way she had continued crying those silent tears as she dressed and left his chamber. “Yes,” he murmured coldly. “Any force necessary.”

MECCA, ARABIA, 15 APRIL A.D. 1277

Mecca remained hidden until the last moment, encircled by the mountains. Then, all of a sudden, it was before them, stretched across a dusty plain within a formidable ring of rock. The sky was changing from black to blue with the approach of dawn, and the slender columns of minarets rose pale against it. South of the city, a domed hill dominated the view, whilst to the east sprawled an extensive bazaar. The roads, lined with sturdy houses, public baths, barber-shops and apothecaries, were like strands of a giant spider’s web, at the center of which lay the Haram Mosque, or Noble Sanctuary.

Approaching from the north, Will and the others saw the mosque rising before them, radiant against the darkness, torches burning around the walls, illuminating the flowing Arabic script that adorned it. A set of arched wooden gates lay open. They were guarded. As Kaysan hung back and removed his shoes, preparing to enter the sacred place, Will caught Zaccaria’s eye. The Sicilian unfastened the straps that held the panniers in place, whilst Will and the others followed Kaysan’s lead. Two of the Shias gathered up the shoes and headed off, leading the camel.

“They will meet us at the gate,” Kaysan explained to Will.